BOOK FLAP

Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl is among the most enduring
documents of the twentieth century. Since its publication in 1947, it has been
read by tens of millions of people all over the world. It remains a beloved and
deeply admired testament to the indestructable nature of the human spirit.
Restore in this Definitive Edition are diary entries that had been omitted from
the original edition. These passages, which constitute 30 percent more
material, reinforce the fact that Anne was first and foremost a teenage girl,
not a remote and flawless symbol. She fretted about, and tried to copie with,
her own emerging sexuality. Like many young girls, she often found herself
in disagreement with her mother. And like any teenager, she veered between
the carefree nature of a child and the full-fledged sorrow of an adult. Anne
emerges more human, more vulnerable, and more vital than ever.
Anne Frank and her family, fleeing the horrors of Nazi occupation, hid in the
back of an Amsterdam warehouse for two years. She was thirteen when the
family went into the Secret Annex, and in these pages she grows to be a
young woman and a wise observer of human nature as well. With unusual
insight, she reveals the relations between eight people living under
extraordinary conditions, facing hunger, the ever-present threat of discovery
and death, complete estrangement from the outside world, and above all, the
boredom, the petty misunderstandings, and the frustrations of living under
such unbearable strain, in such confined quarters.
A timely story rediscovered by each new generation, The Diary of a Young
Girl stands without peer. For both young readers and adults it continues to
bring to life this young woman, who for a time survived the worst horror of
the modern world had seen — and who remained triumphantly and
heartbreakingly human throughout her ordeal. For those who know and love
Anne Frank, The Definitive Edition is a chance to discover her anew. For
readers who have not yet encountered her, this is the edition to cherish.
ANNE FRANK was born on June 12, 1929. She died while imprisoned at
Bergen-Belsen, three months short of her sixteenth birthday. OTTO H.
FRANK was the only member of his immediate framily to survive the
Holocaust. He died in 1980.
MIRJAM PRESSLER is a popular writer of books for young adults. She lives
in Germany.
Translated by Susan Massotty.

FOREWORD
Anne Frank kept a diary from June 12, 1942, to August 1, 1944. Initially, she
wrote it strictly for herself. Then, one day in 1944, Gerrit Bolkestein, a
member of the Dutch government in exile, announced in a radio broadcast
from London that after the war he hoped to collect eyewitness accounts of the
suffering of the Dutch people under the German occupation, which could be
made available to the public. As an example, he specifically mentioned letters
and diaries.
Impressed by this speech, Anne Frank decided that when the war was over
she would publish a book based on her diary. She began rewriting and editing
her diary, improving on the text, omitting passages she didn’t think were
interesting enough and adding others from memory. At the same time, she
kept up her original diary. In the scholarly work The Diary of Anne Frank:
The Critical Edition (1989), Anne’s first, unedited diary is referred to as
version a, to distinguish it from her second, edited diary, which is known as
version b.
The last entry in Anne’s diary is dated August 1, 1944. On August 4, 1944,
the eight people hiding in the Secret Annex were arrested. Miep Gies and
Bep Voskuijl, the two secretaries working in the building, found Anne’s
diaries strewn allover the floor. ,Miep Gies tucked them away in a desk
drawer for safekeeping. After the war, when it became clear that Anne was
dead, she gave the diaries, unread, to Anne’s father, Otto Frank.
After long deliberation, Otto Frank decided to fulfill his daughter’s wish and
publish her diary. He selected material from versions a and b, editing them
into a shorter version later referred to as version c. Readers all over the world
know this as The Diary of a fauna Girl.
In making his choice, Otto Frank had to bear several points in mind. To begin
with, the book had to be kept short so that it would fit in with a series put out
by the Dutch publisher. In addition, several passages dealing with Anne’s
sexuality were omitted; at the time of the diary’s initial publication, in 1947, it
was not customary to write openly about sex, and certainly not in books for
young adults. Out of respect for the dead, Otto Frank also omitted a number
of unflattering passages about his wife and the other residents of the Secret
Annex. Anne Frank, who was thirteen when she began her diary and fifteen
when she was forced to stop, wrote without reserve about her likes and
dislikes.
When Otto Frank died in 1980, he willed his daughter’s manuscripts to the
Netherlands State Institute for War Documentation in Amsterdam. Because
the authenticity of the diary had been challenged ever since its publication,
the Institute for War Documentation ordered a thorough investigation. Once
the diary was proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to be genuine, it was
published in its entirety, along with the results of an exhaustive study. The
Critical Edition contains not only versions a, band c, but also articles on the
background of the Frank family, the circumstances surrounding their arrest
and deportation, and the examination into Anne’s handwriting, the document
and the materials used.
The Anne Frank-Fonds (Anne Frank Foundation) in Basel (Switzerland),.
which as Otto Frank’s sole heir had also inherited his daughter’s copyrights,
then decided to have anew, expanded edition of the diary published for
general readers. This new edition in no way affects the integrity of the old
one originally edited by Otto Frank, which brought the diary and its message
to millions of people. The task of compthng the expanded edition was given
to the writer and translator Mirjam Pressler. Otto Frank’s original selection
has now been supplemented with passages from Anne’s a and b versions.
Mirjam Pressler’s definitive edition, approved by the Anne Frank-Fonds,
contains approximately 30 percent more material and is intended to give the
reader more insight into the world of Anne Frank.
In writing her second version (b), Anne invented pseudonyms for the people
who would appear in her book. She initially wanted to call herself Anne
Aulis, and later Anne Robin. Otto Frank opted to call his family by their own
names and to follow Anne’s wishes with regard to the others. Over the years,
the identity of the people who helped the family in the Secret Annex has
become common knowledge. In this edition, the helpers are now referred to
by their real names, as they so justly deserve to be. All other persons are
named in accordance with the pseudonyms in The Critical Edition.
The Institute for War Documentation has arbitrarily assigned initials to those
persons wishing to remain anonymous.
The real names of the other people hiding in the Secret Annex are:
THE VAN PELS FAMILY
(from Osnabriick, Germany):
Auguste van Pels (born September 9, 1890)
Hermann van Pels (born March 31, 1889)
Peter van Pels (born November 8, 1926)
Called by Anne, in her manuscript: Petronella, Hans and Alfred van Daan;
and in the book: Petronella, Hermann and Peter van Daan.
FRITZ PFEFFER
(born April 30, 1889, in Giessen, Germany): Called by Anne, in her
manuscript and in the book: Alfred Dussel.
The reader may wish to bear in mind that much of this edition is based on the
b version of Anne’s diary, which she wrote when she was around fifteen years
old. Occasionally, Anne went back and commented on a passage she had
written earlier. These comments are clearly marked in this edition.
Naturally, Anne’s spelling and linguistic errors have been corrected.
Otherwise, the text has basically been left as she wrote it, since any attempts
at editing and clarification would be inappropriate in a historical document.
— : —
I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able
to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and
support.

June 12, 1942I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been ableto confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort andsupport.COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 28, 1942: So far youtruly have been a areat source of comfort to me, and so has Kitty, whom Inow write to regularly. This way of keeping a diary is much nicer, and now Ican hardly wait for those moments when I’m able to write in you. Oh, I’m soalad I brought you along!SUNDAY, JUNE 14, 1942I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the tableamong my other birthday presents. (I went along when you were bought, butthat doesn’t count.) On Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o’clock, whichisn’t surprising, since it was my birthday. But I’m not allowed to get up at thathour, so I had to control my curiosity until quarter to seven. When I couldn’twait any longer, I went to the dining room, where Moortje (the cat)welcomed me by rubbing against my legs.A little after seven I went to Daddy and Mama and then to the living room toopen my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicestpresents. Then a bouquet of roses, some peonies and a potted plant. FromDaddy and Mama I got a blue blouse, a game, a bottle of grape juice, whichto my mind tastes a bit like wine (after all, wine is made from grapes), apuzzle, a jar of cold cream, 2.50guilders and a gift certificate for two books. I got another book as well,Camera Obscura (but Margot already has it, so I exchanged mine forsomething else), a platter of homemade cookies (which I made myself, ofcourse, since I’ve become quite an expert at baking cookies), lots of candyand a strawberry tart from Mother. And a letter from Grammy, right on time,but of course that was just a coincidence.Then Hanneli came to pick me up, and we went to school.During recess I passed out cookies to my teachers and my class, and then itwas time to get back to work. I didn’t arrive home until five, since I went togym with the rest of the class. (I’m not allowed to take part because myshoulders and hips tend to get dislocated.) As it was my birthday, I got todecide which game my classmates would play, and I chose volleyball.Afterward they all danced around me in a circle and sang “Happy Birthday.”When I got home, Sanne Ledermann was already there. Ilse Wagner, HanneliGoslar and Jacqueline van Maarsen came home with me after gym, sincewe’re in the same class. Hanneli and Sanne used to be my two best friends.People who saw us together used to say, “There goes Anne, Hanne andSanne.” I only met Jacqueline van Maarsen when I started at the JewishLyceum, and now she’s my best friend. Ilse is Hanneli’s best friend, andSanne goes to another school and has friends there.They gave me a beautiful book, Dutch Sasas and Lesends, but they gave meVolume II by mistake, so I exchanged two other books for Volume I. AuntHelene brought me a puzzle, Aunt Stephanie a darling brooch and Aunt Lenya terrific book: Daisy Goes to the Mountains.This morning I lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it would be if I hada dog like Rin Tin Tin. I’d call him Rin Tin Tin too, and I’d take him toschool with me, where he could stay in the janitor’s room or by the bicycleracks when the weather was good.MONDAY, JUNE 15, 1942I had my birthday party on Sunday afternoon. The Rin Tin Tin movie was abig hit with my classmates. I got two brooches, a bookmark and two books.I’ll start by saying a few things about my school and my class, beginning withthe students.Betty Bloemendaal looks kind of poor, and I think she probably is. She liveson some obscure street in West Amsterdam, and none of us know where it is.She does very well at school, but that’s because she works so hard, notbecause she’s so smart. She’s pretty quiet.Jacqueline van Maarsen is supposedly my best friend, but I’ve never had areal friend. At first I thought Jacque would be one, but I was badly mistaken.D.Q.* * Initials have been assigned at random to those persons who prefer toremain anonymous. is a very nervous girl who’s always forgetting things, sothe teachers keep assigning her extra homework as punishment. She’s verykind, especially to G.Z.E.S. talks so much it isn’t funny. She’s always touching your hair or fiddlingwith your buttons when she asks you something. They say she can’t stand me,but I don’t care, since I don’t like her much either.Henny Mets is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, except that she talks ina loud voice and is really childish when we’re playing outdoors.Unfortunately, Henny has a girlfriend named Beppy who’s a bad influence onher because she’s dirty and vulgar.J.R. – I could write a whole book about her. J. is a detestable, sneaky, stuckup, two-faced gossip who thinks she’s so grown-up. She’s really got Jacqueunder her spell, and that’s a shame. J. is easily offended, bursts into tears atthe slightest thing and, to top it all off, is a terrible show-off. Miss J. alwayshas to be right. She’s very rich, and has a closet full of the most adorabledresses that are way too old for her. She thinks she’s gorgeous, but she’s not.J. and I can’t stand each other.Ilse Wagner is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, but she’s extremelyfInicky and can spend hours moaning and groaning about something. Ilselikes me a lot. She’s very smart, but lazy.Hanneli Goslar, or Lies as she’s called at school, is a bit on the strange side.She’s usually shy — outspoken at horne, but reserved around other people.She blabs whatever you tell her to her mother. But she says what she thinks,and lately I’ve corne to appreciate her a great deal.Nannie van Praag-Sigaar is small, funny and sensible. I think she’s nice. She’spretty smart. There isn’t much else you can say about Nannie. Eefje de Jongis, in my opinion, terrific. Though she’s only twelve, she’s quite the lady. Sheacts as if I were a baby. She’s also very helpful, and I like her.G.Z. is the prettiest girl in our class. She has a nice face, but is kind of dumb.I think they’re going to hold her back a year, but of course I haven’t told herthat.COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE AT A LATER DATE: To my areatsurprise, G.Z. wasn’t held back a year after all.And sitting next to G.Z. is the last of us twelve girls, me.There’s a lot to be said about the boys, or maybe not so much after all.Maurice Coster is one of my many admirers, but pretty much of a pest. SallieSpringer has a filthy mind, and rumor has it that he’s gone all the way. Still, Ithink he’s terrific, because he’s very funny.Emiel Bonewit is G.Z.’s admirer, but she doesn’t care.He’s pretty boring. Rob Cohen used to be in love with me too, but I can’tstand him anymore. He’s an obnoxious, two-faced, lying, sniveling little goofwho has an awfully high opinion of himself.Max van de Velde is a farm boy from Medemblik, but eminently suitable, asMargot would say.Herman Koopman also has a filthy mind, just like Jopie de Beer, who’s aterrible flirt and absolutely girl-crazy.Leo Blom is Jopie de Beer’s best friend, but has been ruined by his dirtymind.Albert de Mesquita came from the Montessori School and skipped a grade.He’s really smart.Leo Slager came from the same school, but isn’t as smart.Ru Stoppelmon is a short, goofy boy from Almelo who transferred to thisschool in the middle of the year.C.N. does whatever he’s not supposed to.Jacques Kocernoot sits behind us, next to C., and we (G.and I) laugh ourselves silly.Harry Schaap is the most decent boy in our class. He’s nice.Werner Joseph is nice too, but all the changes taking place lately have madehim too quiet, so he seems boring. Sam Salomon is one of those tough guysfrom across the tracks. A real brat. (Admirer!)Appie Riem is pretty Orthodox, but a brat too.SATURDAY, JUNE 20,1942Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Notonly because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems tome that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings ofa thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like writing,and I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest.”Paper has more patience than people.” I thought of this saying on one ofthose days when I was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home withmy chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or goout. I finally stayed where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have morepatience, and since I’m not planning to let anyone else read this stiff-backednotebook grandly referred to as a”diary,” unless I should ever find a real friend, it probably won’t make a bit ofdifference.Now I’m back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place:I don’t have a friend.Let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen year-oldgirl is completely alone in the world.And I’m not. I have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there areabout thirty people I can call friends.I have a throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me and whosometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch aglimpse of me in the classroom. I have a family, loving aunts and a goodhome. No, on the surface I seem to have everything, except my one truefriend. All I think about when I’m with friends is having a good time. I can’tbring myself to talk about anything but ordinary everyday things. We don’tseem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem. Maybe it’s my faultthat we don’t confide in each other. In any case, that’s just how things are, andunfortunately they’re not liable to change.This is why I’ve started the diary.To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination, I don’twant to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but Iwant the diary to be my friend, and I’m going to call this friend Kitty.Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were toplunge right in, I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislikedoing so.My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen, didn’t marry my motheruntil he was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born inFrankfurt am Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12, 1929. I livedin Frankfurt until I was four. Because we’re Jewish, my father immigrated toHolland in 1933, when he became the Managing Director of the DutchOpekta Company, which manufactures products used in making jam. Mymother, Edith Hollander Frank, went with him to Holland in September,while Margot and I were sent to Aachen to stay with our grandmother.

Margot went to Holland in December, and I followed in February, when Iwas plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot.I started right away at the Montessori nursery school. I stayed there until Iwas six, at which time I started first grade. In sixth grade my teacher wasMrs. Kuperus, the principal. At the end of the year we were both in tears aswe said a heartbreaking farewell, because Id been accepted at the JewishLyceum, where Margot also went to school.Our lives were not without anxiety, since our relatives in Germany weresuffering under Hitlers anti-Jewish laws. After the pogroms in 1938 my twouncles (my mothers brothers) fled Germany, finding safe refuge in NorthAmerica. My elderly grandmother came to live with us. She was seventythree years old at the time.After May 1940 the good times were few and far between: first there was thewar, then the capitulation and then the arrival of the Germans, which is whenthe trouble started for the Jews. Our freedom was severely restricted by aseries of anti-Jewish decrees: Jews were required to wear a yellow star; Jewswere required to turn in their bicycles; Jews were forbidden to use street-cars;Jews were forbidden to ride in cars, even their own; Jews were required to dotheir shopping between 3 and 5 P.M.; Jews were required to frequent onlyJewish-owned barbershops and beauty parlors; Jews were forbidden to be outon the streets between 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.; Jews were forbidden to attendtheaters, movies or any other forms of entertainment; Jews were forbidden touse swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic fields;Jews were forbidden to go rowing; Jews were forbidden to take part in anyathletic activity in public; Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or thoseof their friends after 8 P.M.; Jews were forbidden to visit Christians in theirhomes; Jews were required to attend Jewish schools, etc. You couldnt do thisand you couldnt do that, but life went on. Jacque always said to me, I dontdare do anything anymore, cause Im afraid its not allowed.In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so mybirthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940 we didnt domuch for my birthday either, since the fighting had just ended in Holland.Grandma died in January 1942. No one knows how often I think of her andstill love her. This birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make up forthe others, and Grandmas candle was lit along with the rest.The four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date ofJune 20, 1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary.SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1942Dearest Kitty! Let me get started right away; its nice and quiet now. Fatherand Mother are out and Margot has gone to play Ping-Pong with some otheryoung people at her friend Treess. Ive been playing a lot of Ping-Pongmyself lately.So much that five of us girls have formed a club. Its calledThe Little Dipper Minus Two. A really silly name, but its based on amistake. We wanted to give our club a special name; and because there werefive of us, we came up with the idea of the Little Dipper. We thought itconsisted of five stars, but we turned out to be wrong. It has seven, like theBig Dipper, which explains the Minus Two. Ilse Wagner has a Ping-Pongset, and the Wagners let us play in their big dining room whenever we want.Since we five Ping-Pong players like ice cream, especially in the summer,and since you get hot playing Ping-Pong, our games usually end with a visitto the nearest ice-cream parlor that allows Jews: either Oasis or Delphi.Weve long since stopped hunting around for our purses or money — most ofthe time its so busy in Oasis that we manage to find a few generous youngmen of our acquaintance or an admirer to offer us more ice cream than wecould eat in a week.Youre probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such atender age. Unfortunately, or not, as the case may be, this vice seems to berampant at our school. As soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with meand we get to talking, nine times out of ten I can be sure hell becomeenamored on the spot and wont let me out of his sight for a second. His ardoreventually cools, especially since I ignore his passionate glances and pedalblithely on my way. If it gets so bad that they start rambling on aboutasking Fathers permission, I swerve slightly on my bike, my schoolbagfalls, and the young man feels obliged to get off his bike and hand me thebag, by which time Ive switched the conversation to another topic. These arethe most innocent types. Of course, there are those who blow you kisses ortry to take hold of your arm, but theyre definitely knocking on the wrongdoor. I get off my bike and either refuse to make further use of their companyor act as if Im insulted and tell them in no uncertain terms to go on homewithout me. There you are. Weve now laid the basis for our friendship. Untiltomorrow.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1942Dearest Kitty,Our entire class is quaking in its boots. The reason, of course, is theupcoming meeting in which the teachers decide wholl be promoted to thenext grade and wholl be kept back.Half the class is making bets. G.Z. and I laugh ourselves sick at the two boysbehind us, C.N. and Jacques Kocernoot, who have staked their entire vacationsavings on their bet.From morning to night, its Youre going to pass, No, Im not, Yes, youare, No, Im not. Even G.s pleading glances and my angry outbursts cantcalm them down. If you ask me, there are so many dummies that about aquarter of the class should be kept back, but teachers are the mostunpredictable creatures on earth. Maybe this time theyll be unpredictable inthe right direction for a change. Im not so worried about my girlfriends andmyself.Well make it. The only subject Im not sure about is math. Anyway, all wecan do is wait. Until then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart.I get along pretty well with all my teachers. There are nine of them, sevenmen and two women. Mr. Keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was madat me for the longest time because I talked so much. After several warnings,he assigned me extra homework. An essay on the subject A Chatterbox. Achatterbox, what can you write about that? Id wbrry about that later, Idecided. I jotted down the assignment in my notebook, tucked it in my bagand tried to keep quiet.That evening, after Id finished the rest of my homework, the note about theessay caught my eye. I began thinking about the subject while chewing thetip of my fountain pen.Anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words, but thetrick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity oftalking. I thought and thought, and suddenly I had an idea. I wrote the threepages Mr. Keesing had assigned me and was satisfied. I argued that talking isa female trait and that I would do my best to keep it under control, but that Iwould never be able to break myself of the habit, since my mother talked asmuch as I did, if not more, and that theres not much you can do aboutinherited traits.Mr. Keesing had a good laugh at my arguments, but when I proceeded to talkmy way through the next class, he assigned me a second essay. This time itwas supposed to be on An Incorrigible Chatterbox. I handed it in, and Mr.Keesing had nothing to complain about for two whole classes. However,during the third class hed finally had enough. Anne Frank, as punishmentfor talking in class, write an essay entitledQuack, Quack, Quack, said Mistress Chatterback.The class roared. I had to laugh too, though Id ) nearly exhausted myingenuity on the topic of chatterboxes. It was time to come up withsomething else, j something original. My friend Sanne, whos good at poetry,offered to help me write the essay from beginning to end in verse. I jumpedfor joy.Keesing was trying to play a joke on me with this ridiculous subject, but Idmake sure the joke was on him. I finished my poem, and it was beautiful! Itwas about a mother duck and a father swan with three baby ducklings whowere bitten to death by the father because they quacked too much. Luckily,Keesing took the joke the right way. He read the poem to the class, adding hisown comments, and to several other classes as well. Since then Ive beenallowed to talk and havent been assigned any extra homework. On thecontrary, Keesings always i making jokes these days.Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, JUNE 24, 1942Dearest Kitty,Its sweltering. Everyone is huffing and puffing, and in this heat I have towalk everywhere. Only now do I realize how pleasant a streetcar is, but weJews are no longer allowed to make use of this luxury; our own two feet aregood enough for us. Yesterday at lunchtime I had an appointment with thedentist on Jan Luykenstraat. Its a long way from our school onStadstimmertuinen. That afternoon I nearly fell asleep at my desk.Fortunately, people automatically offer you something to drink. The dentalassistant is really kind.The only mode of transportation left to us is the ferry.The ferryman at Josef Israelkade took us across when we asked him to. Itsnot the fault of the Dutch that we Jews are having such a bad time.I wish I didnt have to go to school. My bike was stolen during Eastervacation, and Father gave Mothers bike to some Christian friends forsafekeeping. Thank goodness summer vacation is almost here; one moreweek and our torment will be over.Something unexpected happened yesterday morning. As I was passing thebicycle racks, I heard my name being called. I turned around and there wasthe nice boy Id met the evening before at my friend Wilmas. Hes Wilmassecond cousin. I used to think Wilma was nice, which she is, but all she evertalks about is boys, and that gets to be a bore. He came toward me, somewhatshyly, and introduced himself as Hello Silberberg. I was a little surprised andwasnt sure what he wanted, but it didnt take me long to find out. He asked ifI would allow him to accompany me to school. As long as youre headedthat way, Ill go with you, I said. And so we walked together. Hello issixteen and good at telling all kinds of funny stories.

He was waiting for me again this morning, and I expect he will be from now
on.
Anne
WEDNESDAY, JULY 1, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Until today I honestly couldn’t find the time to write you. I was with friends
all day Thursday, we had company on Friday, and that’s how it went until
today.
Hello and I have gotten to know each other very well this past week, and he’s
told me a lot about his life. He comes from Gelsenkirchen and is living with
his grandparents. His parents are in Belgium, but there’s no way he can get
there.
Hello used to have a girlfriend named Ursula. I know her too.
She’s perfectly sweet and perfectly boring. Ever since he met me, Hello has
realized that he’s been falling asleep at Ursul’s side. So I’m kind of a pep
tonic. You never know what you’re good for!
Jacque spent Saturday night here. Sunday afternoon she was at Hanneli’s, and
I was bored stiff.
Hello was supposed to come over that evening, but he called around six. I
answered the phone, and he said, “This is Helmuth Silberberg. May I please
speak to Anne?”
“Oh, Hello. This is Anne.”
“Oh, hi, Anne. How are you?” ”
“Fine, thanks.”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry but I can’t come tonight, though I would like to
have a word with you. Is it all right if I come by and pick you up in about ten
minutes
“Yes, that’s fine. Bye-bye!”
“Okay, I’ll be right over. Bye-bye!”
I hung up, quickly changed my clothes and fixed my hair. I was so nervous I
leaned out the window to watch for him. He finally showed up. Miracle of
miracles, I didn’t rush down the stairs, but waited quietly until he rang the
bell. I went down to open the door, and he got right to the point.
“Anne, my grandmother thinks you’re too young for me to be seeing you on a
regular basis. She says I should be going to the Lowenbachs’, but you
probably know that I’m not going out with Ursul anymore.”
“No, I didn’t know. What happened? Did you two have a fight?”
“No, nothing like that. I told Ursul that we weren’t suited to each other and so
it was better for us not to go together anymore, but that she was welcome at
my house and I hoped I would be welcome at hers. Actually, I thought Ursul
was hanging around with another boy, and I treated her as if she were. But
that wasn’t true. And then my uncle said I should apologize to her, but of
course I didn’t feel like it, and that’s why I broke up with her. But that was
just one of the reasons.
“Now my grandmother wants me to see Ursul and not you, but I don’t agree
and I’m not going to. Sometimes old people have really old-fashioned ideas,
but that doesn’t mean I have to go along with them. I need my grandparents,
but in a certain sense they need me too. From now on I’ll be free on
Wednesday evenings. You see, my grandparents made me sign up for a
wood-carving class, but actually I go to a club organized by the Zionists. My
grandparents don’t want me to go, because they’re anti-Zionists. I’m not a
fanatic Zionist, but it interests me. Anyway, it’s been such a mess lately that
I’m planning to quit. So next Wednesday will be my last meeting.
That means I can see you Wednesday evening, Saturday afternoon, Saturday
evening, Sunday afternoon and maybe even more.”
“But if your grandparents don’t want you to, you?
shouldn’t go behind their backs.”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
Just then we passed Blankevoort’s Bookstore and there was Peter Schiff with
two other boys; it was the first time he’d said hello to me in ages, and it really
made me feel good.
Monday evening Hello came over to meet Father and Mother.
I had bought a cake and some candy, and we had tea and cookies, the works,
but neither Hello nor I felt like sitting stiffly on our chairs. So we went out
for a walk, and he didn’t deliver me to my door until ten past eight. Father
was furious. He said it was very wrong of me not to get home on time. I had
to promise to be home by ten to eight in the future. I’ve been asked to Hello’s
on Saturday.
Wilma told me that one night when Hello was at her house, she asked him,
“Who do you like best, Ursul or Anne?”
He said, “It’s none of your business.”
But as he was leaving (they hadn’t talked to each other the rest of the
evening), he said, “Well, I like Anne better, but don’t tell anyone. Bye!” And
whoosh. . . he was out the door.
In everything he says or does, I can see that Hello is in love with me, and it’s
kind of nice for a change. Margot would say that Hello is eminently suitable.
I think so too, but he’s more than that. Mother is also full of praise: “A goodlooking boy. Nice and polite.” I’m glad he’s so popular with everyone. Except
with my girlfriends. He thinks they’re very childish, and he’s right about that.
Jacque still teases me about him, but I’m not in love with him. Not really. It’s
all right for me to have boys as friends. Nobody minds.
Mother is always asking me who I’m going to marry when I grow up, but I
bet she’ll never guess it’s Peter, because I talked her out of that idea myself,
without batting an eyelash. I love Peter as I’ve never loved anyone, and I tell
myself he’s only going around with all those other girls to hide his feelings
for me. Maybe he thinks Hello and I are in love with each other, which we’re
not. He’s just a friend, or as Mother puts it, a beau.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JULY 5, 1942
Dear Kitty,
The graduation ceremony in the Jewish Theater on Friday went as expected.
My report card wasn’t too bad. I got one D, a C- in algebra and all the rest
B’s, except for two B+’s and two B-‘s. My parents are pleased, but they’re not
like other parents when it comes to grades. They never worry about report
cards, good or bad. As long as I’m healthy and happy and don’t talk back too
much, they’re satisfied. If these three things are all right, everything else will
take care of itself.
I’m just the opposite. I don’t want to be a poor student.
I was accepted to the Jewish Lyceum on a conditional basis. I was supposed
to stay in the seventh grade at the Montessori School, but when Jewish
children were required to go to Jewish schools, Mr. Elte finally agreed, after a
great deal of persuasion, to accept Lies Goslar and me. Lies also passed this
year, though she has to repeat her geometry exam.
Poor Lies. It isn’t easy for her to study at home; her baby sister, a spoiled
little two-year-old, plays in her room all day. If Gabi doesn’t get her way, she
starts screaming, and if Lies doesn’t look after her, Mrs. Goslar starts
screaming. So Lies has a hard time doing her homework, and as long as that’s
the case, the tutoring she’s been getting won’t help much. The Goslar
household is really a sight. Mrs.
Goslar’s parents live next door, but eat with the family. The there’s a hired
girl, the baby, the always absentminded and absent Mr. Goslar and the always
nervous and irrita Ie Mrs.

