FRIDAY, JULY 21, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I’m finally getting optimistic. Now, at last, things are going well! They really
are! Great news! An assassination attempt has been made on Hitler’s life, and
for once not by Jewish Communists or English capitalists, but by a German
general who’s not only a count, but young as well. The Fuhrer owes his life to
“Divine Providence”: he escaped, unfortunately, with only a few minor burns
and scratches. A number of the officers and generals who were nearby were
killed or wounded. The head of the conspiracy has been shot.
This is the best proof we’ve had so far that many officers and generals are fed
up with the war and would like to see Hitler sink into a bottomless pit, so
they can establish a mthtary dictatorship, make peace with the Allies, rearm
themselves and, after a few decades, start a new war. Perhaps Providence is
deliberately biding its time getting rid of Hider, since it’s much easier, and
cheaper, for the Allies to let the impeccable Germans kill each other off. It’s
less work for the Russians and the British, and it allows them to start
rebuilding their own cities all that much sooner. But we haven’t reached that
point yet, and I’d hate to anticipate the glorious event. Still, you’ve probably
noticed that I’m telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
For once, I’m not rattling on about high ideals.
Furthermore, Hitler has been so kind as to announce to his loyal, devoted
people that as of today all mthtary personnel are under orders of the Gestapo,
and that any soldier who knows that one of his superiors was involved in this
cowardly attempt on the Fuhrer’s life may shoot him on sight!
A fine kettle of fish that will be. Little Johnny’s feet are sore after a long
march and his commanding officer bawls him out. Johnny grabs his rifle,
shouts, “You, you tried to kill the Fuhrer. Take that!” One shot, and the
snooty officer who dared to reprimand him passes into eternal life (or is it
eternal death?). Eventually, every time an officer sees a soldier or gives an
order, he’ll be practically wetting his pants, because the soldiers have more
say-so than he does.
Were you able to follow that, or have I been skipping from one subject to
another again? I can’t help it, the prospect of going back to school in October
is making me too happy to be logical! Oh dear, didn’t I just get through
telling you I didn’t want to anticipate events? Forgive me, Kitty, they don’t
call me a bundle of contradictions for nothing!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, AUGUST 1, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
“A bundle of contradictions” was the end of my previous letter and is the
beginning of this one. Can you please tell me exactly what “a bundle of
contradictions” is? What does
“contradiction” mean? Like so many words, it can be interpreted in two ways:
a contradiction imposed from without and one imposed from within. The
former means not accepting other people’s opinions, always knowing best,
having the last word; in short, all those unpleasant traits for which I’m known.
The latter, for which I’m not known, is my own secret.
As I’ve told you many times, I’m split in two. One side contains my exuberant
cheerfulness, my flippancy, my joy in life and, above all, my abthty to
appreciate the lighter side of things. By that I mean not finding anything
wrong with flirtations, a kiss, an embrace, an off-color joke. This side of me
is usually lying in wait to ambush the other one, which is much purer, deeper
and finer. No one knows Anne’s better side, and that’s why most people can’t
stand me. Oh, I can be an amusing clown for an afternoon, but after that
everyone’s had enough of me to last a month. Actually, I’m what a romantic
movie is to a profound thinker — a mere diversion, a comic interlude,
something that is soon forgotten: not bad, but not particularly good either. I
hate haVing to tell you this, but why shouldn’t I admit it when I know it’s
true? My lighter, more superficial side will always steal a march on the
deeper side and therefore always win. You can’t imagine how often I’ve tried
to p:ush away this Anne, which is only half of what is known as Anne-to beat
her down, hide her. But it doesn’t work, and I know why.
I’m afraid that people who know me as I usually am will discover I have
another side, a better and finer side. I’m afraid they’ll mock me, think I’m
ridiculous and sentimental and not take me seriously. I’m used to not being
taken seriously, but only the “lighthearted” Anne is used to it and can put up
with it; the “deeper” Anne is too weak. If I force the good Anne into the
spotlight for even fifteen minutes, she shuts up like a clam the moment she’s
called upon to speak, and lets Anne number one do the talking. Before I
realize it, she’s disappeared.
So the nice Anne is never seen in company. She’s never made a single
appearance, though she almost always takes the stage when I’m alone. I know
exactly how I’d like to be, how I am . . . on the inside. But unfortunately I’m
only like that with myself. And perhaps that’s why-no, I’m sure that’s the
reason why — I think of myself as happy on the inside and other people think
I’m happy on the outside. I’m guided by the pure Anne within, but on the
outside I’m nothing but a frolicsome little goat tugging at its tether.
As I’ve told you, what I say is not what I feel, which is why I have a
reputation for being boy-crazy as well as a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of
romances. The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs
her shoulders and pretends she doesn’t give a darn. The quiet Anne reacts in
just the opposite way. If I’m being completely honest, I’ll have to admit that it
does matter to me, that I’m trying very hard to change myself, but that I I’m
always up against a more powerful enemy.
A voice within me is sobbing, “You see, that’s what’s become of you. You’re
surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people,
who dislike you, and all because you don’t listen to the ; advice of your own
better half.” Believe me, I’d like ;’ to listen, but it doesn’t work, because if I’m
quiet and serious, everyone thinks I’m putting on a new act and I have to save
myself with a joke, and then I’m not even talking about my own family, who
assume I must be sick, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and
forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and
berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can’t keep it up anymore,
because jj when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and
finally end up turning my heart inside g out, the bad part on the outside and
the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I’d
like to be and what I could be if . . . if only there were no other people in the
world.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
———————–
ANNE’S DIARY ENDS HERE.