Dearest Kitty,
Mr. and Mrs. van Daan have had a terrible fight. Ive never seen anything like it, since Mother and Father wouldnt dream of shouting at each other like that. The argument was based on something so trivial it didnt seem worth wasting a single word on it.
Oh well, to each his own.
Of course, its very difficult for Peter, who gets caught in the middle, but no one takes Peter seriously anymore, since hes hypersensitive and lazy. Yesterday he was beside himself with worry because his tongue was blue instead of pink. This rare phenomenon disappeared as quickly as it came. Today hes walking around with a heavy scarf on because hes got a stiff neck. His Highness has been complaining of lumbago too. Aches and pains in his heart, kidneys and lungs are also par for the course. Hes an absolute hypochondriac! (Thats the right word, isnt it?)
Mother and Mrs. van Daan arent getting along very well. There are enough reasons for the friction. To give you one small example, Mrs. van D. has removed all but three of her sheets from our communal linen closet. Shes assuming that Mothers can be used for both families. Shell be in for a nasty surprise when she discovers that Mother has followed her lead.
Furthermore, Mrs. van D. is ticked off because were using her china instead of ours.
Shes still trying to find out what weve done with our plates; theyre a lot closer than she thinks, since theyre packed in cardboard boxes in the attic, behind a load of Opekta advertising material. As long as were in hiding, the plates will remain out of her reach. Since Im always having accidents, its just as well! Yesterday I broke one of Mrs. van D.s soup bowls.
"Oh!" she angrily exclaimed. "Cant you be more careful? That was my last one.”
Please bear in mind, Kitty, that the two ladies speak abominable Dutch (I dont dare comment on the gentlemen: theyd be highly insulted). If you were to hear their bungled attempts, youd laugh your head off. Weve given up pointing out their errors, since correcting them doesnt help anyway. Whenever I quote Mother or Mrs. van Daan, Ill write proper Dutch instead of trying to duplicate their speech.
Last week there was a brief interruption in our monotonous routine. This was provided by Peter -- and a book about women. I should explain that Margot and Peter are allowed to read nearly all the books Mr. Kleiman lends us. But the adults preferred to keep this special book to themselves. This immediately piqued Peters curiosity. What forbidden fruit did it contain? He snuck off with it when his mother was downstairs talking, and took himself and his booty to the loft. For two days all was well. Mrs.
van Daan knew what he was up to, but kept mum until Mr. van Daan found out about it. He threw a fit, took the book away and assumed that would be the end of the business. However, hed neglected to take his sons curiosity into account. Peter, not in the least fazed by his fathers swift action, began thinking up ways to read the rest of this vastly interesting book.
In the meantime, Mrs. van D. asked Mother for her opinion. Mother didnt think this particular book was suitable for Margot, but she saw no harm in letting her read most other books.
You see, Mrs. van Daan, Mother Said, theres a big difference between Margot and Peter. To begin with, Margots a girl, and girls are always more mature than boys.
Second, shes already read many serious books and doesnt go looking for those which are no longer forbidden. Third, Margots much more sensible and intellectually advanced, as a result of her four years at an excellent school.”
Mrs. van Daan agreed with her, but felt it was wrong as a matter of principle to let youngsters read books written for adults.
Meanwhile, Peter had thought of a suitable time when no one would be interested in either him or the book. At seven-thirty in the evening, when the entire family was listening to the radio in the private office, he took his treasure and stole off to the loft again. He should have been back by eight-thirty, but he was so engrossed in the book that he forgot the time and was just coming down the stairs when his father entered the room. The scene that followed was not surprising: after a slap, a whack and a tug-of-war, the book lay on the table and Peter was in the loft.
This is how matters stood when it was time for the family to eat. Peter stayed upstairs. No one gave him a moments thought; hed have to go to bed without his dinner. We continued eating, chatting merrily away, when suddenly we heard a piercing whistle. We lay down our forks and stared at each other, the shock clearly visible on our pale faces.
Then we heard Peters voice through the chimney: "I won t come down!"
Mr. van Daan leapt up, his napkin falling to the floor, and shouted, with the blood rushing to his face, "Ive had enough!”
Father, afraid of what might happen, grabbed him by the arm and the two men went to the attic. After much struggling and kicking, Peter wound up in his room with the door shut, and we went on eating.
