My dearest Kitty,
And yet everything is still so difficult. You do know what I mean, dont you? I long so much for him to kiss me, but that kiss is taking its own sweet time. Does he still think of me as a friend? Dont I mean anything more?
You and I both know that Im strong, that I can carry most burdens alone. Ive never been used to sharing my worries with anyone, and Ive never clung to a mother, but Id love to lay my head on his shoulder and just sit there quietly.
I cant, I simply cant forget that dream of Peters cheek, when everything was so good! Does he have the same longing? Is he just too shy to say he loves me? Why does he want me near him so much? Oh, why doesnt he say something?
Ive got to stop, Ive got to be calm. Ill try to be strong again, and if Im patient, the rest will follow. But -- and this is the worst part -- I seem to be chasing him. Im always the one who has to go upstairs; he never comes to me. But thats because of
the rooms, and he understands why I object. Oh, Im sure he understands more than I think .
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
MONDAY, APRIL 3, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Contrary to my usual practice, Im going to write you a detailed description of the food situation, since its become a matter of some difficulty and importance, not only here in the Annex, but in all of Holland, all of Europe and even beyond.
In the twenty-one months weve lived here, weve been through a good many "food cycles" -- youll understand what that means in a moment. A "food cycle" is a period in which we have only one particular dish or type of vegetable to eat. For a long time we ate nothing but endive. Endive with sand, endive without sand, endive with mashed potatoes, endive-and-mashed potato casserole. Then it was spinach, followed by kohlrabi, salsify, cucumbers, tomatoes, sauerkraut, etc., etc.
Its not much fun when you have to eat, say, sauer- kraut every day for lunch and dinner, but when youre hungry enough, you do a lot of things. Now, however, were going through the most delightful period so far, because there are no vegetables at all.
Our weekly lunch menu consists of brown beans, split-pea soup, potatoes with dumplings, potato kugel and, by the grace of God, turnip greens or rotten carrots, and then its back to brown beans. Because of the bread shortage, we eat potatoes at every meal, starting with breakfast, but then we fry them a little. To make soup we use brown beans, navy beans, potatoes, packages of vege- table soup, packages of chicken soup and packages of bean soup. There are brown beans in everything, including the bread. For dinner we always have potatoes with imitation gravy and -- thank goodness weve still got it -- beet salad. I must tell you about the dumplings.
We make them with government-issue flour, water and yeast. Theyre so gluey and tough that it feels as if you had rocks in your stomach, but oh well!
The high point is our weekly slice of liverwurst, and the jam on our unbuttered bread.
But were still alive, and much of the time it still tastes good too!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 5, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
For a long time now I didnt know why I was bothering to do any schoolwork. The end of the war still seemed so far away, so unreal, like a fairy tale. If the war isnt over by September, I wont go back to school, since I dont want to be two years behind.
Peter filled my days, nothing but Peter, dreams and thoughts until Saturday night, when I felt so utterly miserable; oh, it was awful. I held back my tears when I was with Peter, laughed uproariously with the van Daans as we drank lemon punch and was cheerful and excited, but the minute I was alone I knew I was going to cry my eyes out. I slid to the floor in my nightgown and began by saying my prayers, very fervently. Then I drew my knees to my chest, lay my head on my arms and cried, all huddled up on the bare floor. A loud sob brought me back down to earth, and I choked back my tears, since I didnt want anyone next door to hear me. Then I tried to pull myself together, saying over and over, "I must, I must, I must. . . " Stiff from sitting in such an unusual position, I fell back against the side of the bed and kept up my struggle until just before ten-thirty, when I climbed back into bed. It was over!
And now its really over. I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because thats what I want! I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but. . . it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.
"Evas Dream" is my best fairy tale, and the odd thing is that I dont have the faintest idea where it came from. Parts of "Cadys Life" are also good, but as a whole its nothing special. Im my best and harshest critic. I know whats good and what isnt.
Unless you write yourself, you cant know how wonderful it is; I always used to bemoan the fact that I couldnt draw, but now Im overjoyed that at least I can write.
And if I dont have the talent to write books or newspaper articles, I can always write for myself. But I want to achieve more than that. I cant imagine having to live like Mother, Mrs. van Daan and all the women who go about their work and are then forgotten. I need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to! I dont want to have lived in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those Ive never met. I want to go on living even after my death! And thats why Im so grateful to God for having given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all thats inside me!
When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sor- row disappears, my spirits are
revived! But, and thats a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?
I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies.
I havent worked on "Cadys Life" for ages. In my mind Ive worked out exactly what happens next, but the story doesnt seem to be coming along very well. I might never finish it, and itll wind up in the wastepaper basket or the stove. Thats a horrible thought, but then I say to myself, "At the age of fourteen and with so little experience, you cant write about philosophy.”
So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. Itll all work out, because Im determined to write!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
THURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
You asked me what my hobbies and interests are and Id like to answer, but Id better warn you, I have lots of them, so dont be surprised.
First of all: writing, but I dont really think of that as a hobby.
