SATURDAY, MAY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,Last night before dinner I tucked the letter I’d written into Father’s pocket.According to Margot, he read it and was upset for the rest of the evening. (Iwas upstairs doing the dishes!) Poor Pim, I might have known what the effectof such an epistle would be. He’s so sensitive! I immediately told Peter not toask any questions or say anything more. Pim’s said nothing else to me aboutthe matter. Is he going to?Everything here is more or less back to normal. We can hardly believe whatJan, Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman tell us about the prices and the people onthe outside; half a pound of tea costs 350.00 guilders, half a pound of coffee80.00guilders, a pound of butter 35.00 guilders, one egg 1.45guilders. People are paying 14.00 guilders an ounce for Bulgarian tobacco!Everyone’s trading on the black market; every errand boy has something tooffer. 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, anundertaker delivers cheese. Break-ins, murders and thefts are dailyoccurrences. Even the police and night watchmen are getting in on the act.Everyone wants to put food in their stomachs, and since salaries have beenfrozen, people have had to resort to swindling. The police have their handsfull trying to track down the many girls of fifteen, sixteen, seventeen andolder 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 thecopyrights.See you later! (Actually, that’s not the right phrase. In the German programbroadcast from England they always close with “Aufwiederhoren.” So I guessI should say, “Until we write again.”)Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY MORNING, MAY 7,1944Dearest Kitty,Father and I had a long talk yesterday afternoon. I cried my eyes out, and hecried too. Do you know what he said to me, Kitty?”I’ve 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 havealways been ready to help you, who have always defended you, no matterwhat. You talk of not having to account to us for your actions! You feelyou’ve been wronged and left to your own devices. No, Anne, you’ve done usa great injustice!”Perhaps you didn’t mean it that way, but that’s what you wrote. No, Anne,we have done nothing to deserve such a reproach!”Oh, I’ve failed miserably. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my entirelife. I used my tears to show off, to make myself seem important so he’drespect me. I’ve certainly had my share of unhappiness, and everything I saidabout Mother is true. But to accuse Pim, who’s so good and who’s doneeverything for me-no, that was too cruel for words.It’s good that somebody has finally cut me down to size, has broken my pride,because I’ve been far too smug. Not everything Mistress Anne does is good!Any- one who deliberately causes such pain to someone they say they love isdespicable, the lowest of the low!What I’m most ashamed of is the way Father has forgiven me; he said he’sgoing to throw the letter in the stove, and he’s being so nice to me now, as ifhe were the one who’d done something wrong. Well, Anne, you still have alot to learn. It’s time you made a beginning, in- stead of looking down atothers and always giving them the blame!I’ve known a lot of sorrow, but who hasn’t at my age? I’ve been putting on anact, but was hardly even aware of it. I’ve felt lonely, but never desperate! Notlike Father, who once ran out into the street with a knife so he could put anend to it all. I’ve never gone that far.I should be deeply ashamed of myself, and I am. What’s done can’t beundone, but at least you can keep it from happening again. I’d like to start allover, and that shouldn’t be difficult, now that I have Peter. With himsupporting me, I know I can do it! I’m not alone anymore. He loves me, I lovehim, I have my books, my writing and my diary. I’m not all that ugly, or thatstupid, 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, butyou were actually proud of it! I’ll take Father as my example once again, andI will improve myself.Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, MAY 8, 1944Dearest Kitty,Have I ever told you anything about our family? I don’t think I have, so letme begin. Father was born in Frankfurt am Main to very wealthy parents:Michael Frank owned a bank and became a millionaire, and Alice Stern’sparents were prominent and well-to-do. Michael Frank didn’t start out rich; hewas a self-made man. In his youth Father led the life of a rich man’s son.Parties every week, balls, banquets, beautiful girls, waltzing, dinners, a hugehouse, etc. After Grandpa died, most of the money was lost, and after theGreat War and inflation there was nothing left at all. Up until the war therewere still quite a few rich relatives. So Father was extremely well-bred, andhe had to laugh yesterday because for the first time in his fifty-five years, hescraped out the frying pan at the table.Mother’s family wasn’t as wealthy, but still fairly well-off, and we’ve listenedopenmouthed to stories of private balls, dinners and engagement parties with250guests.We’re far from rich now, but I’ve pinned all my hopes on after the war. I canassure you, I’m not so set on a bourgeois life as Mother and Margot. I’d liketo spend a year in Paris and London learning the languages and studying arthistory. Compare that with Margot, who wants to nurse newborns inPalestine. I still have visions of gorgeous dresses and fascinating people. AsI’ve told you many times before, I want to see the world and do all kinds ofexciting things, and a little money won’t hurt!This morning Miep told us about her cousin’s engagement party, which shewent to on Saturday. The cousin’s parents are rich, and the groom’s are evenricher. Miep made our mouths water telling us about the food that wasserved: vegetable soup with meatballs, cheese, rolls with sliced meat, horsd’oeuvres made with eggs and roast beef, rolls with cheese, genoise, wine andcigarettes, and you could eat as much as you wanted.Miep drank ten schnapps and smoked three cigarettes –could this be ourtemperance advocate? If Miep drank all those, I wonder how many herspouse managed to toss down?Everyone at the party was a little tipsy, of course. There were also twoofficers from the Homicide Squad, who took photographs of the weddingcouple. You can see we’re never far from Miep’s thoughts, since she promptlynoted their names and addresses in case anything should happen and weneeded contacts with good Dutch people.Our mouths were watering so much. We, who’d had nothing but twospoonfuls of hot cereal for breakfast and were absolutely famished; we, whoget nothing but half-cooked spinach (for the vitamins!) and rotten pota- toesday after day; we, who fill our empty stomachs with nothing but boiledlettuce, raw lettuce, spinach, spinach and more spinach.Maybe we’ll end up being as strong as Popeye, though up to now I’ve seen nosign of it!If Miep had taken us along to the party, there wouldn’t have been any rollsleft over for the other guests. If we’d been there, we’d have snatched upeverything in sight, including the furniture. I tell you, we were practicallypulling the words right out of her mouth. We were gathered around her as ifwe’d never in all our lives heard of”delicious food or elegant people! And these are the granddaughters of thedistinguished millionaire. The world is a crazy place!Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, MAY 9, 1944Dearest Kitty,I’ve finished my story about Ellen, the fairy. I’ve copied it out on nicenotepaper, decorated it with red ink and sewn the pages together. The wholething looks quite pretty, but I don’t know if it’s 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. Justimagine! The office staff won’t be able to come upstairs, the potatoes can’t bedelivered, Bep won’t get her dinner, we can’t go to the bathroom, we won’t beable to move and all sorts of other inconveniences! We proposed a variety ofways to get rid of her. Mr. van Daan thought a good laxative in her coffeemight do the trick. “No,” Mr. Kleiman answered, “please don’t, or we’ll neverget 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 inperfect innocence. “Just imagine,” Bep giggled, “there you are shopping atThe Bijenkorf and you ask the way to the can. They wouldn’t even knowwhat you were talking about!”Dussel now sits on the “can,” to borrow the expression, every day at twelvethirty on the dot. This afternoon I boldly took a piece of pink paper andwrote: Mr. Dussel’s Toilet TimetableMornings 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 mightwell have added’ ‘Transgressors will be subject to confinement!” Because ourbathroom can be locked from both the inside and the outside.Mr. van Daan’s latest joke:After a Bible lesson about Adam and Eve, a thirteen-year-old boy asked hisfather, “Tell me, Father, how did I get born?””Well,” the father replied, “the stork plucked you out of the ocean, set youdown in Mother’s bed and bit her in the leg, hard. It bled so much she had tostay 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 finepoints, he went to his grandfather. “Tell me, Grandfather,” he said, “how