TUESDAY, MAY 18, 1943
Dearest Kit,
I recently witnessed a fierce dogfight between German and English pilots.
Unfortunately, a couple of Allied airmen had to jump out of their burning
plane. Our milkman, who lives in Halfweg, saw four Canadians sitting along
the side of the road, and one of them spoke fluent Dutch. He asked the
milkman if he had a light for his cigarette, and then told him the crew had
consisted of six men. The pilot had been burned to death, and the fifth crew
member had hidden himself somewhere. The German Security Police came
to pick up the four remaining men, none of whom were injured. After
parachuting out of a flaming plane, how can anyone have such presence of
mind?
Although it’s undeniably hot, we have to light a fire every other day to burn
our vegetable peelings and garbage.
We can’t throw anything into trash cans, because the warehouse employees
might see it. One small act of carelessness and we’re done for!
All college students are being asked to sign an official statement to the effect
that they “sympathize with the Germans and approve of the New Order.”
Eighty percent have decided to obey the dictates of their conscience, but the
penalty will be severe. Any student refusing to sign will be sent to a German
labor camp. What’s to become of the youth of our country if they’ve all got to
do hard labor in Germany?
Last night the guns were making so much noise that Mother shut the window;
I was in Pim’s bed. Suddenly, right above our heads, we heard Mrs. van D.
leap up, as if she’d been bitten by Mouschi. This was followed by a loud
boom, which sounded as if a firebomb had landed beside my bed. “Lights!
Lights!” I screamed.
Pim switched on the lamp. I expected the room to burst into flames any
minute. Nothing happened. We all rushed upstairs to see what was going on.
Mr. and Mrs. van D. had seen a red glow through the open window, and he
thought there was a fire nearby, while she was certain our house was ablaze.
Mrs. van D. was already standing beside her bed with her knees knocking
when the boom came. Dussel stayed upstairs to smoke a cigarette, and we
crawled back into bed. Less than fifteen minutes later the shooting started
again. Mrs. van D.
sprang out of bed and went downstairs to Dussel’ s room to seek the comfort
she was unable to find with her spouse.
Dussel welcomed her with the words “Come into my bed, my child!”
We burst into peals of laughter, and the roar of the guns bothered us no more;
our fears had all been swept away.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
The poem Father composed for my birthday is too nice to keep to myself.
Since Pim writes his verses only in German, Margot volunteered to translate
it into Dutch. See for yourself whether Margot hasn’t done herself proud. It
begins with the usual summary of the year’s events and then continues: As
youngest among us, but small no more,
Your life can be trying, for we have the chore Of becoming your teachers, a
terrible bore.
“We’ve got experience! Take it from me!”
“We’ve done this all before, you see.
We know the ropes, we know the same.”
Since time immemorial, always the same.
One’s own shortcomings are nothing but fluff, But everyone else’s are heavier
stuff:
Faultfinding comes easy when this is our plight, But it’s hard for your parents,
try as they might, To treat you with fairness, and kindness as well;
Nitpicking’s a habit that’s hard to dispel.
Men you’re living with old folks, all you can do Is put up with their nagging –
– it’s hard but it’s true.
The pill may be bitter, but down it must go, For it’s meant to keep the peace,
you know.
The many months here have not been in vain, Since wasting time noes
against your Brain.
You read and study nearly all the day,
Determined to chase the boredom away.
The more difficult question, much harder to bear, Is “What on earth do I have
to wear?
I’ve got no more panties, my clothes are too tight, My shirt is a loincloth, I’m
really a siaht!
To put on my shoes I must off my toes,
Dh dear, I’m plagued with so many woes!”
Margot had trouble getting the part about food to rhyme, so I’m leaving it out.
But aside from that, don’t you think it’s a good poem?
For the rest, I’ve been thoroughly spoiled and have received a number of
lovely presents, including a big book on my favorite subject, Greek and
Roman mythology. Nor can I complain about the lack of candy; everyone had
dipped into their last reserves. As the Benjamin of the Annex, I got more than
I deserve.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Heaps of things have happened, but I often think I’m boring you with my
dreary chitchat and that you’d just as soon have fewer letters. So I’ll keep the
news brief.
Mr. Voskuijl wasn’t operated on for his ulcer after all.
Once the doctors had him on the operating table and opened him up, they saw
that he had cancer. It was in such an advanced stage that an operation was
pointless. So they stitched him up again, kept him in the hospital for three
weeks, fed him well and sent him back home. But they made an unforgivable
error: they told the poor man exactly what was in store for him. He can’t work
anymore, and he’s just sitting at home, surrounded by his eight children,
brooding about his approaching death. I feel very sorry for him and hate not
being able to go out; otherwise, I’d visit him as often as I could and help take
his mind off matters. Now the good man can no longer let us know what’s
being said and done in the warehouse, which is a disaster for us. Mr. Voskuijl
was our greatest source of help and suppor when it came to safety measures.
We miss him very much.
Next month it’s our turn to hand over our radio to the authorities. Mr.
Kleiman has a small set hidden in his home that he’s giving us to replace our
beautiful cabinet radio.
It’s a pity we have to turn in our big Philips, but when you’re in hiding, you
can’t afford to bring the authorities down on your heads. Of course, we’ll put
the “baby” radio upstairs. What’s a clandestine radio when there are already
clandestine Jews and clandestine money?
