WEDNESDAY, APRIL 5, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
For a long time now I didn’t know why I was bothering to do any
schoolwork. The end of the war still seemed so far away, so unreal, like a
fairy tale. If the war isn’t over by September, I won’t go back to school, since
I don’t want to be two years behind.
Peter filled my days, nothing but Peter, dreams and thoughts until Saturday
night, when I felt so utterly miserable; oh, it was awful. I held back my tears
when I was with Peter, laughed uproariously with the van Daans as we drank
lemon punch and was cheerful and excited, but the minute I was alone I knew
I was going to cry my eyes out. I slid to the floor in my nightgown and began
by saying my prayers, very fervently. Then I drew my knees to my chest, lay
my head on my arms and cried, all huddled up on the bare floor. A loud sob
brought me back down to earth, and I choked back my tears, since I didn’t
want anyone next door to hear me. Then I tried to pull myself together,
saying over and over, “I must, I must, I must. . . ” Stiff from sitting in such an
unusual position, I fell back against the side of the bed and kept up my
struggle until just before ten-thirty, when I climbed back into bed. It was
over!
And now it’s really over. I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork to
keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because
that’s what I want! I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my
descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid
and alive, but. . . it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.
“Eva’s Dream” is my best fairy tale, and the odd thing is that I don’t have the
faintest idea where it came from. Parts of “Cady’s Life” are also good, but as
a whole it’s nothing special. I’m my best and harshest critic. I know what’s
good and what isn’t. Unless you write yourself, you can’t know how
wonderful it is; I always used to bemoan the fact that I couldn’t draw, but
now I’m overjoyed that at least I can write. And if I don’t have the talent to
write books or newspaper articles, I can always write for myself. But I want
to achieve more than that. I can’t imagine having to live like Mother, Mrs.
van Daan and all the women who go about their work and are then forgotten.
I need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to!
I don’t want to have lived in vain like most people. I want to be useful or
bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on
living even after my death! And that’s why I’m so grateful to God for having
given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all that’s
inside me!
When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sor- row disappears, my spirits
are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write
something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?
I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record
everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies.
I haven’t worked on “Cady’s Life” for ages. In my mind I’ve worked out
exactly what happens next, but the story doesn’t seem to be coming along
very well. I might never finish it, and it’ll wind up in the wastepaper basket or
the stove. That’s a horrible thought, but then I say to myself,
“At the age of fourteen and with so little experience, you can’t write about
philosophy.”
So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It’ll all work out, because I’m
determined to write!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
THURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
You asked me what my hobbies and interests are and I’d like to answer, but
I’d better warn you, I have lots of them, so don’t be surprised.
First of all: writing, but I don’t really think of that as a hobby.
Number two: genealogical charts. I’m looking in every newspaper, book and
document I can find for the family trees of the French, German, Spanish,
English, Austrian, Russian, Norwegian and Dutch royal famthes. I’ve made
great progress with many of them, because for ! a long time I’ve been taking
notes while reading biogra- I, phies or history books. I even copy out many of
the passages on history.
So my third hobby is history, and Father’s already bought me numerous
books. I can hardly wait for the day when I’ll be able to go to the public
library and ferret out Iii the information I need.
Number four is Greek and Roman mythology. I have various books on this
subject too. I can name the nine Muses and the seven loves of Zeus. I have
the wives of Hercules, etc., etc., down pat.
My other hobbies are movie stars and family photographs.
I’m crazy about reading and books. I adore the history of the arts, especially
when it concerns writers, poets and painters; musicians may come later. I
loathe algebra, geometry and arithmetic. I enjoy all my other school subjects,
but history’s my favorite!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
My head’s in a whirl, I really don’t know where to begin.
Thursday (the last time I wrote you) everything was as usual. Friday
afternoon (Good Friday) we played Monopoly; Saturday afternoon too. The
days passed very quickly. Around two o’clock on Saturday, heavy firing ii
began-machine guns, according to the men. For the rest, everything was
quiet.
Sunday afternoon Peter came to see me at four-thirty, at my invitation. At
five-fifteen we went to the Ii front attic, where we stayed until six. There was
a beautil ful Mozart concert on the radio from six to seven-fifteen; I
especially enjoyed the Kleine Nachtmusik. I can hardly bear to listen in the
kitchen, since beautiful music stirs me to the very depths of my soul. Sunday
evening Peter couldn’t take his balli, because the washtub was down in the
office kitchen, filled with laundry. The two of us went to the front attic
together, and in order to be able to sit comfortably, I took along the only
cushion I could find in my room. We seated ourselves on a packing crate.
