TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1944Dear Kitty,I can’t tell you how I feel. One minute I’m longing for peace and quiet, andthe next for a little fun. We’ve forgotten how to laugh — I mean, laughing sohard you can t stop.This morning I had “the giggles”; you know, the kind we used to have atschool. Margot and I were giggling like real teenagers.Last night there was another scene with Mother. Margot was tucking herwool blanket around her when suddenly she leapt out of bed and carefullyexamined the blanket. What do you think she found? A pin! Mother hadpatched the blanket and forgotten to take it out. Father shook his headmeaningfully and made a comment about how careless Mother is. Soonafterward Mother came in from the bathroom, and just to tease her I said, “Dubist doch eine echte Rabenmutter.” Oh, you are cruel.Of course, she asked me why I’d said that, and we told her about the pin she’doverlooked. She immediately assumed her haughtiest expression and said,”You’re a fine one to talk.When you’re sewing, the entire floor is covered with pins.And look, you’ve left the manicure set lying around again.You never put that away either!”I said I hadn’t used it, and Margot backed me up, since she was the guiltyparty.Mother went on talking about how messy I was until I got fed up and said,rather curtly, “I wasn’t even the one who said you were careless. I’m alwaysgetting blamed for other people’s mistakes!”Mother fell silent, and less than a minute later I was obliged to kiss her goodnight. This incident may not have been very important, but these dayseverything gets on my nerves.Anne Mary FrankSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944Dearest Kitty,The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, there’s a magnificent breeze, and I’mlonging — really longing — for everything: conversation, freedom, friends,being alone. I long. . . to cry! I feel as if I were about to explode. I knowcrying would help, but I can’t cry. I’m restless. I walk from one room toanother, breathe through the crack in the window frame, feel my heart beatingas if to say, “Fulfill my longing at last. . .”I think spring is inside me. I feel spring awakening, I feel it in my entire bodyand soul. I have to force myself to act normally. I’m in a state of utterconfusion, don’t know what to read, what to write, what to do. I only knowthat I’m longing for something. . .Yours, Anne186 ANNE FRANKMONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1944Dearest Kitty,A lot has changed for me since Saturday. What’s happened is this: I waslonging 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 (I’ll be honest with you), thatPeter kept looking at me. Not in the usual way. I don’t know, I can’t explainit, but I suddenly had the feeling he wasn’t as in love with Margot as I used tothink. All day long I tried not to look at him too much, because whenever Idid, I caught him looking at me and then– well, it made me feel wonderful inside, and that’s not a feeling I shouldhave too often.Sunday evening everyone, except Pim and me, was clustered around theradio, listening to the “Immortal Music of the German Masters.” Dussel kepttwisting and turning the knobs, which annoyed Peter, and the others too.After restraining himself for half an hour, Peter asked somewhat irritably ifhe would stop fiddling with the radio. Dussel replied in his haughtiest tone,”Ich mach’ das schon!” I’ll 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 wasn’t particularly interesting in and ofitself, but Peter has apparently taken the matter very much to heart, becausethis 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 didn’t knowanything about it, but Peter soon realized he’d found an attentive listener andstarted warming up to his subject.”Well, it’s like this,” he said. “I don’t usually talk much, since I knowbeforehand I’ll just be tongue-tied. I start stuttering and blushing and I twistmy words around so much I finally have to stop, because I can’t find the rightwords. That’s what happened yesterday. I meant to say something entirelydifferent, but once I started, I got all mixed up. It’s awful. I used to have a badhabit, and sometimes I wish I still did: whenever I was mad at someone, I’dbeat them up instead of arguing with them. I know this method won’t get meanywhere, and that’s why I admire you.You’re never at a loss for words: you say exactly what you want to say andaren’t in the least bit shy.””Oh, you’re wrong about that,” I replied. “Most of what I say comes out verydifferently from the way I’d planned. Plus I talk too much and too long, andthat’s just as bad.”