Mrs. van Daan wanted to save a piece of bread for her darling son, but Mr. van D.
was adamant. "If he doesnt apologize this minute, hell have to sleep in the loft.”
We protested that going without dinner was enough punishment. What if Peter were to catch cold? We wouldnt be able to call a doctor.
Peter didnt apologize, and returned to the loft.
Mr. van Daan decided to leave well enough alone, though he did note the next morning that Peters bed had been slept in. At seven Peter went to the attic again, but was persuaded to come downstairs when Father spoke a few friendly words to him. After three days of sullen looks and stubborn silence, everything was back to normal.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Today Ill tell you the general news here in the Annex. A lamp has been mounted above my divan bed so that in the future, when I hear the guns going off, Ill be able to pull a cord and switch on the light. I cant use it at the moment because were keeping our window open a little, day and night.
The male members of the van Daan contingent have built a very handy wood-stained food safe, with real screens. Up to now this glorious cupboard has been located in Peters room, but in the interests of fresh air its been moved to the attic. Where it once stood, theres now a shelf. I advised Peter to put his table underneath the shelf, add a nice rug and hang his own cupboard where the table now stands. That might make his little cubbyhole more comfy, though I certainly wouldnt like to sleep there.
Mrs. van Daan is unbearable. Im continually being scolded for my incessant chatter when Im upstairs. I simply let the words bounce right off me! Madame now has a
new trick up her sleeve: trying to get out of washing the pots and pans. If theres a bit of food left at the bottom of the pan, she leaves it to spoil instead of transferring it to a glass dish. Then in the afternoon when Margot is stuck with cleaning all the pots and pans, Madame exclaims, "Oh, poor Margot, you have so much work to do!”
Every other week Mr. Kleiman brings me a couple of books written for girls my age.
Im enthusiastic about the loop ter Heul series. Ive enjoyed all of Cissy van Marxveldts books very much. Ive read The Zaniest Summer four times, and the ludicrous situations still make me laugh.
Father and I are currently working on our family tree, and he tells me something about each person as we go along. Ive begun my schoolwork. Im working hard at French, cramming five irregular verbs into my head every day. But Ive forgotten much too much of what I learned in school.
Peter has taken up his English with great reluctance. A few schoolbooks have just arrived, and I brought a large supply of notebooks, pencils, erasers and labels from home. Pim (thats our pet name for Father) wants me to help him with his Dutch lessons. Im perfectly willing to tutor him in exchange for his assistance with French and other subjects. But he makes the most unbelievable mistakes!
I sometimes listen to the Dutch broadcasts from London. Prince Bernhard recently announced that Princess juliana is expecting a baby in January, which I think is wonderful. No one here understands why I take such an interest in the Royal Family.
A few nights ago I was the topic of discussion, and we all decided I was an ignoramus. As a result, I threw myself into my schoolwork the next day, since I have little desire to still be a freshman when Im fourteen or fifteen. The fact that Im hardly allowed to read anything was also discussed. At the moment, Mothers reading Gentlemen, Wives and Servants, and of course Im not allowed to read it (though Margot is!). First I have to be more intellectually developed, like my genius of a sister. Then we discussed my ignorance of philosophy, psychology and physiology (I immediately looked up these big words in the dictionary!). Its true, I dont know anything about these subjects. But maybe Ill be smarter next year!
Ive come to the shocking conclusion that I have only one long-sleeved dress and three cardigans to wear in the winter. Fathers given me permission to knit a white wool sweater; the yarn isnt very pretty, but itll be warm, and thats what counts.
Some of our clothing was left with friends, but unfortunately we wont be able to get to it until after the war. Provided its still there, of course.
Id just finished writing something about Mrs. van Daan when she walked into the room. Thump, I slammed the book shut.
"Hey, Anne, cant I even take a peek?”
"No, Mrs. van Daan.”
"Just the last page then?”
"No, not even the last page, Mrs. van Daan.”
Of course, I nearly died, since that particular page contained a rather unflattering description of her.