Since both the crate and the cushion were very narrow, we were sitting quite
close, leaning against two other crates; Mouschi kept us company, so we
weren’t without a chaperon. Suddenly, at a quarter to nine, Mr. van Daan
whistled and asked if we had Mr. Dussel’s cushion. We jumped up and went
downstairs willi the cushion, the cat and Mr. van Daan. This cushion was the
source of much misery. Dussel was angry because I’d taken the one he uses as
a pillow, and he was afraid it might be covered with fleas; he had the entire
house in an uproar because of this one cushion. In revenge, Peter and I stuck
two hard brushes in his bed, but had to take them out again when Dussel
unexpectedly decided to go sit in his room. We had a really good laugh at this
little intermezzo.
But our fun was short-lived. At nine-thirty Peter knocked gently on the door
and asked Father to come upstairs and help him with a difficult English
sentence.
“That sounds fishy,” I said to Margot. “It’s obviously a pretext. You can tell
by the way the men are talking that there’s been a break-in!” I was right. The
warehouse was being broken into at that very moment. Father, Mr. van Daan
and Peter were downstairs in a flash. Margot, Mother, Mrs.
van D. and I waited. Four frightened women need to talk, so that’s what we
did until we heard a bang downstairs. After that all was quiet. The clock
struck quarter to ten. The color had drained from our faces, but we remained
calm, even though we were afraid. Where were the men? What was that
bang? Were they fighting with the burglars? We were too scared to think; all
we could do was wait.
Ten o’clock, footsteps on the stairs. Father, pale and nervous, came inside,
followed by Mr. van Daan. “Lights out, tiptoe upstairs, we’re expecting the
police!” There wasn’t time to be scared. The lights were switched off, I
grabbed a jacket, and we sat down upstairs.
“What happened? Tell us quickly!”
There was no one to tell us; the men had gone back downstairs. The four of
them didn’t come back up until ten past ten. Two of them kept watch at
Peter’s open window. The door to the landing was locked, the book- case
shut. We draped a sweater over our night-light, and then they told us what
had happened:
Peter was on the landing when he heard two loud bangs. He went downstairs
and saw that a large panel was missing from the left half of the warehouse
door. He dashed upstairs, alerted the “Home Guard,” and the four of them
went downstairs. When they entered the warehouse, the burglars were going
about their business. Without thinking, Mr. van Daan yelled “Police!” Hurried footsteps outside; the burglars had fled. The board was put back in the
door so the police wouldn’t notice the gap, but then a swift kick from outside
sent it flying to the floor. The men were amazed at the burglars’ audacity.
Both Peter and Mr. van Daan felt a murderous rage come over them. Mr. van
Daan slammed an ax against the floor, and all was quiet again. Once more the
panel was re- placed, and once more the attempt was foiled.
Outside, a man and a woman shone a glaring flashlight through the opening,
lighting up the entire warehouse. “What the . .
.” mumbled one of the men, but now their roles had been reversed. Instead of
policemen, they were now burglars. All four of them raced upstairs. Dussel
and Mr. van Daan snatched up Dussel’s books, Peter opened the doors and
windows in the kitchen and private office, hurled the phone to the ground,
and the four of them finally ended up behind the bookcase.
END OF PART ONE
In all probability the man and woman with the flashlight had alerted the
police. It was Sunday night, Easter Sunday.
The next day, Easter Monday, the office was going to be closed, which meant
we wouldn’t be able to move around until Tuesday morning. Think of it,
having to sit in such terror for a day and two nights! We thought of nothing,
but simply sat there in pitch darkness — in her fear, Mrs. van D. had switched
off the lamp. We whispered, and every time we heard a creak, someone said,
“Shh, shh.”
It was ten-thirty, then eleven. Not a sound. Father and Mr. van Daan took
turns coming upstairs to us. Then, at eleven-fifteen, a noise below. Up above
you could hear the whole family breathing. For the rest, no one moved a
muscle.
Footsteps in the house, the private office, the kitchen, then. . . on the
staircase. All sounds of breathing stopped, eight hearts pounded. Foot- steps
on the stairs, then a rattling at the bookcase. This moment is indescribable.
“Now we’re done for,” I said, and I had visions of all fifteen of us being
dragged away by the Gestapo that very night.
