SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
I’m sitting here nice and cozy in the front office, peering out through a chink
in the heavy curtains. It’s dusky, but there’s just enough light to write by.
It’s really strange watching people walk past. They all seem to be in such a
hurry that they nearly trip over their own feet. Those on bicycles whiz by so
fast I can’t even tell who’s on the bike. The people in this neighborhood aren’t
particularly attractive to look at. The children especially are so dirty you
wouldn’t want to touch them with a ten-foot pole. Real slum kids with runny
noses. I can hardly understand a word they say.
Yesterday afternoon, when Margot and I were taking a bath, I said, “What if
we took a fishing rod and reeled in each of those kids one by one as they
walked by, stuck them in the tub, washed and mended their clothes and then.
. .”
“And then tomorrow they’d be just as dirty and tattered as they were before,”
Margot replied.
But I’m babbling. There are also other things to look at cars, boats and the
rain. I can hear the streetcar and the children and I’m enjoying myself.
Our thoughts are subject to as little change as we are.
They’re like a merry-go-round, turning from the Jews to food, from food to
politics. By the way, speaking of Jews, I saw two yesterday when I was
peeking through ; the curtains. I felt as though I were gazing at one of the
Seven Wonders of the World. It gave me such a funny feeling, as if I’d
denounced them to the authorities and was now spying on their misfortune.
Across from us is a houseboat. The captain lives there with his wife and
children. He has a small yapping dog. We know the little dog only by its bark
and by its tail, which we can see whenever it runs around the deck. Oh, what
a shame, it’s just started raining and most of the people are hidden under their
umbrellas. All I can see are raincoats, and now and again the back of a
stocking-capped head.
Actually, I don’t even need to look. By now I can recognize the women at a
glance: gone to fat from eating potatoes, dressed in a red or green coat and
worn-out shoes, a shopping bag dangling from their arms, with faces that are
either grim or good-humored, depending on the mood of their husbands.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
The Annex was delighted to hear that we’ll all be receiving an extra quarter
pound of butter for Christmas.
According to the newspaper, everyone is entitled to half a pound, but they
mean those lucky souls who get their ration books from the government, not
Jews in hiding like us who can only afford to buy four rather than eight ration
books on the black market. Each of us is going to bake something with the
butter. This morning I made two cakes and a batch of cookies. It’s very busy
upstairs, and Mother has informed me that I’m not to do any studying or
reading until all the household chores have been finished.
Mrs. van Daan is lying in bed nursing her bruised rib. She complains all day
long, constantly demands that the bandages be changed and is generally
dissatisfied with everything.
I’ll be glad when she gets back on her feet and can clean up after herself
because, I must admit, she’s extraordinarily hardworking and neat, and as
long as she’s in good physical and mental condition, she’s quite cheerful.
As if I don’t hear “shh, shh” enough during the day because I’m always
making “too much” noise, my dear roommate has come up with the idea of
saying “shh, shh” to me all night too. According to him, I shouldn’t even turn
over. I refuse to take any notice of him, and the next time he shushes me, I’m
going to shush him right back.
He gets more exasperating and egotistical as the days go by. Except for the
first week, I haven’t seen even one of the cookies he so generously promised
me. He’s partic ularly infuriating on Sundays, when he switches on the light
at the crack of dawn to exercise for ten minutes.
To me, the torment seems to last for hours, since the chairs I use to make my
bed longer are constantly being jiggled under my sleepy head. After rounding
off his limbering-up exercises with a few vigorous arm swings, His Lordship
begins dressing. His underwear is hanging on a hook, so first he lumbers over
to get it and then lumbers back, past my bed. But his tie is on the table, so
once again he pushes and bumps his way past the chairs.
But I mustn’t waste any more of your time griping about disgusting old men.
It won’t help matters anyway. My plans for revenge, such as unscrewing the
lightbulb, locking the door and hiding his clothes, have unfortu nately had to
be abandoned in the interests of peace.
Oh, I’m becoming so sensible! We’ve got to be reasonable about everything
we do here: studying, listen ing, holding our tongues, helping others, being
kind, making compromises and I don’t know what else! I’m afraid my
common sense, which was in short supply to begin with, will be used up too
quickly and I won’t have any left by the time the war is over.
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
This morning I was constantly interrupted, and as a result I haven’t been able
to finish a single thing I’ve begun.
We have a new pastime, namely, filling packages with powdered gravy. The
gravy is one of Gies & Co.’s products.
Mr. Kugler hasn’t been able to find anyone else to fill the packages, and
besides, it’s cheaper if we do the job. It’s the kind of work they do in prisons.
It’s incredibly boring and makes us dizzy and giggly.
Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor
helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. They’re allowed to take
only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, they’re robbed of
these possessions on the way. Families are torn apart; men, women and
children are separated. Children come home from school to find that their
parents have disap peared. Women return from shopping to find their houses
sealed, their famthes gone. The Christians in Holland are also living in fear
because their sons are being sent to Germany. Everyone is scared. Every
night hundreds of planes pass over Holland on their way to German cities, to
sow their bombs on German soil. Every hour hundreds, or maybe even
thousands, of people are being killed in Russia and Africa. No one can keep
out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though the
Allies are doing better, the end is nowhere in sight.