All over the country people are trying to get hold of an old radio that they can
hand over instead of their “morale booster.” It’s true: as the reports from
outside grow worse and worse, the radio, with its wondrous voice, helps us
not to lose heart and to keep telling ourselves, “Cheer up, keep your spirits
high, things are bound to get better!”
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JULY 11, 1943
Dear Kitty,
To get back to the subject of child-rearing (for the umpteenth time), let me
tell you that I’m doing my best to be helpful, friendly and kind and to do all I
can to keep the rain of rebukes down to a light drizzle. It’s not easy trying to
behave like a model child with people you can’t stand, especially when you
don’t mean a word of it. But I can see that a little hypocrisy gets me a lot
further than myoid method of saying exactly what I think (even though no
one ever asks my opinion or cares one way or another). Of course, I often
forget my role and find it impossible to curb my anger when they’re unfair, so
that they spend the next month saying the most impertinent girl in the world.
Don’t you think I’m to be pitied sometimes? It’s a good thing I’m not the
grouchy type, because then I might become sour and bad-tempered. I can
usually see the humorous side of their scoldings, but it’s easier when
somebody else is being raked over the coals.
Further, I’ve decided (after a great deal of thought) to drop the shorthand.
First, so that I have more time for my other subjects, and second, because of
my eyes. That’s a sad story. I’ve become very nearsighted and should have
had glasses ages ago. (Ugh, won’t I look like a dope!). But as you know,
people in hiding can’t. . .
Yesterday all anyone here could talk about was Anne’s eyes, because Mother
had suggested I go to the ophthalmologist with Mrs. Kleiman. Just hearing
this made my knees weak, since it’s no small matter. Going outside! Just
think of it, walking down the street! I can’t imagine it. I was petrified at first,
and then glad. But it’s not as simple as all that; the various authorities who
had to approve such a step were unable to reach a quick decision. They first
had to carefully weigh all the difficulties and risks, though Miep was ready to
set off immediately with me in tow. In the meantime, I’d taken my gray coat
from the closet, but it was so small it looked as if it might have belonged to
my little sister. We lowered the hem, but I still couldn’t button it.
I’m really curious to see what they decide, only I don’t think they’ll ever work
out a plan, because the British have landed in Sicily and Father’s all set for a
“quick finish.”
Bep’s been giving Margot and me a lot of office work to do. It makes us both
feel important, and it’s a big help to her. Anyone can file letters and make
entries in a sales book, but we do it with remarkable accuracy.
Miep has so much to carry she looks like a pack mule. She goes forth nearly
every day to scrounge up vegetables, and then bicycles back with her
purchases in large shopping bags.
She’s also the one who brings five library books with her every Saturday. We
long for Saturdays because that means books. We’re like a bunch of little kids
with a present.
Ordinary people don’t know how much books can mean to someone who’s
cooped up.
Our only diversions are reading, studying and listening to the radio.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, JULY 13, 1943
The Best Little Table
Yesterday afternoon Father gave me permission to ask Mr.
Dussel whether he would please be so good as to allow me (see how polite I
am?) to use the table in our room two afternoons a week, from four to fivethirty. I already sit there every day from two-thirty to four while Dussel takes
a nap, but the rest of the time the room and the table are off-limits to me.
It’s impossible to study next door in the afternoon, because there’s too much
going on. Besides, Father sometimes likes to sit at the desk during the
afternoon.
So it seemed like a reasonable request, and I asked Dussel very politely.
What do you think the learned gentleman’s reply was? “No.” Just plain “No!”
I was incensed and wasn’t about to let myself be put off like that. I asked him
the reason for his “No,” but this didn’t get me anywhere. The gist of his reply
was: “I have to study too, you know, and if I can’t do that in the afternoons, I
won’t be able to fit it in at all. I have to finish the task I’ve set for myself;
otherwise, there’s no point in starting. Besides, you aren’t serious about your
studies. Mythology — what kind of work is that? Reading and knitting don’t
count either. I use that table and I’m not going to give it up!”
I replied, “Mr. Dussel, I do take my wsork seriously. I can’t study next door
in the afternoons, and I would appreciate it if you would reconsider my
request!”
Having said these words, the insulted Anne turned around and pretended the
learned doctor wasn’t there. I was seething with rage and felt that Dussel had
been incredibly rude (which he certainly had been) and that I’d been very
polite.
That evening, when I managed to get hold of Pim, I told him what had
happened and we discussed what my next step should be, because I had no
intention of giving up and preferred to deal with the matter myself. Pim gave
me a rough idea of how to approach Dussel, but cautioned me to wait until
the next day, since I was in such a flap. I ignored this last piece of advice and
waited for Dussel after the dishes had been done. Pim was sitting next door
and that had a calming effect.
I began, “Mr. Dussel, you seem to believe further discussion of the matter is
pointless, but I beg you to reconsider.”
Dussel gave me his most charming smile and said, “I’m always prepared to
discuss the matter, even though it’s already been settled.”
I went on talking, despite Dussel’s repeated interruptions. When you first
came here,” I said, “we agreed that the room was to be shared by the two of
us. If we were to divide it fairly, you’d have the entire morning and I’d have
the entire afternoon! I’m not asking for that much, but two afternoons a week
does seem reasonable to me.”
Dussel leapt out of his chair as if he’d sat on a pin.