Jan brought along the episcopal letter that the bishops addressed to theirparishioners. It was beautiful and inspiring. “People of the Netherlands, standup and take action. Each of us must choose our own weapons to fight for thefreedom of our country, our people and our reli gion!Give your help and support. Act now!” This is what they’re preaching fromthe pulpit. Will it do any good? It’s definitely too late to help our fellow Jews.Guess what’s happened to us now? The owner of the building sold it withoutinforming Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman. One morning the new landlordarrived with an architect to look the place over. Thank goodness Mr. Kleimanwas in the office.He showed the gentlemen all there was to see, with the exception of theSecret Annex. He claimed he’d left the key at home and the new owner askedno further questions. If only he doesn’t come back demanding to see theAnnex. In that case, we’ll be in big trouble!Father emptied a card file for Margot and me and filled it with index cardsthat are blank on one side. This is to become our reading file, in whichMargot and I are supposed to note down the books we’ve read, the author andthe date.I’ve learned two new words: “brothel” and “coquette.” I’ve bought a separatenotebook for new words.There’s a new division of butter and margarine. Each person is to get theirportion on their own plate. The distribution is very unfair. The van Daans,who always make breakfast for everyone, give themselves one and a halftimes more than they do us. My parents are much too afraid of an argumentto say anything, which is a shame, because I think people like that shouldalways be given a taste of their own medicine.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mrs. van D. has a new nickname — we’ve started calling her Mrs.Beaverbrook. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything to you, so let me explain.A certain Mr. Beaverbrook often talks on the English radio about what heconsiders to be the far too lenient bombardment of Germany. Mrs. van Daan,who always contradicts everyone, including Churchill and the news reports,is in complete agreement with Mr. Beaverbrook. So we thought it would be agood idea for her to be married to him, and since she was flattered by thenotion, we’ve decided to call her Mrs. Beaverbrook from now on.We’re getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent toGermany. That’s bad for him but good for us because the new one won’t befamthar with the building. We’re still afraid of the men who work in thewarehouse.Gandhi is eating again.The black market is doing a booming business. If we had enough money topay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly. Our greengrocerbuys potatoes from the”Wehrmacht” and brings them in sacks to the private office.Since he suspects we’re hiding here, he makes a point of coming duringlunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and coughwith every breath we take. Everyone who comes upstairs greets us with an”ah-CHOO.” Mrs. van D.swears she won’t go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and she’s going toget sick.I don’t think Father has a very nice business. Noth ing but pectin and pepper.As long as you’re in the food business, why not make candy?A veritable thunderstorm of words came crashing down on me again thismorning. The air flashed with so many coarse expressions that my ears wereringing with “Anne’s bad this”annd “van Daans’ good that.” Fire and brimstone!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943Dearest Kitty,We had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were boomingaway until dawn. I still haven’t gotten over my fear of planes and shooting,and I crawl into Father’s bed nearly every night for comfort. I know it soundschildish, but wait till it happens to you! The ack-ack guns make so muchnoise you can’t hear your own voice. Mrs.Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid littlevoice, “Oh, it’s so awful. Oh, the guns are so loud!” — which is another wayof saying “I’m so scared.”It didn’t seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark. I wasshivering, as if I had a fever, and begged Father to relight the candle. He wasadamant: there was to be no light. Suddenly we heard a burst of machine-gunfire, and that’s ten times worse than antiaircraft guns.Mother jumped out of bed and, to Pim’s great annoyance, lit the candle. Herresolute answer to his grumbling was, “After all, Anne is not an ex-soldier!”And that was the end of that!Have I told you any of Mrs. van D.’s other fears? I don’t think so. To keepyou up to date on the latest adventures in the Secret Annex, I should tell youthis as well. One night Mrs. van D. thought she heard loud footsteps in theattic, and she was so afraid of burglars, she woke her husband. At that verysame moment, the thieves disappeared, and the only sound Mr. van D. couldhear was the frightened pounding of his fatalistic wife’s heart. “Oh, Putti!”she cried. (Putti is Mrs. van D.’s pet name for her husband.) “They must havetaken all our sausages and dried beans. And what about Peter?Oh, do you think Peter’s still safe and sound in his bed?””I’m sure they haven’t stolen Peter. Stop being such a ninny, and let me getback to sleep!”Impossible. Mrs. van D. was too scared to sleep.A few nights later the entire van Daan family was awakened by ghostlynoises. Peter went to the attic with a flashlight and — scurry, scurry — what doyou think he saw running away? A whole slew of enormous rats!Once we knew who the thieves were, we let Mouschi sleep in the attic andnever saw our uninvited guests again. . . at least not at night.A few evenings ago (it was seven-thirty and still light), Peter went up to theloft to get some old newspapers. He had to hold on tightly to the trapdoor toclimb down the ladder.He put down his hand without looking, and nearly fell off the ladder fromshock and pain. Without realizing it, he’d put his hand on a large rat, whichhad bitten him in the arm. By the time he reached us, white as a sheet andwith his knees knocking, the blood had soaked through his pajamas. Nowonder he was so shaken, since petting a rat isn’t much fun, especially whenit takes a chunk out of your arm.