Theres something happening every day, but Im too tired and lazy to write it all down.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Father has a friend, a man in his mid-seventies named Mr. Dreher, whos sick, poor and deaf as a post. At his side, like a useless appendage, is his wife, twenty-seven years younger and equally poor, whose arms and legs are loaded with real and fake bracelets and rings left over from more prosperous days. This Mr. Dreher has already been a great nuisance to Father, and Ive always admired the saintly patience with which he handled this pathetic old man on the phone. When we were still living at home, Mother used to advise him to put a gramophone in front of the receiver, one that would repeat every three minutes, "Yes, Mr. Dreher" and "No, Mr. Dreher," since the old man never understood a word of Fathers lengthy replies anyway.
Today Mr. Dreher phoned the office and asked Mr. Kugler to come and see him. Mr.
Kugler wasnt in the mood and said he would send Miep, but Miep canceled the appointment. Mrs. Dreher called the office three times, but since Miep was reportedly out the entire afternoon, she had to imitate Beps voice. Downstairs in the office as well as upstairs in the Annex, there was great hilarity. Now each time the phone rings, Bep says Thats Mrs. Dreher!" and Miep has to laugh, so that the people on the other end of the line are greeted with an impolite giggle. Cant you just picture it?
This has got to be the greatest office in the whole wide world. The bosses and the
office girls have such fun together!
Some evenings I go to the van Daans for a little chat. We eat "mothball cookies”
(molasses cookies that were stored in a closet that was mothproofed) and have a good time. Recently the conversation was about Peter. I said that he often pats me on the cheek, which I dont like. They asked me in a typically grown-up way whether I could ever learn to love Peter like a brother, since he loves me like a sister. "Oh, no!" I said, but what I was thinking was, "Oh, ugh!" Just imagine! I added that Peters a bit stiff, perhaps because hes shy. Boys who arent used to being around girls are like that.
I must say that the Annex Committee (the mens section) is very creative. Listen to the scheme theyve come up with to get a message to Mr. Broks, an Opekta Co. sales representative and friend whos surreptitiously hidden some of our things for us!
Theyre going to type a letter to a store owner in southern Zealand who is, indirectly, one of Opekta s customers and ask him to fill out a form and send it back in the enclosed self-addressed envelope. Father will write the address on the envelope himself. Once the letter is returned from Zealand, the form can be removed and a handwritten message confirming that Father is alive can be inserted in the envelope.
This way Mr. Broks can read the letter without suspecting a ruse. They chose the province of Zealand because its close to Belgium (a letter can easily be smuggled across the border) and because no one is allowed to travel there without a special permit. An ordinary salesman like Mr. Broks would never be granted a permit.
Yesterday Father put on another act. Groggy with sleep, he stumbled off to bed. His feet were cold, so I lent him my bed socks. Five minutes later he flung them to the floor. Then he pulled the blankets over his head because the light bothered him. The lamp was switched off, and he gingerly poked his head out from under the covers. It was all very amusing. We started talking about the fact that Peter says Margot is a "buttinsky." Suddenly Daddys voice was heard from the depths: "Sits on her butt, you mean.
Mouschi, the cat, is becoming nicer to me as time goes by, but Im still somewhat afraid of her.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mother and I had a so-called "discussion" today, but the annoying part is that I burst into tears. I cant help it. Daddy is always nice to me, and he also understands me much better. At moments like these I cant stand Mother. Its obvious that Im a stranger to her; she doesnt even know what I think about the most ordinary things.
We were talking about maids and the fact that youre supposed to refer to them as "domestic help" these days. She claimed that when the war is over, thats what theyll want to be called. I didnt quite see it that way. Then she added that I talk about later" so often and that I act as if I were such a lady, even though Im not, but I dont think building sand castles in the air is such a terrible thing to do, as long as you dont take it too seriously. At any rate, Daddy usually comes to my defense.
Without him I wouldnt be able to stick it out here.
I dont get along with Margot very well either. Even though our family never has the same kind of outbursts they have upstairs, I find it far from pleasant. Margots and Mothers personalities are so alien to me. I understand my girlfriends better than my own mother. Isnt that a shame?
For the umpteenth time, Mrs. van Daan is sulking. Shes very moody and has been removing more and more of her belongings and locking them up. Its too bad Mother doesnt repay every van Daan "disappearing act" with a Frank "disappearing act.”
Some people, like the van Daans, seem to take special delight not only in raising their own children but in helping others raise theirs. Margot doesnt need it, since shes naturally good, kind and clever, perfection itself, but I seem to have enough mischief for the two of us. More than once the air has been filled with the van Daans admonitions and my saucy replies. Father and Mother always defend me fiercely.
