Father’s given me permission to knit a white wool sweater; the yarn isn’t very
pretty, but it’ll be warm, and that’s what counts. Some of our clothing was left
with friends, but unfortunately we won’t be able to get to it until after the war.
Provided it’s still there, of course.
I’d just finished writing something about Mrs. van Daan when she walked
into the room. Thump, I slammed the book shut.
“Hey, Anne, can’t I even take a peek?”
“No, Mrs. van Daan.”
“Just the last page then?”
“No, not even the last page, Mrs. van Daan.”
Of course, I nearly died, since that particular page contained a rather
unflattering description of her.
There’s something happening every day, but I’m too tired and lazy to write it
all down.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Father has a friend, a man in his mid-seventies named Mr.
Dreher, who’s sick, poor and deaf as a post. At his side, like a useless
appendage, is his wife, twenty-seven years younger and equally poor, whose
arms and legs are loaded with real and fake bracelets and rings left over from
more prosperous days. This Mr. Dreher has already been a great nuisance to
Father, and I’ve always admired the saintly patience with which he handled
this pathetic old man on the phone. When we were still living at home,
Mother used to advise him to put a gramophone in front of the receiver, one
that would repeat every three minutes, “Yes, Mr. Dreher” and
“No, Mr. Dreher,” since the old man never understood a word of Father’s
lengthy replies anyway.
Today Mr. Dreher phoned the office and asked Mr. Kugler to come and see
him. Mr. Kugler wasn’t in the mood and said he would send Miep, but Miep
canceled the appointment. Mrs.
Dreher called the office three times, but since Miep was reportedly out the
entire afternoon, she had to imitate Bep’s voice. Downstairs in the office as
well as upstairs in the Annex, there was great hilarity. Now each time the
phone rings, Bep says’ ‘That’s Mrs. Dreher!” and Miep has to laugh, so that
the people on the other end of the line are greeted with an impolite giggle.
Can’t you just picture it? This has got to be the greatest office in the whole
wide world. The bosses and the office girls have such fun together!
Some evenings I go to the van Daans for a little chat. We eat “mothball
cookies” (molasses cookies that were stored in a closet that was mothproofed)
and have a good time. Recently the conversation was about Peter. I said that
he often pats me on the cheek, which I don’t like. They asked me in a
typically grown-up way whether I could ever learn to love Peter like a
brother, since he loves me like a sister. “Oh, no!” I said, but what I was
thinking was, “Oh, ugh!” Just imagine! I added that Peter’s a bit stiff, perhaps
because he’s shy. Boys who aren’t used to being around girls are like that.
I must say that the Annex Committee (the men’s section) is very creative.
Listen to the scheme they’ve come up with to get a message to Mr. Broks, an
Opekta Co. sales representative and friend who’s surreptitiously hidden some
of our things for us! They’re going to type a letter to a store owner in southern
Zealand who is, indirectly, one of Opekta’ s customers and ask him to fill out
a form and send it back in the enclosed self-addressed envelope. Father will
write the address on the envelope himself. Once the letter is returned from
Zealand, the form can be removed and a handwritten message confirming that
Father is alive can be inserted in the envelope. This way Mr. Broks can read
the letter without suspecting a ruse. They chose the province of Zealand
because it’s close to Belgium (a letter can easily be smuggled across the
border) and because no one is allowed to travel there without a special
permit. An ordinary salesman like Mr. Broks would never be granted a
permit.
Yesterday Father put on another act. Groggy with sleep, he stumbled off to
bed. His feet were cold, so I lent him my bed socks. Five minutes later he
flung them to the floor. Then he pulled the blankets over his head because the
light bothered him. The lamp was switched off, and he gingerly poked his
head out from under the covers. It was all very amusing. We started talking
about the fact that Peter says Margot is a
“buttinsky.” Suddenly Daddy’s voice was heard from the depths: “Sits on her
butt, you mean.
Mouschi, the cat, is becoming nicer to me as time goes by, but I’m still
somewhat afraid of her.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mother and I had a so-called “discussion” today, but the annoying part is that
I burst into tears. I can’t help it.
Daddy is always nice to me, and he also understands me much better. At
moments like these I can’t stand Mother. It’s obvious that I’m a stranger to
her; she doesn’t even know what I think about the most ordinary things.
We were talking about maids and the fact that you’re supposed to refer to
them as “domestic help” these days. She claimed that when the war is over,
that’s what they’ll want to be called. I didn’t quite see it that way. Then she
added that I talk about’ ‘later” so often and that I act as if I were such a lady,
even though I’m not, but I don’t think building sand castles in the air is such a
terrible thing to do, as long as you don’t take it too seriously. At any rate,
Daddy usually comes to my defense. Without him I wouldn’t be able to stick
it out here.
I don’t get along with Margot very well either. Even though our family never
has the same kind of outbursts they have upstairs, I find it far from pleasant.
Margot’s and Mother’s personalities are so alien to me. I understand my
girlfriends better than my own mother. Isn’t that a shame?
