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BOOK FLAP

｛小｝｛说｝｛t｝｛xt｝｛天｝｛堂
the diary of a young girl : the definitive edition

anne frank

edited by otto h. frank and mirjam pressler

translated by susan massotty

book flap

anne franks the diary of a young girl is among the most enduring documents of the twentieth century. since its publication in 1947, it has been read by tens of millions of people all over the world. it remains a beloved and deeply admired testament to the indestructable nature of the human spirit.

restore in this definitive edition are diary entries that had been omitted from the original edition. these passages, which constitute 30 percent more material, reinforce the fact that anne was first and foremost a teenage girl, not a remote and flawless symbol. she fretted about, and tried to copie with, her own emerging sexuality. like many young girls, she often found herself in disagreement with her mother. and like any teenager, she veered between the carefree nature of a child and the full-fledged sorrow of an adult. anne emerges more human, more vulnerable, and more vital than ever.

anne frank and her family, fleeing the horrors of nazi occupation, hid in the back of an amsterdam warehouse for two years. she was thirteen when the family went into the secret annex, and in these pages she grows to be a young woman and a wise observer of human nature as well. with unusual insight, she reveals the relations between eight people living under extraordinary conditions, facing hunger, the ever-present threat of discovery and death, complete estrangement from the outside world, and above all, the boredom, the petty misunderstandings, and the frustrations of living under such unbearable strain, in such confined quarters.

a timely story rediscovered by each new generation, the diary of a young girl stands without peer. for both young readers and adults it continues to bring to life this young woman, who for a time survived the worst horror of the modern world had seen -- and who remained triumphantly and heartbreakingly human throughout her ordeal.

for those who know and love anne frank, the definitive edition is a chance to discover her anew. for readers who have not yet encountered her, this is the edition to cherish.

anne frank was born on june 12, 1929. she died while imprisoned at bergen-belsen, three months short of her sixteenth birthday. otto h. frank was the only member of his immediate framily to survive the holocaust. he died in 1980.

mirjam pressler is a popular writer of books for young adults. she lives in germany.

translated by susan massotty.

www.xiaoshuotＸt，coＭ



FOREWORD

，小说＿t＿xt天堂
anne frank kept a diary from june 12, 1942, to august 1, 1944. initially, she wrote it strictly for herself. then, one day in 1944, gerrit bolkestein, a member of the dutch government in exile, announced in a radio broadcast from london that after the war he hoped to collect eyewitness accounts of the suffering of the dutch people under the german occupation, which could be made available to the public. as an example, he specifically mentioned letters and diaries.

impressed by this speech, anne frank decided that when the war was over she would publish a book based on her diary. she began rewriting and editing her diary, improving on the text, omitting passages she didnt think were interesting enough and adding others from memory. at the same time, she kept up her original diary. in the scholarly work the diary of anne frank: the critical edition (1989), annes first, unedited diary is referred to as version a, to distinguish it from her second, edited diary, which is known as version b.

the last entry in annes diary is dated august 1, 1944. on august 4, 1944, the eight people hiding in the secret annex were arrested. miep gies and bep voskuijl, the two secretaries working in the building, found annes diaries strewn allover the floor. ,miep gies tucked them away in a desk drawer for safekeeping. after the war, when it became clear that anne was dead, she gave the diaries, unread, to annes father, otto frank.

after long deliberation, otto frank decided to fulfill his daughters wish and publish her diary. he selected material from versions a and b, editing them into a shorter version later referred to as version c. readers all over the world know this as the diary of a fauna girl.

in making his choice, otto frank had to bear several points in mind. to begin with,

the book had to be kept short so that it would fit in with a series put out by the dutch publisher. in addition, several passages dealing with annes sexuality were omitted; at the time of the diarys initial publication, in 1947, it was not customary to write openly about sex, and certainly not in books for young adults. out of respect for the dead, otto frank also omitted a number of unflattering passages about his wife and the other residents of the secret annex. anne frank, who was thirteen when she began her diary and fifteen when she was forced to stop, wrote without reserve about her likes and dislikes.

when otto frank died in 1980, he willed his daughters manuscripts to the netherlands state institute for war documentation in amsterdam. because the authenticity of the diary had been challenged ever since its publication, the institute for war documentation ordered a thorough investigation. once the diary was proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to be genuine, it was published in its entirety, along with the results of an exhaustive study. the critical edition contains not only versions a, band c, but also articles on the background of the frank family, the circumstances surrounding their arrest and deportation, and the examination into annes handwriting, the document and the materials used.

the anne frank-fonds (anne frank foundation) in basel (switzerland),. which as otto franks sole heir had also inherited his daughters copyrights, then decided to have anew, expanded edition of the diary published for general readers. this new edition in no way affects the integrity of the old one originally edited by otto frank, which brought the diary and its message to millions of people. the task of compthng the expanded edition was given to the writer and translator mirjam pressler. otto franks original selection has now been supplemented with passages from annes a and b versions. mirjam presslers definitive edition, approved by the anne frank-fonds, contains approximately 30 percent more material and is intended to give the reader more insight into the world of anne frank.

in writing her second version (b), anne invented pseudonyms for the people who would appear in her book. she initially wanted to call herself anne aulis, and later anne robin. otto frank opted to call his family by their own names and to follow annes wishes with regard to the others. over the years, the identity of the people who helped the family in the secret annex has become common knowledge. in this edition, the helpers are now referred to by their real names, as they so justly deserve to be. all other persons are named in accordance with the pseudonyms in the critical edition. the institute for war documentation has arbitrarily assigned initials to those persons wishing to remain anonymous.

the real names of the other people hiding in the secret annex are:

the van pels family

(from osnabriick, germany):

auguste van pels (born september 9, 1890)

hermann van pels (born march 31, 1889)

peter van pels (born november 8, 1926)

called by anne, in her manuscript: petronella, hans and alfred van daan; and in the book: petronella, hermann and peter van daan.

Ｗww.xiaoshＵotxt.cＯm



FRITZ PFEFFER

《小说t》xt天堂
fritz pfeffer

(born april 30, 1889, in giessen, germany):

called by anne, in her manuscript and in the book: alfred dussel.

the reader may wish to bear in mind that much of this edition is based on the b version of annes diary, which she wrote when she was around fifteen years old.

occasionally, anne went back and commented on a passage she had written earlier.

these comments are clearly marked in this edition. naturally, annes spelling and linguistic errors have been corrected. otherwise, the text has basically been left as she wrote it, since any attempts at editing and clarification would be inappropriate in a historical document.

i hope i will be able to confide everything to you, as i have never been able to confide in anyone, and i hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.

 www.xiaoshuotxt.com 



June, 1942

。小%说^t*xt-天.堂
june 12, 1942

i hope i will be able to confide everything to you, as i have never been able to confide in anyone, and i hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.

comment added by anne on september 28, 1942: so far you truly have been a areat source of comfort to me, and so has kitty, whom i now write to regularly.

this way of keeping a diary is much nicer, and now i can hardly wait for those moments when im able to write in you. oh, im so alad i brought you along!

sunday, june 14, 1942

ill begin from the moment i got you, the moment i saw you lying on the table among my other birthday presents. (i went along when you were bought, but that doesnt count.)

on friday, june 12, i was awake at six oclock, which isnt surprising, since it was my birthday. but im not allowed to get up at that hour, so i had to control my curiosity until quarter to seven. when i couldnt wait any longer, i went to the dining room, where moortje (the cat) welcomed me by rubbing against my legs.

a little after seven i went to daddy and mama and then to the living room to open my presents, and you were the first thing i saw, maybe one of my nicest presents.

then a bouquet of roses, some peonies and a potted plant. from daddy and mama i got a blue blouse, a game, a bottle of grape juice, which to my mind tastes a bit like wine (after all, wine is made from grapes), a puzzle, a jar of cold cream, 2.50 guilders and a gift certificate for two books. i got another book as well, camera obscura (but margot already has it, so i exchanged mine for something else), a platter of homemade cookies (which i made myself, of course, since ive become quite an expert at baking cookies), lots of candy and a strawberry tart from mother. and a letter from grammy, right on time, but of course that was just a coincidence.

then hanneli came to pick me up, and we went to school. during recess i passed out cookies to my teachers and my class, and then it was time to get back to work. i didnt arrive home until five, since i went to gym with the rest of the class. (im not allowed to take part because my shoulders and hips tend to get dislocated.) as it was my birthday, i got to decide which game my classmates would play, and i chose volleyball. afterward they all danced around me in a circle and sang "happy birthday.”

when i got home, sanne ledermann was already there. ilse wagner, hanneli goslar and jacqueline van maarsen came home with me after gym, since were in the same class. hanneli and sanne used to be my two best friends. people who saw us together used to say, "there goes anne, hanne and sanne." i only met jacqueline van maarsen when i started at the jewish lyceum, and now shes my best friend. ilse is hannelis best friend, and sanne goes to another school and has friends there.

they gave me a beautiful book, dutch sasas and lesends, but they gave me volume ii by mistake, so i exchanged two other books for volume i. aunt helene brought me a puzzle, aunt stephanie a darling brooch and aunt leny a terrific book: daisy goes to the mountains.

this morning i lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it would be if i had a dog

like rin tin tin. id call him rin tin tin too, and id take him to school with me, where he could stay in the janitors room or by the bicycle racks when the weather was good.

monday, june 15, 1942

i had my birthday party on sunday afternoon. the rin tin tin movie was a big hit with my classmates. i got two brooches, a bookmark and two books. ill start by saying a few things about my school and my class, beginning with the students.

betty bloemendaal looks kind of poor, and i think she probably is. she lives on some obscure street in west amsterdam, and none of us know where it is. she does very well at school, but thats because she works so hard, not because shes so smart.

shes pretty quiet.

jacqueline van maarsen is supposedly my best friend, but ive never had a real friend.

at first i thought jacque would be one, but i was badly mistaken.

d.q.* [* initials have been assigned at random to those persons who prefer to remain anonymous.] is a very nervous girl whos always forgetting things, so the teachers keep assigning her extra homework as punishment. shes very kind, especially to g.z.

e.s. talks so much it isnt funny. shes always touching your hair or fiddling with your buttons when she asks you something. they say she cant stand me, but i dont care, since i dont like her much either.

henny mets is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, except that she talks in a loud voice and is really childish when were playing outdoors. unfortunately, henny has a girlfriend named beppy whos a bad influence on her because shes dirty and vulgar.

j.r. - i could write a whole book about her. j. is a detestable, sneaky, stuck-up, two-faced gossip who thinks shes so grown-up. shes really got jacque under her spell, and thats a shame. j. is easily offended, bursts into tears at the slightest thing and, to top it all off, is a terrible show-off. miss j. always has to be right. shes very rich, and has a closet full of the most adorable dresses that are way too old for her. she thinks shes gorgeous, but shes not. j. and i cant stand each other.

ilse wagner is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, but shes extremely finicky and can spend hours moaning and groaning about something. ilse likes me a lot. shes very smart, but lazy.

hanneli goslar, or lies as shes called at school, is a bit on the strange side. shes usually shy -- outspoken at horne, but reserved around other people. she blabs whatever you tell her to her mother. but she says what she thinks, and lately ive corne to appreciate her a great deal.

nannie van praag-sigaar is small, funny and sensible. i think shes nice. shes pretty smart. there isnt much else you can say about nannie. eefje de jong is, in my opinion, terrific. though shes only twelve, shes quite the lady. she acts as if i were a baby. shes also very helpful, and i like her.

g.z. is the prettiest girl in our class. she has a nice face, but is kind of dumb. i think theyre going to hold her back a year, but of course i havent told her that.

comment added by anne at a later date: to my areat surprise, g.z.

wasnt held back a year after all.

and sitting next to g.z. is the last of us twelve girls, me.

theres a lot to be said about the boys, or maybe not so much after all.

maurice coster is one of my many admirers, but pretty much of a pest. sallie springer has a filthy mind, and rumor has it that hes gone all the way. still, i think hes terrific, because hes very funny.

emiel bonewit is g.z.s admirer, but she doesnt care. hes pretty boring. rob cohen used to be in love with me too, but i cant stand him anymore. hes an obnoxious, two-faced, lying, sniveling little goof who has an awfully high opinion of himself.

max van de velde is a farm boy from medemblik, but eminently suitable, as margot would say.

herman koopman also has a filthy mind, just like jopie de beer, whos a terrible flirt and absolutely girl-crazy.

leo blom is jopie de beers best friend, but has been ruined by his dirty mind.

albert de mesquita came from the montessori school and skipped a grade. hes really smart.

leo slager came from the same school, but isnt as smart.

ru stoppelmon is a short, goofy boy from almelo who transferred to this school in the middle of the year.

c.n. does whatever hes not supposed to.

jacques kocernoot sits behind us, next to c., and we (g. and i) laugh ourselves silly.

harry schaap is the most decent boy in our class. hes nice.

werner joseph is nice too, but all the changes taking place lately have made him too quiet, so he seems boring. sam salomon is one of those tough guys from across the tracks. a real brat. (admirer!)

appie riem is pretty orthodox, but a brat too.

saturday, june 20,1942

writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. not only because ive never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither i nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. oh well, it doesnt matter. i feel like writing, and i have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest.

"paper has more patience than people." i thought of this saying on one of those days when i was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home with my chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out. i finally stayed where i was, brooding. yes, paper does have more patience, and since im not planning to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a "diary,”

unless i should ever find a real friend, it probably wont make a bit of difference.

now im back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place: i dont have a friend.

let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen year-old girl is completely alone in the world. and im not. i have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people i can call friends. i have a throng of admirers who cant keep their adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the classroom. i have a family, loving aunts and a good home. no, on the surface i seem to have everything, except my one true friend. all i think about when im with friends is having a good time. i cant bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary

everyday things. we dont seem to be able to get any closer, and thats the problem.

maybe its my fault that we dont confide in each other. in any case, thats just how things are, and unfortunately theyre not liable to change. this is why ive started the diary.

to enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination, i dont want to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but i want the diary to be my friend, and im going to call this friend kitty.

since no one would understand a word of my stories to kitty if i were to plunge right in, id better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as i dislike doing so.

my father, the most adorable father ive ever seen, didnt marry my mother until he was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. my sister margot was born in frankfurt am main in germany in 1926. i was born on june 12, 1929. i lived in frankfurt until i was four. because were jewish, my father immigrated to holland in 1933, when he became the managing director of the dutch opekta company, which manufactures products used in making jam. my mother, edith hollander frank, went with him to holland in september, while margot and i were sent to aachen to stay with our grandmother. margot went to holland in december, and i followed in february, when i was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for margot.

i started right away at the montessori nursery school. i stayed there until i was six, at which time i started first grade. in sixth grade my teacher was mrs. kuperus, the principal. at the end of the year we were both in tears as we said a heartbreaking farewell, because id been accepted at the jewish lyceum, where margot also went to school.

our lives were not without anxiety, since our relatives in germany were suffering under hitlers anti-jewish laws. after the pogroms in 1938 my two uncles (my mothers brothers) fled germany, finding safe refuge in north america. my elderly grandmother came to live with us. she was seventy-three years old at the time.

after may 1940 the good times were few and far between: first there was the war, then the capitulation and then the arrival of the germans, which is when the trouble started for the jews. our freedom was severely restricted by a series of anti-jewish decrees: jews were required to wear a yellow star; jews were required to turn in their bicycles; jews were forbidden to use street-cars; jews were forbidden to ride in cars, even their own; jews were required to do their shopping between 3 and 5 p.m.;

jews were required to frequent only jewish-owned barbershops and beauty parlors;

jews were forbidden to be out on the streets between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m.; jews were

forbidden to attend theaters, movies or any other forms of entertainment; jews were forbidden to use swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic fields; jews were forbidden to go rowing; jews were forbidden to take part in any athletic activity in public; jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their friends after 8 p.m.; jews were forbidden to visit christians in their homes; jews were required to attend jewish schools, etc. you couldnt do this and you couldnt do that, but life went on. jacque always said to me, "i dont dare do anything anymore, cause im afraid its not allowed.”

in the summer of 1941 grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so my birthday passed with little celebration. in the summer of 1940 we didnt do much for my birthday either, since the fighting had just ended in holland. grandma died in january 1942. no one knows how often i think of her and still love her. this birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others, and grandmas candle was lit along with the rest.

the four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date of june 20, 1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary.

saturday, june 20, 1942

dearest kitty! let me get started right away; its nice and quiet now. father and mother are out and margot has gone to play ping-pong with some other young people at her friend treess. ive been playing a lot of ping-pong myself lately. so much that five of us girls have formed a club. its called "the little dipper minus two." a really silly name, but its based on a mistake. we wanted to give our club a special name; and because there were five of us, we came up with the idea of the little dipper. we thought it consisted of five stars, but we turned out to be wrong. it has seven, like the big dipper, which explains the "minus two." ilse wagner has a ping-pong set, and the wagners let us play in their big dining room whenever we want. since we five ping-pong players like ice cream, especially in the summer, and since you get hot playing ping-pong, our games usually end with a visit to the nearest ice-cream parlor that allows jews: either oasis or delphi. weve long since stopped hunting around for our purses or money -- most of the time its so busy in oasis that we manage to find a few generous young men of our acquaintance or an admirer to offer us more ice cream than we could eat in a week.

youre probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such a tender age. unfortunately, or not, as the case may be, this vice seems to be rampant at our school. as soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with me and we get to talking, nine times out of ten i can be sure hell become enamored on the spot and wont let

me out of his sight for a second. his ardor eventually cools, especially since i ignore his passionate glances and pedal blithely on my way. if it gets so bad that they start rambling on about "asking fathers permission," i swerve slightly on my bike, my schoolbag falls, and the young man feels obliged to get off his bike and hand me the bag, by which time ive switched the conversation to another topic. these are the most innocent types. of course, there are those who blow you kisses or try to take hold of your arm, but theyre definitely knocking on the wrong door. i get off my bike and either refuse to make further use of their company or act as if im insulted and tell them in no uncertain terms to go on home without me. there you are. weve now laid the basis for our friendship. until tomorrow.

yours, anne 

sunday, june 21, 1942

dearest kitty,

our entire class is quaking in its boots. the reason, of course, is the upcoming meeting in which the teachers decide wholl be promoted to the next grade and wholl be kept back. half the class is making bets. g.z. and i laugh ourselves sick at the two boys behind us, c.n. and jacques kocernoot, who have staked their entire vacation savings on their bet. from morning to night, its "youre going to pass, no, im not,”

"yes, you are," "no, im not." even g.s pleading glances and my angry outbursts cant calm them down. if you ask me, there are so many dummies that about a quarter of the class should be kept back, but teachers are the most unpredictable creatures on earth. maybe this time theyll be unpredictable in the right direction for a change. im not so worried about my girlfriends and myself.

well make it. the only subject im not sure about is math. anyway, all we can do is wait. until then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart.

i get along pretty well with all my teachers. there are nine of them, seven men and two women. mr. keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was mad at me for the longest time because i talked so much. after several warnings, he assigned me extra homework. an essay on the subject "a chatterbox." a chatterbox, what can you write about that? id wbrry about that later, i decided. i jotted down the assignment in my notebook, tucked it in my bag and tried to keep quiet.

that evening, after id finished the rest of my homework, the note about the essay caught my eye. i began thinking about the subject while chewing the tip of my fountain pen. anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words, but the

trick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity of talking. i thought and thought, and suddenly i had an idea. i wrote the three pages mr. keesing had assigned me and was satisfied. i argued that talking is a female trait and that i would do my best to keep it under control, but that i would never be able to break myself of the habit, since my mother talked as much as i did, if not more, and that theres not much you can do about inherited traits.

mr. keesing had a good laugh at my arguments, but when i proceeded to talk my way through the next class, he assigned me a second essay. this time it was supposed to be on "an incorrigible chatterbox." i handed it in, and mr. keesing had nothing to complain about for two whole classes. however, during the third class hed finally had enough. "anne frank, as punishment for talking in class, write an essay entitled quack, quack, quack, said mistress chatterback.“

the class roared. i had to laugh too, though id ) nearly exhausted my ingenuity on the topic of chatterboxes. it was time to come up with something else, j something original. my friend sanne, whos good at poetry, offered to help me write the essay from beginning to end in verse. i jumped for joy. keesing was trying to play a joke on me with this ridiculous subject, but id make sure the joke was on him. i finished my poem, and it was beautiful! it was about a mother duck and a father swan with three baby ducklings who were bitten to death by the father because they quacked too much. luckily, keesing took the joke the right way. he read the poem to the class, adding his own comments, and to several other classes as well. since then ive been allowed to talk and havent been assigned any extra homework. on the contrary, keesings always i making jokes these days.

yours, anne 

wednesday, june 24, 1942

dearest kitty,

its sweltering. everyone is huffing and puffing, and in this heat i have to walk everywhere. only now do i realize how pleasant a streetcar is, but we jews are no longer allowed to make use of this luxury; our own two feet are good enough for us.

yesterday at lunchtime i had an appointment with the dentist on jan luykenstraat. its a long way from our school on stadstimmertuinen. that afternoon i nearly fell asleep at my desk. fortunately, people automatically offer you something to drink. the dental assistant is really kind.

the only mode of transportation left to us is the ferry. the ferryman at josef

israelkade took us across when we asked him to. its not the fault of the dutch that we jews are having such a bad time.

i wish i didnt have to go to school. my bike was stolen during easter vacation, and father gave mothers bike to some christian friends for safekeeping. thank goodness summer vacation is almost here; one more week and our torment will be over.

something unexpected happened yesterday morning. as i was passing the bicycle racks, i heard my name being called. i turned around and there was the nice boy id met the evening before at my friend wilmas. hes wilmas second cousin. i used to think wilma was nice, which she is, but all she ever talks about is boys, and that gets to be a bore. he came toward me, somewhat shyly, and introduced himself as hello silberberg. i was a little surprised and wasnt sure what he wanted, but it didnt take me long to find out. he asked if i would allow him to accompany me to school. "as long as youre headed that way, ill go with you," i said. and so we walked together.

hello is sixteen and good at telling all kinds of funny stories.

he was waiting for me again this morning, and i expect he will be from now on.

www.xiaＯＳhuＯtxＴ.Ｃom



JULY, 1942

　小＿说t-x-t＿天/堂
wednesday, july 1, 1942

dearest kitty,

until today i honestly couldnt find the time to write you. i was with friends all day thursday, we had company on friday, and thats how it went until today.

hello and i have gotten to know each other very well this past week, and hes told me a lot about his life. he comes from gelsenkirchen and is living with his grandparents. his parents are in belgium, but theres no way he can get there. hello used to have a girlfriend named ursula. i know her too. shes perfectly sweet and perfectly boring. ever since he met me, hello has realized that hes been falling asleep at ursuls side. so im kind of a pep tonic. you never know what youre good for!

jacque spent saturday night here. sunday afternoon she was at hannelis, and i was bored stiff.

hello was supposed to come over that evening, but he called around six. i answered the phone, and he said, "this is helmuth silberberg. may i please speak to anne?"

"oh, hello. this is anne.”

"oh, hi, anne. how are you?" “

"fine, thanks.”

"i just wanted to say im sorry but i cant come tonight, though i would like to have a word with you. is it all right if i come by and pick you up in about ten minutes "yes, thats fine. bye-bye!”

"okay, ill be right over. bye-bye!”

i hung up, quickly changed my clothes and fixed my hair. i was so nervous i leaned out the window to watch for him. he finally showed up. miracle of miracles, i didnt rush down the stairs, but waited quietly until he rang the bell. i went down to open the door, and he got right to the point.

"anne, my grandmother thinks youre too young for me to be seeing you on a regular basis. she says i should be going to the lowenbachs, but you probably know that im not going out with ursul anymore.”

"no, i didnt know. what happened? did you two have a fight?”

"no, nothing like that. i told ursul that we werent suited to each other and so it was better for us not to go together anymore, but that she was welcome at my house and i hoped i would be welcome at hers. actually, i thought ursul was hanging around with another boy, and i treated her as if she were. but that wasnt true. and then my uncle said i should apologize to her, but of course i didnt feel like it, and thats why i broke up with her. but that was just one of the reasons.

"now my grandmother wants me to see ursul and not you, but i dont agree and im not going to. sometimes old people have really old-fashioned ideas, but that doesnt mean i have to go along with them. i need my grandparents, but in a certain sense they need me too. from now on ill be free on wednesday evenings. you see, my grandparents made me sign up for a wood-carving class, but actually i go to a club organized by the zionists. my grandparents dont want me to go, because theyre anti-zionists. im not a fanatic zionist, but it interests me. anyway, its been such a mess lately that im planning to quit. so next wednesday will be my last meeting.

that means i can see you wednesday evening, saturday afternoon, saturday evening, sunday afternoon and maybe even more."

"but if your grandparents dont want you to, you? shouldnt go behind their backs.”

"alls fair in love and war.”

just then we passed blankevoorts bookstore and there was peter schiff with two other boys; it was the first time hed said hello to me in ages, and it really made me feel good.

monday evening hello came over to meet father and mother. i had bought a cake and some candy, and we had tea and cookies, the works, but neither hello nor i felt like sitting stiffly on our chairs. so we went out for a walk, and he didnt deliver me to my door until ten past eight. father was furious. he said it was very wrong of me not to get home on time. i had to promise to be home by ten to eight in the future. ive been asked to hellos on saturday.

wilma told me that one night when hello was at her house, she asked him, "who do you like best, ursul or anne?”

he said, "its none of your business.”

but as he was leaving (they hadnt talked to each other the rest of the evening), he said, "well, i like anne better, but dont tell anyone. bye!" and whoosh. . . he was out the door.

in everything he says or does, i can see that hello is in love with me, and its kind of nice for a change. margot would say that hello is eminently suitable. i think so too, but hes more than that. mother is also full of praise: "a good-looking boy. nice and polite." im glad hes so popular with everyone. except with my girlfriends. he thinks theyre very childish, and hes right about that. jacque still teases me about him, but im not in love with him. not really. its all right for me to have boys as friends.

nobody minds.

mother is always asking me who im going to marry when i grow up, but i bet shell never guess its peter, because i talked her out of that idea myself, without batting an eyelash. i love peter as ive never loved anyone, and i tell myself hes only going around with all those other girls to hide his feelings for me. maybe he thinks hello and i are in love with each other, which were not. hes just a friend, or as mother puts it, a beau.

yours, anne

sunday, july 5, 1942

dear kitty,

the graduation ceremony in the jewish theater on friday went as expected. my report card wasnt too bad. i got one d, a c- in algebra and all the rest bs, except for two b+s and two b-s. my parents are pleased, but theyre not like other parents when it comes to grades. they never worry about report cards, good or bad. as long as im healthy and happy and dont talk back too much, theyre satisfied. if these three things are all right, everything else will take care of itself.

im just the opposite. i dont want to be a poor student. i was accepted to the jewish lyceum on a conditional basis. i was supposed to stay in the seventh grade at the montessori school, but when jewish children were required to go to jewish schools, mr. elte finally agreed, after a great deal of persuasion, to accept lies goslar and me.

lies also passed this year, though she has to repeat her geometry exam.

poor lies. it isnt easy for her to study at home; her baby sister, a spoiled little two-year-old, plays in her room all day. if gabi doesnt get her way, she starts screaming, and if lies doesnt look after her, mrs. goslar starts screaming. so lies has a hard time doing her homework, and as long as thats the case, the tutoring shes been getting wont help much. the goslar household is really a sight. mrs. goslars parents live next door, but eat with the family. the theres a hired girl, the baby, the always absentminded and absent mr. goslar and the always nervous and irrita ie mrs.

goslar, whos expecting another baby. lies, whos all thumbs, gets lost in the mayhem.

my sister margot has also gotten her report card.

brilliant, as usual. if we had such a thing as "cum laude," she would have passed with honors, shes so smart.

father has been home a lot lately. theres nothing for him to do at the office; it must be awful to feel youre not needed. mr. kleiman has taken over opekta, and mr.

kugler, gies & co., the company dealing in spices and spice substitutes that was set up in 1941.

a few days ago, as we were taking a stroll around our nei***orhood square, father began to talk about going into hiding. he said it would be very hard for us to live cut off from the rest of the world. i asked him why he was bringing this up now.

"well, anne," he replied, "you know that for more than a year weve been bringing clothes, food and furniture to other people. we dont want our belongings to be seized by the germans. nor do we want to fall into their clutches ourselves. so well leave of our own accord and not wait to be hauled away.”

"but when, father?" he sounded so serious that i felt scared.

"dont you worry. well take care of everything. just enjoy your carefree life while you can.”

that was it. oh, may these somber words not come true for as long as possible.

the doorbells ringing, hellos here, time to stop.

yours, anne 

wednesday, july 8, 1942

dearest kitty,

it seems like years since sunday morning. so much has happened its as if the whole world had suddenly turned upside down. but as you can see, kitty, im still alive, and thats the main thing, father says. im alive all right, but dont ask where or how. you probably dont understand a word im saying today, so ill begin by telling you what happened sunday afternoon.

at three oclock (hello had left but was supposed to come back later), the doorbell rang. i didnt hear it, since i was out on the balcony, lazily reading in the sun. a little while later margot appeared in the kitchen doorway looking very agitated. "father has received a call-up notice from the ss," she whispered. "mother has gone to see mr.

van daan" (mr. van daan is fathers business partner and a good friend.)

i was stunned. a call-up: everyone knows what that means. visions of concentration camps and lonely cells raced through my head. how could we let father go to such a fate? "of course hes not going," declared margot as we waited for mother in the living room. "mothers gone to mr. van daan to ask whether we can move to our hiding place tomorrow. the van daans are going with us. there will be seven of us altogether." silence. we couldnt speak. the thought of father off visiting someone in the jewish hospital and completely unaware of what was happening, the long wait for mother, the heat, the suspense -- all this reduced us to silence.

suddenly the doorbell rang again. "thats hello," i said.

"dont open the door!" exclaimed margot to stop me. but it wasnt necessary, since we heard mother and mr. van daan downstairs talking to hello, and then the two of them came inside and shut the door behind them. every time the bell rang, either margot or i had to tiptoe downstairs to see if it was father, and we didnt let anyone else in. margot and i were sent from the room, as mr. van daan wanted to talk to mother alone.

when she and i were sitting in our bedroom, margot told me that the call-up was not for father, but for her. at this second shock, i began to cry. margot is sixteen -- apparently they want to send girls her age away on their own. but thank goodness she wont be going; mother had said so herself, which must be what father had meant when he talked to me about our going into hiding. hiding. . . where would we hide? in the city? in the country? in a house? in a shack? when, where, how. . . ? these were questions i wasnt allowed to ask, but they still kept running through my mind.

margot and i started packing our most important belongings into a schoolbag. the first thing i stuck in was this diary, and then curlers, handkerchiefs, schoolbooks, a comb and some old letters. preoccupied by the thought of going into hiding, i stuck the craziest things in the bag, but im not sorry. memories mean more to me than dresses.

father finally came hqme around five oclock, and we called mr. kleiman to ask if he could come by that evening. mr. van daan left and went to get miep. miep arrived and promised to return later that night, taking with her a bag full of shoes, dresses, jackets, underwear and stockings. after that it was quiet in our apartment; none of us felt like eating. it was still hot, and everything was very strange.

we had rented our big upstairs room to a mr. goldschmidt, a divorced man in his thirties, who apparently had nothing to do that evening, since despite all our polite hints he hung around until ten oclock.

miep and jan gies came at eleven. miep, whos worked for fathers company since 1933, has become a close friend, and so has her husband jan. once again, shoes, stockings, books and underwear disappeared into mieps bag and jans deep pockets. at eleven-thirty they too disappeared.

i was exhausted, and even though i knew itd be my last night in my own bed, i fell asleep right away and didnt wake up until mother called me at five-thirty the next morning. fortunately, it wasnt as hot as sunday; a warm rain fell throughout the day.

the four of us were wrapped in so many layers of clothes it looked as if we were going off to spend the night in a refrigerator, and all that just so we could take more clothes with us. no jew in our situation would dare leave the house with a suitcase full of clothes. i was wearing two undershirts, three pairs of underpants, a dress, and over that a skirt, a jacket, a raincoat, two pairs of stockings, heavy shoes, a cap, a scarf and lots more. i was suffocating even before we left the house, but no one bothered to ask me how i felt.

margot stuffed her schoolbag with schoolbooks, went to get her bicycle and, with miep leading the way, rode off into the great unknown. at any rate, thats how i thought of it, since i still didnt know where our hiding place was.

at seven-thirty we too closed the door behind us; moortje, my cat, was the only living creature i said good-bye to. according to a note we left for mr. goldschmidt, she was to be taken to the nei***ors, who would give her a good home.

the stripped beds, the breakfast things on the table, the pound of meat for the cat in the kitchen -- all of these created the impression that wed left in a hurry. but we werent interested in impressions. we just wanted to get out of there, to get away and reach our destination in safety. nothing else mattered.

more tomorrow.

yours, anne 

thursday, july 9, 1942

dearest kitty,

so there we were, father, mother and i, walking in the pouring rain, each of us with a schoolbag and a shopping bag filled to the brim with the most varied assortment of items. the people on their way to work at that early hour gave us sympathetic looks;

you could tell by their faces that they were sorry they couldnt offer us some kind of transportation; the conspicuous yellow star spoke for itself.

only when we were walking down the street did father and mother reveal, little by little, what the plan was. for months wed been moving as much of our furniture and apparel out of the apartment as we could. it was agreed that wed go into hiding on july 16. because of margots call-up notice, the plan had to be moved up ten days, which meant wed have to make do with less orderly rooms.

the hiding place was located in fathers office building. thats a little hard for outsiders to understand, so ill explain. father didnt have a lot of people working in his office, just mr. kugler, mr. kleiman, miep and a twenty-three-year-old typist named bep voskuijl, all of whom were informed of our coming. mr. voskuijl, beps father, works in the warehouse, along with two assistants, none of whom were told anything.

heres a description of the building. the large warehouse on the ground floor is used as a workroom and storeroom and is divided into several different sections, such as the stockroom and the milling room, where cinnamon, cloves and a pepper substitute are ground.

next to the warehouse doors is another outside door, a separate entrance to the office. just inside the office door is a second door, and beyond that a stairway. at the top of the stairs is another door, with a frosted window on which the word "office" is written in black letters. this is the big front office -- very large, very light and very full. bep, miep and mr. kleiman work there during the day. after passing through an alcove containing a safe, a wardrobe and a big supply cupboard, you come to the small, dark, stuffy back office. this used to be shared by mr. kugler and mr. van daan, but now mr. kugler is its only occupant. mr. kuglers office can also be reached from the hallway, but only through a glass door that can be opened from the inside but not easily from the outside. if you leave mr. kuglers office and proceed through the long, narrow hallway past the coal bin and go up four steps, you find yourself in the private office, the showpiece of the entire building. elegant mahogany furniture, a linoleum floor covered with throw rugs, a radio, a fancy lamp, everything first class.

next door is a spacious kitchen with a hot-water heater and two gas burners, and beside that a bathroom. thats the second floor.

a wooden staircase leads from the downstairs hallway to the third floor. at the top of the stairs is a landing, with doors on either side. the door on the left takes you up to the spice storage area, attic and loft in the front part of the house. a typically dutch, very steep, ankle-twisting flight of stairs also runs from the front part of the house to another door opening onto the street.

the door to the right of the landing leads to the "secret annex" at the back ofthe house. no one would ever suspect there were so many rooms behind that plain gray door. theres just one small step in front of the door, and then youre inside. straight ahead of you is a steep flight of stairs. to the left is a narrow hallway opening onto a room that serves as the frank familys living [insert map here]

room and bedroom. next door is a smaller room, the )edroom and study of the two young ladies of the family. ro the right of the stairs is a windowless washroom. with a link. the door in the corner leads to the toilet and another one to margots and my room. if you go up the itairs and open the door at the top, youre surprised to see such a large, light and spacious room in an old canalside house like this. it contains a stove (thanks to the fact hat it used to be mr. kuglers laboratory) and a sink.

this will be the kitchen and bedroom of mr. and mrs. van daan, as well as the general living room, dining room and study for us all. a tiny side room is to be peter van daans bedroom. then, just as in the front part of the building, theres an attic and a loft. so there you are. now ive introduced you to the whole of our lovely annex!

yours, anne 

friday, july 10, 1942

dearest kitty, ive probably bored you with my long description of our house, but i still think you should know where ive ended up; how i ended up here is something youll figure out from my next letters.

but first, let me continue my story, because, as you know, i wasnt finished. after we arrived at 263 prinsengracht, miep quickly led us through the long hallway and up the wooden staircase to the next floor and into the annex. she shut the door behind us, leaving us alone. margot had arrived much earlier on her bike and was waiting for us.

our living room and all the other rooms were so full of stuff that i cant find the words to describe it. all the cardboard boxes that had been sent to the office in the last few months were piled on the floors and beds. the small room was filled from floor to cethng with linens. if we wanted to sleep in properly made beds that night, we had to get going and straighten up the mess. mother and margot were unable to move a muscle. they lay down on their bare mattresses, tired, miserable and i dont know what else. but father and i, the two cleaner-uppers in the family, started in right away.

all day long we unpacked boxes, filled cupboards, hammered nails and straightened up the mess, until we fell exhausted into our clean beds at night. we hadnt eaten a hot meal all day, but we didnt care; mother and margot were too tired and keyed up to eat, and father and i were too busy.

tuesday morning we started where we left off the night before. bep and miep went grocery shopping with our ration coupons, father worked on our blackout screens, we scrubbed the kitchen floor, and were once again busy from sunup to sundown. until wednesday, i didnt have a chance to think about the enormous change in my life.

then for the first time since our arrival in the secret annex, i found a moment to tell you all about it and to realize what had happened to me and what was yet to happen.

yours, anne 

saturday, july 11, 1942

dearest kitty,

father, mother and margot still cant get used to the chiming of the westertoren clock, which tells us the time every quarter of an hour. not me, i liked it from the start; it sounds so reassuring, especially at night. you no doubt want to hear what i think of being in hiding. well, all i can say is that i dont really know yet. i dont think ill ever feel at home in this house, but that doesnt mean i hate it. its more like being on vacation in some strange pension. kind of an odd way to look at life in hiding, but thats how things are. the annex is an ideal place to hide in. it may be damp and lopsided, but theres probably not a more comfortable hiding place in all of amsterdam. no, in all of holland.

up to now our bedroom, with its blank walls, was very bare. thanks to father -- who brought my entire postcard and movie-star collection here beforehand -- and to a brush and a pot of glue, i was able to plaster the walls with pictures. it looks much more cheerful. when the van daans arrive, well be able to build cupboards and other odds and ends out of the wood piled in the attic.

margot and mother have recovered somewhat. yesterday mother felt well enough to cook split-pea soup for the first time, but then she was downstairstalking and forgot all about it. the beans were scorched black, and no amount of scraping could get them out of the pan.

last night the four of us went down to the private office and listened to england on the radio. i was so scared someone might hear it that i literally begged father to take me back upstairs. mother understood my anxiety and went with me. whatever we do, were very afraid the nei***ors might hear or see us. we started off immediately the first day sewing curtains. actually, you can hardly call them that, since theyre nothing but scraps of fabric, varying greatly in shape, quality and pattern, which father and i stitched crookedly together with unskilled fingers. these works of art were tacked to

the windows, where theyll stay until we come out of hiding.

the building on our right is a branch of the keg company, a firm from zaandam, and on the left is a furniture workshop. though the people who work there are not on the premises after hours, any sound we make might travel through the walls. weve forbidden margot to cough at night, even though she has a bad cold, and are giving her large doses of codeine.

im looking forward to the arrival of the van daans, which is set for tuesday. it will be much more fun and also not as quiet. you see, its the silence that makes me so nervous during the evenings and nights, and id give anything to have one of our helpers sleep here.

its really not that bad here, since we can do our own cooking and can listen to the radio in daddys office.

mr. kleiman and miep, and bep voskuijl too, have helped us so much. weve already canned loads of rhubarb, strawberries and cherries, so for the time being i doubt well be bored. we also have a supply of reading material, and were going to buy lots of games. of course, we cant ever look out the window or go outside. and we have to be quiet so the people downstairs cant hear us.

yesterday we had our hands full. we had to pit two crates of cherries for mr. kugler to can. were going to use the empty crates to make bookshelves.

someones calling me.

yours, anne 

comment added by anne on september 2g, 1942: not beina able to ao outside upsets me more than i can say, and im terrified our hidina place will be discovered and that well be shot. that, of course, is a fairly dismal prospect.

sunday, july 12, 1942

theyve all been so nice to me this last month because of my birthday, and yet every day i feel myself drifting further away from mother and margot. i worked hard today and they praised me, only to start picking on me again five minutes later.

you can easily see the difference between the way they deal with margot and the way they deal with me. for example, margot broke the vacuum cleaner, and because of

that weve been without light for the rest of the day. mother said, "well, margot, its easy to see youre not used to working; otherwise, youd have known better than to yank the plug out by the cord." margot made some reply, and that was the end of the story.

but this afternoon, when i wanted to rewrite something on mothers shopping list because her handwriting is so hard to read, she wouldnt let me. she bawled me out again, and the whole family wound up getting involved.

i dont fit in with them, and ive felt that clearly in the last few weeks. theyre so sentimental together, but id rather be sentimental on my own. theyre always saying how nice it is with the four of us, and that we get along so well, without giving a moments thought to the fact that i dont feel that way.

daddys the only one who understands me, now and again, though he usually sides with mother and margot. another thing i cant stand is having them talk about me in front of outsiders, telling them how i cried or how sensibly im behaving. its horrible.

and sometimes they talk about moortje and i cant take that at all. moortje is my weak spot. i miss her every minute of the day, and no one knows how often i think of her; whenever i do, my eyes fill with tears. moortje is so sweet, and i love her so much that i keep dreaming shell come back to us.

i have plenty of dreams, but the reality is that well have to stay here until the war is over. we cant ever go outside, and the only visitors we can have are miep, her husband jan, bep voskuijl, mr. voskuijl, mr. kugler, mr. kleiman and mrs. kleiman, though she hasnt come because she thinks its too dangerous.

comment added by anne in september 1942: daddys always so nice. he understands me perfectly, and i wish we could have a heart-to-heart talk sometime without my bursting instantly into tears. but apparently that has to do with my age.

id like to spend all my time writing, but that would probably get boring.

up to now ive only confided my thoughts to my diary. i still havent gotten around to writing amusing sketches that i could read aloud at a later date. in the future im going to devote less time to sentimentality and more time to reality.

 www。xiaoshuotxt。com



AUGUST, 1942

小?说?txt?天堂
friday, august 14, 1942

dear kitty,

ive deserted you for an entire month, but so little has happened that i cant find a

newsworthy item to relate every single day. the van daans arrived on july 13. we thought they were coming on the fourteenth, but from the thirteenth to sixteenth the germans were sending out call-up notices right and left and causing a lot of unrest, so they decided it would be safer to leave a day too early than a day too late.

peter van daan arrived at nine-thirty in the morning (while we were still at breakfast). peters going on sixteen, a shy, awkward boy whose company wont amount to much. mr. and mrs. van daan came half an hour later.

much to our amusement, mrs. van daan was carrying a hatbox with a large chamber pot inside. "i just dont feel at home without my chamber pot," she exclaimed, and it was the first item to find a permanent place under the divan. instead of a chamber pot, mr. van d. was lugging a collapsible tea table under his arm.

from the first, we ate our meals together, and after three days it felt as if the seven of us had become one big family. naturally, the van daans had much to tell about the week wed been away from civilization. we were especially interested in what had happened to our apartment and to mr. goldschmidt.

mr. van daan filled us in: "monday morning at nine, mr. goldschmidt phoned and asked if i could come over. i went straightaway and found a very distraught mr.

goldschmidt. he showed me a note that the frank family had left behind. as instructed, he was planning to bring the cat to the nei***ors, which i agreed was a good idea. he was afraid the house was going to be searched, so we w=nt through all the rooms, straightening up here and there and clearing the breakfast things off the table. suddenly i saw a notepad on mrs. franks desk, with an address in maastricht written on it. even though i knew mrs. frank had left it on purpose, i pretended to be surprised and horrified and begged mr. goldschmidt to burn this incriminating piece of paper. i swore up and down that i knew nothing about your disappearance, but that the note had given me an idea. mr. goldschmidt, i said, i bet i know what this address refers to. about six months ago a high-ranking officer came to the office. it seems he and mr. frank grew up together. he promised to help mr. frank if it was ever necessary. as i recall, he was stationed in maastricht. i think this officer has kept his word and is somehow planning to help them cross over to belgium and then to switzerland. theres no harm in telling this to any friends of the franks who come asking about them. of course, you dont need to mention the part about maastricht. and after that i left. this is the story most of your friends have been told, because i heard it later from several other people.”

we thought it was extremely funny, but we laughed even harder when mr. van daan told us that certain people have vivid imaginations. for example, one family living on

our square claimed they sawall four of us riding by on our bikes early in the morning, and another woman was absolutely positive wed been loaded into some kind of military vehicle in the middle of the night.

yours, anne 

friday, august 21, 1942

dear kitty,

now our secret annex has truly become secret.

because so many houses are being searched for hidden bicycles, mr. kugler thought it would be better to have a bookcase built in front of the entrance to our hiding place.

it swings out on its hinges and opens like a door. mr. voskuijl did the carpentry work.

