WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4,1943Dearest Kitty,Now that we’ve been in hiding for a little over a year, you know a great dealabout our lives. Still, I can’t possibly tell you everything, since it’s all sodifferent compared to ordinary times and ordinary people. Nevertheless, togive you a closer look into our lives, from time to time I’ll describe part of anordinary day. I’ll start with the evening and night.Nine in the evening. Bedtime always begins in the Annex with an enormoushustle and bustle. Chairs are shifted, beds pulled out, blankets unfolded –nothing stays where it is during the daytime. I sleep on a small divan, whichis only five feet long, so we have to add a few chairs to make it longer.Comforter, sheets, pillows, blankets: everything has to be removed fromDussel’ s bed, where it’s kept during the day.In the next room there’s a terrible creaking: that’s Margot’s folding bed beingset up. More blankets and pillows, anything to make the wooden slats a bitmore comfortable.Upstairs it sounds like thunder, but it’s only Mrs. van D.’s bed being shovedagainst the window so that Her Majesty, arrayed in her pink bed jacket, cansniff the night air through her delicate little nostrils.Nine o’clock. After Peter’s finished, it’s my turn for the bathroom. I washmyself from head to toe, and more often than not I find a tiny flea floating inthe sink (only during the hot months, weeks or days). I brush my teeth, curlmy hair, manicure my nails and dab peroxide on my upper lip to bleach theblack hairs — all this in less than half an hour.Nine-thirty. I throw on my bathrobe. With soap in one hand, and potty,hairpins, panties, curlers and a wad of cotton in the other, I hurry out of thebathroom. The next in line invariably calls me back to remove the gracefullycurved but unsightly hairs that I’ve left in the sink.Ten o’clock. Time to put up the blackout screen and say good-night. For thenext fifteen minutes, at least, the house is filled with the creaking of beds andthe sigh of broken springs, and then, provided our upstairs neighbors aren’thaving a marital spat in bed, all is quiet.Eleven-thirty. The bathroom door creaks. A narrow strip of light falls into theroom. Squeaking shoes, a large coat, even larger than the man inside it . . .Dussel is returning from his nightly work in Mr. Kugler’s office. I hear himshuffiing back and forth for ten whole minutes, the rustle of paper (from thefood he’s tucking away in his cupboard) and the bed being made up. Then thefigure disappears again, and the only sound is the occasional suspicious noisefrom the bathroom.Approximately three o’clock. I have to get up to use the tin can under my bed,which, to be on the safe side, has a rubber mat underneath in case of leaks. Ialways hold my breath while I go, since it clatters into the can like a brookdown a mountainside. The potty is returned to its place, and the figure in thewhite nightgown (the one that causes Margot to exclaim every evening, Oh,that indecent nighty!) climbs back into bed. A certain somebody lies awakefor about fifteen minutes, listening to the sounds of the night. In the firstplace, to hear whether there are any burglars downstairs, and then to thevarious beds –upstairs, next door and in my room — to tell whether the othersare asleep or half awake. This is no fun, especially when it concerns amember of the family named Dr. Dussel.First, there’s the sound of a fish gasping for air, and this is repeated nine orten times. Then, the lips are moistened profusely. This is alternated with littlesmacking sounds, followed by a long period of tossing and turning andrearranging the pillows. After five minutes of perfect quiet, the samesequence repeats itself three more times, after which he’s presumably lulledhimself back to sleep for a while.Sometimes the guns go off during the night, between one and four. I’m neveraware of it before it happens, but all of a sudden I find myself standing besidemy bed, out of sheer habit. Occasionally I’m dreaming so deeply (of irregularFrench verbs or a quarrel upstairs) that I realize only when my dream is overthat the shooting has stopped and that I’ve remained quietly in my room. Butusually I wake up. Then I grab a pillow and a handkerchief, throw on myrobe and slippers and dash next door to Father, just the way Margot describedin this birthday poem:When shots rino out in the dark of night,The door creaks open and into sightCome a hanky, a pillow, a figure in white. . .Once I’ve reached the big bed, the worst is over, except when the shooting isextra loud.Six forty-five. Brrring . . . the alarm clock, which raises its shrill voice at anyhour of the day or night, whether you want it to or not. Creak. . . wham. . .Mrs. van D. turns it off. Screak . . . Mr. van D. gets up, puts on the water andraces to the bathroom.Seven-fifteen. The door creaks again. Dussel can go to the bathroom. Aloneat last, I remove the blackout screen . . .and a new day begins in the Annex.