Number two: genealogical charts. Im looking in every newspaper, book and document I can find for the family trees of the French, German, Spanish, English, Austrian, Russian, Norwegian and Dutch royal famthes. Ive made great progress with many of them, because for ! a long time Ive been taking notes while reading biogra- I, phies or history books. I even copy out many of the passages on history.
So my third hobby is history, and Fathers already bought me numerous books. I can hardly wait for the day when Ill be able to go to the public library and ferret out Iii the information I need.
Number four is Greek and Roman mythology. I have various books on this subject too.
I can name the nine Muses and the seven loves of Zeus. I have the wives of Hercules, etc., etc., down pat.
My other hobbies are movie stars and family photographs. Im crazy about reading and
books. I adore the history of the arts, especially when it concerns writers, poets and painters; musicians may come later. I loathe algebra, geometry and arithmetic. I enjoy all my other school subjects, but historys my favorite!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
My heads in a whirl, I really dont know where to begin. Thursday (the last time I wrote you) everything was as usual. Friday afternoon (Good Friday) we played Monopoly; Saturday afternoon too. The days passed very quickly. Around two oclock on Saturday, heavy firing ii began-machine guns, according to the men. For the rest, everything was quiet.
Sunday afternoon Peter came to see me at four-thirty, at my invitation. At five-fifteen we went to the Ii front attic, where we stayed until six. There was a beautil ful Mozart concert on the radio from six to seven-fifteen; I especially enjoyed the Kleine Nachtmusik. I can hardly bear to listen in the kitchen, since beautiful music stirs me to the very depths of my soul. Sunday evening Peter couldnt take his balli, because the washtub was down in the office kitchen, filled with laundry. The two of us went to the front attic together, and in order to be able to sit comfortably, I took along the only cushion I could find in my room. We seated ourselves on a packing crate. Since both the crate and the cushion were very narrow, we were sitting quite close, leaning against two other crates; Mouschi kept us company, so we werent without a chaperon. Suddenly, at a quarter to nine, Mr. van Daan whistled and asked if we had Mr. Dussels cushion. We jumped up and went downstairs willi the cushion, the cat and Mr. van Daan. This cushion was the source of much misery. Dussel was angry because Id taken the one he uses as a pillow, and he was afraid it might be covered with fleas; he had the entire house in an uproar because of this one cushion. In revenge, Peter and I stuck two hard brushes in his bed, but had to take them out again when Dussel unexpectedly decided to go sit in his room. We had a really good laugh at this little intermezzo.
But our fun was short-lived. At nine-thirty Peter knocked gently on the door and asked Father to come upstairs and help him with a difficult English sentence.
"That sounds fishy," I said to Margot. "Its obviously a pretext. You can tell by the way the men are talking that theres been a break-in!" I was right. The warehouse was being broken into at that very moment. Father, Mr. van Daan and Peter were
downstairs in a flash. Margot, Mother, Mrs. van D. and I waited. Four frightened women need to talk, so thats what we did until we heard a bang downstairs. After that all was quiet. The clock struck quarter to ten. The color had drained from our faces, but we remained calm, even though we were afraid. Where were the men? What was that bang? Were they fighting with the burglars? We were too scared to think; all we could do was wait.
Ten oclock, footsteps on the stairs. Father, pale and nervous, came inside, followed by Mr. van Daan. "Lights out, tiptoe upstairs, were expecting the police!" There wasnt time to be scared. The lights were switched off, I grabbed a jacket, and we sat down upstairs.
"What happened? Tell us quickly!”
There was no one to tell us; the men had gone back downstairs. The four of them didnt come back up until ten past ten. Two of them kept watch at Peters open window. The door to the landing was locked, the book- case shut. We draped a sweater over our night-light, and then they told us what had happened:
Peter was on the landing when he heard two loud bangs. He went downstairs and saw that a large panel was missing from the left half of the warehouse door. He dashed upstairs, alerted the "Home Guard," and the four of them went downstairs. When they entered the warehouse, the burglars were going about their business. Without thinking, Mr. van Daan yelled "Police!" Hur- ried footsteps outside; the burglars had fled. The board was put back in the door so the police wouldnt notice the gap, but then a swift kick from outside sent it flying to the floor. The men were amazed at the burglars audacity. Both Peter and Mr. van Daan felt a murderous rage come over them. Mr. van Daan slammed an ax against the floor, and all was quiet again. Once more the panel was re- placed, and once more the attempt was foiled. Outside, a man and a woman shone a glaring flashlight through the opening, lighting up the entire warehouse. "What the . . ." mumbled one of the men, but now their roles had been reversed. Instead of policemen, they were now burglars. All four of them raced upstairs. Dussel and Mr.
van Daan snatched up Dussels books, Peter opened the doors and windows in the kitchen and private office, hurled the phone to the ground, and the four of them finally ended up behind the bookcase.
END OF PART ONE In all probability the man and woman with the flashlight had alerted the police. It was Sunday night, Easter Sunday. The next day, Easter Monday, the office was going to be closed, which meant we wouldnt be able to move around until Tuesday morning.