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943Dearest Kitty,May I introduce: Mama Frank, the children’s advocate!Extra butter for the youngsters, the problems facing today’s youth — youname it, and Mother defends the younger generation. After a skirmish or two,she always gets her way.One of the jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. A feast for Mouschi and Boche.You haven’t met Boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we wentinto hiding. She’s the warehouse and office cat, who keeps the rats at bay inthe storeroom.Her odd, political name can easily be explained. For a while the firm Gies &Co. had two cats: one for the warehouse and one for the attic. Their pathscrossed from time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. Thewarehouse cat was always the aggressor, while the attic cat was ultimatelythe victor, just as in politics. So the warehouse cat was named the German, or”Boche,” and the attic cat the Englishman, or “Tommy.” Sometime after thatthey got rid of Tommy, but Boche is always there to amuse us when we godownstairs.VVe’ve eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I can’t stand to lookat them. Just thinking about them makes me sick.Our evening serving of bread has been canceled.Daddy just said that he’s not in a very cheerful mood. His eyes look so sadagain, the poor man!I can’t tear myself away from the book A Knock at the Door by Ina BakkerBoudier. This family saga is extremely well written, but the parts dealingwith war, writers and the emancipation of women aren’t very good. To behonest, these subjects don’t interest me much.Terrible bombing raids on Germany. Mr. van Daan is grouchy. The reason:the cigarette shortage.The debate about whether or not to start eating the canned food ended in ourfavor.I can’t wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not verypractical around the house. A pair of straw thongs that were purchased for6.50 guilders were worn down to the soles within a week. Maybe Miep willbe able to scrounge up something on the black market.It’s time to cut Father’s hair. Pim swears that I do such a good job he’ll nevergo to another barber after the war. If only I didn’t nick his ear so often!Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943My dearest Kitty,Turkey’s entered the war. Great excitement. Anxiously awaiting radio reports.FRIDAY, MARCH 19, 1943Dearest Kitty,In less than an hour, joy was followed by disappoint ment.Turkey hasn’t entered the war yet. It was only a cabinet minister talking aboutTurkey giving up its neu trality sometime soon. The newspaper vendor inDam Square was shouting “Turkey on England’s side!” and the papers werebeing snatched out of his hands. This was how we’d heard the encouragingrumor.Thousand-guilder notes are being declared invalid. That’ll be a blow to theblack marketeers and others like them, but even more to pe Ie in hiding andanyone else with money that can’t be accounted for. To turn in a thousandguilder bill, you have to be able to state how you came by it and provideproof. They can still be used to pay taxes, but only until next week. The fivehundred notes will lapse at the same time. Gies & Co. still had someunaccounted-for thousand-guilder bills, which they used to pay theirestimated taxes for the coming years, so everything seems to be aboveboard.Dussel has received an old-fashioned, foot-operated dentist’s drill. Thatmeans I’ll probably be getting a thorough checkup soon.Dussel is terribly lax when it comes to obeying the rules of the house. Notonly does he write letters to his Charlotte, he’s also carrying on a chattycorrespondence with various other people. Margot, the Annex’s Dutchteacher, has been correcting these letters for him. Father has forbidden him tokeep up the practice and Margot has stopped correcting the letters, but I thinkit won’t be long before he starts up again.The Fuhrer has been talking to wounded soldiers. We listened on the radio,and it was pathetic. The questions and answers went something like this:”My name is Heinrich Scheppel.””Where were you wounded?””Near Stalingrad.””What kind of wound is it?””Two frostbitten feet and a fracture of the left arm.”This is an exact report of the hideous puppet show aired on the radio. Thewounded seemed proud of their wounds — the more the better. One was sobeside himself at the thought of shaking hands (I presume he still had one)with the Fuhrer that he could barely say a word.I happened to drop Dussel’s soap on the floor and step on it. Now there’s awhole piece missing. I’ve already asked Father to compensate him for thedamages, especially since Dussel only gets one bar of inferior wartime soap amonth.