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, AUGUST 5, 1943Dearest Kitty,Today let’s talk about the lunch break.It’s twelve-thirty. The whole gang breathes a sigh of relief: Mr. van Maaren,the man with the shady past, and Mr. de Kok have gone home for lunch.Upstairs you can hear the thud of the vacuum cleaner on Mrs. van D.’sbeautiful and only rug. Margot tucks a few books under her arm and headsfor the class for slow learners, which is what Dussel seems to be. Pim goesand sits in a corner with his constant companion, Dickens, in hopes of findinga bit of peace and quiet. Mother hastens upstairs to help the busy littlehousewife, and I tidy up both the bathroom and myself at the same time.Twelve forty-five. One by one they trickle in: first Mr.Gies and then either Mr. Kleiman or Mr. Kugler, followed by Bep andsometimes even Miep.One. Clustered around the radio, they all listen raptly to the BBC. This is theonly time the members of the Annex family don’t interrupt each other, sinceeven Mr. van Daan can’t argue with the speaker.One-fifteen. Food distribution. Everyone from downstairs gets a cup of soup,plus dessert, if there happens to be any.A contented Mr. Gies sits on the divan or leans against the desk with hisnewspaper, cup and usually the cat at his side.If one of the three is missing, he doesn’t hesitate to let his protest be heard.Mr. Kleiman relates the latest news from town, and he’s an excellent source.Mr. Kugler hurries up the stairs, gives a short but solid knock on the door andcomes in either wringing his hands or rubbing them in glee, depending onwhether he’s quiet and in a bad mood or talkative and in a good mood.One forty-five. Everyone rises from the table and goes about their business.Margot and Mother do the dishes, Mr.and Mrs. van D. head for the divan, Peter for the attic, Father for his divan,Dussel too, and Anne does her homework.What comes next is the quietest hour of the day; when they’re all asleep, thereare no disturbances. To judge by his face, Dussel is dreaming of food. But Idon’t look at him long, because the time whizzes by and before you know it,it’ll be 4 P.M. and the pedantic Dr. Dussel will be standing with the clock inhis hand because I’m one minute ,late clearing off the table.Yours, AnneSATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 1943Dearest Kitty,A few weeks ago I started writing a story, something I made up frombeginning to end, and I’ve enjoyed it so much that the products of my pen arepiling up.Yours, AnneMONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1943Dearest Kitty,We now continue with a typical day in the Annex. Since we’ve already hadlunch, it’s time to describe dinner.Mr. van Daan. Is served first, and takes a generous portion of whatever helikes. Usually joins in the conversation, never fails to give his opinion. Oncehe’s spoken, his word is final. If anyone dares to suggest otherwise, Mr. vanD. can put up a good fight. Oh, he can hiss like a cat. . . but I’d rather hedidn’t. Once you’ve seen it, you never want to see it again. His opinion is thebest, he knows the most about everything. Granted, the man has a good headon his shoulders, but it’s swelled to no small degree.Madame. Actually, the best thing would be to say nothing.Some days, especially when a foul mood is on the way, her face is hard toread. If you analyze the discussions, you realize she’s not the subject, but theguilty party! A fact everyone prefers to ignore. Even so, you could call herthe instigator. Stirring up trouble, now that’s what Mrs. van Daan calls fun.Stirring up trouble between Mrs. Frank and Anne. Margot and Mr. Frank arent qwte as easy.But let’s return to the table. Mrs. van D. may think she doesn’t always getenough, but that’s not the case. The choicest potatoes, the tastiest morsel, thetenderest bit of whatever there is, that’s Madame’s motto. The others can allhave their turn, as long as I get the best. (Exactly what she accuses AnneFrank of doing.) Her second watchword is: keep talking. As long assomebody’s listening, it doesn’t seem to occur to her to wonder whetherthey’re interested. She must think that whatever Mrs. van Daan says willinterest everyone.Smile coquettishly, pretend you know everything, offer everyone a piece ofadvice and mother them — that’s sure to make a good impression. But if youtake a better look, the good impression fades. One, she’s hardworking; two,cheerful; three, coquettish — and sometimes a cute face. That’s Petronella vanDaan.The third diner. Says very little. Young Mr. van Daan is usually quiet andhardly makes his presence known. As far as his appetite is concerned, he’s aDanaldean vessel that never gets full. Even after the most substantial meal, hecan look you calmly in the eye and claim he could have eaten twice as much.Number four — Margot. Eats like a bird and doesn’t talk at all. She eats onlyvegetables and fruit. Spoiled, in the