WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23,1944
My dearest Kitty,
The weather’s been wonderful since yesterday, and I’ve perked up quite a bit.
My writing, the best thing I have, is coming along well. I go to the attic
almost every morning to get the stale air out of my lungs. This morning when
I went there, Peter was busy cleaning up. He finished quickly and came over
to where I was sitting on my favorite spot on the floor. The two of us looked
out at the blue sky, the bare chestnut tree glistening with dew, the seagulls
and other birds glinting with silver as they swooped through the air, and we
were so moved and entranced that we couldn’t speak. He stood with his head
against a thick beam, while I sat. We breathed in the air, looked outside and
both felt that the spell shouldn’t be broken with words. We remained like this
for a long while, and by the time he had to go to the loft to chop wood, I
knew he was a good, decent boy. He climbed the ladder to the loft, and I
followed; during the fifteen minutes he was chopping wood, we didn’t say a
word either. I watched him from where I was standing, and could see he was
obviously doing his best to chop the right way and show off his strength. But
I also looked out the open window, letting my eyes roam over a large part of
Amsterdam, over the rooftops and on to the horizon, a strip of blue so pale it
was almost invisible.
“As long as this exists,” I thought, “this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and
as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?”
The best remedy for those who are frightened, lonely or unhappy is to go
outside, somewhere they can be alone, alone with the sky, nature and God.
For then and only then can you feel that everything is as it should be and that
God wants people to be happy amid nature’s beauty and simplicity.
As long as this exists, and that should be forever, I know that there will be
solace for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances. I firmly believe that
nature can bring comfort to all who suffer.
Oh, who knows, perhaps it won’t be long before I can share this
overwhelming feeling of happiness with someone who feels the same as I do.
Yours, Anne
P.S. Thoughts: To Peter.
We’ve been missing out on so much here, so very much, and for such a long
time. I miss it just as much as you do. I’m not talking about external things,
since we’re well provided for in that sense; I mean the internal things. Like
you, I long for freedom and fresh air, but I think we’ve been amply
compensated for their loss. On the inside, I mean.
This morning, when I was sitting in front of the window and taking a long,
deep look outside at God and nature, I was happy, just plain happy. Peter, as
long as people feel that kind of happiness within themselves, the joy of
nature, health and much more besides, they’ll always be able to recapture that
happiness.
Riches, prestige, everything can be lost. But the happiness in your own heart
can only be dimmed; it will always be there, as long as you live, to make you
happy again.
Whenever you’re feeling lonely or sad, try going to the loft on a beautiful day
and looking outside. Not at the houses and the rooftops, but at the sky. As
long as you can look fearlessly at the sky, you’ll know that you’re pure within
and will find happiness once more.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
From early in the morning to late at night, all I do is think about Peter. I fall
asleep with his image before my eyes, dream about him and wake up with
him still looking at me.
I have the strong feeling that Peter and I aren’t really as different as we may
seem on the surface, and I’ll explain why: neither Peter nor I have a mother.
His is too superficial, likes to flirt and doesn’t concern herself much with
what goes on in his head. Mine takes an active interest in my life, but has no
tact, sensitivity or motherly understanding.
Both Peter and I are struggling with our innermost feelings. We’re still unsure
of ourselves and are too vulnerable, emotionally, to be dealt with so roughly.
Whenever that happens, I want to run outside or hide my feelings. Instead, I
bang the pots and pans, splash the water and am generally noisy, so that
everyone wishes I were miles away. Peter’s reaction is to shut himself up, say
little, sit quietly and daydream, all the while carefully hiding his true self.
But how and when will we finally reach each other?
I don’t know how much longer I can continue to keep this yearning under
control.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
It’s like a nightmare, one that goes on long after I’m awake. I see him nearly
every hour of the day and yet I can’t be with him, I can’t let the others notice,
and I have to pretend to be cheerful, though my heart is aching.
Peter Schiff and Peter van Daan have melted into one Peter, who’s good and
kind and whom I long for desperately.
Mother’s horrible, Father’s nice, which makes him even more exasperating,
and Margot’s the worst, since she takes advantage of my smiling face to claim
me for herself, when all I want is to be left alone.