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mother, Father, Margot and I were sitting quite pleasantly together last nightwhen Peter suddenly came in and whispered in Father’s ear. I caught thewords “a barrel falling over in the warehouse” and “someone fiddling withthe door.”Margot heard it too, but was trying to calm me down, since I’d turned whiteas chalk and was extremely nervous. The three of us waited while Father andPeter went downstairs. A minute or two later Mrs. van Daan came up fromwhere she’d been listening to the radio and told us that Pim had asked her toturn it off and tiptoe upstairs. But you know what happens when you’re tryingto be quiet — the old stairs creaked twice as loud. Five minutes later Peter andPim, the color drained from their faces, appeared again to relate theirexperiences.They had positioned themselves under the staircase and waited. Nothinghappened. Then all of a sudden they heard a couple of bangs, as if two doorshad been slammed shut inside the house. Pim bounded up the stairs, whilePeter went to warn Dussel, who finally pre sented himself upstairs, thoughnot without kicking up a fuss and making a lot of noise. Then we all tiptoedin our stockinged feet to the van Daans on the next floor. Mr. van D. had abad cold and had already gone to bed, so we gathered around his bedside anddiscussed our suspicions in a whisper. Every time Mr. van D.coughed loudly, Mrs. van D. and I nearly had a nervous fit.He kept coughing until someone came up with the bright idea of giving himcodeine. His cough subsided immediately.Once again we waited and waited, but heard nothing.Finally we came to the conclusion that the burglars had taken to their heelswhen they heard footsteps in an otherwise quiet building. The problem nowwas that the chairs in the private office were neatly grouped around the radio,which was tuned to England. If the burglars had forced the door and the airraid wardens were to notice it and call the police, there could be very seriousrepercus sions. So Mr. van Daan got up, pulled on his coat and pants, put onhis hat and cautiously followed Father down the stairs, with Peter (armedwith a heavy hammer, to be on the safe side) right behind him. The ladies(including Margot and me) waited in suspense until the men returned fiveminutes later and reported that there was no sign of any activity in thebuilding. We agreed not to run any water or flush the toilet; but sinceeveryone’s stomach was churning from all the tension, you can imagine thestench after we’d each had a turn in the bathroom.Incidents like these are always accompanied by other disasters, and this wasno exception. Number one: the Westertoren bells stopped chiming, and I’dalways found them so comforting. Number two: Mr. Voskuijlleft early lastnight, and we weren’t sure if he’d given Bep the key and she’d forgotten tolock the door.But that was of little importance now. The night had just begun, and we stillweren’t sure what to expect. We were somewhat reassured by the fact thatbetween eight-fifteen –when the burglar had first entered the building andput our lives in jeopardy, and ten-thirty, we hadn’t heard a sound.The more we thought about it, the less likely it seemed that a burglar wouldhave forced a door so early in the evening, when there were still people outon the streets. Besides that, it occurred to us that the warehouse manager atthe Keg Company next door might still have been at work. What with theexcitement and the thin walls, it’s easy to mistake the sounds. Besides, yourimagination often plays tricks on you in moments of danger.So we went to bed, though not to sleep. Father and Mother and Mr. Dusselwere awake most of the night, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that Ihardly got a wink of sleep.This morning the men went downstairs to see if the outside door was stilllocked, but all was well!Of course, we gave the entire office staff a blow-by-blow account of theincident, which had been far from pleasant.It’s much easier to laugh at these kinds of things after they’ve happened, andBep was the only one who took us seriously.Yours, AnnePS. This morning the toilet was clogged, and Father had to stick in a longwooden pole and fish out several pounds of excrement and strawberry recipes(which is what we use for toilet paper these days). Afterward we burned thepole.SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1943Dearest Kitty,We’ve finished our shorthand course and are now working on improving ourspeed. Aren’t we smart! Let me tell you more about my “time killers” (this iswhat I call my courses, because all we ever do is try to make the days go byas quickly as possible so we are that much closer to the end of our time here).I adore mythology, espe cially the Greek and Roman gods. Everyone herethinks my interest is just a passing fancy, since they’ve never heard of ateenager with an appreciation of mythology. Well then, I guess I’m the first!Mr. van Daan has a cold. Or rather, he has a scratchy throat, but he’s makingan enormous to-do over it. He gargles with camomile tea, coats the roof ofhis mouth with a tincture of myrrh and rubs Mentholatum over his chest,nose, gums and tongue. And to top it off, he’s in a foul mood!Rauter, some German bigwig, recently gave a speech. “All Jews must be outof the German-occupied territories before July 1. The province of Utrechtwill be cleansed of Jews as if they were cockroaches between April 1 andMay 1, and the provinces of North and South Holland between May 1 andJune 1.” These poor people are being shipped off to filthiy slaughterhouseslike a herd of sick and neglected cattle. But I’ll say no more on the subject.My own thoughts give me nightmares!One good piece of news is that the Labor Exchange was set on fire in an actof sabotage. A few days later the County Clerk’s Office also went up inflames. Men posing as German police bound and gagged the guards andmanaged to destroy some important documents.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1943Dearest Kitty,I’m not really in the mood for pranks (see the date).On the contrary, today I can safely quote the saying”