(mr. voskuijl has been told that the seven of us are in hiding, and hes been most helpful.)

now whenever we want to go downstairs we have to duck and then jump. after the first three days we were all walking around with bumps on our foreheads from banging our heads against the low doorway. then peter cushioned it by nailing a towel stuffed with wood shavings to the doorframe. lets see if it helps!

im not doing much schoolwork. ive given myself a vacation until september. father wants to start tutoring me then, but we have to buy all the books first.

theres little change in our lives here. peters hair was washed today, but thats nothing special. mr. van daan and i are always at loggerheads with each other. mama always treats me like a baby, which i cant stand. for the rest, things are going better. i dont think peters gotten any nicer. hes an obnoxious boy who lies around on his bed all day, only rousing himself to do a little carpentry work before returning to his nap. what a dope!

mama gave me another one of her dreadful sermons this morning. we take the opposite view of everything. daddys a sweetheart; he may get mad at me, but it never lasts longer than five minutes.

its a beautiful day outside, nice and hot, and in spite of everything, we make the most of the weather by lounging on the folding bed in the attic.

yours, anne

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SEPTEMBER, 1942

大``学"生:小..说 网
wednesday, september 2, 1942

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 was stiff and sore. nightly calisthenics helped.

yours, anne

 www.xiaoshuotxt.com



OCTOBER, 1942

！小＠说＃txt＄天＾堂＆
wednesday, september 2, 1942

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 was stiff and sore. nightly calisthenics helped.

yours, anne 

ＷＷＷ.xiＡosＨuoＴＸＴ.com



NOVEMBER, 1942

～小＜说t xt＋＋天＞堂
monday, november 2, 1942

dear kitty,

bep stayed with us friday evening. it was fun, but she didnt sleep very well because shed drunk some wine. for the rest, theres nothing special to report. i had an awful headache yesterday and went to bed early. margots being exasperating again.

this morning i began sorting out an index card file from the office, because itd fallen over and gotten all mixed up. before long i was going nuts. i asked margot and peter to help, but they were too lazy, so i put it away.

im not crazy enough to do it all by myself!

anne frank

ps. i forgot to mention the important news that im probably going to get my period soon. i can tell because i keep finding a whitish smear in my panties, and mother predicted it would start soon. i can hardly wait. its such a momentous event. too bad i cant use sanitary napkins, but you cant get them anymore, and mamas tampons can be used only by women whove had a baby. i comment added by anne on january 22, 1944: i wouldnt be able to write that kind of thing anymore.

now that im rereading my diary after a year and a half, im surprised at my childish innocence. deep down i know i could never be that innocent again, however much id like to be. i can understand the mood chanaes and the comments about margot, mother and father as if id written them only yesterday, but i cant imagine writina so openly about other matters. it embarrasses me areatly to read the panes dealina with subjects that i remembered as beina nicer than they actually were. my descriptions are so indelicate. but enouah of that.

i can also understand my homesickness and yearning for moortje. the whole time ive been here ive longed unconsciously and at times consciously for trust, love and

physical affection. this longing may change in intensity, but its always there.

thursday, november 5, 1942

dear kitty,

the british have finally scored a few successes in africa and stalingrad hasnt fallen yet, so the men are happy and we had coffee and tea this morning. for the rest, nothing special to report.

this week ive been reading a lot and doing little work. thats the way things ought to be. thats surely the road to success.

mother and i are getting along better lately, but were never close. fathers not very open about his feelings, but hes the same sweetheart hes always been. we lit the stove a few days ago and the entire room is still filled with smoke. i prefer central heating, and im probably not the only one. margots a stinker (theres no other word for it), a constant source of irritation, morning, noon and night.

anne frank

saturday, november 7, 1942

dearest kitty,

mothers nerves are very much on edge, and that doesnt bode well for me. is it just a coincidence that father and mother never scold margot and always blame me for everything? last night, for example, margot was reading a book with beautiful illustrations; she got up and put the book aside for later. i wasnt doing anything, so i picked it up and began looking at the pictures. margot carne back, saw "her" book in my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back. i wanted to look through it some more. margot got madder by the minute, and mother butted in:

"margot was reading that book; give it back to her.”

father came in, and without even knowing what was going on, saw that margot was being wronged and lashed out at me: "id like to see what youd do if margot was looking at one of your books!”

i promptly gave in, put the book down and, according to them, left the room in a huff." i was neither huffy nor cross, but merely sad.

it wasnt right of father to pass judgment without knowing what the issue was. i would have given the book to margot myself, and a lot sooner, if father and mother hadnt intervened and rushed to take margots part, as if she were suffering some great injustice.

of course, mother took margots side; they always take each others sides. im so used to it that ive become completely indifferent to mothers rebukes and margots moodiness. i love them, but only because theyre mother and margot. i dont give a darn about them as people. as far as im concerned, they can go jump in a lake. its different with father. when i see him being partial to margot, approving margots every action, praising her, hugging her, i feel a gnawing ache inside, because im crazy about him. i model myself after father, and theres no one in the world i love more.

he doesnt realize that he treats margot differently than he does me: margot just happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. but i have a right to be taken seriously too. ive always been the clown and mischief maker of the family; ive always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair. im no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks. i long for something from father that hes incapable of giving. im not jealous of margot; i never have been. im not envious of her brains or her beauty. its just that id like to feel that father really loves me, not because im his child, but because im me, anne.

i cling to father because my contempt of mother is growing daily and its only through him that im able to retain the last ounce of family feeling i have left. he doesnt understand that i sometimes need to vent my feelings for mother. he doesnt want to talk about it, and he avoids any discussion involving mothers failings. and yet mother, with all her shortcomings, is tougher for me to deal with. i dont know how i should act. i cant very well confront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm and her hard-heartedness, yet i cant continue to take the blame for everything.

im the opposite of mother, so of course we clash. i dont mean to judge her; i dont have that right. im simply looking at her as a mother. shes not a mother to me -- i have to mother myself. ive cut myself adrift from them. im charting my own course, and well see where it leads me. i have no choice, because i can picture what a mother and a wife should be and cant seem to find anything of the sort in the woman im supposed to call "mother.”

i tell myself time and again to overlook mothers bad example. i only want to see her good points, and to look inside myself for whats lacking in her. but it doesnt work, and the worst part is that father and mother dont realize their own inadequacies and how much i blame them for letting me down. are there any parents who can make

their children completely happy?

sometimes i think god is trying to test me, both now and in the future. ill have to become a good person on my own, without anyone to serve as a model or advise me, but itll make me stronger in the end.

who else but me is ever going to read these letters? who else but me can i turn to for comfort? im frequently in need of consolation, i often feel weak, and more often than not, i fail to meet expectations. i know this, and every day i resolve to do better.

they arent consistent in their treatment of me. one day they say that annes a sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that annes a silly goose who doesnt know a thing and yet imagines shes learned all she needs to know from books! im no longer the baby and spoiled little darling whose every deed can be laughed at. i have my own ideas, plans and ideals, but am unable to articulate them yet.

oh well. so much comes into my head at night when im alone, or during the day when im obliged to put up with people i cant abide or who invariably misinterpret my intentions. thats why i always wind up coming back to my diary -- i start there and end there because kittys always patient. i promise her that, despite everything, ill keep going, that ill find my own way and choke back my tears. i only wish i could see some results or, just once, receive encouragement from someone who loves me.

dont condemn me, but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches the bursting point!

yours, anne 

monday, november 9,1942

dearest kitty,

yesterday was peters birthday, his sixteenth. i was upstairs by eight, and peter and i looked at his presents. he received a game of monopoly, a razor and a cigarette lighter. not that he smokes so much, not at all; it just looks so distinguished.

the biggest surprise came from mr. van daan, who reported at one that the english had landed in tunis, algiers, casablanca and oran.

"this is the beginning of the end," everyone was saying, but churchill, the british prime minister, who must have heard the same thing being repeated in england, declared, "this is not the end. it is not even the beginning of the end. but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." do you see the difference? however, theres reason for optimism. stalingrad, the russian city that has been under attack for three months, still hasnt fallen into german hands.

in the true spirit of the annex, i should talk to you about food. (i should explain that theyre real gluttons up on the top floor.)

bread is delivered daily by a very nice baker, a friend of mr. kleimans. of course, we dont have as much as we did at home, but its enough. we also purchase ration books on the black market. the price keeps going up; its already risen from 27 to 33 guilders. and that for mere sheets of printed paper!

to provide ourselves with a source of nutrition that will keep, aside from the hundred cans of food weve stored here, we bought three hundred pounds of beans. not just for us, but for the office staff as well. wed hung the sacks of beans on hooks in the hallway, just inside our secret entrance, but a few seams split under the weight. so we decided to move them to the attic, and peter was entrusted with the heavy lifting.

he managed to get five of the six sacks upstairs intact and was busy with the last one when the sack broke and a flood, or rather a hailstorm, of brown beans went flying through the air and down the stairs. since there were about fifty pounds of beans in that sack, it made enough noise to raise the dead. downstairs they were sure the house was falling down around their heads. peter was stunned, but then burst into peals of laughter when he saw me standing at the bottom of the stairs, like an island in a sea of brown, with waves of beans lapping at my ankles. we promptly began picking them up, but beans are so small and slippery that they roll into every conceivable corner and hole. now each time we go upstairs, we bend over and hunt around so we can present mrs. van daan with a handful of beans.

i almost forgot to mention that father has recovered from his illness.

yours, anne 

p.s. the radio has just announced that algiers has fallen. morocco, casablanca and oran have been in english hands for several days. were now waiting for tunis.

tuesday, november 10, 1942

dearest kitty,

great news! were planning to take an eighth person into hiding with us!

yes, really. we always thought there was enough room and food for one more person, but we were afraid of placing an even greater burden on mr. kugler and mr. kleiman.

but since reports of the dreadful things being done to the jews are getting worse by the day, father decided to sound out these two gentlemen, and they thought it was an excellent plan. "its just as dangerous, whether there are seven or eight," they noted rightly. once this was settled, we sat down and mentally went through our circle of acquaintances, trying to come up with a single person who would blend in well with our extended family. this wasnt difficult. after father had rejected all the van daan relatives, we chose a dentist named alfred dussel. he lives with a charming christian lady whos quite a bit younger than he is. theyre probably not married, but thats beside the point. hes known to be quiet and refined, and he seemed, from our superficial acquaintance with him, to be nice. miep knows him as well, so shell be able to make the necessary arrangements. if he comes, mr. dussel will have to sleep in my room instead of margot, who will have to make do with the folding bed.* [*after dussel arrived, margot slept in her parents bedroom.] well ask him to bring along something to fill cavities with.

yours, anne 

thursday, november 12, 1942

dearest kitty,

miep came to tell us that shed been to see dr. dussel. he asked her the moment she entered the room if she knew of a hiding place and was enormously pleased when miep said she had something in mind. she added "that hed need to go into hiding as soon as possible, preferably saturday, but he thought this was highly improbable, since he wanted to bring his records up to date, settle his accounts and attend to a couple of patients. miep relayed the message to us this morning. we didnt think it was wise to wait so long. all these preparations require explanations to various people who we feel ought to be kept in the dark. miep went to ask if dr. dussel couldnt manage to come on saturday after all, but he said no, and now hes scheduled to arrive on monday.

i think its odd that he doesnt jump at our proposal. if they pick him up on the street, it wont help either his records or his patients, so why the delay? if you ask

me, its stupid of father to humor him.

otherwise, no news.

yours, anne 

tuesday, november 17, 1942

dearest kitty!

mr. dussel has arrived. everything went smoothly. miep told him to be at a certain place in front of the post office at 11 a.m., when a man would meet him, and he was at the appointed place at the appointed time. mr. kleiman went up to him, announced that the man he was expecting to meet was unable to come and asked him to drop by the office to see miep. mr. kleiman took a streetcar back to the office while mr.

dussel followed on foot.

it was eleven-twenty when mr. dussel tapped on the office door. miep asked him to remove his coat, so the yellow star couldnt be seen, and brought him to the private office, where mr. kleiman kept him occupied until the cleaning lady had gone. on the pretext that the private office was needed for something else, miep took mr. dussel upstairs, opened the bookcase and stepped inside, while mr. dussellooked on in amazement.

in the meantime, the seven of us had seated ourselves around the dining table to await the latest addition to our family with coffee and cognac. miep first led him into the frank familys room. he immediately recognized our furniture, but had no idea we were upstairs, just above his head. when miep told him, he was so astonished he nearly fainted. thank goodness she didnt leave him in suspense any longer, but brought him upstairs. mr. dussel sank into a chair and stared at us in dumbstruck silence, as though he thought he could read the truth on our faces. then he stuttered, "aber . . . but are you nicht in belgium? the officer, the auto, they were not coming?

your escape was not working?”

we explained the whole thing to him, about how wed deliberately spread the rumor of the officer and the car to throw the germans and anyone else who might come looking for us off the track. mr. dussel was speechless in the face of such ingenuity, and could do nothing but gaze around in surprise as he explored the rest of our lovely and ultrapractical annex. we all had lunch together. then he took a short nap, joined us for tea, put away the few belongings miep had been able to bring here in advance and began to feel much more at home. especially when we handed him the following

typewritten rules and regulations for the secret annex (a van daan production):

prospectus and guide to the secret annex a unique facility for the temporary accommodation of jews and other dispossessed persons open all year round: located in beautiful, quiet, wooded surroundings in the heart of amsterdam. no private residences in the vicinity. can be reached by streetcar 13 or 17 and also by car and bicycle. for those to whom such transportation has been forbidden by the german authorities, it can also be reached on foot. furnished and unfurnished rooms and apartments are available at all times, with or without meals.

price: free.

diet: low-fat.

runnina water in the bathroom (sorry, no bath) and on various inside and outside walls. cozy wood stoves for heating.

ample storage space for a variety of goods. two large, modern safes.

private radio with a direct line to london, new york, tel aviv and many other stations. available to all residents after 6 p.m. no listening to forbidden broadcasts, with certain exceptions, i.e., german stations may only be tuned in to listen to classical music. it is absolutely forbidden to listen to german news bulletins (regardless of where they are transmitted from) and to pass them on to others.

rest hours: from 10 p.m. to 7:30 a.m.; 10:15 a.m. on sundays. owing to circumstances, residents are required to observe rest hours during the daytime when instructed to do so by the management. to ensure the safety of all, rest hours must be strictly observed!!!

free-time activities: none allowed outside the house until further notice.

use of language: it is necessary to speak softly at all times. only the language of civilized people may be spoken, thus no german.

reading and relaxation: no german books may be read, except for the classics and works of a scholarly nature. other books are optional.

calisthenics: daily.

singing: only softly, and after 6 p.m.

movies: prior arrangements required.

classes: a weekly correspondence course in shorthand. courses in english, french, math and history offered at any hour of the day or night. payment in the form of tutoring, e.g., dutch.

separate department for the care of small household pets (with the exception of vermin, for which special permits are required).

mealtimes:

breakfast: at 9 a.m. daily except holidays and sundays; at approximately 11:30 a.m.

on sundays and holidays.

lunch: a light meal. from 1:15 p.m. to 1:45 p.m.

dinner: mayor not be a hot meal.

mealtime depends on news broadcasts.

obligations with respect to the supply corps: residents must be prepared to help with office work at all times. baths: the washtub is available to all residents after 9 a.m.

on sundays. residents may bathe in the bathroom, kitchen, private office or front office, as they choose.

alcohol: for medicinal purposes only.

the end.

yours, anne 

thursday, november 19, 1942

dearest kitty,

just as we thought, mr. dussel is a very nice man. of course he didnt mind sharing a

room with me; to be honest, im not exactly delighted at having a stranger use my things, but you have to make sacrifices for a good cause, and im glad i can make this small one. "if we can save even one of our friends, the rest doesnt matter," said father, and hes absolutely right.

the first day mr. dussel was here, he asked me all sorts of questions -- for example, what time the cleaning lady comes to the office, how weve arranged to use the washroom and when were allowed to go to the toilet. you may laugh, but these things arent so easy in a hiding place. during the daytime we cant make any noise that might be heard downstairs, and when someone else is there, like the cleaning lady, we have to be extra careful. i patiently explained all this to mr. dussel, but i was surprised to see how slow he is to catch on. he asks everything twice and still cant remember what youve told him.

maybe hes just confused by the sudden change and hell get over it. otherwise, everything is going fine.

mr. dussel has told us much about the outside world weve missed for so long. he had sad news. countless friends and acquaintances have been taken off to a dreadful fate. night after night, green and gray military vehicles cruise the streets. they knock on every door, asking whether any jews live there. if so, the whole family is immediately taken away. if not, they proceed to the next house. its impossible to escape their clutches unless you go into hiding. they often go around with lists, knocking only on those doors where they know theres a big haul to be made. they frequently offer a bounty, so much per head. its like the slave hunts of the olden days. i dont mean to make light ofthisj its much too tragic for that. in the evenings when its dark, i often see long lines of good, innocent people, accompanied by crying children, walking on and on, ordered about by a handful of men who bully and beat them until they nearly drop. no one is spared. the sick, the elderly, children, babies and pregnant women -- all are marched to their death.

were so fortunate here, away from the turmoil. we wouldnt have to give a moments thought to all this suffering if it werent for the fact that were so worried about those we hold dear, whom we can no longer help. i feel wicked sleeping in a warm bed, while somewhere out there my dearest friends are dropping from exhaustion or being knocked to the ground.

i get frightened myself when i think of close friends who are now at the mercy of the cruelest monsters ever to stalk the earth.

and all because theyre jews.

yours, anne 

friday, november 20, 1942

dearest kitty,

we dont really know how to react. up to now very little news about the jews had reached us here, and we thought it best to stay as cheerful as possible. every now and then miep used to mention what had happened to a friend, and mother or mrs.

van daan would start to cry, so she decided it was better not to say any more. but we bombarded mr. dussel with questions, and the stories he had to tell were so gruesome and dreadful that we cant get them out of our heads. once weve had time to digest the news, well probably go back to our usual joking and teasing. it wont do us or those outside any good if we continue to be as gloomy as we are now. and what would be the point of turning the secret annex into a melancholy annex?

no matter what im doing, i cant help thinking about those who are gone. i catch myself laughing and remember that its a disgrace to be so cheerful. but am i supposed to spend the whole day crying? no, i cant do that. this gloom will pass.

added to this misery theres another, but of a more personal nature, and it pales in comparison to the suffering ive just told you about. still, i cant help telling you that lately ive begun to feel deserted. im surrounded by too great a void. i never used to give it much thought, since my mind was filled with my friends and having a good time. now i think either about unhappy things or about myself. its taken a while, but ive finally realized that father, no matter how kind he may be, cant take the place of my former world. when it comes to my feelings, mother and margot ceased to count long ago.

but why do i bother you with this foolishness? im terribly ungrateful, kitty, i know, but when ive been scolded for the umpteenth time and have all these other woes to think about as well, my head begins to reel!

yours, anne 

saturday, november 2g, 1942

dearest kitty,

weve been using too much electricity and have now exceeded our ration. the result:

excessive economy and the prospect of having the electricity cut off. no light for fourteen days; thats a pleasant thought, isnt it? but who knows, maybe it wont be so long! its too dark to read after four or four-thirty, so we while away the time with all kinds of crazy activities: telling riddles, doing calisthenics in the dark, speaking english or french, reviewing books -- after a while everything gets boring. yesterday i discovered a new pastime: using a good pair of binoculars to peek into the lighted rooms of the nei***ors. during the day our curtains cant be opened, not even an inch, but theres no harm when its so dark.

i never knew that nei***ors could be so interesting. ours are, at any rate. ive come across a few at dinner, one family making home movies and the dentist across the way working on a frightened old lady.

mr. dussel, the man who was said to get along so well with children and to absolutely adore them, has turned out to be an old-fashioned disciplinarian and preacher of unbearably long sermons on manners. since i have the singular pleasure (!) of sharing my far too narrow room with his excellency, and since im generally considered to be the worst behaved of the three young people, its all i can do to avoid having the same old scoldings and admonitions repeatedly flung at my head and to pretend not to hear. this wouldnt be so bad if mr. dussel werent such a tattletale and hadnt singled out mother to be the recipient of his reports. if mr. dussels just read me the riot act, mother lectures me all over again, this time throwing the whole book at me.

and if im really lucky, mrs. van d. calls me to account five minutes later and lays down the law as well!

really, its not easy being the badly brought-up center of attention of a family of nitpickers.

in bed at night, as i ponder my many sins and exaggerated shortcomings, i get so confused by the sheer amount of things i have to consider that i either laugh or cry, depending on my mood. then i fall asleep with the strange feeling of wanting to be different than i am or being different than i want to be, or perhaps of behaving differently than i am or want to be.

oh dear, now im confusing you too. forgive me, but i dont like crossing things out, and in these times of scarcity, tossing away a piece of paper is clearly taboo. so i can only advise you not to reread the above passage and to make no attempt to get to the bottom of it, because youll never find your way out again!

yours, anne 

w w w.x iaoshu otx t.c o m



DECEMBER, 1942

小.说.t|xt.天+
monday, december 7, 1942

dearest kitty,

hanukkah and st. nicholas day nearly coincided this year; they were only one day apart. we didnt make much of a fuss with hanukkah, merely exchanging a few small gifts and lighting the candles. since candles are in short supply, we lit them for only ten minutes, but as long as we sing the song, that doesnt matter. mr. van daan made a menorah out of wood, so that was taken care of too.

st. nicholas day on saturday was much more fun. during dinner bep and miep were so busy whispering to father that our curiosity was aroused and we suspected they were up to something. sure enough, at eight oclock we all trooped downstairs through the hall in pitch darkness (it gave me the shivers, and i wished i was safely back upstairs!) to the alcove. we could switch on the light, since this room doesnt have any windows. when that was done, father opened the big cabinet.

"oh, how wonderful!" we all cried.

in the corner was a large basket decorated with colorful paper and a mask of black peter.

we quickly took the basket upstairs with us. inside was a little gift for everyone, including an appropriate verse. since youre famthar with the kinds of poems peo ple write each other on st. nicholas day, i wont copy them down for you.

i received a kewpie doll, father got bookends, and so on. well anyway, it was a nice idea, and since the eight of us had never celebrated st. nicholas day before, this was a good time to begin.

yours, anne 

ps. we also had presents for everyone downstairs, a few things .left over from the good old days; plus miep and bep are always grateful for money.

today we heard that mr. van daan s ashtray, mr. dussels picture frame and fathers bookends were made by none other than mr. voskuijl. how anyone can be so clever with his hands is a mystery to me!

thursday, december 10, 1942

dearest kitty,

mr. van daan used to be in the meat, sausage and spice business. he was hired for his knowledge of spices, and yet, to our great delight, its his sausage talents that have come in handy now.

we ordered a large amount of meat (under the counter, of course) that we were planning to preserve in case there were hard times ahead. mr. van daan decided to make bratwurst, sausages and mettwurst. i had fun watching him put the meat through the grinder: once, twice, three times. then he added the remaining ingredi ents to the ground meat and used a long pipe to force the mixture into the casings.

we ate the bratwurst with sauerkraut for lunch, but the sausages, which were going to be canned, had to dry first, so we hung them over a pole suspended from the cethng. everyone who came into the room burst into laughter when they saw the dangling sausages.it was such a comical sight.

the kitchen was a shambles. mr. van daan, clad in his wifes apron and looking fatter than ever, was working away at the meat. what with his bloody hands, red face and spotted apron, he looked like a real butcher. mrs. d. was trying to do everything at once: learning dutch out of a book, stirring the soup, watching the meat, sighing and moaning about her broken rib. thats what happens when old (!) ladies do such stupid exercises to get rid of their fat behinds! dussel had an eye infection and was sitting next to the stove dabbing his eye with camomile tea. pim, seated in the one ray of sunshine coming through the window, kept having to move his chair this way and that to stay out of the way. his rheumatism must have been bothering him because he was slightly hunched over and was keeping an eye on mr. van daan with an agonized expression on his face. he reminded me of those aged invalids you see in the poor-house. peter was romping around the room with mouschi, the cat, while mother, margot and i were peeling boiled potatoes. when you get right down to it, none of us were doing our work properly, because we were all so busy watching mr. van daan.

dussel has opened his dental practice. just for fun, ill describe the session with his very first patient.

mother was ironing, and mrs. van d., the first victim, sat down on a chair in the middle of the room. dussel, unpacking his case with an air of importance, asked for some eau de cologne, which could be used as a disinfectant, and vaseline, which would have to do for wax. he looked in mrs. van d.s mouth and found two teeth that made her wince with pain and utter incoherent cries every time he touched them. after a

lengthy examination (lengthy as far as mrs. van d. was concerned, since it actually took no longer than two minutes), dussel began to scrape out a cavity. but mrs. van d. had no intention of letting him. she flailed her arms and legs until dussel finally let go of his probe and it . . . remained stuck in mrs. van d.s tooth. that really did it!

mrs. van d. lashed out wildly in all directions, cried (as much as you can with an instrument like that in your mouth), tried to remove it, but only managed to push it in even farther. mr. dussel calmly observed the scene, his hands on his hips, while the rest of the audience roared with laughter. of course, that was very mean of us.

if itd been me, im sure i would have yelled even louder. after a great deal of squirming, kicking, screaming and shouting, mrs. van d. finally managed to yank the thing out, and mr. dussel went on with his work as if nothing had happened. he was so quick that mrs. van d. didnt have time to pull any more shenanigans. but then, he had more help than hes ever had before: no fewer than two assis tants; mr. van d.

and i performed our job well. the whole scene resembled one of those engravings from the middle ages entitled" a quack at work." in the meantime, however, the patient was getting restless, since she had to keep an eye on "her" soup and "her”

food. one thing is certain: itll be a while before mrs. van d. makes another dental appointment!

yours, anne 

sunday, december 13, 1942

dearest kitty,

im sitting here nice and cozy in the front office, peering out through a chink in the heavy curtains. its dusky, but theres just enough light to write by.

its really strange watching people walk past. they all seem to be in such a hurry that they nearly trip over their own feet. those on bicycles whiz by so fast i cant even tell whos on the bike. the people in this nei***orhood arent particularly attractive to look at. the children especially are so dirty you wouldnt want to touch them with a ten-foot pole. real slum kids with runny noses. i can hardly understand a word they say.

yesterday afternoon, when margot and i were taking a bath, i said, "what if we took a fishing rod and reeled in each of those kids one by one as they walked by, stuck them in the tub, washed and mended their clothes and then. . .”

"and then tomorrow theyd be just as dirty and tattered as they were before," margot replied.

but im babbling. there are also other things to look at cars, boats and the rain. i can hear the streetcar and the children and im enjoying myself.

our thoughts are subject to as little change as we are. theyre like a merry-go-round, turning from the jews to food, from food to politics. by the way, speaking of jews, i saw two yesterday when i was peeking through ; the curtains. i felt as though i were gazing at one of the seven wonders of the world. it gave me such a funny feeling, as if id denounced them to the authorities and was now spying on their misfortune.

across from us is a houseboat. the captain lives there with his wife and children. he has a small yapping dog. we know the little dog only by its bark and by its tail, which we can see whenever it runs around the deck. oh, what a shame, its just started raining and most of the people are hidden under their umbrellas. all i can see are raincoats, and now and again the back of a stocking-capped head. actually, i dont even need to look. by now i can recognize the women at a glance: gone to fat from eating potatoes, dressed in a red or green coat and worn-out shoes, a shopping bag dangling from their arms, with faces that are either grim or good-humored, depending on the mood of their husbands.

yours, anne 

tuesday, december 22, 1942

dearest kitty,

the annex was delighted to hear that well all be receiving an extra quarter pound of butter for christmas. according to the newspaper, everyone is entitled to half a pound, but they mean those lucky souls who get their ration books from the government, not jews in hiding like us who can only afford to buy four rather than eight ration books on the black market. each of us is going to bake something with the butter. this morning i made two cakes and a batch of cookies. its very busy upstairs, and mother has informed me that im not to do any studying or reading until all the household chores have been finished.

mrs. van daan is lying in bed nursing her bruised rib. she complains all day long, constantly demands that the bandages be changed and is generally dissatisfied with everything. ill be glad when she gets back on her feet and can clean up after herself because, i must admit, shes extraordinarily hardworking and neat, and as long as shes in good physical and mental condition, shes quite cheerful.

as if i dont hear "shh, shh" enough during the day because im always making "too much" noise, my dear roommate has come up with the idea of saying "shh, shh" to me all night too. according to him, i shouldnt even turn over. i refuse to take any notice of him, and the next time he shushes me, im going to shush him right back.

he gets more exasperating and egotistical as the days go by. except for the first week, i havent seen even one of the cookies he so generously promised me. hes partic ularly infuriating on sundays, when he switches on the light at the crack of dawn to exercise for ten minutes.

to me, the torment seems to last for hours, since the chairs i use to make my bed longer are constantly being jiggled under my sleepy head. after rounding off his limbering-up exercises with a few vigorous arm swings, his lordship begins dressing.

his underwear is hanging on a hook, so first he lumbers over to get it and then lumbers back, past my bed. but his tie is on the table, so once again he pushes and bumps his way past the chairs.

but i mustnt waste any more of your time griping about disgusting old men. it wont help matters anyway. my plans for revenge, such as unscrewing the lightbulb, locking the door and hiding his clothes, have unfortu nately had to be abandoned in the interests of peace.

oh, im becoming so sensible! weve got to be reasonable about everything we do here: studying, listen ing, holding our tongues, helping others, being kind, making compromises and i dont know what else! im afraid my common sense, which was in short supply to begin with, will be used up too quickly and i wont have any left by the time the war is over.

yours, anne 

www.xiaoshuotxt.,com



JANUARY, 1943

小.说.t|xt.天+
wednesday, january 13, 1943

dearest kitty,

this morning i was constantly interrupted, and as a result i havent been able to finish a single thing ive begun.

we have a new pastime, namely, filling packages with powdered gravy. the gravy is one of gies & co.s products. mr. kugler hasnt been able to find anyone else to fill the packages, and besides, its cheaper if we do the job. its the kind of work they

do in prisons. its incredibly boring and makes us dizzy and giggly.

terrible things are happening outside. at any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. theyre allowed to take only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, theyre robbed of these possessions on the way. families are torn apart; men, women and children are separated. children come home from school to find that their parents have disap peared. women return from shopping to find their houses sealed, their famthes gone. the christians in holland are also living in fear because their sons are being sent to germany. everyone is scared. every night hundreds of planes pass over holland on their way to german cities, to sow their bombs on german soil. every hour hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of people are being killed in russia and africa. no one can keep out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though the allies are doing better, the end is nowhere in sight.

as for us, were quite fortunate. luckier than millions of people. its quiet and safe here, and were using our money to buy food. were so selfish that we talk about "after the war" and look forward to new clothes and shoes, when actually we should be saving every penny to help others when the war is over, to salvage whatever we can.

the children in this nei***orhood run around in thin shirts and wooden shoes. they have no coats, no caps, no stockings and no one to help them. gnawing on a carrot to still their hunger pangs, they walk from their cold houses through cold streets to an even colder classroom. things have gotten so bad in holland that hordes of children stop passersby in the streets to beg for a piece of bread.

i could spend hours telling you about the suffering the war has brought, but id only make myself more miserable. all we can do is wait, as calmly as possible, for it to end. jews and christians alike are waiting, the whole world is waiting, and many are waiting for death.

yours, anne 

saturday, january 30, 1943

dearest kitty,

im seething with rage, yet i cant show it. id like to scream, stamp my foot, give mother a good shaking, cry and i dont know what else because of the nasty words,

mocking looks and accusations that she hurls at me day after day, piercing me like arrows from a tightly strung bow, which are nearly impossible to pull from my body.

id like to scream at mother, margot, the van daans, dussel and father too: "leave me alone, let me have at least one night when i dont cry myself to sleep with my eyes burning and my head pounding. let me get away, away from everything, away from this world!" but i cant do that. i cant let them see my doubts, or the wounds theyve inflicted on me. i couldnt bear their sympathy or their good-humored derision. it would only make me want to scream even more.

everyone thinks im showing off when i talk, ridicu lous when im silent, insolent when i answer, cunning when i have a good idea, lazy when im tired, selfish when i eat one bite more than i should, stupid, cowardly, calculating, etc., etc. all day long i hear nothing but what an exasperating child i am, and although i laugh it off and pretend not to mind, i do mind. i wish i could ask god to give me another personality, one that doesnt antagonize everyone.

but thats impossible. im stuck with the character i was born with, and yet im sure im not a bad person. i do my best to please everyone, more than theyd ever suspect in a million years. when im upstairs, i try to laugh it off because i dont want them to see my troubles.

more than once, after a series of absurd reproaches, ive snapped at mother: "i dont care what you say. why dont you just wash your hands of me -- im a hopeless case." of course, shed tell me not to talk back and virtually ignore me for two days.

then suddenly all would be forgotten and shed treat me like everyone else.

its impossible for me to be all smiles one day and venomous the next. id rather choose the golden mean, which isnt so golden, and keep my thoughts to myself.

perhaps sometime ill treat the others with the same contempt as they treat me. oh, if only i could.

yours, anne 

　ww　w　.　xia　oshu　otxt.co　m



FEBRUARY, 1943

（小／／说／／t／／xt｜//天//堂）
friday, february 5, 1943

dearest kitty,

though its been ages since ive written to you about the squabbles, theres still no change. in the begin ning mr. dussel took our soon-forgotten clashes very seriously, but now hes grown used to them and no longer tries to mediate.

margot and peter arent exactly what youd call "young"; theyre both so quiet and boring. next to them, i stick out like a sore thumb, and im always being told, "margot and peter dont act that way. why dont you follow your sisters example!" i hate that.

i confess that i have absolutely no desire to be like margot. shes too weak-willed and passive to suit me; she lets herself be swayed by others and always backs down under pressure. i want to have more spunk! but i keep ideas like these to myself.

theyd only laugh at me if i offered this in my defense.

during meals the air is filled with tension. fortunately, the outbursts are sometimes held in check by the "soup eaters," the people from the office who come up to have a cup of soup for lunch.

this afternoon mr. van daan again brought up the fact that margot eats so little. "i suppose you do it to keep your figure," he added in a mocking tone.

mother, who always comes to margots defense, said in a loud voice, "i cant stand that stupid chatter of yours a minute longer.”

mrs. van d. turned red as a beet. mr. van d. stared straight ahead and said nothing.

still, we often have a good laugh. not long ago mrs. van d. was entertaining us with some bit of nonsense or another. she was talking about the past, about how well she got along with her father and what a flirt she was. "and you know," she continued, "my father told me that if a gentleman ever got fresh, i was to say, remem ber, sir, that im a lady, and hed know what i meant." we split our sides laughing, as if shed told us a good joke.

even peter, though hes usually quiet, occasionally gives rise to hilarity. he has the misfortune of adoring foreign words without knowing what they mean. one afternoon we couldnt use the toilet because there were visitors in the office. unable to wait, he went to the bathroom but didnt flush the toilet. to warn us of the unpleasant odor, he tacked a sign to the bathroom door: "rsvp -- gas!" of course, he meant "danger -- gas!" but he thought "rsvp" looked more elegant. he didnt have the faintest idea that it meant "please reply.”

yours, anne 

saturday, february 27, 1943

dearest kitty,

pim is expecting the invasion any day now. churchill has had pneumonia, but is gradually getting better. gandhi, the champion of indian freedom, is on one of his umpteenth hunger strikes.

mrs. van d. claims shes fatalistic. but whos the most afraid when the guns go off?

none other than petronella van daan.

jan brought along the episcopal letter that the bishops addressed to their parishioners.

it was beautiful and inspiring. "people of the netherlands, stand up and take action.

each of us must choose our own weapons to fight for the freedom of our country, our people and our reli gion! give your help and support. act now!" this is what theyre preaching from the pulpit. will it do any good? its definitely too late to help our fellow jews.

guess whats happened to us now? the owner of the building sold it without informing mr. kugler and mr. kleiman. one morning the new landlord arrived with an architect to look the place over. thank goodness mr. kleiman was in the office. he showed the gentlemen all there was to see, with the exception of the secret annex. he claimed hed left the key at home and the new owner asked no further questions. if only he doesnt come back demanding to see the annex. in that case, well be in big trouble!

father emptied a card file for margot and me and filled it with index cards that are blank on one side. this is to become our reading file, in which margot and i are supposed to note down the books weve read, the author and the date. ive learned two new words: "brothel" and "coquette." ive bought a separate notebook for new words.

theres a new division of butter and margarine. each person is to get their portion on their own plate. the distribution is very unfair. the van daans, who always make breakfast for everyone, give themselves one and a half times more than they do us.

my parents are much too afraid of an argument to say anything, which is a shame, because i think people like that should always be given a taste of their own medicine.

yours, anne 

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MARCH, 1943

小.说。t。xt-天/堂
thursday, march 4, 1943

dearest kitty,

mrs. van d. has a new nickname -- weve started calling her mrs. beaverbrook. of course, that doesnt mean anything to you, so let me explain. a certain mr.

beaverbrook often talks on the english radio about what he considers to be the far too lenient bombardment of germany. mrs. van daan, who always contradicts everyone, including churchill and the news reports, is in complete agreement with mr.

beaverbrook. so we thought it would be a good idea for her to be married to him, and since she was flattered by the notion, weve decided to call her mrs. beaverbrook from now on.

were getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent to germany. thats bad for him but good for us because the new one wont be famthar with the building. were still afraid of the men who work in the warehouse.

gandhi is eating again.

the black market is doing a booming business. if we had enough money to pay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly. our greengrocer buys potatoes from the "wehrmacht" and brings them in sacks to the private office. since he suspects were hiding here, he makes a point of coming during lunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.

so much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and cough with every breath we take. everyone who comes upstairs greets us with an "ah-choo." mrs. van d. swears she wont go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and shes going to get sick.

i dont think father has a very nice business. noth ing but pectin and pepper. as long as youre in the food business, why not make candy?

a veritable thunderstorm of words came crashing down on me again this morning.

the air flashed with so many coarse expressions that my ears were ringing with "annes bad this" annd "van daans good that." fire and brimstone!

yours, anne 

wednesday, march 10, 1943

dearest kitty,

we had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were booming away until dawn. i still havent gotten over my fear of planes and shooting, and i crawl into

fathers bed nearly every night for comfort. i know it sounds childish, but wait till it happens to you! the ack-ack guns make so much noise you cant hear your own voice. mrs. beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid little voice, "oh, its so awful. oh, the guns are so loud!" -- which is another way of saying "im so scared.”

it didnt seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark. i was shivering, as if i had a fever, and begged father to relight the candle. he was adamant: there was to be no light. suddenly we heard a burst of machine-gun fire, and thats ten times worse than antiaircraft guns.

mother jumped out of bed and, to pims great annoyance, lit the candle. her resolute answer to his grumbling was, "after all, anne is not an ex-soldier!" and that was the end of that!

have i told you any of mrs. van d.s other fears? i dont think so. to keep you up to date on the latest adventures in the secret annex, i should tell you this as well.

one night mrs. van d. thought she heard loud footsteps in the attic, and she was so afraid of burglars, she woke her husband. at that very same moment, the thieves disappeared, and the only sound mr. van d. could hear was the frightened pounding of his fatalistic wifes heart. "oh, putti!" she cried. (putti is mrs. van d.s pet name for her husband.) "they must have taken all our sausages and dried beans. and what about peter? oh, do you think peters still safe and sound in his bed?”