opinion of the van Daans. Too littleexercise and fresh air, in ours.Beside her — Mama. Has a hearty appetite, does her share of the talking. Noone has the impression, as they do with Mrs. van Daan, that this is ahousewife. What’s the difference between the two? Well, Mrs. van D. doesthe cooking and Mother does the dishes and polishes the furniture.Numbers six and seven. I won’t say much about Father and me. The former isthe most modest person at the table. He always looks to see whether theothers have been served first. He needs nothing for himself; the best thingsare for the children. He’s goodness personified. Seated next to him is theAnnex’s little bundle of nerves.Dussel. Help yourself, keep your eyes on the food, eat and don’t talk. And ifyou have to say something, then for goodness’ sake talk about food. Thatdoesn’t lead to quarrels, just to bragging. He consumes enormous portions,and no is not part of his vocabulary, whether the food is good or bad.Pants that come up to his chest, a red jacket, black patent-leather slippers andhorn-rimmed glasses — that’s how he looks when he’s at work at the littletable, always studying and never progressing. This is interrupted only by hisafternoon nap, food and — his favorite spot — the bathroom. Three, four orfive times a day there’s bound to be someone waiting outside the bathroomdoor, hopping impatiently from one foot to another, trying to hold it in andbarely managing. Does Dussel care? Not a whit. From seven-fifteen to seventhirty, from twelve-thirty to one, from two to two-fifteen, from four to fourfifteen, from six to six-fifteen, from eleven-thirty to twelve. You can set yourwatch by them; these are the times for his regular sessions. He neverdeviates or lets himself be swayed by the voices outside the door, begginghim to open up before a disaster occurs.Number nine is not part of our Annex family, although she does share ourhouse and table. Hep has a healthy appetite.She cleans her plate and isn’t choosy. Hep’s easy to please and that pleases us.She can be characterized as follows: cheerful, good-humored, kind andwilling.TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 1943Dearest Kitty, .A new idea: during meals I talk more to myself than to the others, which hastwo advantages. First, they’re glad they don’t have to listen to my continuouschatter, and second, I don’t have to get annoyed by their opinions. I don’tthink my opinions are stupid but other people do, so it’s better to keep them tomyself. I apply the same tactic when I have to eat something I loathe. I putthe dish in front of me, pretend it’s delicious, avoid looking at it as much aspossible, and it’s gone before I’ve had time to realize what it is. When I get upin the morning, another very disagreeable moment, I leap out of bed, think tomyself,You’ll be slipping back under the covers soon, walk to the window, takedown the blackout screen, sniff at the crack until I feel a bit of fresh air, andI’m awake. I strip the bed as fast as I can so I won’t be tempted to get back in.Do you know what Mother calls this sort of thing? The art of living. Isn’t thata funny expression?We’ve all been a little confused this past week because our dearly belovedWestertoren bells have been carted off to be melted down for the war, so wehave no idea of the exact time, either night or day. I still have hopes thatthey’ll come up with a substitute, made of tin or copper or some such thing, toremind the neighborhood of the clock.Everywhere I go, upstairs or down, they all cast admiring glances at my feet,which are adorned by a pair of exceptionally beautiful (for times like these!)shoes. Miep managed to snap them up for 27.50 guilders. Burgundy-coloredsuede and leather with medium-sized high heels. I feel as if I were on stilts,and look even taller than I already am.Yesterday was my unlucky day. I pricked my right thumb with the blunt endof a big needle. As a result, Margot had to peel potatoes for me (take thegood with the bad), and writing was awkward. Then I bumped into thecupboard door so hard it nearly knocked me over, and was scolded formaking such a racket. They wouldn’t let me run water to bathe my forehead,so now I’m walking around with a giant lump over my right eye. To makematters worse, the little toe on my right foot got stuck in the vacuum cleaner.It bled and hurt, but my other ailments were already causing me so muchtrouble that I let this one slide, which was stupid of me, because now I’mwalking around with an infected toe. What with the salve, the gauze and thetape, I can’t get my heavenly new shoe on my foot.Dussel has put us in danger for the umpteenth time. He actually had Miepbring him a book, an anti-Mussolini tirade, which has been banned. On theway here she was knocked down by an SS motorcycle. She lost her head andshouted You brutes! and went on her way. I don’t dare think what wouldhave happened if she’d been taken down to headquarters.Yours, AnneA