didyou get born and how did your daughter get born?” And for the third time hewas told exactly the same story.That night he wrote in his diary: “After careful inquiry, I must conclude thatthere has been no sexual intercourse in our family for the last threegenerations!”I still have work to do; it’s already three o’clock.Yours, Anne M. FrankPS. Since I think I’ve mentioned the new cleaning lady, I just want to notethat she’s married, sixty years old and hard of hearing! Very convenient, inview of all the noise that eight people in hiding are capable of mak- ing.Oh, Kit, it’s such lovely weather. If only I could go outside!WEDNESDAY, MAY 10, 1944Dearest Kitty,We were sitting in the attic yesterday afternoon working on our French whensuddenly I heard the splatter of water behind me. I asked Peter what it mightbe. 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 tothe right place. This was followed by shouts and squeals, and then Mouschi,who by that time had finished peeing, took off downstairs. In search ofsomething similar to her box, Mouschi had found herself a pile of woodshavings, right over a crack in the floor. The puddle immediately trickleddown to the attic and, as luck would have it, landed in and next to the potatobarrel. The cethng was dripping, and since the attic floor has also got its shareof cracks, little yellow drops were leaking through the ceiling and onto thedining 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 everyonedown. The room was soon set to rights, but it’s a well-known fact that catpuddles stink to high heaven.The potatoes proved that all too well, as did the wood shavings, which Fathercollected in a bucket and brought downstairs to burn.Poor Mouschi! How were you to know it’s impossible to get peat for yourbox?AnneTHURSDAY, MAY 11, 1944Dearest Kitty,A new sketch to make you laugh:Peter’s 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 thestroke of seven-thirty, stripped down to his blue swimming trunks and a pairof tennis shoes.”Are you coming?” he asked his mother.”Yes, I’ll be up in a minute, but I can’t find the scissors!”Peter helped her look, rummaging around in her cosmetics drawer. “Don’tmake such a mess, Peter,” she grumbled.I didn’t catch Peter’s reply, but it must have been insolent, because she cuffedhim on the arm. He cuffed her back, she punched him with all her might, andPeter 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 allaround 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 goof her. Mrs. van D. came back to the room and collapsed into a chair with aloud sigh.”Die Enifu”hruna der Mutter,”. I joked. * The Abduction of Mother, apossible reference to Mozart’s 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 bythe stairs and growing impa- tient again, strode into the room with his belt inhis hand, like a lion tamer. Mrs. van D. didn’t move, but stayed by her writingdesk, looking for a handkerchief. “You’ve got to apologize first.””All right, I hereby offer my apologies, but only because if I don’t, we’ll behere till midnight.”Mrs. van D. had to laugh in spite of herself. She got up and went toward thedoor, where she felt obliged to give us an explanation. (By us I mean Father,Mother and me; we were busy doing the dishes.) “He wasn’t like this athome,” she said. “I’d have belted him so hard he’d have gone flying down thestairs !. He’s never been so insolent. This isn’t the first time he’s deserved agood hiding. That’s what you get with a modern upbringing, modern children.I’d never have grabbed my mother like that. Did you treat your mother thatway, Mr. Frank?” She was very upset, pacing back and forth, sayingwhatever came into her head, and she still hadn’t gone upstairs. Finally, atlong last, she made her exit.Less than five minutes later she stormed back down the stairs, with hercheeks all puffed out, and flung her apron on a chair. When I asked if she wasthrough, she replied that she was going downstairs. She tore down the stairslike a tornado, probably straight into the arms of her Putti.She didn’t come up again until eight, this time with her husband. Peter wasdragged from the attic, given a merciless scolding and showered with abuse:ill-mannered brat, no-good bum, bad example, Anne this, Margot that, Icouldn’t 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. She’s taking a vacation so she’ll be in good health for her return to
the Netherlands.
She used words like “soon, when I’m 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 child’s 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.