"im sure they havent stolen peter. stop being such a ninny, and let me get back to sleep!”

impossible. mrs. van d. was too scared to sleep.

a few nights later the entire van daan family was awakened by ghostly noises. peter went to the attic with a flashlight and -- scurry, scurry -- what do you think he saw running away? a whole slew of enormous rats!

once we knew who the thieves were, we let mouschi sleep in the attic and never saw our uninvited guests again. . . at least not at night.

a few evenings ago (it was seven-thirty and still light), peter went up to the loft to get some old newspapers. he had to hold on tightly to the trapdoor to climb down the ladder. he put down his hand without looking, and nearly fell off the ladder from shock and pain. without realizing it, hed put his hand on a large rat, which had bitten him in the arm. by the time he reached us, white as a sheet and with his knees

knocking, the blood had soaked through his pajamas. no wonder he was so shaken, since petting a rat isnt much fun, especially when it takes a chunk out of your arm.

yours, anne 

friday, march 12, 1943

dearest kitty,

may i introduce: mama frank, the childrens advocate! extra butter for the youngsters, the problems facing todays youth -- you name it, and mother defends the younger generation. after a skirmish or two, she always gets her way.

one of the jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. a feast for mouschi and boche.

you havent met boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we went into hiding. shes the warehouse and office cat, who keeps the rats at bay in the storeroom.

her odd, political name can easily be explained. for a while the firm gies & co. had two cats: one for the warehouse and one for the attic. their paths crossed from time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. the warehouse cat was always the aggressor, while the attic cat was ultimately the victor, just as in politics. so the warehouse cat was named the german, or "boche," and the attic cat the englishman, or "tommy." sometime after that they got rid of tommy, but boche is always there to amuse us when we go downstairs.

vveve eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that i cant stand to look at them. just thinking about them makes me sick.

our evening serving of bread has been canceled.

daddy just said that hes not in a very cheerful mood. his eyes look so sad again, the poor man!

i cant tear myself away from the book a knock at the door by ina bakker boudier.

this family saga is extremely well written, but the parts dealing with war, writers and the emancipation of women arent very good. to be honest, these subjects dont interest me much.

terrible bombing raids on germany. mr. van daan is grouchy. the reason: the

cigarette shortage.

the debate about whether or not to start eating the canned food ended in our favor.

i cant wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not very practical around the house. a pair of straw thongs that were purchased for 6.50 guilders were worn down to the soles within a week. maybe miep will be able to scrounge up something on the black market.

its time to cut fathers hair. pim swears that i do such a good job hell never go to another barber after the war. if only i didnt nick his ear so often!

yours, anne 

thursday, march 18, 1943

my dearest kitty,

turkeys entered the war. great excitement. anxiously awaiting radio reports.

friday, march 19, 1943

dearest kitty,

in less than an hour, joy was followed by disappoint ment. turkey hasnt entered the war yet. it was only a cabinet minister talking about turkey giving up its neu trality sometime soon. the newspaper vendor in dam square was shouting "turkey on englands side!" and the papers were being snatched out of his hands. this was how wed heard the encouraging rumor.

thousand-guilder notes are being declared invalid. thatll be a blow to the black marketeers and others like them, but even more to pe ie in hiding and anyone else with money that cant be accounted for. to turn in a thousand-guilder bill, you have to be able to state how you came by it and provide proof. they can still be used to pay taxes, but only until next week. the five-hundred notes will lapse at the same time. gies & co. still had some unaccounted-for thousand-guilder bills, which they used to pay their estimated taxes for the coming years, so everything seems to be aboveboard.

dussel has received an old-fashioned, foot-operated dentists drill. that means ill probably be getting a thorough checkup soon.

dussel is terribly lax when it comes to obeying the rules of the house. not only does he write letters to his charlotte, hes also carrying on a chatty correspondence with various other people. margot, the annexs dutch teacher, has been correcting these letters for him. father has forbidden him to keep up the practice and margot has stopped correcting the letters, but i think it wont be long before he starts up again.

the fuhrer has been talking to wounded soldiers. we listened on the radio, and it was pathetic. the questions and answers went something like this:

"my name is heinrich scheppel.”

"where were you wounded?”

"near stalingrad.”

"what kind of wound is it?”

"two frostbitten feet and a fracture of the left arm.”

this is an exact report of the hideous puppet show aired on the radio. the wounded seemed proud of their wounds -- the more the better. one was so beside himself at the thought of shaking hands (i presume he still had one) with the fuhrer that he could barely say a word.

i happened to drop dussels soap on the floor and step on it. now theres a whole piece missing. ive already asked father to compensate him for the damages, especially since dussel only gets one bar of inferior wartime soap a month.

yours, anne 

thursday, march 25, 1943

dearest kitty,

mother, father, margot and i were sitting quite pleasantly together last night when peter suddenly came in and whispered in fathers ear. i caught the words "a barrel falling over in the warehouse" and "someone fiddling with the door.”

margot heard it too, but was trying to calm me down, since id turned white as chalk and was extremely nervous. the three of us waited while father and peter went

downstairs. a minute or two later mrs. van daan came up from where shed been listening to the radio and told us that pim had asked her to turn it off and tiptoe upstairs. but you know what happens when youre trying to be quiet -- the old stairs creaked twice as loud. five minutes later peter and pim, the color drained from their faces, appeared again to relate their experiences.

they had positioned themselves under the staircase and waited. nothing happened.

then all of a sudden they heard a couple of bangs, as if two doors had been slammed shut inside the house. pim bounded up the stairs, while peter went to warn dussel, who finally pre sented himself upstairs, though not without kicking up a fuss and making a lot of noise. then we all tiptoed in our stockinged feet to the van daans on the next floor. mr. van d. had a bad cold and had already gone to bed, so we gathered around his bedside and discussed our suspicions in a whisper. every time mr.

van d. coughed loudly, mrs. van d. and i nearly had a nervous fit. he kept coughing until someone came up with the bright idea of giving him codeine. his cough subsided immediately.

once again we waited and waited, but heard nothing. finally we came to the conclusion that the burglars had taken to their heels when they heard footsteps in an otherwise quiet building. the problem now was that the chairs in the private office were neatly grouped around the radio, which was tuned to england. if the burglars had forced the door and the air-raid wardens were to notice it and call the police, there could be very serious repercus sions. so mr. van daan got up, pulled on his coat and pants, put on his hat and cautiously followed father down the stairs, with peter (armed with a heavy hammer, to be on the safe side) right behind him. the ladies (including margot and me) waited in suspense until the men returned five minutes later and reported that there was no sign of any activity in the building. we agreed not to run any water or flush the toilet; but since everyones stomach was churning from all the tension, you can imagine the stench after wed each had a turn in the bathroom.

incidents like these are always accompanied by other disasters, and this was no exception. number one: the westertoren bells stopped chiming, and id always found them so comforting. number two: mr. voskuijlleft early last night, and we werent sure if hed given bep the key and shed forgotten to lock the door.

but that was of little importance now. the night had just begun, and we still werent sure what to expect. we were somewhat reassured by the fact that between eight-fifteen -- when the burglar had first entered the building and put our lives in jeopardy, and ten-thirty, we hadnt heard a sound. the more we thought about it, the less likely it seemed that a burglar would have forced a door so early in the evening,

when there were still people out on the streets. besides that, it occurred to us that the warehouse manager at the keg company next door might still have been at work.

what with the excitement and the thin walls, its easy to mistake the sounds.

besides, your imagination often plays tricks on you in moments of danger.

so we went to bed, though not to sleep. father and mother and mr. dussel were awake most of the night, and im not exaggerating when i say that i hardly got a wink of sleep. this morning the men went downstairs to see if the outside door was still locked, but all was well!

of course, we gave the entire office staff a blow-by-blow account of the incident, which had been far from pleasant. its much easier to laugh at these kinds of things after theyve happened, and bep was the only one who took us seriously.

yours, anne 

ps. this morning the toilet was clogged, and father had to stick in a long wooden pole and fish out several pounds of excrement and strawberry recipes (which is what we use for toilet paper these days). afterward we burned the pole.

saturday, march 27, 1943

dearest kitty,

weve finished our shorthand course and are now working on improving our speed.

arent we smart! let me tell you more about my "time killers" (this is what i call my courses, because all we ever do is try to make the days go by as quickly as possible so we are that much closer to the end of our time here). i adore mythology, espe cially the greek and roman gods. everyone here thinks my interest is just a passing fancy, since theyve never heard of a teenager with an appreciation of mythology. well then, i guess im the first!

mr. van daan has a cold. or rather, he has a scratchy throat, but hes making an enormous to-do over it. he gargles with camomile tea, coats the roof of his mouth with a tincture of myrrh and rubs mentholatum over his chest, nose, gums and tongue.

and to top it off, hes in a foul mood!

rauter, some german bigwig, recently gave a speech. "all jews must be out of the german-occupied territories before july 1. the province of utrecht will be cleansed of jews [as if they were cockroaches] between april 1 and may 1, and the provinces of north and south holland between may 1 and june 1." these poor people are being

shipped off to filthiy slaughterhouses like a herd of sick and neglected cattle. but ill say no more on the subject. my own thoughts give me nightmares!

one good piece of news is that the labor exchange was set on fire in an act of sabotage. a few days later the county clerks office also went up in flames. men posing as german police bound and gagged the guards and managed to destroy some important documents.

yours, anne 

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APRIL, 1943

小.说。t!xt-天堂
thursday, april 1, 1943

dearest kitty,

im not really in the mood for pranks (see the date).

on the contrary, today i can safely quote the saying" misfortunes never come singly.”

first, mr. kleiman, our merry sunshine, had another bout of gastrointestinal hemorrhaging yesterday and will have to stay in bed for at least three weeks. i should tell you that his stomach has been bothering him quite a bit, and theres no cure. second, bep has the flu. third, mr. voskuijl has to go to the hospital next week.

he probably has an ulcer and will have to undergo surgery. fourth, the managers of pomosin industries came from frankfurt to discuss the new opekta deliveries. father had gone yer the important points with mr. kleiman, and there wasnt enough time to give mr. kugler a thor ough briefing.

the gentlemen arrived from frankfurt, and father was already shaking at the thought of how the talks would go. "if only i could be there, if only i were downstairs," he exclaimed.

"go lie down with your ear to the floor. theyll be brought to the private office, and youll be able to hear everything. fathers face cleared, and yesterday morning at ten-thirty margot and pim (two ears are better than one) took up their posts on the floor. by noon the talks werent finished, but father was in no shape to continue his listen ing campaign. he was in agony from having to lie for hours in such an unusual and uncomfortable position. at two-thirty we heard voices in the hall, and i took his place; margot kept me company. the conversation was so long-winded and boring that i suddenly fell asleep on the cold, hard linoleum. margot didnt dare touch me for fear theyd hear us, and of course she couldnt shout. i slept for a good half hour and then awoke with a start,

having forgotten every word of the important discussion. luckily, margot had paid more attention.

yours, anne 

friday, april 2, 1943

dearest kitty,

oh my, another item has been added to my list of sins. last night~ was lying in bed, waiting for father to tuck me in an say my prayers with me, when mother came into the room, sat on my bed and asked very gently, "anne, daddy isnt ready. how about if i listen to your prayers tonight?”

"no, momsy," i replied.

mother got up, stood beside my bed for a moment and then slowly walked toward the door. suddenly she turned, her face contorted with pain, and said, "i dont want to be angry with you. i cant make you love me!" a few tears slid down her cheeks as she went out the door.

i lay still, thinking how mean it was of me to reject her so cruelly, but i also knew that i was incapable of answering her any other way. i cant be a hypocrite and pray with her when i dont feel like it. it just doesnt work that way. i felt sorry for mother -- very, very sorry -- because for the first time in my life i noticed she wasnt indifferent to my coldness. i saw the sorrow in her face when she talked about not being able to make me love her. its hard to tell the truth, and yet the truth is that shes the one whos rejected me. shes the one whose tactless comments and cruel jokes about matters i dont think are funny have made me insensitive to any sign of love on her part. just as my heart sinks every time i hear her harsh words, thats how her heart sank when she realized there was no more love between us.

she cried half the night and didnt get any sleep. father has avoided looking at me, and if his eyes do happen to cross mine, i can read his unspoken words: "how can you be so unkind? how dare you make your mother so sad!”

everyone expects me to apologize, but this is not something i can apologize for, because i told the truth, and sooner or later mothjr was bound to find out anyway. i seem to be indifferent to mothers tears and fathers glances, and i am, because both of them are now feeling what ive always felt. i can only feel sorry for mother, who will have to figure out what her attitude should be all by herself. for my part, i will

continue to remain silent and aloof, and i dont intend to shrink from the truth, because the longer its postponed, the harder it will be for them to accept it when they do hear it!

yours, anne 

tuesday, april 27, 1943

dearest kitty,

the house is still trembling from the aftereffects of the quarrels. everyone is mad at everyone else: mother and i, mr. van daan and father, mother and mrs. van d.

terrific atmosphere, dont you think? once again annes usual list of shortcomings has been extensively aired.

our german visitors were back last saturday. they stayed until six. we all sat upstairs, not daring to move an inch. if theres no one else working in the building or in the nei***orhood, you can hear every single step in the private office. ive got ants in my pants again from having to sit still so long.

mr. voskuijl has been hospitalized, but mr. kleimans back at the office. his stomach stopped bleeding sooner than it normally does. he told us that the county clerks office took an extra beating because the firemen flooded the entire building instead of just putting out the fire. that does my heart good!

the carlton hotel has been destroyed. two british planes loaded with firebombs landed right on top of the german officers club. the entire corner of vijzelstraat and singel has gone up in flames. the number of air strikes on german cities is increasing daily. we havent had a good nights rest in ages, and i have bags under my eyes from lack of sleep.

our food is terrible. breakfast consists of plain, unbuttered brea and ersatz coffee. for the last two weeks lunch has been e. spinach or cooked lettuce with huge potatoes that have a rotten, sweetish taste. if youre trying to diet, the annex is the place to be! upstairs they complain bitterly, but we dont think its such a tragedy.

all the dutch men who either fought or were mobilized in 1940 have been called up to work in prisoner-of-war camps. i bet theyre taking this precaution because of the invasion!

yours, anne 

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MAY, 1943

小，说［t.xt［天堂｝
saturday, may 1, 1943

dearest kitty,

yesterday was dussels birthday. at first he acted as if he didnt want to celebrate it, but when miep arrived with a large shopping bag overflowing with gifts, he was as excited as a little kid. his darling lotje" has sent him eggs, butter, cookies, lemonade, bread, cognac, spice cake, flowers, oranges, chocolate, books and writing paper. he piled his presents on a table and displayed them for no fewer than three days, the silly old goat!

you mustnt get the idea that hes starving. we found bread, cheese, jam and eggs in his cupboard. its absolutely disgraceful that dussel, whom weve treated with such kindness and whom we took in to save from destruction, should stuff himself behind our backs and not give us anything. after all, weve shared all we had with him! but whats worse, in our opinion, is that hes so stingy with respect to mr. kleiman, mr.

voskuijl and bep. he doesnt give them a thing. in dussels view the oranges that kleiman so badly needs for his sick stomach will benefit his own stomach even more.

tonight the guns have been banging away so much that ive already had to gather up my belongings four times. today i packed a suitcase wl f;the stuff id need in case we had to flee, but as m ther correctly noted, "where would you go?”

all of holland is being punishe or the workers strikes. martial law has been declared, and everyone is going to get one less butter coupon. what naughty children.

i washed mothers hair this evening, which is no easy task these days. we have to use a very sticky liquid cleanser because theres no more shampoo. besides that, moms had a hard time combing her hair because the family comb has only ten teeth left.

yours, anne 

sunday, may 2, 1943

when i think about our lives here, i usually come to the conclusion that we live in a paradise compared to the jews who arent in hiding. all the same, later on, when

everything has returned to normal, ill probably wonder how we, who always lived in such comfortable circumstances, could have "sunk" so low. with respect to manners, i mean. for example, the same oilcloth has covered the dining table ever since weve been here. after so much use, its hardly what youd call spotless. i do my best to clean it, but since the dishcloth was also purchased before we went into hiding and consists of more holes than cloth, its a thankless task. the van daans have been sleeping all winter long on the same flannel sheet, which cant be washed because detergent is rationed and in short supply. besides, its of such poor quality that its practically useless. father is walking around in frayed trousers, and his tie is also showing signs of wear and tear. mamas corset snapped today and is beyond repair, while margot is wearing a bra thats two sizes too small, mother and margot have shared the same three undershorts the entire winter, and mine are so small they dont even cover my stomach. these are all things that can be overcome, but i sometimes wonder: how can we, whose every possession, from my underpants to fathers shaving brush, is so old and worn, ever hope to regain the position we had before the war?

sunday, may 2, 1943

the attitude of the annex residents toward the war mr. van daan. in the opinion of us all, this revered gentleman has great insight into politics. nevertheless, he predicts well have to stay here until the end of 43. thats a very long time, and yet its possible to hold out until then. but who can assure us that this war, which has caused nothing but pain and sorrow, will then be over? and that nothing will have happened to us and our helpers long before that time? no one!

thats why each and every day is filled with tension. expectation and hope generate tension, as does fear -- for example, when we hear a noise inside or outside the house, when the guns go off or when we read new "proclamations" in the paper, since were afraid our helpers might be forced to go into hiding themselves sometime. these days everyone is talking about having to hide. we dont know how many people are actually in hiding; of course, the number is relatively small compared to the general population, but later on well no doubt be astonished at how many good people in holland were willing to take jews and christians, with or without money, into their homes. therere also an unbelievable number of people with false identity papers.

mrs. van daan. when this beautiful damsel (by her own account) heard that it was getting easier these days to obtain false ids, she immediately proposed that we each have one made. as if there were nothing to it, as if father and mr. van daan were made of money.

mrs. van daan is always sating the most ridiculous things, and her putti is often

exasperated. but thats not surprising, because one day kerli announces, "when this is allover, im going to have myself baptized"; and the next, "as long as i can remember, ive wanted to go to jerusalem. i only feel at home with other jews!”

pim is a big optimist, but he always has his reasons.

mr. dussel makes up everything as he goes along, and anyone wishing to contradict his majesty had better think twice. in alfred dussels home his word is law, but that doesnt suit anne frank in the least.

what the other members of the annex family think about the war doesnt matter.

when it comes to politics, these four are the only ones who count. actually, only two of them do, but madame van daan and dussel include themselves as well.

tuesday, may 18, 1943

dearest kit, i recently witnessed a fierce dogfight between german and english pilots.

unfortunately, a couple of allied airmen had to jump out of their burning plane. our milkman, who lives in halfweg, saw four canadians sitting along the side of the road, and one of them spoke fluent dutch. he asked the milkman if he had a light for his cigarette, and then told him the crew had consisted of six men. the pilot had been burned to death, and the fifth crew member had hidden himself somewhere. the german security police came to pick up the four remaining men, none of whom were injured. after parachuting out of a flaming plane, how can anyone have such presence of mind?

although its undeniably hot, we have to light a fire every other day to burn our vegetable peelings and garbage. we cant throw anything into trash cans, because the warehouse employees might see it. one small act of carelessness and were done for!

all college students are being asked to sign an official statement to the effect that they "sympathize with the germans and approve of the new order." eighty percent have decided to obey the dictates of their conscience, but the penalty will be severe.

any student refusing to sign will be sent to a german labor camp. whats to become of the youth of our country if theyve all got to do hard labor in germany?

last night the guns were making so much noise that mother shut the window; i was in pims bed. suddenly, right above our heads, we heard mrs. van d. leap up, as if shed been bitten by mouschi. this was followed by a loud boom, which sounded as if

a firebomb had landed beside my bed. "lights! lights!" i screamed.

pim switched on the lamp. i expected the room to burst into flames any minute.

nothing happened. we all rushed upstairs to see what was going on. mr. and mrs. van d. had seen a red glow through the open window, and he thought there was a fire nearby, while she was certain our house was ablaze. mrs. van d. was already standing beside her bed with her knees knocking when the boom came. dussel stayed upstairs to smoke a cigarette, and we crawled back into bed. less than fifteen minutes later the shooting started again. mrs. van d. sprang out of bed and went downstairs to dussel s room to seek the comfort she was unable to find with her spouse. dussel welcomed her with the words "come into my bed, my child!”

we burst into peals of laughter, and the roar of the guns bothered us no more; our fears had all been swept away.

yours, anne 

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JUNE, 1943

．小．说．．t．xt．天．堂．
sunday, june 13, 1943

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 

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JULY, 1943

。小＿说＿txt天堂
sunday, july 11, 1943

dear kitty,

to get back to the subject of child-rearing (for the umpteenth time), let me tell you that im doing my best to be helpful, friendly and kind and to do all i can to keep the rain of rebukes down to a light drizzle. its not easy trying to behave like a model child with people you cant stand, especially when you dont mean a word of it. but i can see that a little hypocrisy gets me a lot further than myoid method of saying exactly what i think (even though no one ever asks my opinion or cares one way or another). of course, i often forget my role and find it impossible to curb my anger when theyre unfair, so that they spend the next month saying the most impertinent girl in the world. dont you think im to be pitied sometimes? its a good thing im not the grouchy type, because then i might become sour and bad-tempered. i can usually see the humorous side of their scoldings, but its easier when somebody else is being raked over the coals.

further, ive decided (after a great deal of thought) to drop the shorthand. first, so that i have more time for my other subjects, and second, because of my eyes. thats a sad story. ive become very nearsighted and should have had glasses ages ago.

(ugh, wont i look like a dope!). but as you know, people in hiding cant. . .

yesterday all anyone here could talk about was annes eyes, because mother had suggested i go to the ophthalmologist with mrs. kleiman. just hearing this made my

knees weak, since its no small matter. going outside! just think of it, walking down the street! i cant imagine it. i was petrified at first, and then glad. but its not as simple as all that; the various authorities who had to approve such a step were unable to reach a quick decision. they first had to carefully weigh all the difficulties and risks, though miep was ready to set off immediately with me in tow. in the meantime, id taken my gray coat from the closet, but it was so small it looked as if it might have belonged to my little sister. we lowered the hem, but i still couldnt button it.

im really curious to see what they decide, only i dont think theyll ever work out a plan, because the british have landed in sicily and fathers all set for a "quick finish.”

beps been giving margot and me a lot of office work to do. it makes us both feel important, and its a big help to her. anyone can file letters and make entries in a sales book, but we do it with remarkable accuracy.

miep has so much to carry she looks like a pack mule. she goes forth nearly every day to scrounge up vegetables, and then bicycles back with her purchases in large shopping bags. shes also the one who brings five library books with her every saturday. we long for saturdays because that means books. were like a bunch of little kids with a present. ordinary people dont know how much books can mean to someone whos cooped up.

our only diversions are reading, studying and listening to the radio.

yours, anne 

tuesday, july 13, 1943

the best little table yesterday afternoon father gave me permission to ask mr. dussel whether he would please be so good as to allow me (see how polite i am?) to use the table in our room two afternoons a week, from four to five-thirty. i already sit there every day from two-thirty to four while dussel takes a nap, but the rest of the time the room and the table are off-limits to me. its impossible to study next door in the afternoon, because theres too much going on. besides, father sometimes likes to sit at the desk during the afternoon.

so it seemed like a reasonable request, and i asked dussel very politely. what do you think the learned gentlemans reply was? "no." just plain "no!”

i was incensed and wasnt about to let myself be put off like that. i asked him the

reason for his "no," but this didnt get me anywhere. the gist of his reply was: "i have to study too, you know, and if i cant do that in the afternoons, i wont be able to fit it in at all. i have to finish the task ive set for myself; otherwise, theres no point in starting. besides, you arent serious about your studies. mythology -- what kind of work is that? reading and knitting dont count either. i use that table and im not going to give it up!”

i replied, "mr. dussel, i do take my wsork seriously. i cant study next door in the afternoons, and i would appreciate it if you would reconsider my request!”

having said these words, the insulted anne turned around and pretended the learned doctor wasnt there. i was seething with rage and felt that dussel had been incredibly rude (which he certainly had been) and that id been very polite.

that evening, when i managed to get hold of pim, i told him what had happened and we discussed what my next step should be, because i had no intention of giving up and preferred to deal with the matter myself. pim gave me a rough idea of how to approach dussel, but cautioned me to wait until the next day, since i was in such a flap. i ignored this last piece of advice and waited for dussel after the dishes had been done. pim was sitting next door and that had a calming effect.

i began, "mr. dussel, you seem to believe further discussion of the matter is pointless, but i beg you to reconsider.”

dussel gave me his most charming smile and said, "im always prepared to discuss the matter, even though its already been settled.”

i went on talking, despite dussels repeated interruptions. when you first came here,”

i said, "we agreed that the room was to be shared by the two of us. if we were to divide it fairly, youd have the entire morning and id have the entire afternoon! im not asking for that much, but two afternoons a week does seem reasonable to me.”

dussel leapt out of his chair as if hed sat on a pin. "you have no business talking about your rights to the room. where am i supposed to go? maybe i should ask mr.

van daan to build me a cubbyhole in the attic. youre not the only one who cant find a quiet place to work. youre always looking for a fight. if your sister margot, who has more right to work space than you do, had come to me with the same request, id never even have thought of refusing, but you. . .”

and once again he brought up the business about the mythology and the knitting, and once again anne was insulted. however, i showed no sign of it and let dussel finish:

"but no, its impossible to talk to you. youre shamefully self-centered. no one else matters, as long as you get your way. ive never seen such a child. but after all is said and done, ill be obliged to let you have your way, since i dont want people saying later on that anne frank failed her exams because mr. dussel refused to relinquish his table!”

he went on and on until there was such a deluge of words i could hardly keep up.

for one fleeting moment i thought, "him and his lies. ill smack his ugly mug so hard hell go bouncing off the wall!" but the next moment i thought, "calm down, hes not worth getting so upset about!”

at long last mr. dussel s fury was spent, and he left the room with an expression of triumph mixed with wrath, his coat pockets bulging with food.

i went running over to father and recounted the entire story, or at least those parts he hadnt been able to follow himself. rim decided to talk to dussel that very same evening, and they spoke for more than half an hour.

they first discussed whether anne should be allowed to use the table, yes or no.

father said that he and dussel had dealt with the subject once before, at which time hed professed to agree with dussel because he didnt want to contradict the elder in front of the younger, but that, even then, he hadnt thought it was fair. dussel felt i had no right to talk as if he were an intruder laying claim to everything in sight. but father protested strongly, since he himself had heard me say nothing of the kind. and so the conversation went back and forth, with father defending my "selfishness" and my "busywork" and dussel grumbling the whole time.

dussel finally had to give in, and i was granted the opportunity to work without interruption two afternoons a week. dussel looked very sullen, didnt speak to me for two days and made sure he occupied the table from five to five-thirty -- all very childish, of course.

anyone whos so petty and pedantic at the age of fifty-four was born that way and is never going to change.

friday, july 16, 1943

dearest kitty,

theres been another break-in, but this time a real one! peter went down to the warehouse this morning at seven, as usual, and noticed at once that both the

warehouse door and the street door were open. he immediately reported this to pim, who went to the private office, tuned the radio to a german station and locked the door. then they both went back upstairs. in such cases our orders are not to wash ourselves or run any water, to be quiet, to be dressed by eight and not to go to the bathroom," and as usual we followed these to the letter. we were all glad wed slept so well and hadnt heard anything. for a while we were indignant because no one from the office came upstairs the entire morning; mr. kleiman left us on tenterhooks until eleven-thirty. he told that the burglars had forced the outside door and the warehouse door with a crowbar, but when they didnt find anything worth stealing, they tried their luck on the next floor. they stole two cashboxes containing 40 guilders, blank checkbooks and, worst of all, coupons for 330 pounds of sugar, our entire allotment. it wont be easy to wangle new ones.

mr. kugler thinks this burglar belongs to the same gang as the one who made an unsuccessful attempt six weeks ago to open all three doors (the warehouse door and the two outside doors).

the burglary caused another stir, but the annex seems to thrive on excitement.

naturally, we were glad the cash register and the typewriters had been safely tucked away in our clothes closet.

yours, anne 

ps. landing in sicily. another step closer to the . . . !

monday, july 19,1943

dearest kitty,

north amsterdam was very heavily bombed on sunday. there was apparently a great deal of destruction. entire streets are in ruins, and it will take a while for them to dig out all the bodies. so far there have been two hundred dead and countless wounded;

the hospitals are bursting at the seams. weve been told of children searching forlornly in the smoldering ruins for their dead parents. it still makes me shiver to think of the dull, distant drone that signified the approaching destruction.

friday, july 23, 1943

bep is currently able to get hold of notebooks, especially journals and ledgers, useful for my bookkeeping sister! other kinds are for sale as well, but dont ask what theyre like or how long theyll last. at the moment \ theyre all labeled "no coupons

needed!" like everything else you can purchase without ration stamps, theyre i totally worthless. they consist of twelve sheets of gray i paper with narrow lines that slant across the page. margot is thinking about taking a course in calligraphy; ive advised her to go ahead and do it. mother wont let me because of my eyes, but i think thats silly. whether i do i that or something else, it all comes down to the same i thing.

since youve never been through a war, kitty, and since you know very little about life in hiding, in spite of my letters, let me tell you, just for fun, what we each want to do first when were able to go outside again.

margot and mr. van daan wish, above all else, to have a hot bath, filled to the brim, which they can lie in for more than half an hour. mrs. van daan would like a cake, dussel can think of nothing but seeing his charlotte, and mother is dying for a cup of real coffee. father would like to visit mr. voskuijl, peter would go downtown, and as for me, id be so overjoyed i wouldnt know where to begin.

most of all i long to have a home of our own, to be able to move around freely and have someone help me with my homework again, at last. in other words, to go back to school!

bep has offered to get us some fruit, at so-called bargain prices: grapes 2.50 guilders a pound, gooseberries 70 cents a pound, one peach 50 cents, melons 75 cents a pound. no wonder the papers write every evening in big, fat letters: "keep prices down!”

monday, july 26, 1943

dear kitty,

yesterday was a very tumultuous day, and were still all wound up. actually, you may wonder if theres ever a day that passes without some kind of excitement.

the first warning siren went off in the morning while we were at breakfast, but we paid no attention, because it only meant that the planes were crossing the coast. i had a terrible headache, so i lay down for an hour after breakfast and then went to the office at around two.

at two-thirty margot had finished her office work and was just gathering her things together when the sirens began wailing again. so she and i trooped back upstairs.

none too soon, it seems, for less than five minutes later the guns were booming so loudly that we went and stood in the hall. the house shook and the bombs kept

falling. i was clutching my "escape bag," more because i wanted to have something to hold on to than because i wanted to run away. i know we cant leave here, but if we had to, being seen on the streets would be just as dangerous as getting caught in an air raid. after half an hour the drone of engines faded and the house began to hum with activity again. peter emerged from his lookout post in the front attic, dussel remained in the front office, mrs. van d. felt safest in the private office, mr. van daan had been watching from the loft, and those of us on the landing spread out to watch the columns of smoke rising from the harbor. before long the smell of fire was everywhere, and outside it looked as if the city were enveloped in a thick fog.

a big fire like that is not a pleasant sight, but fortunately for us it was all over, and we went back to our various chores. just as we were starting dinner: another air-raid alarm. the food was good, but i lost my appetite the moment i heard the siren.

nothing happened, however, and forty-five minutes later the all clear was sounded.

after the dishes had been washed: another air-raid warning, gunfire and swarms of planes. "oh, gosh, twice in one day," we thought, "thats twice in one day," we thought, "thats twice too many." little good that did us, because once agai the bombs rained down, this time on the others of the city. according to british reports, schiphol airport was bombed. the planes dived and climbed, the air was abuzz with the drone of engines. it was very scary, and the whole time i kept thinking, "here it comes, this is it.”

i can assure you that when i went to bed at nine, my legs were still shaking. at the stroke of midnight i woke up again: more planes! dussel was undressing, but i took no notice and leapt up, wide awake, at the sound of the first shot. i stayed in fathers bed until one, in my own bed until one-thirty, and was back in fathers bed at two.

but the planes kept on coming. at last they stopped firing and i was able to go back "home" again. i finally fell asleep at half past two.

seven oclock. i awoke with a start and sat up in bed. mr. van daan was with father.

my first thought was: burglars. "everything," i heard mr. van daan say, and i thought everything had been stolen. but no, this time it was wonderful news, the best weve had in months, maybe even since the war began. mussolini has resigned and the king of italy has taken over the government.

we jumped for joy. after the awful events of yesterday, finally something good happens and brings us. . . hope! hope for an end to the war, hope for peace.

mr. kugler dropped by and told us that the fokker aircraft factory had been hit hard.

meanwhile, there was another air-raid alarm this morning, with planes flying over, and another warning siren. ive had it up to here with alarms. ive hardly slept, and the

last thing i want to do is work. but now the suspense about italy and the hope that the war will be over by the end of the year are keeping us awake. .

yours, anne 

thursday, july 29, 1943

dearest kitty,

mrs. van daan, dussel and i were doing the dishes, and i was extremely quiet. this is very unusual for me and they were sure to notice, so in order to avoid any questions, i quickly racked my brains for a neutral topic. i thought the book henry from across the street might fit the bill, but i couldnt have been more wrong; if mrs.

van daan doesnt jump down my throat, mr. dussel does. it all boiled down to this:

mr. dussel had recommended the book to margot and me as an example of excellent writing. we thought it was anything but that. the little boy had been portrayed well, but as for the rest. . . the less said the better. i mentioned something to that effect while we were doing the dishes, and dussel launched into a veritable tirade.

"how can you possibly understand the psychology of a man? that of a child isnt so difficult [!]. but youre far too young to read a book like that. even a twenty-year-old man would be unable to comprehend it." (so why did he go out of his way to recommend it to margot and me?)

mrs. van d. and dussel continued their harangue: "you know way too much about things youre not supposed to. youve been brought up all wrong. later on, when youre older, you wont be able to enjoy anything anymore. youll say, oh, i read that twenty years ago in some book. youd better hurry if you want to catch a husband or fall in love, since everything is bound to be a disappointment to you. you already know all there is to know in theory. but in practice? thats another story!”

can you imagine how i felt? i astonished myself by calmly replying, "you may think i havent been raised properly, but many people would disagree!”

they apparently believe that good child-rearing includes trying to pit me against my parents, since thats all they ever do. and not telling a girl my age about grown-up subjects is fine. we can all see what happens when. people are raised that way.

at that moment i could have slapped them both for poking fun at me. i was beside myself with rage, and if i only knew how much longer we had to put up with each others company, id start counting the days.

mrs. van daans a fine one to talk! she sets an example all right -- a bad one!

shes known to be exceedingly pushy, egotistical, cunning, calculating and perpetually dissatisfied. add to that, vanity and coquettishness and theres no question about it:

shes a thoroughly despicable person. i could write an entire book about madame van daan, and who knows, maybe someday i will. anyone can put on a charming exterior when they want to. mrs. van d. is friendly to strangers, especially men, so its easy to make a mistake when you first get to know her.

mother thinks that mrs. van d. is too stupid for words, margot that shes too unimportant, pim that shes too ugly (literally and figuratively!), and after long observation (im never prejudiced at the beginning), ive come to the conclusion that shes all three of the above, and lots more besides. she has so many bad traits, why should i single out just one of them?

yours, anne 

p.s. will the reader please take into consideration that this story was written before the writers fury had cooled?

wwＷ。xiaoshuotxt=com



AUGUST, 1943

小.说。t。xt-天/堂
tuesday, august 3, 1943

dearest kitty,

things are going well on the political front. italy has banned the fascist party. the people are fighting the fascists in many places -- even the army has joined the fight. how can a country like that continue to wage war against england?

our beautiful radio was taken away last week. dussel was very angry at mr. kugler for turning it in on the appointed day. dussel is slipping lower and lower in my estimation, and hes already below zero. hatever he says about politics, history, geography or ything else is so ridiculous that i hardly dare repeat it: hitler will fade from history; the harbor in rotterdam is bigger than the one in hamburg; the english are idiots for not taking the opportunity to bomb italy to smithereens; etc., etc.

we just had a third air raid. i decided to grit my teeth and practice being courageous.

mrs. van daan, the one who always said "let them fall" and "better to end with a bang than not to end at all," is the most cowardly one among us. she was shaking like a leaf this morning and even burst into tears. she was comforted by her husband, with whom she recently declared a truce after a week of squabbling; i nearly got

sentimental at the sight.

mouschi has now proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that having a cat has disadvantages as well as advantages. the whole house is crawling with fleas, and its getting worse each day. mr. kleiman sprinkled yellow powder in every nook and cranny, but the fleas havent taken the slightest notice. its making us all very jittery;

were forever imagining a bite on our arms and legs or other parts of our bodies, so we leap up and do a few exercises, since it gives us an excuse to take a better look at our arms or necks. but now were paying the price for having had so little physical exercise; were so stiff we can hardly turn our heads. the real calisthenics fell by the wayside long ago.

yours, anne 

wednesday, august 4,1943

dearest kitty,

now that weve been in hiding for a little over a year, you know a great deal about our lives. still, i cant possibly tell you everything, since its all so different compared to ordinary times and ordinary people. nevertheless, to give you a closer look into our lives, from time to time ill describe part of an ordinary day. ill start with the evening and night.

nine in the evening. bedtime always begins in the annex with an enormous hustle and bustle. chairs are shifted, beds pulled out, blankets unfolded -- nothing stays where it is during the daytime. i sleep on a small divan, which is only five feet long, so we have to add a few chairs to make it longer. comforter, sheets, pillows, blankets:

everything has to be removed from dussel s bed, where its kept during the day.

in the next room theres a terrible creaking: thats margots folding bed being set up.

more blankets and pillows, anything to make the wooden slats a bit more comfortable.

upstairs it sounds like thunder, but its only mrs. van d.s bed being shoved against the window so that her majesty, arrayed in her pink bed jacket, can sniff the night air through her delicate little nostrils.

nine oclock. after peters finished, its my turn for the bathroom. i wash myself from head to toe, and more often than not i find a tiny flea floating in the sink (only during the hot months, weeks or days). i brush my teeth, curl my hair, manicure my nails and dab peroxide on my upper lip to bleach the black hairs -- all this in less than half an hour.

nine-thirty. i throw on my bathrobe. with soap in one hand, and potty, hairpins, panties, curlers and a wad of cotton in the other, i hurry out of the bathroom. the next in line invariably calls me back to remove the gracefully curved but unsightly hairs that ive left in the sink.

ten oclock. time to put up the blackout screen and say good-night. for the next fifteen minutes, at least, the house is filled with the creaking of beds and the sigh of broken springs, and then, provided our upstairs nei***ors arent having a marital spat in bed, all is quiet.

eleven-thirty. the bathroom door creaks. a narrow strip of light falls into the room.

squeaking shoes, a large coat, even larger than the man inside it . . . dussel is returning from his nightly work in mr. kuglers office. i hear him shuffiing back and forth for ten whole minutes, the rustle of paper (from the food hes tucking away in his cupboard) and the bed being made up. then the figure disappears again, and the only sound is the occasional suspicious noise from the bathroom.

approximately three oclock. i have to get up to use the tin can under my bed, which, to be on the safe side, has a rubber mat underneath in case of leaks. i always hold my breath while i go, since it clatters into the can like a brook down a mountainside.

the potty is returned to its place, and the figure in the white nightgown (the one that causes margot to exclaim every evening, "oh, that indecent nighty!") climbs back into bed. a certain somebody lies awake for about fifteen minutes, listening to the sounds of the night. in the first place, to hear whether there are any burglars downstairs, and then to the various beds -- upstairs, next door and in my room -- to tell whether the others are asleep or half awake. this is no fun, especially when it concerns a member of the family named dr. dussel. first, theres the sound of a fish gasping for air, and this is repeated nine or ten times. then, the lips are moistened profusely.

this is alternated with little smacking sounds, followed by a long period of tossing and turning and rearranging the pillows. after five minutes of perfect quiet, the same sequence repeats itself three more times, after which hes presumably lulled himself back to sleep for a while.