Without them I wouldnt be able to jump back into the fray with my usual composure.
They keep telling me I should talk less, mind my own business and be more modest, but I seem doomed to failure. If Father werent so patient, Id have long ago given up hope of ever meeting my parents quite moderate expectations.
If I take a small helping of a vegetable I loathe and eat potatoes instead, the van Daans, especially Mrs. van Daan, cant get over how spoiled I am. "Come on, Anne, eat some more vegetables," she says.
"No, thank you, maam," I reply. "The potatoes are more than enough.”
"Vegetables are good for you; your mother says so too. Have some more," she insists, until Father intervenes and upholds my right to refuse a dish I dont like.
Then Mrs. van D. really flies off the handle: "You should have been at our house, where children were brought up the way they should be. I dont call this a proper upbringing. Anne is terribly spoiled. Id never allow that. If Anne were my daughter. .
.”
This is always how her tirades begin and end: "If Anne were my daughter. . ." Thank goodness Im not.
But to get back to the subject of raising children, yesterday a silence fell after Mrs.
van D. finished her little speech. Father then replied, "I think Anne is very well brought up. At least shes learned not to respond to your interminable sermons. As far as the vegetables are concerned, all I have to say is look whos calling the kettle black.”
Mrs. van D. was soundly defeated. The pot calling the ketde black refers of course to Madame herself, since she cant tolerate beans or any kind of cabbage in the evening because they give her "gas." But I could say the same. What a dope, dont you think?
In any case, lets hope she stops talking about me.
Its so funny to see how quickly Mrs. van Daan flushes. I dont, and it secredy annoys her no end.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28,1942
Dearest Kitty,
I had to stop yesterday, though I was nowhere near finished. Im dying to tell you about another one of our clashes, but before I do Id like to say this: I think its odd that grown-ups quarrel so easily and so often and about such petty matters. Up to now I always thought bickering was just something children did and that they outgrew it. Often, of course, theres sometimes a reason to have a real quarrel, but the verbal exchanges that take place here are just plain bickering. I should be used to the fact that these squabbles are daily occurrences, but Im not and never will be as long as Im the subject of nearly every discussion. (They refer to these as "discussions”
instead of "quarrels," but Germans dont know the difference!) They criticize everything, and I mean everything, about me: my behavior, my personality, my manners; every inch of me, from head to toe and back again, is the subject of gossip and debate. Harsh words and shouts are constantly being flung at my head, though Im absolutely not used to it. According to the powers that be, Im supposed to grin and
bear it. But I cant! I have no intention of taking their insults lying down. Ill show them that Anne Frank wasnt born yesterday. Theyll sit up and take notice and keep their big mouths shut when I make them see they ought to attend to their own manners instead of mine. How dare they act that way! Its simply barbaric. Ive been astonished, time and again, at such rudeness and most of all. . . at such stupidity (Mrs. van Daan). But as soon as Ive gotten used to the idea, and that shouldnt take long, Ill give them a taste of their own medicine, and then theyll change their tune!
Am I really as bad-mannered, headstrong, stubborn, pushy, stupid, lazy, etc., etc., as the van Daans say I am? No, of course not. I know I have my faults and shortcomings, but they blow them all out of proportion! If you only knew, Kitty, how I seethe when they scold and mock me. It wont take long before I explode with pent-up rage.
But enough of that. Ive bored you long enough with my quarrels, and yet I cant resist adding a highly interesting dinner conversation.
Somehow we landed on the subject of Pims extreme diffidence. His modesty is a well-known fact, which even the stupidest person wouldnt dream of questioning. All of a sudden Mrs. van Daan, who feels the need to bring herself into every conversation, remarked, "Im very modest and retiring too, much more so than my husband!”
Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? This sentence clearly illustrates that shes not exactly what youd call modest!
Mr. van Daan, who felt obliged to explain the "much more so than my husband,”
answered calmly, "I have no desire to be modest and retiring. In my experience, you get a lot further by being pushy!" And turning to me, he added, "Dont be modest and retiring, Anne. It will get you nowhere.”
Mother agreed completely with this viewpoint. But, as usual, Mrs. van Daan had to add her two cents. This time, however, instead of addressing me directly, she turned to my parents and said, "You must have a strange outlook on life to be able to say that to Anne. Things were different when I was growing up. Though they probably havent changed much since then, except in your modern household!”
