Dearest Kitty,
This morning, when I had nothing to do, I leafed through the pages of my diary and
came across so many letters dealing with the subject of "Mother" in such strong terms that I was shocked. I said to myself, "Anne, is that really you talking about hate? Oh, Anne, how could you?”
I continued to sit with the open book in my hand and wonder why I was filled with so much anger and hate that I had to confide it all to you. I tried to understand the Anne of last year and make apologies for her, because as long as I leave you with these accusations and dont attempt to explain what prompted them, my conscience wont be clear. I was suffering then (and still do) from moods that kept my head under water (figuratively speaking) and allowed me to see things only from my own perspective, without calmly considering what the others -- those whom I, with my mercurial temperament, had hurt or offended -- had said, and then acting as they would have done.
I hid inside myself, thought of no one but myself and calmly wrote down all my joy, sarcasm and sorrow in my diary. Because this diary has become a kind of memory book, it means a great deal to me, but I could easily write "over and done with" on many of its pages.
I was furious at Mother (and still am a lot of the time). Its true, she didnt understand me, but I didnt understand her either. Because she loved me, she was tender and affectionate, but because of the difficult situations I put her in, and the sad circumstances in which she found herself, she was nervous and irritable, so I can understand why she was often short with me.
I was offended, took it far too much to heart and was insolent and beastly to her, which, in turn, made her unhappy. We were caught in a vicious circle of unpleasantness and sorrow. Not a very happy period for either of us, but at least its coming to an end. I didnt want to see what was going on, and I felt very sorry for myself, but thats understandable too.
Those violent outbursts on paper are simply expressions of anger that, in normal life, I could have worked off by locking myself in my room and stamping my foot a few times or calling Mother names behind her back.
The period of tearfully passing judgment on Mother is over. Ive grown wiser and Mothers nerves are a bit steadier. Most of the time I manage to hold my tongue when Im annoyed, and she does too; so on the surface, we seem to be getting along better. But theres one thing I cant do, and thats to love Mother with the devotion of a child.
I soothe my conscience with the thought that its better for unkind words to be down on paper than for Mother to have to carry them around in her heart.
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Today I have two things to confess. Its going to take a long time, but I have to tell them to someone, and youre the most likely candidate, since I know youll keep a secret, no matter what happens.
The first is about Mother. As you know, Ive frequently complained about her and then tried my best to be nice. Ive suddenly realized whats wrong with her. Mother has said that she sees us more as friends than as daughters. Thats all very nice, of course, except that a friend cant take the place of a mother. I need my mother to set a good example and be a person I can respect, but in most matters shes an example of what not to do. I have the feeling that Margot thinks so differently about these things that shed never be able to understand what Ive just told you. And Father avoids all conversations having to do with Mother.
I imagine a mother as a woman who, first and foremost, possesses a great deal of tact, especially toward her adolescent children, and not one who, like Momsy, pokes fun at me when I cry. Not because Im in pain, but because of other things.
This may seem trivial, but theres one incident Ive never forgiven her for. It happened one day when I had to go to the dentist. Mother and Margot planned to go with me and agreed I should take my bicycle. When the dentist was finished and we were back outside, Margot and Mother very sweetly informed me that they were going downtown to buy or look at something, I dont remember what, and of course I wanted to go along. But they said I couldnt come because I had my bike with me. Tears of rage rushed to my eyes, and Margot and Mother began laughing at me. I was so furious that I stuck my tongue out at them, right there on the street. A little old lady happened to be passing by, and she looked terribly shocked. I rode my bike home and must have cried for hours. Strangely enough, even though Mother has wounded me thousands of times, this particular wound still stings whenever I think of how angry I was.
I find it difficult to confess the second one because its about myself. Im not prudish, Kitty, and yet every time they give a blow-by-blow account of their trips to the
bathroom, which they often do, my whole body rises in revolt.
Yesterday I read an article on blushing by Sis Heyster. It was as if shed addressed it directly to me. Not that I blush easily, but the rest of the article did apply. What she basically says is that during puberty girls withdraw into themselves and begin thinking about the wondrous changes taking place in their bodies. I feel that too, which probably accounts for my recent embarrassment over Margot, Mother and Father. On the other hand, Margot is a lot shyer than I am, and yet shes not in the least embarrassed.