sometimes the guns go off during the night, between one and four. im never aware of it before it happens, but all of a sudden i find myself standing beside my bed, out of sheer habit. occasionally im dreaming so deeply (of irregular french verbs or a quarrel upstairs) that i realize only when my dream is over that the shooting has stopped and that ive remained quietly in my room. but usually i wake up. then i grab a pillow and a handkerchief, throw on my robe and slippers and dash next door to father, just the way margot described in this birthday poem:

when shots rino out in the dark of night, the door creaks open and into sight come a hanky, a pillow, a figure in white. . .

once ive reached the big bed, the worst is over, except when the shooting is extra loud.

six forty-five. brrring . . . the alarm clock, which raises its shrill voice at any hour of the day or night, whether you want it to or not. creak. . . wham. . . mrs. van d.

turns it off. screak . . . mr. van d. gets up, puts on the water and races to the bathroom.

seven-fifteen. the door creaks again. dussel can go to the bathroom. alone at last, i remove the blackout screen . . . and a new day begins in the annex.

yours, anne 

thursday, august 5, 1943

dearest kitty,

today lets talk about the lunch break.

its twelve-thirty. the whole gang breathes a sigh of relief: mr. van maaren, the man with the shady past, and mr. de kok have gone home for lunch.

upstairs you can hear the thud of the vacuum cleaner on mrs. van d.s beautiful and only rug. margot tucks a few books under her arm and heads for the class for "slow learners," which is what dussel seems to be. pim goes and sits in a corner with his constant companion, dickens, in hopes of finding a bit of peace and quiet. mother hastens upstairs to help the busy little housewife, and i tidy up both the bathroom and myself at the same time.

twelve forty-five. one by one they trickle in: first mr.

gies and then either mr. kleiman or mr. kugler, followed by bep and sometimes even miep.

one. clustered around the radio, they all listen raptly to the bbc. this is the only time the members of the annex family dont interrupt each other, since even mr. van daan cant argue with the speaker.

one-fifteen. food distribution. everyone from downstairs gets a cup of soup, plus dessert, if there happens to be any. a contented mr. gies sits on the divan or leans against the desk with his newspaper, cup and usually the cat at his side. if one of the three is missing, he doesnt hesitate to let his protest be heard. mr. kleiman relates the latest news from town, and hes an excellent source. mr. kugler hurries up the stairs, gives a short but solid knock on the door and comes in either wringing his hands or rubbing them in glee, depending on whether hes quiet and in a bad mood or talkative and in a good mood.

one forty-five. everyone rises from the table and goes about their business. margot and mother do the dishes, mr. and mrs. van d. head for the divan, peter for the attic, father for his divan, dussel too, and anne does her homework.

what comes next is the quietest hour of the day; when theyre all asleep, there are no disturbances. to judge by his face, dussel is dreaming of food. but i dont look at him long, because the time whizzes by and before you know it, itll be 4 p.m. and the pedantic dr. dussel will be standing with the clock in his hand because im one minute ,late clearing off the table.

yours, anne 

saturday, august 7, 1943

dearest kitty,

a few weeks ago i started writing a story, something i made up from beginning to end, and ive enjoyed it so much that the products of my pen are piling up.

yours, anne 

monday, august 9, 1943

dearest kitty,

we now continue with a typical day in the annex. since weve already had lunch, its time to describe dinner.

mr. van daan. is served first, and takes a generous portion of whatever he likes.

usually joins in the conversation, never fails to give his opinion. once hes spoken, his word is final. if anyone dares to suggest otherwise, mr. van d. can put up a good fight. oh, he can hiss like a cat. . . but id rather he didnt. once youve seen it, you never want to see it again. his opinion is the best, he knows the most about everything. granted, the man has a good head on his shoulders, but its swelled to no small degree.

madame. actually, the best thing would be to say nothing. some days, especially when a foul mood is on the way, her face is hard to read. if you analyze the discussions, you realize shes not the subject, but the guilty party! a fact everyone prefers to ignore. even so, you could call her the instigator. stirring up trouble, now thats what mrs. van daan calls fun. stirring up trouble between mrs. frank and anne. margot and mr. frank aren t qwte as easy.

but lets return to the table. mrs. van d. may think she doesnt always get enough, but thats not the case. the choicest potatoes, the tastiest morsel, the tenderest bit of whatever there is, thats madames motto. the others can all have their turn, as long as i get the best. (exactly what she accuses anne frank of doing.) her second watchword is: keep talking. as long as somebodys listening, it doesnt seem to occur to her to wonder whether theyre interested. she must think that whatever mrs. van daan says will interest everyone.

smile coquettishly, pretend you know everything, offer everyone a piece of advice and mother them -- thats sure to make a good impression. but if you take a better look, the good impression fades. one, shes hardworking; two, cheerful; three, coquettish -- and sometimes a cute face. thats petronella van daan.

the third diner. says very little. young mr. van daan is usually quiet and hardly makes his presence known. as far as his appetite is concerned, hes a danaldean vessel that never gets full. even after the most substantial meal, he can look you calmly in the eye and claim he could have eaten twice as much.

number four -- margot. eats like a bird and doesnt talk at all. she eats only vegetables and fruit. "spoiled," in the opinion of the van daans. "too little exercise and fresh air," in ours.

beside her -- mama. has a hearty appetite, does her share of the talking. no one has the impression, as they do with mrs. van daan, that this is a housewife. whats the difference between the two? well, mrs. van d. does the cooking and mother does the dishes and polishes the furniture.

numbers six and seven. i wont say much about father and me. the former is the most modest person at the table. he always looks to see whether the others have been served first. he needs nothing for himself; the best things are for the children.

hes goodness personified. seated next to him is the annexs little bundle of nerves.

dussel. help yourself, keep your eyes on the food, eat and dont talk. and if you have to say something, then for goodness sake talk about food. that doesnt lead to quarrels, just to bragging. he consumes enormous portions, and "no" is not part of his vocabulary, whether the food is good or bad.

pants that come up to his chest, a red jacket, black patent-leather slippers and horn-rimmed glasses -- thats how he looks when hes at work at the little table, always studying and never progressing. this is interrupted only by his afternoon nap, food and -- his favorite spot -- the bathroom. three, four or five times a day theres bound to be someone waiting outside the bathroom door, hopping impatiently from one foot to another, trying to hold it in and barely managing. does dussel care?

not a whit. from seven-fifteen to seven-thirty, from twelve-thirty to one, from two to two-fifteen, from four to four-fifteen, from six to six-fifteen, from eleven-thirty to twelve. you can set your watch by them; these are the times for his "regular sessions." he never deviates or lets himself be swayed by the voices outside the door, begging him to open up before a disaster occurs.

number nine is not part of our annex family, although she does share our house and table. hep has a healthy appetite. she cleans her plate and isnt choosy. heps easy to please and that pleases us. she can be characterized as follows: cheerful, good-humored, kind and willing.

tuesday, august 10, 1943

dearest kitty, .

a new idea: during meals i talk more to myself than to the others, which has two advantages. first, theyre glad they dont have to listen to my continuous chatter, and second, i dont have to get annoyed by their opinions. i dont think my opinions are stupid but other people do, so its better to keep them to myself. i apply the same tactic when i have to eat something i loathe. i put the dish in front of me, pretend its delicious, avoid looking at it as much as possible, and its gone before ive had time to realize what it is. when i get up in the morning, another very disagreeable moment, i leap out of bed, think to myself, "youll be slipping back under the covers soon," walk to the window, take down the blackout screen, sniff at the crack until i

feel a bit of fresh air, and im awake. i strip the bed as fast as i can so i wont be tempted to get back in. do you know what mother calls this sort of thing? the art of living. isnt that a funny expression?

weve all been a little confused this past week because our dearly beloved westertoren bells have been carted off to be melted down for the war, so we have no idea of the exact time, either night or day. i still have hopes that theyll come up with a substitute, made of tin or copper or some such thing, to remind the nei***orhood of the clock.

everywhere i go, upstairs or down, they all cast admiring glances at my feet, which are adorned by a pair of exceptionally beautiful (for times like these!) shoes. miep managed to snap them up for 27.50 guilders. burgundy-colored suede and leather with medium-sized high heels. i feel as if i were on stilts, and look even taller than i already am.

yesterday was my unlucky day. i pricked my right thumb with the blunt end of a big needle. as a result, margot had to peel potatoes for me (take the good with the bad), and writing was awkward. then i bumped into the cupboard door so hard it nearly knocked me over, and was scolded for making such a racket. they wouldnt let me run water to bathe my forehead, so now im walking around with a giant lump over my right eye. to make matters worse, the little toe on my right foot got stuck in the vacuum cleaner. it bled and hurt, but my other ailments were already causing me so much trouble that i let this one slide, which was stupid of me, because now im walking around with an infected toe. what with the salve, the gauze and the tape, i cant get my heavenly new shoe on my foot.

dussel has put us in danger for the umpteenth time. he actually had miep bring him a book, an anti-mussolini tirade, which has been banned. on the way here she was knocked down by an ss motorcycle. she lost her head and shouted "you brutes!" and went on her way. i dont dare think what would have happened if shed been taken down to headquarters.

yours, anne 

a daily chore in our little community: peeling potatoes!

one person goes to get some newspapers; another, the knives (keeping the best for himself, of course); the third, the potatoes; and the fourth, the water.

mr. dussel begins. he may not always peel them very well, but he does peel nonstop,

glancing left and right to see if everyone is doing it the way he does. no, theyre not!

"look, anne, i am taking peeler in my hand like so and going from the top to bottom!

nein, not so . . . but so!”

"i think my way is easier, mr. dussel," i say tentatively.

"but this is best way, anne. this you can take from me. of course, it is no matter, you do the way you want.”

we go on peeling. i glance at dussel out of the corner of my eye. lost in thought, he shakes his head (over me, no doubt), but says no more.

i keep on peeling. then i look at father, on the other side of me. to father, peeling potatoes is not a chore, but precision work. when he reads, he has a deep wrinkle in the back of his head. but when hes preparing potatoes, beans or vegetables, he seems to be totally absorbed in his task. he puts on his potato-peeling face, and when its set in that particular way, it would be impossible for him to turn out anything less than a perfectly peeled potato.

i keep on working. i glance up for a second, but thats all the time i need. mrs. van d. is trying to attract dussels attention. she starts by looking in his direction, but dussel pretends not to notice. she winks, but dussel goes on peeling. she laughs, but dussel still doesnt look up. then mother laughs too, but dussel pays them no mind.

having failed to achieve her goal, mrs. van d. is obliged to change tactics. theres a brief silence. then she says, "putti, why dont you put on an apron? otherwise, ill have to spend all day tomorrow trying to get the spots out of your suit!”

"im not getting it dirty.”

another brief silence. "putti, why dont you sit down? "im fine this way. i like standing up!”

silence.

"putti, look out, du spritzt schon!".* [*now youre splashing!] "i know, mommy, but im being careful.”

mrs. van d. casts about for another topic. "tell me, putti, why arent the british

carrying out any bombing raids today?”

"because the weathers bad, kerli!”

"but yesterday it was such nice weather and they werent flying then either.”

"lets drop the subject.”

"why? cant a person talk about that or offer an opinion? "well, why in the world not?”

"oh, be quiet, mammichen!"* [*mommy] "mr. frank always answers his wife.”

mr. van d. is trying to control himself. this remark always rubs him the wrong way, but mrs. van d.s not one to quit: "oh, theres never going to be an invasion!”

mr. van d. turns white, and when she notices it, mrs. van d. turns red, but shes not about to be deterred: "the british arent doing a thing!”

the bomb bursts. "and now shut up, donnerwetter noch mal!* [*for crying out loud!"] mother can barely stifle a laugh, and i stare straight ahead.

scenes like these are repeated almost daily, unless theyve just had a terrible fight. in that case, neither mr. nor mrs. van d. says a word.

its time for me to get some more potatoes. i go up to the attic, where peter is busy picking fleas from the cat.

he looks up, the cat notices it, and whoosh. . . hes gone. out the window and into the rain gutter.

peter swears; i laugh and slip out of the room.

freedom in the annex five-thirty. beps arrival signals the beginning of our nightly freedom. things get

going right away. i go upstairs with bep, who usually has her dessert before the rest of us. the moment she sits down, mrs. van d. begins stating her wishes. her list usually starts with "oh, by the way, bep, something else id like. . ." bep winks at me. mrs. van d. doesnt miss a chance to make her wishes known to whoever comes upstairs. it must be one of the reasons none of them like to go up there.

five forty-five. bep leaves. i go down two floors to have a look around: first to the kitchen, then to the private office and then to the coal bin to open the cat door for mouschi.

after a long tour of inspection, i wind up in mr. kuglers office. mr. van daan is combing all the drawers and files for todays mail. peter picks up boche and the warehouse key; pim lugs the typewriters upstairs; margot looks around for a quiet place to do her office work; mrs. van d. puts a kettle of water on the stove; mother comes down the stairs with a pan of potatoes; we all know our jobs.

soon peter comes back from the warehouse. the first question they ask him is whether hes remembered the bread. no, he hasnt. he crouches before the door to the front office to make himself as small as possible and crawls on his hands and knees to the steel cabinet, takes out the bread and starts to leave. at any rate, thats what he intends to do, but before he knows whats happened, mouschi has jumped over him and gone to sit under the desk.

peter looks all around him. aha, theres the cat! he crawls back into the office and grabs the cat by the tail. mouschi hisses, peter sighs. what has he accomplished?

mouschis now sitting by the window licking herself, very pleased at having escaped peters clutches. peter has no choice but to lure her with a piece of bread. mouschi takes the bait, follows him out, and the door closes.

i watch the entire scene through a crack in the door.

mr. van daan is angry and slams the door. margot and i exchange looks and think the same thing: he must have worked himself into a rage again because of some blunder on mr. kuglers part, and hes forgotten all about the keg company next door.

another step is heard in the hallway. dussel comes in, goes toward the window with an air of propriety, sniffs. . . coughs, sneezes and clears his throat. hes out of luck -- it was pepper. he continues on to the front office. the curtains are open, which means he cant get at his writing paper. he disappears with a scowl.

margot and i exchange another glance. "one less page for his sweetheart tomorrow," i

hear her say. i nod in agreement.

an elephants tread is heard on the stairway. its dussel, seeking comfort in his favorite spot.

we continue working. knock, knock, knock. . . three taps means dinnertime!

monday, august 23, 1943

wenn die uhr halb neune schlaat . . .* [* when the clock strikes half past eight.] margot and mother are nervous. "shh . . . father. be quiet, otto. shh . . . pim! its eight-thirty.

come here, you cant run the water anymore. walk softly!" a sample of whats said to father in the bathroom. at the stroke of half past eight, he has to be in the living room. no running water, no flushing toilet, no walking around, no noise whatsoever. as long as the office staff hasnt arrived, sounds travel more easily to the warehouse.

the door opens upstairs at eight-twenty, and this is followed by three gentle taps on the floor. . . annes hot cereal. i clamber up the stairs to get my doggie dish.

back downstairs, everything has to be done quickly, quickly: i comb my hair, put away the potty, shove the bed back in place. quiet! the clock is striking eight-thirty! mrs.

van d. changes shoes and shuffles through the room in her slippers; mr. van d. too -- a veritable charlie chaplin. all is quiet.

the ideal family scene has now reached its high point. i want to read or study and margot does too. father and mother ditto. father is sitting (with dickens and the dictionary, of course) on the edge of the sagging, squeaky bed, which doesnt even have a decent mattress. two bolsters can be piled on top of each other. "i dont need these," he thinks. "i can manage without them!”

once he starts reading, he doesnt look up. he laughs now and then and tries to get mother to read a story.

"i dont have the time right now!”

he looks disappointed, but then continues to read.

a little while later, when he comes across another good passage, he tries again: "you

have to read this, mother!”

mother sits on the folding bed, either reading, sewing, knitting or studying, whichever is next on her list. an idea suddenly occurs to her, and she quickly says, so as not to forget, "anne, remember to . . . margot, jot this down. . . “

after a while its quiet again. margot slams her book shut; father knits his forehead, his eyebrows forming a funny curve and his wrinkle of concentration reappearing i at the back of his head, and he buries himself in his book 1 again; mother starts chatting with margot; and i get curious and listen too. pim is drawn into the conversation . . .

nine oclock. breakfast!

ＷＷＷ.xiＡosＨuoＴＸＴ.com



SEPTEMBER, 1943

小.说。t!xt-天堂
friday, september 10, 1943

dearest kitty,

every time i write to you, something special has happened, usually unpleasant rather than pleasant. this time, however, something wonderful is going on.

on wednesday, september 8, we were listening to the seven oclock news when we heard an announcement: "here is some of the best news of the war so far: italy has capitulated." italy has unconditionally surrendered! the dutch broadcast from england began at eight-fifteen with the news: "listeners, an hour and fifteen minutes ago, just as i finished writing my daily report, we received the wonderful news of italys capitulation. i tell you, i never tossed my notes into the wastepaper basket with more delight than i did today!”

"god save the king," the american national anthem and the russian internationale”

were played. as always, the dutch program was uplifting without being too optimistic.

the british have landed in naples. northern italy is occupied by the germans. the truce was signed on friday, september 3, the day the british landed in italy. the germans are ranting and raving in all the newspapers at the treachery of badoglio and the italian king.

still, theres bad news as well. its about mr. kleiman. as you know, we all like him very much. hes unfailingly cheerful and amazingly brave, despite the fact that hes always sick and in pain and cant eat much or do a lot of walking. "when mr. kleiman enters a room, the sun begins to shine," mother said recently, and shes absolutely right.

now it seems he has to go to the hospital for a very difficult operation on his stomach, and will have to stay there for at least four weeks. you should have seen him when he told us good-bye. he acted so normally, as though he were just off to do an errand.

yours, anne 

thursday, september 16, 1943

dearest kitty,

relationships here in the annex are getting worse all the time. we dont dare open our mouths at mealtime (except to slip in a bite of food), because no matter what we say, someone is bound to resent it or take it the wrong way. mr. voskuijl occasionally comes to visit us. unfortunately, hes not doing very well. he isnt making it any easier for his family, because his attitude seems to be: what do i care, im going to die anyway! when i think how touchy everyone is here, i can just imagine what it must be like at the voskuijls.

ive been taking valerian every day to fight the anxiety and depression, but it doesnt stop me from being even more miserable the next day. a good hearty laugh would help better than ten valerian drops, but weve almost forgotten how to laugh.

sometimes im afraid my face is going to sag with all this sorrow and that my mouth is going to permanently droop at the corners. the others arent doing any better.

everyone here is dreading the great terror known as winter.

another fact that doesnt exactly brighten up our days is that mr. van maaren, the man who works in the warehouse, is getting suspicious about the annex. a person with any brains must have noticed by now that miep sometimes says shes going to the lab, bep to the file room and mr. kleiman to the opekta supplies, while mr.

kugler claims the annex doesnt belong to this building at all, but to the one next door.

we wouldnt care what mr. van maaren thought of the situation except that hes known to be unreliable and to possess a high degree of curiosity. hes not one who can be put off with a flimsy excuse.

one day mr. kugler wanted to be extra cautious, so at twenty past twelve he put on his coat and went to the drugstore around the corner. less than five minutes later he was back, and he sneaked up the stairs like a thief to visit us. at one-fifteen he started to leave, but bep met him on the landing and warned him that van maaren was

in the office. mr. kugler did an about-face and stayed with us until one-thirty. then he took off his shoes and went in his stockinged feet (despite his cold) to the front attic and down the other stairway, taking one step at a time to avoid the creaks. it took him fifteen minutes to negotiate the stairs, but he wound up safely in the office after having entered from the outside.

in the meantime, bep had gotten rid of van maaren and come to get mr. kugler from the annex. but hed already left and at that moment was still tiptoeing down the stairs. what must the passersby have thought when they saw the manager putting on his shoes outside? hey, you there, in the socks!

yours, anne 

wednesday, september 29, 1943

dearest kitty,

its mrs. van daans birthday. other than one ration stamp each for cheese, meat and bread, all she received from us was a jar of jam. her husband, dussel and the office staff gave her nothing but flowers and also food. such are the times we live in!

bep had a nervous fit last week because she had so many errands to do. ten times a day people were sending her out for something, each time insisting she go right away or go again or that shed done it all wrong. and when you think that she has her regular office work to do, that mr. kleiman is sick, that miep is home with a cold and that bep herself has a sprained ankle, boyfriend troubles and a grouchy father, its no wonder shes at the end of her tether. we comforted her and told her that if shed put her foot down once or twice and say she didnt have the time, the shopping lists would shrink of their own accord.

saturday there was a big drama, the likes of which have never been seen here before.

it started with a discussion of van maaren and ended in a general argument and tears.

dussel complained to mother that he was being treated like a leper, that no one was friendly to him and that, after all, he hadnt done anything to deserve it. this was followed by a lot of sweet talk, which luckily mother didnt fall for this time. she told him we were disappointed in him and that, on more than one occasion, hed been a source of great annoyance. dussel promised her the moon, but, as usual, we havent seen so much as a beam.

theres trouble brewing with the van daans, i can tell! fathers furious because theyre cheating us: theyve been holding back meat and other things. oh, what kind of

bombshell is about to burst now? if only i werent so involved in all these skirmishes!

if only i could leave here! theyre driving us crazy!

yours, anne 

w w w/xiao shu otx t.com



OCTOBER, 1943

（小／说／t／xt｜天｜堂）
sunday, october 17, 1943

dearest kitty,

mr. kleiman is back, thank goodness! he looks a bit pale, and yet he cheerfully set off to sell some clothes for mr. van daan. the disagreeable fact is that mr. van daan has run out of money. he lost his last hundred guilders in the warehouse, which is still creating trouble for us: the men are wondering how a hundred guilders could wind up in the warehouse on a monday morning. suspicion abounds. meanwhile, the hundred guilders have been stolen. whos the thief?

but i was talking about the money shortage. mrs. van d. has scads of dresses, coats and shoes, none of which she feels she can do without. mr. van d.s suit is difficult to sell, and peters bike was put on the block, but is back again, since nobody wanted it.

but the story doesnt end there. you see, mrs. van d. is going to have to part with her fur coat. in her opinion, the firm should pay for our upkeep, but thats ridiculous.

they just had a flaming row about it and have entered the "oh, my sweet putti" and "darling kerli" stage of reconciliation.

my mind boggles at the profanity this honorable house has had to endure in the past month. father walks around with his lips pressed together, and whenever he hears his name, he looks up in alarm, as ifhes afraid hell be called upon to resolve another delicate problem. mothers so wrought up her cheeks are blotched with red, margot complains of headaches, dussel cant sleep, mrs. van d. frets and fumes all day long, and ive gone completely round the bend. to tell you the truth, i sometimes forget who were at odds with and who were not. the only way to take my mind off it is to study, and ive been doing a lot of that lately.

yours, anne 

friday, october 29,1943

my dearest kitty,

mr. kleiman is out again; his stomach wont give him a moments peace. he doesnt even know whether its stopped bleeding. he came to tell us he wasnt feeling well

and was going home, and for the first time he seemed really down.

mr. and mrs. van d. have had more raging battles. the reason is simple: theyre broke. they wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of mr. van d. s, but were unable to find any buyers. his prices were way too high.

some time ago mr. kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. this gave mr. van d. the idea of selling his wifes fur coat. its made of rabbit skin, and shes had it for seventeen years. mrs. van d. got 325 guilders for it, an enormous amount. she wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothes after the war, and it took some doing before mr. van d. could make her understand that it was desperately needed to cover household expenses.

you cant imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearing that went on.

it was terrifying. my family stood holding its breath at the bottom of the stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. all the bickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain that i fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that i have half an hour to myself.

im doing fine, except ive got no appetite. i keep hearing: "goodness, you look awful!" i must admit theyre doing their best to keep me in condition: theyre plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewers yeast and calcium. my nerves often get the better of me, especially on sundays; thats when i really feel miserable. the atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. outside, you dont hear a single bird, and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over the house and clings to me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regions of the underworld. at times like these, father, mother and margot dont matter to me in the least. i wander from room to room, climb up and down the stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and who keeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage. "let me out, where theres fresh air and laughter!" a voice within me cries. i dont even bother to reply anymore, but lie down on the divan. sleep makes the silence and the terrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time, since its impossible to kill it.

yours, anne 

w w w.x iaoshu otx t.c o m



NOVEMBER, 1943

小~说~t.xt`天~堂
wednesday, november 3, 1943

dearest kitty,

to take our minds off matters as well as to develop them, father ordered a catalog from a correspondence school. margot pored through the thick brochure three times

without finding anything to her liking and within her budget. father was easier to satisfy and decided to write and ask for a trial lesson in "elementary latin." no sooner said than done. the lesson arrived, margot set to work enthusiastically and decided to take the course, despite the expense. its much too hard for me, though id really like to learn latin.

to give me a new project as well, father asked mr. kleiman for a childrens bible so i could finally learn something about the new testament.

"are you planning to give anne a bible for hanukkah?" margot asked, somewhat perturbed.

"yes. . . well, maybe st. nicholas day would be a better occasion," father replied.

jesus and hanukkah dont exactly go together.

since the vacuum cleaners broken, i have to take an old brush to the rug every night.

the windows closed, the lights on, the stoves burning, and there i am brushing away at the rug. "thats sure to be a problem," i thought to myself the first time. "therere bound to be complaints." i was right: mother got a headache from the thick clouds of dust whirling around the room, margots new latin dictionary was caked with dirt, and rim grumbled that the floor didnt look any different anyway. small thanks for my pains.

weve decided that from now on the stove is going to be lit at seven-thirty on sunday mornings instead of five-thirty. i think its risky. what will the nei***ors think of our smoking chimney?

its the same with the curtains. ever since we first went into hiding, theyve been tacked firmly to the windows. sometimes one of the ladies or gentlemen cant resist the urge to peek outside. the result: a storm of reproaches. the response: "oh, nobody will notice." thats how every act of carelessness begins and ends. no one will notice, no one will hear, no one will pay the least bit of attention. easy to say, but is it true?

at the moment, the tempestuous quarrels have subsided; only dussel and the van daans are still at loggerheads. when dussel is talking about mrs. van d., he invariably calls her that old bat" or "that stupid hag," and conversely, mrs. van d. refers to our ever so learned gentleman as an "old maid" or a "touchy neurotic spinster, etc.

the pot calling the kettle black!

yours, anne 

monday evening, november 8,1943

dearest kitty,

if you were to read all my letters in one sitting, youd be struck by the fact that they were written in a variety of moods. it annoys me to be so dependent on the moods here in the annex, but im not the only one: were all subject to them. if im engrossed in a book, i have to rearrange my thoughts before i can mingle with other people, because otherwise they might think i was strange. as you can see, im currently in the middle of a depression. i couldnt really tell you what set it off, but i think it stems from my cowardice, which confronts me at every turn. this evening, when bep was still here, the doorbell rang long and loud. i instantly turned white, my stomach churned, and my heart beat wildly -- and all because i was afraid.

at night in bed i see myself alone in a dungeon, without father and mother. or im roaming the streets, or the annex is on fire, or they come in the middle of the night to take us away and i crawl under my bed in desperation. i see everything as if it were actually taking place. and to think it might all happen soon!

miep often says she envies us because we have such peace and quiet here. that may be true, but shes obviously not thinking about our fear.

i simply cant imagine the world will ever be normal again for us. i do talk about "after the war," but its as if i were talking about a castle in the air, something that can ii never come true.

i see the ei ght of us in the annex as if we were a patch of blue sky surrounded by menacing black clouds. the perfectly round spot on which were standing is still safe, but the clouds are moving in on us, and the ring between us and the approaching danger is being pulled tighter and tighter. were surrounded by darkness and danger, and in our desperate search for a way out we keep bumping into each other. we look at the fighting down below and the peace and beauty up above. in the meantime, weve been cut off by the dark mass of clouds, so that we can go neither up nor down. it looms before us like an impenetrable wall, trying to crush us, but not yet able to. i can only cry out and implore, "oh, ring, ring, open wide and let us out!”

yours, anne 

thursday, november 11, 1943

dearest kitty,

i have a good title for this chapter:

ode to my fountain pen in memoriam my fountain pen was always one of my most prized possessions; i valued it highly, especially because it had a thick nib, and i can only write neatly with thick nibs. it has led a long and interesting fountain-pen life, which i will summarize below.

when i was nine, my fountain pen (packed in cotton) arrived as a "sample of no commercial value" all the way from aachen, where my grandmother (the kindly donor)

used to live. i lay in bed with the flu, while the february winds howled around the apartment house. this splendid fountain pen came in a red leather case, and i showed it to my girlfriends the first chance i got. me, anne frank, the proud owner of a fountain pen.

when i was ten, i was allowed to take the pen to school, and to my surprise, the teacher even let me write with it. when i was eleven, however, my treasure had to be tucked away again, because my sixth-grade teacher allowed us to use only school pens and inkpots. when i was twelve, i started at the jewish lyceum and my fountain pen was given a new case in honor of the occasion. not only did it have room for a pencil, it also had a zipper, which was much more impressive. when i was thirteen, the fountain pen went with me to the annex, and together weve raced through countless diaries and compositions. id turned fourteen and my fountain pen was enjoying the last year of its life with me when . . .

it was just after five on friday afternoon. i came out of my room and was about to sit down at the table to write when i was roughly pushed to one side to make room for margot and father, who wanted to practice their latin. the fountain pen remained unused on the table, while its owner, sighing, was forced to make do with a very tiny corner of the table, where she began rubbing beans. thats how we remove mold from the beans and restore them to their original state. at a quarter to six i swept the floor, dumped the dirt into a news paper, along with the rotten beans, and tossed it into the stove. a giant flame shot up, and i thought it was wonderful that the stove, which had been gasping its last breath, had made such a miraculous recovery.

all was quiet again. the latin students had left, and i sat down at the table to pick

up where id left off. but no matter where i looked, my fountain pen was nowhere in sight. i took another look. margot looked, mother looked, father looked, dussel looked.

but it had vanished.

"maybe it fell in the stove, along with the beans!" margot suggested.

"no, it couldnt have!" i replied.

but that evening, when my fountain pen still hadnt turned up, we all assumed it had been burned, especially because celluloid is highly inflammable. our darkest fears were confirmed the next day when father went to empty the stove and discovered the clip, used to fasten it to a pocket, among the ashes. not a trace of the gold nib was left.

"it must have melted into stone," father conjectured.

im left with one consolation, small though it may be: my fountain pen was cremated, just as i would like to be someday!

yours, anne 

wednesday, november 17, 1943

dearest kitty,

recent events have the house rocking on its foundations. owing to an outbreak of diphtheria at beps, she wont be allowed to come in contact with us for six weeks.

without her, the cooking and shopping will be very difficult, not to mention how much well miss her company. mr. kleiman is still in bed and has eaten nothing but gruel for three weeks. mr. kugler is up to his neck in work.

margot sends her latin lessons to a teacher, who corrects and then returns them.

shes registered under beps name. the teachers very nice, and witty too. i bet hes glad to have such a smart student.

dussel is in a turmoil and we dont know why. it all began with dussels saying nothing when he was upstairs; he didnt exchange so much as a word with either mr.

or mrs. van daan. we all noticed it. this went on for a few days, and then mother took the opportunity to warn him about mrs. van d., who could make life miserable for him. dussel said mr. van daan had started the silent treatment and he had no intention of breaking it. i should explain that yesterday was november 16, the first anniversary of his living in the annex. mother received a plant in honor of the occasion, but mrs. van daan, who had alluded to the date for weeks and made no

bones about the fact that she thought dussel should treat us to dinner, received nothing. instead of making use of the opportunity to thank us -- for the first time -- for unselfishly taking him in, he didnt utter a word. and on the morning of the sixteenth, when i asked him whether i should offer him my congratulations or my condolences, he replied that either one would do. mother, having cast herself in the role of peacemaker, made no headway whatsoever, and the situation finally ended in a draw.

i can say without exaggeration that dussel has definitely got a screw loose. we often laugh to ourselves because he has no memory, no fixed opinions and no common sense. hes amused us more than once by trying to pass on the news hes just heard, since the message invariably gets garbled in transmission. furthermore, he answers every reproach or accusation with a load of fine 1\ promises, which he never manages to keep.

"der mann hat einen grossen geist una ist so klein van taten!"* [*a well-known expression:

"the spirit of the man is great, how puny are his deeds.”

yours, anne 

saturday, november 27, 1943

dearest kitty,

last night, just as i was falling asleep, hanneli suddenly appeared before me.

i saw her there, dressed in rags, her face thin and worn. she looked at me with such sadness and reproach in her enormous eyes that i could read the message in them:

"oh, anne, why have you deserted me? help me, help me, rescue me from this hell!”

and i cant help her. i can only stand by and watch while other people suffer and die.

all i can do is pray to god to bring her back to us. i saw hanneli, and no one else, and i understood why. i misjudged her, wasnt mature enough to understand how difficult it was for her. she was devoted to her girlfriend, and it must have seemed as though i were trying to take her away. the poor thing, she must have felt awful! i know, because i recognize the feeling in myself! i had an occasional flash of understanding, but then got selfishly wrapped up again in my own problems and pleasures.

it was mean of me to treat her that way, and now she was looking at me, oh so helplessly, with her pale face and beseeching eyes. if only i could help her! dear god, i have everything i could wish for, while fate has her in its deadly clutches. she was as devout as i am, maybe even more so, and she too wanted to do what was right.

but then why have i been chosen to live, while shes probably going to die? whats the difference between us? why are we now so far apart?

to be honest, i hadnt thought of her for months -- no, for at least a year. i hadnt forgotten her entirely, and yet it wasnt until i saw her before me that i thought of all her suffering.

oh, hanneli, i hope that if you live to the end of the war and return to us, ill be able to take you in and make up for the wrong ive done you.

but even if i were ever in a position to help, she wouldnt need it more than she does now. i wonder if she ever thinks of me, and what shes feeling?

merciful god, comfort her, so that at least she wont be alone. oh, if only you could tell her im thinking of her with compassion and love, it might help her go on.

ive got to stop dwelling on this. it wont get me anywhere. i keep seeing her enormous eyes, and they haunt me. does hanneli really and truly believe in god, or has religion merely been foisted upon her? i dont even know that. i never took the trouble to ask.

hanneli, hanneli, if only i could take you away, if only i could share everything i have with you. its too late. i cant help, or undo the wrong ive done. but ill never forget her again and ill always pray for her!

yours, anne 

Ｗww.xiaoshＵotxt.cＯm



DECEMBER, 1943

，小说＿t＿xt天堂
monday, december 6, 1943

dearest kitty,

the closer it got to st. nicholas day, the more we all thought back to last years festively decorated basket.

more than anyone, i thought it would be terrible to skip a celebration this year. after long deliberation, i finally came up with an idea, something funny. i consulted rim, and

a week ago we set to work writing a verse for each person.

sunday evening at a quarter to eight we trooped upstairs carrying the big laundry basket, which had been decorated with cutouts and bows made of pink and blue carbon paper. on top was a large piece of brown wrapping paper with a note attached.

everyone was rather amazed at the sheer size of the gift. i removed the note and read it aloud:

"once again st. nicholas day has even come to our hideaway;

it wont be quite as jun, i fear, as the happy day we had last year.

then we were hopeful, no reason to doubt that optimism would win the bout, and by the time this year came round, wed all be free, and s* and sound.

still, lets not jorget its st. nicholas day, though weve nothing left to give away.

well have to find something else to do:

so everyone please look in their shoe!”

as each person took their own shoe out of the basket, there was a roar of laughter.

inside each shoe was a little wrapped package addressed to its owner.

yours, anne 

dearest kitty,

a bad case of flu has prevented me from writing to you until today. being sick here is dreadful. with every cough, i had to duck under the blanket -- once, twice, three times -- and try to keep from coughing anymore.

most of the time the tickle refused to go away, so i had to drink milk with honey, sugar or cough drops. i get dizzy just thinking about all the cures ive been subjected to: sweating out the fever, steam treatment, wet compresses, dry compresses, hot drinks, swabbing my throat, lying still, heating pad, hot-water bottles, lemonade and, every two hours, the thermometer. will these remedies really make you better? the worst part was when mr. dussel decided to play doctor and lay his pomaded head on my bare chest to listen to the sounds. not only did his hair tickle, but i was embarrassed, even though he went to school thirty years ago and does have some kind of medical degree. why should he lay his head on my heart? after all, hes not my

boyfriend! for that matter, he wouldnt be able to tell a healthy sound from an unhealthy one.

hed have to have his ears cleaned first, since hes becoming alarmingly hard of hearing. but enough about my illness. im fit as a fiddle again. ive grown almost half an inch and gained two pounds. im pale, but itching to get back to my books.

ausnahmsweise* (the only word that will do here [* by way of exception]), were all getting on well together. no squabbles, though that probably wont last long. there hasnt been such peace and quiet in this house for at least six months.

bep is still in isolation, but any day now her sister will no longer be contagious.

for christmas, were getting extra cooking oil, candy and molasses. for hanukkah, mr.

dussel gave mrs. van daan and mother a beautiful cake, which hed asked miep to bake. on top of all the work she has to do! margot and i received a brooch made out of a penny, all bright and shiny. i cant really describe it, but its lovely.

i also have a christmas present for miep and bep. for a whole month ive saved up the sugar i put on my hot cereal, and mr. kleiman has used it to have fondant made.

the weather is drizzly and overcast, the stove stinks, and the food lies heavily on our stomachs, producing a variety of rumbles.

the war is at an impasse, spirits are low.

yours, anne 

friday, december 24, 1943

dear kitty,

as ive written you many times before, moods have a tendency to affect us quite a bit here, and in my case its been getting worse lately. "himmelhoch jauchzend, zu tode betrubt"* [* a famous line from goethe: "on top of the world, or in the depths of despair."] certainly applies to me. im "on top of the world" when i think of how fortunate we are and compare myself to other jewish children, and "in the depths of despair" when, for example, mrs. kleiman comes by and talks about jopies hockey club, canoe trips, school plays and afternoon teas with friends.

i dont think im jealous of jopie, but i long to have a really good time for once and

to laugh so hard it hurts.

were stuck in this house like lepers, especially during winter and the christmas and new years holidays. actually, i shouldnt even be writing this, since it makes me seem so ungrateful, but i cant keep everything to myself, so ill repeat what i said at the beginning: "paper is more patient than people.”

whenever someone comes in from outside, with the wind in their clothes and the cold on their cheeks, i feel like burying my head under the blankets to keep from thinking, "when will we be allowed to breathe fresh air again?" i cant do that -- on the contrary, i have to hold my head up high and put a bold face on things, but the thoughts keep coming anyway. not just once, but over and over.

believe me, if youve been shut up for a year and a half, it can get to be too much for you sometimes. but feelings cant be ignored, no matter how unjust or ungrateful they seem. i long to ride a bike, dance, whistle, look at the world, feel young and know that im free, and yet i cant let it show. just imagine what would happen if all eight of us were to feel sorry for ourselves or walk around with the discontent clearly visible on our faces. where would that get us? i sometimes wonder if anyone will ever understand what i mean, if anyone will ever overlook my ingratitude and not worry about whether or not im jewish and merely see me as a teenager badly in need of some good plain fun. i dont know, and i wouldnt be able to talk about it with anyone, since im sure id start to cry. crying can bring relief, as long as you dont cry alone. despite all my theories and efforts, i miss -- every day and every hour of the day -- having a mother who understands me. thats why with everything i do and write, i imagine the kind of mom id like to be to my children later on. the kind of mom who doesnt take everything people say too seriously, but who does take me seriously. i find it difficult to describe what i mean, but the word mom" says it all.

do you know what ive come up with? in order to give me the feeling of calling my mother something that sounds like "mom," i often call her" momsy." sometimes i shorten it to "moms"; an imperfect "mom." i wish i could honor her by removing the "s." its a good thing she doesnt realize this, since it would only make her unhappy.

well, thats enough of that. my writing has raised me somewhat from "the depths of despair.”

yours, anne 

its the day after christmas, and i cant help thinking about pim and the story he told me this time last year. i didnt understand the meaning of his words then as well as i do now. if only hed bring it up again, i might be able to show him i understood what

he meant!

i think pim told me because he, who knows the "intimate secrets" of so many others, needed to express his own feelings for once; pim never talks about himself, and i dont think margot has any inkling of what hes been through. poor pim, he cant fool me into thinking hes forgotten that girl. he never will. its made him very accommodating, since hes not blind to mothers faults. i hope im going to be a little like him, without having to go through what he has!

anne monday, december 27, 1943

friday evening, for the first time in my life, i received a christmas present. mr.

kleiman, mr. kugler and the girls had prepared a wonderful surprise for us. miep made a delicious christmas cake with "peace 1944" written on top, and bep provided a batch of cookies that was up to prewar standards.

there was a jar of yogurt for peter, margot and me, and a bottle of beer for each of the adults. and once again everything was wrapped so nicely, with pretty pictures glued to the packages. for the rest, the holidays passed by quickly for us.

anne wednesday, december 29, 1943

i was very sad again last night. grandma and hanneli came to me once more.

grandma, oh, my sweet grandma. how little we understood what she suffered, how kind she always was and what an interest she took in everything that concerned us.

and to think that all that time she was carefully guarding her terrible secret. * [*annes grandmother was terminally ill.] grandma was always so loyal and good. she would never have let any of us down.

whatever happened, no matter how much i misbehaved, grandma always stuck up for me. grandma, did you love me, or did you not understand me either? i dont know.

how lonely grandma must have been, in spite of us. you can be lonely even when youre loved by many people, since youre still not bd"di" any 0 y s one an only.

and hanneli? is she still alive? whats she doing? dear god, watch over her and bring her back to us. hanneli, youre a reminder of what my fate might have been. i keep seeing myself in your place. so why am i often miserable about what goes on here?

shouldnt i be happy, contented and glad, except when im thinking of hanneli and those suffering along with her? im selfish and cowardly. why do i always think and dream the most awful things and want to scream in terror? because, in spite of everything, i still dont have enough faith in god. hes given me so much, which i dont deserve, and yet each day i make so many mistakes!

thinking about the suffering of those you hold dear can reduce you to tears; in fact, you could spend the whole day crying. the most you can do is pray for god to perform a miracle and save at least some of them. and i hope im doing enough of that!

anne thursday, december 30, 1943

dearest kitty,

since the last raging quarrels, things have settled down here, not only between ourselves, dussel and "upstairs," but also between mr. and mrs. van d. nevertheless, a few dark thunderclouds are heading this way, and all because of . . . food. mrs. van d. came up with the ridiculous idea of frying fewer potatoes in the morning and saving them for later in the day. mother and dussel and the rest of us didnt agree with her, so now were dividing up the potatoes as well. it seems the fats and oils arent being doled out fairly, and mothers going to have to put a stop to it. ill let you know if there are any interesting developments. for the last few months now weve been splitting up the meat (theirs with fat, ours without), the soup (they eat it, we dont), the potatoes (theirs peeled, ours not), the extras and now the fried potatoes too.

if only we could split up completely!

yours, anne 

p.s. bep had a picture postcard of the entire royal family copied for me. juliana looks very young, and so does the queen. the three little girls are adorable. it was incredibly nice of bep, dont you think?

wＷw．xiＡoshＵotxt.cＯm



JANUARY, 1944

小?说?txt?天堂
sunday, january 2, 1944

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 nei***orhood, 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, leave me alone!”

who knows, perhaps the day will come when im left alone more than id like!

anne frank

www。xiaoshuotxt.c o m



FEBRUARY, 1944

小.说。t!xt-天堂
thursday, february 3, 1944

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 and foolish, i know that too.

oh, help me!

yours, anne 

m. frank

wＷw。xiaoshuo txt.coＭ



MARCH, 1944

大,学生,小,说,",网
wednesday, march 1, 1944

dearest kitty,

my own affairs have been pushed to the background by . . . a break-in. im boring you with all my break-ins, but what can i do when burglars take such pleasure in honoring gies & go. with their presence? this incident is much more complicated than the last one, in july 1943.

last night at seven-thirty mr. van daan was heading, as usual, for mr. kuglers office when he saw that both the glass door and the office door were open. he was surprised, but he went on through and was even more astonished to see that the alcove doors were open as well and that there was a terrible mess in the front office.

