Calisthenics: Daily.
Singing: Only softly, and after 6 P.M.
Movies: Prior arrangements required.
Classes: A weekly correspondence course in shorthand.
Courses in English, French, math and history offered at any hour of the day
or night. Payment in the form of tutoring, e.g., Dutch.
Separate department for the care of small household pets (with the exception
of vermin, for which special permits are required).
Mealtimes:
Breakfast: At 9 A.M. daily except holidays and Sundays; at approximately
11:30 A.M. on Sundays and holidays.
Lunch: A light meal. From 1:15 P.M. to 1:45 P.M.
Dinner: Mayor not be a hot meal.
Mealtime depends on news broadcasts.
Obligations with respect to the Supply Corps: Residents must be prepared to
help with office work at all times.
Baths: The washtub is available to all residents after 9 A.M.
on Sundays. Residents may bathe in the bathroom, kitchen, private office or
front office, as they choose.
Alcohol: For medicinal purposes only.
The end.
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Just as we thought, Mr. Dussel is a very nice man. Of course he didn’t mind
sharing a room with me; to be honest, I’m not exactly delighted at having a
stranger use my things, but you have to make sacrifices for a good cause, and
I’m glad I can make this small one. “If we can save even one of our friends,
the rest doesn’t matter,” said Father, and he’s absolutely right.
The first day Mr. Dussel was here, he asked me all sorts of questions — for
example, what time the cleaning lady comes to the office, how we’ve
arranged to use the washroom and when we’re allowed to go to the toilet. You
may laugh, but these things aren’t so easy in a hiding place. During the
daytime we can’t make any noise that might be heard downstairs, and when
someone else is there, like the cleaning lady, we have to be extra careful. I
patiently explained all this to Mr. Dussel, but I was surprised to see how slow
he is to catch on. He asks everything twice and still can’t remember what
you’ve told him.
Maybe he’s just confused by the sudden change and he’ll get over it.
Otherwise, everything is going fine.
Mr. Dussel has told us much about the outside world we’ve missed for so
long. He had sad news. Countless friends and acquaintances have been taken
off to a dreadful fate. Night after night, green and gray military vehicles
cruise the streets. They knock on every door, asking whether any Jews live
there. If so, the whole family is immediately taken away. If not, they proceed
to the next house. It’s impossible to escape their clutches unless you go into
hiding. They often go around with lists, knocking only on those doors where
they know there’s a big haul to be made. They frequently offer a bounty, so
much per head. It’s like the slave hunts of the olden days. I don’t mean to
make light ofthisj it’s much too tragic for that. In the evenings when it’s dark,
I often see long lines of good, innocent people, accompanied by crying
children, walking on and on, ordered about by a handful of men who bully
and beat them until they nearly drop. No one is spared. The sick, the elderly,
children, babies and pregnant women — all are marched to their death.
We’re so fortunate here, away from the turmoil. We wouldn’t have to give a
moment’s thought to all this suffering if it weren’t for the fact that we’re so
worried about those we hold dear, whom we can no longer help. I feel wicked
sleeping in a warm bed, while somewhere out there my dearest friends are
dropping from exhaustion or being knocked to the ground.
I get frightened myself when I think of close friends who are now at the
mercy of the cruelest monsters ever to stalk the earth.
And all because they’re Jews.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
We don’t really know how to react. Up to now very little news about the Jews
had reached us here, and we thought it best to stay as cheerful as possible.
Every now and then Miep used to mention what had happened to a friend,
and Mother or Mrs. van Daan would start to cry, so she decided it was better
not to say any more. But we bombarded Mr. Dussel with questions, and the
stories he had to tell were so gruesome and dreadful that we can’t get them
out of our heads. Once we’ve had time to digest the news, we’ll probably go
back to our usual joking and teasing. It won’t do us or those outside any good
if we continue to be as gloomy as we are now. And what would be the point
of turning the Secret Annex into a Melancholy Annex?
No matter what I’m doing, I can’t help thinking about those who are gone. I
catch myself laughing and remember that it’s a disgrace to be so cheerful. But
am I supposed to spend the whole day crying? No, I can’t do that. This gloom
will pass.