Peter didn’t join me in the attic, but went up to the loft to do some carpentry
work. At every rasp and bang, another chunk of my courage broke off and I
was even more unhappy. In the distance a clock was tolling’ ‘Be pure in heart,
be pure in mind!”
I’m sentimental, I know. I’m despondent and foolish, I know that too.
Oh, help me!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My own affairs have been pushed to the background by . . .
a break-in. I’m boring you with all my break-ins, but what can I do when
burglars take such pleasure in honoring Gies & Go. with their presence? This
incident is much more complicated than the last one, in July 1943.
Last night at seven-thirty Mr. van Daan was heading, as usual, for Mr.
Kugler’s office when he saw that both the glass door and the office door were
open. He was surprised, but he went on through and was even more
astonished to see that the alcove doors were open as well and that there was a
terrible mess in the front office.
“There’s been a burglary” flashed through his mind. But just to make sure, he
went downstairs to the front door, checked the lock and found everything
closed. “Bep and Peter must just have been very careless this evening,” Mr.
van. D. concluded. He remained for a while in Mr. Kugler’s office, switched
off the lamp and went upstairs without worrying much about the open doors
or the messy office.
Early this morning Peter knocked at our door to tell us that the front door was
wide open and that the projector and Mr. Kugler’s new briefcase had
disappeared from the closet.
Peter was instructed to lock the door. Mr. van Daan told us his discoveries of
the night before, and we were extremely worried.
The only explanation is that the burglar must have had a duplicate key, since
there were no signs of a forced entry.
He must have sneaked in early in the evening, shut the door behind him,
hidden himself when he heard Mr. van Daan, fled with the loot after Mr. van
Daan went upstairs and, in his hurry, not bothered to shut the door.
Who could have our key? Why didn’t the burglar go to the warehouse? Was it
one of our own warehouse employees, and will he turn us in, now that he’s
heard Mr. van Daan and maybe even seen him?
It’s really scary, since we don’t know whether the burglar will take it into his
head to try and get in again. Or was he so startled when he heard someone
else in the building that he’ll stay away?
Yours, Anne
P.S. We’d be delighted if you could hunt up a good detective for us.
Obviously, there’s one condotion: he must be relied upon not to mform on
people in hiding.
THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Margot and I were in the attic together today. I can’t enjoy being there with
her the way I imagine it’d be with Peter (or someone else). I know she feels
the same about most things as I do!
While doing the dishes, Bep began talking to Mother and Mrs. van Daan
about how discouraged she gets. What help did those two offer her? Our
tactless mother, especially, only made things go from bad to worse. Do you
know what her advice was? That she should think about all the other people
in the world who are suffering! How can thinking about the misery of others
help if you’re miserable yourself? I said as much.
Their response, of course, was that I should stay out of conversations of this
sort.
The grown-ups are such idiots! As if Peter, Margot, Bep and I didn’t all have
the same feelings. The only thing that helps is a mother’s love, or that of a
very, very close friend. But these two mothers don’t understand the first thing
about us! Perhaps Mrs. van Daan does, a bit more than Mother. Oh, I wish I
could have said something to poor Bep, something that I know from my own
experience would have helped. But Father came between us, pushing me
roughly aside.
They’re all so stupid!
I also talked to Margot about Father and Mother, about how nice it could be
here if they weren’t so aggravating. We’d be able to organize evenings in
which everyone could take turns discussing a given subject. But we’ve
already been through all that. It’s impossible for me to talk here! Mr. van
Daan goes on the offensive, Mother i gets sarcastic and can’t say anythina in a
normal voice, Father doesn’t feel like taking part, nor does Mr. Dussel, and
Mrs. van D. is attacked so often that she just sits there with a red face, hardly
able to put up a fight anymore. And what about us? We aren’t allowed to have
an opinion! My, my, aren’t they progressive!