I think that whats happening to me is so wonderful, and I dont just mean the changes taking place on the outside of my body, but also those on the inside. I never discuss myself or any of these things with others, which is why I have to talk about them to myself. Whenever I get my period (and thats only been three times), I have the feeling that in spite of all the pain, discomfort and mess, Im carrying around a sweet secret. So even though its a nuisance, in a certain way Im always looking forward to the time when Ill feel that secret inside me once again.
Sis Heyster also writes that girls my age feel very insecure about themselves and are just beginning to discover that theyre individuals with their own ideas, thoughts and habits. Id just turned thirteen when I came here, so I started thinking about myself and realized that Ive become an "independent person" sooner than most girls.
Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I feel a terrible urge to touch my breasts and listen to the quiet, steady beating of my heart.
Unconsciously, I had these feelings even before I came here. Once when I was spending the night at Jacques, I could no longer restrain my curiosity about her body, which shed always hidden from me and which Id never seen. I asked her whether, as proof of our friendiship, we could touch each others breasts. Jacque refused.
I also had a terrible desire to kiss her, which I did. Every time I see a female nude, such as the Venus in my art history book, I go into ecstasy. Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to hold back my tears. If only I had a girlfriend!
THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My longing for someone to talk to has become so unbearable that I somehow took it into my head to select Peter for this role. On the few occasions when I have gone to Peters room during the day, Ive always thought it was nice and cozy. But Peters too
polite to show someone the door when theyre bothering him, so Ive never dared to stay long. Ive always been afraid hed think I was a pest. Ive been looking for an excuse to linger in his room and get him talking without his noticing, and yesterday I got my chance. Peter, you see, is currently going through a crossword-puzzle craze, and he doesnt do anything else all day. I was helping him, and we soon wound up sitting across from each other at his table, Peter on the chair and me on the divan.
It gave me a wonderful feeling when I looked into his dark blue eyes and saw how bashful my unexpected visit had made him. I could read his innermost thoughts, and in his face I saw a look of helplessness and uncertainty as to how to behave, and at the same time a flicker of awareness of his masculinity. I saw his shyness, and I melted.
I wanted to say, "Tell me about yourself. Look beneath my chatty exterior." But I found that it was easier to think up questions than to ask them.
The evening came to a close, and nothing happened, except that I told him about the article on blushing. Not what I wrote you, of course, just that he would grow more secure as he got older. “
That night I lay in bed and cried my eyes out, all the i while making sure no one could hear me. The idea that I had to beg Peter for favors was simply revolting. But people will do almost anything to satisfy their longings; take me, for example, Ive made up my mind to visit Peter more often and, somehow, get him to talk to me.
You mustnt think Im in love with Peter, because Im not. If the van Daans had had a daughter instead of a son, Id have tried to make friends with her.
This morning I woke up just before seven and immediately remembered what Id been dreaming about. I was sitting on a chair and across from me was Peter. . . Peter Schiff. We were looking at a book of drawings by Mary Bos. The dream was so vivid I can even remember some of the drawings. But that wasnt all -- the dream went on. Peters eyes suddenly met mine, and I stared for a long time into those velvety brown eyes. Then he said very softly, "If Id only known, Id have come to you long ago!" I turned abruptly away, overcome by emotion. And then I felt a soft, oh-so-cool and gentle cheek against mine, and it felt so good, so good . . .
At that point I woke up, still feeling his cheek against mine and his brown eyes staring deep into my heart, so deep that he could read how much Id loved him and how much I still do. Again my eyes filled with tears, and I was sad because Id lost him once more, and yet at the same time glad because I knew with certainty that Peter is still the only one for me.
Its funny, but I often have such vivid images in my dreams. One night I saw Grammy* [*Grammy is Annes grandmother on her fathers side, and Grandma her grandmother on her mothers side.] so clearly that I could even make out her skin of soft, crinkly velvet. Another time Grandma appeared to me as a guardian angel. After that it was Hanneli, who still symbolizes to me the suffering of my friends as well as that of Jews in general, so that when Im praying for her, Im also praying for all the Jews and all those in need.
