Dearest Kitty,
Mr. Kleiman is back, thank goodness! He looks a bit pale, and yet he cheerfully set off to sell some clothes for Mr. van Daan. The disagreeable fact is that Mr. van Daan has run out of money. He lost his last hundred guilders in the warehouse, which is still creating trouble for us: the men are wondering how a hundred guilders could wind up in the warehouse on a Monday morning. Suspicion abounds. Meanwhile, the hundred guilders have been stolen. Whos the thief?
But I was talking about the money shortage. Mrs. van D. has scads of dresses, coats and shoes, none of which she feels she can do without. Mr. van D.s suit is difficult to sell, and Peters bike was put on the block, but is back again, since nobody wanted it.
But the story doesnt end there. You see, Mrs. van D. is going to have to part with her fur coat. In her opinion, the firm should pay for our upkeep, but thats ridiculous.
They just had a flaming row about it and have entered the "oh, my sweet Putti" and "darling Kerli" stage of reconciliation.
My mind boggles at the profanity this honorable house has had to endure in the past month. Father walks around with his lips pressed together, and whenever he hears his name, he looks up in alarm, as ifhes afraid hell be called upon to resolve another delicate problem. Mothers so wrought up her cheeks are blotched with red, Margot complains of headaches, Dussel cant sleep, Mrs. van D. frets and fumes all day long, and Ive gone completely round the bend. To tell you the truth, I sometimes forget who were at odds with and who were not. The only way to take my mind off it is to study, and Ive been doing a lot of that lately.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943
My dearest Kitty,
Mr. Kleiman is out again; his stomach wont give him a moments peace. He doesnt even know whether its stopped bleeding. He came to tell us he wasnt feeling well
and was going home, and for the first time he seemed really down.
Mr. and Mrs. van D. have had more raging battles. The reason is simple: theyre broke. They wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of Mr. van D. s, but were unable to find any buyers. His prices were way too high.
Some time ago Mr. Kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. This gave Mr. van D. the idea of selling his wifes fur coat. Its made of rabbit skin, and shes had it for seventeen years. Mrs. van D. got 325 guilders for it, an enormous amount. She wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothes after the war, and it took some doing before Mr. van D. could make her understand that it was desperately needed to cover household expenses.
You cant imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearing that went on.
It was terrifying. My family stood holding its breath at the bottom of the stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. All the bickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain that I fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that I have half an hour to myself.
Im doing fine, except Ive got no appetite. I keep hearing: "Goodness, you look awful!" I must admit theyre doing their best to keep me in condition: theyre plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewers yeast and calcium. My nerves often get the better of me, especially on Sundays; thats when I really feel miserable. The atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, you dont hear a single bird, and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over the house and clings to me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regions of the underworld. At times like these, Father, Mother and Margot dont matter to me in the least. I wander from room to room, climb up and down the stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and who keeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage. "Let me out, where theres fresh air and laughter!" a voice within me cries. I dont even bother to reply anymore, but lie down on the divan. Sleep makes the silence and the terrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time, since its impossible to kill it.
Yours, Anne