Think of it, having to sit in such terror for a day and two nights! We thought of nothing, but simply sat there in pitch darkness -- in her fear, Mrs. van D. had switched off the lamp. We whispered, and every time we heard a creak, someone said, "Shh, shh.”
It was ten-thirty, then eleven. Not a sound. Father and Mr. van Daan took turns coming upstairs to us. Then, at eleven-fifteen, a noise below. Up above you could hear the whole family breathing. For the rest, no one moved a muscle. Footsteps in the house, the private office, the kitchen, then. . . on the staircase. All sounds of breathing stopped, eight hearts pounded. Foot- steps on the stairs, then a rattling at the bookcase. This moment is indescribable.
"Now were done for," I said, and I had visions of all fifteen of us being dragged away by the Gestapo that very night.
More rattling at the bookcase, twice. Then we heard a can fall, and the footsteps receded. We were out of danger, so far! A shiver went though everyones body, I heard several sets of teeth chattering, no one said a word. We stayed like this until eleven-thirty.
There were no more sounds in the house, but a light was shining on our landing, right in front of the bookcase. Was that because the police thought it looked so suspicious or because they simply forgot? Was anyone going to come back and turn it off? We found our tongues again.
There were no longer any people inside the building, but perhaps someone was standing guard outside. We then did three things: tried to guess what was going on, trembled with fear and went to the bathroom. Since the buckets were in the attic, all we had was Peters metal wastepaper basket. Mr. van Daan went first, then Father, but Mother was too embarrassed. Father brought the waste- basket to the next room, where Margot, Mrs. van Daan and I gratefully made use of it. Mother finally gave in.
There was a great demand for paper, and luckily I had some in my pocket.
The wastebasket stank, everything went on in a whisper, and we were exhausted. It was midnight.
"Lie down on the floor and go to sleep!" Margot and I were each given a pillow and a blanket. Margot lay down near the food cupboard, and I made my bed between the table legs. The smell wasnt quite so bad when you were lying on the floor, but Mrs.
van Daan quietly went and got some powdered bleach and draped a dish towel over the potty as a further precaution.
Talk, whispers, fear, stench, farting and people continually going to the bathroom; try sleeping through that! By two-thirty, however, I was so tired I dozed off and didnt hear a thing until three-thirty. I woke up when Mrs. van D. lay her head on my feet.
"For heavens sake, give me something to put on!" I said. I was handed some clothes, but dont ask what: a pair of wool slacks over my pajamas, a red sweater and a black skirt, white understockings and tattered kneesocks.
Mrs. van D. sat back down on the chair, and Mr. van D. lay down with his head on my feet. From three- thirty onward I was engrossed in thought, and still shiver- ing so much that Mr. van Daan couldnt sleep. I was preparing myself for the return of the police. Wed tell them we were in hiding; if they were good people, wed be safe, and if they were Nazi sympathizers, we could try to bribe them!
"We should hide the radio!" moaned Mrs. van D.
"Sure, in the stove," answered Mr. van D. "If they find us, they might as well find the radio!”
"Then theyll also find Annes diary," added Father.
"So burn it," suggested the most terrified of the group.
This and the police rattling on the bookcase were the moments when I was most afraid. Oh, not my diary; if my diary goes, I go too! Thank goodness Father didnt say anything more.
Theres no point in recounting all the conversations; so much was said. I comforted Mrs. van Daan, who was very frightened. We talked about escaping, being interrogated by the Gestapo, phoning Mr. Kleiman and being courageous.
"We must behave like soldiers, Mrs. van Daan. If our time has come, well then, itll be for Queen and Country, for freedom, truth and justice, as theyre always telling us on the radio. The only bad thing is that well drag the others down with us!”
After an hour Mr. van Daan switched places with his wife again, and Father came and sat beside me. The men smoked one cigarette after another, an occasional sigh was heard, somebody made another trip to the potty, and then everything began allover again.
Four oclock, five, five-thirty. I went and sat with Peter by his window and listened, so close we could feel each others bodies trembling; we spoke a word or two from time to time and listened intently. Next door they took down the blackout screen.
They made a list of everything they were planning to tell Mr. Kleiman over the phone, because they intended to call him at seven and ask him to send someone over. They were taking a big chance, since the police guard at the door or in the warehouse might hear them calling, but there was an even greater risk that the police would return.
Im enclosing their list, but for the sake of clarity, Ill copy it here.
Buralary: Police in building, up to bookcase, but no farther. Burglars apparently interrupted, forced warehouse door, fled through garden. Main entrance bolted; Kugler must have left through second door.
Typewriter and adding machine safe in black chest in private office.
Mieps or Beps laundry in washtub in kitchen.
Only Bep or Kugler have key to second door; lock may be broken.
Try to warn jan and get key, look around office; also feed cat.
For the rest, everything went according to plan. Mr. Kleiman was phoned, the poles were removed from the doors, the typewriter was put back in the chest. Then we all sat around the table again and waited for either jan or the police.
