Dearest Kitty,
Invasion fever is mounting daily throughout the country. If you were here, Im sure youd be as impressed as I am at the many preparations, though youd no doubt laugh at all the fuss were making. Who knows, it may all be for nothing!
The papers are full of invasion news and are driving everyone insane with such statements as: "In the event of a British landing in Holland, the Germans will do what they can to defend the country, even flooding it, if necessary." Theyve published maps of Holland with the potential flood areas marked. Since large portions of Amsterdam were shaded in, our first question was what we should do if the water in the streets rose to above our waists. This tricky question elicited a variety of responses:
"Itll be impossible to walk or ride a bike, so well have to wade through the water.”
"Dont be silly. Well have to try and swim. Well all put on our bathing suits and caps and swim underwater as much as we can, so nobody can see were Jews.”
"Oh, baloney! I can just imagine the ladies swimming with the rats biting their legs!”
(That was a man, of course; well see who screams loudest!)
"We wont even be able to leave the house. The warehouse is so unstable itll collapse if theres a flood.”
"Listen, everyone, all joking aside, we really ought to try and get a boat.”
"Why bother? I have a better idea. We can each take a packing crate from the attic and row with a wooden spoon.”
"Im going to walk on stilts. I used to be a whiz at it when I was young."
"Jan Gies wont need to. Hell let his wife ride piggyback, and then Miep will be on stilts.”
So now you have a rough idea of whats going on, dont you, Kit? This lighthearted banter is all very amusing, but reality will prove otherwise. The second question about the invasion was bound to arise: what should we do if the Germans evacuate Amsterdam?
"Leave the city along with the others. Disguise ourselves as well as we can.”
"Whatever happens, dont go outside! The best thing to do is to stay put! The Germans are capable of herding the entire population of Holland into Germany, where theyll all die.”
"Of course well stay here. This is the safest place.
Well try to talk Kleiman and his family into coming here to live with us. Well somehow get hold of a bag of wood shavings, so we can sleep on the floor. Lets ask Miep and Kleiman to bring some blankets, just in case. And well order some extra cereal grains to supplement the sixty-five pounds we already have. Jan can try to find some more beans. At the moment weve got about sixty-five pounds of beans and ten pounds of split peas. And dont forget the fifty cans of vegetables.”
"What about the rest, Mother? Give us the latest figures. , "Ten cans of fish, forty cans of milk, twenty pounds of powdered milk, three bottles of oil, four crocks of butter, four jars of meat, two big jars of strawberries, two jars of raspberries, twenty jars of tomatoes, ten pounds of oatmeal, nine pounds of rice.
Thats it.”
Our provisions are holding out fairly well. All the same, we have to feed the office staff, which means dipping into our stock every week, so its not as much as it seems.
We have enough coal and firewood, candles too.
"Lets all make little moneybags to hide in our clothes so we can take our money with us if we need to leave here.”
"We can make lists of what to take first in case we have to run for it, and pack our knapsacks in advance."
"When the time comes, well put two people on the lookout, one in the loft at the front of the house and one in the back.”
"Hey, whats the use of so much food if there isnt any water, gas or electricity?”
"Well have to cook on the wood stove. Filter the water and boil it. We should clean some big jugs and fill them with water. We can also store water in the three kettles we use for canning, and in the washtub.”
"Besides, we still have about two hundred and thirty pounds of winter potatoes in the spice storeroom.”
All day long thats all I hear. Invasion, invasion, nothing but invasion. Arguments about going hungry, dying, bombs, fire extinguishers, sleeping bags, identity cards, poison gas, etc., etc. Not exactly cheerful.
A good example of the explicit warnings of the male contingent is the following conversation with Jan:
Annex: "Were afraid that when the Germans retreat, theyll take the entire population with them.”
Jan: "Thats impossible. They havent got enough trains.”
Annex: "Trains? Do you really think theyd put civilians on trains? Absolutely not.
Everyone would have to hoof it." (Or, as Dussel always says, per pedes apostolorum.)