And now Peter, my dearest Peter. Ive never had such a clear mental image of him. I dont need a photograph, I can see him oh so well.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, ]ANUARY 7, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Im such an idiot. I forgot that I havent yet told you the story of my one true love.
When I was a little girl, way back in kindergarten, I took a liking to Sally Kimmel.
His father was gone, and he and his mother lived with an aunt. One of Sallys cousins was a good-looking, slender, dark-haired boy named Appy, who later turned out to look like a movie idol and aroused more admiration than the short, comical, chubby Sally. For a long time we went everywhere together, but aside from that, my love was unrequited until Peter crossed my path. I had an out-and-out crush on him. He liked me too, and we were inseparable for one whole summer. I can still see us walking hand in hand through our neighborhood, Peter in a white cotton suit and me in a short summer dress. At the end of the summer vacation he went to the seventh grade at the middle school, while I was in the sixth grade at the grammar school. Hed pick me up on the way home, or Id pick him up. Peter was the ideal boy: tall, good-looking and slender, with a serious, quiet and intelligent face. He had dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, ruddy cheeks and a nicely pointed nose. I was crazy about his smile, which made him look so boyish and mischievous.
Id gone away to the countryside during summer vacation, and when I came back, Peter was no longer at his old address; hed moved and was living with a much older boy, who apparently told him I was just a kid, because Peter stopped seeing me. I loved him so much that I didnt want to face the truth. I kept clinging to him until the day I finally realized that if I continued to chase after him, people would say I was boy-crazy.
The years went by. Peter hung around with girls his own age and no longer bothered to say hello to me. I started school at the Jewish Lyceum, and several boys in my class were in love with me. I enjoyed it and felt honored by their attentions, but that was all. Later on, Hello had a terrible crush on me, but as Ive already told you, I never fell in love again.
Theres a saying: "Time heals all wounds." Thats how it was with me. I told myself Id forgotten Peter and no longer liked him in the least. But my memories of him were so strong that I had to admit to myself that the only reason I no longer liked him was that I was jealous of the other girls. This morning I realized that nothing has changed;
on the contrary, as Ive grown older and more mature, my love has grown along with me. I can understand now that Peter thought I was childish, and yet it still hurts to think hed forgotten me completely. I saw his face so clearly; I knew for certain that no one but Peter could have stuck in my mind that way.
Ive been in an utter state of confusion today. When Father kissed me this morning, I wanted to shout, "Oh, if only you were Peter!" Ive been thinking of him constantly, and all day long Ive been repeating to myself, "Oh, Petel, my darling, darling Petel . .
.”
Where can I find help? I simply have to go on living and praying to God that, if we ever get out of here, Peters path will cross mine and hell gaze into my eyes, read the love in them and say, "Oh, Anne, if Id only known, Id have come to you long ago.”
Once when Father and I were talking about sex, he said I was too young to understand that kind of desire. But I thought I did understand it, and now Im sure I do. Nothing is as dear to me now as my darling Petel!
I saw my face in the mirror, and it looked so different. My eyes were clear and deep, my cheeks were rosy, which they hadnt been in weeks, my mouth was much softer. I looked happy, and yet there was something so sad in my expression that the smile immediately faded from my lips. Im not happy, since I know Petels not thinking of me, and yet I can still feel his beautiful eyes gazing at me and his cool, soft cheek against mine. . . Oh, Petel, Petel, how am I ever going to free myself from your image? Wouldnt anyone who took your place be a poor substitute? I love you, with a love so great that it simply couldnt keep growing inside my heart, but had to leap out and reveal itself in all its magnitude.
A week ago, even a day ago, if youd asked me, "Which of your friends do you think youd be most likely to marry?" Id have answered, "Sally, since he makes me feel
good, peaceful and safe!" But now Id cry, "Petel, because I love him with all my heart and all my soul. I surrender myself completely!" Except for that one thing: he may touch my face, but thats as far as it goes.
This morning I imagined I was in the front attic with Petel, sitting on the floor by the windows, and after talking for a while, we both began to cry. Moments later I felt his mouth and his wonderful cheek! Oh, Petel, come to me. Think of me, my dearest Petel!
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 12, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Beps been back for the last two weeks, though her sister wont be allowed back at school until next week. Bep herself spent two days in bed with a bad cold. Miep and Jan were also out for two days, with upset stomachs.