Peter had dropped off to sleep and Mr. van Daan ANNE FRANK and I were lying on the floor when we heard loud footsteps below. I got up quietly. "Its Jan!”
"No, no, its the police!" they all said.
There was a knocking at our bookcase. Miep whis- tled. This was too much for Mrs.
van Daan, who sank limply in her chair, white as a sheet. If the tension had lasted another minute, she would have fainted.
Jan and Miep came in and were met with a delightful scene. The table alone would have been worth a photograph: a copy of Cinema &.. Theater, opened to a page of dancing girls and smeared with jam and pectin, which wed been taking to combat the diarrhea, two jam jars, half a bread roll, a quarter of a bread roll, pectin, a mirror, a comb, matches, ashes, cigarettes, tobacco, an ashtray, books, a pair of underpants, a
flashlight, Mrs. van Daans comb, toilet paper, etc.
Jan and Miep were of course greeted with shouts and tears. Jan nailed a pinewood board over the gap in the door and went off again with Miep to inform the police of the break-in. Miep had also found a note under the ware- house door from Sleegers, the night watchman, who had noticed the hole and alerted the police. Jan was also planning to see Sleegers.
So we had half an hour in which to put the house and ourselves to rights. Ive never seen such a transformation as in those thirty minutes. Margot and I got the beds ready downstairs, went to the bathroom, brushed our teeth, washed our hands and combed our hair. Then I straightened up the room a bit and went back upstairs. The table had already been cleared, so we got some water, made coffee and tea, boiled the milk and set the table. Father and Peter emptied our improvised potties and rinsed them with warm water and powdered bleach. The largest one was filled to the brim and was so heavy they had a hard time lifting it. To make things worse, it was leaking, so they had to put it in a bucket.
At eleven oclock Jan was back and joined us at the table, and gradually everyone began to relax. Jan had the following story to tell:
Mr. Sleegers was asleep, but his wife told Jan that her husband had discovered the hole in the door while making his rounds. He called in a policeman, and the two of them searched the building. Mr. Sleegers, in his capacity as night watchman, patrols the area every night on his bike, accompanied by his two dogs. His wife said he would come on Tuesday and tell Mr. Kugler the rest. No one at the police station seemed to know anything about the break-in, but they made a note to come first thing Tuesday morning to have a look.
On the way back Jan happened to run into Mr. van Hoeven, the man who supplies us with potatoes, and told him of the break-in. "I know," Mr. van Hoeven calmly replied.
"Last night when my wife and I were walking past your building, I saw a gap in the door. My wife wanted to walk on, but I peeked inside with a flashlight, and thats when the burglars must have run off. To be on the safe side, I didnt call the police. I thought it wouldnt be wise in your case. I dont know anything, but I have my suspicions." Jan thanked him and went on. Mr. van Hoeven obviously suspects were here, because he always delivers the potatoes at lunchtime. A decent man!
It was one oclock by the time Jan left and wed done the dishes. All eight of us went to bed. I woke up at quarter to three and saw that Mr. Dussel was already up. My face rumpled with sleep, I happened to run into Peter in the bathroom, just after hed
come downstairs. We agreed to meet in the office. I freshened up a bit and went down.
"After all this, do you still dare go to the front attic?" he asked. I nodded, grabbed my pillow, with a cloth wrapped around it, and we went up together. The weather was gorgeous, and even though the air-raid sirens soon began to wail, we stayed where we were. Peter put his arm around my shoulder, I put mine around his, and we sat quietly like this until four oclock, when Margot came to get us for coffee.
We ate our bread, drank our lemonade and joked (we were finally able to again), and for the rest everything was back to normal. That evening I thanked Peter because hed been the bravest of us all.
None of us have ever been in such danger as we were that night. God was truly watching over us. Just think-the police were right at the bookcase, the light was on, and still no one had discovered our hiding place! "Now were done for!" Id whispered at that moment, but once again we were spared. When the invasion comes and the bombs start falling, itll be every man for himself, but this time we feared for those good, innocent Christians who are helping us.
"Weve been saved, keep on saving us!" Thats all we can say.
This incident has brought about a whole lot of changes. As of now, Dussel will be doing his work in the bathroom, and Peter will be patrolling the house between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. Peter isnt allowed to open his window anymore, since one of the Keg people noticed it was open. We can no longer flush the toilet after nine-thirty at night. Mr. Sleegers has been hired as night watchman, and tonight a carpenter from the underground is coming to make a barricade out of our white Frankfurt bedsteads. Debates are going on left and right in the Annex. Mr. Kugler has reproached us for our carelessness. Jan also said we should never go downstairs. What we have to do now is find out whether Sleegers can be trusted, whether the dogs will bark if they hear someone behind the door, how to make the barricade, all sorts of things.
Weve been strongly reminded of the fact that were Jews in chains, chained to one spot, without any rights, but with a thousand obligations. We must put our feelings aside; we must be brave and strong, bear discomfort with- out complaint, do whatever is in our power and trust in God. One day this terrible war will be over. The time will come when well be people again and not just Jews!