More rattling at the bookcase, twice. Then we heard a can fall, and the
footsteps receded. We were out of danger, so far! A shiver went though
everyone’s body, I heard several sets of teeth chattering, no one said a word.
We stayed like this until eleven-thirty.
There were no more sounds in the house, but a light was shining on our
landing, right in front of the bookcase. Was that because the police thought it
looked so suspicious or because they simply forgot? Was anyone going to
come back and turn it off? We found our tongues again.
There were no longer any people inside the building, but perhaps someone
was standing guard outside. We then did three things: tried to guess what was
going on, trembled with fear and went to the bathroom. Since the buckets
were in the attic, all we had was Peter’s metal wastepaper basket. Mr.
van Daan went first, then Father, but Mother was too embarrassed. Father
brought the waste- basket to the next room, where Margot, Mrs. van Daan
and I gratefully made use of it. Mother finally gave in. There was a great
demand for paper, and luckily I had some in my pocket.
The wastebasket stank, everything went on in a whisper, and we were
exhausted. It was midnight.
“Lie down on the floor and go to sleep!” Margot and I were each given a
pillow and a blanket. Margot lay down near the food cupboard, and I made
my bed between the table legs. The smell wasn’t quite so bad when you were
lying on the floor, but Mrs. van Daan quietly went and got some powdered
bleach and draped a dish towel over the potty as a further precaution.
Talk, whispers, fear, stench, farting and people continually going to the
bathroom; try sleeping through that!
By two-thirty, however, I was so tired I dozed off and didn’t hear a thing until
three-thirty. I woke up when Mrs. van D.
lay her head on my feet.
“For heaven’s sake, give me something to put on!” I said.
I was handed some clothes, but don’t ask what: a pair of wool slacks over my
pajamas, a red sweater and a black skirt, white understockings and tattered
kneesocks.
Mrs. van D. sat back down on the chair, and Mr. van D. lay down with his
head on my feet. From three- thirty onward I was engrossed in thought, and
still shiver- ing so much that Mr. van Daan couldn’t sleep. I was preparing
myself for the return of the police. We’d tell them we were in hiding; if they
were good people, we’d be safe, and if they were Nazi sympathizers, we
could try to bribe them!
“We should hide the radio!” moaned Mrs. van D.
“Sure, in the stove,” answered Mr. van D. “If they find us, they might as well
find the radio!”
“Then they’ll also find Anne’s diary,” added Father.
“So burn it,” suggested the most terrified of the group.
This and the police rattling on the bookcase were the moments when I was
most afraid. Oh, not my diary; if my diary goes, I go too! Thank goodness
Father didn’t say anything more.
There’s no point in recounting all the conversations; so much was said. I
comforted Mrs. van Daan, who was very frightened. We talked about
escaping, being interrogated by the Gestapo, phoning Mr. Kleiman and being
courageous.
“We must behave like soldiers, Mrs. van Daan. If our time has come, well
then, it’ll be for Queen and Country, for freedom, truth and justice, as they’re
always telling us on the radio. The only bad thing is that we’ll drag the others
down with us!”
After an hour Mr. van Daan switched places with his wife again, and Father
came and sat beside me. The men smoked one cigarette after another, an
occasional sigh was heard, somebody made another trip to the potty, and then
everything began allover again.
Four o’clock, five, five-thirty. I went and sat with Peter by his window and
listened, so close we could feel each other’s bodies trembling; we spoke a
word or two from time to time and listened intently. Next door they took
down the blackout screen. They made a list of everything they were planning
to tell Mr. Kleiman over the phone, because they intended to call him at
seven and ask him to send someone over. They were taking a big chance,
since the police guard at the door or in the warehouse might hear them
calling, but there was an even greater risk that the police would return.
I’m enclosing their list, but for the sake of clarity, I’ll copy it here.
Buralary: Police in building, up to bookcase, but no farther. Burglars
apparently interrupted, forced warehouse door, fled through garden. Main
entrance bolted; Kugler must have left through second door.
Typewriter and adding machine safe in black chest in private office.
Miep’s or Bep’s laundry in washtub in kitchen.
Only Bep or Kugler have key to second door; lock may be broken.
Try to warn jan and get key, look around office; also feed cat.
For the rest, everything went according to plan. Mr.
Kleiman was phoned, the poles were removed from the doors, the typewriter
was put back in the chest. Then we all sat around the table again and waited
for either jan or the police.