"theres been a burglary" flashed through his mind. but just to make sure, he went downstairs to the front door, checked the lock and found everything closed. "bep and peter must just have been very careless this evening," mr. van. d. concluded. he remained for a while in mr. kuglers office, switched off the lamp and went upstairs without worrying much about the open doors or the messy office.

early this morning peter knocked at our door to tell us that the front door was wide

open and that the projector and mr. kuglers new briefcase had disappeared from the closet. peter was instructed to lock the door. mr. van daan told us his discoveries of the night before, and we were extremely worried.

the only explanation is that the burglar must have had a duplicate key, since there were no signs of a forced entry. he must have sneaked in early in the evening, shut the door behind him, hidden himself when he heard mr. van daan, fled with the loot after mr. van daan went upstairs and, in his hurry, not bothered to shut the door.

who could have our key? why didnt the burglar go to the warehouse? was it one of our own warehouse employees, and will he turn us in, now that hes heard mr. van daan and maybe even seen him?

its really scary, since we dont know whether the burglar will take it into his head to try and get in again. or was he so startled when he heard someone else in the building that hell stay away?

yours, anne 

p.s. wed be delighted if you could hunt up a good detective for us. obviously, theres one condotion: he must be relied upon not to mform on people in hiding.

thursday, march 2, 1944

dearest kitty,

margot and i were in the attic together today. i cant enjoy being there with her the way i imagine itd be with peter (or someone else). i know she feels the same about most things as i do!

while doing the dishes, bep began talking to mother and mrs. van daan about how discouraged she gets. what help did those two offer her? our tactless mother, especially, only made things go from bad to worse. do you know what her advice was? that she should think about all the other people in the world who are suffering!

how can thinking about the misery of others help if youre miserable yourself? i said as much. their response, of course, was that i should stay out of conversations of this sort.

the grown-ups are such idiots! as if peter, margot, bep and i didnt all have the same feelings. the only thing that helps is a mothers love, or that of a very, very close friend. but these two mothers dont understand the first thing about us! perhaps

mrs. van daan does, a bit more than mother. oh, i wish i could have said something to poor bep, something that i know from my own experience would have helped. but father came between us, pushing me roughly aside. theyre all so stupid!

i also talked to margot about father and mother, about how nice it could be here if they werent so aggravating. wed be able to organize evenings in which everyone could take turns discussing a given subject. but weve already been through all that.

its impossible for me to talk here! mr. van daan goes on the offensive, mother i gets sarcastic and cant say anythina in a normal voice, father doesnt feel like taking part, nor does mr. dussel, and mrs. van d. is attacked so often that she just sits there with a red face, hardly able to put up a fight anymore. and what about us? we arent allowed to have an opinion! my, my, arent they progressive! not have an opinion!

people can tell you to shut up, but they cant keep you from having an opinion. you cant forbid someone to have an opinion, no matter how young they are! the only thing that would help bep, margot, peter and me would be great love and devotion, which we dont get here. and no one, especially not the idiotic sages around here, is capable of understanding us, since were more sensitive and much more advanced in our thinking than any of them ever suspect!

love, what is love? i dont think you can really put it into words. love is understanding someone, caring for him, sharing his joys and sorrows. this eventually includes physical love. youve shared something, given something away and received something in return, whether or not youre married, whether or not you have a baby.

losing your virtue doesnt matter, as long as you know that for as long as you live youll have someone at your side who understands you, and who doesnt have to be shared with anyone else!

yours, anne 

m. frank

at the moment, mothers grouching at me again; shes clearly jealous because i talk to mrs. van daan more than to her. what do i care!

i managed to get hold of peter this afternoon, and we talked for at least forty-five minutes. he wanted to tell me something about himself, but didnt find it easy. he finally got it out, though it took a long time. i honestly didnt know whether it was better for me to stay or to go. but i wanted so much to help him! i told him about bep and how tactless our mothers are. he told me that his parents fight constantly, about politics and cigarettes and all kinds of things. as ive told you before, peters very shy, but not too shy to admit that hed be perfectly happy not to see his parents for a year or two. "my father isnt as nice as he looks," he said. "but in the matter of the cigarettes, mothers absolutely right."

i also told him about my mother. but he came to fathers defense. he thought he was a "terrific guy.”

tonight when i was hanging up my apron after doing the dishes, he called me over and asked me not to say anything downstairs about his parents having had another argument and not being on speaking terms. i promised, though id already told margot.

but im sure margot wont pass it on.

"oh no, peter," i said, you dont have to worry about me. ive learned not to blab everything i hear. i never repeat what you tell me.”

he was glad to hear that. i also told him what terrible gossips we are, and said, "margots quite right, of course, when she says im not being honest, because as much as i want to stop gossiping, theres nothing i like better than discussing mr. dussel.”

"its good that you admit it," he said. he blushed, and his sincere compliment almost embarrassed me too.

then we talked about "upstairs" and "downstairs" some more. peter was really rather surprised to hear that dont like his parents. "peter," i said, "you know im always honest, so why shouldnt i tell you this as well? we can see their faults too.”

i added, "peter, id really like to help you. will you let me? youre caught in an awkward position, and i know, even though you dont say anything, that it upsets you.”

"oh, your help is always welcome!”

"maybe itd be better for you to talk to father. you can tell him anything, he wont pass it on.”

"i know, hes a real pal.”

"you like him a lot, dont you?”

peter nodded, and i continued, "well, he likes you too, you know!”

he looked up quickly and blushed. it was really touching to see how happy these few words made him.

"you think so?" he asked.

"yes," i said. "you can tell from the little things he lets slip now and then.”

then mr. van daan came in to do some dictating.

peters a "terrific guy," just like father!

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, march 3,1944

my dearest kitty,

when i looked into the candle tonight, i felt calm and happy again. it seems grandma is in that candle, and its grandma who watches over and protects me and makes me feel happy again. but. . . theres someone else who governs all my moods and thats. .

. peter. i went to get the potatoes today, and while i was standing on the stairway with my pan full, he asked, "what did you do during the lunch break?”

i sat down on the stairs, and we began to talk. the potatoes didnt make it to the kitchen until five-fifteen (an hour after id gone to get them). peter didnt say anything more about his parents; we just talked about books and about the past. oh, he gazes at me with such warmth in his eyes; i dont think it will take much for me to fall in love with him.

he brought the subject up this evening. i went to his room after peeling potatoes and remarked on how hot it was. "you can tell the temperature by looking at margot and me, because we turn white when its cold and red when its hot." i said.

"in love?" he asked.

"why should i be in love?" it was a pretty silly answer (or, rather, question).

"why not?" he said, and then it was time for dinner.

what did he mean? today i finally managed to ask him whether my chatter bothered him. all he said was, "oh, its fine with me!" i cant tell how much of his reply was due to shyness.

kitty, i sound like someone whos in love and can talk about nothing but her dearest

darling. and peter is a darling. will i ever be able to tell him that? only if he thinks the same of me, but im the kind of person you have to treat with kid gloves, i know that all too well.

and he likes to be left alone, so i dont know how much he likes me. in any case, were getting to know each other a little better. i wish we dared to say more. but who knows, maybe that time will come sooner than i think!

once or twice a day he gives me a knowing glance, i wink back, and were both happy. it seems crazy to talk about his being happy, and yet i have the overwhelming feeling he thinks the same way i do.

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, march 4, 1944

dear kitty,

this is the first saturday in months that hasnt been tiresome, dreary and boring. the reason is peter. this morning as i was on my way to the attic to hang up my apron, father asked whether i wanted to stay and practice my french, and i said yes. we spoke french together for a while and i explained something to peter, and then we worked on our english. father read aloud from dickens, and i was in seventh heaven, since i was sitting on fathers chair, close to peter.

i went downstairs at quarter to eleven. when i went back up at eleven-thirty, peter was already waiting for me on the stairs. we talked until quarter to one. whenever i leave the room, for example after a meal, and peter has a chance and no one else can hear, he says, "bye, anne, see you later.”

oh, im so happy! i wonder if hes going to fall in love with me after all? in any case, hes a nice boy, and you have no idea how good it is to talk to him!

mrs. van d. thinks its all right for me to talk to peter, but today she asked me teasingly, "can i trust you two up there?”

"of course," i protested. "i take that as an insult!”

morning, noon and night, i look forward to seeing peter.

yours, anne 

m. frank

ps. before i forget, last night everything was blanketed in snow. now its thawed and theres almost nothing left.

monday, march 6, 1944

dearest kitty,

ever since peter told me about his parents, ive felt a certain sense of responsibthty toward him-dont you think thats strange? its as though their quarrels were just as much my business as his, and yet i dont dare bring it up anymore, because im afraid it makes him uncomfortable. i wouldnt want to intrude, not for all the money in the world.

i can tell by peters face that he ponders things just as deeply as i do. last night i was annoyed when mrs. van d. scoffed, "the thinker!" peter flushed and looked embarrassed, and i nearly blew my top.

why dont these people keep their mouths shut?

you cant imagine what its like to have to stand on the sidelines and see how lonely he is, without being able to do anything. i can imagine, as if i were in his place, how despondent he must sometimes feel at the quarrels. and about love. poor peter, he needs to be loved so much!

it sounded so cold when he said he didnt need any friends. oh, hes so wrong! i dont think he means it. he clings to his masculinity, his solitude and his feigned indif- ference so he can maintain his role, so hell never, ever have to show his feelings.

poor peter, how long can he keep it up? wont he explode from this superhuman effort?

oh, peter, if only i could help you, if only you would let me! together we could banish our loneliness, yours and mine!

ive been doing a great deal of thinking, but not saying much. im happy when i see him, and happier still if the sun shines when were together. i washed my hair yesterday, and because i knew he was next door, i was very rambunctious. i couldnt help it; the more quiet and serious i am on the inside, the noisier i get on the outside!

who will be the first to discover the chink in my armor?

its just as well that the van daans dont have a daughter. my conquest could never be so challenging, so beautiful and so nice with someone of the same sex!

yours, anne 

m. frank

ps. you know im always honest with you, so i think i should tell you that i live from one encounter to the next. i keep hoping to discover that hes dying to see me, and im in raptures when i notice his bashful attempts. i think hed like to be able to express himself as easily as i do; little does he know its his awkwardness that i find so touching.

tuesday, march 7,1944

dearest kitty,

when i think back to my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. the anne frank who enjoyed that heavenly existence was completely different from the one who has grown wise within these walls. yes, it was heavenly. five admirers on every street corner, twenty or so friends, the favorite of most of my teachers, spoiled rotten by father and mother, bags full of candy and a big allowance. what more could anyone ask for?

youre probably wondering how i could have charmed all those people. peter says it s ecause i m "attractive," but that isnt it entirely. the teachers were amused and entertained by my clever answers, my witty remarks, my smthng face and my critical mind. thats all i was: a terrible flirt, coquettish and amusing. i had a few plus points, which kept me in everybodys good graces: i was hardworking, honest and generous. i would never have refused anyone who wanted to peek at my answers, i was magnanimous with my candy, and i wasnt stuck-up.

would all that admiration eventually have made me overconfident? its a good thing that, at the height of my glory, i was suddenly plunged into reality. it took me more than a year to get used to doing without admiration.

how did they see me at school? as the class comedian, the eternal ringleader, never in a bad mood, never a crybaby. was it any wonder that everyone wanted to bicycle to school with me or do me little favors?

i look back at that anne frank as a pleasant, amusing, but superficial girl, who has nothing to do with me. what did peter say about me? "whenever i saw you, you were

surrounded by a flock of girls and at least two boys, you were always laughing, and you were always the center of attention!" he was right.

whats remained of that anne frank? oh, i havent forgotten how to laugh or toss off a remark, im just as good, if not better, at raking people over the coals, and i can still flirt and be amusing, if i want to be . . .

but theres the catch. id like to live that seemingly carefree and happy life for an evening, a few days, a week. at the end of that week id be exhausted, and would be grateful to the first person to talk to me about something meaningful. i want friends, not admirers. peo- ple who respect me for my character and my deeds, not my flattering smile. the circle around me would be much smaller, but what does that matter, as long as theyre sincere?

in spite of everything, i wasnt altogether happy in 1942; i often felt id been deserted, but because i was on the go all day long, i didnt think about it. i enjoyed myself as much as i could, trying consciously or unconsciously to fill the void with jokes.

looking back, i realize that this period of my life has irrevocably come to a close; my happy-go-lucky, carefree schooldays are gone forever. i dont even miss them. ive outgrown them. i can no longer just kid around, since my serious side is always there.

i see my life up to new years 1944 as if i were looking through a powerful magnifying glass. when i was at home, my life was filled with sunshine. then, in the middle of 1942, everything changed overnight. the quarrels, the accusations -- i couldnt take it all in. i was caught off guard, and the only way i knew to keep my bearings was to talk back.

the first half of 1943 brought crying spells, loneliness and the gradual realization of my faults and short- comings, which were numerous and seemed even more so. i filled the day with chatter, tried to draw pim closer to me and failed. this left me on my own to face the difficult task of improving myself so i wouldnt have to hear their reproaches, because they made me so despondent.

the second half of the year was slightly better. i became a teenager, and was treated more like a grown-up. i began to think about things and to write stories, finally coming to the conclusion that the others no longer had anything to do with me. they had no right to swing me back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. i wanted to change myself in my own way. i realized i could man- age without my mother, completely and totally, and that hurt. but what affected me even more was the

realization that i was never going to be able to confide in father. i didnt trust anyone but myself.

after new years the second big change occurred: my dream, through which i discovered my longing for . . . a boy; not for a girlfriend, but for a boyfriend. i also discovered an inner happiness underneath my superficial and cheerful exterior. from time to time i was quiet. now i live only for peter, since what happens to me in the future depends largely on him!

i lie in bed at night, after ending my prayers with the words "ich janke air fur all das cute una liebe una schone,"* [* thank you, god, for all that is good and dear and beautiful.] and im filled with joy. i think of going into hiding, my health and my whole being as das cute; peters love (which is still so new and fragile and which neither of us dares to say aloud), the future, happiness and love as das liebe; the world, nature and the tremendous beauty of everything, all that splendor, as das schone.

at such moments i dont think about all the misery, but about the beauty that still remains. this is where mother and i differ greatly. her advice in the face of melancholy is: "think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful youre not part of it." my advice is: "go outside, to the country, enjoy the sun and all nature has to offer. go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.”

i dont think mothers advice can be right, because what are you supposed to do if you become part of the suffering? youd be completely lost. on the contrary, beauty remains, even in misfortune. if you just look for it, you discover more and more happiness and regain your balance. a person whos happy will make others happy; a person who has courage and faith will never die in misery!

yours, anne 

m. frank

wednesday, march 8, 1944

margot and i have been writing each other notes, just for fun, of course.

anne: its strange, but i can only remember the day after what has happened the night before. for example, i suddenly remembered that mr. dussel was snoring loudly last night. (its now quarter to three on wednesday af- ternoon and mr. dussel is snoring again, which is why it flashed through my mind, of course.) when i had to use the potty, i deliberately made more noise to get the snoring to stop.

margot: which is better, the snoring or the gasping for air?

anne: the snorings better, because it stops when i make noise, without waking the person in question.

what i didnt write to margot, but what ill confess to you, dear kitty, is that ive been dreaming of peter a great deal. the night before last i dreamed i was skating right here in our living room with that little boy from the apollo ice-skating rink; he was with his sister, the girl with the spindly legs who always wore the same blue dress. i introduced myself, overdoing it a bit, and asked him his name. it was peter.

in my dream i wondered just how many peters i actually knew!

then i dreamed we were standing in peters room, facing each other beside the stairs.

i said something to him; he gave me a kiss, but replied that he didnt love me all that much and that i shouldnt flirt. in a desperate and pleading voice i said, "im not flirting, peter!”

when i woke up, i was glad peter hasnt said it after all.

last night i dreamed we were kissing each other, but peters cheeks were very disappointing: they werent as soft as they looked. they were more like fathers cheeks -- the cheeks of a man who already shaves.

friday, march 10, 1944

my dearest kitty,

the proverb "misfortunes never come singly" defi- nitely applies to today. peter just got through saying it. let me tell you all the awful things that have happened and that are still hanging over our heads.

first, miep is sick, as a result of henk and aagjes wedding yesterday. she caught cold in the westerkerk, where the service was held. second, mr. kleiman hasnt returned to work since the last time his stomach started bleeding, so beps been left to hold down the fort alone. third, the police have arrested a man (whose name i wont put in writing). its terrible not only for him, but for us as well, since hes been supplying us with potatoes, butter and jam. mr. m., as ill call him, has five children under the age of thirteen, and another on the way.

last night we had another little scare: we were in the middle of dinner when suddenly someone knocked on the wall next door. for the rest of the evening we were nervous and gloomy.

lately i havent been at all in the mood to write down whats been going on here. ive been more wrapped up in myself. dont get me wrong, im terribly upset about whats happened to poor, good-hearted mr. m., but theres not much room for him in my diary.

tuesday, wednesday and thursday i was in peters room from four-thirty to five-fifteen. we worked on our french and chatted about one thing and another. i really look forward to that hour or so in the afternoon, but best of all is that i think peters just as pleased to see me.

yours, anne 

m. frank

the diary of a young girl 213 saturday, march 11, 1944

dearest kitty,

i havent been able to sit still lately. i wander up- stairs and down and then back again. i like talking to peter, but im always afraid of being a nuisance. hes told me a bit about the past, about his parents and about himself, but its not enough, and every five minutes i wonder why i find myself longing for more. he used to think i was a real pain in the neck, and the feeling was mutual. ive changed my mind, but how do i know hes changed his? i think he has, but that doesnt necessarily mean we have to become the best of friends, although as far as im concerned, it would make our time here more bearable. but i wont let this drive me crazy. i spend enough time thinking about him and dont have to get you all worked up as well, simply because im so miserable!

sunday, march 12, 1944

dearest kitty,

things are getting crazier here as the days go by.

peter hasnt looked at me since yesterday. hes been acting as if hes mad at me. im doing my best not to chase after him and to talk to him as little as possible, but its

not easy! whats going on, what makes him keep me at arms length one minute and rush back to my side the next? perhaps im imagining that its worse than it really is.

perhaps hes just moody like me, and tomorrow everything will be all right again!

i have the hardest time trying to maintain a normal facade when im feeling so wretched and sad. i have to talk, help around the house, sit with the others and, above all, act cheerful! most of all i miss the outdoors and having a place where i can be alone for as long as i want! i think im getting everything all mixed up, kitty, but then, im in a state of utter confusion: on the one hand, im half crazy with desire for him, can hardly be in the same room without looking at him; and on the other hand, i wonder why he should matter to me so much and why i cant be calm again!

day and night, during every waking hour, i do nothing but ask myself, "have you given him enough chance to be alone? have you been spending too much time upstairs? do you talk too much about serious subjects hes not yet ready to talk about? maybe he doesnt even like you? has it all been your imagination? but then why has he told you so much about himself? is he sorry he did?" and a whole lot more.

yesterday afternoon i was so worn out by the sad news from the outside that i lay down on my divan for a nap. all i wanted was to sleep and not have to think. i slept until four, but then i had to go next door. it wasnt easy, answering all mothers questions and inventing an excuse to explain my nap to father. i pleaded a headache, which wasnt a lie, since i did have one. . . on the inside!

ordinary people, ordinary girls, teenagers like myself, would think im a little nuts with all my self-pity. but thats just it. i pour my heart out to you, and the rest of the time im as impudent, cheerful and self-confident as possible to avoid questions and keep from getting on my own nerves.

margot is very kind and would like me to confide in her, but i cant tell her everything. she takes me too seriously, far too seriously, and spends a lot of time thinking about her loony sister, looking at me closely whenever i open my mouth and wondering, "is she acting, or does she really mean it?”

its because were always together. i dont want the person i confide in to be around me all the time. when will i untangle my jumbled thoughts? when will i find inner peace again?

yours, anne 

tuesday, march 14, 1944

dearest kitty,

it might be amusing for you (though not for me) to hear what were going to eat today. the cleaning lady is working downstairs, so at the moment im seated at the van daans oilcloth-covered table with a handkerchief sprinkled with fragrant prewar perfume pressed to my nose and mouth. you probably dont have the faintest idea what im talking about, so let me "begin at the begin- ning." the people who supply us with food coupons have been arrested, so we have just our five black-market ra- -, tion books-no coupons, no fats and oils. since miep and mr. kleiman are sick again, bep cant manage the shop- ping. the food is wretched, and so are we. as of tomor- row, we wont have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine. we cant eat fried potatoes for breakfast (which weve been doing to save on bread), so were having hot cereal instead, and because mrs. van d. thinks were starving, we bought some half-and-half. lunch today consists of mashed potatoes and pickled kale. this explains the precautionary measure with the handkerchief. you wouldnt believe how much kale can stink when its a few years old! the kitchen smells like a mixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggs and brine. ugh, just the thought of having to eat that muck makes me want to throw up! besides that, our potatoes have contracted such strange diseases that one out of every two buckets of pommes de terre winds up in the garbage. we entertain ourselves by trying to figure out which disease theyve got, and weve reached the conclusion that they suffer from cancer, smallpox and measles.

honestly, being in hiding during the fourth year of the war is no picnic. if only the whole stinking mess were over!

to tell you the truth, the food wouldnt matter so much to me if life here were more pleasant in other ways. but thats just it: this tedious existence is starting to make us all disagreeable. here are the opinions of the five grown-ups on the present situation (children arent allowed to have opinions, and for once im sticking to the rules):

mrs. van daan: "id stopped wanting to be queen of the kitchen long ago. but sitting around doing nothing was boring, so i went back to cooking. still, i cant help complaining: its impossible to cook without oil, and all those disgusting smells make me sick to my stomach. besides, what do i get in return for my efforts? ingratitude and rude remarks. im always the black sheep; i get blamed for everything. whats more, its my opinion that the war is making very little progress. the germans will win in the end. im terrified that were going to starve, and when im in a bad mood, i snap at everyone who comes near.”

mr. van daan: "i just smoke and smoke and smoke. then the food, the political

situation and kerlis moods dont seem so bad. kerlis a sweetheart. if i dont have anything to smoke, i get sick, then i need to eat meat, life becomes unbearable, nothings good enough, and theres bound to be a flaming row. my kerlis an idiot.”

mrs. frank: "foods not very important, but id love a slice of rye bread right now, because im so hungry. if i were mrs. van daan, id have put a stop to mr. van daans smoking long ago. but i desperately need a cigarette now, because my heads in such a whirl. the van daans are horrible people; the english may make a lot of mistakes, but the war is progressing. i should keep my mouth shut and be grateful im not in poland.”

mr. frank: "everythings fine, i dont need a thing. stay calm, weve got plenty of time. just give me my potatoes, and ill be quiet. better set aside some of my rations for bep. the political situation is improving, im extremely optimistic.”

mr. dussel: "i must complete the task ive set for myself, everything must be finished on time. the political situation is looking gut, its eempossible for us to get caught.

me, me, me . . . .”

yours, anne 

thursday, march 16, 1944

dearest kitty,

whew! released from the gloom and doom for a few moments! all ive been hearing today is: "if this and that happens, were in trouble, and if so-and-so gets sick, well be left to fend for ourselves, and if . . .”

well, you know the rest, or at any rate i assume youre famthar enough with the residents of the annex to guess what theyd be talking about.

the reason for all the "ifs" is that mr. kugler has been called up for a six-day work detail, bep is down with a bad cold and will probably have to stay home tomorrow, miep hasnt gotten over her flu, and mr. kleimans stom- ach bled so much he lost consciousness. what a tale of woe!

we think mr. kugler should go directly to a reliable doctor for a medical certificate of ill health, which he can present to the city hall in hilversum. the warehouse -- employees have been given a day off tomorrow, so bep will be alone in the office. if (theres another "if) bep has to stay home, the door will remain locked and well have

to be as quiet as mice so the keg company wont hear us. at one oclock jan will come for half an hour to check on us poor forsaken souls, like a zookeeper.

this afternoon, for the first time in ages, jan gave us some news of the outside world. you should have seen us gathered around him; it looked exactly like a print:

"at grandmothers knee.”

he regaled his grateful audience with talk of-what else?-food. mrs. p., a friend of mieps, has been cooking his meals. the day before yesterday jan ate carrots with green peas, yesterday he had the leftovers, today shes cooking marrowfat peas, and tomorrow shes plan- ning to mash the remaining carrots with potatoes.

we asked about mieps doctor.

"doctor?" said jan. "what doctor? i called him this morning and got his secretary on the line. i asked for a flu prescription and was told i could come pick it up tomor- row morning between eight and nine. if youve got a particularly bad case of flu, the doctor himself comes to the phone and says, stick out your tongue and say "aah.”

oh, i can hear it, your throats infected. ill write out a prescription and you can bring it to the phar- macy. good day. and thats that. easy job hes got, diagnosis by phone. but i shouldnt blame the doctors." after all, a person has only two hands, and these days therere too many patients and too few doctors.”

still, we all had a good laugh at jans phone call. i can just imagine what a doctors waiting room looks like these days. doctors no longer turn up their noses at the poorer patients, but at those with minor illnesses. "hey, what are you doing here?”

they think. "go to the end of the line; real patients have priority!”

yours, anne 

thursday, march 16, 1944

dearest kitty,

the weather is gorgeous, indescribably beautiful; ill be going up to the attic in a moment.

i now know why im so much more restless than peter. he has his own room, where he can work, dream, think and sleep. im constantly being chased from one corner to another. im never alone in the room i share with dussel, though i long to be so much. thats another reason i take refuge in the attic. when im there, or with you, i

can be myself, at least for a little while. still, i dont want to moan and groan. on the contrary, i want to be brave!

thank goodness the others notice nothing of my innermost feelings, except that every day im growing cooler and more contemptuous of mother, less affection- ate to father and less willing to share a single thought with margot; im closed up tighter than a drum. above all, i have to maintain my air of confidence. no one must know that my heart and mind are constantly at war with each other. up to now reason has always won the battle, but will my emotions get the upper hand? sometimes i fear they will, but more often i actually hope they do!

oh, its so terribly hard not to talk to peter about these things, but i know i have to let him begin; its so hard to act during the daytime as if everything ive said and done in my dreams had never taken place! kitty, anne is crazy, but then these are crazy times and even crazier circumstances.

the nicest part is being able to write down all my thoughts and feelings; otherwise, id absolutely suffocate. i wonder what peter thinks about all these things? i keep thinking ill be able to talk to him about them one day. he must have guessed something about the inner me, since he couldnt possibly love the outer anne hes known so far! how could someone like peter, who loves peace and quiet, possibly stand my bustle and noise? will he be the first and only person to see whats beneath my granite mask? will it take him long? isnt there some old saying about love being akin to pity? isnt that whats happening here as well? because i often pity him as much as i do myself!

i honestly dont know how to begin, i really dont, so how can i expect peter to when talking is so much harder for him? if only i could write to him, then at least hed know what i was trying to say, since its so hard to say it out loud!

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, march 17, 1944

my dearest darling, everything turned out all right after all; bep just had a sore throat, not the flu, and mr. kugler got a medical certificate to excuse him from the work detail. the entire annex breathed a huge sigh of relief. everythings fine here! except that margot and i are rather tired of our parents.

dont get me wrong. i still love father as much as ever and margot loves both father and mother, but when youre as old as we are, you want to make a few decisions for yourself, get out from under their thumb. whenever i go upstairs, they ask what im going to do, they wont let me salt my food, mother asks me every evening at eight-fifteen if it isnt time for me to change into my nighty, i and they have to approve every book i read. i must admit, theyre not at all strict about that and let me read nearly everything, but margot and i are sick and tired of having to listen to their comments and questions all day long.

theres something else that displeases them: i no longer feel like giving them little kisses morning, noon and night. all those cute nicknames seem so affected, and fathers fondness for talking about farting and going to the bathroom is disgusting. in short, id like nothing better than to do without their company for a while, and they dont understand that. not that margot and i have ever said any of this to them. what would be the point? they wouldnt understand anyway.

margot said last night, "what really bothers me is that if you happen to put your head in your hands and sigh once or twice, they immediately ask whether you have a headache or dont feel well.”

for both of us, its been quite a blow to suddenly realize that very little remains of the close and harmoni- ous family we used to have at home! this is mostly because everythings out of kilter here. by that i mean that were treated like children when it comes to external matters, while, inwardly, were much older than other girls our age.

even though im only fourteen, i know what i want, i know whos right and whos wrong, i have my own opinions, ideas and principles, and though it may sound odd coming from a teenager, i feel im more of a person than a child -- i feel im completely independent of others. i know im better at debating or carrying on a discussion than mother, i know im more objective, i dont exaggerate as much, im much tidier and better with my hands, and because of that i feel (this may make you laugh) that im superior to her in many ways. to love someone, i have to admire and respect the person, but i feel neither respect nor admiration for mother!

everything would be all right if only i had peter, since i admire him in many ways.

hes so decent and clever!

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, march 18, 1944

dearest kitty,

ive told you more about myself and my feelings than ive ever told a living soul, so why shouldnt that include sex?

parents, and people in general, are very peculiar when it comes to sex. instead of telling their sons and daughters everything at the age of twelve, they send the children out of the room the moment the subject arises and leave them to find out everything on their own. later on, when parents notice that their children have, somehow, come by their information, they assume they know more (or less) than they actually do. so why dont they try to make amends by asking them whats what?

a major stumbling block for the adults -- though in my opinion its no more than a pebble -- is that theyre afraid their children will no longer look upon marriage as sacred and pure once they realize that, in most cases, this purity is a lot of nonsense.

as far as im concerned, its not wrong for a man to bring a little experience to a marriage. after all, it has nothing to do with the marriage itself, does it?

soon after i turned eleven, they told me about menstruation. but even then, i had no idea where the blood came from or what it was for. when i was twelve and a half, i learned some more from jacque, who wasnt as ignorant as i was. my own intuition told me what a man and a woman do when theyre together; it seemed like a crazy idea at first, but when jacque confirmed it, i was proud of myself for having figured it out!

it was also jacque who told me that children didnt come out of their mothers tummies. as she put it, "where the ingredients go in is where the finished product comes out!" jacque and i found out about the hymen, and quite a few other details, from a book on sex education. i also knew that you could keep from having children, but how that worked inside your body remained a mystery. when i came here, father told me about prostitutes, etc., but all in all there are still unanswered questions.

if mothers dont tell their children everything, they hear it in bits and pieces, and that cant be right.

even though its saturday, im not bored! thats because ive been up in the attic with peter. i sat there dreaming with my eyes closed, and it was wonderful.

yours, anne 

m. frank

sunday, march 19, 1944

dearest kitty,

yesterday was a very important day for me. after lunch everything was as usual. at five i put on the potatoes, and mother gave me some blood sausage to take to peter.

i didnt want to at first, but i finally went. he wouldnt accept the sausage, and i had the dreadful feel- ing it was still because of that argument wed had about distrust.

suddenly i couldnt bear it a moment longer and my eyes filled with tears. without another word, i re- turned the platter to mother and went to the bathroom to have a good cry. afterward i decided to talk things out with peter. before dinner the four of us were helping him with a crossword puzzle, so i couldnt say anything. but as we were sitting down to eat, i whispered to him, "are you going to practice your shorthand tonight, peter?”

"no," was his reply.

"id like to talk to you later on.”

he agreed.

after the dishes were done, i went to his room and asked if hed refused the sausage because of our last quar- rel. luckily, that wasnt the reason; he just thought it was bad manners to seem so eager. it had been very hot downstairs and my face was as red as a lobster. so after taking down some water for margot, i went back up to get a little fresh air. for the sake of appearances, i first went and stood beside the van daans window before going to peters room. he was standing on the left side of the open window, so i went over to the right side. its much easier to talk next to an open window in semidarkness than in broad daylight, and i think peter felt the same way. we told each other so much, so very much, that i cant repeat it all. but it felt good; it was the most won- derful evening ive ever had in the annex. ill give you a brief description of the various subjects we touched on.

first we talked about the quarrels and how i see them in a very different light these days, and then about how weve become alienated from our parents. i told peter about mother and father and margot and myself. at one point he asked, "you always give each other a good-night kiss, dont you?”

"one? dozens of them. you dont, do you?”

"no, ive never really kissed anyone.”

"not even on your birthday?"

"yeah, on my birthday i have.”

we talked about how neither of us really trusts our parents, and how his parents love each other a great deal and wish hed confide in them, but that he doesnt want to.

how i cry my heart out in bed and he goes up to the loft and swears. how margot and i have only recently gotten to know each other and yet still tell each other very little, since were always together. we talked about every imaginable thing, about trust, feelings and ourselves. oh, kitty, he was just as i thought he would be.

then we talked about the year 1942, and how different we were back then; we dont even recognize ourselves from that period. how we couldnt stand each other at first.

hed thought i was a noisy pest, and id quickly concluded that he was nothing special.

i didnt understand why he didnt flirt with me, but now im glad. he also mentioned how he often used to retreat to his room. i said that my noise and exuberance and his silence were two sides of the same coin, and that i also liked peace and quiet but dont have anything for myself alone, except my diary, and that everyone would rather see the back of me, starting with mr. dussel, and that i dont always want to sit with my parents. we discussed how glad he is that my parents have children and how glad i am that hes here.

how i now understand his need to withdraw and his relationship to his parents, and how much id like to help him when they argue.

"but youre always a help to me!" he said.

"how?" i asked, greatly surprised.

"by being cheerful.”

that was the nicest thing he said all evening. he also told me that he didnt mind my coming to his room the way he used to; in fact, he liked it. i also told him that all of fathers and mothers pet names were meaningless, that a kiss here and there didnt automatically lead to trust. we also talked about doing things your own way, the diary, loneliness, the difference between everyones inner and outer selves, my mask, etc.

it was wonderful. he must have come to love me as a friend, and, for the time being, thats enough. im so grateful and happy, i cant find the words. i must apolo- gize, kitty, since my style is not up to my usual standard today. ive just written whatever came into my head!

i have the feeling that peter and i share a secret. whenever he looks at me with those eyes, with that smile and that wink, its as if a light goes on inside me. i hope things will stay like this and that well have many, many more happy hours together.

your grateful and happy anne monday, march 20, 1944

dearest kitty,

this morning peter asked me if id come again one evening. he swore i wouldnt be disturbing him, and said that where there was room for one, there was room for two.

i said i couldnt see him every evening, since my parents didnt think it was a good idea, but he thought i shouldnt let that bother me. so i told him id like to come some saturday evening and also asked him if hed let me know when you could see the moon.

"sure," he said, "maybe we can go downstairs and look at the moon from there." i agreed; im not really so scared of burglars.

in the meantime, a shadow has fallen on my happiness. for a long time ive had the feeling that margot likes peter. just how much i dont know, but the whole situation is very unpleasant. now every time i go see peter im hurting her, without meaning to.

the funny thing is that she hardly lets it show. i know id be insanely jealous, but margot just says i shouldnt feel sorry for her.

"i think its so awful that youve become the odd one out," i added.

"im used to that," she replied, somewhat bitterly.

i dont dare tell peter. maybe later on, but he and i need to discuss so many other things first.

mother slapped me last night, which i deserved. i mustnt carry my indifference and contempt for her too far. in spite of everything, i should try once again to be friendly and keep my remarks to myself!

even pim isnt as nice as he used to be. hes been trying not to treat me like a child, but now hes much too cold. well just have to see what comes of it! hes warned me that if i dont do my algebra, i wont get any tutoring after the war. i could simply wait and see what happens, but id like to start again, provided i get a new book.

thats enough for now. i do nothing but gaze at peter, and im filled to overflowing!

yours, anne 

m. frank

evidence of margots goodness. i received this today, march 20, 1944:

anne, yesterday when i said i wasnt jeal- ous of you, i wasnt being entirely honest.

the situation is this: im not jealous of either you or peter. im just sorry i havent found anyone willi whom to share my thoughts and feelings, and im not likely to in the near future. but thats why i wish, from the bottom of my heart, that you will both be able to place your trust in each other. youre already missing out on so much here, things other people take for granted.

on the other hand, im certain id never have gotten as far with peter, because i think id need to feel very close to a person before i could share my thoughts. id want to have the feeling that he understood me through and through, even if i didnt say much.

for this reason it would have to be someone i felt was intellectually superior to me, and that isnt the case with peter. but i can imagine your feeling close to him.

so theres no need for you to reproach yourself because you think you te taking something i was entitled to; nothing could be further from the truth. you and peter have everything to gain by your friendship.

my answer:

dearest margot, your letter was extremely kind, but i still dont feel completely happy about the situation, and i dont think i ever will.

at the moment, peter and i dont trust each other as much as you seem to think. its just that when youre standing beside an open window at twthght, you can say more to each other than in bright sunshine. its also easier to whisper your feelings than to shout them from the rooftops. i think youve begun to feel a kind of sisterly affection for peter and would like to help him, just as much as i would. perhaps youll be able to do that someday, though thats not the kind of trust we have in mind. i believe that trust has to corne from both sides; i also think thats the reason why father and i have never really grown so close. but lets not talk about it anymore. if theres anything you still want to discuss, please write, because its easier for me to say what i mean as on paper than face-to-face. you know how le much i admire you, and only

hope that some of your goodness and fathers goodness will rub off on me, because, in that sense, you two are a lot alike.

yours, anne 

wednesday, march 22,1944

dearest kitty,

i received this letter last night from margot:

dear anne, after your letter of yesterday i have the unpleasant feeling that your conscience bothers you whenever you go to peters to work or talk; theres really no reason for that. in my heart, i know theres someone who deserves t my trust (as i do his), and i wouldnt be able to tolerate peter in his place.

however, as you wrote, i do think of peter as a kind of brother. . . a younger brother; weve been sending out feelers, and a brotherly and sisterly affection mayor may not develop at some later date, but its certainly not reached that stage yet. so theres no need for you to feel sorry for me. now that youve found companionship, enjoy it as much as you can.

in the meantime, things are getting more and more wonderful here. i think, kitty, that true love may be developing in the annex. all those jokes about marrying peter if we stayed here long enough werent so silly after all. not that im thinking of marrying him, mind you. i dont even know what hell be like when he grows up. or if well even love each other enough to get married.

im sure now that peter loves me too; i just dont know in what way. i cant figure out if he wants only a good friend, or if hes attracted to me as a girl or as a sister.

when he said i always helped him when his parents were arguing, i was tremendously happy; it was one step toward making me believe in his friendship. i asked him yesterday what hed do if there were a dozen annes who kept popping in to see him.

his answer was: "if they were all like you, it wouldnt be so bad." hes extremely hospitable, and i think he really likes to see me. mean- while, hes been working hard at learning french, even studying in bed until ten-fifteen.

oh, when i think back to saturday night, to our words, our voices, i feel satisfied with myself for the very first time; what i mean is, id still say the same and wouldnt

want to change a thing, the way i usually do. hes so handsome, whether hes smthng or just sitting still. hes so sweet and good and beautiful. i think what surprised him most about me was when he discovered that im not at all the superficial, worldly anne i appear to be, but a dreamer, like he is, with just as many troubles!

last night after the dinner dishes, i waited for him to ask me to stay upstairs. but nothing happened; i went away. he came downstairs to tell dussel it was time to listen to the radio and hung around the bathroom for a while, but when dussel took too long, he went back upstairs. he paced up and down his room and went to bed early.

the entire evening i was so restless i kept going to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. i read a bit, daydreamed some more, looked at the clock and waited, waited, waited, all the while listening to his foot- steps. i went to bed early, exhausted.

tonight i have to take a bath, and tomorrow?

tomorrows so far away!

yours, anne 

m. frank

my answer:

dearest margot, i think the best thing is simply to wait and see what happens. it cant be much longer before peter and i will have to decide whether to go back to the way we were or do some- thing else. i dont know how itll turn out; i cant see any farther than the end of my nose.

but im certain of one thing: if peter and i do become friends, im going to tell him youre also very fond of him and are prepared to help him if he needs you. you wouldnt want me to, im sure, but i dont care; i dont know what peter thinks of you, but ill ask him when the time comes. its certainly nothing bad -- on the contrary! youre welcome to join us in the attic, or wherever we are. you wont be disturbing us, because we have an unspoken agreement to talk only in the evenings when its dark.

keep your spirits up! im doing my best, though its not always easy. your time may come sooner than you think.

yours, anne 

thursday, march 23, 1944

dearest kitty,

things are more or less back to normal here. our coupon men have been released from prison, thank goodness!

mieps been back since yesterday, but today it was her husbands turn to take to his bed-chills and fever, the usual flu symptoms. bep is better, though she still has a cough, and mr. kleiman will have to stay home for a long time.

yesterday a plane crashed nearby. the crew was able to parachute out in time. it crashed on top of a school, but luckily there were no children inside. there was a small fire and a couple of people were killed. as the airmen made their descent, the germans sprayed them with bullets. the amsterdammers who saw it seethed with rage at such a dastardly deed. we-by which i mean the ladies-were also scared out of our wits. brrr, i hate the sound of gunfire.

now about myself.

i was with peter yesterday and, somehow, i honestly dont know how, we wound up talking about sex. id made up my mind a long time ago to ask him a few things. he knows everything; when i said that margot and i werent very well informed, he was amazed. i told him a lot about margot and me and mother and father and said that lately i didnt dare ask them anything. he offered to enlighten me, and i gratefully accepted: he described how contraceptives work, and i asked him very boldly how boys could tell they were grown up. he had to think about that one; he said hed tell me tonight. i told him what had happened to jacque, and said that girls are defenseless against strong boys. "well, you dont have to be afraid of me," he said.

when i came back that evening, he told me how it is with boys. slightly embarrassing, but still awfully nice to be able to discuss it with him. neither he nor i had ever imagined wed be able to talk so openly to a girl or a boy, respectively, about such intimate matters. i think i know everything now. he told me a lot about what he called prasentivmitteln* [* should be praservativmitteln: prophylactics] in german.

that night in the bathroom margot and i were talking about bram and trees, two friends of hers.

this morning i was in for a nasty surprise: after breakfast peter beckoned me upstairs. "that was a dirty trick you played on me," he said. "i heard what you and margot were saying in the bathroom last night. i think you just wanted to find out how much peter knew and then have a good laugh!”

i was stunned! i did everything i could to talk him out of that outrageous idea; i could understand how he must have felt, but it just wasnt true!