Who has inflicted this on us? Who has set us apart from all the rest? Who has put us
through such suffering? Its God who has made us the way we are, but its also God who will lift us up again. In the eyes of the world, were doomed, but if, after all this suffering, there are still Jews left, the Jewish people will be held up as an example.
Who knows, maybe our religion will teach the world and all the people in it about goodness, and thats the reason, the only reason, we have to suffer. We can never be just Dutch, or just English, or whatever, we will always be Jews as well. And well have to keep on being Jews, but then, well want to be.
Be brave! Lets remember our duty and perform it without complaint. There will be a way out. God has never deserted our people. Through the ages Jews have had to suffer, but through the ages theyve gone on living, and the centuries of suffering have only made them stronger. The weak shall fall and the strong shall survive and not be defeated!
That night I really thought I was going to die. I waited for the police and I was ready for death, like a soldier on a battlefield. Id gladly have given my life for my country.
But now, now that Ive been spared, my first wish after the war is to become a Dutch citizen. I love the Dutch, I love this country, I love the language, and I want to work here. And even if I have to write to the Queen herself, I wont give up until Ive reached my goal!
Im becoming more and more independent of my parents. Young as I am, I face life with more courage and have a better and truer sense of justice than Mother. I know what I want, I have a goal, I have opinions, a religion and love. If only I can be myself, Ill be satisfied. I know that Im a woman, a woman with inner strength and a great deal of courage!
If God lets me live, Ill achieve more than Mother ever did, Ill make my voice heard, Ill go out into the world and work for mankind!
I now know that courage and happiness are needed first!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1944
Dear Kitty,
Everyone here is still very tense. Pim has nearly reached the bothng point; Mrs. van D. is lying in bed with a cold, grumbling; Mr. van D. is growing pale without his cigarettes; Dussel, whos having to give up many of his comforts, is carping at
everyone; etc., etc. We seem to have run out of luck lately. The toilets leaking, and the faucets stuck. Thanks to our many connections, well soon be able to get these repaired.
Im occasionally sentimental, as you know, but from time to time I have reason to be:
when Peter and I are sitting close together on a hard wooden crate among the junk and dust, our arms around each others shoulders, Peter toying with a lock of my hair;
when the birds outside are trilling their songs, when the trees are in bud, when the sun beckons and the sky is so blue--oh, thats when I wish for so much!
All I see around me are dissatisfied and grumpy faces, all I hear are sighs and stifled complaints. Youd think our lives had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Honestly, things are only as bad as you make them. Here in the Annex no one even bothers to set a good example. We each have to figure out how to get the better of our own moods!
Every day you hear, "If only it were all over!”
Work, love, courage and hope, Make me good and help me cope!
I really believe, Kit, that Im a little nutty today, and I dont know why. My writings all mixed up, Im jump- ing from one thing to another, and sometimes I seriously doubt whether anyone will ever be interested in this drivel. Theyll probably call it "The Musings of an Ugly Duckling." My diaries certainly wont be of much use to Mr.
Bolkestein or Mr. Gerbrandy.* [* Gerrit Bolkestein was the Minister of Education and Pieter Gerbrandy was the Prime Minister of the Dutch government in exile in London.
See Annes letter of March 29, 1944.] Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
"Theres just one bad thing after another. When will it all end?" You can sure say that again. Guess whats happened now? Peter forgot to unbolt the front door. As a result, Mr. Kugler and the warehouse employees couldnt get in. He went to Kegs, smashed in our office kitchen window and got in that way. The windows in the Annex were open, and the Keg people saw that too. What must they be thinking? And van Maaren?
Mr. Kuglers furious. We accuse him of not doing anything to reinforce the doors, and
then we do a stupid thing like this! Peters extremely upset. At the table, Mother said she felt more sorry for Peter than for anyone else, and he nearly began to cry. Were equally to blame, since we usually ask him every day if hes unbolted the door, and so does Mr. van Daan. Maybe I can go comfort him later on. I want to help him so much!
Here are the latest news bulletins about life in the Secret Annex over the last few weeks:
A week ago Saturday, Boche suddenly got sick. He sat quite still and started drooling.
Miep immediately picked him up, rolled him in a towel, tucked him in her shopping bag and brought him to the dog-and-cat clinic. Boche had some kind of intestinal problem, so the vet gave him medicine. Peter gave it to him a few times, but Boche soon made himself scarce. Ill bet he was out courting his sweetheart. But now his nose is swollen and he meows whenever you pick him up-he was probably trying to steal food and somebody smacked him. Mouschi lost her voice for a few days. Just when we decided she had to be taken to the vet too, she started getting better.
We now leave the attic window open a crack every night. Peter and I often sit up there in the evening.
Thanks to rubber cement and oil paint, our toilet ; could quickly be repaired. The broken faucet has been replaced.
Luckily, Mr. Kleiman is feeling better. Hes going to see a specialist soon. We can only hope he wont need an operation.