Not have an opinion! People can tell you to shut up, but they can’t keep you
from having an opinion. You can’t forbid someone to have an opinion, no
matter how young they are! The only thing that would help Bep, Margot,
Peter and me would be great love and devotion, which we don’t get here. And
no one, especially not the idiotic sages around here, is capable of
understanding us, since we’re more sensitive and much more advanced in our
thinking than any of them ever suspect!
Love, what is love? I don’t think you can really put it into words. Love is
understanding someone, caring for him, sharing his joys and sorrows. This
eventually includes physical love. You’ve shared something, given something
away and received something in return, whether or not you’re married,
whether or not you have a baby. Losing your virtue doesn’t matter, as long as
you know that for as long as you live you’ll have someone at your side who
understands you, and who doesn’t have to be shared with anyone else!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
At the moment, Mother’s grouching at me again; she’s clearly jealous because
I talk to Mrs. van Daan more than to her. What do I care!
I managed to get hold of Peter this afternoon, and we talked for at least fortyfive minutes. He wanted to tell me something about himself, but didn’t find it
easy. He finally got it out, though it took a long time. I honestly didn’t know
whether it was better for me to stay or to go. But I wanted so much to help
him! I told him about Bep and how tactless our mothers are. He told me that
his parents fight constantly, about politics and cigarettes and all kinds of
things. As I’ve told you before, Peter’s very shy, but not too shy to admit that
he’d be perfectly happy not to see his parents for a year or two. “My father
isn’t as nice as he looks,” he said. “But in the matter of the cigarettes,
Mother’s absolutely right.”
I also told him about my mother. But he came to Father’s defense. He thought
he was a “terrific guy.”
Tonight when I was hanging up my apron after doing the dishes, he called me
over and asked me not to say anything downstairs about his parents’ having
had another argument and not being on speaking terms. I promised, though
I’d already told Margot. But I’m sure Margot won’t pass it on.
“Oh no, Peter,” I said, you don’t have to worry about me.
I’ve learned not to blab everything I hear. I never repeat what you tell me.”
He was glad to hear that. I also told him what terrible gossips we are, and
said, “Margot’s quite right, of course, when she says I’m not being honest,
because as much as I want to stop gossiping, there’s nothing I like better than
discussing Mr. Dussel.”
“It’s good that you admit it,” he said. He blushed, and his sincere compliment
almost embarrassed me too.
Then we talked about “upstairs” and “downstairs” some more. Peter was
really rather surprised to hear that don’t like his parents. “Peter,” I said, “you
know I’m always honest, so why shouldn’t I tell you this as well? We can see
their faults too.”
I added, “Peter, I’d really like to help you. Will you let me? You’re caught in
an awkward position, and I know, even though you don’t say anything, that it
upsets you.”
“Oh, your help is always welcome!”
“Maybe it’d be better for you to talk to Father. You can tell him anything, he
won’t pass it on.”
“I know, he’s a real pal.”
“You like him a lot, don’t you?”
Peter nodded, and I continued, “Well, he likes you too, you know!”
He looked up quickly and blushed. It was really touching to see how happy
these few words made him.
“You think so?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You can tell from the little things he lets slip now and then.”
Then Mr. van Daan came in to do some dictating.
Peter’s a “terrific guy,” just like Father!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, MARCH 3,1944
My dearest Kitty,
When I looked into the candle tonight, I felt calm and happy again. It seems
Grandma is in that candle, and it’s Grandma who watches over and protects
me and makes me feel happy again. But. . . there’s someone else who governs
all my moods and that’s. . . Peter. I went to get the potatoes today, and while I
was standing on the stairway with my pan full, he asked, “What did you do
during the lunch break?”
I sat down on the stairs, and we began to talk. The potatoes didn’t make it to
the kitchen until five-fifteen (an hour after I’d gone to get them). Peter didn’t
say anything more about his parents; we just talked about books and about
the past. Oh, he gazes at me with such warmth in his eyes; I don’t think it will
take much for me to fall in love with him.
He brought the subject up this evening. I went to his room after peeling
potatoes and remarked on how hot it was. “You can tell the temperature by
looking at Margot and me, because we turn white when it’s cold and red when
it’s hot.” I said.
“In love?” he asked.
“Why should I be in love?” It was a pretty silly answer (or, rather, question).
