Dearest Kitty,
The poem Father composed for my birthday is too nice to keep to myself.
Since Pim writes his verses only in German, Margot volunteered to translate it into Dutch. See for yourself whether Margot hasnt done herself proud. It begins with the usual summary of the years events and then continues:
As youngest among us, but small no more, Your life can be trying, for we have the chore Of becoming your teachers, a terrible bore.
"Weve got experience! Take it from me!”
"Weve done this all before, you see.
We know the ropes, we know the same.”
Since time immemorial, always the same.
Ones own shortcomings are nothing but fluff, But everyone elses are heavier stuff:
Faultfinding comes easy when this is our plight, But its hard for your parents, try as they might, To treat you with fairness, and kindness as well;
Nitpickings a habit thats hard to dispel.
Men youre living with old folks, all you can do
Is put up with their nagging -- its hard but its true.
The pill may be bitter, but down it must go, For its meant to keep the peace, you know.
The many months here have not been in vain, Since wasting time noes against your Brain.
You read and study nearly all the day, Determined to chase the boredom away.
The more difficult question, much harder to bear, Is "What on earth do I have to wear?
Ive got no more panties, my clothes are too tight, My shirt is a loincloth, Im really a siaht!
To put on my shoes I must off my toes, Dh dear, Im plagued with so many woes!”
Margot had trouble getting the part about food to rhyme, so Im leaving it out. But aside from that, dont you think its a good poem?
For the rest, Ive been thoroughly spoiled and have received a number of lovely presents, including a big book on my favorite subject, Greek and Roman mythology.
Nor can I complain about the lack of candy; everyone had dipped into their last reserves. As the Benjamin of the Annex, I got more than I deserve.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Heaps of things have happened, but I often think Im boring you with my dreary chitchat and that youd just as soon have fewer letters. So Ill keep the news brief.
Mr. Voskuijl wasnt operated on for his ulcer after all. Once the doctors had him on the operating table and opened him up, they saw that he had cancer. It was in such an advanced stage that an operation was pointless. So they stitched him up again, kept him in the hospital for three weeks, fed him well and sent him back home. But they made an unforgivable error: they told the poor man exactly what was in store for him.
He cant work anymore, and hes just sitting at home, surrounded by his eight children, brooding about his approaching death. I feel very sorry for him and hate not being able to go out; otherwise, Id visit him as often as I could and help take his mind off matters. Now the good man can no longer let us know whats being said and done in the warehouse, which is a disaster for us. Mr. Voskuijl was our greatest source of
help and suppor when it came to safety measures. We miss him very much.
Next month its our turn to hand over our radio to the authorities. Mr. Kleiman has a small set hidden in his home that hes giving us to replace our beautiful cabinet radio.
Its a pity we have to turn in our big Philips, but when youre in hiding, you cant afford to bring the authorities down on your heads. Of course, well put the "baby”
radio upstairs. Whats a clandestine radio when there are already clandestine Jews and clandestine money?
All over the country people are trying to get hold of an old radio that they can hand over instead of their "morale booster." Its true: as the reports from outside grow worse and worse, the radio, with its wondrous voice, helps us not to lose heart and to keep telling ourselves, "Cheer up, keep your spirits high, things are bound to get better!”
Yours, Anne