This month we received eight Tation books. Unfortunately, for the next two weeks beans have been substituted for oatmeal or groats. Our latest delicacy is piccalilli. If youre out of luck, all you get is a jar full of cucumber and mustard sauce.
Vegetables are hard to come by. Theres only lettuce, lettuce and more lettuce. Our meals consist entirely of potatoes and imitation gravy.
The Russians are in possession of more than half the Crimea. The British arent advancing beyond Cassino. Well have to count on the Western Wall. There have been a lot of unbelievably heavy air raids. The Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages in The Hague was bombed. All Dutch people will be issued new ration registration cards.
Enough for today.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Remember yesterdays date, since it was a red-letter day for me. Isnt it an important day for every girl when she gets her first kiss? Well then, its no less important to me. The time Bram kissed me on my right cheek or Mr. Woudstra on my right hand doesnt count. How did I suddenly come by this kiss? Ill tell you.
Last night at eight I was sitting with Peter on his divan and it wasnt long before he put an arm around me. (Since it was Saturday, he wasnt wearing his overalls.)"Why don t we move over a little," I said, "so won t keep bumping my head against the cupboard.”
He moved so far over he was practically in the corner. I slipped my arm under his and across his back, and he put his arm around my shoulder, so that I was nearly engulfed by him. Weve sat like this on other occasions, but never so close as we were last night. He held me firmly against him, my left side against his chest; my heart had already begun to beat faster, but there was more to come. He wasnt satisfied until my head lay on his shoulder, with his on top of mine. I sat up again after about five minutes, but before long he took my head in his hands and put it back next to his. Oh, it was so wonderful. I could hardly talk, my pleasure was too intense;
he caressed my cheek and arm, a bit clumsily, and played with my hair. Most of the time our heads were touching.
I cant tell you, Kitty, the feeling that ran through me. I was too happy for words, and I think he was too.
At nine-thirty we stood up. Peter put on his tennis shoes so he wouldnt make much noise on his nightly round of the building, and I was standing next to him. How I suddenly made the right movement, I dont know, but before we went downstairs, he gave me a. kiss, through my hair, half on my left cheek and half on my ear. I tore downstairs without looking back, and I long so much for today.
Sunday morning, just before eleven.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Do you think Father and Mother would approve of a girl my age sitting on a divan and kissing a seventeen-and- a-half-year-old boy? I doubt they would, but I have to trust my own judgment in this matter. Its so peaceful and safe, lying in his arms and dreaming, its so thrilling to feel his cheek against mine, its so wonderful to know theres someone waiting for me. But, and there is a but, will Peter want to leave it at that? I havent forgotten his promise, but. . . he is a boy!
I know Im starting at a very young age. Not even fifteen and already so independent -- thats a little hard for other people to understand. Im pretty sure Margot would never kiss a boy unless there was some talk of an engagement or marriage. Neither Peter nor I has any such plans. Im also sure that Mother never touched a man before she met Father. What would my girlfriends or Jacque say if they knew Id lain in Peters arms with my heart against his chest, my head on his shoulder and his head and face against mine!
Oh, Anne, how terribly shocking! But seriously, I dont think its at all shocking; were cooped up here, cut off from the world, anxious and fearful, especially lately. Why should we stay apart when we love each other? Why shouldnt we kiss each other in times like these? Why should we wait until weve reached a suitable age? Why should we ask anybodys permission?
Ive decided to look out for my own interests. Hed never want to hurt me or make me unhappy. Why shouldnt I do what my heart tells me and makes both of us happy?
Yet I have a feeling, Kitty, that you can sense my doubt. It must be my honesty rising in revolt against all this sneaking around. Do you think its my duty to tell Father what Im up to? Do you think our secret should be shared with a third person?
Much of the beauty would be lost, but would it make me feel better inside? Ill bring it up with him.
Oh, yes, I still have so much I want to discuss with him, since I dont see the point of just cuddling. Sharing our thoughts with each other requires a great deal of trust, but well both be stronger because of it!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
P.S. We were up at six yesterday morning, because the whole family heard the sounds of a break-in again. It must have been one of our neighbors who was the victim this
time. When we checked at seven oclock, our doors were still shut tight, thank goodness!
TUESDAY, APRIL 18,1944
Dearest Kitty,
Everythings fine here. Last night the carpenter came again to put some sheets of iron over the door panels. Father just got through saying he definitely expects large-scale operations in Russia and Italy, as well as in the West, before May 20; the longer the war lasts, the harder it is to imagine being liberated from this place.
Yesterday Peter and I finally got around to having the talk weve been postponing for the last ten days. I told him all about girls, without hesitating to discuss the most intimate matters. I found it rather amusing that he thought the opening in a womans body was simply left out of illustrations. He couldnt imagine that it was actually located between a womans legs. The evening ended with a mutual kiss, near the mouth. Its really a lovely feeling!
I might take my "favorite quotes notebook" up with me sometime so Peter and I can go more deeply into matters. I dont think lying in each others arms day in and day out is very satisfying, and I hope he feels the same.