Goslar, who’s expecting another baby. Lies, who’s all thumbs, gets lost in themayhem.My sister Margot has also gotten her report card.Brilliant, as usual. If we had such a thing as “cum laude,” she would havepassed with honors, she’s so smart.Father has been home a lot lately. There’s nothing for him to do at the office;it must be awful to feel you’re not needed. Mr. Kleiman has taken overOpekta, and Mr. Kugler, Gies & Co., the company dealing in spices and spicesubstitutes that was set up in 1941.A few days ago, as we were taking a stroll around our neighborhood square,Father began to talk about going into hiding. He said it would be very hardfor us to live cut off from the rest of the world. I asked him why he wasbringing this up now.”Well, Anne,” he replied, “you know that for more than a year we’ve beenbringing clothes, food and furniture to other people. We don’t want ourbelongings to be seized by the Germans. Nor do we want to fall into theirclutches ourselves. So we’ll leave of our own accord and not wait to behauled away.””But when, Father?” He sounded so serious that I felt scared.”Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of everything. just enjoy your carefree lifewhile you can.”That was it. Oh, may these somber words not come true for as long aspossible.The doorbell’s ringing, Hello’s here, time to stop.Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, JULY 8, 1942Dearest Kitty,It seems like years since Sunday morning. So much has happened it’s as if thewhole world had suddenly turned upside down. But as you can see, Kitty, I’mstill alive, and that’s the main thing, Father says. I’m alive all right, but don’task where or how. You probably don’t understand a word I’m saying today,so I’ll begin by telling you what happened Sunday afternoon.At three o’clock (Hello had left but was supposed to come back later), thedoorbell rang. I didn’t hear it, since I was out on the balcony, lazily reading inthe sun. A little while later Margot appeared in the kitchen doorway lookingvery agitated. “Father has received a call-up notice from the SS,”she whispered. “Mother has gone to see Mr. van Daan” (Mr. van Daan isFather’s business partner and a good friend.) I was stunned. A call-up:everyone knows what that means.Visions of concentration camps and lonely cells raced through my head. Howcould we let Father go to such a fate? “Of course he’s not going,” declaredMargot as we waited for Mother in the living room. “Mother’s gone to Mr.van Daan to ask whether we can move to our hiding place tomorrow. The vanDaans are going with us. There will be seven of us altogether.” Silence. Wecouldn’t speak. The thought of Father off visiting someone in the JewishHospital and completely unaware of what was happening, the long wait forMother, the heat, the suspense — all this reduced us to silence.Suddenly the doorbell rang again. “That’s Hello,” I said.”Don’t open the door!” exclaimed Margot to stop me. But it wasn’t necessary,since we heard Mother and Mr. van Daan downstairs talking to Hello, andthen the two of them came inside and shut the door behind them. Every timethe bell rang, either Margot or I had to tiptoe downstairs to see if it wasFather, and we didn’t let anyone else in. Margot and I were sent from theroom, as Mr. van Daan wanted to talk to Mother alone.When she and I were sitting in our bedroom, Margot told me that the call-upwas not for Father, but for her. At this second shock, I began to cry. Margotis sixteen — apparently they want to send girls her age away on their own.But thank goodness she won’t be going; Mother had said so herself, whichmust be what Father had meant when he talked to me about our going intohiding. Hiding. . . where would we hide?In the city? In the country? In a house? In a shack? When, where, how. . . ?These were questions I wasn’t allowed to ask, but they still kept runningthrough my mind.Margot and I started packing our most important belongings into a schoolbag.The first thing I stuck in was this diary, and then curlers, handkerchiefs,schoolbooks, a comb and some old letters. Preoccupied by the thought ofgoing into hiding, I stuck the craziest things in the bag, but I’m not sorry.Memories mean more to me than dresses.Father finally came hQme around five o’clock, and we called Mr. Kleiman toask if he could come by that evening.Mr. van Daan left and went to get Miep. Miep arrived and promised to returnlater that night, taking with her a bag full of shoes, dresses, jackets,underwear and stockings.After that it was quiet in our apartment; none of us felt like eating. It was stillhot, and everything was very strange.We had rented our big upstairs room to a Mr. Goldschmidt, a divorced manin his thirties, who apparently had nothing to do that evening, since despiteall our polite hints he hung around until ten o’clock.Miep and Jan Gies came at eleven. Miep, who’s worked for Father’s companysince 1933, has become a close friend, and so has her husband Jan. Onceagain, shoes, stockings, books and underwear disappeared into Miep’s bagand Jan’s deep pockets. At eleven-thirty they too disappeared.I was exhausted, and even though I knew it’d be my last night in my own bed,I fell asleep right away and didn’t wake up until Mother called me at fivethirty the next morning.Fortunately, it wasn’t as hot as Sunday; a warm rain fell throughout the day.The four of us were wrapped in so many layers of clothes it looked as if wewere going off to spend the night in a refrigerator, and all that just so wecould take more clothes with us. No Jew in our situation would dare leave thehouse with a suitcase full of clothes. I was wearing two undershirts, threepairs of underpants, a dress, and over that a skirt, a jacket, a raincoat, twopairs of stockings, heavy shoes, a cap, a scarf and lots more. I wassuffocating even before we left the house, but no one bothered to ask me howI felt.Margot stuffed her schoolbag with schoolbooks, went to get her bicycle and,with Miep leading the way, rode off into the great unknown. At any rate,that’s how I thought of it, since I still didn’t know where our hiding place was.At seven-thirty we too closed the door behind us; Moortje, my cat, was theonly living creature I said good-bye to.According to a note we left for Mr. Goldschmidt, she was to be taken to theneighbors, who would give her a good home.The stripped beds, the breakfast things on the table, the pound of meat for thecat in the kitchen — all of these created the impression that we’d left in ahurry. But we weren’t interested in impressions. We just wanted to get out ofthere, to get away and reach our destination in safety.Nothing else mattered.More tomorrow.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, JULY 9, 1942Dearest Kitty,So there we were, Father, Mother and I, walking in the pouring rain, each ofus with a schoolbag and a shopping bag filled to the brim with the mostvaried assortment of items.The people on their way to work at that early hour gave us sympathetic looks;you could tell by their faces that they were sorry they couldn’t offer us somekind of transportation; the conspicuous yellow star spoke for itself.Only when we were walking down the street did Father and Mother reveal,little by little, what the plan was. For months we’d been moving as much ofour furniture and apparel out of the apartment as we could. It was agreed thatwe’d go into hiding on July 16. Because of Margot’s call-up notice, the planhad to be moved up ten days, which meant we’d have to make do with lessorderly rooms.The hiding place was located in Father’s office building.That’s a little hard for outsiders to understand, so I’ll explain. Father didn’thave a lot of people working in his office, just Mr. Kugler, Mr. Kleiman,Miep and a twenty-three-year-old typist named Bep Voskuijl, all of whomwere informed of our coming. Mr. Voskuijl, Bep’s father, works in thewarehouse, along with two assistants, none of whom were told anything.Here’s a description of the building. The large warehouse on the ground flooris used as a workroom and storeroom and is divided into several differentsections, such as the stockroom and the milling room, where cinnamon,cloves and a pepper substitute are ground.Next to the warehouse doors is another outside’ door, a separate entrance tothe office. Just inside the office door is a second door, and beyond that astairway. At the top of the stairs is another door, with a frosted window onwhich the word “Office” is written in black letters. This is the big front office– very large, very light and very full.Bep, Miep and Mr. Kleiman work there during the day. After passing throughan alcove containing a safe, a wardrobe and a big supply cupboard, you cometo the small, dark, stuffy back office. This used to be shared by Mr. Kuglerand Mr. van Daan, but now Mr. Kugler is its only occupant. Mr. Kugler’soffice can also be reached from the hallway, but only through a glass doorthat can be opened from the inside but not easily from the outside. If youleave Mr. Kugler’s office and proceed through the long, narrow hallway pastthe coal bin and go up four steps, you find yourself in the private office, theshowpiece of the entire building. Elegant mahogany furniture, a linoleumfloor covered with throw rugs, a radio, a fancy lamp, everything first class.Next door is a spacious kitchen with a hot-water heater and two gas burners,and beside that a bathroom. That’s the second floor.A wooden staircase leads from the downstairs hallway to the third floor. Atthe top of the stairs is a landing, with doors on either side. The door on theleft takes you up to the spice storage area, attic and loft in the front part of thehouse. A typically Dutch, very steep, ankle-twisting flight of stairs also runsfrom the front part of the house to another door opening onto the street.The door to the right of the landing leads to the “Secret Annex” at the backofthe house. No one would ever suspect there were so many rooms behindthat plain gray door. There’s just one small step in front of the door, and thenyou’re inside. Straight ahead of you is a steep flight of stairs. To the left is anarrow hallway opening onto a room that serves as the Frank family’s livingINSERT MAP HEREroom and bedroom. Next door is a smaller room, the )edroom and study ofthe two young ladies of the family. ro the right of the stairs is a windowlesswashroom. with a link. The door in the corner leads to the toilet and anotherone to Margot’s and my room. If you go up the itairs and open the door at thetop, you’re surprised to see such a large, light and spacious room in an oldcanalside house like this. It contains a stove (thanks to the fact hat it used tobe Mr. Kugler’s laboratory) and a sink.This will be the kitchen and bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. van Daan, as well asthe general living room, dining room and study for us all. A tiny side room isto be Peter van Daan’s bedroom. Then, just as in the front part of the building,there’s an attic and a loft. So there you are. Now I’ve introduced you to thewhole of our lovely Annex!Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, JULY 10, 1942
Dearest Kitty, I’ve probably bored you with my long description of our house,
but I still think you should know where I’ve ended up; how I ended up here is
something you’ll figure out from my next letters.
But first, let me continue my story, because, as you know, I wasn’t finished.
After we arrived at 263 Prinsengracht, Miep quickly led us through the long
hallway and up the wooden staircase to the next floor and into the Annex.
She shut the door behind us, leaving us alone. Margot had arrived much
earlier on her bike and was waiting for us.
Our living room and all the other rooms were so full of stuff that I can’t find
the words to describe it. All the cardboard boxes that had been sent to the
office in the last few months were piled on the floors and beds. The small
room was filled from floor to cethng with linens. If we wanted to sleep in
properly made beds that night, we had to get going and straighten up the
mess. Mother and Margot were unable to move a muscle. They lay down on
their bare mattresses, tired, miserable and I don’t know what else. But Father
and I, the two cleaner-uppers in the family, started in right away.
All day long we unpacked boxes, filled cupboards, hammered nails and
straightened up the mess, until we fell exhausted into our clean beds at night.
We hadn’t eaten a hot meal all day, but we didn’t care; Mother and Margot
were too tired and keyed up to eat, and Father and I were too busy.
Tuesday morning we started where we left off the night before. Bep and
Miep went grocery shopping with our ration coupons, Father worked on our
blackout screens, we scrubbed the kitchen floor, and were once again busy
from sunup to sundown. Until Wednesday, I didn’t have a chance to think
about the enormous change in my life. Then for the first time since our arrival
in the Secret Annex, I found a moment to tell you all about it and to realize
what had happened to me and what was yet to happen.
Yours, Anne
SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Father, Mother and Margot still can’t get used to the chiming of the
Westertoren clock, which tells us the time every quarter of an hour. Not me, I
liked it from the start; it sounds so reassuring, especially at night. You no
doubt want to hear what I think of being in hiding. Well, all I can say is that I
don’t really know yet. I don’t think I’ll ever feel at home in this house, but that
doesn’t mean I hate it.
It’s more like being on vacation in some strange pension.
Kind of an odd way to look at life in hiding, but that’s how things are. The
Annex is an ideal place to hide in. It may be damp and lopsided, but there’s
probably not a more comfortable hiding place in all of Amsterdam. No, in all
of Holland.
Up to now our bedroom, with its blank walls, was very bare. Thanks to
Father — who brought my entire postcard and movie-star collection here
beforehand — and to a brush and a pot of glue, I was able to plaster the walls
with pictures.
It looks much more cheerful. When the van Daans arrive, we’ll be able to
build cupboards and other odds and ends out of the wood piled in the attic.
Margot and Mother have recovered somewhat. Yesterday Mother felt well
enough to cook split-pea soup for the first time, but then she was
downstairstalking and forgot all about it. The beans were scorched black, and
no amount of scraping could get them out of the pan.
Last night the four of us went down to the private office and listened to
England on the radio. I was so scared someone might hear it that I literally
begged Father to take me back upstairs. Mother understood my anxiety and
went with me.
Whatever we do, we’re very afraid the neighbors might hear or see us. We
started off immediately the first day sewing curtains. Actually, you can
hardly call them that, since they’re nothing but scraps of fabric, varying
greatly in shape, quality and pattern, which Father and I stitched crookedly
together with unskilled fingers. These works of art were tacked to the
windows, where they’ll stay until we come out of hiding.
The building on our right is a branch of the Keg Company, a firm from
Zaandam, and on the left is a furniture workshop.
Though the people who work there are not on the premises after hours, any
sound we make might travel through the walls. We’ve forbidden Margot to
cough at night, even though she has a bad cold, and are giving her large doses
of codeine.
I’m looking forward to the arrival of the van Daans, which is set for Tuesday.
It will be much more fun and also not as quiet. You see, it’s the silence that
makes me so nervous during the evenings and nights, and I’d give anything to
have one of our helpers sleep here.
It’s really not that bad here, since we can do our own cooking and can listen
to the radio in Daddy’s office.
Mr. Kleiman and Miep, and Bep Voskuijl too, have helped us so much.
We’ve already canned loads of rhubarb, strawberries and cherries, so for the
time being I doubt we’ll be bored.
We also have a supply of reading material, and we’re going to buy lots of
games. Of course, we can’t ever look out the window or go outside. And we
have to be quiet so the people downstairs can’t hear us.
Yesterday we had our hands full. We had to pit two crates of cherries for Mr.
Kugler to can. We’re going to use the empty crates to make bookshelves.
Someone’s calling me.
Yours, Anne
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 2g, 1942: Not beina
able to ao outside upsets me more than I can say, and I’m terrified our hidina
place will be discovered and that we’ll be shot. That, of course, is a fairly
dismal prospect.
SUNDAY, JULY 12, 1942
They’ve all been so nice to me this last month because of my birthday, and
yet every day I feel myself drifting further away from Mother and Margot. I
worked hard today and they praised me, only to start picking on me again
five minutes later.
You can easily see the difference between the way they deal with Margot and
the way they deal with me. For example, Margot broke the vacuum cleaner,
and because of that we’ve been without light for the rest of the day. Mother
said,
“Well, Margot, it’s easy to see you’re not used to working; otherwise, you’d
have known better than to yank the plug out by the cord.” Margot made some
reply, and that was the end of the story.
But this afternoon, when I wanted to rewrite something on Mother’s shopping
list because her handwriting is so hard to read, she wouldn’t let me. She
bawled me out again, and the whole family wound up getting involved.
I don’t fit in with them, and I’ve felt that clearly in the last few weeks. They’re
so sentimental together, but I’d rather be sentimental on my own. They’re
always saying how nice it is with the four of us, and that we get along so
well, without giving a moment’s thought to the fact that I don’t feel that way.
Daddy’s the only one who understands me, now and again, though he usually
sides with Mother and Margot. Another thing I can’t stand is having them talk
about me in front of outsiders, telling them how I cried or how sensibly I’m
behaving. It’s horrible. And sometimes they talk about Moortje and I can’t
take that at all. Moortje is my weak spot. I miss her every minute of the day,
and no one knows how often I think of her; whenever I do, my eyes fill with
tears. Moortje is so sweet, and I love her so much that I keep dreaming she’ll
come back to us.
I have plenty of dreams, but the reality is that we’ll have to stay here until the
war is over. We can’t ever go outside, and the only visitors we can have are
Miep, her husband Jan, Bep Voskuijl, Mr. Voskuijl, Mr. Kugler, Mr.
Kleiman and Mrs. Kleiman, though she hasn’t come because she thinks it’s
too dangerous.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE IN SEPTEMBER 1942: Daddy’s always so
nice. He understands me perfectly, and I wish we could have a heart-to-heart
talk sometime without my bursting instantly into tears. But apparently that
has to do with my age. I’d like to spend all my time writing, but that would
probably get boring.
Up to now I’ve only confided my thoughts to my diary. I still haven’t gotten
around to writing amusing sketches that I could read aloud at a later date. In
the future I’m going to devote less time to sentimentality and more time to
reality.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 1942
Dear Kitty,
I’ve deserted you for an entire month, but so little has happened that I can’t
find a newsworthy item to relate every single day. The van Daans arrived on
July 13. We thought they were coming on the fourteenth, but from the
thirteenth to sixteenth the Germans were sending out call-up notices right and
left and causing a lot of unrest, so they decided it would be safer to leave a
day too early than a day too late.
Peter van Daan arrived at nine-thirty in the morning (while we were still at
breakfast). Peter’s going on sixteen, a shy, awkward boy whose company
won’t amount to much. Mr.
and Mrs. van Daan came half an hour later.
Much to our amusement, Mrs. van Daan was carrying a hatbox with a large
chamber pot inside. “I just don’t feel at home without my chamber pot,” she
exclaimed, and it was the first item to find a permanent place under the divan.
Instead of a chamber pot, Mr. van D. was lugging a collapsible tea table
under his arm.
From the first, we ate our meals together, and after three days it felt as if the
seven of us had become one big family.
Naturally, the van Daans had much to tell about the week we’d been away
from civilization. We were especially interested in what had happened to our
apartment and to Mr. Goldschmidt.

Mr. van Daan filled us in: “Monday morning at nine, Mr.
Goldschmidt phoned and asked if I could come over. I went straightaway and
found a very distraught Mr. Goldschmidt. He showed me a note that the
Frank family had left behind. As instructed, he was planning to bring the cat
to the neighbors, which I agreed was a good idea. He was afraid the house
was going to be searched, so we w=nt through all the rooms, straightening up
here and there and clearing the breakfast things off the table. Suddenly I saw
a notepad on Mrs. Frank’s desk, with an address in Maastricht written on it.
Even though I knew Mrs. Frank had left it on purpose, I pretended to be
surprised and horrified and begged Mr.
Goldschmidt to burn this incriminating piece of paper. I swore up and down
that I knew nothing about your disappearance, but that the note had given me
an idea. ‘Mr.
Goldschmidt,’ I said, ‘I bet I know what this address refers to. About six
months ago a high-ranking officer came to the office. It seems he and Mr.
Frank grew up together. He promised to help Mr. Frank if it was ever
necessary. As I recall, he was stationed in Maastricht. I think this officer has
kept his word and is somehow planning to help them cross over to Belgium
and then to Switzerland. There’s no harm in telling this to any friends of the
Franks who come asking about them. Of course, you don’t need to mention
the part about Maastricht.’ And after that I left. This is the story most of your
friends have been told, because I heard it later from several other people.”
We thought it was extremely funny, but we laughed even harder when Mr.
van Daan told us that certain people have vivid imaginations. For example,
one family living on our square claimed they sawall four of us riding by on
our bikes early in the morning, and another woman was absolutely positive
we’d been loaded into some kind of military vehicle in the middle of the
night.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, AUGUST 21, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Now our Secret Annex has truly become secret.
Because so many houses are being searched for hidden bicycles, Mr. Kugler
thought it would be better to have a bookcase built in front of the entrance to
our hiding place.
It swings out on its hinges and opens like a door. Mr.
Voskuijl did the carpentry work. (Mr. Voskuijl has been told that the seven of
us are in hiding, and he’s been most helpful.)
Now whenever we want to go downstairs we have to duck and then jump.
After the first three days we were all walking around with bumps on our
foreheads from banging our heads against the low doorway. Then Peter
cushioned it by nailing a towel stuffed with wood shavings to the doorframe.
Let’s see if it helps!
I’m not doing much schoolwork. I’ve given myself a vacation until
September. Father wants to start tutoring me then, but we have to buy all the
books first.
There’s little change in our lives here. Peter’s hair was washed today, but
that’s nothing special. Mr. van Daan and I are always at loggerheads with
each other. Mama always treats me like a baby, which I can’t stand. For the
rest, things are going better. I don’t think Peter’s gotten any nicer. He’s an
obnoxious boy who lies around on his bed all day, only rousing himself to do
a little carpentry work before returning to his nap. What a dope!
Mama gave me another one of her dreadful sermons this morning. We take
the opposite view of everything. Daddy’s a sweetheart; he may get mad at me,
but it never lasts longer than five minutes.
It’s a beautiful day outside, nice and hot, and in spite of everything, we make
the most of the weather by lounging on the folding bed in the attic.
Yours, Anne
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 21, 1942: Mr. van Daan
has been as nice as pie to me recently. I’ve said nothina, but have been
enjoyina it while it lasts.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mr. and Mrs. van Daan have had a terrible fight. I’ve never seen anything like
it, since Mother and Father wouldn’t dream of shouting at each other like that.
The argument was based on something so trivial it didn’t seem worth wasting
a single word on it. Oh well, to each his own.
Of course, it’s very difficult for Peter, who gets caught in the middle, but no
one takes Peter seriously anymore, since he’s hypersensitive and lazy.
Yesterday he was beside himself with worry because his tongue was blue
instead of pink. This rare phenomenon disappeared as quickly as it came.
Today he’s walking around with a heavy scarf on because he’s got a stiff
neck. His Highness has been complaining of lumbago too. Aches and pains in
his heart, kidneys and lungs are also par for the course. He’s an absolute
hypochondriac!
(That’s the right word, isn’t it?)
Mother and Mrs. van Daan aren’t getting along very well.
There are enough reasons for the friction. To give you one small example,
Mrs. van D. has removed all but three of her sheets from our communal linen
closet. She’s assuming that Mother’s can be used for both families. She’ll be
in for a nasty surprise when she discovers that Mother has followed her lead.
Furthermore, Mrs. van D. is ticked off because we’re using her china instead
of ours. She’s still trying to find out what we’ve done with our plates; they’re a
lot closer than she thinks, since they’re packed in cardboard boxes in the attic,
behind a load of Opekta advertising material. As long as we’re in hiding, the
plates will remain out of her reach.
Since I’m always having accidents, it’s just as well!
Yesterday I broke one of Mrs. van D.’s soup bowls.
“Oh!” she angrily exclaimed. “Can’t you be more careful?
That was my last one.”
Please bear in mind, Kitty, that the two ladies speak abominable Dutch (I
don’t dare comment on the gentlemen: they’d be highly insulted). If you were
to hear their bungled attempts, you’d laugh your head off. We’ve given up
pointing out their errors, since correcting them doesn’t help anyway.
Whenever I quote Mother or Mrs. van Daan, I’ll write proper Dutch instead of
trying to duplicate their speech.
Last week there was a brief interruption in our monotonous routine. This was
provided by Peter — and a book about women. I should explain that Margot
and Peter are allowed to read nearly all the books Mr. Kleiman lends us. But
the adults preferred to keep this special book to themselves.
This immediately piqued Peter’s curiosity. What forbidden fruit did it
contain? He snuck off with it when his mother was downstairs talking, and
took himself and his booty to the loft. For two days all was well. Mrs. van
Daan knew what he was up to, but kept mum until Mr. van Daan found out
about it. He threw a fit, took the book away and assumed that would be the
end of the business. However, he’d neglected to take his son’s curiosity into
account. Peter, not in the least fazed by his father’s swift action, began
thinking up ways to read the rest of this vastly interesting book.
In the meantime, Mrs. van D. asked Mother for her opinion.
Mother didn’t think this particular book was suitable for Margot, but she saw
no harm in letting her read most other books.
You see, Mrs. van Daan, Mother Said, there’s a big difference between
Margot and Peter. To begin with, Margot’s a girl, and girls are always more
mature than boys. Second, she’s already read many serious books and doesn’t
go looking for those which are no longer forbidden. Third, Margot’s much
more sensible and intellectually advanced, as a result of her four years at an
excellent school.”
Mrs. van Daan agreed with her, but felt it was wrong as a matter of principle
to let youngsters read books written for adults.
Meanwhile, Peter had thought of a suitable time when no one would be
interested in either him or the book. At seven-thirty in the evening, when the
entire family was listening to the radio in the private office, he took his
treasure and stole off to the loft again. He should have been back by eightthirty, but he was so engrossed in the book that he forgot the time and was
just coming down the stairs when his father entered the room. The scene that
followed was not surprising: after a slap, a whack and a tug-of-war, the book
lay on the table and Peter was in the loft.
This is how matters stood when it was time for the family to eat. Peter stayed
upstairs. No one gave him a moment’s thought; he’d have to go to bed without
his dinner. We continued eating, chatting merrily away, when suddenly we
heard a piercing whistle. We lay down our forks and stared at each other, the
shock clearly visible on our pale faces.
Then we heard Peter’s voice through the chimney: “I won t come down!”
Mr. van Daan leapt up, his napkin falling to the floor, and shouted, with the
blood rushing to his face, “I’ve had enough!”
Father, afraid of what might happen, grabbed him by the arm and the two
men went to the attic. After much struggling and kicking, Peter wound up in
his room with the door shut, and we went on eating.
Mrs. van Daan wanted to save a piece of bread for her darling son, but Mr.
van D. was adamant. “If he doesn’t apologize this minute, he’ll have to sleep
in the loft.”
We protested that going without dinner was enough punishment. What if
Peter were to catch cold? We wouldn’t be able to call a doctor.
Peter didn’t apologize, and returned to the loft.
Mr. van Daan decided to leave well enough alone, though he did note the
next morning that Peter’s bed had been slept in.
At seven Peter went to the attic again, but was persuaded to come downstairs
when Father spoke a few friendly words to him. After three days of sullen
looks and stubborn silence, everything was back to normal.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Today I’ll tell you the general news here in the Annex. A lamp has been
mounted above my divan bed so that in the future, when I hear the guns
going off, I’ll be able to pull a cord and switch on the light. I can’t use it at the
moment because we’re keeping our window open a little, day and night.
The male members of the van Daan contingent have built a very handy woodstained food safe, with real screens. Up to now this glorious cupboard has
been located in Peter’s room, but in the interests of fresh air it’s been moved
to the attic. Where it once stood, there’s now a shelf. I advised Peter to put his
table underneath the shelf, add a nice rug and hang his own cupboard where
the table now stands. That might make his little cubbyhole more comfy,
though I certainly wouldn’t like to sleep there.
Mrs. van Daan is unbearable. I’m continually being scolded for my incessant
chatter when I’m upstairs. I simply let the words bounce right off me!
Madame now has a new trick up her sleeve: trying to get out of washing the
pots and pans. If there’s a bit of food left at the bottom of the pan, she leaves
it to spoil instead of transferring it to a glass dish. Then in the afternoon when
Margot is stuck with cleaning all the pots and pans, Madame exclaims, “Oh,
poor Margot, you have so much work to do!”
Every other week Mr. Kleiman brings me a couple of books written for girls
my age. I’m enthusiastic about the loop ter Heul series. I’ve enjoyed all of
Cissy van Marxveldt’s books very much. I’ve read The Zaniest Summer four
times, and the ludicrous situations still make me laugh.
Father and I are currently working on our family tree, and he tells me
something about each person as we go along. I’ve begun my schoolwork. I’m
working hard at French, cramming five irregular verbs into my head every
day. But I’ve forgotten much too much of what I learned in school.
Peter has taken up his English with great reluctance. A few schoolbooks have
just arrived, and I brought a large supply of notebooks, pencils, erasers and
labels from home.
Pim (that’s our pet name for Father) wants me to help him with his Dutch
lessons. I’m perfectly willing to tutor him in exchange for his assistance with
French and other subjects.
But he makes the most unbelievable mistakes!
I sometimes listen to the Dutch broadcasts from London.
Prince Bernhard recently announced that Princess juliana is expecting a baby
in January, which I think is wonderful. No one here understands why I take
such an interest in the Royal Family.
A few nights ago I was the topic of discussion, and we all decided I was an
ignoramus. As a result, I threw myself into my schoolwork the next day,
since I have little desire to still be a freshman when I’m fourteen or fifteen.
The fact that I’m hardly allowed to read anything was also discussed.
At the moment, Mother’s reading Gentlemen, Wives and Servants, and of
course I’m not allowed to read it (though Margot is!). First I have to be more
intellectually developed, like my genius of a sister. Then we discussed my
ignorance of philosophy, psychology and physiology (I immediately looked
up these big words in the dictionary!).
It’s true, I don’t know anything about these subjects. But maybe I’ll be smarter
next year!
I’ve come to the shocking conclusion that I have only one long-sleeved dress
and three cardigans to wear in the winter.

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!”

This was a direct hit at Mother’s modern child-rearing methods, which she’s
defended on many occasions. Mrs. van Daan was so upset her face turned
bright red. People who flush easily become even more agitated when they
feel themselves getting hot under the collar, and they quickly lose to their
opponents.
The nonflushed mother, who now wanted to have the matter over and done
with as quickly as possible, paused for a moment to think before she replied.
“Well, Mrs. van Daan, I agree that it’s much better if a person isn’t
overmodest. My husband, Margot and Peter are all exceptionally modest.
Your husband, Anne and I, though not exactly the opposite, don’t let
ourselves be pushed around.”
Mrs. van Daan: “Oh, but Mrs. Frank, I don’t understand what you mean!
Honestly, I’m extremely modest and retiring.
How can you say that I’m pushy?”
Mother: “I didn’t say you were pushy, but no one would describe you as
having a retiring disposition.”
Mrs. van D.: “I’d like to know in what way I’m pushy! If I didn’t look out for
myself here, no one else would, and I’d soon starve, but that doesn’t mean I’m
not as modest and retiring as your husband.”
Mother had no choice but to laugh at this ridiculous self-defense, which
irritated Mrs. van Daan. Not exactly a born debater, she continued her
magnificent account in a mixture of German and Dutch, until she got so
tangled up in her own words that she finally rose from her chair and was just
about to leave the room when her eye fell on me. You should have seen her!
As luck would have it, the moment Mrs.
van D. turned around I was shaking my head in a combination of compassion
and irony. I wasn’t doing it on purpose, but I’d followed her tirade so intently
that my reaction was completely involuntary. Mrs. van D. wheeled around
and gave me a tongue-lashing: hard, Germanic, mean and vulgar, exactly like
some fat, red-faced fishwife. It was a joy to behold. If I could draw, I’d like to
have sketched her as she was then.
She struck me as so comical, that silly little scatterbrain!
I’ve learned one thing: you only really get to know a person after a fight.
Only then can you judge their true character!
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
The strangest things happen to you when you’re in hiding!
Try to picture this. Because we don’t have a bathtub, we wash ourselves in a
washtub, and because there’s only hot water in the office (by which I mean
the entire lower floor), the seven of us take turns making the most of this
great opportunity. But since none of us are alike and are all plagued by
varying degrees of modesty, each member of the family has selected a
different place to wash. Peter takes a bath in the office kitchen, even though it
has a glass door.
When it’s time for his bath, he goes around to each of us in turn and
announces that we shouldn’t walk past the kitchen for the next half hour. He
considers this measure to be sufficient. Mr. van D. takes his bath upstairs,
figuring that the safety of his own room outweighs the difficulty of having to
carry the hot water up all those stairs. Mrs. van D. has yet to take a bath; she’s
waiting to see which is the best place. Father bathes in the private office and
Mother in the kitchen behind a fire screen, while Margot and I have declared
the front office to be our bathing grounds. Since the curtains are drawn on
Saturday afternoon, we scrub ourselves in the dark, while the one who isn’t in
the bath looks out the window through a chink in the curtains and gazes in
wonder at the endlessly amusing people.
A week ago I decided I didn’t like this spot and have been on the lookout for
more comfortable bathing quarters. It was Peter who gave me the idea of
setting my washtub in the spacious office bathroom. I can sit down, turn on
the light, lock the door, pour out the water without anyone’s help, and all
without the fear of being seen. I used my lovely bathroom for the first time
on Sunday and, strange as it may seem, I like it better than any other place.
The plumber was at work downstairs on Wednesday, moving the water pipes
and drains from the office bathroom to the hallway so the pipes won’t freeze
during a cold winter. The plumber’s visit was far from pleasant. Not only
were we not allowed to run water during the day, but the bathroom was also
off-limits. I’ll tell you how we handled this problem; you may find it
unseemly of me to bring it up, but I’m not so prudish about matters of this
kind. On the day of our arrival, Father and I improvised a chamber pot,
sacrificing a canning jar for this purpose. For the duration of the plumber’s
visit, canning jars were put into service during the daytime to hold our calls
of nature. As far as I was concerned, this wasn’t half as difficult as having to
sit still all day and not say a word. You can imagine how hard that was for
Miss Quack, Quack, Quack. On ordinary days we have to speak in a whisper;
not being able to talk or move at all is ten times worse.
After three days of constant sitting, my backside was stiff and sore. Nightly
calisthenics helped.
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Yesterday I had a horrible fright. At eight o’clock the doorbell suddenly rang.
All I could think of was that someone was coming to get us, you know who I
mean. But I calmed down when everybody swore it must have been either
pranksters or the mailman.
The days here are very quiet. Mr. Levinsohn, a little Jewish pharmacist and
chemist, is working for Mr. Kugler in the kitchen. Since he’s familiar with the
entire building, we’re in constant dread that he’ll take it into his head to go
have a look at what used to be the laboratory. We’re as still as baby mice.
Who would have guessed three months ago that quicksilver Anne would have
to sit so quietly for hours on end, and what’s more, that she could?
Mrs. van Daan’s birthday was the twenty-ninth. Though we didn’t have a
large celebration, she was showered with flowers, simple gifts and good food.
Apparently the red carnations from her spouse are a family tradition.
Let me pause a moment on the subject of Mrs. van Daan and tell you that her
attempts to flirt with Father are a constant source of irritation to me. She pats
him on the cheek and head, hikes up her skirt and makes so-called witty
remarks in an effort to get’s Pim’s attention. Fortunately, he finds her neither
pretty nor charming, so he doesn’t respond to her flirtations. As you know,
I’m quite the jealous type, and I can’t abide her behavior. After all, Mother
doesn’t act that way toward Mr. van D., which is what I told Mrs. van D. right
to her face.
From time to time Peter can be very amusing. He and I have one thing in
common: we like to dress up, which makes everyone laugh. One evening we
made our appearance, with Peter in one of his mother’s skin-tight dresses and
me in his suit. He wore a hat; I had a cap on. The grown-ups split their sides
laughing, and we enjoyed ourselves every bit as much.
Bep bought new skirts for Margot and me at The Bijenkorf.
The fabric is hideous, like the burlap bag potatoes come in.
Just the kind of thing the department stores wouldn’t dare sell in the olden
days, now costing 24.00 guilders (Margot’s) and 7.75 guilders (mine).
We have a nice treat in store: Bep’s ordered a correspondence course in
shorthand for Margot, Peter and me.
Just you wait, by this time next year we’ll be able to take perfect shorthand. In
any case, learning to write a secret code like that is really interesting.
I have a terrible pain in my index finger (on my left hand), so I can’t do any
ironing. What luck!
Mr. van Daan wants me to sit next to him at the table, since Margot doesn’t
eat enough to suit him. Fine with me, I like changes. There’s always a tiny
black cat roaming around the yard, and it reminds me of my dear sweet
Moortje. Another reason I welcome the change is that Mama’s always carping
at me, especially at the table. Now Margot will have to bear the brunt of it. Or
rather, won’t, since Mother doesn’t make such sarcastic remarks to her. Not to
that paragon of virtue! I’m always teasing Margot about being a paragon of
virtue these days, and she hates it. Maybe it’ll teach her not to be such a
goody-goody. High time she learned.
To end this hodgepodge of news, a particularly amusing joke told by Mr. van
Daan: What goes click ninety-nine times and clack once?
A centipede with a clubfoot.
Bye-bye, Anne
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Everybody teased me quite a bit yesterday because I lay down on the bed
next to Mr. van Daan. “At your age! Shocking!
” and other remarks along those lines. Silly, of course. I’d never want to sleep
with Mr. van Daan the way they mean.
Yesterday Mother and I had another run-in and she really kicked up a fuss.
She told Daddy all my sins and I started to cry, which made me cry too, and I
already had such an awful headache. I finally told Daddy that I love “him”
more than I do Mother, to which he replied that it was just a passing phase,
but I don’t think so. I simply can’t stand Mother, and I have to force myself
not to snap at her all the time, and to stay calm, when I’d rather slap her
across the face. I don’t know why I’ve taken such a terrible dislike to her.
Daddy says that if Mother isn’t feeling well or has a headache, I should
volunteer to help her, but I’m not going to because I don’t love her and don’t
enjoy doing it. I can imagine Mother dying someday, but Daddy’s death
seems inconceivable. It’s very mean of me, but that’s how I feel. I hope
Mother will never read this or anything else I’ve written.
I’ve been allowed to read more grown-up books lately.
Eva’s Youth by Nico van Suchtelen is currently keeping me busy. I don’t
think there’s much of a difference between this and books for teenage girls.
Eva thought that children grew on trees, like apples, and that the stork
plucked them off the tree when they were ripe and brought them to the
mothers.
But her girlfriend’s cat had kittens and Eva saw them coming out of the cat,
so she thought cats laid eggs and hatched them like chickens, and that
mothers who wanted a child also went upstairs a few days before their time to
lay an egg and brood on it. After the babies arrived, the mothers were pretty
weak from all that squatting. At some point, Eva wanted a baby too. She took
a wool scarf and spread it on the ground so the egg could fall into it, and then
she squatted down and began to push. She clucked as she waited, but no egg
came out. Finally, after she’d been sitting for a long time, something did
come, but it was a sausage instead of an egg.
Eva was embarrassed. She thought she was sick. Funny, isn’t it? There are
also parts of Eva’s Youth that talk about women selling their bodies on the
street and asking loads of money.
I’d be mortified in front of a man like that. In addition, it mentions Eva’s
menstruation. Oh, I long to get my period –then I’ll really be grown up.
Daddy is grumbling again and threatening to take away my diary. Oh, horror
of horrors!
From now on, I’m going to hide it.
Anne Frank
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1942
I imagine that. . .
I’ve gone to Switzerland. Daddy and I sleep in one room, while the boys’.
study is turned into a sitting room, where I can receive visitors. As a surprise,
they’ve bought new furniture for me, including a tea table, a desk, armchairs
and a divan. Everything’s simply wonderful. After a few days Daddy gives
me 150 guilders — converted into Swiss money, of course, but I’ll call them
guilders — and tells me to buy everything I think I’ll need, all for myself.
(Later on, I get a guilder a week, which I can also use to buy whatever I
want.) I set off with Bernd and buy:
3 cotton undershirts @ 0.50 = 1.50
3 cotton underpants @ 0.50 = 1.50
3 wool undershirts @ O. 75 = 2.25
3 wool underpants @ O. 75 = 2.25
2 petticoats @ 0.50 = 1.00
2 bras (smallest size) @ 0.50 = 1.00
5 pajamas @ 1.00 = 5.00
1 summer robe @ 2.50 = 2.50
1 winter robe @ 3.00 = 3.00
2 bed jackets @ O. 75 = 1.50
. Anne’s cousins Bernhard (Bernd) and Stephan Elias.
THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL 53
1 small pillow @ 1.00 = 1.00
1 pair of lightweight slippers @ 1.00 = 1.00
1 pair of warm slippers @ 1.50 = 1.50
1 pair of summer shoes (school) @ 1.50 = 1.50
1 pair of summer shoes (dressy) @ 2.00 = 2.00
1 pair of winter shoes (school) @ 2.50 = 2.50
1 pair of winter shoes (dressy) @ 3.00 = 3.00
2 aprons @ 0.50 = 1.00
25 handkerchiefs @ 0.05 = 1.00
4 pairs of silk stockings @ 0.75 = 3.00
4 pairs of kneesocks @ 0.50 = 2.00
4 pairs of socks @ 0.25 = 1.00
2 pairs of thick stockings @ 1.00 = 2.00
3 skeins of white yarn (underwear, cap) = 1.50
3 skeins of blue yarn (sweater, skirt) = 1.50
3 skeins of variegated yarn (cap, scarf) = 1.50
Scarves, belts, collars, buttons = 1.25
Plus 2 school dresses (summer), 2 school dresses (winter), 2 good dresses
(sumr.ner), 2 good dresses (winter), 1 summer skirt, 1 good winter skirt, 1
school winter skirt, 1
raincoat, 1 summer coat, 1 winter coat, 2 hats, 2 caps. For a total of 10g.00
guilders.
2 purses, 1 ice-skating outfit, 1 pair of skates, 1 case (containing powder, skin
cream, foundation cream, cleansing cream, suntan lotion, cotton, first-aid kit,
rouge, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, bath salts, bath powder, eau de cologne, soap,
powder puff).
Plus 4 sweaters @ 1.50,4 blouses @ 1.00, miscellaneous items @ 10.00 and
books, presents @ 4.50.
OCTOBER 9, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Today I have nothing but dismal and depressing news to report. Our many
Jewish friends and acquaintances are being taken away in droves. The
Gestapo is treating them very roughly and transporting them in cattle cars to
Westerbork, the big camp in Drenthe to which they’re sending all the Jews.
Miep told us about someone who’d managed to escape from there. It must be
terrible in Westerbork. The people get almost nothing to eat, much less to
drink, as water is available only one hour a day, and there’s only one toilet
and sink for several thousand people. Men and women sleep in the same
room, and women and children often have their heads shaved. Escape is
almost impossible; many people look Jewish, and they’re branded by their
shorn heads.
If it’s that bad in Holland, what must it be like in those faraway and
uncivilized places where the Germans are sending them? We assume that
most of them are being murdered. The English radio says they’re being
gassed. Perhaps that’s the quickest way to die.
I feel terrible. Miep’s accounts of these horrors are so heartrending, and Miep
is also very distraught. The other day, for instance, the Gestapo deposited an
elderly, crippled Jewish woman on Miep’s doorstep while they set off to find
a car. The old woman was terrified of the glaring searchlights and the guns
firing at the English planes overhead. Yet Miep didn’t dare let her in. Nobody
would. The Germans are generous enough when it comes to punishment.
Bep is also very subdued. Her boyfriend is being sent to Germany. Every
time the planes fly over, she’s afraid they’re going to drop their entire bomb
load on Bertus’s head. Jokes like “Oh, don’t worry, they can’t all fall on him”
or “One bomb is all it takes” are hardly appropriate in this situation. Bertus is
not the only one being forced to work in Germany. Trainloads of young men
depart daily. Some of them try to sneak off the train when it stops at a small
station, but only a few manage to escape unnoticed and find a place to hide.
But that’s not the end of my lamentations. Have you ever heard the term
“hostages”? That’s the latest punishment for saboteurs. It’s the most horrible
thing you can imagine.

