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 wasn’t shining, the
invasion hadn’t started, we weren’t allowed to look out the windows, etc., etc.
We couldn’t help but laugh at her, and it couldn’t 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 I’m reading Emperor Charles V, written by a professor at the
University of Gottingen; he’s spent forty years working on this book. It took
me five days to read fifty pages. I can’t do any more than that. Since the book
has 598 pages, you can figure out just how long it’s going to take me. And
that’s 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 Nelson’s 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 o’clock: I resumed my studies in the attic, reading about deans,
priests, ministers, popes and . . . whew, it was one o’clock!
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, Noah’s Ark, Shem, Ham and Japheth.
After that, Charles V. Then, with Peter, Thack- eray’s 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,
I’ve 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 I’d had the same feeling with this
Peter, but never so intensely. . . until last night. We were sitting on the divan,
as usual, in each other’s arms.
Suddenly the everyday Anne slipped away and the second Anne took her
place. The second Anne, who’s 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 he’s discovered a girl; for
the first time he’s seen that even the biggest pests also have an inner self and
a heart, and are transformed as soon as they’re alone with you. For the first
time in his life he’s given himself and his friendship to another person. He’s
never had a friend before, boy or girl. Now we’ve found each other. I, for that
matter, didn’t know him either, had never had someone I could confide in,
and it’s 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?
There’s only one possible answer: “I’m longing so much. .
. and have for such a long time. I’m so lonely and now I’ve 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
don’t 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
she’s not about to let herself be shoved out the door so soon after she’s
arrived. Peter’s reached a part of me that no one has ever reached before,
except in my dream! He’s taken hold of me and turned me inside out. Doesn’t
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 I’m 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 wouldn’t be able
to marry him. But it’s so hard to let go. Peter still has too little character, too
little willpower, too little courage and strength. He’s 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; I’ve
experienced something almost no one my age ever has.
I’m afraid of myself, afraid my longing is making me yield too soon. How
can it ever go right with other boys later on?
Oh, it’s so hard, the eternal struggle between heart and mind. There’s a time
and a place for both, but how can I be sure that I’ve chosen the right time?
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, MAY 2, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Saturday night I asked Peter whether he thinks I should tell Father about us.
After we’d discussed it, he said he thought I should. I was glad; it shows he’s
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, I’m sure you’ve gathered that when Peter and I are together, we don’t
exactly sit at opposite ends of the room.
Do you think that’s wrong?”
Father paused before answering: “No, I don’t think it’s wrong. But Anne,
when you’re 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, I’ve been thinking
about what you said.” (Oh, oh, I knew what was coming!) “Here in the Annex
it’s 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; don’t go upstairs so often, don’t encourage him more than you can
help. In matters like these, it’s always the man who takes the active role, and
it’s up to the woman to set the limits. Outside, where you’re 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 you’re together too much and
want to get away, you can’t. You see each other every hour of the day-all the
time, in fact. Be careful, Anne, and don’t take it too seriously!
“I don’t, Father, but Peter’s a decent boy, a nice boy.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t 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 he’s 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, “I’ll tell you all about it. He doesn’t think it’s wrong, but he
says that here, where we’re in such close quarters, it could lead to conflicts.”
“We’ve already agreed not to quarrel, and I plan to keep my promise.”
“Me too, Peter. But Father didn’t 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 you’re worthy of my trust. You are, aren’t 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 you’ll 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 won’t give me another thought.”
He got all fired up. “That’s not true, Anne. Oh no, I won’t 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 we’d keep ourselves
under control.”
Father wants me to stop going upstairs so often, but I don’t want to. Not just
because I like being with Peter, but because I’ve said I trust him. I do trust
him, and I want to prove it to him, but I’ll never be able to if I stay downstairs
out of distrust.
No, I’m 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! We’re having a vacation from politics. There’s
nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, to report. I’m also gradually starting
to believe that the invasion will come. After all, they can’t let the Russians do
all the dirty work; actually, the Russians aren’t doing anything at the moment
either.
Mr. Kleiman comes to the office every morning now. He got a new set of
springs for Peter’s divan, so Peter will have to get to work reupholstering it;
Not surprisingly, he isn’t 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 haven’t seen hide nor
hair of her since last Thursday. She’s 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 Boche’s fur. Peter is heartbroken.
For the last two weeks we’ve been eating lunch at eleven-thirty on Saturdays;
in the mornings we have to make do with a cup of hot cereal. Starting
tomorrow it’ll 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, that’s all there is. Add to that rotten
potatoes, and you have a meal fit for a king!
I hadn’t had my period for more than two months, but it finally started last
Sunday. Despite the mess and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t deserted me.
As you can no doubt imagine, we often say in despair,
“What’s the point of the war? Why, oh, why can’t 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 don’t 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! There’s 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!
I’ve 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. I’ve made up my mind to lead a
different life from other girls, and not to become an ordinary housewife later
on. What I’m experiencing here is a good beginning to an interesting life, and
that’s the reason
— the only reason — why I have to laugh at the humorous side of the most
dangerous moments.
I’m young and have many hidden qualities; I’m young and strong and living
through a big adventure; I’m right in the middle of it and can’t spend all day
complaining because it’s impossible to have any fun! I’m 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,
Father’s unhappy with me. After our talk on Sunday he thought I’d stop going
upstairs every evening. He won’t have any of that “Knutscherej”* * Necking
going on. I can’t stand that word. Talking about it was bad enough — why
does he have to make me feel bad too! I’ll have a word with him today.
Margot gave me some good advice.
Here’s more or less what I’d like to say:
I think you expect an explanation from me, Father, so I’ll give you one.
You’re 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 that’s
where you’re wrong!
Since we’ve been here, from July 1942 until a few weeks ago, I haven’t 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, you’d understand my
wanting to go upstairs!
I’ve now reached the point where I don’t need the support of Mother or
anyone else. It didn’t happen overnight. I’ve 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 don’t care. I know I’m an independent person, and I don’t
feel I need to account to you for my actions. I’m only telling you this because
I don’t want you to think I’m doing things behind your back. But there’s only
one person I’m accountable to, and that’s me.
When I was having problems, everyone — and that includes you — closed
their eyes and ears and didn’t 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. I’ve been
putting on an act for the last year and a half, day in, day out. I’ve never
complained or dropped my mask, nothing of the kind, and now. . . now the
battle is over. I’ve won! I’m independent, in both body and mind. I don’t need
a mother anymore, and I’ve emerged from the struggle a stronger person.
Now that it’s 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. Don’t think of me as a
fourteen-year-old, since all these troubles have made me older; I won’t regret
my actions, I’ll behave the way I think I should!
Gentle persuasion won’t keep me from going upstairs.
You’ll either have to forbid it, or trust me through thick and thin. Whatever
you do, just leave me alone!
Yours, Anne M. Frank