After our mild winter weve been having a beautiful spring. April is glorious, not too hot and not too cold, with occasional light showers. Our chestnut tree is in leaf, and here and there you can already see a few small blossoms.
Bep presented us Saturday with four bouquets of flowers: three bouquets of daffodils, and one bouquet of grape hyacinths for me. Mr. Kugler is supplying us with more and more newspapers.
Its time to do my algebra, Kitty. Bye.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19, 1944
Dearest Darling, (Thats the title of a movie with Dorit Kreysler, Ida Wust and Harald Paulsen!)
What could be nicer than sitting before an open window, enjoying nature, listening to the birds sing, feeling the sun on your cheeks and holding a darling boy in your arms?
I feel so peaceful and safe with his arm around me, knowing hes near and yet not having to speak; how can this be bad when it does me so much good? Oh, if only we were never disturbed again, not even by Mouschi.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
FRIDAY, APRIL 21,1944
My dearest Kitty,
I stayed in bed yesterday with a sore throat, but since I was already bored the very first afternoon and didnt have a fever, I got up today. My sore throat has nearly "verschwunden"* [* disappeared].
Yesterday, as youve probably already discovered, was our Fiihrers fifty-fifth birthday. Today is the eighteenth birthday of Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth of York. The BBC reported that she hasnt yet been declared of age, though royal children usually are. Weve been wondering which prince theyll marry this beauty off to, but cant think of a suitable candidate; perhaps her sister, Princess Margaret Rose, can have Crown Prince Baudouin of Belgium!
Here weve been going from one disaster to the next. No sooner have the outside doors been reinforced than van Maaren rears his head again. In all likelihood hes the one who stole the potato flour, and now hes trying to pin the blame on Bep. Not surprisingly, the Annex is once again in an uproar. Bep is beside herself with rage.
Perhaps Mr. Kugler will finally have this shady character tailed.
The appraiser from Beethovenstraat was here this morning. He offered us 400 guilders for our chest; in our opinion, the other estimates are also too low.
I want to ask the magazine The Prince if theyll take one of my fairy tales, under a pseudonym, of course. But up to now all my fairy tales have been too long, so I dont think I have much of a chance.
Until the next time, darling.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
For the last ten days Dussel hasnt been on speaking terms with Mr. van Daan, and all because of the new security measures since the break-in. One of these was that hes no longer allowed to go downstairs in the evenings. Peter and Mr. van Daan make the last round every night at nine-thirty, and after that no one may go downstairs. We cant flush the toilet anymore after eight at night or after eight in the morning. The windows may be opened only in the morning when the lights go on in Mr. Kuglers office, and they can no longer be propped open with a stick at night. This last measure is the reason for Dussels sulking. He claims that Mr. van Daan bawled him out, but he has only himself to blame. He says hed rather live without food than without air, and that they simply must figure out a way to keep the windows open.
"Ill have to speak to Mr. Kugler about this," he said to me.
I replied that we never discussed matters of this sort with Mr. Kugler, only within the group.
"Everythings always happening behind my back. Ill have to talk to your father about that.”
Hes also not allowed to sit in Mr. Kuglers office anymore on Saturday afternoons or Sundays, because the manager of Kegs might hear him if he happens to be next door.
Dussel promptly went and sat there anyway. Mr. van Daan was furious, and Father went downstairs to talk to Dussel, who came up with some flimsy excuse, but even Father didnt fall for it this time. Now Fathers keep- ing his dealings with Dussel to a minimum because Dussel insulted him. Not one of us knows what he said, but it must have been pretty awful.
And to think that that miserable man has his birthday next week. How can you celebrate your birthday when youve got the sulks, how can you accept gifts from people you wont even talk to?
Mr. Voskuijl is going downhill rapidly. For more than ten days hes had a temperature of almost a hundred and four. The doctor said his condition is hopeless; they think the cancer has spread to his lungs. The poor man, wed so like to help him, but only God can help him now!
Ive written an amusing story called "Blurry the Explorer," which was a big hit with my three listeners.
I still have a bad cold and have passed it on to Margot, as well as Mother and Father.
If only Peter doesnt get it. He insisted on a kiss, and called me his El Dorado. You cant call a person that, silly boy! But hes sweet anyway!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
THURSDAY, APRIL 27, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Mrs. van D. was in a bad mood this morning. All she did was complain, first about her cold, not being able to get cough drops and the agony of having to blow her nose all the time. Next she grumbled that the sun wasnt shining, the invasion hadnt started, we werent allowed to look out the windows, etc., etc. We couldnt help but laugh at her, and it couldnt have been that bad, since she soon joined in.
Our recipe for potato kugel, modified due to lack of onions:
Put peeled potatoes through a food mill and add a little dry government-issue flour and salt. Grease a mold or ovenproof dish with paraffin or stearin and bake for 21/2 hours. Serve with rotten strawberry compote. (Onions not available. Nor oil for mold or dough!)