As for us, we’re quite fortunate. Luckier than millions of people. It’s quiet and
safe here, and we’re using our money to buy food. We’re so selfish that we
talk about “after the war” and look forward to new clothes and shoes, when
actually we should be saving every penny to help others when the war is
over, to salvage whatever we can.
The children in this neighborhood run around in thin shirts and wooden
shoes. They have no coats, no caps, no stockings and no one to help them.
Gnawing on a carrot to still their hunger pangs, they walk from their cold
houses through cold streets to an even colder classroom. Things have gotten
so bad in Holland that hordes of children stop passersby in the streets to beg
for a piece of bread.
I could spend hours telling you about the suffering the war has brought, but
I’d only make myself more miserable. All we can do is wait, as calmly as
possible, for it to end. Jews and Christians alike are waiting, the whole world
is waiting, and many are waiting for death.
Yours, Anne
SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
I’m seething with rage, yet I can’t show it. I’d like to scream, stamp my foot,
give Mother a good shaking, cry and I don’t know what else because of the
nasty words, mocking looks and accusations that she hurls at me day after
day, piercing me like arrows from a tightly strung bow, which are nearly
impossible to pull from my body. I’d like to scream at Mother, Margot, the
van Daans, Dussel and Father too:
“Leave me alone, let me have at least one night when I don’t cry myself to
sleep with my eyes burning and my head pounding. Let me get away, away
from everything, away from this world!” But I can’t do that. I can’t let them
see my doubts, or the wounds they’ve inflicted on me. I couldn’t bear their
sympathy or their good-humored derision. It would only make me want to
scream even more.
Everyone thinks I’m showing off when I talk, ridicu lous when I’m silent,
insolent when I answer, cunning when I have a good idea, lazy when I’m
tired, selfish when I eat one bite more than I should, stupid, cowardly,
calculating, etc., etc. All day long I hear nothing but what an exasperating
child I am, and although I laugh it off and pretend not to mind, I do mind. I
wish I could ask God to give me another personality, one that doesn’t
antagonize everyone.
But that’s impossible. I’m stuck with the character I was born with, and yet
I’m sure I’m not a bad person. I do my best to please everyone, more than
they’d ever suspect in a million years. When I’m upstairs, I try to laugh it off
because I don’t want them to see my troubles.
More than once, after a series of absurd reproaches, I’ve snapped at Mother:
“I don’t care what you say. Why don’t you just wash your hands of me — I’m a
hopeless case.” Of course, she’d tell me not to talk back and virtually ignore
me for two days. Then suddenly all would be forgotten and she’d treat me like
everyone else.
It’s impossible for me to be all smiles one day and venomous the next. I’d
rather choose the golden mean, which isn’t so golden, and keep my thoughts
to myself. Perhaps sometime I’ll treat the others with the same contempt as
they treat me. Oh, if only I could.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Though it’s been ages since I’ve written to you about the squabbles, there’s
still no change. In the begin ning Mr.
Dussel took our soon-forgotten clashes very seriously, but now he’s grown
used to them and no longer tries to mediate.
Margot and Peter aren’t exactly what you’d call “young”; they’re both so quiet
and boring. Next to them, I stick out like a sore thumb, and I’m always being
told, “Margot and Peter don’t act that way. Why don’t you follow your sister’s
example!” I hate that.
I confess that I have absolutely no desire to be like Margot. She’s too weakwilled and passive to suit me; she lets herself be swayed by others and always
backs down under pressure. I want to have more spunk! But I keep ideas like
these to myself. They’d only laugh at me if I offered this in my defense.
During meals the air is filled with tension. Fortunately, the outbursts are
sometimes held in check by the “soup eaters,” the people from the office who
come up to have a cup of soup for lunch.
This afternoon Mr. van Daan again brought up the fact that Margot eats so
little. “I suppose you do it to keep your figure,” he added in a mocking tone.
Mother, who always comes to Margot’s defense, said in a loud voice, “I can’t
stand that stupid chatter of yours a minute longer.”
Mrs. van D. turned red as a beet. Mr. van D. stared straight ahead and said
nothing.
Still, we often have a good laugh. Not long ago Mrs. van D. was entertaining
us with some bit of nonsense or another.
She was talking about the past, about how well she got along with her father
and what a flirt she was. “And you know,” she continued, “my father told me
that if a gentleman ever got fresh, I was to say, ‘Remem ber, sir, that I’m a
lady,’ and he’d know what I meant.” We split our sides laughing, as if she’d
told us a good joke.
Even Peter, though he’s usually quiet, occasionally gives rise to hilarity. He
has the misfortune of adoring foreign words without knowing what they
mean. One afternoon we couldn’t use the toilet because there were visitors in
the office. Unable to wait, he went to the bathroom but didn’t flush the toilet.
To warn us of the unpleasant odor, he tacked a sign to the bathroom door:
“RSVP — gas!” Of course, he meant “Danger — gas!” but he thought “RSVP”
looked more elegant. He didn’t have the faintest idea that it meant
“please reply.”
Yours, Anne
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Pim is expecting the invasion any day now. Churchill has had pneumonia, but
is gradually getting better. Gandhi, the champion of Indian freedom, is on one
of his umpteenth hunger strikes.
Mrs. van D. claims she’s fatalistic. But who’s the most afraid when the guns
go off? None other than Petronella van Daan.