Jan: "I cant believe that. Youre always looking on the dark side. What reason would they have to round up all the civilians and take them along?”
Annex: "Dont you remember Goebbels saying that if the Germans have to go, theyll slam the doors to all the occupied territories behind them?”
Jan: "Theyve said a lot of things.”
Annex: "Do you think the Germans are too noble or humane to do it? Their reasoning is: if we go under, well drag everyone else down with us.”
Jan: "You can say what you like, I just dont believe Annex: "Its always the same old story. No one wants to see the danger until its
staring them in the face.”
Jan: "But you dont know anything for sure. Youre just making an assumption.”
Annex: "Because weve already been through it all ourselves, First in Germany and then here. What do you thinks happening in Russia?”
Jan: "You shouldnt include the Jews. I dont think anyone knows whats going on in Russia. The British and the Russians are probably exaggerating for propaganda purposes, just like the Germans.”
Annex: "Absolutely not. The BBC has always told the truth. And even if the news is slightly exaggerated, the facts are bad enough as they are. You cant deny that millions of peace-loving citizens in Poland and Russia have been murdered or gassed.”
Ill spare you the rest of our conversations. Im very calm and take no notice of all the fuss. Ive reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, and I cant do anything to change events anyway. Ill just let matters take their course and concentrate on studying and hope that everything will be all right in the end.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1944
Dear Kitty,
I cant tell you how I feel. One minute Im longing for peace and quiet, and the next for a little fun. Weve forgotten how to laugh -- I mean, laughing so hard you can t stop.
This morning I had "the giggles"; you know, the kind we used to have at school.
Margot and I were giggling like real teenagers.
Last night there was another scene with Mother. Margot was tucking her wool blanket around her when suddenly she leapt out of bed and carefully examined the blanket.
What do you think she found? A pin! Mother had patched the blanket and forgotten to take it out. Father shook his head meaningfully and made a comment about how careless Mother is. Soon afterward Mother came in from the bathroom, and just to tease her I said, "Du bist doch eine echte Rabenmutter." [Oh, you are cruel.]
Of course, she asked me why Id said that, and we told her about the pin shed overlooked. She immediately assumed her haughtiest expression and said, "Youre a fine one to talk. When youre sewing, the entire floor is covered with pins. And look, youve left the manicure set lying around again. You never put that away either!”
I said I hadnt used it, and Margot backed me up, since she was the guilty party.
Mother went on talking about how messy I was until I got fed up and said, rather curtly, "I wasnt even the one who said you were careless. Im always getting blamed for other peoples mistakes!”
Mother fell silent, and less than a minute later I was obliged to kiss her good-night.
This incident may not have been very important, but these days everything gets on my nerves.
Anne Mary Frank
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, theres a magnificent breeze, and Im longing -- really longing -- for everything: conversation, freedom, friends, being alone. I long. . . to cry! I feel as if I were about to explode. I know crying would help, but I cant cry. Im restless. I walk from one room to another, breathe through the crack in the window frame, feel my heart beating as if to say, "Fulfill my longing at last. . .”
I think spring is inside me. I feel spring awakening, I feel it in my entire body and soul. I have to force myself to act normally. Im in a state of utter confusion, dont know what to read, what to write, what to do. I only know that Im longing for something. . .
Yours, Anne
186 ANNE FRANK
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
A lot has changed for me since Saturday. Whats happened is this: I was longing for
something (and still am), but. . . a small, a very small, part of the problem has been resolved.
On Sunday morning I noticed, to my great joy (Ill be honest with you), that Peter kept looking at me. Not in the usual way. I dont know, I cant explain it, but I suddenly had the feeling he wasnt as in love with Margot as I used to think. All day long I tried not to look at him too much, because whenever I did, I caught him looking at me and then -- well, it made me feel wonderful inside, and thats not a feeling I should have too often.