Leading citizens — innocent people — are taken prisoner to await theirexecution. If the Gestapo can’t find the saboteur, they simply grab fivehostages and line them up against the wall. You read the announcements oftheir death in the paper, where they’re referred to as “fatal accidents.’Fine specimens of humanity, those Germans, and to think I’m actually one ofthem! No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago. Andbesides, there are no greater enemies on earth than the Germans and the Jews.Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1942Dear Kitty,I’m terribly busy. Yesterday I began by translating a chapter from La BelleNivemaise and writing down vocabulary words. Then I worked on an awfulmath problem and translated three pages of French grammar besides. Today,French grammar and history. I simply refuse to do that wretched math everyday. Daddy thinks it’s awful too.I’m almost better at it than he is, though in fact neither of us is any good, sowe always have to call on Margot’s help. I’m also working away at myshorthand, which I enjoy.Of the three of us, I’ve made the most progress.I’ve read The Storm Family. It’s quite good, but doesn’t compare to Joop terHeul. Anyway, the same words can be found in both books, which makessense because they’re written by the same author. Cissy van Marxveldt is aterrific writer.I’m definitely going to let my own children read her books too.Moreover, I’ve read a lot of Korner plays. I like the way he writes. Forexample, Hedwig, The Cousin from Bremen, The Governess, The GreenDomino, etc.Mother, Margot and I are once again the best of buddies.It’s actually a lot nicer that way. Last night Margot and I were lying side byside in my bed. It was incredibly cramped, but that’s what made it fun. Sheasked if she could read my diary once in a while.”Parts of it,” I said, and asked about hers. She gave me permission to read herdiary as well.The conversation turned to the future, and I asked what she wanted to bewhen she was older. But she wouldn’t say and was quite mysterious about it. Igathered it had something to do with teaching; of course, I’m not absolutelysure, but I suspect it’s something along those lines. I really shouldn’t be sonosy.This morning I’lay on Peter’s bed, after first having chased him off it. He wasfurious, but I didn’t care. He might consider being a little more friendly to mefrom time to time. After all, I did give him an apple last night.I once asked Margot if she thought I was ugly. She said that I was cute andhad nice eyes. A little vague, don’t you think?Well, until next time!Anne FrankPS. This morning we all took turns on the scale. Margot now weighs 132pounds, Mother 136, Father 155, Anne 96, Peter 14g, Mrs. van Daan 117,Mr. van Daan 165. In the three months since I’ve been here, I’ve gained 19pounds. A lot, huh?TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1942Dearest Kitty,My hand’s still shaking, though it’s been two hours since we had the scare. Ishould explain that there are five fire extinguishers in the building. The officestaff stupidly forgot to warn us that the carpenter, or whatever he’s called,was coming to fill the extinguishers. As a result, we didn’t bother to be quietuntil I heard the sound of hammering on the landing (across from thebookcase). I immediately assumed it was the carpenter and went to warn Bep,who was eating lunch, that she couldn’t go back downstairs. Father and Istationed ourselves at the door so we could hear when the man had left. Afterworking for about fifteen minutes, he laid his hammer and some other toolson our bookcase (or so we thought!) and banged on our door. We turnedwhite with fear. Had he heard something after all and now wanted to checkout this mysterious-looking bookcase? It seemed so, since he kept knocking,pulling, pushing and jerking on it.I was so scared I nearly fainted at the thought of this total stranger managingto discover our wonderful hiding place. Just when I thought my days werenumbered, we heard Mr. Kleiman’s voice saying, “Open up, it’s me.” Weopened the door at once. What had happened?The hook fastening the bookcase had gotten stuck, which is why no one hadbeen able to warn us about the carpenter.After the man had left, Mr. Kleiman came to get Bep, but couldn’t open thebookcase. I can’t tell you how relieved I was. In my imagination, the man Ithought was trying to get inside the Secret Annex had kept growing andgrowing until he’d become not only a giant but also the cruelest Fascist in theworld. Whew. Fortunately, everything worked out all right, at least this time.We had lots of fun on Monday. Miep and Jan spent the night with us. Margotand I slept in Father and Mother’s room for the night so the Gieses could haveour beds. The menu was drawn up in their honor, and the meal was delicious.The festivities were briefly interrupted when Father’s lamp caused a shortcircuit and we were suddenly plunged into darkness. What were we to do?We did have fuses, but the fuse box was at the rear of the dark warehouse,which made this a particularly unpleasant job at night. Still, the men venturedforth, and ten minutes later we were able to put away the candles.I was up early this morning. Jan was already dressed.Since he had to leave at eight-thirty, he was upstairs eating breakfast by eight.Miep was busy getting dressed, and I found her in her undershirt when I camein. She wears the same kind of long underwear I do when she bicycles.Margot and I threw on our clothes as well and were upstairs earlier thanusual. After a pleasant breakfast, Miep headed downstairs. It was pouringoutside and she was glad she didn’t have to bicycle to work. Daddy and Imade the beds, and afterward I learned five irregular French verbs. Quiteindustrious, don’t you think?Margot and Peter were reading in our room, with Mouschi curled up besideMargot on the divan. After my irregular French verbs, I joined them and readThe Woods Are Singingfor All Eternity. It’s quite a beautiful book, but veryunusual.I’m almost finished.Next week it’s Bep’s turn to spend the night.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1942My dearest Kitty,I’m very worried. Father’s sick. He’s covered with spots and has a hightemperature. It looks like measles. Just think, we can’t even call a doctor!Mother is making him perspire in hopes of sweating out the fever.This morning Miep told us that the furniture has been removed from the vanDaans’ apartment on Zuider-Amstellaan.We haven’t told Mrs. van D. yet. She’s been so”nervenmassig”* *nervous lately, and we don’t feel like hearing her moanand groan again about all the beautiful china and lovely chairs she had toleave behind. We had to abandon most of our nice things too. What’s thegood of grumbling about it now?Father wants me to start reading books by Hebbel and other well-knownGerman writers. I can read German fairly well by now, except that I usuallymumble the words instead of reading them silently to myself. But that’ll pass.Father has taken the plays of Goethe and Schiller down from the bigbookcase and is planning to read to me every evening. We’ve started off withDon Carlos. Encouraged by Father’s good example, Mother pressed herprayer book into my hands. I read a few prayers in German, just to be polite.They certainly sound beautiful, but they mean very little to me. Why is shemaking me act so religious and devout?Tomorrow we’re going to light the stove for the first time. The chimney hasn’tbeen swept in ages, so the room is bound to fill with smoke. Let’s hope thething draws!Yours, AnneMONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1942Dear Kitty,Bep stayed with us Friday evening. It was fun, but she didn’t sleep very wellbecause she’d drunk some wine. For the rest, there’s nothing special to report.I had an awful headache yesterday and went to bed early. Margot’s beingexasperating again.This morning I began sorting out an index card file from the office, becauseit’d fallen over and gotten all mixed up.Before long I was going nuts. I asked Margot and Peter to help, but they weretoo lazy, so I put it away.I’m not crazy enough to do it all by myself!Anne FrankPS. I forgot to mention the important news that I’m probably going to get myperiod soon. I can tell because I keep finding a whitish smear in my panties,and Mother predicted it would start soon. I can hardly wait. It’s such amomentous event. Too bad I can’t use sanitary napkins, but you can’t getthem anymore, and Mama’s tampons can be used only by women who’ve hada baby. iCOMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON JANUARY 22, 1944: I wouldn’t beable to write that kind of thing anymore.Now that I’m rereading my diary after a year and a half, I’m surprised at mychildish innocence. Deep down I know I could never be that innocent again,however much I’d like to be. I can understand the mood chanaes and thecomments about Margot, Mother and Father as if I’d written them onlyyesterday, but I can’t imagine writina so openly about other matters. Itembarrasses me areatly to read the panes dealina with subjects that Iremembered as beina nicer than they actually were. My descriptions are soindelicate. But enouah of that.I can also understand my homesickness and yearning for Moortje. The wholetime I’ve been here I’ve longed unconsciously and at times consciously fortrust, love and physical affection. This longing may change in intensity, butit’s always there.THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1942Dear Kitty,The British have finally scored a few successes in Africa and Stalingradhasn’t fallen yet, so the men are happy and we had coffee and tea thismorning. For the rest, nothing special to report.This week I’ve been reading a lot and doing little work.That’s the way things ought to be. That’s surely the road to success.Mother and I are getting along better lately, but we’re never close. Father’snot very open about his feelings, but he’s the same sweetheart he’s alwaysbeen. We lit the stove a few days ago and the entire room is still filled withsmoke.I prefer central heating, and I’m probably not the only one.Margot’s a stinker (there’s no other word for it), a constant source of irritation,morning, noon and night.Anne Frank

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1942Dearest Kitty,Mother’s nerves are very much on edge, and that doesn’t bode well for me. Isit just a coincidence that Father and Mother never scold Margot and alwaysblame me for everything?Last night, for example, Margot was reading a book with beautifulillustrations; she got up and put the book aside for later. I wasn’t doinganything, so I picked it up and began looking at the pictures. Margot carneback, saw’ “her”book in my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back. Iwanted to look through it some more. Margot got madder by the minute, andMother butted in: “Margot was reading that book; give it back to her.”Father came in, and without even knowing what was going on, saw thatMargot was being wronged and lashed out at me:”I’d like to see what you’d do if Margot was looking at one of your books!”I promptly gave in, put the book down and, according to them, left the room”in a huff.” I was neither huffy nor cross, but merely sad.It wasn’t right of Father to pass judgment without knowing what the issuewas. I would have given the book to Margot myself, and a lot sooner, ifFather and Mother hadn’t intervened and rushed to take Margot’s part, as ifshe were suffering some great injustice.Of course, Mother took Margot’s side; they always take each other’s sides. I’mso used to it that I’ve become completely indifferent to Mother’s rebukes andMargot’s moodiness. I love them, but only because they’re Mother andMargot. I don’t give a darn about them as people. As far as I’m concerned,they can go jump in a lake. It’s different with Father. When I see him beingpartial to Margot, approving Margot’s every action, praising her, hugging her,I feel a gnawing ache inside, because I’m crazy about him. I model myselfafter Father, and there’s no one in the world I love more. He doesn’t realizethat he treats Margot differently than he does me: Margot just happens to bethe smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. But I have a right to betaken seriously too. I’ve always been the clown and mischief maker of thefamily; I’ve always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings andthen again with my own sense of despair. I’m no longer satisfied with themeaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks. I long for somethingfrom Father that he’s incapable of giving. I’m not jealous of Margot; I neverhave been. I’m not envious of her brains or her beauty. It’s just that I’d like tofeel that Father really loves me, not because I’m his child, but because I’mme, Anne.I cling to Father because my contempt of Mother is growing daily and it’sonly through him that I’m able to retain the last ounce of family feeling I haveleft. He doesn’t understand that I sometimes need to vent my feelings forMother. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he avoids any discussioninvolving Mother’s failings. And yet Mother, with all her shortcomings, istougher for me to deal with. I don’t know how I should act. I can’t very wellconfront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm and her hard-heartedness, yetI can’t continue to take the blame for everything.I’m the opposite of Mother, so of course we clash. I don’t mean to judge her; Idon’t have that right. I’m simply looking at her as a mother. She’s not amother to me — I have to mother myself. I’ve cut myself adrift from them. I’mcharting my own course, and we’ll see where it leads me. I have no choice,because I can picture what a mother and a wife should be and can’t seem tofind anything of the sort in the woman I’m supposed to call “Mother.”I tell myself time and again to overlook Mother’s bad example. I only want tosee her good points, and to look inside myself for what’s lacking in her. But itdoesn’t work, and the worst part is that Father and Mother don’t realize theirown inadequacies and how much I blame them for letting me down. Arethere any parents who can make their children completely happy?Sometimes I think God is trying to test me, both now and in the future. I’llhave to become a good person on my own, without anyone to serve as amodel or advise me, but it’ll make me stronger in the end.Who else but me is ever going to read these letters? Who else but me can Iturn to for comfort? I’m frequently in need of consolation, I often feel weak,and more often than not, I fail to meet expectations. I know this, and everyday I resolve to do better.They aren’t consistent in their treatment of me. One day they say that Anne’sa sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that Anne’s asilly goose who doesn’t know a thing and yet imagines she’s learned all sheneeds to know from books! I’m no longer the baby and spoiled little darlingwhose every deed can be laughed at. I have my own ideas, plans and ideals,but am unable to articulate them yet.Oh well. So much comes into my head at night when I’m alone, or during theday when I’m obliged to put up with people I can’t abide or who invariablymisinterpret my intentions. That’s why I always wind up coming back to mydiary — I start there and end there because Kitty’s always patient. I promiseher that, despite everything, I’ll keep going, that I’ll find my own way andchoke back my tears. I only wish I could see some results or, just once,receive encouragement from someone who loves me.Don’t condemn me, but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches thebursting point!Yours, AnneMONDAY, NOVEMBER 9,1942Dearest Kitty,Yesterday was Peter’s birthday, his sixteenth. I was upstairs by eight, andPeter and I looked at his presents. He received a game of Monopoly, a razorand a cigarette lighter.Not that he smokes so much, not at all; it just looks so distinguished.The biggest surprise came from Mr. van Daan, who reported at one that theEnglish had landed in Tunis, Algiers, Casablanca and Oran.”This is the beginning of the end,” everyone was saying, but Churchill, theBritish Prime Minister, who must have heard the same thing being repeatedin England, declared,”This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps,the end of the beginning.” Do you see the difference? However, there’s reasonfor optimism.Stalingrad, the Russian city that has been under attack for three months, stillhasn’t fallen intoGerman hands.In the true spirit of the Annex, I should talk to you about food. (I shouldexplain that they’re real gluttons up on the top floor.)Bread is delivered daily by a very nice baker, a friend of Mr. Kleiman’s. Ofcourse, we don’t have as much as we did at home, but it’s enough. We alsopurchase ration books on the black market. The price keeps going up; it’salready risen from 27 to 33 guilders. And that for mere sheets of printedpaper!To provide ourselves with a source of nutrition that will keep, aside from thehundred cans of food we’ve stored here, we bought three hundred pounds ofbeans. Not just for us, but for the office staff as well. We’d hung the sacks ofbeans on hooks in the hallway, just inside our secret entrance, but a fewseams split under the weight. So we decided to move them to the attic, andPeter was entrusted with the heavy lifting.He managed to get five of the six sacks upstairs intact and was busy with thelast one when the sack broke and a flood, or rather a hailstorm, of brownbeans went flying through the air and down the stairs. Since there were aboutfifty pounds of beans in that sack, it made enough noise to raise the dead.Downstairs they were sure the house was falling down around their heads.Peter was stunned, but then burst into peals of laughter when he saw mestanding at the bottom of the stairs, like an island in a sea of brown, withwaves of beans lapping at my ankles. We promptly began picking them up,but beans are so small and slippery that they roll into every conceivablecorner and hole. Now each time we go upstairs, we bend over and huntaround so we can present Mrs.van Daan with a handful of beans.I almost forgot to mention that Father has recovered from his illness.Yours, AnneP.S. The radio has just announced that Algiers has fallen.Morocco, Casablanca and Oran have been in English hands for several days.We’re now waiting for Tunis.TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1942Dearest Kitty,Great news! We’re planning to take an eighth person into hiding with us!Yes, really. We always thought there was enough room and food for onemore person, but we were afraid of placing an even greater burden on Mr.Kugler and Mr. Kleiman. But since reports of the dreadful things being doneto the Jews are getting worse by the day, Father decided to sound out thesetwo gentlemen, and they thought it was an excellent plan.”It’s just as dangerous, whether there are seven or eight,”they noted rightly. Once this was settled, we sat down and mentally wentthrough our circle of acquaintances, trying to come up with a single personwho would blend in well with our extended family. This wasn’t difficult.After Father had rejected all the van Daan relatives, we chose a dentist namedAlfred Dussel. He lives with a charming Christian lady who’s quite a bityounger than he is. They’re probably not married, but that’s beside the point.He’s known to be quiet and refined, and he seemed, from our superficialacquaintance with him, to be nice. Miep knows him as well, so she’ll be ableto make the necessary arrangements. If he comes, Mr.Dussel will have to sleep in my room instead of Margot, who will have tomake do with the folding bed.* *After Dussel arrived, Margot slept in herparents’ bedroom. We’ll ask him to bring along something to fill cavitieswith.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1942Dearest Kitty,Miep came to tell us that she’d been to see Dr. Dussel. He asked her themoment she entered the room if she knew of a hiding place and wasenormously pleased when Miep said she had something in mind. She added”that he’d need to go into hiding as soon as possible, preferably Saturday, buthe thought this was highly improbable, since he wanted to bring his recordsup to date, settle his accounts and attend to a couple of patients. Miep relayedthe message to us this morning. We didn’t think it was wise to wait so long.All these preparations require explanations to various people who we feelought to be kept in the dark. Miep went to ask if Dr.Dussel couldn’t manage to come on Saturday after all, but he said no, andnow he’s scheduled to arrive on Monday.I think it’s odd that he doesn’t jump at our proposal. If they pick him up on thestreet, it won’t help either his records or his patients, so why the delay? If youask me, it’s stupid of Father to humor him.Otherwise, no news.Yours, AnneTUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1942Dearest Kitty!Mr. Dussel has arrived. Everything went smoothly. Miep told him to be at acertain place in front of the post office at 11 A.M., when a man would meethim, and he was at the appointed place at the appointed time. Mr. Kleimanwent up to him, announced that the man he was expecting to meet was unableto come and asked him to drop by the office to see Miep. Mr. Kleiman took astreetcar back to the office while Mr. Dussel followed on foot.It was eleven-twenty when Mr. Dussel tapped on the office door. Miep askedhim to remove his coat, so the yellow star couldn’t be seen, and brought himto the private office, where Mr. Kleiman kept him occupied until the cleaninglady had gone. On the pretext that the private office was needed forsomething else, Miep took Mr. Dussel upstairs, opened the bookcase andstepped inside, while Mr. Dussellooked on in amazement.In the meantime, the seven of us had seated ourselves around the dining tableto await the latest addition to our family with coffee and cognac. Miep firstled him into the Frank family’s room. He immediately recognized ourfurniture, but had no idea we were upstairs, just above his head. When Mieptold him, he was so astonished he nearly fainted. Thank goodness she didn’tleave him in suspense any longer, but brought him upstairs. Mr. Dussel sankinto a chair and stared at us in dumbstruck silence, as though he thought hecould read the truth on our faces. Then he stuttered, “Aber . . .but are you nicht in Belgium? The officer, the auto, they were not coming?Your escape was not working?”We explained the whole thing to him, about how we’d deliberately spread therumor of the officer and the car to throw the Germans and anyone else whomight come looking for us off the track. Mr. Dussel was speechless in theface of such ingenuity, and could do nothing but gaze around in surprise as heexplored the rest of our lovely and ultrapractical Annex. We all had lunchtogether. Then he took a short nap, joined us for tea, put away the fewbelongings Miep had been able to bring here in advance and began to feelmuch more at home. Especially when we handed him the followingtypewritten rules and regulations for the Secret Annex (a van Daanproduction):PROSPECTUS AND GUIDE TO THE SECRET ANNEXA Unique Facility for the TemporaryAccommodation of Jews and OtherDispossessed PersonsOpen all year round: Located in beautiful, quiet, wooded surroundings in theheart of Amsterdam. No private residences in the vicinity. Can be reached bystreetcar 13 or 17 and also by car and bicycle. For those to whom suchtransportation has been forbidden by the German authorities, it can also bereached on foot. Furnished and unfurnished rooms and apartments areavailable at all times, with or without meals.Price: Free.Diet: Low-fat.Runnina water in the bathroom (sorry, no bath) and on various inside andoutside walls. Cozy wood stoves for heating.Ample storage space for a variety of goods. Two large, modern safes.Private radio with a direct line to London, New York, Tel Aviv and manyother stations. Available to all residents after 6 P.M. No listening to forbiddenbroadcasts, with certain exceptions, i.e., German stations may only be tunedin to listen to classical music. It is absolutely forbidden to listen to Germannews bulletins (regardless of where they are transmitted from) and to passthem on to others.Rest hours: From 10 P.M. to 7:30 A.M.; 10:15 A.M. on Sundays. Owing tocircumstances, residents are required to observe rest hours during the daytimewhen instructed to do so by the Management. To ensure the safety of all, resthours must be strictly observed!!!Free-time activities: None allowed outside the house until further notice.Use of language: It is necessary to speak softly at all times. Only thelanguage of civilized people may be spoken, thus no German.Reading and relaxation: No German books may be read, except for theclassics and works of a scholarly nature.Other books are optional.

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

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.

Jan brought along the episcopal letter that the bishops addressed to theirparishioners. It was beautiful and inspiring. “People of the Netherlands, standup and take action. Each of us must choose our own weapons to fight for thefreedom of our country, our people and our reli gion!Give your help and support. Act now!” This is what they’re preaching fromthe pulpit. Will it do any good? It’s definitely too late to help our fellow Jews.Guess what’s happened to us now? The owner of the building sold it withoutinforming Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman. One morning the new landlordarrived with an architect to look the place over. Thank goodness Mr. Kleimanwas in the office.He showed the gentlemen all there was to see, with the exception of theSecret Annex. He claimed he’d left the key at home and the new owner askedno further questions. If only he doesn’t come back demanding to see theAnnex. In that case, we’ll be in big trouble!Father emptied a card file for Margot and me and filled it with index cardsthat are blank on one side. This is to become our reading file, in whichMargot and I are supposed to note down the books we’ve read, the author andthe date.I’ve learned two new words: “brothel” and “coquette.” I’ve bought a separatenotebook for new words.There’s a new division of butter and margarine. Each person is to get theirportion on their own plate. The distribution is very unfair. The van Daans,who always make breakfast for everyone, give themselves one and a halftimes more than they do us. My parents are much too afraid of an argumentto say anything, which is a shame, because I think people like that shouldalways be given a taste of their own medicine.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mrs. van D. has a new nickname — we’ve started calling her Mrs.Beaverbrook. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything to you, so let me explain.A certain Mr. Beaverbrook often talks on the English radio about what heconsiders to be the far too lenient bombardment of Germany. Mrs. van Daan,who always contradicts everyone, including Churchill and the news reports,is in complete agreement with Mr. Beaverbrook. So we thought it would be agood idea for her to be married to him, and since she was flattered by thenotion, we’ve decided to call her Mrs. Beaverbrook from now on.We’re getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent toGermany. That’s bad for him but good for us because the new one won’t befamthar with the building. We’re still afraid of the men who work in thewarehouse.Gandhi is eating again.The black market is doing a booming business. If we had enough money topay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly. Our greengrocerbuys potatoes from the”Wehrmacht” and brings them in sacks to the private office.Since he suspects we’re hiding here, he makes a point of coming duringlunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and coughwith every breath we take. Everyone who comes upstairs greets us with an”ah-CHOO.” Mrs. van D.swears she won’t go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and she’s going toget sick.I don’t think Father has a very nice business. Noth ing but pectin and pepper.As long as you’re in the food business, why not make candy?A veritable thunderstorm of words came crashing down on me again thismorning. The air flashed with so many coarse expressions that my ears wereringing with “Anne’s bad this”annd “van Daans’ good that.” Fire and brimstone!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943Dearest Kitty,We had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were boomingaway until dawn. I still haven’t gotten over my fear of planes and shooting,and I crawl into Father’s bed nearly every night for comfort. I know it soundschildish, but wait till it happens to you! The ack-ack guns make so muchnoise you can’t hear your own voice. Mrs.Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid littlevoice, “Oh, it’s so awful. Oh, the guns are so loud!” — which is another wayof saying “I’m so scared.”It didn’t seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark. I wasshivering, as if I had a fever, and begged Father to relight the candle. He wasadamant: there was to be no light. Suddenly we heard a burst of machine-gunfire, and that’s ten times worse than antiaircraft guns.Mother jumped out of bed and, to Pim’s great annoyance, lit the candle. Herresolute answer to his grumbling was, “After all, Anne is not an ex-soldier!”And that was the end of that!Have I told you any of Mrs. van D.’s other fears? I don’t think so. To keepyou up to date on the latest adventures in the Secret Annex, I should tell youthis as well. One night Mrs. van D. thought she heard loud footsteps in theattic, and she was so afraid of burglars, she woke her husband. At that verysame moment, the thieves disappeared, and the only sound Mr. van D. couldhear was the frightened pounding of his fatalistic wife’s heart. “Oh, Putti!”she cried. (Putti is Mrs. van D.’s pet name for her husband.) “They must havetaken all our sausages and dried beans. And what about Peter?Oh, do you think Peter’s still safe and sound in his bed?””I’m sure they haven’t stolen Peter. Stop being such a ninny, and let me getback to sleep!”Impossible. Mrs. van D. was too scared to sleep.A few nights later the entire van Daan family was awakened by ghostlynoises. Peter went to the attic with a flashlight and — scurry, scurry — what doyou think he saw running away? A whole slew of enormous rats!Once we knew who the thieves were, we let Mouschi sleep in the attic andnever saw our uninvited guests again. . . at least not at night.A few evenings ago (it was seven-thirty and still light), Peter went up to theloft to get some old newspapers. He had to hold on tightly to the trapdoor toclimb down the ladder.He put down his hand without looking, and nearly fell off the ladder fromshock and pain. Without realizing it, he’d put his hand on a large rat, whichhad bitten him in the arm. By the time he reached us, white as a sheet andwith his knees knocking, the blood had soaked through his pajamas. Nowonder he was so shaken, since petting a rat isn’t much fun, especially whenit takes a chunk out of your arm.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943Dearest Kitty,May I introduce: Mama Frank, the children’s advocate!Extra butter for the youngsters, the problems facing today’s youth — youname it, and Mother defends the younger generation. After a skirmish or two,she always gets her way.One of the jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. A feast for Mouschi and Boche.You haven’t met Boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we wentinto hiding. She’s the warehouse and office cat, who keeps the rats at bay inthe storeroom.Her odd, political name can easily be explained. For a while the firm Gies &Co. had two cats: one for the warehouse and one for the attic. Their pathscrossed from time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. Thewarehouse cat was always the aggressor, while the attic cat was ultimatelythe victor, just as in politics. So the warehouse cat was named the German, or”Boche,” and the attic cat the Englishman, or “Tommy.” Sometime after thatthey got rid of Tommy, but Boche is always there to amuse us when we godownstairs.VVe’ve eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I can’t stand to lookat them. Just thinking about them makes me sick.Our evening serving of bread has been canceled.Daddy just said that he’s not in a very cheerful mood. His eyes look so sadagain, the poor man!I can’t tear myself away from the book A Knock at the Door by Ina BakkerBoudier. This family saga is extremely well written, but the parts dealingwith war, writers and the emancipation of women aren’t very good. To behonest, these subjects don’t interest me much.Terrible bombing raids on Germany. Mr. van Daan is grouchy. The reason:the cigarette shortage.The debate about whether or not to start eating the canned food ended in ourfavor.I can’t wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not verypractical around the house. A pair of straw thongs that were purchased for6.50 guilders were worn down to the soles within a week. Maybe Miep willbe able to scrounge up something on the black market.It’s time to cut Father’s hair. Pim swears that I do such a good job he’ll nevergo to another barber after the war. If only I didn’t nick his ear so often!Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943My dearest Kitty,Turkey’s entered the war. Great excitement. Anxiously awaiting radio reports.FRIDAY, MARCH 19, 1943Dearest Kitty,In less than an hour, joy was followed by disappoint ment.Turkey hasn’t entered the war yet. It was only a cabinet minister talking aboutTurkey giving up its neu trality sometime soon. The newspaper vendor inDam Square was shouting “Turkey on England’s side!” and the papers werebeing snatched out of his hands. This was how we’d heard the encouragingrumor.Thousand-guilder notes are being declared invalid. That’ll be a blow to theblack marketeers and others like them, but even more to pe Ie in hiding andanyone else with money that can’t be accounted for. To turn in a thousandguilder bill, you have to be able to state how you came by it and provideproof. They can still be used to pay taxes, but only until next week. The fivehundred notes will lapse at the same time. Gies & Co. still had someunaccounted-for thousand-guilder bills, which they used to pay theirestimated taxes for the coming years, so everything seems to be aboveboard.Dussel has received an old-fashioned, foot-operated dentist’s drill. Thatmeans I’ll probably be getting a thorough checkup soon.Dussel is terribly lax when it comes to obeying the rules of the house. Notonly does he write letters to his Charlotte, he’s also carrying on a chattycorrespondence with various other people. Margot, the Annex’s Dutchteacher, has been correcting these letters for him. Father has forbidden him tokeep up the practice and Margot has stopped correcting the letters, but I thinkit won’t be long before he starts up again.The Fuhrer has been talking to wounded soldiers. We listened on the radio,and it was pathetic. The questions and answers went something like this:”My name is Heinrich Scheppel.””Where were you wounded?””Near Stalingrad.””What kind of wound is it?””Two frostbitten feet and a fracture of the left arm.”This is an exact report of the hideous puppet show aired on the radio. Thewounded seemed proud of their wounds — the more the better. One was sobeside himself at the thought of shaking hands (I presume he still had one)with the Fuhrer that he could barely say a word.I happened to drop Dussel’s soap on the floor and step on it. Now there’s awhole piece missing. I’ve already asked Father to compensate him for thedamages, especially since Dussel only gets one bar of inferior wartime soap amonth.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mother, Father, Margot and I were sitting quite pleasantly together last nightwhen Peter suddenly came in and whispered in Father’s ear. I caught thewords “a barrel falling over in the warehouse” and “someone fiddling withthe door.”Margot heard it too, but was trying to calm me down, since I’d turned whiteas chalk and was extremely nervous. The three of us waited while Father andPeter went downstairs. A minute or two later Mrs. van Daan came up fromwhere she’d been listening to the radio and told us that Pim had asked her toturn it off and tiptoe upstairs. But you know what happens when you’re tryingto be quiet — the old stairs creaked twice as loud. Five minutes later Peter andPim, the color drained from their faces, appeared again to relate theirexperiences.They had positioned themselves under the staircase and waited. Nothinghappened. Then all of a sudden they heard a couple of bangs, as if two doorshad been slammed shut inside the house. Pim bounded up the stairs, whilePeter went to warn Dussel, who finally pre sented himself upstairs, thoughnot without kicking up a fuss and making a lot of noise. Then we all tiptoedin our stockinged feet to the van Daans on the next floor. Mr. van D. had abad cold and had already gone to bed, so we gathered around his bedside anddiscussed our suspicions in a whisper. Every time Mr. van D.coughed loudly, Mrs. van D. and I nearly had a nervous fit.He kept coughing until someone came up with the bright idea of giving himcodeine. His cough subsided immediately.Once again we waited and waited, but heard nothing.Finally we came to the conclusion that the burglars had taken to their heelswhen they heard footsteps in an otherwise quiet building. The problem nowwas that the chairs in the private office were neatly grouped around the radio,which was tuned to England. If the burglars had forced the door and the airraid wardens were to notice it and call the police, there could be very seriousrepercus sions. So Mr. van Daan got up, pulled on his coat and pants, put onhis hat and cautiously followed Father down the stairs, with Peter (armedwith a heavy hammer, to be on the safe side) right behind him. The ladies(including Margot and me) waited in suspense until the men returned fiveminutes later and reported that there was no sign of any activity in thebuilding. We agreed not to run any water or flush the toilet; but sinceeveryone’s stomach was churning from all the tension, you can imagine thestench after we’d each had a turn in the bathroom.Incidents like these are always accompanied by other disasters, and this wasno exception. Number one: the Westertoren bells stopped chiming, and I’dalways found them so comforting. Number two: Mr. Voskuijlleft early lastnight, and we weren’t sure if he’d given Bep the key and she’d forgotten tolock the door.But that was of little importance now. The night had just begun, and we stillweren’t sure what to expect. We were somewhat reassured by the fact thatbetween eight-fifteen –when the burglar had first entered the building andput our lives in jeopardy, and ten-thirty, we hadn’t heard a sound.The more we thought about it, the less likely it seemed that a burglar wouldhave forced a door so early in the evening, when there were still people outon the streets. Besides that, it occurred to us that the warehouse manager atthe Keg Company next door might still have been at work. What with theexcitement and the thin walls, it’s easy to mistake the sounds. Besides, yourimagination often plays tricks on you in moments of danger.So we went to bed, though not to sleep. Father and Mother and Mr. Dusselwere awake most of the night, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that Ihardly got a wink of sleep.This morning the men went downstairs to see if the outside door was stilllocked, but all was well!Of course, we gave the entire office staff a blow-by-blow account of theincident, which had been far from pleasant.It’s much easier to laugh at these kinds of things after they’ve happened, andBep was the only one who took us seriously.Yours, AnnePS. This morning the toilet was clogged, and Father had to stick in a longwooden pole and fish out several pounds of excrement and strawberry recipes(which is what we use for toilet paper these days). Afterward we burned thepole.SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1943Dearest Kitty,We’ve finished our shorthand course and are now working on improving ourspeed. Aren’t we smart! Let me tell you more about my “time killers” (this iswhat I call my courses, because all we ever do is try to make the days go byas quickly as possible so we are that much closer to the end of our time here).I adore mythology, espe cially the Greek and Roman gods. Everyone herethinks my interest is just a passing fancy, since they’ve never heard of ateenager with an appreciation of mythology. Well then, I guess I’m the first!Mr. van Daan has a cold. Or rather, he has a scratchy throat, but he’s makingan enormous to-do over it. He gargles with camomile tea, coats the roof ofhis mouth with a tincture of myrrh and rubs Mentholatum over his chest,nose, gums and tongue. And to top it off, he’s in a foul mood!Rauter, some German bigwig, recently gave a speech. “All Jews must be outof the German-occupied territories before July 1. The province of Utrechtwill be cleansed of Jews as if they were cockroaches between April 1 andMay 1, and the provinces of North and South Holland between May 1 andJune 1.” These poor people are being shipped off to filthiy slaughterhouseslike a herd of sick and neglected cattle. But I’ll say no more on the subject.My own thoughts give me nightmares!One good piece of news is that the Labor Exchange was set on fire in an actof sabotage. A few days later the County Clerk’s Office also went up inflames. Men posing as German police bound and gagged the guards andmanaged to destroy some important documents.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1943Dearest Kitty,I’m not really in the mood for pranks (see the date).On the contrary, today I can safely quote the saying”

