Mouschi’s now sitting by the window licking herself, very pleased at havingescaped Peter’s clutches. Peter has no choice but to lure her with a piece ofbread. Mouschi takes the bait, follows him out, and the door closes.I watch the entire scene through a crack in the door.Mr. van Daan is angry and slams the door. Margot and I exchange looks andthink the same thing: he must have worked himself into a rage again becauseof some blunder on Mr.Kugler’s part, and he’s forgotten all about the Keg Company next door.Another step is heard in the hallway. Dussel comes in, goes toward thewindow with an air of propriety, sniffs. . .coughs, sneezes and clears his throat. He’s out of luck — it was pepper. Hecontinues on to the front office. The curtains are open, which means he can’tget at his writing paper. He disappears with a scowl.Margot and I exchange another glance. “One less page for his sweethearttomorrow,” I hear her say. I nod in agreement.An elephant’s tread is heard on the stairway. It’s Dussel, seeking comfort inhis favorite spot.We continue working. Knock, knock, knock. . . Three taps means dinnertime!MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1943Wenn Die Uhr Halb Neune Schlaat . . .* * When the clock strikes half pasteight.Margot and Mother are nervous. “Shh . . . Father. Be quiet, Otto. Shh . . .Pim! It’s eight-thirty.Come here, you can’t run the water anymore. Walk softly!”A sample of what’s said to Father in the bathroom. At the stroke of half pasteight, he has to be in the living room.No running water, no flushing toilet, no walking around, no noisewhatsoever. As long as the office staff hasn’t arrived, sounds travel moreeasily to the warehouse.The door opens upstairs at eight-twenty, and this is followed by three gentletaps on the floor. . . Anne’s hot cereal. I clamber up the stairs to get mydoggie dish.Back downstairs, everything has to be done quickly, quickly: I comb my hair,put away the potty, shove the bed back in place. Quiet! The clock is strikingeight-thirty!Mrs. van D. changes shoes and shuffles through the room in her slippers; Mr.van D. too — a veritable Charlie Chaplin.All is quiet.The ideal family scene has now reached its high point. I want to read or studyand Margot does too. Father and Mother ditto. Father is sitting (with Dickensand the dictionary, of course) on the edge of the sagging, squeaky bed, whichdoesn’t even have a decent mattress. Two bolsters can be piled on top of eachother. “I don’t need these,” he thinks.”I can manage without them!”Once he starts reading, he doesn’t look up. He laughs now and then and triesto get Mother to read a story.”I don’t have the time right now!”He looks disappointed, but then continues to read.A little while later, when he comes across another good passage, he triesagain: “You have to read this, Mother!”Mother sits on the folding bed, either reading, sewing, knitting or studying,whichever is next on her list. An idea suddenly occurs to her, and she quicklysays, so as not to forget, “Anne, remember to . . . Margot, jot this down. . . “After a while it’s quiet again. Margot slams her book shut; Father knits hisforehead, his eyebrows forming a funny curve and his wrinkle ofconcentration reappearing I at the back of his head, and he buries himself inhis book 1 again; Mother starts chatting with Margot; and I get curious andlisten too. Pim is drawn into the conversation . . . Nine o’clock. Breakfast!FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1943Dearest Kitty,Every time I write to you, something special has happened, usuallyunpleasant rather than pleasant. This time, however, something wonderful isgoing on.On Wednesday, September 8, we were listening to the seven o’clock newswhen we heard an announcement: “Here is some of the best news of the warso far: Italy has capitulated.”Italy has unconditionally surrendered! The Dutch broadcast from Englandbegan at eight-fifteen with the news:”Listeners, an hour and fifteen minutes ago, just as I finished writing mydaily report, we received the wonderful news of Italy’s capitulation. I tell you,I never tossed my notes into the wastepaper basket with more delight than Idid today!””God Save the King,” the American national anthem and the Russian”Internationale” were played. As always, the Dutch program was upliftingwithout being too optimistic.The British have landed in Naples. Northern Italy is occupied by theGermans. The truce was signed on Friday, September 3, the day the Britishlanded in Italy. The Germans are ranting and raving in all the newspapers atthe treachery of Badoglio and the Italian king.Still, there’s bad news as well. It’s about Mr. Kleiman.As you know, we all like him very much. He’s unfailingly cheerful andamazingly brave, despite the fact that he’s always sick and in pain and can’teat much or do a lot of walking. “When Mr. Kleiman enters a room, the sunbegins to shine,” Mother said recently, and she’s absolutely right.Now it seems he has to go to the hospital for a very difficult operation on hisstomach, and will have to stay there for at least four weeks. You should haveseen him when he told us good-bye. He acted so normally, as though he werejust off to do an errand.