"oh no, peter," i said. "id never be so mean. i told you i wouldnt pass on anything you said to me and i wont. to put on an act like that and then deliberately be so mean. . . no,peter, thats not my idea ofa joke.

it wouldnt be fair. i didnt say anything, honest. wont you believe me?" he assured me he did, but i think well have to talk about it again sometime. ive done nothing all day but worry about it. thank goodness he came right out and said what was on his mind. imagine if hed gone around thinking i could be that mean. hes so sweet!

now ill have to tell him everything!

yours, anne 

friday, march 24, 1944

dear kitty,

i often go up to peters room after dinner nowadays to breathe in the fresh evening air. you can get around to meaningful conversations more quickly in the dark than with the sun tickling your face. its cozy and snug sitting beside him on a chair and looking outside. the van daans and dussel make the silliest remarks when i disappear into his room. "annes zweite heimat,"* [* annes second home] they say, or "is it proper for a gentleman to receive young girls in his room at night with the lights out?" peter has amazing presence of mind in the face of these so-called witticisms. my mother, incidentally, is also bursting with curiosity and simply dying to ask what we talk about, only shes secretly afraid id refuse to answer. peter says the grown-ups are just jealous because were young and that we shouldnt take their obnoxious comments to heart.

sometimes he comes downstairs to get me, but thats awkward too, because in spite of all his precautions his face turns bright red and he can hardly get the words out of his mouth. im glad i dont blush; it must be extremely unpleasant.

besides, it bothers me that margot has to sit downstairs all by herself, while im upstairs enjoying peters company. but what can i do about it? i wouldnt mind it if she came, but shed just be the odd one out, sitting there like a lump on a log.

ive had to listen to countless remarks about our sudden friendship. i cant tell you how often the conversation at meals has been about an annex wedding, should the war last another five years. do we take any notice of this parental chitchat? hardly, since its all so silly. have my parents forgotten that they were young once? apparently they have. at any rate, they laugh at us when were serious, and theyre serious when were joking.

i dont know whats going to happen next, or whether well run out of things to say.

but if it goes on like this, well eventually be able to be together without talking. if only his parents would stop acting so strangely. its probably because they dont like seeing me so often; peter and i certainly never tell them what we talk about. imagine if they knew we were discussing such intimate things.

id like to ask peter whether he knows what girls look like down there. i dont think boys are as complicated as girls. you can easily see what boys look like in photographs or pictures of male nudes, but with women its different. in women, the genitals, or whatever theyre called, are hidden between their legs. peter has probably never seen a girl up close. to tell you the truth, neither have i. boys are a lot easier.

how on earth would i go about describing a girls parts? i can tell from what he said that he doesnt know exactly how it all fits together. he was talking about the "muttermund," [* cervix], but thats on the inside, where you cant see it. everythings pretty well arranged in us women. until i was eleven or twelve, i didnt realize there was a second set of labia on the inside, since you couldnt see them. whats even funnier is that i thought urine came out of the clitoris. i asked mother one time what that little bump was, and she said she didnt know. she can really play dumb when she wants to!

but to get back to the subject. how on earth can you explain what it all looks like without any models?

shall i try anyway? okay, here goes!

when youre standing up, all you see from the front is hair. between your legs there are two soft, cushiony things, also covered with hair, which press together when youre standing, so you cant see whats inside. they separate when you sit down, and theyre very red and quite fleshy on the inside. in the upper part, between the outer

labia, theres a fold of skin that, on second thought, looks like a kind of blister. thats the clitoris. then come the inner labia, which are also pressed together in a kind of crease. when they open up, you can see a fleshy little mound, no bigger than the top of my thumb. the upper part has a couple of small holes in it, which is where the urine comes out. the lower part looks as if it were just skin, and yet thats where the vagina is. you can barely find it, because the folds of skin hide the opening. the holes so small i can hardly imagine how a man could get in there, much less how a baby could come out. its hard enough trying to get your index finger inside. thats all there is, and yet it plays such an important role!

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, march 25, 1944

dearest kitty,

you never realize how much youve changed until after its happened. ive changed quite drastically, everything about me is different: my opinions, ideas, critical outlook.

inwardly, outwardly, nothings the same. and, i might safely add, since its true, ive changed for the better. i once told you that, after years of being adored, it was hard for me to adjust to the harsh reality of grown-ups and rebukes. but father and mother are largely to blame for my having to put up with so much. at home they wanted me to enjoy life, which was fine, but here they shouldnt have encouraged me to agree with them and only shown me "their" side of all the quarrels and gossip. it was a long time before i discovered the score was fifty-fifty. i now know that many blunders have been committed here, by young and old alike. father and mothers biggest mistake in dealing with the van daans is that theyre never candid and friendly (admittedly, the friendliness might have to be feigned). above all, i want to keep the peace, and to neither quarrel nor gossip. with father and margot thats not difficult, but it is with mother, which is why im glad she gives me an occasional rap on the knuckles. you can win mr. van daan to your side by agreeing with him, listening quietly, not saying much and most of all . . . responding to his teasing and his corny jokes with a joke of your own. mrs. van d. can be won over by talking openly to her and admitting when youre wrong. she also frankly admits her faults, of which she has many. i know all too well that she doesnt think as badly of me as she did in the beginning. and thats simply because im honest and tell people right to their faces what i think, even when its not very flattering. i want to be honest; i think it gets you further and also makes you feel better about yourself.

yesterday mrs. van d. was talking about the rice we gave mr. kleiman. "all we do is give, give, give. but at a certain point i think that enough is enough. if hed only take

the trouble, mr. kleiman could scrounge up his own rice. why should we give away all our supplies? we need them just as badly.”

"no, mrs. van daan," i replied. "i dont agree with you. mr. kleiman may very well be able to get hold of a little rice, but he doesnt like having to worry about it. its not our place to criticize the people who are helping us. we should give them whatever they need if we can possibly spare it. one less pl
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APRIL, 1944

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saturday, april 1, 1944

my dearest kitty,

and yet everything is still so difficult. you do know what i mean, dont you? i long so much for him to kiss me, but that kiss is taking its own sweet time. does he still think of me as a friend? dont i mean anything more?

you and i both know that im strong, that i can carry most burdens alone. ive never been used to sharing my worries with anyone, and ive never clung to a mother, but id love to lay my head on his shoulder and just sit there quietly.

i cant, i simply cant forget that dream of peters cheek, when everything was so good! does he have the same longing? is he just too shy to say he loves me? why does he want me near him so much? oh, why doesnt he say something?

ive got to stop, ive got to be calm. ill try to be strong again, and if im patient, the rest will follow. but -- and this is the worst part -- i seem to be chasing him. im always the one who has to go upstairs; he never comes to me. but thats because of

the rooms, and he understands why i object. oh, im sure he understands more than i think .

yours, anne 

m. frank

monday, april 3, 1944

my dearest kitty,

contrary to my usual practice, im going to write you a detailed description of the food situation, since its become a matter of some difficulty and importance, not only here in the annex, but in all of holland, all of europe and even beyond.

in the twenty-one months weve lived here, weve been through a good many "food cycles" -- youll understand what that means in a moment. a "food cycle" is a period in which we have only one particular dish or type of vegetable to eat. for a long time we ate nothing but endive. endive with sand, endive without sand, endive with mashed potatoes, endive-and-mashed potato casserole. then it was spinach, followed by kohlrabi, salsify, cucumbers, tomatoes, sauerkraut, etc., etc.

its not much fun when you have to eat, say, sauer- kraut every day for lunch and dinner, but when youre hungry enough, you do a lot of things. now, however, were going through the most delightful period so far, because there are no vegetables at all.

our weekly lunch menu consists of brown beans, split-pea soup, potatoes with dumplings, potato kugel and, by the grace of god, turnip greens or rotten carrots, and then its back to brown beans. because of the bread shortage, we eat potatoes at every meal, starting with breakfast, but then we fry them a little. to make soup we use brown beans, navy beans, potatoes, packages of vege- table soup, packages of chicken soup and packages of bean soup. there are brown beans in everything, including the bread. for dinner we always have potatoes with imitation gravy and -- thank goodness weve still got it -- beet salad. i must tell you about the dumplings.

we make them with government-issue flour, water and yeast. theyre so gluey and tough that it feels as if you had rocks in your stomach, but oh well!

the high point is our weekly slice of liverwurst, and the jam on our unbuttered bread.

but were still alive, and much of the time it still tastes good too!

yours, anne 

m. frank

wednesday, april 5, 1944

my dearest kitty,

for a long time now i didnt know why i was bothering to do any schoolwork. the end of the war still seemed so far away, so unreal, like a fairy tale. if the war isnt over by september, i wont go back to school, since i dont want to be two years behind.

peter filled my days, nothing but peter, dreams and thoughts until saturday night, when i felt so utterly miserable; oh, it was awful. i held back my tears when i was with peter, laughed uproariously with the van daans as we drank lemon punch and was cheerful and excited, but the minute i was alone i knew i was going to cry my eyes out. i slid to the floor in my nightgown and began by saying my prayers, very fervently. then i drew my knees to my chest, lay my head on my arms and cried, all huddled up on the bare floor. a loud sob brought me back down to earth, and i choked back my tears, since i didnt want anyone next door to hear me. then i tried to pull myself together, saying over and over, "i must, i must, i must. . . " stiff from sitting in such an unusual position, i fell back against the side of the bed and kept up my struggle until just before ten-thirty, when i climbed back into bed. it was over!

and now its really over. i finally realized that i must do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because thats what i want! i know i can write. a few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the secret annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but. . . it remains to be seen whether i really have talent.

"evas dream" is my best fairy tale, and the odd thing is that i dont have the faintest idea where it came from. parts of "cadys life" are also good, but as a whole its nothing special. im my best and harshest critic. i know whats good and what isnt.

unless you write yourself, you cant know how wonderful it is; i always used to bemoan the fact that i couldnt draw, but now im overjoyed that at least i can write.

and if i dont have the talent to write books or newspaper articles, i can always write for myself. but i want to achieve more than that. i cant imagine having to live like mother, mrs. van daan and all the women who go about their work and are then forgotten. i need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to! i dont want to have lived in vain like most people. i want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those ive never met. i want to go on living even after my death! and thats why im so grateful to god for having given me this gift, which i can use to develop myself and to express all thats inside me!

when i write i can shake off all my cares. my sor- row disappears, my spirits are

revived! but, and thats a big question, will i ever be able to write something great, will i ever become a journalist or a writer?

i hope so, oh, i hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies.

i havent worked on "cadys life" for ages. in my mind ive worked out exactly what happens next, but the story doesnt seem to be coming along very well. i might never finish it, and itll wind up in the wastepaper basket or the stove. thats a horrible thought, but then i say to myself, "at the age of fourteen and with so little experience, you cant write about philosophy.”

so onward and upward, with renewed spirits. itll all work out, because im determined to write!

yours, anne 

m. frank

thursday, april 6, 1944

dearest kitty,

you asked me what my hobbies and interests are and id like to answer, but id better warn you, i have lots of them, so dont be surprised.

first of all: writing, but i dont really think of that as a hobby.

number two: genealogical charts. im looking in every newspaper, book and document i can find for the family trees of the french, german, spanish, english, austrian, russian, norwegian and dutch royal famthes. ive made great progress with many of them, because for ! a long time ive been taking notes while reading biogra- i, phies or history books. i even copy out many of the passages on history.

so my third hobby is history, and fathers already bought me numerous books. i can hardly wait for the day when ill be able to go to the public library and ferret out iii the information i need.

number four is greek and roman mythology. i have various books on this subject too.

i can name the nine muses and the seven loves of zeus. i have the wives of hercules, etc., etc., down pat.

my other hobbies are movie stars and family photographs. im crazy about reading and

books. i adore the history of the arts, especially when it concerns writers, poets and painters; musicians may come later. i loathe algebra, geometry and arithmetic. i enjoy all my other school subjects, but historys my favorite!

yours, anne 

m. frank

tuesday, april 11, 1944

my dearest kitty,

my heads in a whirl, i really dont know where to begin. thursday (the last time i wrote you) everything was as usual. friday afternoon (good friday) we played monopoly; saturday afternoon too. the days passed very quickly. around two oclock on saturday, heavy firing ii began-machine guns, according to the men. for the rest, everything was quiet.

sunday afternoon peter came to see me at four-thirty, at my invitation. at five-fifteen we went to the ii front attic, where we stayed until six. there was a beautil ful mozart concert on the radio from six to seven-fifteen; i especially enjoyed the kleine nachtmusik. i can hardly bear to listen in the kitchen, since beautiful music stirs me to the very depths of my soul. sunday evening peter couldnt take his balli, because the washtub was down in the office kitchen, filled with laundry. the two of us went to the front attic together, and in order to be able to sit comfortably, i took along the only cushion i could find in my room. we seated ourselves on a packing crate. since both the crate and the cushion were very narrow, we were sitting quite close, leaning against two other crates; mouschi kept us company, so we werent without a chaperon. suddenly, at a quarter to nine, mr. van daan whistled and asked if we had mr. dussels cushion. we jumped up and went downstairs willi the cushion, the cat and mr. van daan. this cushion was the source of much misery. dussel was angry because id taken the one he uses as a pillow, and he was afraid it might be covered with fleas; he had the entire house in an uproar because of this one cushion. in revenge, peter and i stuck two hard brushes in his bed, but had to take them out again when dussel unexpectedly decided to go sit in his room. we had a really good laugh at this little intermezzo.

but our fun was short-lived. at nine-thirty peter knocked gently on the door and asked father to come upstairs and help him with a difficult english sentence.

"that sounds fishy," i said to margot. "its obviously a pretext. you can tell by the way the men are talking that theres been a break-in!" i was right. the warehouse was being broken into at that very moment. father, mr. van daan and peter were

downstairs in a flash. margot, mother, mrs. van d. and i waited. four frightened women need to talk, so thats what we did until we heard a bang downstairs. after that all was quiet. the clock struck quarter to ten. the color had drained from our faces, but we remained calm, even though we were afraid. where were the men? what was that bang? were they fighting with the burglars? we were too scared to think; all we could do was wait.

ten oclock, footsteps on the stairs. father, pale and nervous, came inside, followed by mr. van daan. "lights out, tiptoe upstairs, were expecting the police!" there wasnt time to be scared. the lights were switched off, i grabbed a jacket, and we sat down upstairs.

"what happened? tell us quickly!”

there was no one to tell us; the men had gone back downstairs. the four of them didnt come back up until ten past ten. two of them kept watch at peters open window. the door to the landing was locked, the book- case shut. we draped a sweater over our night-light, and then they told us what had happened:

peter was on the landing when he heard two loud bangs. he went downstairs and saw that a large panel was missing from the left half of the warehouse door. he dashed upstairs, alerted the "home guard," and the four of them went downstairs. when they entered the warehouse, the burglars were going about their business. without thinking, mr. van daan yelled "police!" hur- ried footsteps outside; the burglars had fled. the board was put back in the door so the police wouldnt notice the gap, but then a swift kick from outside sent it flying to the floor. the men were amazed at the burglars audacity. both peter and mr. van daan felt a murderous rage come over them. mr. van daan slammed an ax against the floor, and all was quiet again. once more the panel was re- placed, and once more the attempt was foiled. outside, a man and a woman shone a glaring flashlight through the opening, lighting up the entire warehouse. "what the . . ." mumbled one of the men, but now their roles had been reversed. instead of policemen, they were now burglars. all four of them raced upstairs. dussel and mr.

van daan snatched up dussels books, peter opened the doors and windows in the kitchen and private office, hurled the phone to the ground, and the four of them finally ended up behind the bookcase.

end of part one in all probability the man and woman with the flashlight had alerted the police. it was sunday night, easter sunday. the next day, easter monday, the office was going to be closed, which meant we wouldnt be able to move around until tuesday morning.

think of it, having to sit in such terror for a day and two nights! we thought of nothing, but simply sat there in pitch darkness -- in her fear, mrs. van d. had switched off the lamp. we whispered, and every time we heard a creak, someone said, "shh, shh.”

it was ten-thirty, then eleven. not a sound. father and mr. van daan took turns coming upstairs to us. then, at eleven-fifteen, a noise below. up above you could hear the whole family breathing. for the rest, no one moved a muscle. footsteps in the house, the private office, the kitchen, then. . . on the staircase. all sounds of breathing stopped, eight hearts pounded. foot- steps on the stairs, then a rattling at the bookcase. this moment is indescribable.

"now were done for," i said, and i had visions of all fifteen of us being dragged away by the gestapo that very night.

more rattling at the bookcase, twice. then we heard a can fall, and the footsteps receded. we were out of danger, so far! a shiver went though everyones body, i heard several sets of teeth chattering, no one said a word. we stayed like this until eleven-thirty.

there were no more sounds in the house, but a light was shining on our landing, right in front of the bookcase. was that because the police thought it looked so suspicious or because they simply forgot? was anyone going to come back and turn it off? we found our tongues again.

there were no longer any people inside the building, but perhaps someone was standing guard outside. we then did three things: tried to guess what was going on, trembled with fear and went to the bathroom. since the buckets were in the attic, all we had was peters metal wastepaper basket. mr. van daan went first, then father, but mother was too embarrassed. father brought the waste- basket to the next room, where margot, mrs. van daan and i gratefully made use of it. mother finally gave in.

there was a great demand for paper, and luckily i had some in my pocket.

the wastebasket stank, everything went on in a whisper, and we were exhausted. it was midnight.

"lie down on the floor and go to sleep!" margot and i were each given a pillow and a blanket. margot lay down near the food cupboard, and i made my bed between the table legs. the smell wasnt quite so bad when you were lying on the floor, but mrs.

van daan quietly went and got some powdered bleach and draped a dish towel over the potty as a further precaution.

talk, whispers, fear, stench, farting and people continually going to the bathroom; try sleeping through that! by two-thirty, however, i was so tired i dozed off and didnt hear a thing until three-thirty. i woke up when mrs. van d. lay her head on my feet.

"for heavens sake, give me something to put on!" i said. i was handed some clothes, but dont ask what: a pair of wool slacks over my pajamas, a red sweater and a black skirt, white understockings and tattered kneesocks.

mrs. van d. sat back down on the chair, and mr. van d. lay down with his head on my feet. from three- thirty onward i was engrossed in thought, and still shiver- ing so much that mr. van daan couldnt sleep. i was preparing myself for the return of the police. wed tell them we were in hiding; if they were good people, wed be safe, and if they were nazi sympathizers, we could try to bribe them!

"we should hide the radio!" moaned mrs. van d.

"sure, in the stove," answered mr. van d. "if they find us, they might as well find the radio!”

"then theyll also find annes diary," added father.

"so burn it," suggested the most terrified of the group.

this and the police rattling on the bookcase were the moments when i was most afraid. oh, not my diary; if my diary goes, i go too! thank goodness father didnt say anything more.

theres no point in recounting all the conversations; so much was said. i comforted mrs. van daan, who was very frightened. we talked about escaping, being interrogated by the gestapo, phoning mr. kleiman and being courageous.

"we must behave like soldiers, mrs. van daan. if our time has come, well then, itll be for queen and country, for freedom, truth and justice, as theyre always telling us on the radio. the only bad thing is that well drag the others down with us!”

after an hour mr. van daan switched places with his wife again, and father came and sat beside me. the men smoked one cigarette after another, an occasional sigh was heard, somebody made another trip to the potty, and then everything began allover again.

four oclock, five, five-thirty. i went and sat with peter by his window and listened, so close we could feel each others bodies trembling; we spoke a word or two from time to time and listened intently. next door they took down the blackout screen.

they made a list of everything they were planning to tell mr. kleiman over the phone, because they intended to call him at seven and ask him to send someone over. they were taking a big chance, since the police guard at the door or in the warehouse might hear them calling, but there was an even greater risk that the police would return.

im enclosing their list, but for the sake of clarity, ill copy it here.

buralary: police in building, up to bookcase, but no farther. burglars apparently interrupted, forced warehouse door, fled through garden. main entrance bolted; kugler must have left through second door.

typewriter and adding machine safe in black chest in private office.

mieps or beps laundry in washtub in kitchen.

only bep or kugler have key to second door; lock may be broken.

try to warn jan and get key, look around office; also feed cat.

for the rest, everything went according to plan. mr. kleiman was phoned, the poles were removed from the doors, the typewriter was put back in the chest. then we all sat around the table again and waited for either jan or the police.

peter had dropped off to sleep and mr. van daan anne frank and i were lying on the floor when we heard loud footsteps below. i got up quietly. "its jan!”

"no, no, its the police!" they all said.

there was a knocking at our bookcase. miep whis- tled. this was too much for mrs.

van daan, who sank limply in her chair, white as a sheet. if the tension had lasted another minute, she would have fainted.

jan and miep came in and were met with a delightful scene. the table alone would have been worth a photograph: a copy of cinema &.. theater, opened to a page of dancing girls and smeared with jam and pectin, which wed been taking to combat the diarrhea, two jam jars, half a bread roll, a quarter of a bread roll, pectin, a mirror, a comb, matches, ashes, cigarettes, tobacco, an ashtray, books, a pair of underpants, a

flashlight, mrs. van daans comb, toilet paper, etc.

jan and miep were of course greeted with shouts and tears. jan nailed a pinewood board over the gap in the door and went off again with miep to inform the police of the break-in. miep had also found a note under the ware- house door from sleegers, the night watchman, who had noticed the hole and alerted the police. jan was also planning to see sleegers.

so we had half an hour in which to put the house and ourselves to rights. ive never seen such a transformation as in those thirty minutes. margot and i got the beds ready downstairs, went to the bathroom, brushed our teeth, washed our hands and combed our hair. then i straightened up the room a bit and went back upstairs. the table had already been cleared, so we got some water, made coffee and tea, boiled the milk and set the table. father and peter emptied our improvised potties and rinsed them with warm water and powdered bleach. the largest one was filled to the brim and was so heavy they had a hard time lifting it. to make things worse, it was leaking, so they had to put it in a bucket.

at eleven oclock jan was back and joined us at the table, and gradually everyone began to relax. jan had the following story to tell:

mr. sleegers was asleep, but his wife told jan that her husband had discovered the hole in the door while making his rounds. he called in a policeman, and the two of them searched the building. mr. sleegers, in his capacity as night watchman, patrols the area every night on his bike, accompanied by his two dogs. his wife said he would come on tuesday and tell mr. kugler the rest. no one at the police station seemed to know anything about the break-in, but they made a note to come first thing tuesday morning to have a look.

on the way back jan happened to run into mr. van hoeven, the man who supplies us with potatoes, and told him of the break-in. "i know," mr. van hoeven calmly replied.

"last night when my wife and i were walking past your building, i saw a gap in the door. my wife wanted to walk on, but i peeked inside with a flashlight, and thats when the burglars must have run off. to be on the safe side, i didnt call the police. i thought it wouldnt be wise in your case. i dont know anything, but i have my suspicions." jan thanked him and went on. mr. van hoeven obviously suspects were here, because he always delivers the potatoes at lunchtime. a decent man!

it was one oclock by the time jan left and wed done the dishes. all eight of us went to bed. i woke up at quarter to three and saw that mr. dussel was already up. my face rumpled with sleep, i happened to run into peter in the bathroom, just after hed

come downstairs. we agreed to meet in the office. i freshened up a bit and went down.

"after all this, do you still dare go to the front attic?" he asked. i nodded, grabbed my pillow, with a cloth wrapped around it, and we went up together. the weather was gorgeous, and even though the air-raid sirens soon began to wail, we stayed where we were. peter put his arm around my shoulder, i put mine around his, and we sat quietly like this until four oclock, when margot came to get us for coffee.

we ate our bread, drank our lemonade and joked (we were finally able to again), and for the rest everything was back to normal. that evening i thanked peter because hed been the bravest of us all.

none of us have ever been in such danger as we were that night. god was truly watching over us. just think-the police were right at the bookcase, the light was on, and still no one had discovered our hiding place! "now were done for!" id whispered at that moment, but once again we were spared. when the invasion comes and the bombs start falling, itll be every man for himself, but this time we feared for those good, innocent christians who are helping us.

"weve been saved, keep on saving us!" thats all we can say.

this incident has brought about a whole lot of changes. as of now, dussel will be doing his work in the bathroom, and peter will be patrolling the house between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. peter isnt allowed to open his window anymore, since one of the keg people noticed it was open. we can no longer flush the toilet after nine-thirty at night. mr. sleegers has been hired as night watchman, and tonight a carpenter from the underground is coming to make a barricade out of our white frankfurt bedsteads. debates are going on left and right in the annex. mr. kugler has reproached us for our carelessness. jan also said we should never go downstairs. what we have to do now is find out whether sleegers can be trusted, whether the dogs will bark if they hear someone behind the door, how to make the barricade, all sorts of things.

weve been strongly reminded of the fact that were jews in chains, chained to one spot, without any rights, but with a thousand obligations. we must put our feelings aside; we must be brave and strong, bear discomfort with- out complaint, do whatever is in our power and trust in god. one day this terrible war will be over. the time will come when well be people again and not just jews!

who has inflicted this on us? who has set us apart from all the rest? who has put us

through such suffering? its god who has made us the way we are, but its also god who will lift us up again. in the eyes of the world, were doomed, but if, after all this suffering, there are still jews left, the jewish people will be held up as an example.

who knows, maybe our religion will teach the world and all the people in it about goodness, and thats the reason, the only reason, we have to suffer. we can never be just dutch, or just english, or whatever, we will always be jews as well. and well have to keep on being jews, but then, well want to be.

be brave! lets remember our duty and perform it without complaint. there will be a way out. god has never deserted our people. through the ages jews have had to suffer, but through the ages theyve gone on living, and the centuries of suffering have only made them stronger. the weak shall fall and the strong shall survive and not be defeated!

that night i really thought i was going to die. i waited for the police and i was ready for death, like a soldier on a battlefield. id gladly have given my life for my country.

but now, now that ive been spared, my first wish after the war is to become a dutch citizen. i love the dutch, i love this country, i love the language, and i want to work here. and even if i have to write to the queen herself, i wont give up until ive reached my goal!

im becoming more and more independent of my parents. young as i am, i face life with more courage and have a better and truer sense of justice than mother. i know what i want, i have a goal, i have opinions, a religion and love. if only i can be myself, ill be satisfied. i know that im a woman, a woman with inner strength and a great deal of courage!

if god lets me live, ill achieve more than mother ever did, ill make my voice heard, ill go out into the world and work for mankind!

i now know that courage and happiness are needed first!

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, april 14, 1944

dear kitty,

everyone here is still very tense. pim has nearly reached the bothng point; mrs. van d. is lying in bed with a cold, grumbling; mr. van d. is growing pale without his cigarettes; dussel, whos having to give up many of his comforts, is carping at

everyone; etc., etc. we seem to have run out of luck lately. the toilets leaking, and the faucets stuck. thanks to our many connections, well soon be able to get these repaired.

im occasionally sentimental, as you know, but from time to time i have reason to be:

when peter and i are sitting close together on a hard wooden crate among the junk and dust, our arms around each others shoulders, peter toying with a lock of my hair;

when the birds outside are trilling their songs, when the trees are in bud, when the sun beckons and the sky is so blue--oh, thats when i wish for so much!

all i see around me are dissatisfied and grumpy faces, all i hear are sighs and stifled complaints. youd think our lives had taken a sudden turn for the worse. honestly, things are only as bad as you make them. here in the annex no one even bothers to set a good example. we each have to figure out how to get the better of our own moods!

every day you hear, "if only it were all over!”

work, love, courage and hope, make me good and help me cope!

i really believe, kit, that im a little nutty today, and i dont know why. my writings all mixed up, im jump- ing from one thing to another, and sometimes i seriously doubt whether anyone will ever be interested in this drivel. theyll probably call it "the musings of an ugly duckling." my diaries certainly wont be of much use to mr.

bolkestein or mr. gerbrandy.* [* gerrit bolkestein was the minister of education and pieter gerbrandy was the prime minister of the dutch government in exile in london.

see annes letter of march 29, 1944.] yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, april 15, 1944

dearest kitty,

"theres just one bad thing after another. when will it all end?" you can sure say that again. guess whats happened now? peter forgot to unbolt the front door. as a result, mr. kugler and the warehouse employees couldnt get in. he went to kegs, smashed in our office kitchen window and got in that way. the windows in the annex were open, and the keg people saw that too. what must they be thinking? and van maaren?

mr. kuglers furious. we accuse him of not doing anything to reinforce the doors, and

then we do a stupid thing like this! peters extremely upset. at the table, mother said she felt more sorry for peter than for anyone else, and he nearly began to cry. were equally to blame, since we usually ask him every day if hes unbolted the door, and so does mr. van daan. maybe i can go comfort him later on. i want to help him so much!

here are the latest news bulletins about life in the secret annex over the last few weeks:

a week ago saturday, boche suddenly got sick. he sat quite still and started drooling.

miep immediately picked him up, rolled him in a towel, tucked him in her shopping bag and brought him to the dog-and-cat clinic. boche had some kind of intestinal problem, so the vet gave him medicine. peter gave it to him a few times, but boche soon made himself scarce. ill bet he was out courting his sweetheart. but now his nose is swollen and he meows whenever you pick him up-he was probably trying to steal food and somebody smacked him. mouschi lost her voice for a few days. just when we decided she had to be taken to the vet too, she started getting better.

we now leave the attic window open a crack every night. peter and i often sit up there in the evening.

thanks to rubber cement and oil paint, our toilet ; could quickly be repaired. the broken faucet has been replaced.

luckily, mr. kleiman is feeling better. hes going to see a specialist soon. we can only hope he wont need an operation.

this month we received eight tation books. unfortunately, for the next two weeks beans have been substituted for oatmeal or groats. our latest delicacy is piccalilli. if youre out of luck, all you get is a jar full of cucumber and mustard sauce.

vegetables are hard to come by. theres only lettuce, lettuce and more lettuce. our meals consist entirely of potatoes and imitation gravy.

the russians are in possession of more than half the crimea. the british arent advancing beyond cassino. well have to count on the western wall. there have been a lot of unbelievably heavy air raids. the registry of births, deaths and marriages in the hague was bombed. all dutch people will be issued new ration registration cards.

enough for today.

yours, anne 

m. frank

sunday, april 16, 1944

my dearest kitty,

remember yesterdays date, since it was a red-letter day for me. isnt it an important day for every girl when she gets her first kiss? well then, its no less important to me. the time bram kissed me on my right cheek or mr. woudstra on my right hand doesnt count. how did i suddenly come by this kiss? ill tell you.

last night at eight i was sitting with peter on his divan and it wasnt long before he put an arm around me. (since it was saturday, he wasnt wearing his overalls.)"why don t we move over a little," i said, "so won t keep bumping my head against the cupboard.”

he moved so far over he was practically in the corner. i slipped my arm under his and across his back, and he put his arm around my shoulder, so that i was nearly engulfed by him. weve sat like this on other occasions, but never so close as we were last night. he held me firmly against him, my left side against his chest; my heart had already begun to beat faster, but there was more to come. he wasnt satisfied until my head lay on his shoulder, with his on top of mine. i sat up again after about five minutes, but before long he took my head in his hands and put it back next to his. oh, it was so wonderful. i could hardly talk, my pleasure was too intense;

he caressed my cheek and arm, a bit clumsily, and played with my hair. most of the time our heads were touching.

i cant tell you, kitty, the feeling that ran through me. i was too happy for words, and i think he was too.

at nine-thirty we stood up. peter put on his tennis shoes so he wouldnt make much noise on his nightly round of the building, and i was standing next to him. how i suddenly made the right movement, i dont know, but before we went downstairs, he gave me a. kiss, through my hair, half on my left cheek and half on my ear. i tore downstairs without looking back, and i long so much for today.

sunday morning, just before eleven.

yours, anne 

m. frank

monday, april 17, 1944

dearest kitty,

do you think father and mother would approve of a girl my age sitting on a divan and kissing a seventeen-and- a-half-year-old boy? i doubt they would, but i have to trust my own judgment in this matter. its so peaceful and safe, lying in his arms and dreaming, its so thrilling to feel his cheek against mine, its so wonderful to know theres someone waiting for me. but, and there is a but, will peter want to leave it at that? i havent forgotten his promise, but. . . he is a boy!

i know im starting at a very young age. not even fifteen and already so independent -- thats a little hard for other people to understand. im pretty sure margot would never kiss a boy unless there was some talk of an engagement or marriage. neither peter nor i has any such plans. im also sure that mother never touched a man before she met father. what would my girlfriends or jacque say if they knew id lain in peters arms with my heart against his chest, my head on his shoulder and his head and face against mine!

oh, anne, how terribly shocking! but seriously, i dont think its at all shocking; were cooped up here, cut off from the world, anxious and fearful, especially lately. why should we stay apart when we love each other? why shouldnt we kiss each other in times like these? why should we wait until weve reached a suitable age? why should we ask anybodys permission?

ive decided to look out for my own interests. hed never want to hurt me or make me unhappy. why shouldnt i do what my heart tells me and makes both of us happy?

yet i have a feeling, kitty, that you can sense my doubt. it must be my honesty rising in revolt against all this sneaking around. do you think its my duty to tell father what im up to? do you think our secret should be shared with a third person?

much of the beauty would be lost, but would it make me feel better inside? ill bring it up with him.

oh, yes, i still have so much i want to discuss with him, since i dont see the point of just cuddling. sharing our thoughts with each other requires a great deal of trust, but well both be stronger because of it!

yours, anne 

m. frank

p.s. we were up at six yesterday morning, because the whole family heard the sounds of a break-in again. it must have been one of our nei***ors who was the victim this

time. when we checked at seven oclock, our doors were still shut tight, thank goodness!

tuesday, april 18,1944

dearest kitty,

everythings fine here. last night the carpenter came again to put some sheets of iron over the door panels. father just got through saying he definitely expects large-scale operations in russia and italy, as well as in the west, before may 20; the longer the war lasts, the harder it is to imagine being liberated from this place.

yesterday peter and i finally got around to having the talk weve been postponing for the last ten days. i told him all about girls, without hesitating to discuss the most intimate matters. i found it rather amusing that he thought the opening in a womans body was simply left out of illustrations. he couldnt imagine that it was actually located between a womans legs. the evening ended with a mutual kiss, near the mouth. its really a lovely feeling!

i might take my "favorite quotes notebook" up with me sometime so peter and i can go more deeply into matters. i dont think lying in each others arms day in and day out is very satisfying, and i hope he feels the same.

after our mild winter weve been having a beautiful spring. april is glorious, not too hot and not too cold, with occasional light showers. our chestnut tree is in leaf, and here and there you can already see a few small blossoms.

bep presented us saturday with four bouquets of flowers: three bouquets of daffodils, and one bouquet of grape hyacinths for me. mr. kugler is supplying us with more and more newspapers.

its time to do my algebra, kitty. bye.

yours, anne 

m. frank

wednesday, april 19, 1944

dearest darling, (thats the title of a movie with dorit kreysler, ida wust and harald paulsen!)

what could be nicer than sitting before an open window, enjoying nature, listening to the birds sing, feeling the sun on your cheeks and holding a darling boy in your arms?

i feel so peaceful and safe with his arm around me, knowing hes near and yet not having to speak; how can this be bad when it does me so much good? oh, if only we were never disturbed again, not even by mouschi.

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, april 21,1944

my dearest kitty,

i stayed in bed yesterday with a sore throat, but since i was already bored the very first afternoon and didnt have a fever, i got up today. my sore throat has nearly "verschwunden"* [* disappeared].

yesterday, as youve probably already discovered, was our fiihrers fifty-fifth birthday. today is the eighteenth birthday of her royal highness princess elizabeth of york. the bbc reported that she hasnt yet been declared of age, though royal children usually are. weve been wondering which prince theyll marry this beauty off to, but cant think of a suitable candidate; perhaps her sister, princess margaret rose, can have crown prince baudouin of belgium!

here weve been going from one disaster to the next. no sooner have the outside doors been reinforced than van maaren rears his head again. in all likelihood hes the one who stole the potato flour, and now hes trying to pin the blame on bep. not surprisingly, the annex is once again in an uproar. bep is beside herself with rage.

perhaps mr. kugler will finally have this shady character tailed.

the appraiser from beethovenstraat was here this morning. he offered us 400 guilders for our chest; in our opinion, the other estimates are also too low.

i want to ask the magazine the prince if theyll take one of my fairy tales, under a pseudonym, of course. but up to now all my fairy tales have been too long, so i dont think i have much of a chance.

until the next time, darling.

yours, anne 

m. frank

tuesday, april 25, 1944

dearest kitty,

for the last ten days dussel hasnt been on speaking terms with mr. van daan, and all because of the new security measures since the break-in. one of these was that hes no longer allowed to go downstairs in the evenings. peter and mr. van daan make the last round every night at nine-thirty, and after that no one may go downstairs. we cant flush the toilet anymore after eight at night or after eight in the morning. the windows may be opened only in the morning when the lights go on in mr. kuglers office, and they can no longer be propped open with a stick at night. this last measure is the reason for dussels sulking. he claims that mr. van daan bawled him out, but he has only himself to blame. he says hed rather live without food than without air, and that they simply must figure out a way to keep the windows open.

"ill have to speak to mr. kugler about this," he said to me.

i replied that we never discussed matters of this sort with mr. kugler, only within the group.