Misfortunes never come singly.” First, Mr. Kleiman, our merry sunshine, had
another bout of gastrointestinal hemorrhaging yesterday and will have to stay
in bed for at least three weeks. I should tell you that his stomach has been
bothering him quite a bit, and there’s no cure. Second, Bep has the flu. Third,
Mr. Voskuijl has to go to the hospital next week.
He probably has an ulcer and will have to undergo surgery.
Fourth, the managers of Pomosin Industries came from Frankfurt to discuss
the new Opekta deliveries. Father had gone yer the important points with Mr.
Kleiman, and there wasn’t enough time to give Mr. Kugler a thor ough
briefing.
The gentlemen arrived from Frankfurt, and Father was already shaking at the
thought of how the talks would go. “If only I could be there, if only I were
downstairs,” he exclaimed.
“Go lie down with your ear to the floor. They’ll be brought to the private
office, and you’ll be able to hear everything.’
Father’s face cleared, and yesterday morning at ten-thirty Margot and Pim
(two ears are better than one) took up their posts on the floor. By noon the
talks weren’t finished, but Father was in no shape to continue his listen ing
campaign.
He was in agony from having to lie for hours in such an unusual and
uncomfortable position. At two-thirty we heard voices in the hall, and I took
his place; Margot kept me company. The conversation was so long-winded
and boring that I suddenly fell asleep on the cold, hard linoleum. Margot
didn’t dare touch me for fear they’d hear us, and of course she couldn’t shout.
I slept for a good half hour and then awoke with a start, having forgotten
every word of the important discussion. Luckily, Margot had paid more
attention.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Oh my, another item has been added to my list of sins.
Last night~ was lying in bed, waiting for Father to tuck me in an say my
prayers with me, when Mother came into the room, sat on my bed and asked
very gently, “Anne, Daddy isn’t ready. How about if I listen to your prayers
tonight?”
“No, Momsy,” I replied.
Mother got up, stood beside my bed for a moment and then slowly walked
toward the door. Suddenly she turned, her face contorted with pain, and said,
“I don’t want to be angry with you. I can’t make you love me!” A few tears
slid down her cheeks as she went out the door.
I lay still, thinking how mean it was of me to reject her so cruelly, but I also
knew that I was incapable of answering her any other way. I can’t be a
hypocrite and pray with her when I don’t feel like it. It just doesn’t work that
way. I felt sorry for Mother — very, very sorry — because for the first time in
my life I noticed she wasn’t indifferent to my coldness. I saw the sorrow in
her face when she talked about not being able to make me love her. It’s hard
to tell the truth, and yet the truth is that she’s the one who’s rejected me. She’s
the one whose tactless comments and cruel jokes about matters I don’t think
are funny have made me insensitive to any sign of love on her part. Just as
my heart sinks every time I hear her harsh words, that’s how her heart sank
when she realized there was no more love between us.
She cried half the night and didn’t get any sleep. Father has avoided looking
at me, and if his eyes do happen to cross mine, I can read his unspoken
words: “How can you be so unkind? How dare you make your mother so
sad!”
Everyone expects me to apologize, but this is not something I can apologize
for, because I told the truth, and sooner or later Mothjr was bound to find out
anyway. I seem to be indifferent to Mother’s tears and Father’s glances, and I
am, because both of them are now feeling what I’ve always felt. I can only
feel sorry for Mother, who will have to figure out what her attitude should be
all by herself. For my part, I will continue to remain silent and aloof, and I
don’t intend to shrink from the truth, because the longer it’s postponed, the
harder it will be for them to accept it when they do hear it!
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, APRIL 27, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
The house is still trembling from the aftereffects of the quarrels. Everyone is
mad at everyone else: Mother and I, Mr.
van Daan and Father, Mother and Mrs. van D. Terrific atmosphere, don’t you
think? Once again Anne’s usual list of shortcomings has been extensively
aired.
Our German visitors were back last Saturday. They stayed until six. We all
sat upstairs, not daring to move an inch.
If there’s no one else working in the building or in the neighborhood, you can
hear every single step in the private office. I’ve got ants in my pants again
from having to sit still so long.
Mr. Voskuijl has been hospitalized, but Mr. Kleiman’s back at the office. His
stomach stopped bleeding sooner than it normally does. He told us that the
County Clerk’s Office took an extra beating because the firemen flooded the
entire building instead of just putting out the fire. That does my heart good!
The Carlton Hotel has been destroyed. Two British planes loaded with
firebombs landed right on top of the German Officers’ Club. The entire corner
of Vijzelstraat and Singel has gone up in flames. The number of air strikes on
German cities is increasing daily. We haven’t had a good night’s rest in ages,
and I have bags under my eyes from lack of sleep.
Our food is terrible. Breakfast consists of plain, unbuttered brea and ersatz
coffee. For the last two weeks lunch has been e. spinach or cooked lettuce
with huge potatoes that have a rotten, sweetish taste. If you’re trying to diet,
the Annex is the place to be! Upstairs they complain bitterly, but we don’t
think it’s such a tragedy.
All the Dutch men who either fought or were mobilized in 1940 have been
called up to work in prisoner-of-war camps. I bet they’re taking this
precaution because of the invasion!
Yours, Anne
SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Yesterday was Dussel’s birthday. At first he acted as if he didn’t want to
celebrate it, but when Miep arrived with a large shopping bag overflowing
with gifts, he was as excited as a little kid. His darling’ ‘Lotje” has sent him
eggs, butter, cookies, lemonade, bread, cognac, spice cake, flowers, oranges,
chocolate, books and writing paper. He piled his presents on a table and
displayed them for no fewer than three days, the silly old goat!
You mustn’t get the idea that he’s starving. We found bread, cheese, jam and
eggs in his cupboard. It’s absolutely disgraceful that Dussel, whom we’ve
treated with such kindness and whom we took in to save from destruction,
should stuff himself behind our backs and not give us anything.
After all, we’ve shared all we had with him! But what’s worse, in our opinion,
is that he’s so stingy with respect to Mr. Kleiman, Mr. Voskuijl and Bep. He
doesn’t give them a thing. In Dussel’s view the oranges that Kleiman so badly
needs for his sick stomach will benefit his own stomach even more.
Tonight the guns have been banging away so much that I’ve already had to
gather up my belongings four times. Today I packed a suitcase Wl f;the stuff
I’d need in case we had to flee, but as M ther correctly noted,
“Where would you go?”
All of Holland is being punishe or the workers’ strikes.
Martial law has been declared, and everyone is going to get one less butter
coupon. What naughty children.
I washed Mother’s hair this evening, which is no easy task these days. We
have to use a very sticky liquid cleanser because there’s no more shampoo.
Besides that, Moms had a hard time combing her hair because the family
comb has only ten teeth left.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943
When I think about our lives here, I usually come to the conclusion that we
live in a paradise compared to the Jews who aren’t in hiding. All the same,
later on, when everything has returned to normal, I’ll probably wonder how
we, who always lived in such comfortable circumstances, could have
“sunk” so low. With respect to manners, I mean. For example, the same
oilcloth has covered the dining table ever since we’ve been here. After so
much use, it’s hardly what you’d call spotless. I do my best to clean it, but
since the dishcloth was also purchased before we went into hiding and
consists of more holes than cloth, it’s a thankless task. The van Daans have
been sleeping all winter long on the same flannel sheet, which can’t be
washed because detergent is rationed and in short supply. Besides, it’s of such
poor quality that it’s practically useless. Father is walking around in frayed
trousers, and his tie is also showing signs of wear and tear. Mama’s corset
snapped today and is beyond repair, while Margot is wearing a bra that’s two
sizes too small, Mother and Margot have shared the same three undershorts
the entire winter, and mine are so small they don’t even cover my stomach.
These are all things that can be overcome, but I sometimes wonder: how can
we, whose every possession, from my underpants to Father’s shaving brush,
is so old and worn, ever hope to regain the position we had before the war?
SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943
The Attitude of the Annex Residents Toward the War Mr. van Daan. In the
opinion of us all, this revered gentleman has great insight into politics.
Nevertheless, he predicts we’ll have to stay here until the end of ’43. That’s a
very long time, and yet it’s possible to hold out until then. But who can assure
us that this war, which has caused nothing but pain and sorrow, will then be
over? And that nothing will have happened to us and our helpers long before
that time? No one! That’s why each and every day is filled with tension.
Expectation and hope generate tension, as does fear — for example, when we
hear a noise inside or outside the house, when the guns go off or when we
read new
“proclamations” in the paper, since we’re afraid our helpers might be forced
to go into hiding themselves sometime. These days everyone is talking about
having to hide. We don’t know how many people are actually in hiding; of
course, the number is relatively small compared to the general population, but
later on we’ll no doubt be astonished at how many good people in Holland
were willing to take Jews and Christians, with or without money, into their
homes. There’re also an unbelievable number of people with false identity
papers.
Mrs. van Daan. When this beautiful damsel (by her own account) heard that it
was getting easier these days to obtain false IDs, she immediately proposed
that we each have one made. As if there were nothing to it, as if Father and
Mr. van Daan were made of money.
Mrs. van Daan is always sating the most ridiculous things, and her Putti is
often exasperated. But that’s not surprising, because one day Kerli announces,
“When this is allover, I’m going to have myself baptized”; and the next,
“As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to go to Jerusalem. I only feel at
home with other jews!”
Pim is a big optimist, but he always has his reasons.
Mr. Dussel makes up everything as he goes along, and anyone wishing to
contradict His Majesty had better think twice. In Alfred Dussel’s home his
word is law, but that doesn’t suit Anne Frank in the least.
What the other members of the Annex family think about the war doesn’t
matter. When it comes to politics, these four are the only ones who count.
Actually, only two of them do, but Madame van Daan and Dussel include
themselves as well.

TUESDAY, MAY 18, 1943
Dearest Kit,
I recently witnessed a fierce dogfight between German and English pilots.
Unfortunately, a couple of Allied airmen had to jump out of their burning
plane. Our milkman, who lives in Halfweg, saw four Canadians sitting along
the side of the road, and one of them spoke fluent Dutch. He asked the
milkman if he had a light for his cigarette, and then told him the crew had
consisted of six men. The pilot had been burned to death, and the fifth crew
member had hidden himself somewhere. The German Security Police came
to pick up the four remaining men, none of whom were injured. After
parachuting out of a flaming plane, how can anyone have such presence of
mind?
Although it’s undeniably hot, we have to light a fire every other day to burn
our vegetable peelings and garbage.
We can’t throw anything into trash cans, because the warehouse employees
might see it. One small act of carelessness and we’re done for!
All college students are being asked to sign an official statement to the effect
that they “sympathize with the Germans and approve of the New Order.”
Eighty percent have decided to obey the dictates of their conscience, but the
penalty will be severe. Any student refusing to sign will be sent to a German
labor camp. What’s to become of the youth of our country if they’ve all got to
do hard labor in Germany?
Last night the guns were making so much noise that Mother shut the window;
I was in Pim’s bed. Suddenly, right above our heads, we heard Mrs. van D.
leap up, as if she’d been bitten by Mouschi. This was followed by a loud
boom, which sounded as if a firebomb had landed beside my bed. “Lights!
Lights!” I screamed.
Pim switched on the lamp. I expected the room to burst into flames any
minute. Nothing happened. We all rushed upstairs to see what was going on.
Mr. and Mrs. van D. had seen a red glow through the open window, and he
thought there was a fire nearby, while she was certain our house was ablaze.
Mrs. van D. was already standing beside her bed with her knees knocking
when the boom came. Dussel stayed upstairs to smoke a cigarette, and we
crawled back into bed. Less than fifteen minutes later the shooting started
again. Mrs. van D.
sprang out of bed and went downstairs to Dussel’ s room to seek the comfort
she was unable to find with her spouse.
Dussel welcomed her with the words “Come into my bed, my child!”
We burst into peals of laughter, and the roar of the guns bothered us no more;
our fears had all been swept away.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
The poem Father composed for my birthday is too nice to keep to myself.
Since Pim writes his verses only in German, Margot volunteered to translate
it into Dutch. See for yourself whether Margot hasn’t done herself proud. It
begins with the usual summary of the year’s events and then continues: As
youngest among us, but small no more,
Your life can be trying, for we have the chore Of becoming your teachers, a
terrible bore.
“We’ve got experience! Take it from me!”
“We’ve done this all before, you see.
We know the ropes, we know the same.”
Since time immemorial, always the same.
One’s own shortcomings are nothing but fluff, But everyone else’s are heavier
stuff:
Faultfinding comes easy when this is our plight, But it’s hard for your parents,
try as they might, To treat you with fairness, and kindness as well;
Nitpicking’s a habit that’s hard to dispel.
Men you’re living with old folks, all you can do Is put up with their nagging –
– it’s hard but it’s true.
The pill may be bitter, but down it must go, For it’s meant to keep the peace,
you know.
The many months here have not been in vain, Since wasting time noes
against your Brain.
You read and study nearly all the day,
Determined to chase the boredom away.
The more difficult question, much harder to bear, Is “What on earth do I have
to wear?
I’ve got no more panties, my clothes are too tight, My shirt is a loincloth, I’m
really a siaht!
To put on my shoes I must off my toes,
Dh dear, I’m plagued with so many woes!”
Margot had trouble getting the part about food to rhyme, so I’m leaving it out.
But aside from that, don’t you think it’s a good poem?
For the rest, I’ve been thoroughly spoiled and have received a number of
lovely presents, including a big book on my favorite subject, Greek and
Roman mythology. Nor can I complain about the lack of candy; everyone had
dipped into their last reserves. As the Benjamin of the Annex, I got more than
I deserve.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Heaps of things have happened, but I often think I’m boring you with my
dreary chitchat and that you’d just as soon have fewer letters. So I’ll keep the
news brief.
Mr. Voskuijl wasn’t operated on for his ulcer after all.
Once the doctors had him on the operating table and opened him up, they saw
that he had cancer. It was in such an advanced stage that an operation was
pointless. So they stitched him up again, kept him in the hospital for three
weeks, fed him well and sent him back home. But they made an unforgivable
error: they told the poor man exactly what was in store for him. He can’t work
anymore, and he’s just sitting at home, surrounded by his eight children,
brooding about his approaching death. I feel very sorry for him and hate not
being able to go out; otherwise, I’d visit him as often as I could and help take
his mind off matters. Now the good man can no longer let us know what’s
being said and done in the warehouse, which is a disaster for us. Mr. Voskuijl
was our greatest source of help and suppor when it came to safety measures.
We miss him very much.
Next month it’s our turn to hand over our radio to the authorities. Mr.
Kleiman has a small set hidden in his home that he’s giving us to replace our
beautiful cabinet radio.
It’s a pity we have to turn in our big Philips, but when you’re in hiding, you
can’t afford to bring the authorities down on your heads. Of course, we’ll put
the “baby” radio upstairs. What’s a clandestine radio when there are already
clandestine Jews and clandestine money?
All over the country people are trying to get hold of an old radio that they can
hand over instead of their “morale booster.” It’s true: as the reports from
outside grow worse and worse, the radio, with its wondrous voice, helps us
not to lose heart and to keep telling ourselves, “Cheer up, keep your spirits
high, things are bound to get better!”
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JULY 11, 1943
Dear Kitty,
To get back to the subject of child-rearing (for the umpteenth time), let me
tell you that I’m doing my best to be helpful, friendly and kind and to do all I
can to keep the rain of rebukes down to a light drizzle. It’s not easy trying to
behave like a model child with people you can’t stand, especially when you
don’t mean a word of it. But I can see that a little hypocrisy gets me a lot
further than myoid method of saying exactly what I think (even though no
one ever asks my opinion or cares one way or another). Of course, I often
forget my role and find it impossible to curb my anger when they’re unfair, so
that they spend the next month saying the most impertinent girl in the world.
Don’t you think I’m to be pitied sometimes? It’s a good thing I’m not the
grouchy type, because then I might become sour and bad-tempered. I can
usually see the humorous side of their scoldings, but it’s easier when
somebody else is being raked over the coals.
Further, I’ve decided (after a great deal of thought) to drop the shorthand.
First, so that I have more time for my other subjects, and second, because of
my eyes. That’s a sad story. I’ve become very nearsighted and should have
had glasses ages ago. (Ugh, won’t I look like a dope!). But as you know,
people in hiding can’t. . .
Yesterday all anyone here could talk about was Anne’s eyes, because Mother
had suggested I go to the ophthalmologist with Mrs. Kleiman. Just hearing
this made my knees weak, since it’s no small matter. Going outside! Just
think of it, walking down the street! I can’t imagine it. I was petrified at first,
and then glad. But it’s not as simple as all that; the various authorities who
had to approve such a step were unable to reach a quick decision. They first
had to carefully weigh all the difficulties and risks, though Miep was ready to
set off immediately with me in tow. In the meantime, I’d taken my gray coat
from the closet, but it was so small it looked as if it might have belonged to
my little sister. We lowered the hem, but I still couldn’t button it.
I’m really curious to see what they decide, only I don’t think they’ll ever work
out a plan, because the British have landed in Sicily and Father’s all set for a
“quick finish.”
Bep’s been giving Margot and me a lot of office work to do. It makes us both
feel important, and it’s a big help to her. Anyone can file letters and make
entries in a sales book, but we do it with remarkable accuracy.
Miep has so much to carry she looks like a pack mule. She goes forth nearly
every day to scrounge up vegetables, and then bicycles back with her
purchases in large shopping bags.
She’s also the one who brings five library books with her every Saturday. We
long for Saturdays because that means books. We’re like a bunch of little kids
with a present.
Ordinary people don’t know how much books can mean to someone who’s
cooped up.
Our only diversions are reading, studying and listening to the radio.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, JULY 13, 1943
The Best Little Table
Yesterday afternoon Father gave me permission to ask Mr.
Dussel whether he would please be so good as to allow me (see how polite I
am?) to use the table in our room two afternoons a week, from four to fivethirty. I already sit there every day from two-thirty to four while Dussel takes
a nap, but the rest of the time the room and the table are off-limits to me.
It’s impossible to study next door in the afternoon, because there’s too much
going on. Besides, Father sometimes likes to sit at the desk during the
afternoon.
So it seemed like a reasonable request, and I asked Dussel very politely.
What do you think the learned gentleman’s reply was? “No.” Just plain “No!”
I was incensed and wasn’t about to let myself be put off like that. I asked him
the reason for his “No,” but this didn’t get me anywhere. The gist of his reply
was: “I have to study too, you know, and if I can’t do that in the afternoons, I
won’t be able to fit it in at all. I have to finish the task I’ve set for myself;
otherwise, there’s no point in starting. Besides, you aren’t serious about your
studies. Mythology — what kind of work is that? Reading and knitting don’t
count either. I use that table and I’m not going to give it up!”
I replied, “Mr. Dussel, I do take my wsork seriously. I can’t study next door
in the afternoons, and I would appreciate it if you would reconsider my
request!”
Having said these words, the insulted Anne turned around and pretended the
learned doctor wasn’t there. I was seething with rage and felt that Dussel had
been incredibly rude (which he certainly had been) and that I’d been very
polite.
That evening, when I managed to get hold of Pim, I told him what had
happened and we discussed what my next step should be, because I had no
intention of giving up and preferred to deal with the matter myself. Pim gave
me a rough idea of how to approach Dussel, but cautioned me to wait until
the next day, since I was in such a flap. I ignored this last piece of advice and
waited for Dussel after the dishes had been done. Pim was sitting next door
and that had a calming effect.
I began, “Mr. Dussel, you seem to believe further discussion of the matter is
pointless, but I beg you to reconsider.”
Dussel gave me his most charming smile and said, “I’m always prepared to
discuss the matter, even though it’s already been settled.”
I went on talking, despite Dussel’s repeated interruptions. When you first
came here,” I said, “we agreed that the room was to be shared by the two of
us. If we were to divide it fairly, you’d have the entire morning and I’d have
the entire afternoon! I’m not asking for that much, but two afternoons a week
does seem reasonable to me.”
Dussel leapt out of his chair as if he’d sat on a pin.

“You have no business talking about your rights to the room.Where am I supposed to go? Maybe I should ask Mr. van Daan to build me acubbyhole in the attic. You’re not the only one who can’t find a quiet place towork. You’re always looking for a fight. If your sister Margot, who has moreright to work space than you do, had come to me with the same request, I’dnever even have thought of refusing, but you. . .”And once again he brought up the business about the mythology and theknitting, and once again Anne was insulted.However, I showed no sign of it and let Dussel finish: “But no, it’s impossibleto talk to you. You’re shamefully self-centered. No one else matters, as longas you get your way. I’ve never seen such a child. But after all is said anddone, I’ll be obliged to let you have your way, since I don’t want peoplesaying later on that Anne Frank failed her exams because Mr. Dussel refusedto relinquish his table!”He went on and on until there was such a deluge of words I could hardly keepup. For one fleeting moment I thought, “Him and his lies. I’ll smack his uglymug so hard he’ll go bouncing off the wall!” But the next moment I thought,”Calm down, he’s not worth getting so upset about!”At long last Mr. Dussel’ s fury was spent, and he left the room with anexpression of triumph mixed with wrath, his coat pockets bulging with food.I went running over to Father and recounted the entire story, or at least thoseparts he hadn’t been able to follow himself. rim decided to talk to Dussel thatvery same evening, and they spoke for more than half an hour.They first discussed whether Anne should be allowed to use the table, yes orno. Father said that he and Dussel had dealt with the subject once before, atwhich time he’d professed to agree with Dussel because he didn’t want tocontradict the elder in front of the younger, but that, even then, he hadn’tthought it was fair. Dussel felt I had no right to talk as if he were an intruderlaying claim to everything in sight. But Father protested strongly, since hehimself had heard me say nothing of the kind. And so the conversation wentback and forth, with Father defending my“selfishness” and my “busywork” and Dussel grumbling the whole time.Dussel finally had to give in, and I was granted the opportunity to workwithout interruption two afternoons a week. Dussel looked very sullen, didn’tspeak to me for two days and made sure he occupied the table from five tofive-thirty — all very childish, of course.Anyone who’s so petty and pedantic at the age of fifty-four was born that wayand is never going to change.FRIDAY, JULY 16, 1943Dearest Kitty,There’s been another break-in, but this time a real one!Peter went down to the warehouse this morning at seven, as usual, andnoticed at once that both the warehouse door and the street door were open.He immediately reported this to Pim, who went to the private office, tunedthe radio to a German station and locked the door. Then they both went backupstairs. In such cases our orders are not to wash ourselves or run any water,to be quiet, to be dressed by eight and not to go to the bathroom,” and asusual we followed these to the letter. We were all glad we’d slept so well andhadn’t heard anything. For a while we were indignant because no one fromthe office came upstairs the entire morning; Mr. Kleiman left us ontenterhooks until eleven-thirty. He told that the burglars had forced theoutside door and the warehouse door with a crowbar, but when they didn’tfind anything worth stealing, they tried their luck on the next floor. Theystole two cashboxes containing 40 guilders, blank checkbooks and, worst ofall, coupons for 330 pounds of sugar, our entire allotment. It won’t be easy towangle new ones.Mr. Kugler thinks this burglar belongs to the same gang as the one who madean unsuccessful attempt six weeks ago to open all three doors (the warehousedoor and the two outside doors).The burglary caused another stir, but the Annex seems to thrive onexcitement. Naturally, we were glad the cash register and the typewriters hadbeen safely tucked away in our clothes closet.Yours, AnnePS. Landing in Sicily. Another step closer to the . . . !MONDAY, JULY 19,1943Dearest Kitty,North Amsterdam was very heavily bombed on Sunday. There wasapparently a great deal of destruction. Entire streets are in ruins, and it willtake a while for them to dig out all the bodies. So far there have been twohundred dead and countless wounded; the hospitals are bursting at the seams.We’ve been told of children searching forlornly in the smoldering ruins fortheir dead parents. It still makes me shiver to think of the dull, distant dronethat signified the approaching destruction.FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1943Bep is currently able to get hold of notebooks, especially journals andledgers, useful for my bookkeeping sister! Other kinds are for sale as well,but don’t ask what they’re like or how long they’ll last. At the moment they’re all labeled”No Coupons Needed!” Like everything else you can purchase without rationstamps, they’re i totally worthless. They consist of twelve sheets of gray Ipaper with narrow lines that slant across the page. Margot is thinking abouttaking a course in calligraphy; I’ve advised her to go ahead and do it. Motherwon’t let me because of my eyes, but I think that’s silly. Whether I do I that orsomething else, it all comes down to the same I thing.Since you’ve never been through a war, Kitty, and since you know very littleabout life in hiding, in spite of my letters, let me tell you, just for fun, whatwe each want to do first when we’re able to go outside again.Margot and Mr. van Daan wish, above all else, to have a hot bath, filled tothe brim, which they can lie in for more than half an hour. Mrs. van Daanwould like a cake, Dussel can think of nothing but seeing his Charlotte, andMother is dying for a cup of real coffee. Father would like to visit Mr.Voskuijl, Peter would go downtown, and as for me, I’d be so overjoyed Iwouldn’t know where to begin.Most of all I long to have a home of our own, to be able to move aroundfreely and have someone help me with my homework again, at last. In otherwords, to go back to school!Bep has offered to get us some fruit, at so-called bargain prices: grapes 2.50guilders a pound, gooseberries 70 cents a pound, one peach 50 cents, melons75 cents a pound. No wonder the papers write every evening in big, fatletters: “Keep Prices Down!”MONDAY, JULY 26, 1943Dear Kitty,Yesterday was a very tumultuous day, and we’re still all wound up. Actually,you may wonder if there’s ever a day that passes without some kind ofexcitement.The first warning siren went off in the morning while we were at breakfast,but we paid no attention, because it only meant that the planes were crossingthe coast. I had a terrible headache, so I lay down for an hour after breakfastand then went to the office at around two.At two-thirty Margot had finished her office work and was just gathering herthings together when the sirens began wailing again. So she and I troopedback upstairs. None too soon, it seems, for less than five minutes later theguns were booming so loudly that we went and stood in the hall.The house shook and the bombs kept falling. I was clutching my “escapebag,” more because I wanted to have something to hold on to than because Iwanted to run away. I know we can’t leave here, but if we had to, being seenon the streets would be just as dangerous as getting caught in an air raid.After half an hour the drone of engines faded and the house began to humwith activity again. Peter emerged from his lookout post in the front attic,Dussel remained in the front office, Mrs. van D. felt safest in the privateoffice, Mr. van Daan had been watching from the loft, and those of us on thelanding spread out to watch the columns of smoke rising from the harbor.Before long the smell of fire was everywhere, and outside it looked as if thecity were enveloped in a thick fog.A big fire like that is not a pleasant sight, but fortunately for us it was allover, and we went baCk to our various chores. Just as we were startingdinner: another air-raid alarm. The food was good, but I lost my appetite themoment I heard the siren. Nothing happened, however, and forty-fiveminutes later the all clear was sounded. After the dishes had been washed:another air-raid warning, gunfire and swarms of planes. “Oh, gosh, twice inone day,” we thought,”that’s twice in one day,” we thought, “that’s twice too many.” Little good thatdid us, because once agai the bombs rained down, this time on the others ofthe city. According to British reports, Schiphol Airport was bombed. Theplanes dived and climbed, the air was abuzz with the drone of engines. It wasvery scary, and the whole time I kept thinking, “Here it comes, this is it.”I can assure you that when I went to bed at nine, my legs were still shaking.At the stroke of midnight I woke up again: more planes! Dussel wasundressing, but I took no notice and leapt up, wide awake, at the sound of thefirst shot. I stayed in Father’s bed until one, in my own bed until one-thirty,and was back in Father’s bed at two. But the planes kept on coming. At lastthey stopped firing and I was able to go back “home” again. I finally fellasleep at half past two.Seven o’clock. I awoke with a start and sat up in bed. Mr.van Daan was with Father. My first thought was: burglars.”Everything,” I heard Mr. van Daan say, and I thought everything had beenstolen. But no, this time it was wonderful news, the best we’ve had in months,maybe even since the war began. Mussolini has resigned and the King ofItaly has taken over the government.We jumped for joy. After the awful events of yesterday, finally somethinggood happens and brings us. . . hope! Hope for an end to the war, hope forpeace.Mr. Kugler dropped by and told us that the Fokker aircraft factory had beenhit hard. Meanwhile, there was another air-raid alarm this morning, withplanes flying over, and another warning siren. I’ve had it up to here withalarms.I’ve hardly slept, and the last thing I want to do is work.But now the suspense about Italy and the hope that the war will be over bythe end of the year are keeping us awake. .Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, JULY 29, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mrs. van Daan, Dussel and I were doing the dishes, and I was extremelyquiet. This is very unusual for me and they were sure to notice, so in order toavoid any questions, I quickly racked my brains for a neutral topic. I thoughtthe book Henry from Across the Street might fit the bill, but I couldn’t havebeen more wrong; if Mrs. van Daan doesn’t jump down my throat, Mr. Dusseldoes. It all boiled down to this: Mr. Dussel had recommended the book toMargot and me as an example of excellent writing. We thought it wasanything but that. The little boy had been portrayed well, but as for the rest. .. the less said the better. I mentioned something to that effect while we weredoing the dishes, and Dussel launched into a veritable tirade.”How can you possibly understand the psychology of a man?That of a child isn’t so difficult !. But you’re far too young to read a booklike that. Even a twenty-year-old man would be unable to comprehend it.”(So why did he go out of his way to recommend it to Margot and me?) Mrs.van D. and Dussel continued their harangue: “You know way too much aboutthings you’re not supposed to. You’ve been brought up all wrong. Later on,when you’re older, you won’t be able to enjoy anything anymore. You’ll say,‘Oh, I read that twenty years ago in some book.’ You’d better hurry if youwant to catch a husband or fall in love, since everything is bound to be adisappointment to you. You already know all there is to know in theory. Butin practice? That’s another story!”Can you imagine how I felt? I astonished myself by calmly replying, “Youmay think I haven’t been raised properly, but many people would disagree!”They apparently believe that good child-rearing includes trying to pit meagainst my parents, since that’s all they ever do. And not telling a girl my ageabout grown-up subjects is fine. We can all see what happens when. peopleare raised that way.At that moment I could have slapped them both for poking fun at me. I wasbeside myself with rage, and if I only knew how much longer we had to putup with each other’s company, I’d start counting the days.Mrs. van Daan’s a fine one to talk! She sets an example all right — a bad one!She’s known to be exceedingly pushy, egotistical, cunning, calculating andperpetually dissatisfied. Add to that, vanity and coquettishness and there’s noquestion about it: she’s a thoroughly despicable person. I could write an entirebook about Madame van Daan, and who knows, maybe someday I will.Anyone can put on a charming exterior when they want to. Mrs. van D. isfriendly to strangers, especially men, so it’s easy to make a mistake when youfirst get to know her.Mother thinks that Mrs. van D. is too stupid for words, Margot that she’s toounimportant, Pim that she’s too ugly (literally and figuratively!), and afterlong observation (I’m never prejudiced at the beginning), I’ve come to theconclusion that she’s all three of the above, and lots more besides. She has somany bad traits, why should I single out just one of them?Yours, AnneP.S. Will the reader please take into consideration that this story was writtenbefore the writer’s fury had cooled?TUESDAY, AUGUST 3, 1943Dearest Kitty,Things are going well on the political front. Italy has banned the FascistParty. The people are fighting the Fascists in many places — even the armyhas joined the fight. How can a country like that continue to wage war againstEngland?Our beautiful radio was taken away last week. Dussel was very angry at Mr.Kugler for turning it in on the appointed day. Dussel is slipping lower andlower in my estimation, and he’s already below zero. hatever he says aboutpolitics, history, geography or ything else is so ridiculous that I hardly darerepeat it: Hitler will fade from history; the harbor in Rotterdam is bigger thanthe one in Hamburg; the English are idiots for not taking the opportunity tobomb Italy to smithereens; etc., etc.We just had a third air raid. I decided to grit my teeth and practice beingcourageous.Mrs. van Daan, the one who always said “Let them fall” and”Better to end with a bang than not to end at all,” is the most cowardly oneamong us. She was shaking like a leaf this morning and even burst into tears.She was comforted by her husband, with whom she recently declared a truceafter a week of squabbling; I nearly got sentimental at the sight.Mouschi has now proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that having a cat hasdisadvantages as well as advantages. The whole house is crawling with fleas,and it’s getting worse each day. Mr. Kleiman sprinkled yellow powder inevery nook and cranny, but the fleas haven’t taken the slightest notice.It’s making us all very jittery; we’re forever imagining a bite on our arms andlegs or other parts of our bodies, so we leap up and do a few exercises, sinceit gives us an excuse to take a better look at our arms or necks. But now we’repaying the price for having had so little physical exercise; we’re so stiff wecan hardly turn our heads. The real calisthenics fell by the wayside long ago.Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4,1943Dearest Kitty,Now that we’ve been in hiding for a little over a year, you know a great dealabout our lives. Still, I can’t possibly tell you everything, since it’s all sodifferent compared to ordinary times and ordinary people. Nevertheless, togive you a closer look into our lives, from time to time I’ll describe part of anordinary day. I’ll start with the evening and night.Nine in the evening. Bedtime always begins in the Annex with an enormoushustle and bustle. Chairs are shifted, beds pulled out, blankets unfolded –nothing stays where it is during the daytime. I sleep on a small divan, whichis only five feet long, so we have to add a few chairs to make it longer.Comforter, sheets, pillows, blankets: everything has to be removed fromDussel’ s bed, where it’s kept during the day.In the next room there’s a terrible creaking: that’s Margot’s folding bed beingset up. More blankets and pillows, anything to make the wooden slats a bitmore comfortable.Upstairs it sounds like thunder, but it’s only Mrs. van D.’s bed being shovedagainst the window so that Her Majesty, arrayed in her pink bed jacket, cansniff the night air through her delicate little nostrils.Nine o’clock. After Peter’s finished, it’s my turn for the bathroom. I washmyself from head to toe, and more often than not I find a tiny flea floating inthe sink (only during the hot months, weeks or days). I brush my teeth, curlmy hair, manicure my nails and dab peroxide on my upper lip to bleach theblack hairs — all this in less than half an hour.Nine-thirty. I throw on my bathrobe. With soap in one hand, and potty,hairpins, panties, curlers and a wad of cotton in the other, I hurry out of thebathroom. The next in line invariably calls me back to remove the gracefullycurved but unsightly hairs that I’ve left in the sink.Ten o’clock. Time to put up the blackout screen and say good-night. For thenext fifteen minutes, at least, the house is filled with the creaking of beds andthe sigh of broken springs, and then, provided our upstairs neighbors aren’thaving a marital spat in bed, all is quiet.Eleven-thirty. The bathroom door creaks. A narrow strip of light falls into theroom. Squeaking shoes, a large coat, even larger than the man inside it . . .Dussel is returning from his nightly work in Mr. Kugler’s office. I hear himshuffiing back and forth for ten whole minutes, the rustle of paper (from thefood he’s tucking away in his cupboard) and the bed being made up. Then thefigure disappears again, and the only sound is the occasional suspicious noisefrom the bathroom.Approximately three o’clock. I have to get up to use the tin can under my bed,which, to be on the safe side, has a rubber mat underneath in case of leaks. Ialways hold my breath while I go, since it clatters into the can like a brookdown a mountainside. The potty is returned to its place, and the figure in thewhite nightgown (the one that causes Margot to exclaim every evening, Oh,that indecent nighty!) climbs back into bed. A certain somebody lies awakefor about fifteen minutes, listening to the sounds of the night. In the firstplace, to hear whether there are any burglars downstairs, and then to thevarious beds –upstairs, next door and in my room — to tell whether the othersare asleep or half awake. This is no fun, especially when it concerns amember of the family named Dr. Dussel.First, there’s the sound of a fish gasping for air, and this is repeated nine orten times. Then, the lips are moistened profusely. This is alternated with littlesmacking sounds, followed by a long period of tossing and turning andrearranging the pillows. After five minutes of perfect quiet, the samesequence repeats itself three more times, after which he’s presumably lulledhimself back to sleep for a while.Sometimes the guns go off during the night, between one and four. I’m neveraware of it before it happens, but all of a sudden I find myself standing besidemy bed, out of sheer habit. Occasionally I’m dreaming so deeply (of irregularFrench verbs or a quarrel upstairs) that I realize only when my dream is overthat the shooting has stopped and that I’ve remained quietly in my room. Butusually I wake up. Then I grab a pillow and a handkerchief, throw on myrobe and slippers and dash next door to Father, just the way Margot describedin this birthday poem:When shots rino out in the dark of night,The door creaks open and into sightCome a hanky, a pillow, a figure in white. . .Once I’ve reached the big bed, the worst is over, except when the shooting isextra loud.Six forty-five. Brrring . . . the alarm clock, which raises its shrill voice at anyhour of the day or night, whether you want it to or not. Creak. . . wham. . .Mrs. van D. turns it off. Screak . . . Mr. van D. gets up, puts on the water andraces to the bathroom.Seven-fifteen. The door creaks again. Dussel can go to the bathroom. Aloneat last, I remove the blackout screen . . .and a new day begins in the Annex.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, AUGUST 5, 1943Dearest Kitty,Today let’s talk about the lunch break.It’s twelve-thirty. The whole gang breathes a sigh of relief: Mr. van Maaren,the man with the shady past, and Mr. de Kok have gone home for lunch.Upstairs you can hear the thud of the vacuum cleaner on Mrs. van D.’sbeautiful and only rug. Margot tucks a few books under her arm and headsfor the class for slow learners, which is what Dussel seems to be. Pim goesand sits in a corner with his constant companion, Dickens, in hopes of findinga bit of peace and quiet. Mother hastens upstairs to help the busy littlehousewife, and I tidy up both the bathroom and myself at the same time.Twelve forty-five. One by one they trickle in: first Mr.Gies and then either Mr. Kleiman or Mr. Kugler, followed by Bep andsometimes even Miep.One. Clustered around the radio, they all listen raptly to the BBC. This is theonly time the members of the Annex family don’t interrupt each other, sinceeven Mr. van Daan can’t argue with the speaker.One-fifteen. Food distribution. Everyone from downstairs gets a cup of soup,plus dessert, if there happens to be any.A contented Mr. Gies sits on the divan or leans against the desk with hisnewspaper, cup and usually the cat at his side.If one of the three is missing, he doesn’t hesitate to let his protest be heard.Mr. Kleiman relates the latest news from town, and he’s an excellent source.Mr. Kugler hurries up the stairs, gives a short but solid knock on the door andcomes in either wringing his hands or rubbing them in glee, depending onwhether he’s quiet and in a bad mood or talkative and in a good mood.One forty-five. Everyone rises from the table and goes about their business.Margot and Mother do the dishes, Mr.and Mrs. van D. head for the divan, Peter for the attic, Father for his divan,Dussel too, and Anne does her homework.What comes next is the quietest hour of the day; when they’re all asleep, thereare no disturbances. To judge by his face, Dussel is dreaming of food. But Idon’t look at him long, because the time whizzes by and before you know it,it’ll be 4 P.M. and the pedantic Dr. Dussel will be standing with the clock inhis hand because I’m one minute ,late clearing off the table.Yours, AnneSATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 1943Dearest Kitty,A few weeks ago I started writing a story, something I made up frombeginning to end, and I’ve enjoyed it so much that the products of my pen arepiling up.Yours, AnneMONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1943Dearest Kitty,We now continue with a typical day in the Annex. Since we’ve already hadlunch, it’s time to describe dinner.Mr. van Daan. Is served first, and takes a generous portion of whatever helikes. Usually joins in the conversation, never fails to give his opinion. Oncehe’s spoken, his word is final. If anyone dares to suggest otherwise, Mr. vanD. can put up a good fight. Oh, he can hiss like a cat. . . but I’d rather hedidn’t. Once you’ve seen it, you never want to see it again. His opinion is thebest, he knows the most about everything. Granted, the man has a good headon his shoulders, but it’s swelled to no small degree.Madame. Actually, the best thing would be to say nothing.Some days, especially when a foul mood is on the way, her face is hard toread. If you analyze the discussions, you realize she’s not the subject, but theguilty party! A fact everyone prefers to ignore. Even so, you could call herthe instigator. Stirring up trouble, now that’s what Mrs. van Daan calls fun.Stirring up trouble between Mrs. Frank and Anne. Margot and Mr. Frank arent qwte as easy.But let’s return to the table. Mrs. van D. may think she doesn’t always getenough, but that’s not the case. The choicest potatoes, the tastiest morsel, thetenderest bit of whatever there is, that’s Madame’s motto. The others can allhave their turn, as long as I get the best. (Exactly what she accuses AnneFrank of doing.) Her second watchword is: keep talking. As long assomebody’s listening, it doesn’t seem to occur to her to wonder whetherthey’re interested. She must think that whatever Mrs. van Daan says willinterest everyone.Smile coquettishly, pretend you know everything, offer everyone a piece ofadvice and mother them — that’s sure to make a good impression. But if youtake a better look, the good impression fades. One, she’s hardworking; two,cheerful; three, coquettish — and sometimes a cute face. That’s Petronella vanDaan.The third diner. Says very little. Young Mr. van Daan is usually quiet andhardly makes his presence known. As far as his appetite is concerned, he’s aDanaldean vessel that never gets full. Even after the most substantial meal, hecan look you calmly in the eye and claim he could have eaten twice as much.Number four — Margot. Eats like a bird and doesn’t talk at all. She eats onlyvegetables and fruit. Spoiled, in the opinion of the van Daans. Too littleexercise and fresh air, in ours.Beside her — Mama. Has a hearty appetite, does her share of the talking. Noone has the impression, as they do with Mrs. van Daan, that this is ahousewife. What’s the difference between the two? Well, Mrs. van D. doesthe cooking and Mother does the dishes and polishes the furniture.Numbers six and seven. I won’t say much about Father and me. The former isthe most modest person at the table. He always looks to see whether theothers have been served first. He needs nothing for himself; the best thingsare for the children. He’s goodness personified. Seated next to him is theAnnex’s little bundle of nerves.Dussel. Help yourself, keep your eyes on the food, eat and don’t talk. And ifyou have to say something, then for goodness’ sake talk about food. Thatdoesn’t lead to quarrels, just to bragging. He consumes enormous portions,and no is not part of his vocabulary, whether the food is good or bad.Pants that come up to his chest, a red jacket, black patent-leather slippers andhorn-rimmed glasses — that’s how he looks when he’s at work at the littletable, always studying and never progressing. This is interrupted only by hisafternoon nap, food and — his favorite spot — the bathroom. Three, four orfive times a day there’s bound to be someone waiting outside the bathroomdoor, hopping impatiently from one foot to another, trying to hold it in andbarely managing. Does Dussel care? Not a whit. From seven-fifteen to seventhirty, from twelve-thirty to one, from two to two-fifteen, from four to fourfifteen, from six to six-fifteen, from eleven-thirty to twelve. You can set yourwatch by them; these are the times for his regular sessions. He neverdeviates or lets himself be swayed by the voices outside the door, begginghim to open up before a disaster occurs.Number nine is not part of our Annex family, although she does share ourhouse and table. Hep has a healthy appetite.She cleans her plate and isn’t choosy. Hep’s easy to please and that pleases us.She can be characterized as follows: cheerful, good-humored, kind andwilling.TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 1943Dearest Kitty, .A new idea: during meals I talk more to myself than to the others, which hastwo advantages. First, they’re glad they don’t have to listen to my continuouschatter, and second, I don’t have to get annoyed by their opinions. I don’tthink my opinions are stupid but other people do, so it’s better to keep them tomyself. I apply the same tactic when I have to eat something I loathe. I putthe dish in front of me, pretend it’s delicious, avoid looking at it as much aspossible, and it’s gone before I’ve had time to realize what it is. When I get upin the morning, another very disagreeable moment, I leap out of bed, think tomyself,You’ll be slipping back under the covers soon, walk to the window, takedown the blackout screen, sniff at the crack until I feel a bit of fresh air, andI’m awake. I strip the bed as fast as I can so I won’t be tempted to get back in.Do you know what Mother calls this sort of thing? The art of living. Isn’t thata funny expression?We’ve all been a little confused this past week because our dearly belovedWestertoren bells have been carted off to be melted down for the war, so wehave no idea of the exact time, either night or day. I still have hopes thatthey’ll come up with a substitute, made of tin or copper or some such thing, toremind the neighborhood of the clock.Everywhere I go, upstairs or down, they all cast admiring glances at my feet,which are adorned by a pair of exceptionally beautiful (for times like these!)shoes. Miep managed to snap them up for 27.50 guilders. Burgundy-coloredsuede and leather with medium-sized high heels. I feel as if I were on stilts,and look even taller than I already am.Yesterday was my unlucky day. I pricked my right thumb with the blunt endof a big needle. As a result, Margot had to peel potatoes for me (take thegood with the bad), and writing was awkward. Then I bumped into thecupboard door so hard it nearly knocked me over, and was scolded formaking such a racket. They wouldn’t let me run water to bathe my forehead,so now I’m walking around with a giant lump over my right eye. To makematters worse, the little toe on my right foot got stuck in the vacuum cleaner.It bled and hurt, but my other ailments were already causing me so muchtrouble that I let this one slide, which was stupid of me, because now I’mwalking around with an infected toe. What with the salve, the gauze and thetape, I can’t get my heavenly new shoe on my foot.Dussel has put us in danger for the umpteenth time. He actually had Miepbring him a book, an anti-Mussolini tirade, which has been banned. On theway here she was knocked down by an SS motorcycle. She lost her head andshouted You brutes! and went on her way. I don’t dare think what wouldhave happened if she’d been taken down to headquarters.Yours, AnneA Daily Chore in Our Little Community: Peeling Potatoes!One person goes to get some newspapers; another, the knives (keeping thebest for himself, of course); the third, the potatoes; and the fourth, the water.Mr. Dussel begins. He may not always peel them very well, but he does peelnonstop, glancing left and right to see if everyone is doing it the way he does.No, they’re not!Look, Anne, I am taking peeler in my hand like so and going from the top tobottom! Nein, not so . . . but so!I think my way is easier, Mr. Dussel, I say tentatively.But this is best way, Anne. This you can take from me. Of course, it is nomatter, you do the way you want.We go on peeling. I glance at Dussel out of the corner of my eye. Lost inthought, he shakes his head (over me, no doubt), but says no more.I keep on peeling. Then I look at Father, on the other side of me. To Father,peeling potatoes is not a chore, but precision work. When he reads, he has adeep wrinkle in the back of his head. But when he’s preparing potatoes, beansor vegetables, he seems to be totally absorbed in his task. He puts on hispotato-peeling face, and when it’s set in that particular way, it would beimpossible for him to turn out anything less than a perfectly peeled potato.I keep on working. I glance up for a second, but that’s all the time I need.Mrs. van D. is trying to attract Dussel’s attention. She starts by looking in hisdirection, but Dussel pretends not to notice. She winks, but Dussel goes onpeeling. She laughs, but Dussel still doesn’t look up.Then Mother laughs too, but Dussel pays them no mind. Having failed toachieve her goal, Mrs. van D. is obliged to change tactics. There’s a briefsilence. Then she says, Putti, why don’t you put on an apron? Otherwise, I’llhave to spend all day tomorrow trying to get the spots out of your suit!I’m not getting it dirty.Another brief silence. Putti, why don’t you sit down?’I’m fine this way. I like standing up!Silence.Putti, look out, du spritzt schon!.* *Now you’re splashing!I know, Mommy, but I’m being careful.Mrs. van D. casts about for another topic. Tell me, Putti, why aren’t theBritish carrying out any bombing raids today?Because the weather’s bad, Kerli!But yesterday it was such nice weather and they weren’t flying then either.Let’s drop the subject.Why? Can’t a person talk about that or offer an opinion?’Well, why in the world not?Oh, be quiet, Mammichen!* *MommyMr. Frank always answers his wife.Mr. van D. is trying to control himself. This remark always rubs him thewrong way, but Mrs. van D.’s not one to quit: Oh, there’s never going to bean invasion!Mr. van D. turns white, and when she notices it, Mrs. van D. turns red, butshe’s not about to be deterred: The British aren’t doing a thing!The bomb bursts. And now shut up, Donnerwetter noch mal!**For crying out loud!Mother can barely stifle a laugh, and I stare straight ahead.Scenes like these are repeated almost daily, unless they’ve just had a terriblefight. In that case, neither Mr.nor Mrs. van D. says a word.It’s time for me to get some more potatoes. I go up to the attic, where Peter isbusy picking fleas from the cat.He looks up, the cat notices it, and whoosh. . . he’s gone. Out the window andinto the rain gutter.Peter swears; I laugh and slip out of the room.Freedom in the AnnexFive-thirty. Bep’s arrival signals the beginning of our nightly freedom. Thingsget going right away. I go upstairs with Bep, who usually has her dessertbefore the rest of us.The moment she sits down, Mrs. van D. begins stating her wishes. Her listusually starts with Oh, by the way, Bep, something else I’d like. . . Bepwinks at me. Mrs. van D.doesn’t miss a chance to make her wishes known to whoever comes upstairs.It must be one of the reasons none of them like to go up there.Five forty-five. Bep leaves. I go down two floors to have a look around: firstto the kitchen, then to the private office and then to the coal bin to open thecat door for Mouschi.After a long tour of inspection, I wind up in Mr. Kugler’s office. Mr. vanDaan is combing all the drawers and files for today’s mail. Peter picks upBoche and the warehouse key; Pim lugs the typewriters upstairs; Margotlooks around for a quiet place to do her office work; Mrs. van D. puts a kettleof water on the stove; Mother comes down the stairs with a pan of potatoes;we all know our jobs.Soon Peter comes back from the warehouse. The first question they ask himis whether he’s remembered the bread.No, he hasn’t. He crouches before the door to the front office to make himselfas small as possible and crawls on his hands and knees to the steel cabinet,takes out the bread and starts to leave. At any rate, that’s what he intends todo, but before he knows what’s happened, Mouschi has jumped over him andgone to sit under the desk.Peter looks all around him. Aha, there’s the cat! He crawls back into theoffice and grabs the cat by the tail.Mouschi hisses, Peter sighs. What has he accomplished?