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1943Dearest Kitty,Relationships here in the Annex are getting worse all the time. We don’t dareopen our mouths at mealtime (except to slip in a bite of food), because nomatter what we say, someone is bound to resent it or take it the wrong way.Mr.Voskuijl occasionally comes to visit us. Unfortunately, he’s not doing verywell. He isn’t making it any easier for his family, because his attitude seemsto be: what do I care, I’m going to die anyway! When I think how touchyeveryone is here, I can just imagine what it must be like at the Voskuijls’.I’ve been taking valerian every day to fight the anxiety and depression, but itdoesn’t stop me from being even more miserable the next day. A good heartylaugh would help better than ten valerian drops, but we’ve almost forgottenhow to laugh. Sometimes I’m afraid my face is going to sag with all thissorrow and that my mouth is going to permanently droop at the corners. Theothers aren’t doing any better. Everyone here is dreading the great terrorknown as winter.Another fact that doesn’t exactly brighten up our days is that Mr. van Maaren,the man who works in the warehouse, is getting suspicious about the Annex.A person with any brains must have noticed by now that Miep sometimessays she’s going to the lab, Bep to the file room and Mr. Kleiman to theOpekta supplies, while Mr. Kugler claims the Annex doesn’t belong to thisbuilding at all, but to the one next door.We wouldn’t care what Mr. van Maaren thought of the situation except thathe’s known to be unreliable and to possess a high degree of curiosity. He’s notone who can be put off with a flimsy excuse.One day Mr. Kugler wanted to be extra cautious, so at twenty past twelve heput on his coat and went to the drugstore around the corner. Less than fiveminutes later he was back, and he sneaked up the stairs like a thief to visit us.At one-fifteen he started to leave, but Bep met him on the landing and warnedhim that van Maaren was in the office.Mr. Kugler did an about-face and stayed with us until one-thirty. Then hetook off his shoes and went in his stockinged feet (despite his cold) to thefront attic and down the other stairway, taking one step at a time to avoid thecreaks. It took him fifteen minutes to negotiate the stairs, but he wound upsafely in the office after having entered from the outside.In the meantime, Bep had gotten rid of van Maaren and come to get Mr.Kugler from the Annex. But he’d already left and at that moment was stilltiptoeing down the stairs. What must the passersby have thought when theysaw the manager putting on his shoes outside? Hey, you there, in the socks!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1943Dearest Kitty,It’s Mrs. van Daan’s birthday. Other than one ration stamp each for cheese,meat and bread, all she received from us was a jar of jam. Her husband,Dussel and the office staff gave her nothing but flowers and also food. Suchare the times we live in!Bep had a nervous fit last week because she had so many errands to do. Tentimes a day people were sending her out for something, each time insistingshe go right away or go again or that she’d done it all wrong. And when youthink that she has her regular office work to do, that Mr. Kleiman is sick, thatMiep is home with a cold and that Bep herself has a sprained ankle, boyfriendtroubles and a grouchy father, it’s no wonder she’s at the end of her tether. Wecomforted her and told her that if she’d put her foot down once or twice andsay she didn’t have the time, the shopping lists would shrink of their ownaccord.Saturday there was a big drama, the likes of which have never been seen herebefore. It started with a discussion of van Maaren and ended in a generalargument and tears. Dussel complained to Mother that he was being treatedlike a leper, that no one was friendly to him and that, after all, he hadn’t doneanything to deserve it. This was followed by a lot of sweet talk, which luckilyMother didn’t fall for this time. She told him we were disappointed in himand that, on