“Why not?” he said, and then it was time for dinner.
What did he mean? Today I finally managed to ask him whether my chatter
bothered him. All he said was,
“Oh, it’s fine with me!” I can’t tell how much of his reply was due to shyness.
Kitty, I sound like someone who’s in love and can talk about nothing but her
dearest darling. And Peter is a darling. Will I ever be able to tell him that?
Only if he thinks the same of me, but I’m the kind of person you have to treat
with kid gloves, I know that all too well.
And he likes to be left alone, so I don’t know how much he likes me. In any
case, we’re getting to know each other a little better. I wish we dared to say
more. But who knows, maybe that time will come sooner than I think!
Once or twice a day he gives me a knowing glance, I wink back, and we’re
both happy. It seems crazy to talk about his being happy, and yet I have the
overwhelming feeling he thinks the same way I do.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SATURDAY, MARCH 4, 1944
Dear Kitty,
This is the first Saturday in months that hasn’t been tiresome, dreary and
boring. The reason is Peter. This morning as I was on my way to the attic to
hang up my apron, Father asked whether I wanted to stay and practice my
French, and I said yes. We spoke French together for a while and I explained
something to Peter, and then we worked on our English. Father read aloud
from Dickens, and I was in seventh heaven, since I was sitting on Father’s
chair, close to Peter.
I went downstairs at quarter to eleven. When I went back up at eleven-thirty,
Peter was already waiting for me on the stairs. We talked until quarter to one.
Whenever I leave the room, for example after a meal, and Peter has a chance
and no one else can hear, he says, “Bye, Anne, see you later.”
Oh, I’m so happy! I wonder if he’s going to fall in love with me after all? In
any case, he’s a nice boy, and you have no idea how good it is to talk to him!
Mrs. van D. thinks it’s all right for me to talk to Peter, but today she asked me
teasingly, “Can I trust you two up there?”
“Of course,” I protested. “I take that as an insult!”
Morning, noon and night, I look forward to seeing Peter.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
PS. Before I forget, last night everything was blanketed in snow. Now it’s
thawed and there’s almost nothing left.
MONDAY, MARCH 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Ever since Peter told me about his parents, I’ve felt a certain sense of
responsibthty toward him-don’t you think that’s strange? It’s as though their
quarrels were just as much my business as his, and yet I don’t dare bring it up
anymore, because I’m afraid it makes him uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to
intrude, not for all the money in the world.
I can tell by Peter’s face that he ponders things just as deeply as I do. Last
night I was annoyed when Mrs. van D.
scoffed, “The thinker!” Peter flushed and looked embarrassed, and I nearly
blew my top.
Why don’t these people keep their mouths shut?
You can’t imagine what it’s like to have to stand on the sidelines and see how
lonely he is, without being able to do anything. I can imagine, as if I were in
his place, how despondent he must sometimes feel at the quarrels. And about
love. Poor Peter, he needs to be loved so much!
It sounded so cold when he said he didn’t need any friends. Oh, he’s so
wrong! I don’t think he means it. He clings to his masculinity, his solitude
and his feigned indif- ference so he can maintain his role, so he’ll never, ever
have to show his feelings. Poor Peter, how long can he keep it up? Won’t he
explode from this superhuman effort?
Oh, Peter, if only I could help you, if only you would let me! Together we
could banish our loneliness, yours and mine!
I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, but not saying much. I’m happy when
I see him, and happier still if the sun shines when we’re together. I washed
my hair yesterday, and because I knew he was next door, I was very
rambunctious. I couldn’t help it; the more quiet and serious I am on the
inside, the noisier I get on the outside!
Who will be the first to discover the chink in my armor?
It’s just as well that the van Daans don’t have a daughter. My conquest could
never be so challenging, so beautiful and so nice with someone of the same
sex!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
PS. You know I’m always honest with you, so I think I should tell you that I
live from one encounter to the next. I keep hoping to discover that he’s dying
to see me, and I’m in raptures when I notice his bashful attempts. I think he’d
like to be able to express himself as easily as I do; little does he know it’s his
awkwardness that I find so touching.