Im currently going through a dance and ballet craze and am diligently practicing my dance steps every evening. Ive made an ultramodern dance costume out of a lacy lavender slip belonging to Momsy. Bias tape is threaded through the top and tied just above the bust. A pink corded ribbon completes the ensemble. I tried to turn my tennis shoes into ballet slippers, but with no success. My stiff limbs are well on the way to becoming as limber as they used to be. A terrific exercise is to sit on the floor, place a heel in each hand and raise both legs in the air. I have to sit on a cushion, because otherwise my poor backside really takes a beating.
Everyone here is reading a book called A Cloudless Morning. Mother thought it was extremely good because it describes a number of adolescent problems. I thought to myself, a bit ironically, "Why dont you take more interest in your own adolescents first!”
I think Mother believes that Margot and I have a better relationship with our parents than anyone in the whole wide world, and that no mother is more involved in the lives of her children than she is. She must have my sister in mind, since I dont believe Margot has the same problems and thoughts as I do. Far be it from me to point out to Mother that one of her daughters is not at all what she imagines. Shed be completely bewildered, and anyway, shed never be able to change; Id like to spare her that grief, especially since I know that everything would remain the same. Mother does sense that Margot loves her much more than I do, but she thinks Im just going through a phase.
Margots gotten much nicer. She seems a lot different than she used to be. Shes not nearly as catty these days and is becoming a real friend. She no longer thinks of me as a litde kid who doesnt count.
Its funny, but I can sometimes see myself as others see me. I take a leisurely look at the person called "Anne Frank" and browse through the pages of her life as though she were a stranger.
Before I came here, when I didnt think about things as much as I do now, I occasionally had the feeling that I didnt belong to Momsy, Pim and Margot and that I would always be an outsider. I sometimes went around for six months at a time pretending I was an orphan. Then Id chastise myself for playing the victim, when really, Id always been so fortunate. After that Id force myself to be friendly for a while. Every morning when I heard footsteps on the stairs, I hoped it would be Mother coming to say good morning. Id greet her warmly, because I honesly did look forward to her affectionate glance. But then shed snap at me for having made some comment or other (and Id go off to school feeling completely discouraged.
On the way home Id make excuses for her, telling myself that she had so many worries. Id arrive home in high spirits, chatting nineteen to the dozen, until the events of the morning would repeat themselves and Id leave the room with my schoolbag in my hand and a pensive look on my face. Sometimes Id decide to stay angry, but then I always had so much to talk about after school that Id forget my resolution and want Mother to stop whatever she was doing and lend a willing ear. Then the time would come once more when I no longer listened for the steps on the stairs and felt lonely and cried into my pillow every night.
Everything has gotten much worse here. But you already knew that. Now God has sent someone to help me: Peter. I fondle my pendant, press it to my lips and think, "What do I care! Petel is mine and nobody knows it!" With this in mind, I can rise above every nasty remark. Which of the people here would suspect that so much is going on in the mind of a teenage girl?
SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Theres no reason for me to go on describing all our quarrels and arguments down to the last detail. Its enough to tell you that weve divided many things like meat and fats and oils and are frying our own potatoes. Recently weve been eating a little extra rye bread because by four oclock were so hungry for dinner we can barely
control our rumbling stomachs.
Mothers birthday is rapidly approaching. She received some extra sugar from Mr.
Kugler, which sparked off jealousy on the part of the van Daans, because Mrs. van D.
didnt receive any on her birthday. But whats the point of boring you with harsh words, spiteful conversations and tears when you know they bore us even more?
Mother has expressed a wish, which isnt likely to come true any time soon: not to have to see Mr. van Daans face for two whole weeks. I wonder if everyone who shares a house sooner or later ends up at odds with their fellow residents. Or have we just had a stroke of bad luck? At mealtime, when Dussel helps himself to a quarter of the half-filled gravy boat and leaves the rest of us to do without, I lose my appetite and feel like jumping to my feet, knocking him off his chair and throwing him out the door.
Are most people so stingy and selfish? Ive gained some insight into human nature since I came here, which is good, but Ive had enough for the present. Peter says the same.
The war is going to go on despite our quarrels and our longing for freedom and fresh air, so we should try to make the best of our stay here.
