WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 12, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Bep’s been back for the last two weeks, though her sister won’t 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.
I’m currently going through a dance and ballet craze and am diligently
practicing my dance steps every evening. I’ve 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 don’t 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 don’t 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.
She’d be completely bewildered, and anyway, she’d never be able to change;
I’d 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 I’m just going through a phase.
Margot’s gotten much nicer. She seems a lot different than she used to be.
She’s not nearly as catty these days and is becoming a real friend. She no
longer thinks of me as a litde kid who doesn’t count.
It’s 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 didn’t think about things as much as I do now, I
occasionally had the feeling that I didn’t 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 I’d chastise myself for
playing the victim, when really, I’d always been so fortunate. After that I’d
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. I’d
greet her warmly, because I honesly did look forward to her affectionate
glance. But then she’d snap at me for having made some comment or other
(and I’d go off to school feeling completely discouraged.
On the way home I’d make excuses for her, telling myself that she had so
many worries. I’d arrive home in high spirits, chatting nineteen to the dozen,
until the events of the morning would repeat themselves and I’d leave the
room with my schoolbag in my hand and a pensive look on my face.
Sometimes I’d decide to stay angry, but then I always had so much to talk
about after school that I’d 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,
There’s no reason for me to go on describing all our quarrels and arguments
down to the last detail. It’s enough to tell you that we’ve divided many things
like meat and fats and oils and are frying our own potatoes. Recently we’ve
been eating a little extra rye bread because by four o’clock we’re so hungry
for dinner we can barely control our rumbling stomachs.
Mother’s 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. didn’t receive any on her birthday. But what’s 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 isn’t likely to come true any time soon:
not to have to see Mr. van Daan’s 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? I’ve gained some insight into human
nature since I came here, which is good, but I’ve 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.
I’m preaching, but I also believe that if I live here much longer, I’ll 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!) don’t know what’s happened, but since my dream I keep
noticing how I’ve 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 Margot’s relationship with
Father. There’s not a trace of my jealousy left now; I still feel hurt when
Father’s nerves cause him to be unreasonable toward me, but then I think, “I
can’t blame you for being the way you are. You talk so much about the minds
of children and adolescents, but you don’t know the first thing about them!” I
long for more than Father’s affection, more than his hugs and kisses. Isn’t it
awful of me to be so preoccupied with myself? Shouldn’t 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, it’s all I can do to control myself.
I know I’m far from being what I should; will I ever be?
Anne Frank
P.S. Father asked if I told you about the cake. For Mother’s birthday, she
received a real mocha cake, prewar quality, from the office. It was a really
nice day! But at the moment there’s 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 I’m 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 it’s horrible that you can’t ever confide in
anyone, not even those closest to you.
It seems as if I’ve grown up since the night I had that dream, as if I’ve become
more independent. You’ll be amazed when I tell you that even my attitude
toward the van Daans has changed. I’ve stopped looking at all the discussions
and arguments from my family’s biased point of view. What’s brought on
such a radical change? Well, you see, I suddenly realized that if Mother had
been different, if she’d 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 hadn’t 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 she’ll readily back down as long as you don’t provoke her
and make her unreasonable. This tactic doesn’t work every time, but if you’re
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 we’d remained open and on friendly terms instead of always
seeing the worst side.
I know exactly what you’re 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 what’s true and what’s 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 doesn’t work,
I’ll have to stick with my own opinions and judgment. I’ll 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 won’t say anything negative about my own family, though that
doesn’t mean I won’t 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 I’m 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 I’ve got at least a touch of that insight, and that I’ll 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” isn’t 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 weren’t 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 couldn’t change things, I said as little as possible or asked my
girlfriends for information.
After I’d 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, don’t 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 I’d rather
have heard from Mother, and I learned the rest from books or things I picked
up in conversations.
Peter van Daan wasn’t ever as obnoxious about this subject as the boys at
school. Or maybe just once or twice, in the beginning, though he wasn’t
trying to get me to talk. Mrs.
van Daan once told us she’d never discussed these matters with Peter, and as
far as she knew, neither had her husband.
Apparently she didn’t 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. “We’re 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 he’s 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, Boche’s 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, wasn’t 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 that’s 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 he’d 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 doesn’t take long. They give the cat an anesthetic, of course.”
“Do they take something out?”
“No, the vet just snips the tube. There’s nothing to see on the outside.”
I had to get up my nerve to ask a question, since it wasn’t as “normal” as I
thought. “Peter, the German word Geschlechtsteil means ‘sexual organ,’
doesn’t 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 don’t know what it’s 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? I’ll ask my parents. They know more than I do and they’ve had
more experience.”
We were already on the stairs, so nothing more was said.
Yes, it really did happen. I’d never have talked to a girl about this in such a
normal tone of voice. I’m also certain that this isn’t what Mother meant when
she warned me about boys.
All the same, I wasn’t exactly my usual self for the rest of the day. When I
thought back to our talk, it struck me as odd. But I’ve 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