"everythings always happening behind my back. ill have to talk to your father about that.”

hes also not allowed to sit in mr. kuglers office anymore on saturday afternoons or sundays, because the manager of kegs might hear him if he happens to be next door.

dussel promptly went and sat there anyway. mr. van daan was furious, and father went downstairs to talk to dussel, who came up with some flimsy excuse, but even father didnt fall for it this time. now fathers keep- ing his dealings with dussel to a minimum because dussel insulted him. not one of us knows what he said, but it must have been pretty awful.

and to think that that miserable man has his birthday next week. how can you celebrate your birthday when youve got the sulks, how can you accept gifts from people you wont even talk to?

mr. voskuijl is going downhill rapidly. for more than ten days hes had a temperature of almost a hundred and four. the doctor said his condition is hopeless; they think the cancer has spread to his lungs. the poor man, wed so like to help him, but only god can help him now!

ive written an amusing story called "blurry the explorer," which was a big hit with my three listeners.

i still have a bad cold and have passed it on to margot, as well as mother and father.

if only peter doesnt get it. he insisted on a kiss, and called me his el dorado. you cant call a person that, silly boy! but hes sweet anyway!

yours, anne 

m. frank

thursday, april 27, 1944

dearest kitty,

mrs. van d. was in a bad mood this morning. all she did was complain, first about her cold, not being able to get cough drops and the agony of having to blow her nose all the time. next she grumbled that the sun wasnt shining, the invasion hadnt started, we werent allowed to look out the windows, etc., etc. we couldnt help but laugh at her, and it couldnt have been that bad, since she soon joined in.

our recipe for potato kugel, modified due to lack of onions:

put peeled potatoes through a food mill and add a little dry government-issue flour and salt. grease a mold or ovenproof dish with paraffin or stearin and bake for 21/2 hours. serve with rotten strawberry compote. (onions not available. nor oil for mold or dough!)

at the moment im reading emperor charles v, written by a professor at the university of gottingen; hes spent forty years working on this book. it took me five days to read fifty pages. i cant do any more than that. since the book has 598 pages, you can figure out just how long its going to take me. and thats not even counting the second volume. but. . . very interesting!

the things a schoolgirl has to do in the course of a single day! take me, for example. first, i translated a passage on nelsons last battle from dutch into english.

then, i read more about the northern war (1700-21) involving peter the great, charles xii, augustus the strong, stanislaus leczinsky, mazeppa, von gorz, bran- denburg, western pomerania, eastern pomerania and denmark, plus the usual dates.

next, i wound up in brazil, where i read about bahia tobacco, the abundance of coffee, the one and a half million inhabitants of rio de janeiro, pernambuco and sao paulo and, last but not least, the amazon river. then about negroes, mulattoes, mestizos, whites, the illiteracy rate -- over 50 percent -- and malaria. since i had some time left, i glanced through a genealogical chart: john the old, william louis, ernest casimir i, henry casimir i, right up to little margriet franciska (born in 1943 in

ottawa).

twelve oclock: i resumed my studies in the attic, reading about deans, priests, ministers, popes and . . . whew, it was one oclock!

at two the poor child (ho hum) was back at work. old world and new world monkeys were next. kitty, tell me quickly, how many toes does a hippopotamus have?

then came the bible, noahs ark, shem, ham and japheth. after that, charles v.

then, with peter, thack- erays book about the colonel, in english. a french test, and then a comparison between the mississippi and the missouri!

enough for today. adieu!

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, april 28, 1944

dearest kitty,

ive never forgotten my dream of peter schiff (see the beginning of january). even now i can still feel his cheek against mine, and that wonderful glow that made up for all the rest. once in a while id had the same feeling with this peter, but never so intensely. . . until last night. we were sitting on the divan, as usual, in each others arms. suddenly the everyday anne slipped away and the second anne took her place.

the second anne, whos never overconfident or amusing, but wants only to love and be gentle.

i sat pressed against him and felt a wave of emotion come over me. tears rushed to my eyes; those from the left fell on his overalls, while those from the right trickled down my nose and into the air and landed beside the first. did he notice? he made no movement to show that he had. did he feel the same way i did? he hardly said a word. did he realize he had two annes at his side? my questions went unanswered.

at eight-thirty i stood up and went to the window, where we always say good-bye. i was still trembling, i was still anne number two. he came over to me, and i threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on his left cheek. i was about to kiss the other cheek when my mouth met his, and we pressed our lips together. in a daze, we embraced, over and over again, never to stop, oh!

peter needs tenderness. for the first time in his life hes discovered a girl; for the

first time hes seen that even the biggest pests also have an inner self and a heart, and are transformed as soon as theyre alone with you. for the first time in his life hes given himself and his friendship to another person. hes never had a friend before, boy or girl. now weve found each other. i, for that matter, didnt know him either, had never had someone i could confide in, and its led to this . . .

the same question keeps nagging me: "is it right?" is it right for me to yield so soon, for me to be so passionate, to be filled with as much passion and desire as peter?

can i, a girl, allow myself to go that far?

theres only one possible answer: "im longing so much. . . and have for such a long time. im so lonely and now ive found comfort!”

in the mornings we act normally, in the afternoons too, except now and then. but in the evenings the suppressed longing of the entire day, the happiness and the bliss of all the times before come rushing to the surface, and all we can think about is each other. every night, after our last kiss, i feel like running away and never looking him in the eyes again. away, far away into the darkness and alone!

and what awaits me at the bottom of those fourteen stairs? bright lights, questions and laughter. i have to act normally and hope they dont notice anything.

my heart is still too tender to be able to recover so quickly from a shock like the one i had last night. the gentle anne makes infrequent appearances, and shes not about to let herself be shoved out the door so soon after shes arrived. peters reached a part of me that no one has ever reached before, except in my dream! hes taken hold of me and turned me inside out. doesnt everyone need a little quiet time to put themselves to rights again? oh, peter, what have you done to me? what do you want from me?

where will this lead? oh, now i understand bep. now, now that im going through it myself, i understand her doubts; if i were older and he wanted to marry me, what would my answer be? anne, be honest! you wouldnt be able to marry him. but its so hard to let go. peter still has too little character, too little willpower, too little courage and strength. hes still a child, emotionally no older than i am; all he wants is happiness and peace of mind. am i really only fourteen? am i really just a silly schoolgirl? am i really so inexperienced in everything? i have more experience than most; ive experienced something almost no one my age ever has.

im afraid of myself, afraid my longing is making me yield too soon. how can it ever go right with other boys later on? oh, its so hard, the eternal struggle between heart

and mind. theres a time and a place for both, but how can i be sure that ive chosen the right time?

yours, anne 

m. frank

wＷw．xiＡoshＵotxt.cＯm



MAY, 1944

《小说t》xt天堂
tuesday, may 2, 1944

dearest kitty,

saturday night i asked peter whether he thinks i should tell father about us. after wed discussed it, he said he thought i should. i was glad; it shows hes sensible, and sensitive. as soon as i came downstairs, i went with father to get some water. while we were on the stairs, i said, "father, im sure youve gathered that when peter and i are together, we dont exactly sit at opposite ends of the room. do you think thats wrong?”

father paused before answering: "no, i dont think its wrong. but anne, when youre living so close together, as we do, you have to be careful." he said some other words to that effect, and then we went upstairs.

sunday morning he called me to him and said, "anne, ive been thinking about what you said." (oh, oh, i knew what was coming!) "here in the annex its not such a good idea. i thought you were just friends. is peter in love with you?”

"of course not," i answered.

"well, you know i understand both of you. but you must be the one to show restraint;

dont go upstairs so often, dont encourage him more than you can help. in matters like these, its always the man who takes the active role, and its up to the woman to set the limits. outside, where youre free, things are quite different. you see other boys and girls, you can go outdoors, take part in sports and all kinds of activities. but here, if youre together too much and want to get away, you cant. you see each other every hour of the day-all the time, in fact. be careful, anne, and dont take it too seriously!

"i dont, father, but peters a decent boy, a nice boy.”

"yes, but he doesnt have much strength of character. he can easily be influenced to do good, but also to do bad. i hope for his sake that he stays good, because hes basically a good person."

we talked some more and agreed that father would speak to him too.

sunday afternoon when we were in the front attic, peter asked, "have you talked to your father yet, anne?”

"yes," i replied, "ill tell you all about it. he doesnt think its wrong, but he says that here, where were in such close quarters, it could lead to conflicts.”

"weve already agreed not to quarrel, and i plan to keep my promise.”

"me too, peter. but father didnt think we were serious, he thought we were just friends. do you think we still can be?”

"yes, i do. how about you?”

"me too. i also told father that i trust you. i do trust you, peter, just as much as i do father. and i think youre worthy of my trust. you are, arent you?”

"i hope so." (he was very shy, and blushing.)

"i believe in you, peter," i continued. "i believe you have a good character and that youll get ahead in this world.”

after that we talked about other things. later i said, "if we ever get out of here, i know you wont give me another thought.”

he got all fired up. "thats not true, anne. oh no, i wont let you even think that about me!”

just then somebody called us.

father did talk to him, he told me monday. "your father thought our friendship might turn into love," he said. "but i told him wed keep ourselves under control.”

father wants me to stop going upstairs so often, but i dont want to. not just because i like being with peter, but because ive said i trust him. i do trust him, and i want to prove it to him, but ill never be able to if i stay downstairs out of distrust.

no, im going!

in the meantime, the dussel drama has been resolved. saturday evening at dinner he

apologized in beautiful dutch. mr. van daan was immediately reconciled. dussel must have spent all day practicing his speech.

sunday, his birthday, passed without incident. we gave him a bottle of good wine from 1919, the van daans (who can now give their gift after all) presented him with a jar of piccalilli and a package of razor blades, and mr. kugler gave him a jar of lemon syrup (to make lemonade), miep a book, little martin, and bep a plant. he treated everyone to an egg.

yours, anne 

m. frank

wednesday, may 3, 1944

dearest kitty,

first the weekly news! were having a vacation from politics. theres nothing, and i mean absolutely nothing, to report. im also gradually starting to believe that the invasion will come. after all, they cant let the russians do all the dirty work;

actually, the russians arent doing anything at the moment either.

mr. kleiman comes to the office every morning now. he got a new set of springs for peters divan, so peter will have to get to work reupholstering it; not surprisingly, he isnt at all in the mood. mr. kleiman also brought some flea powder for the cats.

have i told you that our boche has disappeared? we havent seen hide nor hair of her since last thursday. shes probably already in cat heaven, while some animal lover has turned her into a tasty dish. perhaps some girl who can afford it will be wearing a cap made of boches fur. peter is heartbroken.

for the last two weeks weve been eating lunch at eleven-thirty on saturdays; in the mornings we have to make do with a cup of hot cereal. starting tomorrow itll be like this every day; that saves us a meal. vegetables are still very hard to come by. this afternoon we had rotten boiled lettuce. ordinary lettuce, spinach and boiled let- tuce, thats all there is. add to that rotten potatoes, and you have a meal fit for a king!

i hadnt had my period for more than two months, but it finally started last sunday.

despite the mess and bother, im glad it hasnt deserted me.

as you can no doubt imagine, we often say in despair, "whats the point of the war?

why, oh, why cant people live together peacefully? why all this destruction?"

the question is understandable, but up to now no one has come up with a satisfactory answer. why is england manufacturing bigger and better airplanes and bombs and at the same time churning out new houses for reconstruction? why are millions spent on the war each day, while not a penny is available for medical science, artists or the poor? why do people have to starve when mountains of food are rotting away in other parts of the world? oh, why are people so crazy?

i dont believe the war is simply the work of politicians and capitalists. oh no, the common man is every bit as guilty; otherwise, people and nations would have re- belled long ago! theres a destructive urge in people, the urge to rage, murder and kill. and until all of humanity, without exception, undergoes a metamorphosis, wars will continue to be waged, and everything that has been carefully built up, cultivated and grown will be cut down and destroyed, only to start allover again!

ive often been down in the dumps, but never desperate. i look upon our life in hiding as an interesting adventure, full of danger and romance, and every privation as an amusing addition to my diary. ive made up my mind to lead a different life from other girls, and not to become an ordinary housewife later on. what im experiencing here is a good beginning to an interesting life, and thats the reason -- the only reason -- why i have to laugh at the humorous side of the most dangerous moments.

im young and have many hidden qualities; im young and strong and living through a big adventure; im right in the middle of it and cant spend all day complaining because its impossible to have any fun! im blessed with many things: happiness, a cheerful disposition and strength. every day i feel myself maturing, i feel liberation drawing near, i feel the beauty of nature and the goodness of the people around me. every day i think what a fascinating and amusing adventure this is! with all that, why should i despair?

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, may 5, 1944

dear kitty,

fathers unhappy with me. after our talk on sunday he thought id stop going upstairs every evening. he wont have any of that "knutscherej"* [* necking] going on. i cant stand that word. talking about it was bad enough -- why does he have to make me feel bad too! ill have a word with him today. margot gave me some good advice.

heres more or less what id like to say:

i think you expect an explanation from me, father, so ill give you one. youre disap- pointed in me, you expected more restraint from me, you no doubt want me to act the way a fourteen-year-old is supposed to. but thats where youre wrong!

since weve been here, from july 1942 until a few weeks ago, i havent had an easy time. if only you knew how much i used to cry at night, how unhappy and despondent i was, how lonely i felt, youd understand my wanting to go upstairs! ive now reached the point where i dont need the support of mother or anyone else. it didnt happen overnight. ive struggled long and hard and shed many tears to become as independent as i am now. you can laugh and refuse to believe me, but i dont care. i know im an independent person, and i dont feel i need to account to you for my actions. im only telling you this because i dont want you to think im doing things behind your back. but theres only one person im accountable to, and thats me.

when i was having problems, everyone -- and that includes you -- closed their eyes and ears and didnt help me. on the contrary, all i ever got were admonitions not to be so noisy. i was noisy only to keep myself from being miserable all the time. i was overconfident to keep from having to listen to the voice inside me. ive been putting on an act for the last year and a half, day in, day out. ive never complained or dropped my mask, nothing of the kind, and now. . . now the battle is over. ive won! im independent, in both body and mind. i dont need a mother anymore, and ive emerged from the struggle a stronger person.

now that its over, now that i know the battle has been won, i want to go my own way, to follow the path that seems right to me. dont think of me as a fourteen-year-old, since all these troubles have made me older; i wont regret my actions, ill behave the way i think i should!

gentle persuasion wont keep me from going upstairs. youll either have to forbid it, or trust me through thick and thin. whatever you do, just leave me alone!

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, may 6, 1944

dearest kitty,

last night before dinner i tucked the letter id written into fathers pocket. according to margot, he read it and was upset for the rest of the evening. (i was upstairs doing the dishes!) poor pim, i might have known what the effect of such an epistle would

be. hes so sensitive! i immediately told peter not to ask any questions or say anything more. pims said nothing else to me about the matter. is he going to?

everything here is more or less back to normal. we can hardly believe what jan, mr.

kugler and mr. kleiman tell us about the prices and the people on the outside; half a pound of tea costs 350.00 guilders, half a pound of coffee 80.00 guilders, a pound of butter 35.00 guilders, one egg 1.45 guilders. people are paying 14.00 guilders an ounce for bulgarian tobacco! everyones trading on the black market; every errand boy has something to offer. the delivery boy from the bakery has supplied us with darning thread-90 cents for one measly skein-the milkman can get hold of ration books, an undertaker delivers cheese. break-ins, murders and thefts are daily occurrences. even the police and night watchmen are getting in on the act. everyone wants to put food in their stomachs, and since salaries have been frozen, people have had to resort to swindling. the police have their hands full trying to track down the many girls of fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and older who are reported missing every day.

i want to try to finish my story about ellen, the fairy. just for fun, i can give it to father on his birthday, together with all the copyrights.

see you later! (actually, thats not the right phrase. in the german program broadcast from england they always close with "aufwiederhoren." so i guess i should say, "until we write again.")

yours, anne 

m. frank

sunday morning, may 7,1944

dearest kitty,

father and i had a long talk yesterday afternoon. i cried my eyes out, and he cried too. do you know what he said to me, kitty?

"ive received many letters in my lifetime, but none as hurtful as this. you, who have had so much love from your parents. you, whose parents have always been ready to help you, who have always defended you, no matter what. you talk of not having to account to us for your actions! you feel youve been wronged and left to your own devices. no, anne, youve done us a great injustice!

"perhaps you didnt mean it that way, but thats what you wrote. no, anne, we have done nothing to deserve such a reproach!"

oh, ive failed miserably. this is the worst thing ive ever done in my entire life. i used my tears to show off, to make myself seem important so hed respect me. ive certainly had my share of unhappiness, and everything i said about mother is true. but to accuse pim, whos so good and whos done everything for me-no, that was too cruel for words.

its good that somebody has finally cut me down to size, has broken my pride, because ive been far too smug. not everything mistress anne does is good! any- one who deliberately causes such pain to someone they say they love is despicable, the lowest of the low!

what im most ashamed of is the way father has forgiven me; he said hes going to throw the letter in the stove, and hes being so nice to me now, as if he were the one whod done something wrong. well, anne, you still have a lot to learn. its time you made a beginning, in- stead of looking down at others and always giving them the blame!

ive known a lot of sorrow, but who hasnt at my age? ive been putting on an act, but was hardly even aware of it. ive felt lonely, but never desperate! not like father, who once ran out into the street with a knife so he could put an end to it all. ive never gone that far.

i should be deeply ashamed of myself, and i am. whats done cant be undone, but at least you can keep it from happening again. id like to start all over, and that shouldnt be difficult, now that i have peter. with him supporting me, i know i can do it! im not alone anymore. he loves me, i love him, i have my books, my writing and my diary. im not all that ugly, or that stupid, i have a sunny disposition, and i want to develop a good character!

yes, anne, you knew full well that your letter was unkind and untrue, but you were actually proud of it! ill take father as my example once again, and i will improve myself.

yours, anne 

m. frank

monday, may 8, 1944

dearest kitty,

have i ever told you anything about our family? i dont think i have, so let me begin.

father was born in frankfurt am main to very wealthy parents: michael frank owned

a bank and became a millionaire, and alice sterns parents were prominent and well-to-do. michael frank didnt start out rich; he was a self-made man. in his youth father led the life of a rich mans son. parties every week, balls, banquets, beautiful girls, waltzing, dinners, a huge house, etc. after grandpa died, most of the money was lost, and after the great war and inflation there was nothing left at all. up until the war there were still quite a few rich relatives. so father was extremely well-bred, and he had to laugh yesterday because for the first time in his fifty-five years, he scraped out the frying pan at the table.

mothers family wasnt as wealthy, but still fairly well-off, and weve listened openmouthed to stories of private balls, dinners and engagement parties with 250 guests.

were far from rich now, but ive pinned all my hopes on after the war. i can assure you, im not so set on a bourgeois life as mother and margot. id like to spend a year in paris and london learning the languages and studying art history. compare that with margot, who wants to nurse newborns in palestine. i still have visions of gorgeous dresses and fascinating people. as ive told you many times before, i want to see the world and do all kinds of exciting things, and a little money wont hurt!

this morning miep told us about her cousins engagement party, which she went to on saturday. the cousins parents are rich, and the grooms are even richer. miep made our mouths water telling us about the food that was served: vegetable soup with meatballs, cheese, rolls with sliced meat, hors doeuvres made with eggs and roast beef, rolls with cheese, genoise, wine and cigarettes, and you could eat as much as you wanted.

miep drank ten schnapps and smoked three cigarettes -- could this be our temperance advocate? if miep drank all those, i wonder how many her spouse managed to toss down? everyone at the party was a little tipsy, of course. there were also two officers from the homicide squad, who took photographs of the wedding couple. you can see were never far from mieps thoughts, since she promptly noted their names and addresses in case anything should happen and we needed contacts with good dutch people.

our mouths were watering so much. we, whod had nothing but two spoonfuls of hot cereal for breakfast and were absolutely famished; we, who get nothing but half-cooked spinach (for the vitamins!) and rotten pota- toes day after day; we, who fill our empty stomachs with nothing but boiled lettuce, raw lettuce, spinach, spinach and more spinach. maybe well end up being as strong as popeye, though up to now ive seen no sign of it!

if miep had taken us along to the party, there wouldnt have been any rolls left over for the other guests. if wed been there, wed have snatched up everything in sight, including the furniture. i tell you, we were practically pulling the words right out of her mouth. we were gathered around her as if wed never in all our lives heard of”

delicious food or elegant people! and these are the granddaughters of the distinguished millionaire. the world is a crazy place!

yours, anne 

m. frank

tuesday, may 9, 1944

dearest kitty,

ive finished my story about ellen, the fairy. ive copied it out on nice notepaper, decorated it with red ink and sewn the pages together. the whole thing looks quite pretty, but i dont know if its enough of a birthday present. margot and mother have both written poems.

mr. kugler came upstairs this afternoon with the news that starting monday, mrs.

broks would like to spend two hours in the office every afternoon. just imagine! the office staff wont be able to come upstairs, the potatoes cant be delivered, bep wont get her dinner, we cant go to the bathroom, we wont be able to move and all sorts of other inconveniences! we proposed a variety of ways to get rid of her. mr. van daan thought a good laxative in her coffee might do the trick. "no," mr. kleiman answered, "please dont, or well never get her off the can.

a roar of laughter. "the can?" mrs. van d. asked. "what does that mean?" an explanation was given. "is it all right to use that word?" she asked in perfect innocence. "just imagine," bep giggled, "there you are shopping at the bijenkorf and you ask the way to the can. they wouldnt even know what you were talking about!”

dussel now sits on the "can," to borrow the expression, every day at twelve-thirty on the dot. this afternoon i boldly took a piece of pink paper and wrote:

mr. dussels toilet timetable mornings from 7: 15 to 7:30 a.m.

afternoons after 1 p.m.

otherwise, only as needed!

i tacked this to the green bathroom door while he was still inside. i might well have added transgressors will be subject to confinement!" because our bathroom can be locked from both the inside and the outside.

mr. van daans latest joke:

after a bible lesson about adam and eve, a thirteen-year-old boy asked his father, "tell me, father, how did i get born?”

"well," the father replied, "the stork plucked you out of the ocean, set you down in mothers bed and bit her in the leg, hard. it bled so much she had to stay in bed for a week.”

not fully satisfied, the boy went to his mother. "tell me, mother," he asked, "how did you get born and how did i get born?”

his mother told him the very same story. finally, hoping to hear the fine points, he went to his grandfather. "tell me, grandfather," he said, "how did you get born and how did your daughter get born?" and for the third time he was told exactly the same story.

that night he wrote in his diary: "after careful inquiry, i must conclude that there has been no sexual intercourse in our family for the last three generations!”

i still have work to do; its already three oclock.

yours, anne 

m. frank

ps. since i think ive mentioned the new cleaning lady, i just want to note that shes married, sixty years old and hard of hearing! very convenient, in view of all the noise that eight people in hiding are capable of mak- ing.

oh, kit, its such lovely weather. if only i could go outside!

wednesday, may 10, 1944

dearest kitty,

we were sitting in the attic yesterday afternoon working on our french when suddenly i heard the splatter of water behind me. i asked peter what it might be. without pausing to reply, he dashed up to the loft-the scene of the disaster -- and shoved

mouschi, who was squatting beside her soggy litter box, back to the right place. this was followed by shouts and squeals, and then mouschi, who by that time had finished peeing, took off downstairs. in search of something similar to her box, mouschi had found herself a pile of wood shavings, right over a crack in the floor. the puddle immediately trickled down to the attic and, as luck would have it, landed in and next to the potato barrel. the cethng was dripping, and since the attic floor has also got its share of cracks, little yellow drops were leaking through the ceiling and onto the dining table, between a pile of stockings and books.

i was doubled up with laughter, it was such a funny sight. there was mouschi crouched under a chair, peter armed with water, powdered bleach and a cloth, and mr.

van daan trying to calm everyone down. the room was soon set to rights, but its a well-known fact that cat puddles stink to high heaven. the potatoes proved that all too well, as did the wood shavings, which father collected in a bucket and brought downstairs to burn.

poor mouschi! how were you to know its impossible to get peat for your box?

anne thursday, may 11, 1944

dearest kitty,

a new sketch to make you laugh:

peters hair had to be cut, and as usual his mother was to be the hairdresser. at seven twenty-five peter vanished into his room, and reappeared at the stroke of seven-thirty, stripped down to his blue swimming trunks and a pair of tennis shoes.

"are you coming?" he asked his mother.

"yes, ill be up in a minute, but i cant find the scissors!”

peter helped her look, rummaging around in her cosmetics drawer. "dont make such a mess, peter," she grumbled.

i didnt catch peters reply, but it must have been insolent, because she cuffed him on the arm. he cuffed her back, she punched him with all her might, and peter pulled his arm away with a look of mock horror on his face. "come on, old girl!"

mrs. van d. stayed put. peter grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her all around the room. she laughed, cried, scolded and kicked, but nothing helped. peter led his prisoner as far as the attic stairs, where he was obliged to let go of her. mrs. van d.

came back to the room and collapsed into a chair with a loud sigh.

"die enifu"hruna der mutter,". i joked. [* the abduction of mother, a possible reference to mozarts opera the abduction from the seraglio.] "yes, but he hurt me.”

i went to have a look and cooled her hot, red wrists with water. peter, still by the stairs and growing impa- tient again, strode into the room with his belt in his hand, like a lion tamer. mrs. van d. didnt move, but stayed by her writing desk, looking for a handkerchief. "youve got to apologize first.”

"all right, i hereby offer my apologies, but only because if i dont, well be here till midnight.”

mrs. van d. had to laugh in spite of herself. she got up and went toward the door, where she felt obliged to give us an explanation. (by us i mean father, mother and me; we were busy doing the dishes.) "he wasnt like this at home," she said. "id have belted him so hard hed have gone flying down the stairs [!]. hes never been so insolent. this isnt the first time hes deserved a good hiding. thats what you get with a modern upbringing, modern children. id never have grabbed my mother like that. did you treat your mother that way, mr. frank?" she was very upset, pacing back and forth, saying whatever came into her head, and she still hadnt gone upstairs.

finally, at long last, she made her exit.

less than five minutes later she stormed back down the stairs, with her cheeks all puffed out, and flung her apron on a chair. when i asked if she was through, she replied that she was going downstairs. she tore down the stairs like a tornado, probably straight into the arms of her putti.

she didnt come up again until eight, this time with her husband. peter was dragged from the attic, given a merciless scolding and showered with abuse: ill-mannered brat, no-good bum, bad example, anne this, margot that, i couldnt hear the rest.

everything seems to have calmed down again today!

yours, anne 

m. frank

p.s. tuesday and wednesday evening our beloved queen addressed the country. shes taking a vacation so shell be in good health for her return to the netherlands.

she used words like "soon, when im back in holland," "a swift liberation," "heroism”

and "heavy burdens.”

this was followed by a speech by prime minister gerbrandy. he has such a squeaky little childs voice that mother instinctively said, "oooh." a clergyman, who must have borrowed his voice from mr. edel, concluded by asking god to take care of the jews, all those in concentration camps and prisons and everyone working in germany.

thursday, may 11, 1944

dearest kitty,

since ive left my entire "junk box" -- including my fountain pen -- upstairs and im not allowed to disturb the grown-ups during their nap time (until two-thirty), youll have to make do with a letter in pencil.

im terribly busy at the moment, and strange as it may sound, i dont have enough time to get through my pile of work. shall i tell you briefly what ive got to do? well then, before tomorrow i have to finish reading the first volume of a biography of galileo galilei, since it has to be returned to the library. i started reading it yesterday and have gotten up to page 220 out of 320 pages, so ill manage it. next week i have to read palestine at the cross- roads and the second volume of galilei. besides that, i finished the first volume of a biography of emperor charles v yesterday, and i still have to work out the many genealogical charts ive collected and the notes ive taken.

next i have three pages of foreign words from my various books, all of which have to be written down, memorized and read aloud. number four: my movie stars are in a terrible disarray and are dying to be straightened out, but since itll take several days to do that and professor anne is, as shes already said, up to her ears in work, theyll have to put up with the chaos a while longer. then therere theseus, oedipus, peleus, orpheus, jason and hercules all waiting to be untangled, since their various deeds are running crisscross through my mind like mul- ticolored threads in a dress. myron and phidias are also urgently in need of attention, or else ill forget entirely how they fit into the picture. the same applies, for example, to the seven years war and the nine years war. now im getting everything all mixed up. well, what can you do with a memory like mine! just imagine how forgetful ill be when im eighty!

oh, one more thing. the bible. how long is it going to take before i come to the story of the bathing susanna? and what do they mean by sodom and gomorrah? oh,

theres still so much to find out and learn. and in the meantime, ive left charlotte of the palatine in the lurch.

you can see, cant you, kitty, that im full to bursting?

and now something else. youve known for a long time that my greatest wish is to be a journalist, and later on, a famous writer. well have to wait and see if these grand illusions (or delusions!) will ever come true, but up to now ive had no lack of topics.

in any case, after the war id like to publish a book called the secret annex. it remains to be seen whether ill succeed, but my diary can serve as the basis.

i also need to finish "cadys life." ive thought up the rest of the plot. after being cured in the sanatorium, cady goes back home and continues writing to hans. its 1941, and it doesnt take her long to discover hanss nazi sympathies, and since cady is deeply concerned with the plight of the jews and of her friend marianne, they begin drifting apart. they meet and get back together, but break up when hans takes up with another girl. cady is shattered, and because she wants to have a good job, she studies nursing. after graduation she accepts a position, at the urging of her fathers friends, as a nurse in a tb sanatorium in switzerland. during her first vacation she goes to lake como, where she runs into hans. he tells her that two years earlier hed married cadys successor, but that his wife took her life in a fit of depression.

now that hes seen his little cady again, he realizes how much he loves her, and once more asks for her hand in marriage. cady refuses, even though, in spite of herself, she loves him as much as ever. but her pride holds her back. hans goes away, and years later cady learns that hes wound up in england, where hes struggling with ill health.

when shes twenty-seven, cady marries a well-to-do man from the country, named simon. she grows to love him, but not as much as hans. she has two daughters and a son, lthan, judith and nico. she and simon are happy together, but hans is always in the back of her mind until one night she dreams of him and says farewell.

. . .

its not sentimental nonsense: its based on the story of fathers life.

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, may 13, 1944

my dearest kitty,

yesterday was fathers birthday, father and mothers nineteenth wedding anniversary, a day without the cleaning lady. . . and the sun was shining as its never shone before in 1944. our chestnut tree is in full bloom. its covered with leaves and is even more beautiful than last year.

father received a biography of linnaeus from mr. kleiman, a book on nature from mr.

kugler, the canals of amsterdam from dussel, a huge box from the van daans (wrapped so beautifully it might have been done by a professional), containing three eggs, a bottle of beer, a jar of yogurt and a green tie. it made our jar of molasses seem rather paltry. my roses smelled wonderful compared to miep and beps red carnations. he was thoroughly spoiled. fifty petits fours arrived from siemons bakery, delicious! father also treated us to spice cake, the men to beer and the ladies to yogurt. everything was scrumptious!

yours, anne 

m. frank

tuesday, may 16, 1944

my dearest kitty, just for a change (since we havent had one of these in so long) ill recount a little discussion between mr. and mrs. van d. last night:

mrs. van d.: "the germans have had plenty of time to fortify the atlantic wall, and theyll certainly do everything within their power to hold back the british. its amazing how strong the germans are!”

mr. van d.: "oh, yes, amazing.

mrs. van d.: "it is!”

mr. van d.: "they are so strong theyre bound to win the war in the end, is that what you mean?”

mrs. van d.: "they might. im not convinced that they wont.”

mr. van d.: "i wont even answer that.”

mrs. van d.: "you always wind up answering. you let yourself get carried away, every single time."

mr. van d.: "no, i dont. i always keep my answers to the bare minimum.”

mrs. van d.: "but you always do have an answer and you always have to be right!

your predictions hardly ever come true, you know!”

mr. van d.: "so far they have.”

mrs. van d.: "no they havent. you said the invasion was going to start last year, the finns were supposed to have been out of the war by now, the italian campaign ought to have been over by last winter, and the russians should already have captured lemberg. oh no, i dont set much store by your predictions.”

mr. van d. (leaping to his feet): "why dont you shut your trap for a change? ill show you whos right; someday youll get tired of needling me. i cant stand your bellyaching a minute longer. just wait, one day ill make you eat your words!" (end of act one.)

actually, i couldnt help giggling. mother couldnt either, and even peter was biting his lips to keep from laughing. oh, those stupid grown-ups. they need to learn a few things first before they start making so many remarks about the younger generation!

since friday weve been keeping the windows open again at night.

yours, anne 

m. frank

what our annex family is interested in (a systematic survey of courses and readina matter)

mr. van daan. no courses; looks up many things in knaurs encyclopedia and lexicon;

likes to read detective stories, medical books and love stories, exciting or trivial.

mrs. van daan. a correspondence course in english; likes to read biographical novels and occasionally other kinds of novels.

mr. frank. is learning english (dickens!) and a bit of latin; never reads novels, but likes serious, rather dry descriptions of people and places.

mrs. frank. a correspondence course in english; reads everything except detective stories.

mr. dussel. is learning english, spanish and dutch with no noticeable results; reads

everything; goes along with the opinion of the majority.

peter van daan. is learning english, french (correspondence course), shorthand in dutch, english and german, commercial correspondence in english, woodworking, economics and sometimes math; seldom reads, sometimes geography.

margot frank. correspondence courses in english, french and latin, shorthand in english, german and dutch, trigonometry, solid geometry, mechanics, phys- ics, chemistry, algebra, geometry, english literature, french literature, german literature, dutch literature, bookkeeping, geography, modern history, biology, economics; reads everything, preferably on religion and medicine.

anne frank. shorthand in french, english, german and dutch, geometry, algebra, history, geography, art history, mythology, biology, bible history, dutch literature; likes to read biographies, dull or exciting, and history books (sometimes novels and light reading).

friday, may 19, 1944

dearest kitty,

i felt rotten yesterday. vomiting (and that from anne!), headache, stomachache and anything else you can imagine. im feeling better today. im famished, but i think ill skip the brown beans were having for dinner.

everythings going fine between peter and me. the poor boy has an even greater need for tenderness than i do. he still blushes every evening when he gets his good-night kiss, and then begs for another one. am i merely a better substitute for boche? i dont mind. hes so happy just knowing somebody loves him.

after my laborious conquest, ive distanced myself a little from the situation, but you mustnt think my love has cooled. peters a sweetheart, but ive slammed the door to my inner self; if he ever wants to force the lock again, hell have to use a harder crowbar!

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, may 20, 1944

dearest kitty,

last night when i came down from the attic, i noticed, the moment i entered the room, that the lovely vase of carnations had fallen over. mother was down on her hands and knees mopping up the water and margot was fishing my papers off the floor. "what happened?" i asked with anxious foreboding, and before they could reply, i assessed the damage from across the room. my entire genealogy file, my notebooks, my books, everything was afloat. i nearly cried, and i was so upset i started speaking german. i cant remember a word, but according to margot i babbled something about "unlioersehbarer schaden, schrecklich, entsetzlich, nie zu ersetzen"* [* incalculable loss, terrible, awful, irreplaceable.] and much more. fadier burst out laughing and modier and margot joined in, but i felt like crying because all my work and elaborate notes were lost.

i took a closer look and, luckily, die "incalculable loss" wasnt as bad as id expected.

up in die attic i carefully peeled apart die sheets of paper diat were stuck togedier and dien hung diem on die clodiesline to dry. it was such a funny sight, even i had to laugh. maria de medici alongside charles v, william of orange and marie antoinette.

"its rassenschande,"* mr. van daan joked. [an affront to racial purity.] after entrusting my papers to peters care, i went back downstairs.

"which books are ruined?" i asked margot, who was going dirough them.

"algebra," margot said.

but as luck would have it, my algebra book wasnt entirely ruined. i wish it had fallen right in the vase. ive never loathed any book as much as that one. inside the front cover are the names of at least twenty girls who had it before i did. its old, yellowed, full of scribbles, crossed-out words and revisions. the next time im in a wicked mood, im going to tear the darned thing to pieces!

yours, anne 

m. frank

monday, may 22,1944

dearest kitty,

on may 20, father lost his bet and had to give five jars of yogurt to mrs. van daan:

the invasion still hasnt begun. i can safely say that all of amsterdam, all of holland, in fact the entire western coast of europe, all the way down to spain, are talking about the invasion day and night, debating, making bets and . . . hoping.

the suspense is rising to fever pitch; by no means has everyone we think of as "good" dutch people kept their faith in the english, not everyone thinks the english bluff is a masterful strategical move. oh no, people want deeds-great, heroic deeds.

no one can see farther than the end of their nose, no one gives a thought to the fact that the british are fighting for their own country and their own people; everyone thinks its englands duty to save holland, as quickly as possible. what obligations do the english have toward us? what have the dutch done to deserve the generous help they so clearly expect? oh no, the dutch are very much mistaken. the english, despite their bluff, are certainly no more to blame for the war than all the other countries, large and small, that are now occupied by the germans. the british are not about to offer their excuses; true, they were sleeping during the years germany was rearming itself, but all the other countries, especially those bordering on germany, were asleep too. england and the rest of the world have discovered that burying your head in the sand doesnt work, and now each of them, especially england, is having to pay a heavy price for its ostrich policy.

no country sacrifices its men without reason, and certainly not in the interests of another, and england is no exception. the invasion, liberation and freedom will come someday; yet england, not the occupied territories, will choose the moment.

to our great sorrow and dismay, weve heard that many people have changed their attitude toward us jews. weve been told that anti-semitism has cropped up in circles where once it would have been unthinkable. this fact has affected us all very, very deeply. the reason for the hatred is understandable, maybe even human, but that doesnt make it right. according to the christians, the jews are blabbing their secrets to the germans, denouncing their helpers and causing them to suffer the dreadful fate and punishments that have already been meted out to so many. all of this is true. but as with everything, they should look at the matter from both sides: would christians act any differently if they were in our place? could anyone, regardless of whether theyre jews or christians, remain silent in the face of german pressure? everyone knows its practically impossible, so why do they ask the impossible of the jews?

its being said in underground circles that the german jews who immigrated to holland before the war and have now been sent to poland shouldnt be allowed to return here.

they were granted the right to asylum in holland, but once hitler is gone, they should go back to germany.

when you hear that, you begin to wonder why were fighting this long and difficult war. were always being told that were fighting for freedom, truth and justice! the

war isnt even over, and already theres dissension and jews are regarded as lesser beings. oh, its sad, very sad that the old adage has been confirmed for the umpteenth time: "what one christian does is his own responsibthty, what one jew does reflects on all jews.”

to be honest, i cant understand how the dutch, a nation of good, honest, upright people, can sit in judgment on us the way they do. on us-the most oppressed, unfortunate and pitiable people in all the world.

i have only one hope: that this anti-semitism is just a passing thing, that the dutch will show their true colors, that theyll never waver from what they know in their hearts to be just, for this is unjust!

and if they ever carry out this terrible threat, the meager handful of jews still left in holland will have to go. we too will have to shoulder our bundles and move on, away from this beautiful country, which once so kindly took us in and now turns its back on us.

i love holland. once i hoped it would become a fatherland to me, since i had lost my own. and i hope so still!

yours, anne 

m. frank

thursday, may 25, 1944

dearest kitty,

beps engaged! the news isnt much of a surprise, though none of us are particularly pleased. bertus may be a nice, steady, athletic young man, but bep doesnt love him, and to me thats enough reason to advise her against marrying him.

beps trying to get ahead in the world, and bertus is pulling her back; hes a laborer, without any interests or any desire to make something of himself, and i dont think thatll make bep happy. i can understand beps wanting to put an end to her indecision; four weeks ago she decided to write him off, but then she felt even worse.

so she wrote him a letter, and now shes engaged.

there are several factors involved in this engagement. first, beps sick father, who likes bertus very much. second, shes the oldest of the voskuijl girls and her mother teases her about being an old maid. third, shes just turned twenty-four, and that matters a great deal to bep.

mother said it would have been better if bep had simply had an affair with bertus. i dont know, i feel sorry for bep and can understand her loneliness. in any case, they can get married only after the war, since bertus is in hiding, or at any rate has gone underground. besides, they dont have a penny to their name and nothing in the way of a hope chest. what a sorry prospect for bep, for whom we all wish the best. i only hope bertus improves under her influence, or that bep finds another man, one who knows how to appreciate her!

yours, anne 

m. frank

the same day theres something happening every day. this morning mr. van hoeven was arrested.

he was hiding two jews in his house. its a heavy blow for us, not only because those poor jews are once again balancing on the edge of an abyss, but also because its terrible for mr. van hoeven.

the worlds been turned upside down. the most decent people are being sent to concentration camps, prisons and lonely cells, while the lowest of the low rule over young and old, rich and poor. one gets caught for black marketeering, another for hiding jews or other un- fortunate souls. unless youre a nazi, you dont know whats going to happen to you from one day to the next.

mr. van hoeven is a great loss to us too. bep cant possibly lug such huge amounts of potatoes all the way here, nor should she have to, so our only choice is to eat fewer of them. ill tell you what we have in mind, but its certainly not going to make life here any more agreeable. mother says well skip breakfast, eat hot cereal and bread for lunch and fried potatoes for dinner and, if possible, vegetables or lettuce once or twice a week. thats all there is. were going to be hungry, but nothings worse than being caught.

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, may 26, 1944

my dearest kitty,

at long, long last, i can sit quietly at my table before the crack in the window frame and write you everything, everything i want to say.

i feel more miserable than i have in months. even after the break-in i didnt feel so utterly broken, inside and out. on the one hand, theres the news about mr. van hoeven, the jewish question (which is discussed in detail by everyone in the house), the invasion (which is so long in coming), the awful food, the tension, the misera- ble atmosphere, my disappointment in peter. on the other hand, theres beps engagement, the pentecost reception, the flowers, mr. kuglers birthday, cakes and stories about cabarets, movies and concerts. that gap, that enormous gap, is always there. one day were laugh- ing at the comical side of life in hiding, and the next day (and there are many such days), were frightened, and the fear, tension and despair can be read on our faces.

miep and mr. kugler bear the greatest burden for us, and for all those in hiding-miep in everything she does and mr. kugler through his enormous responsibthty for the eight of us, which is sometimes so overwhelming that he can hardly speak from the pent-up tension and strain. mr. kleiman and bep also take very good care of us, but theyre able to put the annex out of their minds, even if its only for a few hours or a few days. they have their own worries, mr. kleiman with his health and bep with her engagement, which isnt looking very promising lat the moment. but they also have their outings, their visits with friends, their everyday lives as ordinary people, so that the tension is sometimes relieved, if only for a short while, while ours never is, never has been, not once in the two years weve been here. how much longer will this increasingly oppressive, unbearable weight press i down on us?

the drains are clogged again. we cant run the wa- ter, or if we do, only a trickle;

we cant flush the toilet, so we have to use a toilet brush; and weve been putting our dirty water into a big earthenware jar. we can man- age for today, but what will happen if the plumber cant fix it on his own? the sanitation department cant come until tuesday.

miep sent us a raisin bread with "happy pentecost" written on top. its almost as if she were mocking us, since our moods and cares are far from "happy.”

weve all become more frightened since the van hoeven business. once again you hear "shh" from all i sides, and were doing everything more quietly. the police forced the door there; they could just as easily do that here too! what will we do if were ever.