Im preaching, but I also believe that if I live here much longer, Ill turn into a dried-up old beanstalk. And all I really want is to be an honest-to-goodness teenager!
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 19, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I (there I go again!) dont know whats happened, but since my dream I keep noticing how Ive changed. By the way, I dreamed about Peter again last night and once again I felt his eyes penetrate mine, but this dream was less vivid and not quite as beautiful as the last.
You know that I always used to be jealous of Margots relationship with Father.
Theres not a trace of my jealousy left now; I still feel hurt when Fathers nerves cause him to be unreasonable toward me, but then I think, "I cant blame you for being the way you are. You talk so much about the minds of children and adolescents,
but you dont know the first thing about them!" I long for more than Fathers affection, more than his hugs and kisses. Isnt it awful of me to be so preoccupied with myself? Shouldnt I, who want to be good and kind, forgive them first? I forgive Mother too, but every time she makes a sarcastic remark or laughs at me, its all I can do to control myself.
I know Im far from being what I should; will I ever be?
Anne Frank
P.S. Father asked if I told you about the cake. For Mothers birthday, she received a real mocha cake, prewar quality, from the office. It was a really nice day! But at the moment theres no room in my head for things like that.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Can you tell me why people go to such lengths to hide their real selves? Or why I always behave very differently when Im in the company of others? Why do people have so little trust in one another? I know there must be a reason, but sometimes I think its horrible that you cant ever confide in anyone, not even those closest to you.
It seems as if Ive grown up since the night I had that dream, as if Ive become more independent. Youll be amazed when I tell you that even my attitude toward the van Daans has changed. Ive stopped looking at all the discussions and arguments from my familys biased point of view. Whats brought on such a radical change? Well, you see, I suddenly realized that if Mother had been different, if shed been a real mom, our relationship would have been very, very different. Mrs. van Daan is by no means a wonderful person, yet half the arguments could have been avoided if Mother hadnt been so hard to deal with every time they got onto a tricky subject. Mrs. van Daan does have one good point, though: you can talk to her. She may be selfish, stingy and underhanded, but shell readily back down as long as you dont provoke her and make her unreasonable. This tactic doesnt work every time, but if youre patient, you can keep trying and see how far you get.
All the conflicts about our upbringing, about not pampering children, about the food -- about everything, absolutely everything -- might have taken a different turn if wed remained open and on friendly terms instead of always seeing the worst side.
I know exactly what youre going to say, Kitty.
"But, Anne, are these words really coming from your lips? From you, who have had to put up with so many unkind words from upstairs? From you, who are aware of all the injustices?”
And yet they are coming from me. I want to take a fresh look at things and form my own opinion, not just ape my parents, as in the proverb "The apple never falls far from the tree." I want to reexamine the van Daans and decide for myself whats true and whats been blown out of proportion. If I wind up being disappointed in them, I can always side with Father and Mother. But if not, I can try to change their attitude.
And if that doesnt work, Ill have to stick with my own opinions and judgment. Ill take every opportunity to speak openly to Mrs. van D. about our many differences and not be afraid -- despite my reputation as a smart aleck -- to offer my impartial opinion. I wont say anything negative about my own family, though that doesnt mean I wont defend them if somebody else does, and as of today, my gossiping is a thing of the past.
Up to now I was absolutely convinced that the van Daans were entirely to blame for the quarrels, but now Im sure the fault was largely ours. We were right as far as the subject matter was concerned, but intelligent people (such as ourselves!) should have more insight into how to deal with others.
I hope Ive got at least a touch of that insight, and that Ill find an occasion to put it to good use.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
A very strange thing has happened to me. (Actually, "happened" isnt quite the right word.)
Before I came here, whenever anyone at home or at school talked about sex, they were either secretive or disgusting. Any words having to do with sex were spoken in a low whisper, and kids who werent in the know were often laughed at. That struck me as odd, and I often wondered why people were so mysterious or obnoxious when they talked about this subject. But because I couldnt change things, I said as little as possible or asked my girlfriends for information.
After Id learned quite a lot, Mother once said to me, "Anne, let me give you some good advice. Never discuss this with boys, and if they bring it up, dont answer them.”
I still remember my exact reply. "No, of course not," I exclaimed. "Imagine!" And nothing more was said.