Sunday evening everyone, except Pim and me, was clustered around the radio, listening to the "Immortal Music of the German Masters." Dussel kept twisting and turning the knobs, which annoyed Peter, and the others too. After restraining himself for half an hour, Peter asked somewhat irritably if he would stop fiddling with the radio. Dussel replied in his haughtiest tone, "Ich mach das schon!" [Ill decide that.] Peter got angry and made an insolent remark. Mr. van Daan sided with him, and Dussel had to back down. That was it.
The reason for the disagreement wasnt particularly interesting in and of itself, but Peter has apparently taken the matter very much to heart, because this morning, when I was rummaging around in the crate of books in the attic, Peter came up and began telling me what had happened. I didnt know anything about it, but Peter soon realized hed found an attentive listener and started warming up to his subject.
"Well, its like this," he said. "I dont usually talk much, since I know beforehand Ill just be tongue-tied. I start stuttering and blushing and I twist my words around so much I finally have to stop, because I cant find the right words. Thats what happened yesterday. I meant to say something entirely different, but once I started, I got all mixed up. Its awful. I used to have a bad habit, and sometimes I wish I still did:
whenever I was mad at someone, Id beat them up instead of arguing with them. I know this method wont get me anywhere, and thats why I admire you. Youre never at a loss for words: you say exactly what you want to say and arent in the least bit shy.”
"Oh, youre wrong about that," I replied. "Most of what I say comes out very differently from the way Id planned. Plus I talk too much and too long, and thats just as bad.”
"Maybe, but you have the advantage that no one can see youre embarrassed. You dont blush or go to pieces."
I couldnt help being secretly amused at his words. However, since I wanted him to go on talking quietly about himself, I hid my laughter, sat down on a cushion on the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees and gazed at him intently.
Im glad theres someone else in this house who flies into the same rages as I do.
Peter seemed relieved that he could criticize Dussel without being afraid Id tell. As for me, I was pleased too, because I sensed a strong feeling of fellowship, which I only remember having had with my girlfriends.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1944
The minor run-in with Dussel had several repercussions, for which he had only himself to blame. Monday evening Dussel came in to see Mother and told her triumphantly that Peter had asked him that morning if hed slept well, and then added how sorry he was about what had happened Sunday evening -- he hadnt really meant what hed said. Dussel assured him he hadnt taken it to heart. So everYthing was right as rain again. Mother passed this story on to me, and I was secretly amazed that Peter, whod been so angry at Dussel, had humbled himself, despite all his assurances to the contrary.
I couldnt refrain from sounding Peter out on the subject, and he instantly replied that Dussel had been lying. You should have seen Peters face. I wish Id had a camera.
Indignation, rage, indecision, agitation and much more crossed his face in rapid succession.
That evening Mr. van Daan and Peter really told Dussel off. But it couldnt have been all that bad, since Peter had another dental appointment today.
Actually, they never wanted to speak to each other again.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944
Peter and I hadnt talked to each other all day, except for a few meaningless words. It was too cold to go up to the attic, and anyway, it was Margots birthday. At twelve-thirty he came to look at the presents and hung around chatting longer than was strictly necessary, something hed never have done otherwise. But I got my chance in the afternoon. Since I felt like spoiling Margot on her birthday, I went to get the coffee, and after that the potatoes. When I came to Peters room, he immediately took his papers off the stairs, and I asked if I should close the trapdoor
to the attic.
"Sure," he said, "go ahead. When youre ready to come back down, just knock and Ill open it for you.”
I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching around in the barrel for the smallest potatoes. My back started aching, and the attic was cold.
Naturally, I didnt bother to knock but opened the trap-door myself. But he obligingly got up and took the pan out of my hands.
"I did my best, but I couldnt find any smaller ones.”
"Did you look in the big barrel?”
"Yes, Ive been through them all.”
By this time I was at the bottom of the stairs, and he examined the pan of potatoes he was still holding. "Oh, but these are fine," he said, and added, as I took the pan from him, "My compliments!”