This was a direct hit at Mothers modern child-rearing methods, which shes defended on many occasions. Mrs. van Daan was so upset her face turned bright red. People who flush easily become even more agitated when they feel themselves getting hot under the collar, and they quickly lose to their opponents.
The nonflushed mother, who now wanted to have the matter over and done with as quickly as possible, paused for a moment to think before she replied. "Well, Mrs. van Daan, I agree that its much better if a person isnt overmodest. My husband, Margot and Peter are all exceptionally modest. Your husband, Anne and I, though not exactly the opposite, dont let ourselves be pushed around.”
Mrs. van Daan: "Oh, but Mrs. Frank, I dont understand what you mean! Honestly, Im extremely modest and retiring. How can you say that Im pushy?”
Mother: "I didnt say you were pushy, but no one would describe you as having a retiring disposition.”
Mrs. van D.: "Id like to know in what way Im pushy! If I didnt look out for myself here, no one else would, and Id soon starve, but that doesnt mean Im not as modest and retiring as your husband.”
Mother had no choice but to laugh at this ridiculous self-defense, which irritated Mrs.
van Daan. Not exactly a born debater, she continued her magnificent account in a mixture of German and Dutch, until she got so tangled up in her own words that she finally rose from her chair and was just about to leave the room when her eye fell on me. You should have seen her! As luck would have it, the moment Mrs. van D. turned around I was shaking my head in a combination of compassion and irony. I wasnt doing it on purpose, but Id followed her tirade so intently that my reaction was completely involuntary. Mrs. van D. wheeled around and gave me a tongue-lashing:
hard, Germanic, mean and vulgar, exactly like some fat, red-faced fishwife. It was a joy to behold. If I could draw, Id like to have sketched her as she was then. She struck me as so comical, that silly little scatterbrain! Ive learned one thing: you only really get to know a person after a fight. Only then can you judge their true character!
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
The strangest things happen to you when youre in hiding! Try to picture this.
Because we dont have a bathtub, we wash ourselves in a washtub, and because theres only hot water in the office (by which I mean the entire lower floor), the seven of us take turns making the most of this great opportunity. But since none of us are alike and are all plagued by varying degrees of modesty, each member of the
family has selected a different place to wash. Peter takes a bath in the office kitchen, even though it has a glass door. When its time for his bath, he goes around to each of us in turn and announces that we shouldnt walk past the kitchen for the next half hour. He considers this measure to be sufficient. Mr. van D. takes his bath upstairs, figuring that the safety of his own room outweighs the difficulty of having to carry the hot water up all those stairs. Mrs. van D. has yet to take a bath; shes waiting to see which is the best place. Father bathes in the private office and Mother in the kitchen behind a fire screen, while Margot and I have declared the front office to be our bathing grounds. Since the curtains are drawn on Saturday afternoon, we scrub ourselves in the dark, while the one who isnt in the bath looks out the window through a chink in the curtains and gazes in wonder at the endlessly amusing people.
A week ago I decided I didnt like this spot and have been on the lookout for more comfortable bathing quarters. It was Peter who gave me the idea of setting my washtub in the spacious office bathroom. I can sit down, turn on the light, lock the door, pour out the water without anyones help, and all without the fear of being seen.
I used my lovely bathroom for the first time on Sunday and, strange as it may seem, I like it better than any other place.
The plumber was at work downstairs on Wednesday, moving the water pipes and drains from the office bathroom to the hallway so the pipes wont freeze during a cold winter. The plumbers visit was far from pleasant. Not only were we not allowed to run water during the day, but the bathroom was also off-limits. Ill tell you how we handled this problem; you may find it unseemly of me to bring it up, but Im not so prudish about matters of this kind. On the day of our arrival, Father and I improvised a chamber pot, sacrificing a canning jar for this purpose. For the duration of the plumbers visit, canning jars were put into service during the daytime to hold our calls of nature. As far as I was concerned, this wasnt half as difficult as having to sit still all day and not say a word. You can imagine how hard that was for Miss Quack, Quack, Quack. On ordinary days we have to speak in a whisper; not being able to talk or move at all is ten times worse.
After three days of constant sitting, my backside