When we first went into hiding, Father often told me about things Id rather have heard from Mother, and I learned the rest from books or things I picked up in conversations.
Peter van Daan wasnt ever as obnoxious about this subject as the boys at school. Or maybe just once or twice, in the beginning, though he wasnt trying to get me to talk.
Mrs. van Daan once told us shed never discussed these matters with Peter, and as far as she knew, neither had her husband. Apparently she didnt even know how much Peter knew or where he got his information.
Yesterday, when Margot, Peter and I were peeling potatoes, the conversation somehow turned to Boche. "Were still not sure whether Boche is a boy or a girl, are we?" I asked.
Yes we are, he answered. "Boche is a tomcat.”
I began to laugh. "Some tomcat if hes pregnant.”
Peter and Margot joined in the laughter. You see, a month or two ago Peter informed us that Boche was sure to have kittens before long, because her stomach was rapidly swelling. However, Boches fat tummy turned out to be due to a bunch of stolen bones. No kittens were growing inside, much less about to be born.
Peter felt called upon to defend himself against my accusation. "Come with me. You can see for yourself. I was horsing around with the cat one day, and I could definitely see it was a he. “
Unable to restrain my curiosity, I went with him to the warehouse. Boche, however, wasnt receiving visitors at that hour, and was nowhere in sight. We waited for a while, but when it got cold, we went back upstairs.
Later that afternoon I heard Peter go downstairs for the second time. I mustered the courage to walk through the silent house by myself and reached the warehouse. Boche was on the packing table, playing with Peter, who was getting ready to put him on the scale and weigh him.
"Hi, do you want to have a look?" Without any preliminaries, he picked up the cat, turned him over on his back, deftly held his head and paws and began the lesson.
"This is the male sexual organ, these are a few stray hairs, and thats his backside.”
The cat flipped himself over and stood up on his little white feet.
If any other boy had pointed out the "male sexual organ" to me, I would never have given him a second glance. But Peter went on talking in a normal voice about what is otherwise a very awkward subject. Nor did he have any ulterior motives. By the time hed finished, I felt so much at ease that I started acting normally too. We played with Boche, had a good time, chatted a bit and finally sauntered through the long warehouse to the door. "Were you there when Mouschi was fixed?”
"Yeah, sure. It doesnt take long. They give the cat an anesthetic, of course.”
"Do they take something out?”
"No, the vet just snips the tube. Theres nothing to see on the outside.”
I had to get up my nerve to ask a question, since it wasnt as "normal" as I thought.
"Peter, the German word Geschlechtsteil means sexual organ, doesnt it? But then the male and female ones have different names.”
"I know that.”
"The female one is a vagina, that I know, but I dont know what its called in males.”
"Oh well," I said. "How are we supposed to know these words? Most of the time you just come across them by accident.”
"Why wait? Ill ask my parents. They know more than I do and theyve had more experience.”
We were already on the stairs, so nothing more was said.
Yes, it really did happen. Id never have talked to a girl about this in such a normal tone of voice. Im also certain that this isnt what Mother meant when she warned me about boys.
All the same, I wasnt exactly my usual self for the rest of the day. When I thought
back to our talk, it struck me as odd. But Ive learned at least one thing: there are young people, even those of the opposite sex, who can discuss these things naturally, without cracking jokes.
Is Peter really going to ask his parents a lot of questions? Is he really the way he seemed yesterday?
Oh, what do I know?!!!
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
In recent weeks Ive developed a great liking for family trees and the genealogical tables of royal families. Ive come to the conclusion that once you begin your search, you have to keep digging deeper and deeper into the past, which leads you to even more interesting discoveries.
Although Im extremely diligent when it comes to my schoolwork and can pretty much follow the BBC Home Service on the radio, I still spend many of my Sundays sorting out and looking over my movie-star collection, which has grown to a very respectable size. Mr. Kugler makes me happy every Monday by bringing me a copy of Cinema & Theater magazine. The less worldly members of our household often refer to this small indulgence as a waste of money, yet they never fail to be surprised at how accurately I can list the actors in any given movie, even after a year. Bep, who often goes to the movies with her boyfriend on her day off, tells me on Saturday the name of the show theyre going to see, and I then proceed to rattle off the names of the leading actors and actresses and the reviews. Moms recently remarked ; that I wouldnt need to go to the movies later on, because !