more than one occasion, he’d been a source of great annoyance.Dussel promised her the moon, but, as usual, we haven’t seen so much as abeam.There’s trouble brewing with the van Daans, I can tell!Father’s furious because they’re cheating us: they’ve been holding back meatand other things. Oh, what kind of bombshell is about to burst now? If only Iweren’t so involved in all these skirmishes! If only I could leave here!They’re driving us crazy!Yours, AnneSUNDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mr. Kleiman is back, thank goodness! He looks a bit pale, and yet hecheerfully set off to sell some clothes for Mr.van Daan. The disagreeable fact is that Mr. van Daan has run out of money.He lost his last hundred guilders in the warehouse, which is still creatingtrouble for us: the men are wondering how a hundred guilders could wind upin the warehouse on a Monday morning. Suspicion abounds. Meanwhile, thehundred guilders have been stolen. Who’s the thief?But I was talking about the money shortage. Mrs. van D.has scads of dresses, coats and shoes, none of which she feels she can dowithout. Mr. van D.’s suit is difficult to sell, and Peter’s bike was put on theblock, but is back again, since nobody wanted it. But the story doesn’t endthere. You see, Mrs. van D. is going to have to part with her fur coat. In heropinion, the firm should pay for our upkeep, but that’s ridiculous. They justhad a flaming row about it and have entered the “oh, my sweet Putti” and”darling Kerli”stage of reconciliation.My mind boggles at the profanity this honorable house has had to endure inthe past month. Father walks around with his lips pressed together, andwhenever he hears his name, he looks up in alarm, as ifhe’s afraid he’ll becalled upon to resolve another delicate problem. Mother’s so wrought up hercheeks are blotched with red, Margot complains of headaches, Dussel can’tsleep, Mrs. van D. frets and fumes all day long, and I’ve gone completelyround the bend. To tell you the truth, I sometimes forget who we’re at oddswith and who we’re not. The only way to take my mind off it is to study, andI’ve been doing a lot of that lately.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943My dearest Kitty,Mr. Kleiman is out again; his stomach won’t give him a moment’s peace. Hedoesn’t even know whether it’s stopped bleeding. He came to tell us he wasn’tfeeling well and was going home, and for the first time he seemed reallydown.Mr. and Mrs. van D. have had more raging battles. The reason is simple:they’re broke. They wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of Mr. van D. ‘s, butwere unable to find any buyers. His prices were way too high.Some time ago Mr. Kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. This gaveMr. van D. the idea of selling his wife’s fur coat. It’s made of rabbit skin, andshe’s had it for seventeen years. Mrs. van D. got 325 guilders for it, anenormous amount. She wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothesafter the war, and it took some doing before Mr.van D. could make her understand that it was desperately needed to coverhousehold expenses.You can’t imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearingthat went on. It was terrifying. My family stood holding its breath at thebottom of the stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. All thebickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain thatI fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that I have halfan hour to myself.I’m doing fine, except I’ve got no appetite. I keep hearing: “Goodness, youlook awful!” I must admit they’re doing their best to keep me in condition:they’re plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewer’s yeast and calcium. Mynerves often get the better of me, especially on Sundays; that’s when I reallyfeel miserable. The atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, youdon’t hear a single bird, and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over thehouse and clings to me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regionsof the underworld. At times like these, Father, Mother and Margot don’tmatter to me in the least. I wander from room to room, climb up and downthe stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and whokeeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage. “Let me out, wherethere’s fresh air and laughter!” a voice within me cries. I don’t even bother toreply anymore, but lie down on the divan. Sleep makes the silence and theterrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time, since it’s impossible tokill it.Yours, Anne