“Maybe, but you have the advantage that no one can see you’re embarrassed.You don’t blush or go to pieces.”I couldn’t help being secretly amused at his words.However, since I wanted him to go on talking quietly about himself, I hid mylaughter, sat down on a cushion on the floor, wrapped my arms around myknees and gazed at him intently.I’m glad there’s someone else in this house who flies into the same rages as Ido. Peter seemed relieved that he could criticize Dussel without being afraidI’d tell. As for me, I was pleased too, because I sensed a strong feeling offellowship, which I only remember having had with my girlfriends.Yours, AnneTUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1944The minor run-in with Dussel had several repercussions, for which he hadonly himself to blame. Monday evening Dussel came in to see Mother andtold her triumphantly that Peter had asked him that morning if he’d slept well,and then added how sorry he was about what had happened Sunday evening — he hadn’t really meant what he’d said. Dussel assured him he hadn’t taken itto heart. So everYthing was right as rain again. Mother passed this story on tome, and I was secretly amazed that Peter, who’d been so angry at Dussel, hadhumbled himself, despite all his assurances to the contrary.I couldn’t refrain from sounding Peter out on the subject, and he instantlyreplied that Dussel had been lying. You should have seen Peter’s face. I wishI’d had a camera.Indignation, rage, indecision, agitation and much more crossed his face inrapid succession.That evening Mr. van Daan and Peter really told Dussel off. But it couldn’thave been all that bad, since Peter had another dental appointment today.Actually, they never wanted to speak to each other again.WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944Peter and I hadn’t talked to each other all day, except for a few meaninglesswords. It was too cold to go up to the attic, and anyway, it was Margot’sbirthday. At twelve-thirty he came to look at the presents and hung aroundchatting longer than was strictly necessary, something he’d never have doneotherwise. But I got my chance in the afternoon. Since I felt like spoilingMargot on her birthday, I went to get the coffee, and after that the potatoes.When I came to Peter’s 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 you’re ready to come back down, just knockand I’ll open it for you.”I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching aroundin the barrel for the smallest potatoes. My back started aching, and the atticwas cold.Naturally, I didn’t bother to knock but opened the trap-door myself. But heobligingly got up and took the pan out of my hands.”I did my best, but I couldn’t find any smaller ones.””Did you look in the big barrel?””Yes, I’ve been through them all.”By this time I was at the bottom of the stairs, and he examined the pan ofpotatoes he was still holding. “Oh, but these are fine,” he said, and added, as Itook the pan from him, “My compliments!”As he said this, he gave me such a warm, tender look that I started glowinginside. I could tell he wanted to please me, but since he couldn’t make a longcomplimentary speech, he said everything with his eyes. I understood him sowell and was very grateful. It still makes me happy to think back to thosewords and that look!When I went downstairs, Mother said she needed more potatoes, this time fordinner, so I volunteered to go back up. When I entered Peter’s room, Iapologized for disturbing him again. As I was going up the stairs, he stoodup, went over to stand between the stairs and the wall, grabbed my arm andtried to stop me.”I’ll go,” he said. “I have to go upstairs anyway.”I replied that it wasn’t really necessary, that I didn’t have to get only the smallones this time. Convinced, he let go of my arm. On my way back, he openedthe trapdoor and once again took the pan from me. Standing by the door, Iasked,”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 handsand sat down across from him on the divan.After I’d 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 andlive on a rubber plantation. He talked about his life at home, the black marketand how he felt like a worthless bum. I told him he had a big inferioritycomplex.He talked about the war, saying that Russia and England were bound to go towar against each other, and about the Jews. He said life would have beenmuch easier if he’d been a Christian or could become one after the war. Iasked if he wanted to be baptized, but that wasn’t what he meant either.He said he’d never be able to feel like a Christian, but that after the war he’dmake sure nobody would know he was Jewish.I felt a momentary pang. It’s such a shame he still has a touch of dishonesty inhim.Peter added, “The Jews have been and always will be the chosen people!”I answered, “Just this once, I hope they’ll be chosen for something good!”But we went on chatting very pleasantly, about Father, about judging humancharacter and all sorts of things, so many that I can’t 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 talkingabout the picture of a movie star I’d once given him, which has been hangingin his room for at least a year and a half. He liked it so much that I offered togive him a few more.”No,” he replied, “I’d rather keep the one I’ve got. I look at it every day, andthe 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 wastalking about. He said, “No, I’m not afraid, except when it comes to thingsabout myself, but I’m working on that.”Peter has a huge inferiority complex. For example, he always thinks he’s sostupid and we’re so smart. When I help him with French, he thanks me athousand times. One of these days I’m going to say, “Oh, cut it out! You’remuch better at English and geography!”Anne FrankTHURSDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1944Dear Kitty,I was upstairs this morning, since I promised Mrs. van D.I’d read her some of my stories. I began with “Eva’s 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 I’d come to his room sometime to read more.I decided I had to take a