Mouschi’s now sitting by the window licking herself, very pleased at havingescaped Peter’s clutches. Peter has no choice but to lure her with a piece ofbread. Mouschi takes the bait, follows him out, and the door closes.I watch the entire scene through a crack in the door.Mr. van Daan is angry and slams the door. Margot and I exchange looks andthink the same thing: he must have worked himself into a rage again becauseof some blunder on Mr.Kugler’s part, and he’s forgotten all about the Keg Company next door.Another step is heard in the hallway. Dussel comes in, goes toward thewindow with an air of propriety, sniffs. . .coughs, sneezes and clears his throat. He’s out of luck — it was pepper. Hecontinues on to the front office. The curtains are open, which means he can’tget at his writing paper. He disappears with a scowl.Margot and I exchange another glance. “One less page for his sweethearttomorrow,” I hear her say. I nod in agreement.An elephant’s tread is heard on the stairway. It’s Dussel, seeking comfort inhis favorite spot.We continue working. Knock, knock, knock. . . Three taps means dinnertime!MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1943Wenn Die Uhr Halb Neune Schlaat . . .* * When the clock strikes half pasteight.Margot and Mother are nervous. “Shh . . . Father. Be quiet, Otto. Shh . . .Pim! It’s eight-thirty.Come here, you can’t run the water anymore. Walk softly!”A sample of what’s said to Father in the bathroom. At the stroke of half pasteight, he has to be in the living room.No running water, no flushing toilet, no walking around, no noisewhatsoever. As long as the office staff hasn’t arrived, sounds travel moreeasily to the warehouse.The door opens upstairs at eight-twenty, and this is followed by three gentletaps on the floor. . . Anne’s hot cereal. I clamber up the stairs to get mydoggie dish.Back downstairs, everything has to be done quickly, quickly: I comb my hair,put away the potty, shove the bed back in place. Quiet! The clock is strikingeight-thirty!Mrs. van D. changes shoes and shuffles through the room in her slippers; Mr.van D. too — a veritable Charlie Chaplin.All is quiet.The ideal family scene has now reached its high point. I want to read or studyand Margot does too. Father and Mother ditto. Father is sitting (with Dickensand the dictionary, of course) on the edge of the sagging, squeaky bed, whichdoesn’t even have a decent mattress. Two bolsters can be piled on top of eachother. “I don’t need these,” he thinks.”I can manage without them!”Once he starts reading, he doesn’t look up. He laughs now and then and triesto get Mother to read a story.”I don’t have the time right now!”He looks disappointed, but then continues to read.A little while later, when he comes across another good passage, he triesagain: “You have to read this, Mother!”Mother sits on the folding bed, either reading, sewing, knitting or studying,whichever is next on her list. An idea suddenly occurs to her, and she quicklysays, so as not to forget, “Anne, remember to . . . Margot, jot this down. . . “After a while it’s quiet again. Margot slams her book shut; Father knits hisforehead, his eyebrows forming a funny curve and his wrinkle ofconcentration reappearing I at the back of his head, and he buries himself inhis book 1 again; Mother starts chatting with Margot; and I get curious andlisten too. Pim is drawn into the conversation . . . Nine o’clock. Breakfast!FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1943Dearest Kitty,Every time I write to you, something special has happened, usuallyunpleasant rather than pleasant. This time, however, something wonderful isgoing on.On Wednesday, September 8, we were listening to the seven o’clock newswhen we heard an announcement: “Here is some of the best news of the warso far: Italy has capitulated.”Italy has unconditionally surrendered! The Dutch broadcast from Englandbegan at eight-fifteen with the news:”Listeners, an hour and fifteen minutes ago, just as I finished writing mydaily report, we received the wonderful news of Italy’s capitulation. I tell you,I never tossed my notes into the wastepaper basket with more delight than Idid today!””God Save the King,” the American national anthem and the Russian”Internationale” were played. As always, the Dutch program was upliftingwithout being too optimistic.The British have landed in Naples. Northern Italy is occupied by theGermans. The truce was signed on Friday, September 3, the day the Britishlanded in Italy. The Germans are ranting and raving in all the newspapers atthe treachery of Badoglio and the Italian king.Still, there’s bad news as well. It’s about Mr. Kleiman.As you know, we all like him very much. He’s unfailingly cheerful andamazingly brave, despite the fact that he’s always sick and in pain and can’teat much or do a lot of walking. “When Mr. Kleiman enters a room, the sunbegins to shine,” Mother said recently, and she’s absolutely right.Now it seems he has to go to the hospital for a very difficult operation on hisstomach, and will have to stay there for at least four weeks. You should haveseen him when he told us good-bye. He acted so normally, as though he werejust off to do an errand.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1943Dearest Kitty,Relationships here in the Annex are getting worse all the time. We don’t dareopen our mouths at mealtime (except to slip in a bite of food), because nomatter what we say, someone is bound to resent it or take it the wrong way.Mr.Voskuijl occasionally comes to visit us. Unfortunately, he’s not doing verywell. He isn’t making it any easier for his family, because his attitude seemsto be: what do I care, I’m going to die anyway! When I think how touchyeveryone is here, I can just imagine what it must be like at the Voskuijls’.I’ve been taking valerian every day to fight the anxiety and depression, but itdoesn’t stop me from being even more miserable the next day. A good heartylaugh would help better than ten valerian drops, but we’ve almost forgottenhow to laugh. Sometimes I’m afraid my face is going to sag with all thissorrow and that my mouth is going to permanently droop at the corners. Theothers aren’t doing any better. Everyone here is dreading the great terrorknown as winter.Another fact that doesn’t exactly brighten up our days is that Mr. van Maaren,the man who works in the warehouse, is getting suspicious about the Annex.A person with any brains must have noticed by now that Miep sometimessays she’s going to the lab, Bep to the file room and Mr. Kleiman to theOpekta supplies, while Mr. Kugler claims the Annex doesn’t belong to thisbuilding at all, but to the one next door.We wouldn’t care what Mr. van Maaren thought of the situation except thathe’s known to be unreliable and to possess a high degree of curiosity. He’s notone who can be put off with a flimsy excuse.One day Mr. Kugler wanted to be extra cautious, so at twenty past twelve heput on his coat and went to the drugstore around the corner. Less than fiveminutes later he was back, and he sneaked up the stairs like a thief to visit us.At one-fifteen he started to leave, but Bep met him on the landing and warnedhim that van Maaren was in the office.Mr. Kugler did an about-face and stayed with us until one-thirty. Then hetook off his shoes and went in his stockinged feet (despite his cold) to thefront attic and down the other stairway, taking one step at a time to avoid thecreaks. It took him fifteen minutes to negotiate the stairs, but he wound upsafely in the office after having entered from the outside.In the meantime, Bep had gotten rid of van Maaren and come to get Mr.Kugler from the Annex. But he’d already left and at that moment was stilltiptoeing down the stairs. What must the passersby have thought when theysaw the manager putting on his shoes outside? Hey, you there, in the socks!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1943Dearest Kitty,It’s Mrs. van Daan’s birthday. Other than one ration stamp each for cheese,meat and bread, all she received from us was a jar of jam. Her husband,Dussel and the office staff gave her nothing but flowers and also food. Suchare the times we live in!Bep had a nervous fit last week because she had so many errands to do. Tentimes a day people were sending her out for something, each time insistingshe go right away or go again or that she’d done it all wrong. And when youthink that she has her regular office work to do, that Mr. Kleiman is sick, thatMiep is home with a cold and that Bep herself has a sprained ankle, boyfriendtroubles and a grouchy father, it’s no wonder she’s at the end of her tether. Wecomforted her and told her that if she’d put her foot down once or twice andsay she didn’t have the time, the shopping lists would shrink of their ownaccord.Saturday there was a big drama, the likes of which have never been seen herebefore. It started with a discussion of van Maaren and ended in a generalargument and tears. Dussel complained to Mother that he was being treatedlike a leper, that no one was friendly to him and that, after all, he hadn’t doneanything to deserve it. This was followed by a lot of sweet talk, which luckilyMother didn’t fall for this time. She told him we were disappointed in himand that, on more than one occasion, he’d been a source of great annoyance.Dussel promised her the moon, but, as usual, we haven’t seen so much as abeam.There’s trouble brewing with the van Daans, I can tell!Father’s furious because they’re cheating us: they’ve been holding back meatand other things. Oh, what kind of bombshell is about to burst now? If only Iweren’t so involved in all these skirmishes! If only I could leave here!They’re driving us crazy!Yours, AnneSUNDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mr. Kleiman is back, thank goodness! He looks a bit pale, and yet hecheerfully set off to sell some clothes for Mr.van Daan. The disagreeable fact is that Mr. van Daan has run out of money.He lost his last hundred guilders in the warehouse, which is still creatingtrouble for us: the men are wondering how a hundred guilders could wind upin the warehouse on a Monday morning. Suspicion abounds. Meanwhile, thehundred guilders have been stolen. Who’s the thief?But I was talking about the money shortage. Mrs. van D.has scads of dresses, coats and shoes, none of which she feels she can dowithout. Mr. van D.’s suit is difficult to sell, and Peter’s bike was put on theblock, but is back again, since nobody wanted it. But the story doesn’t endthere. You see, Mrs. van D. is going to have to part with her fur coat. In heropinion, the firm should pay for our upkeep, but that’s ridiculous. They justhad a flaming row about it and have entered the “oh, my sweet Putti” and”darling Kerli”stage of reconciliation.My mind boggles at the profanity this honorable house has had to endure inthe past month. Father walks around with his lips pressed together, andwhenever he hears his name, he looks up in alarm, as ifhe’s afraid he’ll becalled upon to resolve another delicate problem. Mother’s so wrought up hercheeks are blotched with red, Margot complains of headaches, Dussel can’tsleep, Mrs. van D. frets and fumes all day long, and I’ve gone completelyround the bend. To tell you the truth, I sometimes forget who we’re at oddswith and who we’re not. The only way to take my mind off it is to study, andI’ve been doing a lot of that lately.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943My dearest Kitty,Mr. Kleiman is out again; his stomach won’t give him a moment’s peace. Hedoesn’t even know whether it’s stopped bleeding. He came to tell us he wasn’tfeeling well and was going home, and for the first time he seemed reallydown.Mr. and Mrs. van D. have had more raging battles. The reason is simple:they’re broke. They wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of Mr. van D. ‘s, butwere unable to find any buyers. His prices were way too high.Some time ago Mr. Kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. This gaveMr. van D. the idea of selling his wife’s fur coat. It’s made of rabbit skin, andshe’s had it for seventeen years. Mrs. van D. got 325 guilders for it, anenormous amount. She wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothesafter the war, and it took some doing before Mr.van D. could make her understand that it was desperately needed to coverhousehold expenses.You can’t imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearingthat went on. It was terrifying. My family stood holding its breath at thebottom of the stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. All thebickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain thatI fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that I have halfan hour to myself.I’m doing fine, except I’ve got no appetite. I keep hearing: “Goodness, youlook awful!” I must admit they’re doing their best to keep me in condition:they’re plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewer’s yeast and calcium. Mynerves often get the better of me, especially on Sundays; that’s when I reallyfeel miserable. The atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, youdon’t hear a single bird, and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over thehouse and clings to me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regionsof the underworld. At times like these, Father, Mother and Margot don’tmatter to me in the least. I wander from room to room, climb up and downthe stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and whokeeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage. “Let me out, wherethere’s fresh air and laughter!” a voice within me cries. I don’t even bother toreply anymore, but lie down on the divan. Sleep makes the silence and theterrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time, since it’s impossible tokill it.Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
To take our minds off matters as well as to develop them, Father ordered a
catalog from a correspondence school. Margot pored through the thick
brochure three times without finding anything to her liking and within her
budget. Father was easier to satisfy and decided to write and ask for a trial
lesson in “Elementary Latin.” No sooner said than done. The lesson arrived,
Margot set to work enthusiastically and decided to take the course, despite
the expense. It’s much too hard for me, though I’d really like to learn Latin.
To give me a new project as well, Father asked Mr. Kleiman for a children’s
Bible so I could finally learn something about the New Testament.
“Are you planning to give Anne a Bible for Hanukkah?”
Margot asked, somewhat perturbed.
“Yes. . . Well, maybe St. Nicholas Day would be a better occasion,” Father
replied.
Jesus and Hanukkah don’t exactly go together.
Since the vacuum cleaner’s broken, I have to take an old brush to the rug
every night. The window’s closed, the light’s on, the stove’s burning, and
there I am brushing away at the rug. “That’s sure to be a problem,” I thought
to myself the first time. “There’re bound to be complaints.” I was right:
Mother got a headache from the thick clouds of dust whirling around the
room, Margot’s new Latin dictionary was caked with dirt, and rim grumbled
that the floor didn’t look any different anyway. Small thanks for my pains.
We’ve decided that from now on the stove is going to be lit at seven-thirty on
Sunday mornings instead of five-thirty. I think it’s risky. What will the
neighbors think of our smoking chimney?
It’s the same with the curtains. Ever since we first went into hiding, they’ve
been tacked firmly to the windows.
Sometimes one of the ladies or gentlemen can’t resist the urge to peek
outside. The result: a storm of reproaches. The response: “Oh, nobody will
notice.” That’s how every act of carelessness begins and ends. No one will
notice, no one will hear, no one will pay the least bit of attention. Easy to say,
but is it true?
At the moment, the tempestuous quarrels have subsided; only Dussel and the
van Daans are still at loggerheads. When Dussel is talking about Mrs. van D.,
he invariably calls her’
‘that old bat” or “that stupid hag,” and conversely, Mrs. van D. refers to our
ever so learned gentleman as an “old maid”
or a “touchy neurotic spinster, etc.
The pot calling the kettle black!
Yours, Anne
MONDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER 8,1943
Dearest Kitty,
If you were to read all my letters in one sitting, you’d be struck by the fact
that they were written in a variety of moods. It annoys me to be so dependent
on the moods here in the Annex, but I’m not the only one: we’re all subject to
them. If I’m engrossed in a book, I have to rearrange my thoughts before I can
mingle with other people, because otherwise they might think I was strange.
As you can see, I’m currently in the middle of a depression. I couldn’t really
tell you what set it off, but I think it stems from my cowardice, which
confronts me at every turn. This evening, when Bep was still here, the
doorbell rang long and loud. I instantly turned white, my stomach churned,
and my heart beat wildly — and all because I was afraid.
At night in bed I see myself alone in a dungeon, without Father and Mother.
Or I’m roaming the streets, or the Annex is on fire, or they come in the
middle of the night to take us away and I crawl under my bed in desperation.
I see everything as if it were actually taking place. And to think it might all
happen soon!
Miep often says she envies us because we have such peace and quiet here.
That may be true, but she’s obviously not thinking about our fear.
I simply can’t imagine the world will ever be normal again for us. I do talk
about “after the war,” but it’s as if I were talking about a castle in the air,
something that can Ii never come true.
I see the ei ght of us in the Annex as if we were a patch of blue sky
surrounded by menacing black clouds. The perfectly round spot on which
we’re standing is still safe, but the clouds are moving in on us, and the ring
between us and the approaching danger is being pulled tighter and tighter.
We’re surrounded by darkness and danger, and in our desperate search for a
way out we keep bumping into each other. We look at the fighting down
below and the peace and beauty up above. In the meantime, we’ve been cut
off by the dark mass of clouds, so that we can go neither up nor down.
It looms before us like an impenetrable wall, trying to crush us, but not yet
able to. I can only cry out and implore, “Oh, ring, ring, open wide and let us
out!”
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
I have a good title for this chapter:
Ode to My Fountain Pen
In Memoriam
My fountain pen was always one of my most prized possessions; I valued it
highly, especially because it had a thick nib, and I can only write neatly with
thick nibs. It has led a long and interesting fountain-pen life, which I will
summarize below.
When I was nine, my fountain pen (packed in cotton) arrived as a “sample of
no commercial value” all the way from Aachen, where my grandmother (the
kindly donor) used to live.
I lay in bed with the flu, while the February winds howled around the
apartment house. This splendid fountain pen came in a red leather case, and I
showed it to my girlfriends the first chance I got. Me, Anne Frank, the proud
owner of a fountain pen.
When I was ten, I was allowed to take the pen to school, and to my surprise,
the teacher even let me write with it.
When I was eleven, however, my treasure had to be tucked away again,
because my sixth-grade teacher allowed us to use only school pens and
inkpots. When I was twelve, I started at the Jewish Lyceum and my fountain
pen was given a new case in honor of the occasion. Not only did it have room
for a pencil, it also had a zipper, which was much more impressive.
When I was thirteen, the fountain pen went with me to the Annex, and
together we’ve raced through countless diaries and compositions. I’d turned
fourteen and my fountain pen was enjoying the last year of its life with me
when . . .
It was just after five on Friday afternoon. I came out of my room and was
about to sit down at the table to write when I was roughly pushed to one side
to make room for Margot and Father, who wanted to practice their Latin. The
fountain pen remained unused on the table, while its owner, sighing, was
forced to make do with a very tiny corner of the table, where she began
rubbing beans. That’s how we remove mold from the beans and restore them
to their original state. At a quarter to six I swept the floor, dumped the dirt
into a news paper, along with the rotten beans, and tossed it into the stove. A
giant flame shot up, and I thought it was wonderful that the stove, which had
been gasping its last breath, had made such a miraculous recovery.
All was quiet again. The Latin students had left, and I sat down at the table to
pick up where I’d left off. But no matter where I looked, my fountain pen was
nowhere in sight.
I took another look. Margot looked, Mother looked, Father looked, Dussel
looked. But it had vanished.
“Maybe it fell in the stove, along with the beans!” Margot suggested.
“No, it couldn’t have!” I replied.
But that evening, when my fountain pen still hadn’t turned up, we all assumed
it had been burned, especially because celluloid is highly inflammable. Our
darkest fears were confirmed the next day when Father went to empty the
stove and discovered the clip, used to fasten it to a pocket, among the ashes.
Not a trace of the gold nib was left. “It must have melted into stone,” Father
conjectured.
I’m left with one consolation, small though it may be: my fountain pen was
cremated, just as I would like to be someday!
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Recent events have the house rocking on its foundations.
Owing to an outbreak of diphtheria at Bep’s, she won’t be allowed to come in
contact with us for six weeks. Without her, the cooking and shopping will be
very difficult, not to mention how much we’ll miss her company. Mr.
Kleiman is still in bed and has eaten nothing but gruel for three weeks. Mr.
Kugler is up to his neck in work.
Margot sends her Latin lessons to a teacher, who corrects and then returns
them. She’s registered under Bep’s name. The teacher’s very nice, and witty
too. I bet he’s glad to have such a smart student.
Dussel is in a turmoil and we don’t know why. It all began with Dussel’s
saying nothing when he was upstairs; he didn’t exchange so much as a word
with either Mr. or Mrs. van Daan.
We all noticed it. This went on for a few days, and then Mother took the
opportunity to warn him about Mrs. van D., who could make life miserable
for him. Dussel said Mr. van Daan had started the silent treatment and he had
no intention of breaking it. I should explain that yesterday was November 16,
the first anniversary of his living in the Annex. Mother received a plant in
honor of the occasion, but Mrs. van Daan, who had alluded to the date for
weeks and made no bones about the fact that she thought Dussel should treat
us to dinner, received nothing. Instead of making use of the opportunity to
thank us — for the first time — for unselfishly taking him in, he didn’t utter a
word. And on the morning of the sixteenth, when I asked him whether I
should offer him my congratulations or my condolences, he replied that either
one would do. Mother, having cast herself in the role of peacemaker, made
no headway whatsoever, and the situation finally ended in a draw.
I can say without exaggeration that Dussel has definitely got a screw loose.
We often laugh to ourselves because he has no memory, no fixed opinions
and no common sense. He’s amused us more than once by trying to pass on
the news he’s just heard, since the message invariably gets garbled in
transmission. Furthermore, he answers every reproach or accusation with a
load of fine 1 promises, which he never manages to keep.
“Der Mann hat einen grossen Geist
Una ist so klein van Taten!”*
[*A well-known expression:
“The spirit of the man is great,
How puny are his deeds.”
Yours, Anne
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Last night, just as I was falling asleep, Hanneli suddenly appeared before me.
I saw her there, dressed in rags, her face thin and worn.
She looked at me with such sadness and reproach in her enormous eyes that I
could read the message in them: “Oh, Anne, why have you deserted me? Help
me, help me, rescue me from this hell!”
And I can’t help her. I can only stand by and watch while other people suffer
and die. All I can do is pray to God to bring her back to us. I saw Hanneli,
and no one else, and I understood why. I misjudged her, wasn’t mature
enough to understand how difficult it was for her. She was devoted to her
girlfriend, and it must have seemed as though I were trying to take her away.
The poor thing, she must have felt awful! I know, because I recognize the
feeling in myself! I had an occasional flash of understanding, but then got
selfishly wrapped up again in my own problems and pleasures.
It was mean of me to treat her that way, and now she was looking at me, oh
so helplessly, with her pale face and beseeching eyes. If only I could help
her! Dear God, I have everything I could wish for, while fate has her in its
deadly clutches. She was as devout as I am, maybe even more so, and she too
wanted to do what was right. But then why have I been chosen to live, while
she’s probably going to die? What’s the difference between us? Why are we
now so far apart?
To be honest, I hadn’t thought of her for months — no, for at least a year. I
hadn’t forgotten her entirely, and yet it wasn’t until I saw her before me that I
thought of all her suffering.
Oh, Hanneli, I hope that if you live to the end of the war and return to us, I’ll
be able to take you in and make up for the wrong I’ve done you.
But even if I were ever in a position to help, she wouldn’t need it more than
she does now. I wonder if she ever thinks of me, and what she’s feeling?
Merciful God, comfort her, so that at least she won’t be alone. Oh, if only
You could tell her I’m thinking of her with compassion and love, it might
help her go on.
I’ve got to stop dwelling on this. It won’t get me anywhere. I keep seeing her
enormous eyes, and they haunt me.
Does Hanneli really and truly believe in God, or has religion merely been
foisted upon her? I don’t even know that. I never took the trouble to ask.
Hanneli, Hanneli, if only I could take you away, if only I could share
everything I have with you. It’s too late. I can’t help, or undo the wrong I’ve
done. But I’ll never forget her again and I’ll always pray for her!
Yours, Anne

MONDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1943Dearest Kitty,The closer it got to St. Nicholas Day, the more we all thought back to lastyears festively decorated basket.More than anyone, I thought it would be terrible to skip a celebration thisyear. After long deliberation, I finally came up with an idea, somethingfunny. I consulted rim, and a week ago we set to work writing a verse foreach person.Sunday evening at a quarter to eight we trooped upstairs carrying the biglaundry basket, which had been decorated with cutouts and bows made ofpink and blue carbon paper. On top was a large piece of brown wrappingpaper with a note attached. Everyone was rather amazed at the sheer size ofthe gift. I removed the note and read it aloud:Once again St. Nicholas DayHas even come to our hideaway;It wont be quite as Jun, I fear,As the happy day we had last year.Then we were hopeful, no reason to doubtThat optimism would win the bout,And by the time this year came round,Wed all be free, and s* and sound.Still, lets not Jorget its St. Nicholas Day, Though weve nothing left to giveaway.Well have to find something else to do:So everyone please look in their shoe!As each person took their own shoe out of the basket, there was a roar oflaughter. Inside each shoe was a little wrapped package addressed to itsowner.Yours, AnneDearest Kitty,A bad case of flu has prevented me from writing to you until today. Beingsick here is dreadful. With every cough, I had to duck under the blanket –once, twice, three times -and try to keep from coughing anymore.Most of the time the tickle refused to go away, so I had to drink milk withhoney, sugar or cough drops. I get dizzy just thinking about all the cures Ivebeen subjected to: sweating out the fever, steam treatment, wet compresses,dry compresses, hot drinks, swabbing my throat, lying still, heating pad, hotwater bottles, lemonade and, every two hours, the thermometer. Will theseremedies really make you better? The worst part was when Mr. Dusseldecided to play doctor and lay his pomaded head on my bare chest to listen tothe sounds. Not only did his hair tickle, but I was embarrassed, even thoughhe went to school thirty years ago and does have some kind of medicaldegree. Why should he lay his head on my heart? After all, hes not myboyfriend! For that matter, he wouldnt be able to tell a healthy sound from anunhealthy one.Hed have to have his ears cleaned first, since hes becoming alarmingly hardof hearing. But enough about my illness. Im fit as a fiddle again. Ive grownalmost half an inch and gained two pounds. Im pale, but itching to get backto my books.Ausnahmsweise* (the only word that will do here * By way of exception),were all getting on well together. No squabbles, though that probably wontlast long. There hasnt been such peace and quiet in this house for at least sixmonths.Bep is still in isolation, but any day now her sister will no longer becontagious.For Christmas, were getting extra cooking oil, candy and molasses. ForHanukkah, Mr. Dussel gave Mrs. van Daan and Mother a beautiful cake,which hed asked Miep to bake. On top of all the work she has to do! Margotand I received a brooch made out of a penny, all bright and shiny. I cantreally describe it, but its lovely.I also have a Christmas present for Miep and Bep. For a whole month Ivesaved up the sugar I put on my hot cereal, and Mr. Kleiman has used it tohave fondant made.The weather is drizzly and overcast, the stove stinks, and the food lies heavilyon our stomachs, producing a variety of rumbles.The war is at an impasse, spirits are low.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1943Dear Kitty,As Ive written you many times before, moods have a tendency to affect usquite a bit here, and in my case its been getting worse lately. Himmelhochjauchzend, zu Tode betrubt* * A famous line from Goethe: On top of theworld, or in the depths of despair. certainly applies to me. Im on top of theworld when I think of how fortunate we are and compare myself to otherJewish children, and in the depths of despair when, for example, Mrs.Kleiman comes by and talks about Jopies hockey club, canoe trips, schoolplays and afternoon teas with friends.I dont think Im jealous of Jopie, but I long to have a really good time foronce and to laugh so hard it hurts.Were stuck in this house like lepers, especially during winter and theChristmas and New Years holidays. Actually, I shouldnt even be writingthis, since it makes me seem so ungrateful, but I cant keep everything tomyself, so Ill repeat what I said at the beginning: Paper is more patient thanpeople.Whenever someone comes in from outside, with the wind in their clothes andthe cold on their cheeks, I feel like burying my head under the blankets tokeep from thinking,When will we be allowed to breathe fresh air again? I cant do that — on thecontrary, I have to hold my head up high and put a bold face on things, butthe thoughts keep coming anyway. Not just once, but over and over.Believe me, if youve been shut up for a year and a half, it can get to be toomuch for you sometimes. But feelings cant be ignored, no matter how unjustor ungrateful they seem. I long to ride a bike, dance, whistle, look at theworld, feel young and know that Im free, and yet I cant let it show. justimagine what would happen if all eight of us were to feel sorry for ourselvesor walk around with the discontent clearly visible on our faces. Where wouldthat get us? I sometimes wonder if anyone will ever understand what I mean,if anyone will ever overlook my ingratitude and not worry about whether ornot Im Jewish and merely see me as a teenager badly in need of some goodplain fun. I dont know, and I wouldnt be able to talk about it with anyone,since Im sure Id start to cry. Crying can bring relief, as long as you dont cryalone. Despite all my theories and efforts, I miss — every day and every hourof the day — having a mother who understands me. Thats why witheverything I do and write, I imagine the kind of mom Id like to be to mychildren later on. The kind of mom who doesnt take everything people saytoo seriously, but who does take me seriously. I find it difficult to describewhat I mean, but the word mom says it all. Do you know what Ive come upwith? In order to give me the feeling of calling my mother something thatsounds like Mom, I often call her Momsy.Sometimes I shorten it to Moms; an imperfect Mom. I wish I could honorher by removing the s. Its a good thing she doesnt realize this, since itwould only make her unhappy.Well, thats enough of that. My writing has raised me somewhat from thedepths of despair.Yours, AnneIts the day after Christmas, and I cant help thinking about Pim and the storyhe told me this time last year. I didnt understand the meaning of his wordsthen as well as I do now. If only hed bring it up again, I might be able toshow him I understood what he meant!I think Pim told me because he, who knows the intimate secrets of so manyothers, needed to express his own feelings for once; Pim never talks abouthimself, and I dont think Margot has any inkling of what hes been through.Poor Pim, he cant fool me into thinking hes forgotten that girl.He never will. Its made him very accommodating, since hes not blind toMothers faults. I hope Im going to be a little like him, without having to gothrough what he has!AnneMONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943Friday evening, for the first time in my life, I received a Christmas present.Mr. Kleiman, Mr. Kugler and the girls had prepared a wonderful surprise forus. Miep made a delicious Christmas cake with Peace 1944 written on top,and Bep provided a batch of cookies that was up to prewar standards.There was a jar of yogurt for Peter, Margot and me, and a bottle of beer foreach of the adults. And once again everything was wrapped so nicely, withpretty pictures glued to the packages. For the rest, the holidays passed byquickly for us.AnneWEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943I was very sad again last night. Grandma and Hanneli came to me once more.Grandma, oh, my sweet Grandma. How little we understood what shesuffered, how kind she always was and what an interest she took ineverything that concerned us.And to think that all that time she was carefully guarding her terrible secret. **Annes grandmother was terminally ill.Grandma was always so loyal and good. She would never have let any of usdown. Whatever happened, no matter how much I misbehaved, Grandmaalways stuck up for me. Grandma, did you love me, or did you notunderstand me either? I dont know.How lonely Grandma must have been, in spite of us. You can be lonely evenwhen youre loved by many people, since youre still not bddI any 0 y s onean only.And Hanneli? Is she still alive? Whats she doing? Dear God, watch over herand bring her back to us. Hanneli, youre a reminder of what my fate mighthave been. I keep seeing myself in your place. So why am I often miserableabout what goes on here? Shouldnt I be happy, contented and glad, exceptwhen Im thinking of Hanneli and those suffering along with her? Im selfishand cowardly. Why do I always think and dream the most awful things andwant to scream in terror?Because, in spite of everything, I still dont have enough faith in God. Hesgiven me so much, which I dont deserve, and yet each day I make so manymistakes!Thinking about the suffering of those you hold dear can reduce you to tears;in fact, you could spend the whole day crying. The most you can do is prayfor God to perform a miracle and save at least some of them. And I hope Imdoing enough of that!AnneTHURSDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1943Dearest Kitty,Since the last raging quarrels, things have settled down here, not onlybetween ourselves, Dussel and upstairs, but also between Mr. and Mrs. vanD. Nevertheless, a few dark thunderclouds are heading this way, and allbecause of . . .food. Mrs. van D. came up with the ridiculous idea of frying fewer potatoesin the morning and saving them for later in the day. Mother and Dussel andthe rest of us didnt agree with her, so now were dividing up the potatoes aswell. It seems the fats and oils arent being doled out fairly, and Mothersgoing to have to put a stop to it. Ill let you know if there are any interestingdevelopments. For the last few months now weve been splitting up the meat(theirs with fat, ours without), the soup (they eat it, we dont), the potatoes(theirs peeled, ours not), the extras and now the fried potatoes too.If only we could split up completely!Yours, AnneP.S. Bep had a picture postcard of the entire Royal Family copied for me.Juliana looks very young, and so does the Queen. The three little girls areadorable. It was incredibly nice of Bep, dont you think?SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 1944Dearest Kitty,This morning, when I had nothing to do, I leafed through the pages of mydiary and came across so many letters dealing with the subject of Mother insuch strong terms that I was shocked. I said to myself, Anne, is that reallyyou talking about hate? Oh, Anne, how could you?I continued to sit with the open book in my hand and wonder why I was filledwith so much anger and hate that I had to confide it all to you. I tried tounderstand the Anne of last year and make apologies for her, because as longas I leave you with these accusations and dont attempt to explain whatprompted them, my conscience wont be clear. I was suffering then (and stilldo) from moods that kept my head under water (figuratively speaking) andallowed me to see things only from my own perspective, without calmlyconsidering what the others — those whom I, with my mercurialtemperament, had hurt or offended — had said, and then acting as they wouldhave done.I hid inside myself, thought of no one but myself and calmly wrote down allmy joy, sarcasm and sorrow in my diary.Because this diary has become a kind of memory book, it means a great dealto me, but I could easily write over and done with on many of its pages.I was furious at Mother (and still am a lot of the time).Its true, she didnt understand me, but I didnt understand her either. Becauseshe loved me, she was tender and affectionate, but because of the difficultsituations I put her in, and the sad circumstances in which she found herself,she was nervous and irritable, so I can understand why she was often shortwith me.I was offended, took it far too much to heart and was insolent and beastly toher, which, in turn, made her unhappy. We were caught in a vicious circle ofunpleasantness and sorrow. Not a very happy period for either of us, but atleast its coming to an end. I didnt want to see what was going on, and I feltvery sorry for myself, but thats understandable too.Those violent outbursts on paper are simply expressions of anger that, innormal life, I could have worked off by locking myself in my room andstamping my foot a few times or calling Mother names behind her back.The period of tearfully passing judgment on Mother is over. Ive grown wiserand Mothers nerves are a bit steadier. Most of the time I manage to hold mytongue when Im annoyed, and she does too; so on the surface, we seem to begetting along better. But theres one thing I cant do, and thats to love Motherwith the devotion of a child.I soothe my conscience with the thought that its better for unkind words to bedown on paper than for Mother to have to carry them around in her heart.Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,Today I have two things to confess. It’s going to take a long time, but I haveto tell them to someone, and you’re the most likely candidate, since I knowyou’ll keep a secret, no matter what happens.The first is about Mother. As you know, I’ve frequently complained about herand then tried my best to be nice. I’ve suddenly realized what’s wrong withher. Mother has said that she sees us more as friends than as daughters. That’sall very nice, of course, except that a friend can’t take the place of a mother. Ineed my mother to set a good example and be a person I can respect, but inmost matters she’s an example of what not to do. I have the feeling thatMargot thinks so differently about these things that she’d never be able tounderstand what I’ve just told you. And Father avoids all conversationshaving to do with Mother.I imagine a mother as a woman who, first and foremost, possesses a greatdeal of tact, especially toward her adolescent children, and not one who, likeMomsy, pokes fun at me when I cry. Not because I’m in pain, but because ofother things.This may seem trivial, but there’s one incident I’ve never forgiven her for. Ithappened one day when I had to go to the dentist. Mother and Margotplanned to go with me and agreed I should take my bicycle. When the dentistwas finished and we were back outside, Margot and Mother very sweetlyinformed me that they were going downtown to buy or look at something, Idon’t remember what, and of course I wanted to go along. But they said Icouldn’t come because I had my bike with me.Tears of rage rushed to my eyes, and Margot and Mother began laughing atme. I was so furious that I stuck my tongue out at them, right there on thestreet. A little old lady happened to be passing by, and she looked terriblyshocked. I rode my bike home and must have cried for hours. Strangelyenough, even though Mother has wounded me thousands of times, thisparticular wound still stings whenever I think of how angry I was.I find it difficult to confess the second one because it’s about myself. I’m notprudish, Kitty, and yet every time they give a blow-by-blow account of theirtrips to the bathroom, which they often do, my whole body rises in revolt.Yesterday I read an article on blushing by Sis Heyster. It was as if she’daddressed it directly to me. Not that I blush easily, but the rest of the articledid apply. What she basically says is that during puberty girls withdraw intothemselves and begin thinking about the wondrous changes taking place intheir bodies. I feel that too, which probably accounts for my recentembarrassment over Margot, Mother and Father. On the other hand, Margotis a lot shyer than I am, and yet she’s not in the least embarrassed.I think that what’s happening to me is so wonderful, and I don’t just mean thechanges taking place on the outside of my body, but also those on the inside.I never discuss myself or any of these things with others, which is why I haveto talk about them to myself. Whenever I get my period (and that’s only beenthree times), I have the feeling that in spite of all the pain, discomfort andmess, I’m carrying around a sweet secret. So even though it’s a nuisance, in acertain way I’m always looking forward to the time when I’ll feel that secretinside me once again.Sis Heyster also writes that girls my age feel very insecure about themselvesand are just beginning to discover that they’re individuals with their ownideas, thoughts and habits. I’d just turned thirteen when I came here, so Istarted thinking about myself and realized that I’ve become an independentperson sooner than most girls. Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I feel aterrible urge to touch my breasts and listen to the quiet, steady beating of myheart.Unconsciously, I had these feelings even before I came here. Once when Iwas spending the night at Jacque’s, I could no longer restrain my curiosityabout her body, which she’d always hidden from me and which I’d neverseen. I asked her whether, as proof of our friendiship, we could touch eachother’s breasts. Jacque refused.I also had a terrible desire to kiss her, which I did.Every time I see a female nude, such as the Venus in my art history book, Igo into ecstasy. Sometimes I find them so exquisite I have to struggle to holdback my tears. If only I had a girlfriend!THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,My longing for someone to talk to has become so unbearable that I somehowtook it into my head to select Peter for this role. On the few occasions when Ihave gone to Peter’s room during the day, I’ve always thought it was nice andcozy. But Peter’s too polite to show someone the door when they’re botheringhim, so I’ve never dared to stay long. I’ve always been afraid he’d think I wasa pest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to linger in his room and get himtalking without his noticing, and yesterday I got my chance. Peter, you see, iscurrently going through a crossword-puzzle craze, and he doesn’t do anythingelse all day. I was helping him, and we soon wound up sitting across fromeach other at his table, Peter on the chair and me on the divan.It gave me a wonderful feeling when I looked into his dark blue eyes and sawhow bashful my unexpected visit had made him. I could read his innermostthoughts, and in his face I saw a look of helplessness and uncertainty as tohow to behave, and at the same time a flicker of awareness of hismasculinity. I saw his shyness, and I melted. I wanted to say, Tell me aboutyourself. Look beneath my chatty exterior. But I found that it was easier tothink up questions than to ask them.The evening came to a close, and nothing happened, except that I told himabout the article on blushing. Not what I wrote you, of course, just that hewould grow more secure as he got older. That night I lay in bed and cried my eyes out, all the i while making sure noone could hear me. The idea that I had to beg Peter for favors was simplyrevolting. But people will do almost anything to satisfy their longings; takeme, for example, I’ve made up my mind to visit Peter more often and,somehow, get him to talk to me.You mustn’t think I’m in love with Peter, because I’m not.If the van Daans had had a daughter instead of a son, I’d have tried to makefriends with her.This morning I woke up just before seven and immediately remembered whatI’d been dreaming about. I was sitting on a chair and across from me wasPeter. . . Peter Schiff. We were looking at a book of drawings by Mary Bos.The dream was so vivid I can even remember some of the drawings. But thatwasn’t all — the dream went on. Peter’s eyes suddenly met mine, and I staredfor a long time into those velvety brown eyes. Then he said very softly, If I’donly known, I’d have come to you long ago! I turned abruptly away,overcome by emotion. And then I felt a soft, oh-so-cool and gentle cheekagainst mine, and it felt so good, so good . . .At that point I woke up, still feeling his cheek against mine and his browneyes staring deep into my heart, so deep that he could read how much I’dloved him and how much I still do. Again my eyes filled with tears, and I wassad because I’d lost him once more, and yet at the same time glad because Iknew with certainty that Peter is still the only one for me. ‘It’s funny, but I often have such vivid images in my dreams. One night I sawGrammy* *Grammy is Anne’s grandmother on her father’s side, andGrandma her grandmother on her mother’s side. so clearly that I could evenmake out her skin of soft, crinkly velvet. Another time Grandma appeared tome as a guardian angel. After that it was Hanneli, who still symbolizes to methe suffering of my friends as well as that of Jews in general, so that when I’mpraying for her, I’m also praying for all the Jews and all those in need.And now Peter, my dearest Peter. I’ve never had such a clear mental image ofhim. I don’t need a photograph, I can see him oh so well.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, ANUARY 7, 1944Dearest Kitty,I’m such an idiot. I forgot that I haven’t yet told you the story of my one truelove.When I was a little girl, way back in kindergarten, I took a liking to SallyKimmel. His father was gone, and he and his mother lived with an aunt. Oneof Sally’s cousins was a good-looking, slender, dark-haired boy named Appy,who later turned out to look like a movie idol and aroused more admirationthan the short, comical, chubby Sally. For a long time we went everywheretogether, but aside from that, my love was unrequited until Peter crossed mypath. I had an out-and-out crush on him. He liked me too, and we wereinseparable for one whole summer. I can still see us walking hand in handthrough our neighborhood, Peter in a white cotton suit and me in a shortsummer dress. At the end of the summer vacation he went to the seventhgrade at the middle school, while I was in the sixth grade at the grammarschool.He’d pick me up on the way home, or I’d pick him up. Peter was the idealboy: tall, good-looking and slender, with a serious, quiet and intelligent face.He had dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, ruddy cheeks and a nicely pointednose.I was crazy about his smile, which made him look so boyish andmischievous.I’d gone away to the countryside during summer vacation, and when I cameback, Peter was no longer at his old address; he’d moved and was living witha much older boy, who apparently told him I was just a kid, because Peterstopped seeing me. I loved him so much that I didn’t want to face the truth. Ikept clinging to him until the day I finally realized that if I continued to chaseafter him, people would say I was boy-crazy.The years went by. Peter hung around with girls his own age and no longerbothered to say hello to me. I started school at the Jewish Lyceum, andseveral boys in my class were in love with me. I enjoyed it and felt honoredby their attentions, but that was all. Later on, Hello had a terrible crush onme, but as I’ve already told you, I never fell in love again.There’s a saying: Time heals all wounds. That’s how it was with me. I toldmyself I’d forgotten Peter and no longer liked him in the least. But mymemories of him were so strong that I had to admit to myself that the onlyreason I no longer liked him was that I was jealous of the other girls.This morning I realized that nothing has changed; on the contrary, as I’vegrown older and more mature, my love has grown along with me. I canunderstand now that Peter thought I was childish, and yet it still hurts to thinkhe’d forgotten me completely. I saw his face so clearly; I knew for certain thatno one but Peter could have stuck in my mind that way.I’ve been in an utter state of confusion today. When Father kissed me thismorning, I wanted to shout, Oh, if only you were Peter! I’ve been thinkingof him constantly, and all day long I’ve been repeating to myself, Oh, Petel,my darling, darling Petel . . .Where can I find help? I simply have to go on living and praying to God that,if we ever get out of here, Peter’s path will cross mine and he’ll gaze into myeyes, read the love in them and say, Oh, Anne, if I’d only known, I’d havecome to you long ago.Once when Father and I were talking about sex, he said I was too young tounderstand that kind of desire. But I thought I did understand it, and now I’msure I do. Nothing is as dear to me now as my darling Petel!I saw my face in the mirror, and it looked so different.My eyes were clear and deep, my cheeks were rosy, which they hadn’t beenin weeks, my mouth was much softer. I looked happy, and yet there wassomething so sad in my expression that the smile immediately faded from mylips. I’m not happy, since I know Petel’s not thinking of me, and yet I can stillfeel his beautiful eyes gazing at me and his cool, soft cheek against mine. . .Oh, Petel, Petel, how am I ever going to free myself from your image?Wouldn’t anyone who took your place be a poor substitute? I love you, with alove so great that it simply couldn’t keep growing inside my heart, but had toleap out and reveal itself in all its magnitude.A week ago, even a day ago, if you’d asked me, Which of your friends doyou think you’d be most likely to marry? I’d have answered, Sally, since hemakes me feel good, peaceful and safe! But now I’d cry, Petel, because Ilove him with all my heart and all my soul. I surrender myself completely!Except for that one thing: he may touch my face, but that’s as far as it goes.This morning I imagined I was in the front attic with Petel, sitting on thefloor by the windows, and after talking for a while, we both began to cry.Moments later I felt his mouth and his wonderful cheek! Oh, Petel, come tome. Think of me, my dearest Petel!

