THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,Today I have two things to confess. It’s going to take a long time, but I haveto tell them to someone, and you’re the most likely candidate, since I knowyou’ll keep a secret, no matter what happens.The first is about Mother. As you know, I’ve frequently complained about herand then tried my best to be nice. I’ve suddenly realized what’s wrong withher. Mother has said that she sees us more as friends than as daughters. That’sall very nice, of course, except that a friend can’t take the place of a mother. Ineed my mother to set a good example and be a person I can respect, but inmost matters she’s an example of what not to do. I have the feeling thatMargot thinks so differently about these things that she’d never be able tounderstand what I’ve just told you. And Father avoids all conversationshaving to do with Mother.I imagine a mother as a woman who, first and foremost, possesses a greatdeal of tact, especially toward her adolescent children, and not one who, likeMomsy, pokes fun at me when I cry. Not because I’m in pain, but because ofother things.This may seem trivial, but there’s one incident I’ve never forgiven her for. Ithappened one day when I had to go to the dentist. Mother and Margotplanned to go with me and agreed I should take my bicycle. When the dentistwas finished and we were back outside, Margot and Mother very sweetlyinformed me that they were going downtown to buy or look at something, Idon’t remember what, and of course I wanted to go along. But they said Icouldn’t come because I had my bike with me.Tears of rage rushed to my eyes, and Margot and Mother began laughing atme. I was so furious that I stuck my tongue out at them, right there on thestreet. A little old lady happened to be passing by, and she looked terriblyshocked. I rode my bike home and must have cried for hours. Strangelyenough, even though Mother has wounded me thousands of times, thisparticular wound still stings whenever I think of how angry I was.I find it difficult to confess the second one because it’s about myself. I’m notprudish, Kitty, and yet every time they give a blow-by-blow account of theirtrips 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 she’daddressed it directly to me. Not that I blush easily, but the rest of the articledid apply. What she basically says is that during puberty girls withdraw intothemselves and begin thinking about the wondrous changes taking place intheir bodies. I feel that too, which probably accounts for my recentembarrassment over Margot, Mother and Father. On the other hand, Margotis a lot shyer than I am, and yet she’s not in the least embarrassed.I think that what’s happening to me is so wonderful, and I don’t just mean thechanges 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 haveto talk about them to myself. Whenever I get my period (and that’s only beenthree times), I have the feeling that in spite of all the pain, discomfort andmess, I’m carrying around a sweet secret. So even though it’s a nuisance, in acertain way I’m always looking forward to the time when I’ll feel that secretinside me once again.Sis Heyster also writes that girls my age feel very insecure about themselvesand are just beginning to discover that they’re individuals with their ownideas, thoughts and habits. I’d just turned thirteen when I came here, so Istarted thinking about myself and realized that I’ve become an independentperson sooner than most girls. Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I feel aterrible urge to touch my breasts and listen to the quiet, steady beating of myheart.Unconsciously, I had these feelings even before I came here. Once when Iwas spending the night at Jacque’s, I could no longer restrain my curiosityabout her body, which she’d always hidden from me and which I’d neverseen. I asked her whether, as proof of our friendiship, we could touch eachother’s 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, Igo into ecstasy. Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to holdback my tears. If only I had a girlfriend!THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,My longing for someone to talk to has become so unbearable that I somehowtook it into my head to select Peter for this role. On the few occasions when Ihave gone to Peter’s room during the day, I’ve always thought it was nice andcozy. But Peter’s too polite to show someone the door when they’re botheringhim, so I’ve never dared to stay long. I’ve always been afraid he’d think I wasa pest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to linger in his room and get himtalking without his noticing, and yesterday I got my chance. Peter, you see, iscurrently going through a crossword-puzzle craze, and he doesn’t do anythingelse all day. I was helping him, and we soon wound up sitting across fromeach 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 sawhow bashful my unexpected visit had made him. I could read his innermostthoughts, and in his face I saw a look of helplessness and uncertainty as tohow to behave, and at the same time a flicker of awareness of hismasculinity. I saw his shyness, and I melted. I wanted to say, Tell me aboutyourself. Look beneath my chatty exterior. But I found that it was easier tothink up questions than to ask them.The evening came to a close, and nothing happened, except that I told himabout the article on blushing. Not what I wrote you, of course, just that hewould grow more secure as he got older. That night I lay in bed and cried my eyes out, all the i while making sure noone could hear me. The idea that I had to beg Peter for favors was simplyrevolting. But people will do almost anything to satisfy their longings; takeme, for example, I’ve made up my mind to visit Peter more often and,somehow, get him to talk to me.You mustn’t think I’m in love with Peter, because I’m not.If the van Daans had had a daughter instead of a son, I’d have tried to makefriends with her.This morning I woke up just before seven and immediately remembered whatI’d been dreaming about. I was sitting on a chair and across from me wasPeter. . . 