. . no, i mustnt write that down. but the question wont let itself be pushed to the back of my mind today; on the contrary, all the fear ive ever felt is looming before me in all its horror.

i had to go downstairs alone at eight this evening to use the bathroom. there was no one down there, since they were all listening to the radio. i wanted to be brave, but it

was hard. i always feel safer upstairs than in that huge, silent house; when im alone with those mysterious muffied sounds from upstairs and the honking of horns in the street, i have to hurry and remind myself where i am to keep from getting the shivers.

miep has been acting much nicer toward us since her talk with father. but i havent told you about that yet. miep came up one afternoon all flushed and asked father straight out if we thought they too were infected with the current anti-semitism.

father was stunned and quickly talked her out of the idea, but some of mieps suspicion has lingered on. theyre doing more errands for us now and showing more of an interest in our troubles, though we certainly shouldnt bother them with our woes. oh, theyre such good, noble people!

ive asked myself again and again whether it wouldnt have been better if we hadnt gone into hiding, if we were dead now and didnt have to go through this misery, especially so that the others could be spared the burden. but we all shrink from this thought. we still love life, we havent yet forgotten the voice of nature, and we keep hoping, hoping for. . . everything.

let something happen soon, even an air raid. nothing can be more crushing than this anxiety. let the end come, however cruel; at least then well know whether we are to be the victors or the vanquished.

yours, anne 

m. frank

wednesday, may 31, 1944

dearest kitty,

saturday, sunday, monday and tuesday it was too hot to hold my fountain pen, which is why i couldnt write to you. friday the drains were clogged, saturday they were fixed. mrs. kleiman came for a visit in the afternoon and told us a lot about jopiej she and jacque van maarsen are in the same hockey club. sunday bep dropped by to make sure there hadnt been a break-in and stayed for breakfast. monday (a holiday because of pentecost), mr. gies served as the annex watchman, and tuesday we were finally allowed to open the windows. weve seldom had a pentecost weekend that was so beautiful and warm. or maybe "hot" is a better word. hot weather is horrible in the annex. to give you an idea of the numerous complaints, ill briefly describe these sweltering days.

saturday: "wonderful, what fantastic weather," we all said in the morning. "if only it

werent quite so hot," we said in the afternoon, when the windows had to be shut.

sunday: "the heats unbearable, the butters melt- ing, theres not a cool spot anywhere in the house, the breads drying out, the milks going sour, the windows cant be opened. we poor outcasts are suffocating while everyone else is enjoying their pentecost." (according to mrs. van d.)

monday: "my feet hurt, i have nothing cool to wear, i cant do the dishes in this heat!" grumbling from early in the morning to late at night. it was awful.

i cant stand the heat. im glad the winds come up today, but that the suns still shining.

yours, anne 

m. frank

wＷw．xiＡoshＵotxt.cＯm



JUNE, 1944

?小说/tＸt|天堂
friday, june 2, 1944 

j dear kitty,

"if youre going to the attic, take an umbrella with you, preferably a large one!" this is to protect you from "household showers." theres a dutch proverb: "high and dry, safe and sound," but it obviously doesnt apply to wartime (guns!) and to people in hiding (cat box!). mouschis gotten into the habit of relieving herself on some newspapers or between the cracks in the floor boards, so we have good reason to fear the splatters and, even worse, the stench. the new moortje in the warehouse has the same problem. anyone whos ever had a cat thats not housebroken can imagine the smells, other than pepper and thyme, that permeate this house.

i also have a brand-new prescription for gunfire jitters: when the shooting gets loud, proceed to the nearest wooden staircase. run up and down a few times, making sure to stumble at least once. what with the scratches and the noise of running and falling, you wont even be able to hear the shooting, much less worry about it. yours truly has put this magic formula to use, with great success!

yours, anne 

m. frank

monday, june 5, 1944

dearest kitty,

new problems in the annex. a quarrel between dussel and the franks over the

division of butter. capitulation on the part of dussel. close friendship between the latter and mrs. van daan, flirtations, kisses and friendly little smiles. dussel is beginning to long for female companionship.

the van daans dont see why we should bake a spice cake for mr. kuglers birthday when we cant have one ourselves. all very petty. mood upstairs: bad. mrs. van d.

has a cold. dussel caught with brewers yeast tablets, while weve got none.

the fifth army has taken rome. the city neither destroyed nor bombed. great propaganda for hitler.

very few potatoes and vegetables. one loaf of bread was moldy.

scharminkeltje (name of new warehouse cat) cant stand pepper. she sleeps in the cat box and does her business in the wood shavings. impossible to keep her.

bad weather. continuous bombing of pas de calais and the west coast of france.

no one buying dollars. gold even less interesting.

the bottom of our black moneybox is in sight. what are we going to live on next month?

yours, anne 

m. frank

tuesday, june 6, 1944

my dearest kitty,

"this is d day," the bbc announced at twelve.

"this is the day." the invasion has begun!

this morning at eight the british reported heavy bombing of calais, boulogne, le havre and cherbourg, as well as pas de calais (as usual). further, as a precautionary measure for those in the occupied territories, everyone living within a zone of twenty miles from the coast was warned to prepare for bombardments. where possible, the british will drop pamphlets an hour ahead of time.

according to the german news, british paratroopers have landed on the coast of france. "british landing craft are engaged in combat with german naval units,"

according to the bbc.

conclusion reached by the annex while breakfasting at nine: this is a trial landing, like the one two years ago in dieppe.

bbc broadcast in german, dutch, french and other languages at ten: the invasion has begun! so this is the "real" invasion. bbc broadcast in german at eleven: speech by supreme commander general dwight eisenhower.

bbc broadcast in english: "this is 0 day." general eisenhower said to the french people: "stiff fighting will come now, but after this the victory. the year 1944 is the year of complete victory. good luck!”

bbc broadcast in english at one: 11,000 planes are shuttling back and forth or standing by to land troops and bomb behind enemy lines; 4,000 landing craft and small boats are continually arriving in the area between cher- bourg and le havre. english and american troops are already engaged in heavy combat. speeches by gerbrandy, the prime minister of belgium, king haakon of norway, de gaulle of france, the king of england and, last but not least, churchill.

a huge commotion in the annex! is this really the beginning of the long-awaited liberation? the liberation weve all talked so much about, which still seems too good, too much of a fairy tale ever to come true? will this year, 1944, bring us victory? we dont know yet. but where theres hope, theres life. it fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again. well need to be brave to endure the many fears and hardships and the suffering yet to come. its now a matter of remaining calm and steadfast, of gritting our teeth and keeping a stiff upper lip! france, russia, italy, and even germany, can cry out in agony, but we dont yet have that right!

oh, kitty, the best part about the invasion is that i have the feeling that friends are on the way. those terrible germans have oppressed and threatened us for so long that the thought of friends and salvation means everything to us! now its not just the jews, but holland and all of occupied europe. maybe, margot says, i can even go back to school in october or september.

yours, anne 

m. frank

p.s. ill keep you informed of the latest news!

this morning and last night, dummies made of straw and rubber were dropped from the air behind german lines, and they exploded the minute they hit the ground. many

paratroopers, their faces blackened so they couldnt be seen in the dark, landed as well. the french coast was bombarded with 5,500 tons of bombs during the night, and then, at six in the morning, the first landing craft came ashore. today there were 20,000 airplanes in action. the german coastal batteries were destroyed even before the landing; a small bridgehead has already been formed. everythings going well, despite the bad weather. the army and the people are "one will and one hope.”

friday, june 9, 1944

dearest kitty,

great news of the invasion! the allies have taken bayeux, a village on the coast of france, and are now fighting for caen. theyre clearly intending to cut off the peninsula where cherbourg is located. every evening the war correspondents report on the difficulties, the courage and the fighting spirit of the army. to get their stories, they pull off the most amazing feats. a few of the wounded who are already back in england also spoke on the radio. despite the miserable weather, the planes are flying dthgently back and forth. we heard over the bbc that churchill wanted to land along with the troops on d day, but eisenhower and the other generals managed to talk him out of it. just imagine, so much courage for such an old man he must be at least seventy!

the excitement here has died down somewhat; still, were all hoping that the war will finally be over by the end of the year. its about time! mrs. van daans constant griping is unbearable; now that she can no longer drive us crazy with the invasion, she moans and groans all day about the bad weather. if only we could plunk her down in the loft in a bucket of cold water!

everyone in the annex except mr. van daan and peter has read the hunaarian rhapsody trilogy, a biography of the composer, piano virtuoso and child prodigy franz liszt. its very interesting, though in my opinion theres a bit too much emphasis on women; liszt was not only the greatest and most famous pianist of his time, he was also the biggest womanizer, even at the age of seventy. he had an affair with countess marie d agoult, princess carolyne sayn- wittgenstein, the dancer lola montez, the pianist agnes kingworth, the pianist sophie menter, the circassian princess olga janina, baroness olga meyen- dorff, actress lilla whats-her-name, etc., etc., and theres no end to it. those parts of the book dealing with music and the other arts are much more interesting. some of the people mentioned are schumann, clara wieck, hector berlioz, johannes brahms, beethoven, joachim, richard wagner, hans von bulow, anton rubinstein, frederic chopin, victor hugo, honore de balzac, hiller, hummel, czerny, rossini, cherubini, paganini, mendels- sohn, etc., etc.

liszt appears to have been a decent man, very generous and modest, though exceptionally vain. he helped others, put art above all else, was extremely fond of cognac and women, couldnt bear the sight of tears, was a gentleman, couldnt refuse anyone a favor, wasnt interested in money and cared about religious freedom and the world.

yours, anne 

m. frank

314 anne frank

tuesday, june 13, 1944

dearest kit, another birthday has gone by, so im now fifteen. i received quite a few gifts:

springers five-volume art history book, a set of underwear, two belts, a handkerchief, two jars of yogurt, a jar of jam, two honey cookies (small), a botany book from father and mother, a gold bracelet from margot, a sticker album from the van daans, biomalt and sweet peas from dussel, candy from miep, candy and notebooks from bep, and the high point: the book maria theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from mr. kugler. peter gave me a lovely bouquet of peonies; the poor boy had put a lot of effort into finding a present, but nothing quite worked out.

the invasion is still going splendidly, in spite of the miserable weather -- pouring rains, gale winds and high seas.

yesterday churchill, smuts, eisenhower and arnold visited the french villages that the british have captured and liberated. churchill was on a torpedo boat that shelled the coast. uke many men, he doesnt seem to know what fear is -- an enviable trait!

from our position here in fort annex, its difficult to gauge the mood of the dutch.

no doubt many people are glad the idle (!) british have finally rolled up their sleeves and gotten down to work. those who keep claim- ing they dont want to be occupied by the british dont realize how unfair theyre being. their line of reasoning boils down to this: england must fight, struggle and sacri- fice its sons to liberate holland and the other occupied countries. after that the british shouldnt remain in hol- land:

they should offer their most abject apologies to all the occupied countries, restore the dutch east indies to its rightful owner and then return, weakened and impoverished, to england. what a bunch of idiots. and yet, as ive already said, many dutch people can be counted among their ranks. what would have become of holland and its nei***ors if

england had signed a peace treaty with germany, as its had ample opportunity to do?

holland would have become german, and that would have been the end of that!

all those dutch people who still look down on the british, scoff at england and its government of old fogies, call the english cowards, yet hate the germans, should be given a good shaking, the way youd plump up a pillow. maybe that would straighten out their jumbled brains!

wishes, thoughts, accusations and reproaches are swirling around in my head. im not really as conceited as many people think; i know my various faults and shortcomings better than anyone else, but theres one difference: i also know that i want to change, will change and already have changed greatly!

why is it, i often ask myself, that everyone still thinks im so pushy and such a know-it-all? am i really so arrogant? am i the one whos so arrogant, or are they?

it sounds crazy, i know, but im not going to cross out that last sentence, because its not as crazy as it seems. mrs. van daan and dussel, my two chief accusers, are known to be totally unintelligent and, not to put too fine a point on it, just plain "stupid"! stupid people usually cant bear it when others do something better than they do; the best examples of this are those two dummies, mrs. van daan and dussel. mrs.

van d. thinks im stupid because i dont suffer so much from this ailment as she does, she thinks im pushy because shes even pushier, she thinks my dresses are too short because hers are even shorter, and she thinks im such a know-it-all because she talks twice as much as i do about topics she knows nothing about. the same goes for dussel. but one of my favorite sayings is "where theres smoke theres fire," and i readily admit im a know-it-all.

whats so difficult about my personality is that i scold and curse myself much more than anyone else does; if mother adds her advice, the pile of sermons becomes so thick that i despair of ever getting through them. then i talk back and start contradicting everyone until the old famthar anne refrain inevitably crops up again:

"no one understands me!”

this phrase is part of me, and as unlikely as it may seem, theres a kernel of truth in it. sometimes im so deeply buried under self-reproaches that i long for a word of comfort to help me dig myself out again. if only i had someone who took my feelings seriously. alas, i havent yet found that person, so the search must go on.

i know youre wondering about peter, arent you, kit? its true, peter loves me, not as a girlfriend, but as a friend. his affection grows day by day, but some mysterious force is holding us back, and i dont know what it is.

sometimes i think my terrible longing for him was overexaggerated. but thats not true, because if im unable to go to his room for a day or two, i long for him as desperately as i ever did. peter is kind and good, and yet i cant deny that hes disappointed me in many ways. i especially dont care for his dislike of religion, his table conversations and various things of that nature. still, im firmly convinced that well stick to our agreement never to quarrel. peter is peace-loving, tolerant and extremely easygoing. he lets me say a lot of things to him that hed never accept from his mother. hes making a determined effort to remove the blots from his copybook and keep his affairs in order. yet why does he hide his innermost self and never allow me access? of course, hes much more closed than i am, but i know from experience (even though im constantly being accused of knowing all there is to know in theory, but not in practice) that in time, even the most uncommunicative types will long as much, or even more, for someone to confide in.

peter and i have both spent our contemplative years in the annex. we often discuss the future, the past and the present, but as ive already told you, i miss the real thing, and yet i know it exists!

is it because i havent been outdoors for so long that ive become so smitten with nature? i remember a time when a magnificent blue sky, chirping birds, moonlight and budding blossoms wouldnt have captivated me. things have changed since i came here. one night during the pentecost holiday, for instance, when it was so hot, i struggled to keep my eyes open until eleven-thirty so i could get a good look at the moon, all on my own for once. alas, my sacrifice was in vain, since there was too much glare and i couldnt risk opening a window. an- other time, several months ago, i happened to be upstairs one night when the window was open. i didnt go back down until it had to be closed again. the dark, rainy evening, the wind, the racing clouds, had me spellbound; it was the first time in a year and a half that id seen the night face-to-face. after that evening my longing to see it again was even greater than my fear of burglars, a dark rat-infested house or robberies. i went downstairs all by myself and looked out the windows in the kitchen and private office. many people think nature is beautiful, many people sleep from time to time under the starry sky, and many people in hospitals and prisons long for the day when theyll be free to enjoy what nature has to offer. but few are as isolated and cut off as we are from dle joys of nature, which can be shared by rich and poor alike.

its not just my imagination -- looking at dle sky, dle clouds, dle moon and dle stars really does make me feel calm and hopeful. its much better medicine than valerian or bromide. nature makes me feel humble and ready to face every blow with courage!

as luck would have it, im only able -- except for a few rare occasions-to view nature through dusty curtains tacked over dirt-caked windows; it takes dle pleasure out of looking. nature is dle one thing for which dlere is no substitute!

one of dle many questions that have often bodlered me is why women have been, and still are, thought to be so inferior to men. its easy to say its unfair, but thats not enough for me; id really like to know the reason for this great injustice!

men presumably dominated women from the very beginning because of their greater physical strength; its men who earn a living, beget children and do as they please. . .

until recently, women silently went along willi this, which was stupid, since the longer its kept up, the more deeply entrenched it becomes. fortunately, education, work and progress have opened womens eyes. in many countries theyve been granted equal rights; many people, mainly women, but also men, now realize how wrong it was to tolerate this state of affairs for so long. modern women want the right to be completely independent!

but thats not all. women should be respected as well! generally speaking, men are held in great esteem in all parts ofthe world, so why shouldnt women have their share? soldiers and war heroes are honored and commemorated, explorers are granted immortal fame, martyrs are revered, but how many people look upon women too as soldiers?

in the book soldiers on the home front i was greatly struck by the fact that in childbirth alone, women commonly suffer more pain, illness and misery than any war hero ever does. and whats her reward for enduring all that pain? she gets pushed aside when shes disfigured by birth, her children soon leave, her beauty is gone.

women, who struggle and suffer pain to ensure the con- tinuation of the human race, make much tougher and more courageous soldiers than all those big-mouthed freedom-fighting heroes put together!

i dont mean to imply that women should stop having children; on the contrary, nature intended them to, and thats the way it should be. what i condemn are our system of values and the men who dont acknowledge how great, difficult, but ultimately beautiful womens share in society is.

i agree completely with paul de kruif, the author of this book, when he says that men must learn that birth is no longer thought of as inevitable and unavoidable in those parts of the world we consider civthzed. its easy for men to talk -- they dont and never will have to bear the woes that women do!

i believe that in the course of the next century the notion that its a womans duty to have children will change and make way for the respect and admiration of all women, who bear their burdens without complaint or a lot of pompous words!

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, june 16, 1944

dearest kitty,

new problems: mrs. van d. is at her wits end. shes talking about getting shot, being thrown in prison, being hanged and suicide. shes jealous that peter confides in me and not in her, offended that dussel doesnt re- spond sufficiently to her flirtations and afraid her husbands going to squander all the fur-coat money on to- bacco. she quarrels, curses, cries, feels sorry for herself, laughs and starts allover again.

what on earth can you do with such a silly, sniveling specimen of humanity? nobody takes her seriously, she has no strength of character, she complains to one and all, and you should see how she walks around: von hinten lyzeum, yon vorne museum.* [acts like a schoolgirl, looks like a frump.] even worse, peters becoming insolent, mr. van daan irritable and mother cynical. yes, everyones in quite a state! theres only one rule you need to remember: laugh at everything and forget everybody else! it sounds egotistical, but its actually the only cure for those suffering from self-pity.

mr. kuglers supposed to spend four weeks in alkmaar on a work detail. hes trying to get out of it with a doctors certificate and a letter from opekta. mr. kleimans hoping his stomach will be operated on soon. starting at eleven last night, all private phones were cut off.

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, june 23, 1944

dearest kitty,

nothing special going on here. the british have begun their all-out attack on cherbourg. according to pim and mr. van oaan, were sure to be liberated before october 10. the russians are taking part in the cam- paign; yesterday they started their offensive near vitebsk, exactly three years to the day that the germans invaded russia.

beps spirits have sunk lower than ever. were nearly out of potatoes; from now on, were going to count them out for each person, then everyone can do what they want with them. starting monday, mieps taking a week of vacation. mr. kleimans doctors havent found anything on the x rays. hes torn between having an operation and letting matters take their course.

yours, anne 

m. frank

tuesday, june 27, 1944

my dearest kitty,

the mood has changed, everythings going enormously well. cherbourg, vitebsk and zhlobin fell today. theyre sure to have captured lots of men and equipment. five german generals were killed near cherbourg and two taken captive. now that theyve got a harbor, the british can bring whatever they want on shore. the whole cotentin peninsula has been captured just three weeks after the invasion! what a feat!

in the three weeks since d day there hasnt been a day without rain and storms, neither here nor in france, but this bad luck hasnt kept the british and the americans from displaying their might. and how! of course, the germans have launched their wonder weapon, but a little firecracker like that wont hardly make a dent, except maybe minor damage in england and screaming headlines in the kraut newspapers.

anyway, when they realize in "krautland" that the bolsheviks really are getting closer, theyll be shaking in their boots.

all german women who arent working for the military are being evacuated, together with their children, from the coastal regions to the provinces of groningen, friesland and gelderland. mussert* [* the leader of the dutch national socialist (nazi) party] has announced that if the invasion reaches holland, hell enlist. is that fat pig planning to fight? he could have done that in russia long before now. finland turned down a peace offer some time ago, and now the negotiations have been broken off again.

those numbskulls, theyll be sorry!

how far do you think well be on july 27?

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, june 30, 1944

dearest kitty,

bad weather from one at a stretch to the thirty june* [annes english.] dont i say that well? oh yes, i already know a little english; just to prove it im reading an ideal husband with the help of a dictionary! wars going wonderfully: bobruysk, mogilev and orsha have fallen, lots of prisoners.

everythings all right here. spirits are improving, our superoptimists are triumphant, the van daans are doing disappearing acts with the sugar, bep s changed her hair, and miep has a week off. thats the latest news!

ive been having really ghastly root-canal work done on one of my front teeth. its been terribly painful. it was so bad dussel thought i was going to faint, and i nearly did. mrs. van d. promptly got a toothache as well!

yours, anne 

m. frank

p.s. weve heard from basel that bernd* [cousin bernhard (buddy) elias]. played the part of the innkeeper in minna von barnhelm. he has "artistic leanings," says mother.

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JULY, 1944

　小＿说t?xt＿天堂
thursday, july 6, 1944

dearest kitty,

my blood runs cold when peter talks about becoming a criminal or a speculator; of course, hes joking, but i still have the feeling hes afraid of his own weakness.

margot and peter are always saying to me, "if i had your spunk and your strength, if i had your drive and unflagging energy, could. . .

is it really such an admirable trait not to let myself be influenced by others? am i right in following my own conscience?

to be honest, i cant imagine how anyone could say "im weak" and then stay that way. if you know that about yourself, why not fight it, why not develop your character? their answer has always been: "because its much easier not to!" this reply leaves me feeling rather discouraged. easy? does that mean a life of deceit and laziness is easy too? oh no, that cant be true. it cant be true that people are so readily tempted by ease. . . and money. ive given a lot of thought to what my answer should be, to how i should get peter to believe in himself and, most of all, to change himself for the better. i dont know whether im on the right track.

ive often imagined how nice it would be if someone were to confide everything to me. but now that its reached that point, i realize how difficult it is to put yourself in someope elses shoes and find the right answer. especially since "easy" and "money”

are new and com- pletely alien concepts to me.

peters beginning to lean on me and i dont want that, not under any circumstances.

its hard enough standing on your own two feet, but when you also have to remain true to your character and soul, its harder still.

ive been drifting around at sea, have spent days searching for an effective antidote to that terrible word "easy." how can i make it clear to him that, while it may seem easy and wonderful, it will drag him down to the depths, to a place where hell no longer find friends, support or beauty, so far down that he may never rise to the surface again?

were all alive, but we dont know why or what for; were all searching for happiness;

were all leading lives that are different and yet the same. we three have been raised in good famthes, we have the opportunity to get an education and make something of ourselves. we have many reasons to hope for great happiness, but. . . we have to earn it. and thats something you cant achieve by taking the easy way out. earning happiness means doing good and working, not speculating and being lazy. laziness may look inviting, but only work gives you true satisfaction.

i cant understand people who dont like to work, but that isnt peters problem either.

he just doesnt have a goal, plus he thinks hes too stupid and inferior to ever achieve anything. poor boy, hes never known how it feels to make someone else happy, and im afraid i cant teach him. he isnt religious, scoffs at jesus christ and takes the lords name in vain, and though im not orthodox either, it hurts me every time to see him so lonely, so scornful, so wretched.

people who are religious should be glad, since not everyone is blessed with the ability to believe in a higher order. you dont even have to live in fear of eternal punishment;

the concepts of purgatory, heaven and hell are difficult for many people to accept, yet religion itself, any religion, keeps a person on the right path. not the fear of god, but upholding your own sense of honor and obeying your own conscience. how noble and good everyone could be if, at the end of each day, they were to review their own behavior and weigh up the rights and wrongs. they would automatically try to do better at the start of each new day and, after a while, would certainly accomplish a great deal. everyone is welcome to this prescription; it costs nothing and is definitely useful. those who dont know will have to find out by experience that "a quiet conscience gives you strength!"

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, july 8, 1944

dearest kitty,

mr. broks was in beverwijk and managed to get hold of strawberries at the produce auction. they arrived here dusty and full of sand, but in large quantities. no less than twenty-four crates for the office and us. that very same evening we canned the first six jars and made eight jars of jam. the next morning miep started making jam for the office.

at twelve-thirty the outside door was locked, crates were lugged into the kitchen, with peter, father and mr. van daan stumbling up the stairs. anne got hot water from the water heater, margot"",went for a bucket, all hands on deck! with a funny feeling in my stomach, i entered the overcrowded office kitchen. miep, bep, mr. kleiman, jan, father, peter: the annex contingent and the supply corps all mixed up together, and that in the middle of the day! curtains and windows open, loud voices, banging doors -- i was trembling with excitement. i kept thinking, "are we really in hiding?" this must be how it feels when you can finally go out into the world again. the pan was full, so i dashed upstairs, where the rest of the family was hulling strawberries around the kitchen table. at least thats what they were supposed to be doing, but more was going into their mouths than into the buckets. they were bound to need another bucket soon. peter went back downstairs, but then the doorbell rang twice. leaving the bucket where it was, peter raced upstairs and shut the bookcase behind him. we sat kicking our heels impatiently; the strawberries were waiting to be rinsed, but we stuck to the house rule: "no running water when strangers are downstairs -- they might hear the drains.”

jan came up at one to tell us it had been the mail- man. peter hurried downstairs again. ding-dong. . . the doorbell, about-face. i listened to hear if anyone was coming, standing first at the bookcase, then at the top of the stairs. finally peter and i leaned over the banister, straining our ears like a couple of burglars to hear the sounds from downstairs. no unfamthar voices. peter tip- toed halfway down the stairs and called out, "bep!”

once more: "bep!" his voice was drowned out by the racket in the kitchen. so he ran down to the kitchen while i nervously kept watch from above. "go upstairs at once, peter, the accountants here, youve got to leave!" it was mr. kuglers voice. sighing, peter came upstairs and closed the bookcase.

mr. kugler finally came up at one-thirty. "my gosh, the whole worlds turned to strawberries. i had strawber- ries for breakfast, jans having diem for lunch, kleimans eating them as a snack, mieps bothng them, beps hulling them, and i can smell them everywhere i go. i come upstairs to get away from all that red and what do i see? people washing strawberries!”

the rest of the strawberries were canned. that evening: two jars came unsealed.

father quickly turned them into jam. the next morning: two more lids popped up; and that afternoon: four lids. mr. van daan hadnt gotten the jars hot enough when he was sterthzing them, so father ended up making jam every evening. we ate hot cereal with strawberries, buttermilk with strawberries, bread with strawberries, strawberries for dessert, straw- berries with sugar, strawberries with sand. for two days there was nothing but strawberries, strawberries, strawberries, and then our supply was either exhausted or in jars, safely under lock and key.

"hey, anne," margot called out one day, "mrs. van hoeven has let us have some peas, twenty pounds!”

"thats nice of her," i replied. and it certainly was, but its so much work. . . ugh!

"on saturday, youve aji got to shell peas," mother announced at the table.

and sure enough, this morning after breakfast our biggest enamel pan appeared on the table, filled to the brim with peas. if you think shelling peas is boring work, you ought to try removing the inner linings. i dont think many people realize that once youve pulled out the linings, the pods are soft, delicious and rich in vitamins. but an even greater advantage is that you get nearly three times as much as when you eat just the peas.

stripping pods is a precise and meticulous job that might be suited to pedantic dentists or finicky spice experts, but its a horror for an impatient teenager like me. we started work at nine-thirty; i sat down at ten-thirty, got up again at eleven, sat down again at eleven-thirty. my ears were humming with the following refrain: snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, etc., etc. my eyes were swimming: green, green, worm, string, rotten pod, green, green. to fight the boredom and have something to do, i chattered all morn- ing, saying whatever came into my head and making everyone laugh. the monotony was killing me. every string i pulled made me more certain that i never, ever, want to be just a housewife!

at twelve we finally ate breakfast, but from twelve-thirty to one-fifteen we had to strip pods again. when i stopped, i felt a bit seasick, and so did the others. i napped until four, still in a daze because of those wretched peas.

yours, anne 

m. frank

saturday, july 15,1944

dearest kitty,

weve received a book from the library with the challenging title what do you think of the modern young girl? id like to discuss this subject today.

the writer criticizes "todays youth" from head to toe, though without dismissing them all as "hopeless cases." on the contrary, she believes they have it within their power to build a bigger, better and more beautiful world, but that they occupy themselves with superficial things, without giving a thought to true beauty. in some passages i had the strong feeling that the writer was directing her disapproval at me, which is why i finally want to bare my soul to you and defend myself against this attack.

i have one outstanding character trait that must be obvious to anyone whos known me for any length of time: i have a great deal of self-knowledge. in everything i do, i can watch myself as if i were a stranger. i can stand c across from the everyday anne and, without being biased or making excuses, watch what shes doing, both the good and the bad. this self-awareness never leaves me, and every time i open my mouth, i think, "you should have said that differently" or "thats fine the way it is." i condemn myself in so many ways that im beginning to realize the truth of fathers adage: "every child has to raise itself." parents can only advise their children or point them in the right direction. ultimately, people shape their own characters. in addition, i face life with an extraordinary amount of courage. i feel so strong and capable of bearing burdens, so young and free! when i first realized this, i was glad, because it means i can more easily withstand the blows life has in store.

but ive talked about these things so often. now id like to turn to the chapter "father and mother dont understand me." my parents have always spoiled me rotten, treated me kindly, defended me against the van daans and done all that parents can. and yet for the longest time ive felt extremely lonely, left out, neglected and misunderstood.

father did everything he could to curb my rebellious spirit, but it was no use. ive cured myself by holding my behavior up to the light and looking at what i was doing wrong.

why didnt father support me in my struggle? why did he fall short when he tried to offer me a helping hand? the answer is: he used the wrong methods. he always talked to me as if i were a child going through a difficult phase. it sounds crazy, since fathers the only one whos given me a sense of confidence and made me feel as if im a sensible person. but he overlooked one thing: he failed to see that this struggle to triumph over my difficulties was more important to me than anything else.

i didnt want to hear about "typical adolescent problems," or "other girls," or "youll grow out of it." i didnt want to be treated the same as all-the-other-girls, but as anne-in-her-own-right, and rim didnt understand that. besides, i cant confide in anyone unless they tell me a lot about themselves, and because i know very little about him, i cant get on a more intimate footing. rim always acts like the elderly father who once had the same fleeting im- pulses, but who can no longer relate to me as a friend, no matter how hard he tries. as a result, ive never shared my outlook on life or my long-pondered theories with anyone but my diary and, once in a while, margot. ive hid any- thing having to do with me from father, never shared my ideals with him, deliberately alienated myself from him.

i couldnt have done it any other way. ive let myself be guided entirely by my feelings. it was egotistical, but ive done what was best for my own peace of mind. i would lose that, plus the self-confidence ive worked so hard to achieve, if i were to be subjected to criticism halfway through the job. it may sound hard-hearted, but i cant take criticism from rim either, because not only do i never share my innermost thoughts with him, but ive pushed him even further away by being irritable.

this is a point i think about quite often: why is it that rim annoys me so much sometimes? i can hardly bear to have him tutor me, and his affection seems forced. i want to be left alone, and id rather he ignored me for a while until im more sure of myself when im talking to him! im still torn with guilt about the mean letter i wrote him when i was so upset. oh, its hard to be strong and brave in every way!

. . .

still, this hasnt been my greatest disappointment. no, i think about peter much more than i do father. i know very well that he was my conquest, and not the other way around. i created an image of him in my mind, pictured him as a quiet, sweet, sensitive boy badly in need of friendship and love! i needed to pour out my heart to a living person. i wanted a friend who would help me find my way again. i accomplished what i set out to do and drew him, slowly but surely, toward me. when i finally got him to be my friend, it automatically developed into an intimacy that, when i think about it now, seems outrageous. we talked about the most private things, but we havent yet touched upon the things closest to my heart. i still cant make head or tail

of peter. is he superficial, or is it shyness that holds him back, even with me? but putting all that aside, i made one mistake: i used intimacy to get closer to him, and in doing so, i ruled out other forms of friendship. he longs to be loved, and i can see hes beginning to like me more with each passing day. our time together leaves him feeling satisfied, but just makes me want to start all over again. i never broach the subjects i long to bring out into the open. i forced peter, more than he realizes, to get close to me, and now hes holding on for dear life. i honestly dont see any effective way of shaking him off and getting him back on his own two feet. i soon realized he could never be a kindred spirit, but still tried to help him break out of his narrow world and expand his youthful horizons.

"deep down, the young are lonelier than the old." i read this in a book somewhere and its stuck in my mind. as far as i can tell, its true.

so if youre wondering whether its harder for the adults here than for the children, the answer is no, its certainly not. older people have an opinion about everything and are sure of themselves and their actions. its twice as hard for us young people to hold on to our opinions at a time when ideals are being shattered and destroyed, when the worst side of human nature predominates, when everyone has come to doubt truth, justice and god.

anyone who claims that the older folks have a more difficult time in the annex doesnt realize that the problems have a far greater impact on us. were much too young to deal with these problems, but they keep thrusting themselves on us until, finally, were forced to think up a solution, though most of the time our solutions crumble when faced with the facts. its difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality. its a wonder i havent abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. yet i cling to them because i still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.

its utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death. i see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, i hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, i feel the suffering of millions.

and yet, when i look up at the sky, i somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquthty will return once more. in the meantime, i must hold on to my ideals. perhaps the day will come when ill be able to realize them!

yours, anne 

m. frank

friday, july 21, 1944

dearest kitty,

im finally getting optimistic. now, at last, things are going well! they really are!

great news! an assassination attempt has been made on hitlers life, and for once not by jewish communists or english capitalists, but by a german general whos not only a count, but young as well. the fuhrer owes his life to "divine providence": he escaped, unfortunately, with only a few minor burns and scratches. a number of the officers and generals who were nearby were killed or wounded. the head of the conspiracy has been shot.

this is the best proof weve had so far that many officers and generals are fed up with the war and would like to see hitler sink into a bottomless pit, so they can establish a mthtary dictatorship, make peace with the allies, rearm themselves and, after a few decades, start a new war. perhaps providence is deliberately biding its time getting rid of hider, since its much easier, and cheaper, for the allies to let the impeccable germans kill each other off. its less work for the russians and the british, and it allows them to start rebuilding their own cities all that much sooner. but we havent reached that point yet, and id hate to anticipate the glorious event. still, youve probably noticed that im telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. for once, im not rattling on about high ideals.

furthermore, hitler has been so kind as to announce to his loyal, devoted people that as of today all mthtary personnel are under orders of the gestapo, and that any soldier who knows that one of his superiors was involved in this cowardly attempt on the fuhrers life may shoot him on sight!

a fine kettle of fish that will be. little johnnys feet are sore after a long march and his commanding officer bawls him out. johnny grabs his rifle, shouts, "you, you tried to kill the fuhrer. take that!" one shot, and the snooty officer who dared to reprimand him passes into eternal life (or is it eternal death?). eventually, every time an officer sees a soldier or gives an order, hell be practically wetting his pants, because the soldiers have more say-so than he does.

were you able to follow that, or have i been skipping from one subject to another again? i cant help it, the prospect of going back to school in october is making me too happy to be logical! oh dear, didnt i just get through telling you i didnt want to anticipate events? forgive me, kitty, they dont call me a bundle of contradictions for nothing!

yours, anne 

m. frank

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AUGUST, 1944

小..说..t.xt..天.堂
tuesday, august 1, 1944

dearest kitty,

"a bundle of contradictions" was the end of my previous letter and is the beginning of this one. can you please tell me exactly what "a bundle of contradictions" is? what does "contradiction" mean? like so many words, it can be interpreted in two ways: a contradiction imposed from without and one imposed from within. the former means not accepting other peoples opinions, always knowing best, having the last word; in short, all those unpleasant traits for which im known. the latter, for which im not known, is my own secret.

as ive told you many times, im split in two. one side contains my exuberant cheerfulness, my flippancy, my joy in life and, above all, my abthty to appreciate the lighter side of things. by that i mean not finding anything wrong with flirtations, a kiss, an embrace, an off-color joke. this side of me is usually lying in wait to ambush the other one, which is much purer, deeper and finer. no one knows annes better side, and thats why most people cant stand me. oh, i can be an amusing clown for an afternoon, but after that everyones had enough of me to last a month. actually, im what a romantic movie is to a profound thinker -- a mere diversion, a comic interlude, something that is soon forgotten: not bad, but not particularly good either. i hate having to tell you this, but why shouldnt i admit it when i know its true? my lighter, more superficial side will always steal a march on the deeper side and therefore always win. you cant imagine how often ive tried to p:ush away this anne, which is only half of what is known as anne-to beat her down, hide her. but it doesnt work, and i know why.

im afraid that people who know me as i usually am will discover i have another side, a better and finer side. im afraid theyll mock me, think im ridiculous and sentimental and not take me seriously. im used to not being taken seriously, but only the "lighthearted" anne is used to it and can put up with it; the "deeper" anne is too weak. if i force the good anne into the spotlight for even fifteen minutes, she shuts up like a clam the moment shes called upon to speak, and lets anne number one do the talking. before i realize it, shes disappeared.

so the nice anne is never seen in company. shes never made a single appearance, though she almost always takes the stage when im alone. i know exactly how id like to be, how i am . . . on the inside. but unfortunately im only like that with myself.

and perhaps thats why-no, im sure thats the reason why -- i think of myself as happy on the inside and other people think im happy on the outside. im guided by

the pure anne within, but on the outside im nothing but a frolicsome little goat tugging at its tether.

as ive told you, what i say is not what i feel, which is why i have a reputation for being boy-crazy as well as a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of romances. the happy-go-lucky anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs her shoulders and pretends she doesnt give a darn. the quiet anne reacts in just the opposite way. if im being completely honest, ill have to admit that it does matter to me, that im trying very hard to change myself, but that i im always up against a more powerful enemy.

a voice within me is sobbing, "you see, thats whats become of you. youre surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people, who dislike you, and all because you dont listen to the ; advice of your own better half.”

believe me, id like ; to listen, but it doesnt work, because if im quiet and serious, everyone thinks im putting on a new act and i have to save myself with a joke, and then im not even talking about my own family, who assume i must be sick, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if i have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until i just cant keep it up anymore, because jj when everybody starts hovering over me, i get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside g out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what id like to be and what i could be if . . . if only there were no other people in the world.

yours, anne 

m. frank

-----------------------

annes diary ends here.

-----------------------

afterword

on the morning of august 4, 1944, sometime between ten and ten-thirty, a car pulled up at 263 prinsengracht. several figures emerged: an ss sergeant, karl josef silberbauer, in full uniform, and at least three dutch members of the security police, armed but in civilian clothes. someone must have tipped them off.

they arrested the eight people hiding in the annex, as well as two of their helpers, victor kugler and johannes kleiman -- though not miep gies and elisabeth (bep)

voskuijl-and took all the valuables and cash they could find in the annex.

after the arrest, kugler and kleiman were taken to a prison in amsterdam. on september 11, 1944, they were transferred, without benefit of a trial, to a camp in amersfoort (holland). kleiman, because of his poor health, was released on september 18, 1944. he remained in amsterdam until his death in 1959.

kugler managed to escape his imprisonment on march 28, 1945, when he and his fellow prisoners were being sent to germany as forced laborers. he immigrated to canada in 1955 and died in toronto in 1989.

elisabeth (bep) voskuijl wijk died in amsterdam in 1983.

miep santrouschitz gies is still living in amsterdam; her husband jan died in 1993.

upon their arrest, the eight residents of the annex were first brought to a prison in amsterdam and then transferred to westerbork, the transit camp for jews in the north of holland. they were deported on september 3, 1944, in the last transport to leave westerbork, and arrived three days later in auschwitz (poland).

hermann van pels (van daan) was, according to the testimony of otto frank, gassed to death in auschwitz in october or november 1944, shortly before the gas chambers were dismantled.

auguste van pels (petronella van daan) was transported from auschwitz to bergen-belsen, from there to buchenwald, then to theresienstadt on april 9, 1945, and apparently to another concentration camp after that. it is certain that she did not survive, though the date of her death is unknown.

peter van pels (van daan) was forced to take part in the january 16, 1945 "death march" from auschwitz to mauthausen (austria), where he died on may 5, 1945, three days before the camp was liberated.

fritz pfeffer (albert dussel) died on december 20, 1944, in the neuengamme concentration camp, where he had been transferred from either buchenwald or sachsenhausen.

edith frank died in auschwitz-birkenau on january 6, 1945, from hunger and exhaustion.

margot and anne frank were transported from auschwitz at the end of october and

brought to bergen belsen, a concentration camp near hannover (germany). the typhus epidemic that broke out in the winter of 1944-1945, as a result of the horrendous hygenic conditions, killed thousands of prisoners, including margot and, a few days later, anne. she must have died in late february or early march. the bodies of both girls were probably dumped in bergen-belsens mass graves. the camp was liberated by british troops on april 12, 1945.

otto frank was the only one of the eight to survive the concentration camps. after auschwitz was liberated by russian troops, he was repatriated to amsterdam by way of odessa and marseille. he arrived in amsterdam on june 3, 1945, and stayed there until 1953, when he moved to basel (switzerland), where his sister and her family, and later his brother, lived. he married elfriede markovits geiringer, originally from vienna, who had survived auschwitz and lost a husband and son in mauthausen. until his death on august 19, 1980, otto frank continued to live in birsfelden, outside basel, where he devoted himself to sharing the message of his daughters diary with people all over the world.

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