Added to this misery there’s another, but of a more personal nature, and it
pales in comparison to the suffering I’ve just told you about. Still, I can’t help
telling you that lately I’ve begun to feel deserted. I’m surrounded by too great
a void. I never used to give it much thought, since my mind was filled with
my friends and having a good time.
Now I think either about unhappy things or about myself. It’s taken a while,
but I’ve finally realized that Father, no matter how kind he may be, can’t take
the place of my former world. When it comes to my feelings, Mother and
Margot ceased to count long ago.
But why do I bother you with this foolishness? I’m terribly ungrateful, Kitty, I
know, but when I’ve been scolded for the umpteenth time and have all these
other woes to think about as well, my head begins to reel!
Yours, Anne
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2g, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
We’ve been using too much electricity and have now exceeded our ration.
The result: excessive economy and the prospect of having the electricity cut
off. No light for fourteen days; that’s a pleasant thought, isn’t it? But who
knows, maybe it won’t be so long! It’s too dark to read after four or fourthirty, so we while away the time with all kinds of crazy activities: telling
riddles, doing calisthenics in the dark, speaking English or French, reviewing
books –after a while everything gets boring. Yesterday I discovered a new
pastime: using a good pair of binoculars to peek into the lighted rooms of the
neighbors. During the day our curtains can’t be opened, not even an inch, but
there’s no harm when it’s so dark.
I never knew that neighbors could be so interesting. Ours are, at any rate. I’ve
come across a few at dinner, one family making home movies and the dentist
across the way working on a frightened old lady.
Mr. Dussel, the man who was said to get along so well with children and to
absolutely adore them, has turned out to be an old-fashioned disciplinarian
and preacher of unbearably long sermons on manners. Since I have the
singular pleasure (!) of sharing my far too narrow room with His Excellency,
and since I’m generally considered to be the worst behaved of the three young
people, it’s all I can do to avoid having the same old scoldings and
admonitions repeatedly flung at my head and to pretend not to hear. This
wouldn’t be so bad if Mr. Dussel weren’t such a tattletale and hadn’t singled
out Mother to be the recipient of his reports. If Mr. Dussel’s just read me the
riot act, Mother lectures me all over again, this time throwing the whole book
at me. And if I’m really lucky, Mrs. van D. calls me to account five minutes
later and lays down the law as well!
Really, it’s not easy being the badly brought-up center of attention of a family
of nitpickers.
In bed at night, as I ponder my many sins and exaggerated shortcomings, I
get so confused by the sheer amount of things I have to consider that I either
laugh or cry, depending on my mood. Then I fall asleep with the strange
feeling of wanting to be different than I am or being different than I want to
be, or perhaps of behaving differently than I am or want to be.
Oh dear, now I’m confusing you too. Forgive me, but I don’t like crossing
things out, and in these times of scarcity, tossing away a piece of paper is
clearly taboo.
So I can only advise you not to reread the above passage and to make no
attempt to get to the bottom of it, because you’ll never find your way out
again!
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Hanukkah and St. Nicholas Day nearly coincided this year; they were only
one day apart. We didn’t make much of a fuss with Hanukkah, merely
exchanging a few small gifts and lighting the candles. Since candles are in
short supply, we lit them for only ten minutes, but as long as we sing the
song, that doesn’t matter. Mr. van Daan made a menorah out of wood, so that
was taken care of too.
St. Nicholas Day on Saturday was much more fun. During dinner Bep and
Miep were so busy whispering to Father that our curiosity was aroused and
we suspected they were up to something. Sure enough, at eight o’clock we all
trooped downstairs through the hall in pitch darkness (it gave me the shivers,
and I wished I was safely back upstairs!) to the alcove. We could switch on
the light, since this room doesn’t have any windows. When that was done,
Father opened the big cabinet.
“Oh, how wonderful!” we all cried.
In the corner was a large basket decorated with colorful paper and a mask of
Black Peter.
We quickly took the basket upstairs with us. Inside was a little gift for
everyone, including an appropriate verse.
Since you’re famthar with the kinds of poems peo ple write each other on St.
Nicholas Day, I won’t copy them down for you.