I know all the plots, the names of the stars and the reviews by heart.
Whenever I come sailing in with a new hairstyle, I I can read the disapproval on their faces, and I can be sure someone will ask which movie star Im trying to imitate. My reply, that its my own invention, is greeted with ~ skepticism. As for the hairdo, it doesnt hold its set for ~ more than half an hour. By that time Im so sick and tired i of their remarks that I race to the bathroom and restore my hair to its normal mass of curls.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
This morning I was wondering whether you ever felt like a cow, having to chew my stale news over and over again until youre so fed up with the monotonous fare that you yawn and secretly wish Anne would dig up something new.
Sorry, I know you find it dull as ditchwater, but imagine how sick and tired I am of hearing the same old stuff. If the talk at mealtime isnt about politics or good food, then Mother or Mrs. van D. trot out stories about their childhood that weve heard a thousand times before, or Dussel goes on and on about beautiful racehorses, his Charlottes extensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats, boys who can swim at the age of four, aching muscles and frightened patients. It all boils down to this: whenever one of the eight of us opens his mouth, the other seven can finish the story for him. We know the punch line of every joke before it gets told, so that whoevers telling it is left to laugh alone. The various milkmen, grocers and butchers of the two former housewives have been praised to the skies or run into the ground so many times that in our imaginations theyve grown as old as Methuselah; theres absolutely no chance of anything new or fresh being brought up for discussion in the Annex.
Still, all this might be bearable if only the grown-ups werent in the habit of repeating the stories we hear from Mr. Kleiman, jan or Miep, each time embellishing them with a few details of their own, so that I often have to pinch my arm under the table to keep myself from setting the enthusiastic storyteller on the right track. Little children, such as Anne, must never, ever correct their elders, no matter how many blunders they make or how often they let their imaginations run away with them.
Jan and Mr. Kleiman love talking about people who have gone underground or into hiding; they know were eager to hear about others in our situation and that we truly sympathize with the sorrow of those whove been arrested as well as the joy of prisoners whove been freed.
Going underground or into hiding has become as routine as the proverbial pipe and slippers that used to await the man of the house after a long day at work. There are many resistance groups, such as Free Netherlands, that forge identity cards, provide financial support to those in hiding, organize hiding places and find work for young Christians who go underground. Its amazing how much these generous and unselfish
people do, risking their own lives to help and save others.
The best example of this is our own helpers, who have managed to pull us through so far and will hopefully bring us safely to shore, because otherwise theyll find themselves sharing the fate of those theyre trying to protect. Never have they uttered a single word about the burden we must be, never have they complained that were too much trouble. They come upstairs every day and talk to the men about business and politics, to the women about food and wartime difficulties and to the children about books and newspapers. They put on their most cheerful expressions, bring flowers and gifts for birthdays and holidays and are always ready to do what they can.
Thats something we should never forget; while others display their heroism in battle or against the Germans, our helpers prove theirs every day by their good spirits and affection.
The most bizarre stories are making the rounds, yet most of them are really true. For instance, Mr. Kleiman reported this week that a soccer match was held in the province of Gelderland; one team consisted entirely of men who had gone underground, and the other of eleven Military Policemen. In Hilversum, new registration cards were issued.
In order for the many people in hiding to get their rations (you have to show this card to obtain your ration book or else pay 60 guilders a book), the registrar asked all those hiding in that district to pick up their cards at a specified hour, when the documents could be collected at a separate table.
All the same, you have to be careful that stunts like these dont reach the ears of the Germans.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JANUARY 30, 1944
My dearest Kit, Another Sunday has rolled around; I dont mind them as much as I did in the beginning, but theyre boring enough.
I still havent gone to the warehouse yet, but maybe sometime soon. Last night I went downstairs in the dark, all by myself, after having been there with Father a few nights before. I stood at the top of the stairs while German planes flew back and forth, and I knew I was on my own, that I couldnt count on others for support. My fear vanished.
I looked up at the sky and trusted in God.
I have an intense need to be alone. Father has noticed Im not my usual self, but I cant tell him whats bothering me. All I want to do is scream "Let me be, leav