Peter had dropped off to sleep and Mr. van Daan ANNE FRANK
and I were lying on the floor when we heard loud footsteps below. I got up
quietly. “It’s Jan!”
“No, no, it’s the police!” they all said.
There was a knocking at our bookcase. Miep whis- tled.
This was too much for Mrs. van Daan, who sank limply in her chair, white as
a sheet. If the tension had lasted another minute, she would have fainted.
Jan and Miep came in and were met with a delightful scene.
The table alone would have been worth a photograph: a copy of Cinema &..
Theater, opened to a page of dancing girls and smeared with jam and pectin,
which we’d been taking to combat the diarrhea, two jam jars, half a bread roll,
a quarter of a bread roll, pectin, a mirror, a comb, matches, ashes, cigarettes,
tobacco, an ashtray, books, a pair of underpants, a flashlight, Mrs. van Daan’s
comb, toilet paper, etc.
Jan and Miep were of course greeted with shouts and tears.
Jan nailed a pinewood board over the gap in the door and went off again with
Miep to inform the police of the break-in.
Miep had also found a note under the ware- house door from Sleegers, the
night watchman, who had noticed the hole and alerted the police. Jan was
also planning to see Sleegers.
So we had half an hour in which to put the house and ourselves to rights. I’ve
never seen such a transformation as in those thirty minutes. Margot and I got
the beds ready downstairs, went to the bathroom, brushed our teeth, washed
our hands and combed our hair. Then I straightened up the room a bit and
went back upstairs. The table had already been cleared, so we got some
water, made coffee and tea, boiled the milk and set the table. Father and Peter
emptied our improvised potties and rinsed them with warm water and
powdered bleach. The largest one was filled to the brim and was so heavy
they had a hard time lifting it. To make things worse, it was leaking, so they
had to put it in a bucket.
At eleven o’clock Jan was back and joined us at the table, and gradually
everyone began to relax. Jan had the following story to tell:
Mr. Sleegers was asleep, but his wife told Jan that her husband had
discovered the hole in the door while making his rounds. He called in a
policeman, and the two of them searched the building. Mr. Sleegers, in his
capacity as night watchman, patrols the area every night on his bike,
accompanied by his two dogs. His wife said he would come on Tuesday and
tell Mr. Kugler the rest. No one at the police station seemed to know anything
about the break-in, but they made a note to come first thing Tuesday morning
to have a look.
On the way back Jan happened to run into Mr. van Hoeven, the man who
supplies us with potatoes, and told him of the break-in. “I know,” Mr. van
Hoeven calmly replied. “Last night when my wife and I were walking past
your building, I saw a gap in the door. My wife wanted to walk on, but I
peeked inside with a flashlight, and that’s when the burglars must have run
off. To be on the safe side, I didn’t call the police. I thought it wouldn’t be
wise in your case. I don’t know anything, but I have my suspicions.” Jan
thanked him and went on. Mr. van Hoeven obviously suspects we’re here,
because he always delivers the potatoes at lunchtime. A decent man!
It was one o’clock by the time Jan left and we’d done the dishes. All eight of
us went to bed. I woke up at quarter to three and saw that Mr. Dussel was
already up. My face rumpled with sleep, I happened to run into Peter in the
bathroom, just after he’d come downstairs. We agreed to meet in the office. I
freshened up a bit and went down.
“After all this, do you still dare go to the front attic?”
he asked. I nodded, grabbed my pillow, with a cloth wrapped around it, and
we went up together. The weather was gorgeous, and even though the air-raid
sirens soon began to wail, we stayed where we were. Peter put his arm
around my shoulder, I put mine around his, and we sat quietly like this until
four o’clock, when Margot came to get us for coffee.
We ate our bread, drank our lemonade and joked (we were finally able to
again), and for the rest everything was back to normal. That evening I
thanked Peter because he’d been the bravest of us all.
None of us have ever been in such danger as we were that night. God was
truly watching over us. Just think-the police were right at the bookcase, the
light was on, and still no one had discovered our hiding place! “Now we’re
done for!”
I’d whispered at that moment, but once again we were spared.
When the invasion comes and the bombs start falling, it’ll be every man for
himself, but this time we feared for those good, innocent Christians who are
helping us.
“We’ve been saved, keep on saving us!” That’s all we can say.