I received a Kewpie doll, Father got bookends, and so on.
Well anyway, it was a nice idea, and since the eight of us had never
celebrated St. Nicholas Day before, this was a good time to begin.
Yours, Anne
PS. We also had presents for everyone downstairs, a few things .left over
from the Good Old Days; plus Miep and Bep are always grateful for money.
Today we heard that Mr. van Daan’ s ashtray, Mr. Dussel’s picture frame and
Father’s bookends were made by none other than Mr. Voskuijl. How anyone
can be so clever with his hands is a mystery to me!
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mr. van Daan used to be in the meat, sausage and spice business. He was
hired for his knowledge of spices, and yet, to our great delight, it’s his
sausage talents that have come in handy now.
We ordered a large amount of meat (under the counter, of course) that we
were planning to preserve in case there were hard times ahead. Mr. van Daan
decided to make bratwurst, sausages and mettwurst. I had fun watching him
put the meat through the grinder: once, twice, three times. Then he added the
remaining ingredi ents to the ground meat and used a long pipe to force the
mixture into the casings. We ate the bratwurst with sauerkraut for lunch, but
the sausages, which were going to be canned, had to dry first, so we hung
them over a pole suspended from the cethng. Everyone who came into the
room burst into laughter when they saw the dangling sausages.It was such a
comical sight.
The kitchen was a shambles. Mr. van Daan, clad in his wife’s apron and
looking fatter than ever, was working away at the meat. What with his bloody
hands, red face and spotted apron, he looked like a real butcher. Mrs. D. was
trying to do everything at once: learning Dutch out of a book, stirring the
soup, watching the meat, sighing and moaning about her broken rib. That’s
what happens when old (!) ladies do such stupid exercises to get rid of their
fat behinds! Dussel had an eye infection and was sitting next to the stove
dabbing his eye with camomile tea. Pim, seated in the one ray of sunshine
coming through the window, kept having to move his chair this way and that
to stay out of the way. His rheumatism must have been bothering him
because he was slightly hunched over and was keeping an eye on Mr. van
Daan with an agonized expression on his face. He reminded me of those aged
invalids you see in the poor-house. Peter was romping around the room with
Mouschi, the cat, while Mother, Margot and I were peeling boiled potatoes.
When you get right down to it, none of us were doing our work properly,
because we were all so busy watching Mr. van Daan.
Dussel has opened his dental practice. Just for fun, I’ll describe the session
with his very first patient.
Mother was ironing, and Mrs. van D., the first victim, sat down on a chair in
the middle of the room. Dussel, unpacking his case with an air of importance,
asked for some eau de cologne, which could be used as a disinfectant, and
vaseline, which would have to do for wax. He looked in Mrs. van D.’s mouth
and found two teeth that made her wince with pain and utter incoherent cries
every time he touched them. After a lengthy examination (lengthy as far as
Mrs. van D. was concerned, since it actually took no longer than two
minutes), Dussel began to scrape out a cavity. But Mrs. van D. had no
intention of letting him. She flailed her arms and legs until Dussel finally let
go of his probe and it . . .
remained stuck in Mrs. van D.’s tooth. That really did it!
Mrs. van D. lashed out wildly in all directions, cried (as much as you can
with an instrument like that in your mouth), tried to remove it, but only
managed to push it in even farther. Mr. Dussel calmly observed the scene, his
hands on his hips, while the rest of the audience roared with laughter. Of
course, that was very mean of us. If it’d been me, I’m sure I would have
yelled even louder. After a great deal of squirming, kicking, screaming and
shouting, Mrs. van D. finally managed to yank the thing out, and Mr. Dussel
went on with his work as if nothing had happened. He was so quick that Mrs.
van D. didn’t have time to pull any more shenanigans. But then, he had more
help than he’s ever had before: no fewer than two assis tants; Mr. van D. and I
performed our job well. The whole scene resembled one of those engravings
from the Middle Ages entitled” A Quack at Work.” In the meantime,
however, the patient was getting restless, since she had to keep an eye on
“her” soup and
“her” food. One thing is certain: it’ll be a while before Mrs. van D. makes
another dental appointment!
Yours, Anne