chance right then and there, so I got my notebookand let him read that bit where Cady and Hans talk about God. I can’t reallytell what kind of impression it made on him. He said something I don’t quiteremember, not about whether it was good, but about the idea behind it. I toldhim I just wanted him to see that I didn’t write only amusing things. Henodded, and I left the room.We’ll see if I hear anything more!Yours, Anne FrankFRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1944My dearest Kitty,Whenever I go upstairs, it’s always so I can see “him.”Now that I have something to look forward to, my life here has improvedgreatly.At least the object of my friendship is always here, and I don’t have to beafraid of rivals (except for Margot). Don’t think I’m in love, because I’m not,but I do have the feeling that something beautiful is going to develop betweenPeter and me, a kind of friendship and a feeling of trust. I go see himwhenever I get the chance, and it’s not the way it used to be, when he didn’tknow what to make of me. On the contrary, he’s still talking away as I’mheading out the door. Mother doesn’t like me going upstairs. She always saysI’m bothering Peter and that I should leave him alone.Honestly, can’t she credit me with some intuition? She always looks at me sooddly when I go to Peter’s room. When I come down again, she asks mewhere I’ve been. It’s terrible, but I’m beginning to hate her!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1944Dearest Kitty,It’s Saturday again, and that should tell you enough. This morning all wasquiet. 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 wentdownstairs, with blanket and all, to sit at the desk and read or write. Beforelong I couldn’t take it anymore. I put my head in my arms and sobbed myheart out. The tears streamed down my cheeks, and I felt desperatelyunhappy. Oh, if only’ ‘he” had come to comfort me.It was past four by the time I went upstairs again. At five o’clock I set off toget some potatoes, hoping once again that we’d meet, but while I was still inthe 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 thebathroom, grabbing the hand mirror on the way. I sat there on the toilet, fullydressed, long after I was through, my tears leaving dark spots on the red ofmy apron, and I felt utterly dejected.Here’s what was going through my mind: “Oh, I’ll never reach Peter this way.Who knows, maybe he doesn’t even like me and he doesn’t need anyone toconfide in. Maybe he only thinks of me in a casual sort of way. I’ll have to goback to being alone, without anyone to confide in and without Peter, withouthope, comfort or anything to look forward to. Oh, if only I could rest myhead on his shoulder and not feel so hopelessly alone and deserted! Whoknows, maybe he doesn’t care for me at all and looks at the others in the sametender way. Maybe I only imagined it was especially for me. Oh, Peter, ifonly you could hear me or see me. If the truth is disappointing, I won’t beable to bear it.”A little later I felt hopeful and full of expectation again, though my tears werestill flowing — on the inside.Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1944What happens in other people’s houses during the rest of the week happenshere in the Annex on Sundays. While other people put on their best clothesand go strolling in the sun, we scrub, sweep and do the laundry.Eight o’clock. 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 thebathroom, where he devotes a whole hour to washing himself.Nine-thirty. The stoves are lit, the blackout screen is taken down, and Mr. vanDaan heads for the bathroom. One of my Sunday morning ordeals is havingto lie in bed and look at Dussel’s back when he’s praying. I know it soundsstrange, but a praying Dussel is a terrible sight to behold. It’s not that he criesor gets sentimental, not at all, but he does spend a quarter of an hour — anentire fifteen minutes –rocking from his toes to his heels. Back and forth,back and forth. It goes on forever, and if I don’t shut my eyes tight, my headstarts to spin.Ten-fifteen. The van Daans whistle; the bathroom’s free.In the Frank family quarters, the first sleepy faces are beginning to emergefrom their pillows. Then everything happens fast, fast, fast. Margot and I taketurns doing the laundry. Since it’s quite cold downstairs, we put on pants andhead scarves. Meanwhile, Father is busy in the bathroom.Either Margot or I have a turn in the bathroom at eleven, and then we’re allclean.Eleven-thirty. Breakfast. I won’t dwell on this, since there’s enough talk aboutfood without my bringing the subject up as well.Twelve-fifteen. We each go our separate ways. Father, clad in overalls, getsdown on his hands and knees and brushes the rug so vigorously that the roomis enveloped in a cloud of dust. Mr. Dussel makes the beds (all wrong, ofcourse), always whistling the same Beethoven violin concerto as he goesabout his work. Mother can be heard shuffling around the attic as she hangsup the washing. Mr. van Daan puts on his hat and disappears into the lowerregions, usually followed by Peter and Mouschi. Mrs. van D. dons a longapron, a black wool jacket and overshoes, winds a red wool scarf around herhead, scoops up a bundle of dirty laundry and, with a well-rehearsedwasherwoman’s nod, heads downstairs. Margot and I do the dishes andstraighten up the room.