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 12, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Bep’s been back for the last two weeks, though her sister won’t be allowed
back at school until next week. Bep herself spent two days in bed with a bad
cold. Miep and Jan were also out for two days, with upset stomachs.
I’m currently going through a dance and ballet craze and am diligently
practicing my dance steps every evening. I’ve made an ultramodern dance
costume out of a lacy lavender slip belonging to Momsy. Bias tape is
threaded through the top and tied just above the bust. A pink corded ribbon
completes the ensemble. I tried to turn my tennis shoes into ballet slippers,
but with no success. My stiff limbs are well on the way to becoming as
limber as they used to be. A terrific exercise is to sit on the floor, place a heel
in each hand and raise both legs in the air. I have to sit on a cushion, because
otherwise my poor backside really takes a beating.
Everyone here is reading a book called A Cloudless Morning. Mother
thought it was extremely good because it describes a number of adolescent
problems. I thought to myself, a bit ironically, “Why don’t you take more
interest in your own adolescents first!”
I think Mother believes that Margot and I have a better relationship with our
parents than anyone in the whole wide world, and that no mother is more
involved in the lives of her children than she is. She must have my sister in
mind, since I don’t believe Margot has the same problems and thoughts as I
do. Far be it from me to point out to Mother that one of her daughters is not at
all what she imagines.
She’d be completely bewildered, and anyway, she’d never be able to change;
I’d like to spare her that grief, especially since I know that everything would
remain the same. Mother does sense that Margot loves her much more than I
do, but she thinks I’m just going through a phase.
Margot’s gotten much nicer. She seems a lot different than she used to be.
She’s not nearly as catty these days and is becoming a real friend. She no
longer thinks of me as a litde kid who doesn’t count.
It’s funny, but I can sometimes see myself as others see me. I take a leisurely
look at the person called “Anne Frank”
and browse through the pages of her life as though she were a stranger.
Before I came here, when I didn’t think about things as much as I do now, I
occasionally had the feeling that I didn’t belong to Momsy, Pim and Margot
and that I would always be an outsider. I sometimes went around for six
months at a time pretending I was an orphan. Then I’d chastise myself for
playing the victim, when really, I’d always been so fortunate. After that I’d
force myself to be friendly for a while. Every morning when I heard footsteps
on the stairs, I hoped it would be Mother coming to say good morning. I’d
greet her warmly, because I honesly did look forward to her affectionate
glance. But then she’d snap at me for having made some comment or other
(and I’d go off to school feeling completely discouraged.
On the way home I’d make excuses for her, telling myself that she had so
many worries. I’d arrive home in high spirits, chatting nineteen to the dozen,
until the events of the morning would repeat themselves and I’d leave the
room with my schoolbag in my hand and a pensive look on my face.
Sometimes I’d decide to stay angry, but then I always had so much to talk
about after school that I’d forget my resolution and want Mother to stop
whatever she was doing and lend a willing ear. Then the time would come
once more when I no longer listened for the steps on the stairs and felt lonely
and cried into my pillow every night.
Everything has gotten much worse here. But you already knew that. Now
God has sent someone to help me: Peter. I fondle my pendant, press it to my
lips and think, “What do I care! Petel is mine and nobody knows it!” With
this in mind, I can rise above every nasty remark. Which of the people here
would suspect that so much is going on in the mind of a teenage girl?
SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
There’s no reason for me to go on describing all our quarrels and arguments
down to the last detail. It’s enough to tell you that we’ve divided many things
like meat and fats and oils and are frying our own potatoes. Recently we’ve
been eating a little extra rye bread because by four o’clock we’re so hungry
for dinner we can barely control our rumbling stomachs.
Mother’s birthday is rapidly approaching. She received some extra sugar from
Mr. Kugler, which sparked off jealousy on the part of the van Daans, because
Mrs. van D. didn’t receive any on her birthday. But what’s the point of boring
you with harsh words, spiteful conversations and tears when you know they
bore us even more?
Mother has expressed a wish, which isn’t likely to come true any time soon:
not to have to see Mr. van Daan’s face for two whole weeks. I wonder if
everyone who shares a house sooner or later ends up at odds with their fellow
residents.
Or have we just had a stroke of bad luck? At mealtime, when Dussel helps
himself to a quarter of the half-filled gravy boat and leaves the rest of us to
do without, I lose my appetite and feel like jumping to my feet, knocking him
off his chair and throwing him out the door.
Are most people so stingy and selfish? I’ve gained some insight into human
nature since I came here, which is good, but I’ve had enough for the present.
Peter says the same.
The war is going to go on despite our quarrels and our longing for freedom
and fresh air, so we should try to make the best of our stay here.
I’m preaching, but I also believe that if I live here much longer, I’ll turn into a
dried-up old beanstalk. And all I really want is to be an honest-to-goodness
teenager!
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 19, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I (there I go again!) don’t know what’s happened, but since my dream I keep
noticing how I’ve changed. By the way, I dreamed about Peter again last
night and once again I felt his eyes penetrate mine, but this dream was less
vivid and not quite as beautiful as the last.
You know that I always used to be jealous of Margot’s relationship with
Father. There’s not a trace of my jealousy left now; I still feel hurt when
Father’s nerves cause him to be unreasonable toward me, but then I think, “I
can’t blame you for being the way you are. You talk so much about the minds
of children and adolescents, but you don’t know the first thing about them!” I
long for more than Father’s affection, more than his hugs and kisses. Isn’t it
awful of me to be so preoccupied with myself? Shouldn’t I, who want to be
good and kind, forgive them first? I forgive Mother too, but every time she
makes a sarcastic remark or laughs at me, it’s all I can do to control myself.
I know I’m far from being what I should; will I ever be?
Anne Frank
P.S. Father asked if I told you about the cake. For Mother’s birthday, she
received a real mocha cake, prewar quality, from the office. It was a really
nice day! But at the moment there’s no room in my head for things like that.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Can you tell me why people go to such lengths to hide their real selves? Or
why I always behave very differently when I’m in the company of others?
Why do people have so little trust in one another? I know there must be a
reason, but sometimes I think it’s horrible that you can’t ever confide in
anyone, not even those closest to you.
It seems as if I’ve grown up since the night I had that dream, as if I’ve become
more independent. You’ll be amazed when I tell you that even my attitude
toward the van Daans has changed. I’ve stopped looking at all the discussions
and arguments from my family’s biased point of view. What’s brought on
such a radical change? Well, you see, I suddenly realized that if Mother had
been different, if she’d been a real mom, our relationship would have been
very, very different. Mrs. van Daan is by no means a wonderful person, yet
half the arguments could have been avoided if Mother hadn’t been so hard to
deal with every time they got onto a tricky subject. Mrs. van Daan does have
one good point, though: you can talk to her. She may be selfish, stingy and
underhanded, but she’ll readily back down as long as you don’t provoke her
and make her unreasonable. This tactic doesn’t work every time, but if you’re
patient, you can keep trying and see how far you get.
All the conflicts about our upbringing, about not pampering children, about
the food — about everything, absolutely everything — might have taken a
different turn if we’d remained open and on friendly terms instead of always
seeing the worst side.
I know exactly what you’re going to say, Kitty.
“But, Anne, are these words really coming from your lips?
From you, who have had to put up with so many unkind words from upstairs?
From you, who are aware of all the injustices?”
And yet they are coming from me. I want to take a fresh look at things and
form my own opinion, not just ape my parents, as in the proverb “The apple
never falls far from the tree.” I want to reexamine the van Daans and decide
for myself what’s true and what’s been blown out of proportion.
If I wind up being disappointed in them, I can always side with Father and
Mother. But if not, I can try to change their attitude. And if that doesn’t work,
I’ll have to stick with my own opinions and judgment. I’ll take every
opportunity to speak openly to Mrs. van D. about our many differences and
not be afraid — despite my reputation as a smart aleck -to offer my impartial
opinion. I won’t say anything negative about my own family, though that
doesn’t mean I won’t defend them if somebody else does, and as of today, my
gossiping is a thing of the past.
Up to now I was absolutely convinced that the van Daans were entirely to
blame for the quarrels, but now I’m sure the fault was largely ours. We were
right as far as the subject matter was concerned, but intelligent people (such
as ourselves!) should have more insight into how to deal with others.
I hope I’ve got at least a touch of that insight, and that I’ll find an occasion to
put it to good use.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
A very strange thing has happened to me. (Actually,
“happened” isn’t quite the right word.) Before I came here, whenever anyone
at home or at school talked about sex, they were either secretive or
disgusting.
Any words having to do with sex were spoken in a low whisper, and kids
who weren’t in the know were often laughed at. That struck me as odd, and I
often wondered why people were so mysterious or obnoxious when they
talked about this subject.
But because I couldn’t change things, I said as little as possible or asked my
girlfriends for information.
After I’d learned quite a lot, Mother once said to me,
“Anne, let me give you some good advice. Never discuss this with boys, and
if they bring it up, don’t answer them.”
I still remember my exact reply. “No, of course not,” I exclaimed. “Imagine!”
And nothing more was said.
When we first went into hiding, Father often told me about things I’d rather
have heard from Mother, and I learned the rest from books or things I picked
up in conversations.
Peter van Daan wasn’t ever as obnoxious about this subject as the boys at
school. Or maybe just once or twice, in the beginning, though he wasn’t
trying to get me to talk. Mrs.
van Daan once told us she’d never discussed these matters with Peter, and as
far as she knew, neither had her husband.
Apparently she didn’t even know how much Peter knew or where he got his
information.
Yesterday, when Margot, Peter and I were peeling potatoes, the conversation
somehow turned to Boche. “We’re still not sure whether Boche is a boy or a
girl, are we?” I asked.
Yes we are, he answered. “Boche is a tomcat.”
I began to laugh. “Some tomcat if he’s pregnant.”
Peter and Margot joined in the laughter. You see, a month or two ago Peter
informed us that Boche was sure to have kittens before long, because her
stomach was rapidly swelling. However, Boche’s fat tummy turned out to be
due to a bunch of stolen bones. No kittens were growing inside, much less
about to be born.
Peter felt called upon to defend himself against my accusation. “Come with
me. You can see for yourself. I was horsing around with the cat one day, and
I could definitely see it was a ‘he.’ ”
Unable to restrain my curiosity, I went with him to the warehouse. Boche,
however, wasn’t receiving visitors at that hour, and was nowhere in sight. We
waited for a while, but when it got cold, we went back upstairs.
Later that afternoon I heard Peter go downstairs for the second time. I
mustered the courage to walk through the silent house by myself and reached
the warehouse. Boche was on the packing table, playing with Peter, who was
getting ready to put him on the scale and weigh him.
“Hi, do you want to have a look?” Without any preliminaries, he picked up
the cat, turned him over on his back, deftly held his head and paws and began
the lesson.
“This is the male sexual organ, these are a few stray hairs, and that’s his
backside.”
The cat flipped himself over and stood up on his little white feet.
If any other boy had pointed out the “male sexual organ”
to me, I would never have given him a second glance. But Peter went on
talking in a normal voice about what is otherwise a very awkward subject.
Nor did he have any ulterior motives. By the time he’d finished, I felt so
much at ease that I started acting normally too. We played with Boche, had a
good time, chatted a bit and finally sauntered through the long warehouse to
the door. “Were you there when Mouschi was fixed?”
“Yeah, sure. It doesn’t take long. They give the cat an anesthetic, of course.”
“Do they take something out?”
“No, the vet just snips the tube. There’s nothing to see on the outside.”
I had to get up my nerve to ask a question, since it wasn’t as “normal” as I
thought. “Peter, the German word Geschlechtsteil means ‘sexual organ,’
doesn’t it? But then the male and female ones have different names.”
“I know that.”
“The female one is a vagina, that I know, but I don’t know what it’s called in
males.”
“Oh well,” I said. “How are we supposed to know these words? Most of the
time you just come across them by accident.”
“Why wait? I’ll ask my parents. They know more than I do and they’ve had
more experience.”
We were already on the stairs, so nothing more was said.
Yes, it really did happen. I’d never have talked to a girl about this in such a
normal tone of voice. I’m also certain that this isn’t what Mother meant when
she warned me about boys.
All the same, I wasn’t exactly my usual self for the rest of the day. When I
thought back to our talk, it struck me as odd. But I’ve learned at least one
thing: there are young people, even those of the opposite sex, who can
discuss these things naturally, without cracking jokes.
Is Peter really going to ask his parents a lot of questions? Is he really the way
he seemed yesterday?
Oh, what do I know?!!!
Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
In recent weeks I’ve developed a great liking for family trees and the
genealogical tables of royal families. I’ve come to the conclusion that once
you begin your search, you have to keep digging deeper and deeper into the
past, which leads you to even more interesting discoveries.
Although I’m extremely diligent when it comes to my schoolwork and can
pretty much follow the BBC Home Service on the radio, I still spend many of
my Sundays sorting out and looking over my movie-star collection, which
has grown to a very respectable size. Mr. Kugler makes me happy every
Monday by bringing me a copy of Cinema & Theater magazine. The less
worldly members of our household often refer to this small indulgence as a
waste of money, yet they never fail to be surprised at how accurately I can list
the actors in any given movie, even after a year. Bep, who often goes to the
movies with her boyfriend on her day off, tells me on Saturday the name of
the show they’re going to see, and I then proceed to rattle off the names of the
leading actors and actresses and the reviews. Moms recently remarked ; that I
wouldn’t need to go to the movies later on, because !
I know all the plots, the names of the stars and the reviews by heart.
Whenever I come sailing in with a new hairstyle, I I can read the disapproval
on their faces, and I can be sure someone will ask which movie star I’m trying
to imitate. My reply, that it’s my own invention, is greeted with ~
skepticism. As for the hairdo, it doesn’t hold its set for ~
more than half an hour. By that time I’m so sick and tired i of their remarks
that I race to the bathroom and restore my hair to its normal mass of curls.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
This morning I was wondering whether you ever felt like a cow, having to
chew my stale news over and over again until you’re so fed up with the
monotonous fare that you yawn and secretly wish Anne would dig up
something new.
Sorry, I know you find it dull as ditchwater, but imagine how sick and tired I
am of hearing the same old stuff. If the talk at mealtime isn’t about politics or
good food, then Mother or Mrs. van D. trot out stories about their childhood
that we’ve heard a thousand times before, or Dussel goes on and on about
beautiful racehorses, his Charlotte’s extensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats,
boys who can swim at the age of four, aching muscles and frightened
patients. It all boils down to this: whenever one of the eight of us opens his
mouth, the other seven can finish the story for him. We know the punch line
of every joke before it gets told, so that whoever’s telling it is left to laugh
alone. The various milkmen, grocers and butchers of the two former
housewives have been praised to the skies or run into the ground so many
times that in our imaginations they’ve grown as old as Methuselah; there’s
absolutely no chance of anything new or fresh being brought up for
discussion in the Annex.
Still, all this might be bearable if only the grown-ups weren’t in the habit of
repeating the stories we hear from Mr. Kleiman, jan or Miep, each time
embellishing them with a few details of their own, so that I often have to
pinch my arm under the table to keep myself from setting the enthusiastic
storyteller on the right track. Little children, such as Anne, must never, ever
correct their elders, no matter how many blunders they make or how often
they let their imaginations run away with them.
Jan and Mr. Kleiman love talking about people who have gone underground
or into hiding; they know we’re eager to hear about others in our situation and
that we truly sympathize with the sorrow of those who’ve been arrested as
well as the joy of prisoners who’ve been freed.
Going underground or into hiding has become as routine as the proverbial
pipe and slippers that used to await the man of the house after a long day at
work. There are many resistance groups, such as Free Netherlands, that forge
identity cards, provide financial support to those in hiding, organize hiding
places and find work for young Christians who go underground. It’s amazing
how much these generous and unselfish people do, risking their own lives to
help and save others.
The best example of this is our own helpers, who have managed to pull us
through so far and will hopefully bring us safely to shore, because otherwise
they’ll find themselves sharing the fate of those they’re trying to protect.
Never have they uttered a single word about the burden we must be, never
have they complained that we’re too much trouble. They come upstairs every
day and talk to the men about business and politics, to the women about food
and wartime difficulties and to the children about books and newspapers.
They put on their most cheerful expressions, bring flowers and gifts for
birthdays and holidays and are always ready to do what they can. That’s
something we should never forget; while others display their heroism in
battle or against the Germans, our helpers prove theirs every day by their
good spirits and affection.
The most bizarre stories are making the rounds, yet most of them are really
true. For instance, Mr. Kleiman reported this week that a soccer match was
held in the province of Gelderland; one team consisted entirely of men who
had gone underground, and the other of eleven Military Policemen. In
Hilversum, new registration cards were issued. In order for the many people
in hiding to get their rations (you have to show this card to obtain your ration
book or else pay 60
guilders a book), the registrar asked all those hiding in that district to pick up
their cards at a specified hour, when the documents could be collected at a
separate table.
All the same, you have to be careful that stunts like these don’t reach the ears
of the Germans.
Yours, Anne
SUNDAY, JANUARY 30, 1944
My dearest Kit,
Another Sunday has rolled around; I don’t mind them as much as I did in the
beginning, but they’re boring enough.
I still haven’t gone to the warehouse yet, but maybe sometime soon. Last
night I went downstairs in the dark, all by myself, after having been there
with Father a few nights before. I stood at the top of the stairs while German
planes flew back and forth, and I knew I was on my own, that I couldn’t count
on others for support. My fear vanished. I looked up at the sky and trusted in
God.
I have an intense need to be alone. Father has noticed I’m not my usual self,
but I can’t tell him what’s bothering me.
All I want to do is scream “Let me be, leave me alone!”
Who knows, perhaps the day will come when I’m left alone more than I’d
like!
Anne Frank
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Invasion fever is mounting daily throughout the country.
If you were here, I’m sure you’d be as impressed as I am at the many
preparations, though you’d no doubt laugh at all the fuss we’re making. Who
knows, it may all be for nothing!
The papers are full of invasion news and are driving everyone insane with
such statements as: “In the event of a British landing in Holland, the Germans
will do what they can to defend the country, even flooding it, if necessary.”
They’ve published maps of Holland with the potential flood areas marked.
Since large portions of Amsterdam were shaded in, our first question was
what we should do if the water in the streets rose to above our waists. This
tricky question elicited a variety of responses:
“It’ll be impossible to walk or ride a bike, so we’ll have to wade through the
water.”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll have to try and swim. We’ll all put on our bathing suits
and caps and swim underwater as much as we can, so nobody can see we’re
Jews.”
“Oh, baloney! I can just imagine the ladies swimming with the rats biting
their legs!” (That was a man, of course; we’ll see who screams loudest!)
“We won’t even be able to leave the house. The warehouse is so unstable it’ll
collapse if there’s a flood.”
“Listen, everyone, all joking aside, we really ought to try and get a boat.”
“Why bother? I have a better idea. We can each take a packing crate from the
attic and row with a wooden spoon.”
“I’m going to walk on stilts. I used to be a whiz at it when I was young.”
“Jan Gies won’t need to. He’ll let his wife ride piggyback, and then Miep will
be on stilts.”
So now you have a rough idea of what’s going on, don’t you, Kit? This
lighthearted banter is all very amusing, but reality will prove otherwise. The
second question about the invasion was bound to arise: what should we do if
the Germans evacuate Amsterdam?
“Leave the city along with the others. Disguise ourselves as well as we can.”
“Whatever happens, don’t go outside! The best thing to do is to stay put! The
Germans are capable of herding the entire population of Holland into
Germany, where they’ll all die.”
“Of course we’ll stay here. This is the safest place.
We’ll try to talk Kleiman and his family into coming here to live with us.
We’ll somehow get hold of a bag of wood shavings, so we can sleep on the
floor. Let’s ask Miep and Kleiman to bring some blankets, just in case. And
we’ll order some extra cereal grains to supplement the sixty-five pounds we
already have. Jan can try to find some more beans. At the moment we’ve got
about sixty-five pounds of beans and ten pounds of split peas. And don’t
forget the fifty cans of vegetables.”
“What about the rest, Mother? Give us the latest figures.’
,
“Ten cans of fish, forty cans of milk, twenty pounds of powdered milk, three
bottles of oil, four crocks of butter, four jars of meat, two big jars of
strawberries, two jars of raspberries, twenty jars of tomatoes, ten pounds of
oatmeal, nine pounds of rice. That’s it.”
Our provisions are holding out fairly well. All the same, we have to feed the
office staff, which means dipping into our stock every week, so it’s not as
much as it seems. We have enough coal and firewood, candles too.
“Let’s all make little moneybags to hide in our clothes so we can take our
money with us if we need to leave here.”
“We can make lists of what to take first in case we have to run for it, and
pack our knapsacks in advance.”
“When the time comes, we’ll put two people on the lookout, one in the loft at
the front of the house and one in the back.”
“Hey, what’s the use of so much food if there isn’t any water, gas or
electricity?”
“We’ll have to cook on the wood stove. Filter the water and boil it. We should
clean some big jugs and fill them with water. We can also store water in the
three kettles we use for canning, and in the washtub.”
“Besides, we still have about two hundred and thirty pounds of winter
potatoes in the spice storeroom.”
All day long that’s all I hear. Invasion, invasion, nothing but invasion.
Arguments about going hungry, dying, bombs, fire extinguishers, sleeping
bags, identity cards, poison gas, etc., etc. Not exactly cheerful.
A good example of the explicit warnings of the male contingent is the
following conversation with Jan: Annex: “We’re afraid that when the
Germans retreat, they’ll take the entire population with them.”
Jan: “That’s impossible. They haven’t got enough trains.”
Annex: “Trains? Do you really think they’d put civilians on trains?
Absolutely not. Everyone would have to hoof it.”
(Or, as Dussel always says, per pedes apostolorum.) Jan: “I can’t believe that.
You’re always looking on the dark side. What reason would they have to
round up all the civilians and take them along?”
Annex: “Don’t you remember Goebbels saying that if the Germans have to
go, they’ll slam the doors to all the occupied territories behind them?”
Jan: “They’ve said a lot of things.”
Annex: “Do you think the Germans are too noble or humane to do it? Their
reasoning is: if we go under, we’ll drag everyone else down with us.”
Jan: “You can say what you like, I just don’t believe Annex: “It’s always the
same old story. No one wants to see the danger until it’s staring them in the
face.”
Jan: “But you don’t know anything for sure. You’re just making an
assumption.”
Annex: “Because we’ve already been through it all ourselves, First in
Germany and then here. What do you think’s happening in Russia?”
Jan: “You shouldn’t include the Jews. I don’t think anyone knows what’s
going on in Russia. The British and the Russians are probably exaggerating
for propaganda purposes, just like the Germans.”
Annex: “Absolutely not. The BBC has always told the truth.
And even if the news is slightly exaggerated, the facts are bad enough as they
are. You can’t deny that millions of peace-loving citizens in Poland and
Russia have been murdered or gassed.”
I’ll spare you the rest of our conversations. I’m very calm and take no notice
of all the fuss. I’ve reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die.
The world will keep on turning without me, and I can’t do anything to change
events anyway. I’ll just let matters take their course and concentrate on
studying and hope that everything will be all right in the end.
Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1944Dear Kitty,I can’t tell you how I feel. One minute I’m longing for peace and quiet, andthe next for a little fun. We’ve forgotten how to laugh — I mean, laughing sohard you can t stop.This morning I had “the giggles”; you know, the kind we used to have atschool. Margot and I were giggling like real teenagers.Last night there was another scene with Mother. Margot was tucking herwool blanket around her when suddenly she leapt out of bed and carefullyexamined the blanket. What do you think she found? A pin! Mother hadpatched the blanket and forgotten to take it out. Father shook his headmeaningfully and made a comment about how careless Mother is. Soonafterward Mother came in from the bathroom, and just to tease her I said, “Dubist doch eine echte Rabenmutter.” Oh, you are cruel.Of course, she asked me why I’d said that, and we told her about the pin she’doverlooked. She immediately assumed her haughtiest expression and said,”You’re a fine one to talk.When you’re sewing, the entire floor is covered with pins.And look, you’ve left the manicure set lying around again.You never put that away either!”I said I hadn’t used it, and Margot backed me up, since she was the guiltyparty.Mother went on talking about how messy I was until I got fed up and said,rather curtly, “I wasn’t even the one who said you were careless. I’m alwaysgetting blamed for other people’s mistakes!”Mother fell silent, and less than a minute later I was obliged to kiss her goodnight. This incident may not have been very important, but these dayseverything gets on my nerves.Anne Mary FrankSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944Dearest Kitty,The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, there’s a magnificent breeze, and I’mlonging — really longing — for everything: conversation, freedom, friends,being alone. I long. . . to cry! I feel as if I were about to explode. I knowcrying would help, but I can’t cry. I’m restless. I walk from one room toanother, breathe through the crack in the window frame, feel my heart beatingas if to say, “Fulfill my longing at last. . .”I think spring is inside me. I feel spring awakening, I feel it in my entire bodyand soul. I have to force myself to act normally. I’m in a state of utterconfusion, don’t know what to read, what to write, what to do. I only knowthat I’m longing for something. . .Yours, Anne186 ANNE FRANKMONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1944Dearest Kitty,A lot has changed for me since Saturday. What’s happened is this: I waslonging for something (and still am), but. . .a small, a very small, part of the problem has been resolved.On Sunday morning I noticed, to my great joy (I’ll be honest with you), thatPeter kept looking at me. Not in the usual way. I don’t know, I can’t explainit, but I suddenly had the feeling he wasn’t as in love with Margot as I used tothink. All day long I tried not to look at him too much, because whenever Idid, I caught him looking at me and then– well, it made me feel wonderful inside, and that’s not a feeling I shouldhave too often.Sunday evening everyone, except Pim and me, was clustered around theradio, listening to the “Immortal Music of the German Masters.” Dussel kepttwisting and turning the knobs, which annoyed Peter, and the others too.After restraining himself for half an hour, Peter asked somewhat irritably ifhe would stop fiddling with the radio. Dussel replied in his haughtiest tone,”Ich mach’ das schon!” I’ll decide that.Peter got angry and made an insolent remark. Mr. van Daan sided with him,and Dussel had to back down. That was it.The reason for the disagreement wasn’t particularly interesting in and ofitself, but Peter has apparently taken the matter very much to heart, becausethis morning, when I was rummaging around in the crate of books in the attic,Peter came up and began telling me what had happened. I didn’t knowanything about it, but Peter soon realized he’d found an attentive listener andstarted warming up to his subject.”Well, it’s like this,” he said. “I don’t usually talk much, since I knowbeforehand I’ll just be tongue-tied. I start stuttering and blushing and I twistmy words around so much I finally have to stop, because I can’t find the rightwords. That’s what happened yesterday. I meant to say something entirelydifferent, but once I started, I got all mixed up. It’s awful. I used to have a badhabit, and sometimes I wish I still did: whenever I was mad at someone, I’dbeat them up instead of arguing with them. I know this method won’t get meanywhere, and that’s why I admire you.You’re never at a loss for words: you say exactly what you want to say andaren’t in the least bit shy.””Oh, you’re wrong about that,” I replied. “Most of what I say comes out verydifferently from the way I’d planned. Plus I talk too much and too long, andthat’s just as bad.”“Maybe, but you have the advantage that no one can see you’re embarrassed.You don’t blush or go to pieces.”I couldn’t help being secretly amused at his words.However, since I wanted him to go on talking quietly about himself, I hid mylaughter, sat down on a cushion on the floor, wrapped my arms around myknees and gazed at him intently.I’m glad there’s someone else in this house who flies into the same rages as Ido. Peter seemed relieved that he could criticize Dussel without being afraidI’d tell. As for me, I was pleased too, because I sensed a strong feeling offellowship, which I only remember having had with my girlfriends.Yours, AnneTUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1944The minor run-in with Dussel had several repercussions, for which he hadonly himself to blame. Monday evening Dussel came in to see Mother andtold her triumphantly that Peter had asked him that morning if he’d slept well,and then added how sorry he was about what had happened Sunday evening — he hadn’t really meant what he’d said. Dussel assured him he hadn’t taken itto heart. So everYthing was right as rain again. Mother passed this story on tome, and I was secretly amazed that Peter, who’d been so angry at Dussel, hadhumbled himself, despite all his assurances to the contrary.I couldn’t refrain from sounding Peter out on the subject, and he instantlyreplied that Dussel had been lying. You should have seen Peter’s face. I wishI’d had a camera.Indignation, rage, indecision, agitation and much more crossed his face inrapid succession.That evening Mr. van Daan and Peter really told Dussel off. But it couldn’thave been all that bad, since Peter had another dental appointment today.Actually, they never wanted to speak to each other again.WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944Peter and I hadn’t talked to each other all day, except for a few meaninglesswords. It was too cold to go up to the attic, and anyway, it was Margot’sbirthday. At twelve-thirty he came to look at the presents and hung aroundchatting longer than was strictly necessary, something he’d never have doneotherwise. But I got my chance in the afternoon. Since I felt like spoilingMargot on her birthday, I went to get the coffee, and after that the potatoes.When I came to Peter’s room, he immediately took his papers off the stairs,and I asked if I should close the trapdoor to the attic.”Sure,” he said, “go ahead. When you’re ready to come back down, just knockand I’ll open it for you.”I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching aroundin the barrel for the smallest potatoes. My back started aching, and the atticwas cold.Naturally, I didn’t bother to knock but opened the trap-door myself. But heobligingly got up and took the pan out of my hands.”I did my best, but I couldn’t find any smaller ones.””Did you look in the big barrel?””Yes, I’ve been through them all.”By this time I was at the bottom of the stairs, and he examined the pan ofpotatoes he was still holding. “Oh, but these are fine,” he said, and added, as Itook the pan from him, “My compliments!”As he said this, he gave me such a warm, tender look that I started glowinginside. I could tell he wanted to please me, but since he couldn’t make a longcomplimentary speech, he said everything with his eyes. I understood him sowell and was very grateful. It still makes me happy to think back to thosewords and that look!When I went downstairs, Mother said she needed more potatoes, this time fordinner, so I volunteered to go back up. When I entered Peter’s room, Iapologized for disturbing him again. As I was going up the stairs, he stoodup, went over to stand between the stairs and the wall, grabbed my arm andtried to stop me.”I’ll go,” he said. “I have to go upstairs anyway.”I replied that it wasn’t really necessary, that I didn’t have to get only the smallones this time. Convinced, he let go of my arm. On my way back, he openedthe trapdoor and once again took the pan from me. Standing by the door, Iasked,”What are you working on?””French,” he replied.I asked if I could take a look at his lessons. Then I went to wash my handsand sat down across from him on the divan.After I’d explained some French to him, we began to talk.He told me that after the war he wanted to go to the Dutch East Indies andlive on a rubber plantation. He talked about his life at home, the black marketand how he felt like a worthless bum. I told him he had a big inferioritycomplex.He talked about the war, saying that Russia and England were bound to go towar against each other, and about the Jews. He said life would have beenmuch easier if he’d been a Christian or could become one after the war. Iasked if he wanted to be baptized, but that wasn’t what he meant either.He said he’d never be able to feel like a Christian, but that after the war he’dmake sure nobody would know he was Jewish.I felt a momentary pang. It’s such a shame he still has a touch of dishonesty inhim.Peter added, “The Jews have been and always will be the chosen people!”I answered, “Just this once, I hope they’ll be chosen for something good!”But we went on chatting very pleasantly, about Father, about judging humancharacter and all sorts of things, so many that I can’t even remember them all.I left at a quarter past five, because Bep had arrived.That evening he said something else I thought was nice. We were talkingabout the picture of a movie star I’d once given him, which has been hangingin his room for at least a year and a half. He liked it so much that I offered togive him a few more.”No,” he replied, “I’d rather keep the one I’ve got. I look at it every day, andthe people in it have become my friends.”I now have a better understanding of why he always hugs Mouschi so tightly.He obviously needs affection too. I forgot to mention something else he wastalking about. He said, “No, I’m not afraid, except when it comes to thingsabout myself, but I’m working on that.”Peter has a huge inferiority complex. For example, he always thinks he’s sostupid and we’re so smart. When I help him with French, he thanks me athousand times. One of these days I’m going to say, “Oh, cut it out! You’remuch better at English and geography!”Anne FrankTHURSDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1944Dear Kitty,I was upstairs this morning, since I promised Mrs. van D.I’d read her some of my stories. I began with “Eva’s Dream,”which she liked a lot, and then I read a few passages from”The Secret Annex,” which had her in stitches. Peter also listened for a while(just the last part) and asked if I’d come to his room sometime to read more.I decided I had to take a chance right then and there, so I got my notebookand let him read that bit where Cady and Hans talk about God. I can’t reallytell what kind of impression it made on him. He said something I don’t quiteremember, not about whether it was good, but about the idea behind it. I toldhim I just wanted him to see that I didn’t write only amusing things. Henodded, and I left the room.We’ll see if I hear anything more!Yours, Anne FrankFRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1944My dearest Kitty,Whenever I go upstairs, it’s always so I can see “him.”Now that I have something to look forward to, my life here has improvedgreatly.At least the object of my friendship is always here, and I don’t have to beafraid of rivals (except for Margot). Don’t think I’m in love, because I’m not,but I do have the feeling that something beautiful is going to develop betweenPeter and me, a kind of friendship and a feeling of trust. I go see himwhenever I get the chance, and it’s not the way it used to be, when he didn’tknow what to make of me. On the contrary, he’s still talking away as I’mheading out the door. Mother doesn’t like me going upstairs. She always saysI’m bothering Peter and that I should leave him alone.Honestly, can’t she credit me with some intuition? She always looks at me sooddly when I go to Peter’s room. When I come down again, she asks mewhere I’ve been. It’s terrible, but I’m beginning to hate her!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1944Dearest Kitty,It’s Saturday again, and that should tell you enough. This morning all wasquiet. I spent nearly an hour upstairs making meatballs, but I only spoke to”him” in passing.When everyone went upstairs at two-thirty to either read or take a nap, I wentdownstairs, with blanket and all, to sit at the desk and read or write. Beforelong I couldn’t take it anymore. I put my head in my arms and sobbed myheart out. The tears streamed down my cheeks, and I felt desperatelyunhappy. Oh, if only’ ‘he” had come to comfort me.It was past four by the time I went upstairs again. At five o’clock I set off toget some potatoes, hoping once again that we’d meet, but while I was still inthe bathroom fixing my hair, he went to see Boche.I wanted to help Mrs. van D. and went upstairs with my book and everything,but suddenly I felt the tears coming again. I raced downstairs to thebathroom, grabbing the hand mirror on the way. I sat there on the toilet, fullydressed, long after I was through, my tears leaving dark spots on the red ofmy apron, and I felt utterly dejected.Here’s what was going through my mind: “Oh, I’ll never reach Peter this way.Who knows, maybe he doesn’t even like me and he doesn’t need anyone toconfide in. Maybe he only thinks of me in a casual sort of way. I’ll have to goback to being alone, without anyone to confide in and without Peter, withouthope, comfort or anything to look forward to. Oh, if only I could rest myhead on his shoulder and not feel so hopelessly alone and deserted! Whoknows, maybe he doesn’t care for me at all and looks at the others in the sametender way. Maybe I only imagined it was especially for me. Oh, Peter, ifonly you could hear me or see me. If the truth is disappointing, I won’t beable to bear it.”A little later I felt hopeful and full of expectation again, though my tears werestill flowing — on the inside.Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1944What happens in other people’s houses during the rest of the week happenshere in the Annex on Sundays. While other people put on their best clothesand go strolling in the sun, we scrub, sweep and do the laundry.Eight o’clock. Though the rest of us prefer to sleep in, Dussel gets up at eight.He goes to the bathroom, then downstairs, then up again and then to thebathroom, where he devotes a whole hour to washing himself.Nine-thirty. The stoves are lit, the blackout screen is taken down, and Mr. vanDaan heads for the bathroom. One of my Sunday morning ordeals is havingto lie in bed and look at Dussel’s back when he’s praying. I know it soundsstrange, but a praying Dussel is a terrible sight to behold. It’s not that he criesor gets sentimental, not at all, but he does spend a quarter of an hour — anentire fifteen minutes –rocking from his toes to his heels. Back and forth,back and forth. It goes on forever, and if I don’t shut my eyes tight, my headstarts to spin.Ten-fifteen. The van Daans whistle; the bathroom’s free.In the Frank family quarters, the first sleepy faces are beginning to emergefrom their pillows. Then everything happens fast, fast, fast. Margot and I taketurns doing the laundry. Since it’s quite cold downstairs, we put on pants andhead scarves. Meanwhile, Father is busy in the bathroom.Either Margot or I have a turn in the bathroom at eleven, and then we’re allclean.Eleven-thirty. Breakfast. I won’t dwell on this, since there’s enough talk aboutfood without my bringing the subject up as well.Twelve-fifteen. We each go our separate ways. Father, clad in overalls, getsdown on his hands and knees and brushes the rug so vigorously that the roomis enveloped in a cloud of dust. Mr. Dussel makes the beds (all wrong, ofcourse), always whistling the same Beethoven violin concerto as he goesabout his work. Mother can be heard shuffling around the attic as she hangsup the washing. Mr. van Daan puts on his hat and disappears into the lowerregions, usually followed by Peter and Mouschi. Mrs. van D. dons a longapron, a black wool jacket and overshoes, winds a red wool scarf around herhead, scoops up a bundle of dirty laundry and, with a well-rehearsedwasherwoman’s nod, heads downstairs. Margot and I do the dishes andstraighten up the room.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23,1944
My dearest Kitty,
The weather’s been wonderful since yesterday, and I’ve perked up quite a bit.
My writing, the best thing I have, is coming along well. I go to the attic
almost every morning to get the stale air out of my lungs. This morning when
I went there, Peter was busy cleaning up. He finished quickly and came over
to where I was sitting on my favorite spot on the floor. The two of us looked
out at the blue sky, the bare chestnut tree glistening with dew, the seagulls
and other birds glinting with silver as they swooped through the air, and we
were so moved and entranced that we couldn’t speak. He stood with his head
against a thick beam, while I sat. We breathed in the air, looked outside and
both felt that the spell shouldn’t be broken with words. We remained like this
for a long while, and by the time he had to go to the loft to chop wood, I
knew he was a good, decent boy. He climbed the ladder to the loft, and I
followed; during the fifteen minutes he was chopping wood, we didn’t say a
word either. I watched him from where I was standing, and could see he was
obviously doing his best to chop the right way and show off his strength. But
I also looked out the open window, letting my eyes roam over a large part of
Amsterdam, over the rooftops and on to the horizon, a strip of blue so pale it
was almost invisible.
“As long as this exists,” I thought, “this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and
as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?”
The best remedy for those who are frightened, lonely or unhappy is to go
outside, somewhere they can be alone, alone with the sky, nature and God.
For then and only then can you feel that everything is as it should be and that
God wants people to be happy amid nature’s beauty and simplicity.
As long as this exists, and that should be forever, I know that there will be
solace for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances. I firmly believe that
nature can bring comfort to all who suffer.
Oh, who knows, perhaps it won’t be long before I can share this
overwhelming feeling of happiness with someone who feels the same as I do.
Yours, Anne
P.S. Thoughts: To Peter.
We’ve been missing out on so much here, so very much, and for such a long
time. I miss it just as much as you do. I’m not talking about external things,
since we’re well provided for in that sense; I mean the internal things. Like
you, I long for freedom and fresh air, but I think we’ve been amply
compensated for their loss. On the inside, I mean.
This morning, when I was sitting in front of the window and taking a long,
deep look outside at God and nature, I was happy, just plain happy. Peter, as
long as people feel that kind of happiness within themselves, the joy of
nature, health and much more besides, they’ll always be able to recapture that
happiness.
Riches, prestige, everything can be lost. But the happiness in your own heart
can only be dimmed; it will always be there, as long as you live, to make you
happy again.
Whenever you’re feeling lonely or sad, try going to the loft on a beautiful day
and looking outside. Not at the houses and the rooftops, but at the sky. As
long as you can look fearlessly at the sky, you’ll know that you’re pure within
and will find happiness once more.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
From early in the morning to late at night, all I do is think about Peter. I fall
asleep with his image before my eyes, dream about him and wake up with
him still looking at me.
I have the strong feeling that Peter and I aren’t really as different as we may
seem on the surface, and I’ll explain why: neither Peter nor I have a mother.
His is too superficial, likes to flirt and doesn’t concern herself much with
what goes on in his head. Mine takes an active interest in my life, but has no
tact, sensitivity or motherly understanding.
Both Peter and I are struggling with our innermost feelings. We’re still unsure
of ourselves and are too vulnerable, emotionally, to be dealt with so roughly.
Whenever that happens, I want to run outside or hide my feelings. Instead, I
bang the pots and pans, splash the water and am generally noisy, so that
everyone wishes I were miles away. Peter’s reaction is to shut himself up, say
little, sit quietly and daydream, all the while carefully hiding his true self.
But how and when will we finally reach each other?
I don’t know how much longer I can continue to keep this yearning under
control.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
It’s like a nightmare, one that goes on long after I’m awake. I see him nearly
every hour of the day and yet I can’t be with him, I can’t let the others notice,
and I have to pretend to be cheerful, though my heart is aching.
Peter Schiff and Peter van Daan have melted into one Peter, who’s good and
kind and whom I long for desperately.
Mother’s horrible, Father’s nice, which makes him even more exasperating,
and Margot’s the worst, since she takes advantage of my smiling face to claim
me for herself, when all I want is to be left alone.
Peter didn’t join me in the attic, but went up to the loft to do some carpentry
work. At every rasp and bang, another chunk of my courage broke off and I
was even more unhappy. In the distance a clock was tolling’ ‘Be pure in heart,
be pure in mind!”
I’m sentimental, I know. I’m despondent and foolish, I know that too.
Oh, help me!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My own affairs have been pushed to the background by . . .
a break-in. I’m boring you with all my break-ins, but what can I do when
burglars take such pleasure in honoring Gies & Go. with their presence? This
incident is much more complicated than the last one, in July 1943.
Last night at seven-thirty Mr. van Daan was heading, as usual, for Mr.
Kugler’s office when he saw that both the glass door and the office door were
open. He was surprised, but he went on through and was even more
astonished to see that the alcove doors were open as well and that there was a
terrible mess in the front office.
“There’s been a burglary” flashed through his mind. But just to make sure, he
went downstairs to the front door, checked the lock and found everything
closed. “Bep and Peter must just have been very careless this evening,” Mr.
van. D. concluded. He remained for a while in Mr. Kugler’s office, switched
off the lamp and went upstairs without worrying much about the open doors
or the messy office.
Early this morning Peter knocked at our door to tell us that the front door was
wide open and that the projector and Mr. Kugler’s new briefcase had
disappeared from the closet.
Peter was instructed to lock the door. Mr. van Daan told us his discoveries of
the night before, and we were extremely worried.
The only explanation is that the burglar must have had a duplicate key, since
there were no signs of a forced entry.
He must have sneaked in early in the evening, shut the door behind him,
hidden himself when he heard Mr. van Daan, fled with the loot after Mr. van
Daan went upstairs and, in his hurry, not bothered to shut the door.
Who could have our key? Why didn’t the burglar go to the warehouse? Was it
one of our own warehouse employees, and will he turn us in, now that he’s
heard Mr. van Daan and maybe even seen him?
It’s really scary, since we don’t know whether the burglar will take it into his
head to try and get in again. Or was he so startled when he heard someone
else in the building that he’ll stay away?
Yours, Anne
P.S. We’d be delighted if you could hunt up a good detective for us.
Obviously, there’s one condotion: he must be relied upon not to mform on
people in hiding.
THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Margot and I were in the attic together today. I can’t enjoy being there with
her the way I imagine it’d be with Peter (or someone else). I know she feels
the same about most things as I do!
While doing the dishes, Bep began talking to Mother and Mrs. van Daan
about how discouraged she gets. What help did those two offer her? Our
tactless mother, especially, only made things go from bad to worse. Do you
know what her advice was? That she should think about all the other people
in the world who are suffering! How can thinking about the misery of others
help if you’re miserable yourself? I said as much.
Their response, of course, was that I should stay out of conversations of this
sort.
The grown-ups are such idiots! As if Peter, Margot, Bep and I didn’t all have
the same feelings. The only thing that helps is a mother’s love, or that of a
very, very close friend. But these two mothers don’t understand the first thing
about us! Perhaps Mrs. van Daan does, a bit more than Mother. Oh, I wish I
could have said something to poor Bep, something that I know from my own
experience would have helped. But Father came between us, pushing me
roughly aside.
They’re all so stupid!
I also talked to Margot about Father and Mother, about how nice it could be
here if they weren’t so aggravating. We’d be able to organize evenings in
which everyone could take turns discussing a given subject. But we’ve
already been through all that. It’s impossible for me to talk here! Mr. van
Daan goes on the offensive, Mother i gets sarcastic and can’t say anythina in a
normal voice, Father doesn’t feel like taking part, nor does Mr. Dussel, and
Mrs. van D. is attacked so often that she just sits there with a red face, hardly
able to put up a fight anymore. And what about us? We aren’t allowed to have
an opinion! My, my, aren’t they progressive!
Not have an opinion! People can tell you to shut up, but they can’t keep you
from having an opinion. You can’t forbid someone to have an opinion, no
matter how young they are! The only thing that would help Bep, Margot,
Peter and me would be great love and devotion, which we don’t get here. And
no one, especially not the idiotic sages around here, is capable of
understanding us, since we’re more sensitive and much more advanced in our
thinking than any of them ever suspect!
Love, what is love? I don’t think you can really put it into words. Love is
understanding someone, caring for him, sharing his joys and sorrows. This
eventually includes physical love. You’ve shared something, given something
away and received something in return, whether or not you’re married,
whether or not you have a baby. Losing your virtue doesn’t matter, as long as
you know that for as long as you live you’ll have someone at your side who
understands you, and who doesn’t have to be shared with anyone else!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
At the moment, Mother’s grouching at me again; she’s clearly jealous because
I talk to Mrs. van Daan more than to her. What do I care!
I managed to get hold of Peter this afternoon, and we talked for at least fortyfive minutes. He wanted to tell me something about himself, but didn’t find it
easy. He finally got it out, though it took a long time. I honestly didn’t know
whether it was better for me to stay or to go. But I wanted so much to help
him! I told him about Bep and how tactless our mothers are. He told me that
his parents fight constantly, about politics and cigarettes and all kinds of
things. As I’ve told you before, Peter’s very shy, but not too shy to admit that
he’d be perfectly happy not to see his parents for a year or two. “My father
isn’t as nice as he looks,” he said. “But in the matter of the cigarettes,
Mother’s absolutely right.”
I also told him about my mother. But he came to Father’s defense. He thought
he was a “terrific guy.”
Tonight when I was hanging up my apron after doing the dishes, he called me
over and asked me not to say anything downstairs about his parents’ having
had another argument and not being on speaking terms. I promised, though
I’d already told Margot. But I’m sure Margot won’t pass it on.
“Oh no, Peter,” I said, you don’t have to worry about me.
I’ve learned not to blab everything I hear. I never repeat what you tell me.”
He was glad to hear that. I also told him what terrible gossips we are, and
said, “Margot’s quite right, of course, when she says I’m not being honest,
because as much as I want to stop gossiping, there’s nothing I like better than
discussing Mr. Dussel.”
“It’s good that you admit it,” he said. He blushed, and his sincere compliment
almost embarrassed me too.
Then we talked about “upstairs” and “downstairs” some more. Peter was
really rather surprised to hear that don’t like his parents. “Peter,” I said, “you
know I’m always honest, so why shouldn’t I tell you this as well? We can see
their faults too.”
I added, “Peter, I’d really like to help you. Will you let me? You’re caught in
an awkward position, and I know, even though you don’t say anything, that it
upsets you.”
“Oh, your help is always welcome!”
“Maybe it’d be better for you to talk to Father. You can tell him anything, he
won’t pass it on.”
“I know, he’s a real pal.”
“You like him a lot, don’t you?”
Peter nodded, and I continued, “Well, he likes you too, you know!”
He looked up quickly and blushed. It was really touching to see how happy
these few words made him.
“You think so?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You can tell from the little things he lets slip now and then.”
Then Mr. van Daan came in to do some dictating.
Peter’s a “terrific guy,” just like Father!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, MARCH 3,1944
My dearest Kitty,
When I looked into the candle tonight, I felt calm and happy again. It seems
Grandma is in that candle, and it’s Grandma who watches over and protects
me and makes me feel happy again. But. . . there’s someone else who governs
all my moods and that’s. . . Peter. I went to get the potatoes today, and while I
was standing on the stairway with my pan full, he asked, “What did you do
during the lunch break?”
I sat down on the stairs, and we began to talk. The potatoes didn’t make it to
the kitchen until five-fifteen (an hour after I’d gone to get them). Peter didn’t
say anything more about his parents; we just talked about books and about
the past. Oh, he gazes at me with such warmth in his eyes; I don’t think it will
take much for me to fall in love with him.
He brought the subject up this evening. I went to his room after peeling
potatoes and remarked on how hot it was. “You can tell the temperature by
looking at Margot and me, because we turn white when it’s cold and red when
it’s hot.” I said.
“In love?” he asked.
“Why should I be in love?” It was a pretty silly answer (or, rather, question).
“Why not?” he said, and then it was time for dinner.
What did he mean? Today I finally managed to ask him whether my chatter
bothered him. All he said was,
“Oh, it’s fine with me!” I can’t tell how much of his reply was due to shyness.
Kitty, I sound like someone who’s in love and can talk about nothing but her
dearest darling. And Peter is a darling. Will I ever be able to tell him that?
Only if he thinks the same of me, but I’m the kind of person you have to treat
with kid gloves, I know that all too well.
And he likes to be left alone, so I don’t know how much he likes me. In any
case, we’re getting to know each other a little better. I wish we dared to say
more. But who knows, maybe that time will come sooner than I think!
Once or twice a day he gives me a knowing glance, I wink back, and we’re
both happy. It seems crazy to talk about his being happy, and yet I have the
overwhelming feeling he thinks the same way I do.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SATURDAY, MARCH 4, 1944
Dear Kitty,
This is the first Saturday in months that hasn’t been tiresome, dreary and
boring. The reason is Peter. This morning as I was on my way to the attic to
hang up my apron, Father asked whether I wanted to stay and practice my
French, and I said yes. We spoke French together for a while and I explained
something to Peter, and then we worked on our English. Father read aloud
from Dickens, and I was in seventh heaven, since I was sitting on Father’s
chair, close to Peter.
I went downstairs at quarter to eleven. When I went back up at eleven-thirty,
Peter was already waiting for me on the stairs. We talked until quarter to one.
Whenever I leave the room, for example after a meal, and Peter has a chance
and no one else can hear, he says, “Bye, Anne, see you later.”
Oh, I’m so happy! I wonder if he’s going to fall in love with me after all? In
any case, he’s a nice boy, and you have no idea how good it is to talk to him!
Mrs. van D. thinks it’s all right for me to talk to Peter, but today she asked me
teasingly, “Can I trust you two up there?”
“Of course,” I protested. “I take that as an insult!”
Morning, noon and night, I look forward to seeing Peter.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
PS. Before I forget, last night everything was blanketed in snow. Now it’s
thawed and there’s almost nothing left.
MONDAY, MARCH 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Ever since Peter told me about his parents, I’ve felt a certain sense of
responsibthty toward him-don’t you think that’s strange? It’s as though their
quarrels were just as much my business as his, and yet I don’t dare bring it up
anymore, because I’m afraid it makes him uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to
intrude, not for all the money in the world.
I can tell by Peter’s face that he ponders things just as deeply as I do. Last
night I was annoyed when Mrs. van D.
scoffed, “The thinker!” Peter flushed and looked embarrassed, and I nearly
blew my top.
Why don’t these people keep their mouths shut?
You can’t imagine what it’s like to have to stand on the sidelines and see how
lonely he is, without being able to do anything. I can imagine, as if I were in
his place, how despondent he must sometimes feel at the quarrels. And about
love. Poor Peter, he needs to be loved so much!
It sounded so cold when he said he didn’t need any friends. Oh, he’s so
wrong! I don’t think he means it. He clings to his masculinity, his solitude
and his feigned indif- ference so he can maintain his role, so he’ll never, ever
have to show his feelings. Poor Peter, how long can he keep it up? Won’t he
explode from this superhuman effort?
Oh, Peter, if only I could help you, if only you would let me! Together we
could banish our loneliness, yours and mine!
I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, but not saying much. I’m happy when
I see him, and happier still if the sun shines when we’re together. I washed
my hair yesterday, and because I knew he was next door, I was very
rambunctious. I couldn’t help it; the more quiet and serious I am on the
inside, the noisier I get on the outside!
Who will be the first to discover the chink in my armor?
It’s just as well that the van Daans don’t have a daughter. My conquest could
never be so challenging, so beautiful and so nice with someone of the same
sex!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
PS. You know I’m always honest with you, so I think I should tell you that I
live from one encounter to the next. I keep hoping to discover that he’s dying
to see me, and I’m in raptures when I notice his bashful attempts. I think he’d
like to be able to express himself as easily as I do; little does he know it’s his
awkwardness that I find so touching.