For the umpteenth time, Mrs. van Daan is sulking. She’s very moody and has
been removing more and more of her belongings and locking them up. It’s too
bad Mother doesn’t repay every van Daan “disappearing act” with a Frank
“disappearing act.”
Some people, like the van Daans, seem to take special delight not only in
raising their own children but in helping others raise theirs. Margot doesn’t
need it, since she’s naturally good, kind and clever, perfection itself, but I
seem to have enough mischief for the two of us. More than once the air has
been filled with the van Daans’ admonitions and my saucy replies. Father and
Mother always defend me fiercely. Without them I wouldn’t be able to jump
back into the fray with my usual composure. They keep telling me I should
talk less, mind my own business and be more modest, but I seem doomed to
failure. If Father weren’t so patient, I’d have long ago given up hope of ever
meeting my parents’
quite moderate expectations.
If I take a small helping of a vegetable I loathe and eat potatoes instead, the
van Daans, especially Mrs. van Daan, can’t get over how spoiled I am. “Come
on, Anne, eat some more vegetables,” she says.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” I reply. “The potatoes are more than enough.”
“Vegetables are good for you; your mother says so too.
Have some more,” she insists, until Father intervenes and upholds my right to
refuse a dish I don’t like.
Then Mrs. van D. really flies off the handle: “You should have been at our
house, where children were brought up the way they should be. I don’t call
this a proper upbringing.
Anne is terribly spoiled. I’d never allow that. If Anne were my daughter. . .”
This is always how her tirades begin and end: “If Anne were my daughter. . .”
Thank goodness I’m not.
But to get back to the subject of raising children, yesterday a silence fell after
Mrs. van D. finished her little speech. Father then replied, “I think Anne is
very well brought up. At least she’s learned not to respond to your
interminable sermons. As far as the vegetables are concerned, all I have to
say is look who’s calling the kettle black.”
Mrs. van D. was soundly defeated. The pot calling the ketde black refers of
course to Madame herself, since she can’t tolerate beans or any kind of
cabbage in the evening because they give her “gas.” But I could say the same.
What a dope, don’t you think? In any case, let’s hope she stops talking about
me.
It’s so funny to see how quickly Mrs. van Daan flushes. I don’t, and it secredy
annoys her no end.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28,1942
Dearest Kitty,
I had to stop yesterday, though I was nowhere near finished. I’m dying to tell
you about another one of our clashes, but before I do I’d like to say this: I
think it’s odd that grown-ups quarrel so easily and so often and about such
petty matters. Up to now I always thought bickering was just something
children did and that they outgrew it. Often, of course, there’s sometimes a
reason to have a real quarrel, but the verbal exchanges that take place here are
just plain bickering. I should be used to the fact that these squabbles are daily
occurrences, but I’m not and never will be as long as I’m the subject of nearly
every discussion. (They refer to these as “discussions” instead of “quarrels,”
but Germans don’t know the difference!) They criticize everything, and I
mean everything, about me: my behavior, my personality, my manners; every
inch of me, from head to toe and back again, is the subject of gossip and
debate. Harsh words and shouts are constantly being flung at my head,
though I’m absolutely not used to it. According to the powers that be, I’m
supposed to grin and bear it. But I can’t! I have no intention of taking their
insults lying down. I’ll show them that Anne Frank wasn’t born yesterday.
They’ll sit up and take notice and keep their big mouths shut when I make
them see they ought to attend to their own manners instead of mine. How
dare they act that way! It’s simply barbaric. I’ve been astonished, time and
again, at such rudeness and most of all.
. . at such stupidity (Mrs. van Daan). But as soon as I’ve gotten used to the
idea, and that shouldn’t take long, I’ll give them a taste of their own medicine,
and then they’ll change their tune! Am I really as bad-mannered, headstrong,
stubborn, pushy, stupid, lazy, etc., etc., as the van Daans say I am? No, of
course not. I know I have my faults and shortcomings, but they blow them all
out of proportion! If you only knew, Kitty, how I seethe when they scold and
mock me. It won’t take long before I explode with pent-up rage.
But enough of that. I’ve bored you long enough with my quarrels, and yet I
can’t resist adding a highly interesting dinner conversation.
Somehow we landed on the subject of Pim’s extreme diffidence. His modesty
is a well-known fact, which even the stupidest person wouldn’t dream of
questioning. All of a sudden Mrs. van Daan, who feels the need to bring
herself into every conversation, remarked, “I’m very modest and retiring too,
much more so than my husband!”
Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? This sentence clearly illustrates
that she’s not exactly what you’d call modest!
Mr. van Daan, who felt obliged to explain the “much more so than my
husband,” answered calmly, “I have no desire to be modest and retiring. In
my experience, you get a lot further by being pushy!” And turning to me, he
added, “Don’t be modest and retiring, Anne. It will get you nowhere.”
Mother agreed completely with this viewpoint. But, as usual, Mrs. van Daan
had to add her two cents. This time, however, instead of addressing me
directly, she turned to my parents and said, “You must have a strange outlook
on life to be able to say that to Anne. Things were different when I was
growing up. Though they probably haven’t changed much since then, except
in your modern household!”