As he said this, he gave me such a warm, tender look that I started glowing inside. I could tell he wanted to please me, but since he couldnt make a long complimentary speech, he said everything with his eyes. I understood him so well and was very grateful. It still makes me happy to think back to those words and that look!
When I went downstairs, Mother said she needed more potatoes, this time for dinner, so I volunteered to go back up. When I entered Peters room, I apologized for disturbing him again. As I was going up the stairs, he stood up, went over to stand between the stairs and the wall, grabbed my arm and tried to stop me.
"Ill go," he said. "I have to go upstairs anyway.”
I replied that it wasnt really necessary, that I didnt have to get only the small ones this time. Convinced, he let go of my arm. On my way back, he opened the trapdoor and once again took the pan from me. Standing by the door, I asked, "What are you working on?”
"French," he replied.
I asked if I could take a look at his lessons. Then I went to wash my hands and sat down across from him on the divan.
After Id explained some French to him, we began to talk. He told me that after the war he wanted to go to the Dutch East Indies and live on a rubber plantation. He talked about his life at home, the black market and how he felt like a worthless bum.
I told him he had a big inferiority complex. He talked about the war, saying that Russia and England were bound to go to war against each other, and about the Jews.
He said life would have been much easier if hed been a Christian or could become one after the war. I asked if he wanted to be baptized, but that wasnt what he meant either. He said hed never be able to feel like a Christian, but that after the war hed make sure nobody would know he was Jewish. I felt a momentary pang. Its such a shame he still has a touch of dishonesty in him.
Peter added, "The Jews have been and always will be the chosen people!”
I answered, "Just this once, I hope theyll be chosen for something good!”
But we went on chatting very pleasantly, about Father, about judging human character and all sorts of things, so many that I cant even remember them all.
I left at a quarter past five, because Bep had arrived.
That evening he said something else I thought was nice. We were talking about the picture of a movie star Id once given him, which has been hanging in his room for at least a year and a half. He liked it so much that I offered to give him a few more.
"No," he replied, "Id rather keep the one Ive got. I look at it every day, and the people in it have become my friends.”
I now have a better understanding of why he always hugs Mouschi so tightly. He obviously needs affection too. I forgot to mention something else he was talking about.
He said, "No, Im not afraid, except when it comes to things about myself, but Im working on that.”
Peter has a huge inferiority complex. For example, he always thinks hes so stupid and were so smart. When I help him with French, he thanks me a thousand times. One of these days Im going to say, "Oh, cut it out! Youre much better at English and geography!”
Anne Frank
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1944
Dear Kitty,
I was upstairs this morning, since I promised Mrs. van D. Id read her some of my stories. I began with "Evas Dream," which she liked a lot, and then I read a few passages from "The Secret Annex," which had her in stitches. Peter also listened for a while (just the last part) and asked if Id come to his room sometime to read more.
I decided I had to take a chance right then and there, so I got my notebook and let him read that bit where Cady and Hans talk about God. I cant really tell what kind of impression it made on him. He said something I dont quite remember, not about whether it was good, but about the idea behind it. I told him I just wanted him to see that I didnt write only amusing things. He nodded, and I left the room. Well see if I hear anything more!
Yours, Anne
Frank
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Whenever I go upstairs, its always so I can see "him." Now that I have something to look forward to, my life here has improved greatly.
At least the object of my friendship is always here, and I dont have to be afraid of rivals (except for Margot). Dont think Im in love, because Im not, but I do have the feeling that something beautiful is going to develop between Peter and me, a kind of friendship and a feeling of trust. I go see him whenever I get the chance, and its not the way it used to be, when he didnt know what to make of me. On the contrary, hes still talking away as Im heading out the door. Mother doesnt like me going upstairs. She always says Im bothering Peter and that I should leave him alone.
Honestly, cant she credit me with some intuition? She always looks at me so oddly when I go to Peters room. When I come down again, she asks me where Ive been.