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 thatwasn’t all — the dream went on. Peter’s eyes suddenly met mine, and I staredfor a long time into those velvety brown eyes. Then he said very softly, If I’donly known, I’d have come to you long ago! I turned abruptly away,overcome by emotion. And then I felt a soft, oh-so-cool and gentle cheekagainst mine, and it felt so good, so good . . .At that point I woke up, still feeling his cheek against mine and his browneyes staring deep into my heart, so deep that he could read how much I’dloved him and how much I still do. Again my eyes filled with tears, and I wassad because I’d lost him once more, and yet at the same time glad because Iknew with certainty that Peter is still the only one for me. ‘It’s funny, but I often have such vivid images in my dreams. One night I sawGrammy* *Grammy is Anne’s grandmother on her father’s side, andGrandma her grandmother on her mother’s side. so clearly that I could evenmake out her skin of soft, crinkly velvet. Another time Grandma appeared tome as a guardian angel. After that it was Hanneli, who still symbolizes to methe suffering of my friends as well as that of Jews in general, so that when I’mpraying for her, I’m also praying for all the Jews and all those in need.And now Peter, my dearest Peter. I’ve never had such a clear mental image ofhim. I don’t need a photograph, I can see him oh so well.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, ANUARY 7, 1944Dearest Kitty,I’m such an idiot. I forgot that I haven’t yet told you the story of my one truelove.When I was a little girl, way back in kindergarten, I took a liking to SallyKimmel. His father was gone, and he and his mother lived with an aunt. Oneof Sally’s cousins was a good-looking, slender, dark-haired boy named Appy,who later turned out to look like a movie idol and aroused more admirationthan the short, comical, chubby Sally. For a long time we went everywheretogether, but aside from that, my love was unrequited until Peter crossed mypath. I had an out-and-out crush on him. He liked me too, and we wereinseparable for one whole summer. I can still see us walking hand in handthrough our neighborhood, Peter in a white cotton suit and me in a shortsummer dress. At the end of the summer vacation he went to the seventhgrade at the middle school, while I was in the sixth grade at the grammarschool.He’d pick me up on the way home, or I’d pick him up. Peter was the idealboy: tall, good-looking and slender, with a serious, quiet and intelligent face.He had dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, ruddy cheeks and a nicely pointednose.I was crazy about his smile, which made him look so boyish andmischievous.I’d gone away to the countryside during summer vacation, and when I cameback, Peter was no longer at his old address; he’d moved and was living witha much older boy, who apparently told him I was just a kid, because Peterstopped seeing me. I loved him so much that I didn’t want to face the truth. Ikept clinging to him until the day I finally realized that if I continued to chaseafter him, people would say I was boy-crazy.The years went by. Peter hung around with girls his own age and no longerbothered to say hello to me. I started school at the Jewish Lyceum, andseveral boys in my class were in love with me. I enjoyed it and felt honoredby their attentions, but that was all. Later on, Hello had a terrible crush onme, but as I’ve already told you, I never fell in love again.There’s a saying: Time heals all wounds. That’s how it was with me. I toldmyself I’d forgotten Peter and no longer liked him in the least. But mymemories of him were so strong that I had to admit to myself that the onlyreason 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 I’vegrown older and more mature, my love has grown along with me. I canunderstand now that Peter thought I was childish, and yet it still hurts to thinkhe’d forgotten me completely. I saw his face so clearly; I knew for certain thatno one but Peter could have stuck in my mind that way.I’ve been in an utter state of confusion today. When Father kissed me thismorning, I wanted to shout, Oh, if only you were Peter! I’ve been thinkingof him constantly, and all day long I’ve 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, Peter’s path will cross mine and he’ll gaze into myeyes, read the love in them and say, Oh, Anne, if I’d only known, I’d havecome to you long ago.Once when Father and I were talking about sex, he said I was too young tounderstand that kind of desire. But I thought I did understand it, and now I’msure 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 hadn’t beenin weeks, my mouth was much softer. I looked happy, and yet there wassomething so sad in my expression that the smile immediately faded from mylips. I’m not happy, since I know Petel’s not thinking of me, and yet I can stillfeel 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?Wouldn’t anyone who took your place be a poor substitute? I love you, with alove so great that it simply couldn’t keep growing inside my heart, but had toleap out and reveal itself in all its magnitude.A week ago, even a day ago, if you’d asked me, Which of your friends doyou think you’d be most likely to marry? I’d have answered, Sally, since hemakes me feel good, peaceful and safe! But now I’d cry, Petel, because Ilove him with all my heart and all my soul. I surrender myself completely!Except for that one thing: he may touch my face, but that’s as far as it goes.This morning I imagined I was in the front attic with Petel, sitting on thefloor 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 tome. Think of me, my dearest Petel!