At the moment Im reading Emperor Charles V, written by a professor at the University of Gottingen; hes spent forty years working on this book. It took me five days to read fifty pages. I cant do any more than that. Since the book has 598 pages, you can figure out just how long its going to take me. And thats not even counting the second volume. But. . . very interesting!
The things a schoolgirl has to do in the course of a single day! Take me, for example. First, I translated a passage on Nelsons last battle from Dutch into English.
Then, I read more about the Northern War (1700-21) involving Peter the Great, Charles XII, Augustus the Strong, Stanislaus Leczinsky, Mazeppa, von Gorz, Bran- denburg, Western Pomerania, Eastern Pomerania and Denmark, plus the usual dates.
Next, I wound up in Brazil, where I read about Bahia tobacco, the abundance of coffee, the one and a half million inhabitants of Rio de Janeiro, Pernambuco and Sao Paulo and, last but not least, the Amazon River. Then about Negroes, mulattoes, mestizos, whites, the illiteracy rate -- over 50 percent -- and malaria. Since I had some time left, I glanced through a genealogical chart: John the Old, William Louis, Ernest Casimir I, Henry Casimir I, right up to little Margriet Franciska (born in 1943 in
Ottawa).
Twelve oclock: I resumed my studies in the attic, reading about deans, priests, ministers, popes and . . . whew, it was one oclock!
At two the poor child (ho hum) was back at work. Old World and New World monkeys were next. Kitty, tell me quickly, how many toes does a hippopotamus have?
Then came the Bible, Noahs Ark, Shem, Ham and Japheth. After that, Charles V.
Then, with Peter, Thack- erays book about the colonel, in English. A French test, and then a comparison between the Mississippi and the Missouri!
Enough for today. Adieu!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
FRIDAY, APRIL 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Ive never forgotten my dream of Peter Schiff (see the beginning of January). Even now I can still feel his cheek against mine, and that wonderful glow that made up for all the rest. Once in a while Id had the same feeling with this Peter, but never so intensely. . . until last night. We were sitting on the divan, as usual, in each others arms. Suddenly the everyday Anne slipped away and the second Anne took her place.
The second Anne, whos never overconfident or amusing, but wants only to love and be gentle.
I sat pressed against him and felt a wave of emotion come over me. Tears rushed to my eyes; those from the left fell on his overalls, while those from the right trickled down my nose and into the air and landed beside the first. Did he notice? He made no movement to show that he had. Did he feel the same way I did? He hardly said a word. Did he realize he had two Annes at his side? My questions went unanswered.
At eight-thirty I stood up and went to the window, where we always say good-bye. I was still trembling, I was still Anne number two. He came over to me, and I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on his left cheek. I was about to kiss the other cheek when my mouth met his, and we pressed our lips together. In a daze, we embraced, over and over again, never to stop, oh!
Peter needs tenderness. For the first time in his life hes discovered a girl; for the
first time hes seen that even the biggest pests also have an inner self and a heart, and are transformed as soon as theyre alone with you. For the first time in his life hes given himself and his friendship to another person. Hes never had a friend before, boy or girl. Now weve found each other. I, for that matter, didnt know him either, had never had someone I could confide in, and its led to this . . .
The same question keeps nagging me: "Is it right?" Is it right for me to yield so soon, for me to be so passionate, to be filled with as much passion and desire as Peter?
Can I, a girl, allow myself to go that far?
Theres only one possible answer: "Im longing so much. . . and have for such a long time. Im so lonely and now Ive found comfort!”
In the mornings we act normally, in the afternoons too, except now and then. But in the evenings the suppressed longing of the entire day, the happiness and the bliss of all the times before come rushing to the surface, and all we can think about is each other. Every night, after our last kiss, I feel like running away and never looking him in the eyes again. Away, far away into the darkness and alone!
And what awaits me at the bottom of those fourteen stairs? Bright lights, questions and laughter. I have to act normally and hope they dont notice anything.
My heart is still too tender to be able to recover so quickly from a shock like the one I had last night. The gentle Anne makes infrequent appearances, and shes not about to let herself be shoved out the door so soon after shes arrived. Peters reached a part of me that no one has ever reached before, except in my dream! Hes taken hold of me and turned me inside out. Doesnt everyone need a little quiet time to put themselves to rights again? Oh, Peter, what have you done to me? What do you want from me?
Where will this lead? Oh, now I understand Bep. Now, now that Im going through it myself, I understand her doubts; if I were older and he wanted to marry me, what would my answer be? Anne, be honest! You wouldnt be able to marry him. But its so hard to let go. Peter still has too little character, too little willpower, too little courage and strength. Hes still a child, emotionally no older than I am; all he wants is happiness and peace of mind. Am I really only fourteen? Am I really just a silly schoolgirl? Am I really so inexperienced in everything? I have more experience than most; Ive experienced something almost no one my age ever has.
Im afraid of myself, afraid my longing is making me yield too soon. How can it ever go right with other boys later on? Oh, its so hard, the eternal struggle between heart
and mind. Theres a time and a place for both, but how can I be sure that Ive chosen the right time?
Yours, Anne
M. Frank