Daily Chore in Our Little Community: Peeling Potatoes!One person goes to get some newspapers; another, the knives (keeping thebest for himself, of course); the third, the potatoes; and the fourth, the water.Mr. Dussel begins. He may not always peel them very well, but he does peelnonstop, glancing left and right to see if everyone is doing it the way he does.No, they’re not!Look, Anne, I am taking peeler in my hand like so and going from the top tobottom! Nein, not so . . . but so!I think my way is easier, Mr. Dussel, I say tentatively.But this is best way, Anne. This you can take from me. Of course, it is nomatter, you do the way you want.We go on peeling. I glance at Dussel out of the corner of my eye. Lost inthought, he shakes his head (over me, no doubt), but says no more.I keep on peeling. Then I look at Father, on the other side of me. To Father,peeling potatoes is not a chore, but precision work. When he reads, he has adeep wrinkle in the back of his head. But when he’s preparing potatoes, beansor vegetables, he seems to be totally absorbed in his task. He puts on hispotato-peeling face, and when it’s set in that particular way, it would beimpossible for him to turn out anything less than a perfectly peeled potato.I keep on working. I glance up for a second, but that’s all the time I need.Mrs. van D. is trying to attract Dussel’s attention. She starts by looking in hisdirection, but Dussel pretends not to notice. She winks, but Dussel goes onpeeling. She laughs, but Dussel still doesn’t look up.Then Mother laughs too, but Dussel pays them no mind. Having failed toachieve her goal, Mrs. van D. is obliged to change tactics. There’s a briefsilence. Then she says, Putti, why don’t you put on an apron? Otherwise, I’llhave to spend all day tomorrow trying to get the spots out of your suit!I’m not getting it dirty.Another brief silence. Putti, why don’t you sit down?’I’m fine this way. I like standing up!Silence.Putti, look out, du spritzt schon!.* *Now you’re splashing!I know, Mommy, but I’m being careful.Mrs. van D. casts about for another topic. Tell me, Putti, why aren’t theBritish carrying out any bombing raids today?Because the weather’s bad, Kerli!But yesterday it was such nice weather and they weren’t flying then either.Let’s drop the subject.Why? Can’t a person talk about that or offer an opinion?’Well, why in the world not?Oh, be quiet, Mammichen!* *MommyMr. Frank always answers his wife.Mr. van D. is trying to control himself. This remark always rubs him thewrong way, but Mrs. van D.’s not one to quit: Oh, there’s never going to bean invasion!Mr. van D. turns white, and when she notices it, Mrs. van D. turns red, butshe’s not about to be deterred: The British aren’t doing a thing!The bomb bursts. And now shut up, Donnerwetter noch mal!**For crying out loud!Mother can barely stifle a laugh, and I stare straight ahead.Scenes like these are repeated almost daily, unless they’ve just had a terriblefight. In that case, neither Mr.nor Mrs. van D. says a word.It’s time for me to get some more potatoes. I go up to the attic, where Peter isbusy picking fleas from the cat.He looks up, the cat notices it, and whoosh. . . he’s gone. Out the window andinto the rain gutter.Peter swears; I laugh and slip out of the room.Freedom in the AnnexFive-thirty. Bep’s arrival signals the beginning of our nightly freedom. Thingsget going right away. I go upstairs with Bep, who usually has her dessertbefore the rest of us.The moment she sits down, Mrs. van D. begins stating her wishes. Her listusually starts with Oh, by the way, Bep, something else I’d like. . . Bepwinks at me. Mrs. van D.doesn’t miss a chance to make her wishes known to whoever comes upstairs.It must be one of the reasons none of them like to go up there.Five forty-five. Bep leaves. I go down two floors to have a look around: firstto the kitchen, then to the private office and then to the coal bin to open thecat door for Mouschi.After a long tour of inspection, I wind up in Mr. Kugler’s office. Mr. vanDaan is combing all the drawers and files for today’s mail. Peter picks upBoche and the warehouse key; Pim lugs the typewriters upstairs; Margotlooks around for a quiet place to do her office work; Mrs. van D. puts a kettleof water on the stove; Mother comes down the stairs with a pan of potatoes;we all know our jobs.Soon Peter comes back from the warehouse. The first question they ask himis whether he’s remembered the bread.No, he hasn’t. He crouches before the door to the front office to make himselfas small as possible and crawls on his hands and knees to the steel cabinet,takes out the bread and starts to leave. At any rate, that’s what he intends todo, but before he knows what’s happened, Mouschi has jumped over him andgone to sit under the desk.Peter looks all around him. Aha, there’s the cat! He crawls back into theoffice and grabs the cat by the tail.Mouschi hisses, Peter sighs. What has he accomplished?