Its terrible, but Im beginning to hate her!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Its Saturday again, and that should tell you enough. This morning all was quiet. I spent nearly an hour upstairs making meatballs, but I only spoke to "him" in passing.
When everyone went upstairs at two-thirty to either read or take a nap, I went downstairs, with blanket and all, to sit at the desk and read or write. Before long I couldnt take it anymore. I put my head in my arms and sobbed my heart out. The tears streamed down my cheeks, and I felt desperately unhappy. Oh, if only he" had come to comfort me.
It was past four by the time I went upstairs again. At five oclock I set off to get some potatoes, hoping once again that wed meet, but while I was still in the bathroom fixing my hair, he went to see Boche.
I wanted to help Mrs. van D. and went upstairs with my book and everything, but suddenly I felt the tears coming again. I raced downstairs to the bathroom, grabbing the hand mirror on the way. I sat there on the toilet, fully dressed, long after I was through, my tears leaving dark spots on the red of my apron, and I felt utterly dejected.
Heres what was going through my mind: "Oh, Ill never reach Peter this way. Who knows, maybe he doesnt even like me and he doesnt need anyone to confide in.
Maybe he only thinks of me in a casual sort of way. Ill have to go back to being alone, without anyone to confide in and without Peter, without hope, comfort or anything to look forward to. Oh, if only I could rest my head on his shoulder and not feel so hopelessly alone and deserted! Who knows, maybe he doesnt care for me at all and looks at the others in the same tender way. Maybe I only imagined it was especially for me. Oh, Peter, if only you could hear me or see me. If the truth is disappointing, I wont be able to bear it.”
A little later I felt hopeful and full of expectation again, though my tears were still flowing -- on the inside.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1944
What happens in other peoples houses during the rest of the week happens here in the Annex on Sundays. While other people put on their best clothes and go strolling in the sun, we scrub, sweep and do the laundry.
Eight oclock. Though the rest of us prefer to sleep in,
Dussel gets up at eight. He goes to the bathroom, then downstairs, then up again and then to the bathroom, where he devotes a whole hour to washing himself.
Nine-thirty. The stoves are lit, the blackout screen is taken down, and Mr. van Daan heads for the bathroom. One of my Sunday morning ordeals is having to lie in bed and look at Dussels back when hes praying. I know it sounds strange, but a praying Dussel is a terrible sight to behold. Its not that he cries or gets sentimental, not at all, but he does spend a quarter of an hour -- an entire fifteen minutes -- rocking from his toes to his heels. Back and forth, back and forth. It goes on forever, and if I dont shut my eyes tight, my head starts to spin.
Ten-fifteen. The van Daans whistle; the bathrooms free. In the Frank family quarters, the first sleepy faces are beginning to emerge from their pillows. Then everything happens fast, fast, fast. Margot and I take turns doing the laundry. Since its quite cold downstairs, we put on pants and head scarves. Meanwhile, Father is busy in the bathroom. Either Margot or I have a turn in the bathroom at eleven, and then were all clean.
Eleven-thirty. Breakfast. I wont dwell on this, since theres enough talk about food without my bringing the subject up as well.
Twelve-fifteen. We each go our separate ways. Father, clad in overalls, gets down on his hands and knees and brushes the rug so vigorously that the room is enveloped in a cloud of dust. Mr. Dussel makes the beds (all wrong, of course), always whistling the same Beethoven violin concerto as he goes about his work. Mother can be heard shuffling around the attic as she hangs up the washing. Mr. van Daan puts on his hat and disappears into the lower regions, usually followed by Peter and Mouschi. Mrs.