This incident has brought about a whole lot of changes. As of now, Dussel
will be doing his work in the bathroom, and Peter will be patrolling the house
between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. Peter isn’t allowed to open his window
anymore, since one of the Keg people noticed it was open. We can no longer
flush the toilet after nine-thirty at night. Mr.
Sleegers has been hired as night watchman, and tonight a carpenter from the
underground is coming to make a barricade out of our white Frankfurt
bedsteads. Debates are going on left and right in the Annex. Mr. Kugler has
reproached us for our carelessness. Jan also said we should never go
downstairs. What we have to do now is find out whether Sleegers can be
trusted, whether the dogs will bark if they hear someone behind the door,
how to make the barricade, all sorts of things.
We’ve been strongly reminded of the fact that we’re Jews in chains, chained
to one spot, without any rights, but with a thousand obligations. We must put
our feelings aside; we must be brave and strong, bear discomfort with- out
complaint, do whatever is in our power and trust in God. One day this terrible
war will be over. The time will come when we’ll be people again and not just
Jews!
Who has inflicted this on us? Who has set us apart from all the rest? Who has
put us through such suffering? It’s God who has made us the way we are, but
it’s also God who will lift us up again. In the eyes of the world, we’re
doomed, but if, after all this suffering, there are still Jews left, the Jewish
people will be held up as an example. Who knows, maybe our religion will
teach the world and all the people in it about goodness, and that’s the reason,
the only reason, we have to suffer. We can never be just Dutch, or just
English, or whatever, we will always be Jews as well. And we’ll have to keep
on being Jews, but then, we’ll want to be.
Be brave! Let’s remember our duty and perform it without complaint. There
will be a way out. God has never deserted our people. Through the ages Jews
have had to suffer, but through the ages they’ve gone on living, and the
centuries of suffering have only made them stronger. The weak shall fall and
the strong shall survive and not be defeated!
That night I really thought I was going to die. I waited for the police and I
was ready for death, like a soldier on a battlefield. I’d gladly have given my
life for my country.
But now, now that I’ve been spared, my first wish after the war is to become a
Dutch citizen. I love the Dutch, I love this country, I love the language, and I
want to work here.
And even if I have to write to the Queen herself, I won’t give up until I’ve
reached my goal!
I’m becoming more and more independent of my parents.
Young as I am, I face life with more courage and have a better and truer
sense of justice than Mother. I know what I want, I have a goal, I have
opinions, a religion and love. If only I can be myself, I’ll be satisfied. I know
that I’m a woman, a woman with inner strength and a great deal of courage!
If God lets me live, I’ll achieve more than Mother ever did, I’ll make my
voice heard, I’ll go out into the world and work for mankind!
I now know that courage and happiness are needed first!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1944
Dear Kitty,
Everyone here is still very tense. Pim has nearly reached the bothng point;
Mrs. van D. is lying in bed with a cold, grumbling; Mr. van D. is growing
pale without his cigarettes; Dussel, who’s having to give up many of his
comforts, is carping at everyone; etc., etc. We seem to have run out of luck
lately. The toilet’s leaking, and the faucet’s stuck.
Thanks to our many connections, we’ll soon be able to get these repaired.
I’m occasionally sentimental, as you know, but from time to time I have
reason to be: when Peter and I are sitting close together on a hard wooden
crate among the junk and dust, our arms around each other’s shoulders, Peter
toying with a lock of my hair; when the birds outside are trilling their songs,
when the trees are in bud, when the sun beckons and the sky is so blue–oh,
that’s when I wish for so much!
All I see around me are dissatisfied and grumpy faces, all I hear are sighs and
stifled complaints. You’d think our lives had taken a sudden turn for the
worse. Honestly, things are only as bad as you make them. Here in the Annex
no one even bothers to set a good example. We each have to figure out how
to get the better of our own moods!
Every day you hear, “If only it were all over!”
Work, love, courage and hope,
Make me good and help me cope!
I really believe, Kit, that I’m a little nutty today, and I don’t know why. My
writing’s all mixed up, I’m jump- ing from one thing to another, and
sometimes I seriously doubt whether anyone will ever be interested in this
drivel.
They’ll probably call it “The Musings of an Ugly Duckling.”
My diaries certainly won’t be of much use to Mr. Bolkestein or Mr.
Gerbrandy.* * Gerrit Bolkestein was the Minister of Education and Pieter
Gerbrandy was the Prime Minister of the Dutch government in exile in
London. See Anne’s letter of March 29, 1944.
Yours, Anne M. Frank