van D. dons a long apron, a black wool jacket and overshoes, winds a red wool scarf around her head, scoops up a bundle of dirty laundry and, with a well-rehearsed washerwomans nod, heads downstairs. Margot and I do the dishes and straighten up the room.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23,1944
My dearest Kitty,
The weathers been wonderful since yesterday, and Ive perked up quite a bit. My writing, the best thing I have, is coming along well. I go to the attic almost every morning to get the stale air out of my lungs. This morning when I went there, Peter was busy cleaning up. He finished quickly and came over to where I was sitting on
my favorite spot on the floor. The two of us looked out at the blue sky, the bare chestnut tree glistening with dew, the seagulls and other birds glinting with silver as they swooped through the air, and we were so moved and entranced that we couldnt speak. He stood with his head against a thick beam, while I sat. We breathed in the air, looked outside and both felt that the spell shouldnt be broken with words. We remained like this for a long while, and by the time he had to go to the loft to chop wood, I knew he was a good, decent boy. He climbed the ladder to the loft, and I followed; during the fifteen minutes he was chopping wood, we didnt say a word either. I watched him from where I was standing, and could see he was obviously doing his best to chop the right way and show off his strength. But I also looked out the open window, letting my eyes roam over a large part of Amsterdam, over the rooftops and on to the horizon, a strip of blue so pale it was almost invisible.
"As long as this exists," I thought, "this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?”
The best remedy for those who are frightened, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere they can be alone, alone with the sky, nature and God. For then and only then can you feel that everything is as it should be and that God wants people to be happy amid natures beauty and simplicity.
As long as this exists, and that should be forever, I know that there will be solace for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances. I firmly believe that nature can bring comfort to all who suffer.
Oh, who knows, perhaps it wont be long before I can share this overwhelming feeling of happiness with someone who feels the same as I do.
Yours, Anne
P.S. Thoughts: To Peter.
Weve been missing out on so much here, so very much, and for such a long time. I miss it just as much as you do. Im not talking about external things, since were well provided for in that sense; I mean the internal things. Like you, I long for freedom and fresh air, but I think weve been amply compensated for their loss. On the inside, I mean.
This morning, when I was sitting in front of the window and taking a long, deep look outside at God and nature, I was happy, just plain happy. Peter, as long as people feel that kind of happiness within themselves, the joy of nature, health and much more
besides, theyll always be able to recapture that happiness.
Riches, prestige, everything can be lost. But the happiness in your own heart can only be dimmed; it will always be there, as long as you live, to make you happy again.
Whenever youre feeling lonely or sad, try going to the loft on a beautiful day and looking outside. Not at the houses and the rooftops, but at the sky. As long as you can look fearlessly at the sky, youll know that youre pure within and will find happiness once more.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
From early in the morning to late at night, all I do is think about Peter. I fall asleep with his image before my eyes, dream about him and wake up with him still looking at me.
I have the strong feeling that Peter and I arent really as different as we may seem on the surface, and Ill explain why: neither Peter nor I have a mother. His is too superficial, likes to flirt and doesnt concern herself much with what goes on in his head. Mine takes an active interest in my life, but has no tact, sensitivity or motherly understanding.
Both Peter and I are struggling with our innermost feelings. Were still unsure of ourselves and are too vulnerable, emotionally, to be dealt with so roughly. Whenever that happens, I want to run outside or hide my feelings. Instead, I bang the pots and pans, splash the water and am generally noisy, so that everyone wishes I were miles away. Peters reaction is to shut himself up, say little, sit quietly and daydream, all the while carefully hiding his true self.
But how and when will we finally reach each other?
I dont know how much longer I can continue to keep this yearning under control.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Its like a nightmare, one that goes on long after Im awake. I see him nearly every hour of the day and yet I cant be with him, I cant let the others notice, and I have to pretend to be cheerful, though my heart is aching.
Peter Schiff and Peter van Daan have melted into one Peter, whos good and kind and whom I long for desperately. Mothers horrible, Fathers nice, which makes him even more exasperating, and Margots the worst, since she takes advantage of my smiling face to claim me for herself, when all I want is to be left alone.
Peter didnt join me in the attic, but went up to the loft to do some carpentry work.
At every rasp and bang, another chunk of my courage broke off and I was even more unhappy. In the distance a clock was tolling Be pure in heart, be pure in mind!”
Im sentimental, I know. Im despondent a