TUESDAY, MARCH 7,1944Dearest Kitty,When I think back to my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. The Anne Frankwho enjoyed that heavenly existence was completely different from the onewho has grown wise within these walls. Yes, it was heavenly. Five admirerson every street corner, twenty or so friends, the favorite of most of myteachers, spoiled rotten by Father and Mother, bags full of candy and a bigallowance. What more could anyone ask for?You’re probably wondering how I could have charmed all those people. Petersays It s ecause I m “attractive,” but that isn’t it entirely. The teachers wereamused and entertained by my clever answers, my witty remarks, my smthngface and my critical mind. That’s all I was: a terrible flirt, coquettish andamusing. I had a few plus points, which kept me in everybody’s good graces:I was hardworking, honest and generous. I would never have refused anyonewho wanted to peek at my answers, I was magnanimous with my candy, andI wasn’t stuck-up.Would all that admiration eventually have made me overconfident? It’s agood thing that, at the height of my glory, I was suddenly plunged intoreality. It took me more than a year to get used to doing without admiration.How did they see me at school? As the class comedian, the eternal ringleader,never in a bad mood, never a crybaby. Was it any wonder that everyonewanted to bicycle to school with me or do me little favors?I look back at that Anne Frank as a pleasant, amusing, but superficial girl,who has nothing to do with me. What did Peter say about me? “Whenever Isaw you, you were surrounded by a flock of girls and at least two boys, youwere always laughing, and you were always the center of attention!” He wasright.What’s remained of that Anne Frank? Oh, I haven’t forgotten how to laugh ortoss off a remark, I’m just as good, if not better, at raking people over thecoals, and I can still flirt and be amusing, if I want to be . . .But there’s the catch. I’d like to live that seemingly carefree and happy life foran evening, a few days, a week.At the end of that week I’d be exhausted, and would be grateful to the firstperson to talk to me about something meaningful. I want friends, notadmirers. Peo- ple who respect me for my character and my deeds, not myflattering smile. The circle around me would be much smaller, but what doesthat matter, as long as they’re sincere?In spite of everything, I wasn’t altogether happy in 1942; I often felt I’d beendeserted, but because I was on the go all day long, I didn’t think about it. Ienjoyed myself as much as I could, trying consciously or unconsciously to fillthe void with jokes.Looking back, I realize that this period of my life has irrevocably come to aclose; my happy-go-lucky, carefree schooldays are gone forever. I don’t evenmiss them. I’ve outgrown them. I can no longer just kid around, since myserious side is always there.I see my life up to New Year’s 1944 as if I were looking through a powerfulmagnifying glass. When I was at home, my life was filled with sunshine.Then, in the middle of 1942, everything changed overnight. The quarrels, theaccusations– I couldn’t take it all in. I was caught off guard, and the only way I knew tokeep my bearings was to talk back.The first half of 1943 brought crying spells, loneliness and the gradualrealization of my faults and short- comings, which were numerous andseemed even more so. I filled the day with chatter, tried to draw Pim closer tome and failed. This left me on my own to face the difficult task of improvingmyself so I wouldn’t have to hear their reproaches, because they made me sodespondent.The second half of the year was slightly better. I became a teenager, and wastreated more like a grown-up. I began to think about things and to writestories, finally coming to the conclusion that the others no longer hadanything to do with me. They had no right to swing me back and forth like apendulum on a clock. I wanted to change myself in my own way.I realized I could man- age without my mother, completely and totally, andthat hurt. But what affected me even more was the realization that I wasnever going to be able to confide in Father. I didn’t trust anyone but myself.After New Year’s the second big change occurred: my dream, through whichI discovered my longing for . . . a boy; not for a girlfriend, but for aboyfriend. I also discovered an inner happiness underneath my superficialand cheerful exterior. From time to time I was quiet. Now I live only forPeter, since what happens to me in the future depends largely on him!I lie in bed at night, after ending my prayers with the words “Ich Janke air furall das Cute una Liebe una Schone,”** Thank you, God, for all that is good and dear and beautiful. and I’m filledwith joy. I think of going into hiding, my health and my whole being as dasCute; Peter’s love (which is still so new and fragile and which neither of usdares to say aloud), the future, happiness and love as das Liebe; the world,nature and the tremendous beauty of everything, all that splendor, as dasSchone.At such moments I don’t think about all the misery, but about the beauty thatstill remains. This is where Mother and I differ greatly. Her advice in the faceof melancholy is:”Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful you’re not part ofit.” My advice is: “Go outside, to the country, enjoy the sun and all nature hasto offer. Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; thinkof all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.”I don’t think Mother’s advice can be right, because what are you supposed todo if you become part of the suffering?You’d be completely lost. On the contrary, beauty remains, even inmisfortune. If you just look for it, you discover more and more happiness andregain your balance. A person who’s happy will make others happy; a personwho has courage and faith will never die in misery!Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 1944Margot and I have been writing each other notes, just for fun, of course.Anne: It’s strange, but I can only remember the day after what has happenedthe night before. For example, I suddenly remembered that Mr. Dussel wassnoring loudly last night.(It’s now quarter to three on Wednesday af- ternoon and Mr.Dussel is snoring again, which is why it flashed through my mind, of course.)When I had to use the potty, I deliberately made more noise to get the snoringto stop.Margot: Which is better, the snoring or the gasping for air?Anne: The snoring’s better, because it stops when I make noise, withoutwaking the person in question.What I didn’t write to Margot, but what I’ll confess to you, dear Kitty, is thatI’ve been dreaming of Peter a great deal. The night before last I dreamed Iwas skating right here in our living room with that little boy from the Apolloice-skating rink; he was with his sister, the girl with the spindly legs whoalways wore the same blue dress. I introduced myself, overdoing it a bit, andasked him his name. It was Peter. In my dream I wondered just how manyPeters I actually knew!Then I dreamed we were standing in Peter’s room, facing each other besidethe stairs. I said something to him; he gave me a kiss, but replied that hedidn’t love me all that much and that I shouldn’t flirt. In a desperate andpleading voice I said, “I’m not flirting, Peter!”When I woke up, I was glad Peter hasn’t said it after all.Last night I dreamed we were kissing each other, but Peter’s cheeks werevery disappointing: they weren’t as soft as they looked. They were more likeFather’s cheeks -the cheeks of a man who already shaves.FRIDAY, MARCH 10, 1944My dearest Kitty,The proverb “Misfortunes never come singly” defi- nitely applies to today.Peter just got through saying it. Let me tell you all the awful things that havehappened and that are still hanging over our heads.First, Miep is sick, as a result of Henk and Aagje’s wedding yesterday. Shecaught cold in the Westerkerk, where the service was held. Second, Mr.Kleiman hasn’t returned to work since the last time his stomach startedbleeding, so Bep’s been left to hold down the fort alone. Third, the policehave arrested a man (whose name I won’t put in writing). It’s terrible not onlyfor him, but for us as well, since he’s been supplying us with potatoes, butterand jam.Mr. M., as I’ll call him, has five children under the age of thirteen, andanother on the way.Last night we had another little scare: we were in the middle of dinner whensuddenly someone knocked on the wall next door. For the rest of the eveningwe were nervous and gloomy.Lately I haven’t been at all in the mood to write down what’s been going onhere. I’ve been more wrapped up in myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m terriblyupset about what’s happened to poor, good-hearted Mr. M., but there’s notmuch room for him in my diary.Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I was in Peter’s room from four-thirty tofive-fifteen. We worked on our French and chatted about one thing andanother. I really look forward to that hour or so in the afternoon, but best ofall is that I think Peter’s just as pleased to see me.Yours, Anne M. FrankTHE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL 213SATURDAY, MARCH 11, 1944Dearest Kitty,I haven’t been able to sit still lately. I wander upstairs and down and thenback again. I like talking to Peter, but I’m always afraid of being a nuisance.He’s told me a bit about the past, about his parents and about himself, but it’snot enough, and every five minutes I wonder why I find myself longing formore. He used to think I was a real pain in the neck, and the feeling wasmutual. I’ve changed my mind, but how do I know he’s changed his? I thinkhe has, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we have to become the best offriends, although as far as I’m concerned, it would make our time here morebearable. But I won’t let this drive me crazy.I spend enough time thinking about him and don’t have to get you all workedup as well, simply because I’m so miserable!SUNDAY, MARCH 12, 1944Dearest Kitty,Things are getting crazier here as the days go by.Peter hasn’t looked at me since yesterday. He’s been acting as if he’s mad atme. I’m doing my best not to chase after him and to talk to him as little aspossible, but it’s not easy! What’s going on, what makes him keep me at arm’slength one minute and rush back to my side the next? Perhaps I’m imaginingthat it’s worse than it really is. Perhaps he’s just moody like me, andtomorrow everything will be all right again!I have the hardest time trying to maintain a normal facade when I’m feelingso wretched and sad. I have to talk, help around the house, sit with the othersand, above all, act cheerful! Most of all I miss the outdoors and having aplace where I can be alone for as long as I want! I think I’m gettingeverything all mixed up, Kitty, but then, I’m in a state of utter confusion: onthe one hand, I’m half crazy with desire for him, can hardly be in the sameroom without looking at him; and on the other hand, I wonder why he shouldmatter to me so much and why I can’t be calm again!Day and night, during every waking hour, I do nothing but ask myself, “Haveyou given him enough chance to be alone?Have you been spending too much time upstairs? Do you talk too much aboutserious subjects he’s not yet ready to talk about? Maybe he doesn’t even likeyou? Has it all been your imagination? But then why has he told you so muchabout himself? Is he sorry he did?” And a whole lot more.Yesterday afternoon I was so worn out by the sad news from the outside thatI lay down on my divan for a nap. All I wanted was to sleep and not have tothink. I slept until four, but then I had to go next door. It wasn’t easy,answering all Mother’s questions and inventing an excuse to explain my napto Father. I pleaded a headache, which wasn’t a lie, since I did have one. . . onthe inside!Ordinary people, ordinary girls, teenagers like myself, would think I’m a littlenuts with all my self-pity. But that’s just it. I pour my heart out to you, andthe rest of the time I’m as impudent, cheerful and self-confident as possible toavoid questions and keep from getting on my own nerves.Margot is very kind and would like me to confide in her, but I can’t tell hereverything. She takes me too seriously, far too seriously, and spends a lot oftime thinking about her loony sister, looking at me closely whenever I openmy mouth and wondering, “Is she acting, or does she really mean it?”It’s because we’re always together. I don’t want the person I confide in to bearound me all the time. When will I untangle my jumbled thoughts? Whenwill I find inner peace again?Yours, AnneTUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1944Dearest Kitty,It might be amusing for you (though not for me) to hear what we’re going toeat today. The cleaning lady is working downstairs, so at the moment I’mseated at the van Daans’oilcloth-covered table with a handkerchief sprinkled with fragrant prewarperfume pressed to my nose and mouth. You probably don’t have the faintestidea what I’m talking about, so let me “begin at the begin- ning.” The peoplewho supply us with food coupons have been arrested, so we have just our fiveblack-market ra- -, tion books-no coupons, no fats and oils. Since Miep andMr. Kleiman are sick again, Bep can’t manage the shop- ping. The food iswretched, and so are we.As of tomor- row, we won’t have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine. We can’teat fried potatoes for breakfast (which we’ve been doing to save on bread), sowe’re having hot cereal instead, and because Mrs. van D. thinks we’restarving, we bought some half-and-half. Lunch today consists of mashedpotatoes and pickled kale. This explains the precautionary measure with thehandkerchief. You wouldn’t believe how much kale can stink when it’s a fewyears old!The kitchen smells like a mixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggs and brine.Ugh, just the thought of having to eat that muck makes me want to throw up!Besides that, our potatoes have contracted such strange diseases that one outof every two buckets of pommes de terre winds up in the garbage. Weentertain ourselves by trying to figure out which disease they’ve got, andwe’ve reached the conclusion that they suffer from cancer, smallpox andmeasles. Honestly, being in hiding during the fourth year of the war is nopicnic. If only the whole stinking mess were over!To tell you the truth, the food wouldn’t matter so much to me if life here weremore pleasant in other ways. But that’s just it: this tedious existence isstarting to make us all disagreeable. Here are the opinions of the five grownups on the present situation (children aren’t allowed to have opinions, and foronce I’m sticking to the rules): Mrs. van Daan: “I’d stopped wanting to bequeen of the kitchen long ago. But sitting around doing nothing was boring,so I went back to cooking. Still, I can’t help complaining: it’s impossible tocook without oil, and all those disgusting smells make me sick to mystomach. Besides, what do I get in return for my efforts? Ingratitude and ruderemarks. I’m always the black sheep; I get blamed for everything. What’smore, it’s my opinion that the war is making very little progress. TheGermans will win in the end.I’m terrified that we’re going to starve, and when I’m in a bad mood, I snap ateveryone who comes near.”Mr. van Daan: “I just smoke and smoke and smoke. Then the food, thepolitical situation and Kerli’s moods don’t seem so bad. Kerli’s a sweetheart.If I don’t have anything to smoke, I get sick, then I need to eat meat, lifebecomes unbearable, nothing’s good enough, and there’s bound to be aflaming row.My Kerli’s an idiot.”Mrs. Frank: “Food’s not very important, but I’d love a slice of rye bread rightnow, because I’m so hungry. If I were Mrs. van Daan, I’d have put a stop toMr. van Daan’s smoking long ago. But I desperately need a cigarette now,because my head’s in such a whirl. The van Daans are horrible people; theEnglish may make a lot of mistakes, but the war is progressing. I should keepmy mouth shut and be grateful I’m not in Poland.”Mr. Frank: “Everything’s fine, I don’t need a thing. Stay calm, we’ve gotplenty of time. Just give me my potatoes, and I’ll be quiet. Better set asidesome of my rations for Bep.The political situation is improving, I’m extremely optimistic.”Mr. Dussel: “I must complete the task I’ve set for myself, everything must befinished on time. The political situation is looking ‘gut,’ it’s ‘eempossible’ forus to get caught.Me, me, me . . . .”Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Whew! Released from the gloom and doom for a few moments!
All I’ve been hearing today is: “If this and that happens, we’re in trouble, and
if so-and-so gets sick, we’ll be left to fend for ourselves, and if . . .”
Well, you know the rest, or at any rate I assume you’re famthar enough with
the residents of the Annex to guess what they’d be talking about.
The reason for all the “ifs” is that Mr. Kugler has been called up for a six-day
work detail, Bep is down with a bad cold and will probably have to stay
home tomorrow, Miep hasn’t gotten over her flu, and Mr. Kleiman’s stomach bled so much he lost consciousness. What a tale of woe!
We think Mr. Kugler should go directly to a reliable doctor for a medical
certificate of ill health, which he can present to the City Hall in Hilversum.
The warehouse –employees have been given a day off tomorrow, so Bep will
be alone in the office. If (there’s another “if’) Bep has to stay home, the door
will remain locked and we’ll have to be as quiet as mice so the Keg Company
won’t hear us. At one o’clock Jan will come for half an hour to check on us
poor forsaken souls, like a zookeeper.
This afternoon, for the first time in ages, Jan gave us some news of the
outside world. You should have seen us gathered around him; it looked
exactly like a print: “At Grandmother’s Knee.”
He regaled his grateful audience with talk of-what else?-food. Mrs. P., a
friend of Miep’s, has been cooking his meals. The day before yesterday Jan
ate carrots with green peas, yesterday he had the leftovers, today she’s
cooking marrowfat peas, and tomorrow she’s plan- ning to mash the
remaining carrots with potatoes.
We asked about Miep’s doctor.
“Doctor?” said Jan. “What doctor? I called him this morning and got his
secretary on the line. I asked for a flu prescription and was told I could come
pick it up tomor- row morning between eight and nine. If you’ve got a
particularly bad case of flu, the doctor himself comes to the phone and says,
‘Stick out your tongue and say “Aah.” Oh, I can hear it, your throat’s infected.
I’ll write out a prescription and you can bring it to the phar- macy. Good day.’
And that’s that. Easy job he’s got, diagnosis by phone. But I shouldn’t blame
the doctors.” After all, a person has only two hands, and these days there’re
too many patients and too few doctors.”
Still, we all had a good laugh at Jan’s phone call. I can just imagine what a
doctor’s waiting room looks like these days. Doctors no longer turn up their
noses at the poorer patients, but at those with minor illnesses. “Hey, what are
you doing here?” they think. “Go to the end of the line; real patients have
priority!”
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
The weather is gorgeous, indescribably beautiful; I’ll be going up to the attic
in a moment.
I now know why I’m so much more restless than Peter. He has his own room,
where he can work, dream, think and sleep.
I’m constantly being chased from one corner to another. I’m never alone in
the room I share with Dussel, though I long to be so much. That’s another
reason I take refuge in the attic.
When I’m there, or with you, I can be myself, at least for a little while. Still, I
don’t want to moan and groan. On the contrary, I want to be brave!
Thank goodness the others notice nothing of my innermost feelings, except
that every day I’m growing cooler and more contemptuous of Mother, less
affection- ate to Father and less willing to share a single thought with Margot;
I’m closed up tighter than a drum. Above all, I have to maintain my air of
confidence. No one must know that my heart and mind are constantly at war
with each other. Up to now reason has always won the battle, but will my
emotions get the upper hand? Sometimes I fear they will, but more often I
actually hope they do!
Oh, it’s so terribly hard not to talk to Peter about these things, but I know I
have to let him begin; it’s so hard to act during the daytime as if everything
I’ve said and done in my dreams had never taken place! Kitty, Anne is crazy,
but then these are crazy times and even crazier circumstances.
The nicest part is being able to write down all my thoughts and feelings;
otherwise, I’d absolutely suffocate. I wonder what Peter thinks about all these
things? I keep thinking I’ll be able to talk to him about them one day. He must
have guessed something about the inner me, since he couldn’t possibly love
the outer Anne he’s known so far! How could someone like Peter, who loves
peace and quiet, possibly stand my bustle and noise? Will he be the first and
only person to see what’s beneath my granite mask? Will it take him long?
Isn’t there some old saying about love being akin to pity? Isn’t that what’s
happening here as well? Because I often pity him as much as I do myself!
I honestly don’t know how to begin, I really don’t, so how can I expect Peter
to when talking is so much harder for him?
If only I could write to him, then at least he’d know what I was trying to say,
since it’s so hard to say it out loud!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, MARCH 17, 1944
My dearest darling,
Everything turned out all right after all; Bep just had a sore throat, not the flu,
and Mr. Kugler got a medical certificate to excuse him from the work detail.
The entire Annex breathed a huge sigh of relief. Everything’s fine here!
Except that Margot and I are rather tired of our parents.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love Father as much as ever and Margot loves both
Father and Mother, but when you’re as old as we are, you want to make a few
decisions for yourself, get out from under their thumb. Whenever I go
upstairs, they ask what I’m going to do, they won’t let me salt my food,
Mother asks me every evening at eight-fifteen if it isn’t time for me to change
into my nighty, I and they have to approve every book I read. I must admit,
they’re not at all strict about that and let me read nearly everything, but
Margot and I are sick and tired of having to listen to their comments and
questions all day long.
There’s something else that displeases them: I no longer feel like giving them
little kisses morning, noon and night.
All those cute nicknames seem so affected, and Father’s fondness for talking
about farting and going to the bathroom is disgusting. In short, I’d like
nothing better than to do without their company for a while, and they don’t
understand that. Not that Margot and I have ever said any of this to them.
What would be the point? They wouldn’t understand anyway.
Margot said last night, “What really bothers me is that if you happen to put
your head in your hands and sigh once or twice, they immediately ask
whether you have a headache or don’t feel well.”
For both of us, it’s been quite a blow to suddenly realize that very little
remains of the close and harmoni- ous family we used to have at home! This
is mostly because everything’s out of kilter here. By that I mean that we’re
treated like children when it comes to external matters, while, inwardly, we’re
much older than other girls our age. Even though I’m only fourteen, I know
what I want, I know who’s right and who’s wrong, I have my own opinions,
ideas and principles, and though it may sound odd coming from a teenager, I
feel I’m more of a person than a child — I feel I’m completely independent of
others. I know I’m better at debating or carrying on a discussion than Mother,
I know I’m more objective, I don’t exaggerate as much, I’m much tidier and
better with my hands, and because of that I feel (this may make you laugh)
that I’m superior to her in many ways. To love someone, I have to admire and
respect the person, but I feel neither respect nor admiration for Mother!
Everything would be all right if only I had Peter, since I admire him in many
ways. He’s so decent and clever!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I’ve told you more about myself and my feelings than I’ve ever told a living
soul, so why shouldn’t that include sex?
Parents, and people in general, are very peculiar when it comes to sex.
Instead of telling their sons and daughters everything at the age of twelve,
they send the children out of the room the moment the subject arises and
leave them to find out everything on their own. Later on, when parents notice
that their children have, somehow, come by their information, they assume
they know more (or less) than they actually do. So why don’t they try to make
amends by asking them what’s what?
A major stumbling block for the adults — though in my opinion it’s no more
than a pebble — is that they’re afraid their children will no longer look upon
marriage as sacred and pure once they realize that, in most cases, this purity
is a lot of nonsense. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not wrong for a man to bring
a little experience to a marriage. After all, it has nothing to do with the
marriage itself, does it?
Soon after I turned eleven, they told me about menstruation. But even then, I
had no idea where the blood came from or what it was for. When I was
twelve and a half, I learned some more from Jacque, who wasn’t as ignorant
as I was. My own intuition told me what a man and a woman do when they’re
together; it seemed like a crazy idea at first, but when Jacque confirmed it, I
was proud of myself for having figured it out!
It was also Jacque who told me that children didn’t come out of their mother’s
tummies. As she put it, “Where the ingredients go in is where the finished
product comes out!”
Jacque and I found out about the hymen, and quite a few other details, from a
book on sex education. I also knew that you could keep from having children,
but how that worked inside your body remained a mystery. When I came
here, Father told me about prostitutes, etc., but all in all there are still
unanswered questions.
If mothers don’t tell their children everything, they hear it in bits and pieces,
and that can’t be right.
Even though it’s Saturday, I’m not bored! That’s because I’ve been up in the
attic with Peter. I sat there dreaming with my eyes closed, and it was
wonderful.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SUNDAY, MARCH 19, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Yesterday was a very important day for me. After lunch everything was as
usual. At five I put on the potatoes, and Mother gave me some blood sausage
to take to Peter. I didn’t want to at first, but I finally went. He wouldn’t accept
the sausage, and I had the dreadful feel- ing it was still because of that
argument we’d had about distrust. Suddenly I couldn’t bear it a moment
longer and my eyes filled with tears. Without another word, I re- turned the
platter to Mother and went to the bathroom to have a good cry. Afterward I
decided to talk things out with Peter. Before dinner the four of us were
helping him with a crossword puzzle, so I couldn’t say anything. But as we
were sitting down to eat, I whispered to him, “Are you going to practice your
shorthand tonight, Peter?”
“No,” was his reply.
“I’d like to talk to you later on.”
He agreed.
After the dishes were done, I went to his room and asked if he’d refused the
sausage because of our last quar- rel.
Luckily, that wasn’t the reason; he just thought it was bad manners to seem so
eager. It had been very hot downstairs and my face was as red as a lobster. So
after taking down some water for Margot, I went back up to get a little fresh
air.
For the sake of appearances, I first went and stood beside the van Daans’
window before going to Peter’s room. He was standing on the left side of the
open window, so I went over to the right side. It’s much easier to talk next to
an open window in semidarkness than in broad daylight, and I think Peter felt
the same way. We told each other so much, so very much, that I can’t repeat it
all. But it felt good; it was the most won- derful evening I’ve ever had in the
Annex. I’ll give you a brief description of the various subjects we touched on.
First we talked about the quarrels and how I see them in a very different light
these days, and then about how we’ve become alienated from our parents. I
told Peter about Mother and Father and Margot and myself. At one point he
asked, “You always give each other a good-night kiss, don’t you?”
“One? Dozens of them. You don’t, do you?”
“No, I’ve never really kissed anyone.”
“Not even on your birthday?”
“Yeah, on my birthday I have.”
We talked about how neither of us really trusts our parents, and how his
parents love each other a great deal and wish he’d confide in them, but that he
doesn’t want to. How I cry my heart out in bed and he goes up to the loft and
swears. How Margot and I have only recently gotten to know each other and
yet still tell each other very little, since we’re always together. We talked
about every imaginable thing, about trust, feelings and ourselves. Oh, Kitty,
he was just as I thought he would be.
Then we talked about the year 1942, and how different we were back then;
we don’t even recognize ourselves from that period. How we couldn’t stand
each other at first. He’d thought I was a noisy pest, and I’d quickly concluded
that he was nothing special. I didn’t understand why he didn’t flirt with me,
but now I’m glad. He also mentioned how he often used to retreat to his room.
I said that my noise and exuberance and his silence were two sides of the
same coin, and that I also liked peace and quiet but don’t have anything for
myself alone, except my diary, and that everyone would rather see the back
of me, starting with Mr. Dussel, and that I don’t always want to sit with my
parents. We discussed how glad he is that my parents have children and how
glad I am that he’s here.
How I now understand his need to withdraw and his relationship to his
parents, and how much I’d like to help him when they argue.
“But you’re always a help to me!” he said.
“How?” I asked, greatly surprised.
“By being cheerful.”
That was the nicest thing he said all evening. He also told me that he didn’t
mind my coming to his room the way he used to; in fact, he liked it. I also
told him that all of Father’s and Mother’s pet names were meaningless, that a
kiss here and there didn’t automatically lead to trust. We also talked about
doing things your own way, the diary, loneliness, the difference between
everyone’s inner and outer selves, my mask, etc.
It was wonderful. He must have come to love me as a friend, and, for the time
being, that’s enough. I’m so grateful and happy, I can’t find the words. I must
apologize, Kitty, since my style is not up to my usual standard today. I’ve just
written whatever came into my head!
I have the feeling that Peter and I share a secret.
Whenever he looks at me with those eyes, with that smile and that wink, it’s
as if a light goes on inside me. I hope things will stay like this and that we’ll
have many, many more happy hours together.
Your grateful and happy Anne
MONDAY, MARCH 20, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
This morning Peter asked me if I’d come again one evening.
He swore I wouldn’t be disturbing him, and said that where there was room
for one, there was room for two. I said I couldn’t see him every evening, since
my parents didn’t think it was a good idea, but he thought I shouldn’t let that
bother me. So I told him I’d like to come some Saturday evening and also
asked him if he’d let me know when you could see the moon.
“Sure,” he said, “maybe we can go downstairs and look at the moon from
there.” I agreed; I’m not really so scared of burglars.
In the meantime, a shadow has fallen on my happiness. For a long time I’ve
had the feeling that Margot likes Peter.
Just how much I don’t know, but the whole situation is very unpleasant. Now
every time I go see Peter I’m hurting her, without meaning to. The funny
thing is that she hardly lets it show. I know I’d be insanely jealous, but
Margot just says I shouldn’t feel sorry for her.
“I think it’s so awful that you’ve become the odd one out,” I added.
“I’m used to that,” she replied, somewhat bitterly.
I don’t dare tell Peter. Maybe later on, but he and I need to discuss so many
other things first.
Mother slapped me last night, which I deserved. I mustn’t carry my
indifference and contempt for her too far. In spite of everything, I should try
once again to be friendly and keep my remarks to myself!
Even Pim isn’t as nice as he used to be. He’s been trying not to treat me like a
child, but now he’s much too cold.
We’ll just have to see what comes of it! He’s warned me that if I don’t do my
algebra, I won’t get any tutoring after the war. I could simply wait and see
what happens, but I’d like to start again, provided I get a new book.
That’s enough for now. I do nothing but gaze at Peter, and I’m filled to
overflowing!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
Evidence of Margot’s goodness. I received this today, March 20, 1944:
Anne, yesterday when I said I wasn’t jeal- ous of you, I wasn’t being entirely
honest. The situation is this: I’m not jealous of either you or Peter. I’m just
sorry I haven’t found anyone willi whom to share my thoughts and feelings,
and I’m not likely to in the near future. But that’s why I wish, from the bottom
of my heart, that you will both be able to place your trust in each other.
You’re already missing out on so much here, things other people take for
granted.
On the other hand, I’m certain I’d never have gotten as far with Peter, because
I think I’d need to feel very close to a person before I could share my
thoughts. I’d want to have the feeling that he understood me through and
through, even if I didn’t say much. For this reason it would have to be
someone I felt was intellectually superior to me, and that isn’t the case with
Peter. But I can imagine your feeling close to him.
So there’s no need for you to reproach yourself because you think you’ te
taking something I was entitled to; nothing could be further from the truth.
You and Peter have everything to gain by your friendship.
My answer:
Dearest Margot,
Your letter was extremely kind, but I still don’t feel completely happy about
the situation, and I don’t think I ever will.
At the moment, Peter and I don’t trust each other as much as you seem to
think. It’s just that when you’re standing beside an open window at twthght,
you can say more to each other than in bright sunshine. It’s also easier to
whisper your feelings than to shout them from the rooftops. I think you’ve
begun to feel a kind of sisterly affection for Peter and would like to help him,
just as much as I would. Perhaps you’ll be able to do that someday, though
that’s not the kind of trust we have in mind. I believe that trust has to corne
from both sides; I also think that’s the reason why Father and I have never
really grown so close. But let’s not talk about it anymore. If there’s anything
you still want to discuss, please write, because it’s easier for me to say what I
mean as on paper than face-to-face. You know how le much I admire you,
and only hope that some of your goodness and Father’s goodness will rub off
on me, because, in that sense, you two are a lot alike.
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22,1944
Dearest Kitty,
I received this letter last night from Margot: Dear Anne,
After your letter of yesterday I have the unpleasant feeling that your
conscience bothers you whenever you go to Peter’s to work or talk; there’s
really no reason for that.
In my heart, I know there’s someone who deserves t my trust (as I do his),
and I wouldn’t be able to tolerate Peter in his place.
However, as you wrote, I do think of Peter as a kind of brother. . . a younger
brother; we’ve been sending out feelers, and a brotherly and sisterly affection
mayor may not develop at some later date, but it’s certainly not reached that
stage yet. So there’s no need for you to feel sorry for me. Now that you’ve
found companionship, enjoy it as much as you can.
In the meantime, things are getting more and more wonderful here. I think,
Kitty, that true love may be developing in the Annex. All those jokes about
marrying Peter if we stayed here long enough weren’t so silly after all. Not
that I’m thinking of marrying him, mind you. I don’t even know what he’ll be
like when he grows up. Or if we’ll even love each other enough to get
married.
I’m sure now that Peter loves me too; I just don’t know in what way. I can’t
figure out if he wants only a good friend, or if he’s attracted to me as a girl or
as a sister. When he said I always helped him when his parents were arguing,
I was tremendously happy; it was one step toward making me believe in his
friendship. I asked him yesterday what he’d do if there were a dozen Annes
who kept popping in to see him. His answer was: “If they were all like you, it
wouldn’t be so bad.” He’s extremely hospitable, and I think he really likes to
see me. Mean- while, he’s been working hard at learning French, even
studying in bed until ten-fifteen.
Oh, when I think back to Saturday night, to our words, our voices, I feel
satisfied with myself for the very first time; what I mean is, I’d still say the
same and wouldn’t want to change a thing, the way I usually do. He’s so
handsome, whether he’s smthng or just sitting still. He’s so sweet and good
and beautiful. I think what surprised him most about me was when he
discovered that I’m not at all the superficial, worldly Anne I appear to be, but
a dreamer, like he is, with just as many troubles!
Last night after the dinner dishes, I waited for him to ask me to stay upstairs.
But nothing happened; I went away.
He came downstairs to tell Dussel it was time to listen to the radio and hung
around the bathroom for a while, but when Dussel took too long, he went
back upstairs. He paced up and down his room and went to bed early.
The entire evening I was so restless I kept going to the bathroom to splash
cold water on my face. I read a bit, daydreamed some more, looked at the
clock and waited, waited, waited, all the while listening to his foot- steps. I
went to bed early, exhausted.
Tonight I have to take a bath, and tomorrow?
Tomorrow’s so far away!
Yours, Anne M. Frank

My answer:Dearest Margot,I think the best thing is simply to wait and see what happens. It can’t be muchlonger before Peter and I will have to decide whether to go back to the waywe were or do something else. I don’t know how it’ll turn out; I can’t see anyfarther than the end of my nose.But I’m certain of one thing: if Peter and I do become friends, I’m going totell him you’re also very fond of him and are prepared to help him if he needsyou. You wouldn’t want me to, I’m sure, but I don’t care; I don’t know whatPeter thinks of you, but I’ll ask him when the time comes.It’s certainly nothing bad — on the contrary! You’re welcome to join us in theattic, or wherever we are. You won’t be disturbing us, because we have anunspoken agreement to talk only in the evenings when it’s dark.Keep your spirits up! I’m doing my best, though it’s not always easy. Yourtime may come sooner than you think.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 23, 1944Dearest Kitty,Things are more or less back to normal here. Our coupon men have beenreleased from prison, thank goodness!Miep’s been back since yesterday, but today it was her husband’s turn to taketo his bed-chills and fever, the usual flu symptoms. Bep is better, though shestill has a cough, and Mr. Kleiman will have to stay home for a long time.Yesterday a plane crashed nearby. The crew was able to parachute out intime. It crashed on top of a school, but luckily there were no children inside.There was a small fire and a couple of people were killed. As the airmenmade their descent, the Germans sprayed them with bullets. TheAmsterdammers who saw it seethed with rage at such a dastardly deed. Weby which I mean the ladies-were also scared out of our wits. Brrr, I hate thesound of gunfire.Now about myself.I was with Peter yesterday and, somehow, I honestly don’t know how, wewound up talking about sex. I’d made up my mind a long time ago to ask hima few things. He knows everything; when I said that Margot and I weren’tvery well informed, he was amazed. I told him a lot about Margot and me andMother and Father and said that lately I didn’t dare ask them anything. Heoffered to enlighten me, and I gratefully accepted: he described howcontraceptives work, and I asked him very boldly how boys could tell theywere grown up. He had to think about that one; he said he’d tell me tonight. Itold him what had happened to Jacque, and said that girls are defenselessagainst strong boys. “Well, you don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said.When I came back that evening, he told me how it is with boys. Slightlyembarrassing, but still awfully nice to be able to discuss it with him. Neitherhe nor I had ever imagined we’d be able to talk so openly to a girl or a boy,respectively, about such intimate matters. I think I know everything now. Hetold me a lot about what he called Prasentivmitteln* * Should bePraservativmitteln: prophylactics in German.That night in the bathroom Margot and I were talking about Bram and Trees,two friends of hers.This morning I was in for a nasty surprise: after breakfast Peter beckoned meupstairs. “That was a dirty trick you played on me,” he said. “I heard whatyou and Margot were saying in the bathroom last night. I think you justwanted to find out how much Peter knew and then have a good laugh!”I was stunned! I did everything I could to talk him out of that outrageousidea; I could understand how he must have felt, but it just wasn’t true!”Oh no, Peter,” I said. “I’d never be so mean. I told you I wouldn’t pass onanything you said to me and I won’t. To put on an act like that and thendeliberately be so mean. . .No,Peter, that’s not my idea ofa joke.It wouldn’t be fair. I didn’t say anything, honest. Won’t you believe me?” Heassured me he did, but I think we’ll have to talk about it again sometime. I’vedone nothing all day but worry about it. Thank goodness he came right outand said what was on his mind. Imagine if he’d gone around thinking I couldbe that mean. He’s so sweet!Now I’ll have to tell him everything!Yours, AnneFRIDAY, MARCH 24, 1944Dear Kitty,I often go up to Peter’s room after dinner nowadays to breathe in the freshevening air. You can get around to meaningful conversations more quickly inthe dark than with the sun tickling your face. It’s cozy and snug sitting besidehim on a chair and looking outside. The van Daans and Dussel make thesilliest remarks when I disappear into his room.”Annes zweite Heimat,”* * Anne’s second home they say, or”Is it proper for a gentleman to receive young girls in his room at night withthe lights out?” Peter has amazing presence of mind in the face of these socalled witticisms.My mother, incidentally, is also bursting with curiosity and simply dying toask what we talk about, only she’s secretly afraid I’d refuse to answer. Petersays the grown-ups are just jealous because we’re young and that weshouldn’t take their obnoxious comments to heart.Sometimes he comes downstairs to get me, but that’s awkward too, becausein spite of all his precautions his face turns bright red and he can hardly getthe words out of his mouth. I’m glad I don’t blush; it must be extremelyunpleasant.Besides, it bothers me that Margot has to sit downstairs all by herself, whileI’m upstairs enjoying Peter’s company.But what can I do about it? I wouldn’t mind it if she came, but she’d just bethe odd one out, sitting there like a lump on a log.I’ve had to listen to countless remarks about our sudden friendship. I can’t tellyou how often the conversation at meals has been about an Annex wedding,should the war last another five years. Do we take any notice of this parentalchitchat? Hardly, since it’s all so silly. Have my parents forgotten that theywere young once? Apparently they have. At any rate, they laugh at us whenwe’re serious, and they’re serious when we’re joking.I don’t know what’s going to happen next, or whether we’ll run out of thingsto say. But if it goes on like this, we’ll eventually be able to be togetherwithout talking. If only his parents would stop acting so strangely. It’sprobably because they don’t like seeing me so often; Peter and I certainlynever tell them what we talk about. Imagine if they knew we were discussingsuch intimate things.I’d like to ask Peter whether he knows what girls look like down there. I don’tthink boys are as complicated as girls. You can easily see what boys look likein photographs or pictures of male nudes, but with women it’s different. Inwomen, the genitals, or whatever they’re called, are hidden between theirlegs. Peter has probably never seen a girl up close. To tell you the truth,neither have I. Boys are a lot easier. How on earth would I go aboutdescribing a girl’s parts? I can tell from what he said that he doesn’t knowexactly how it all fits together. He was talking about the”Muttermund,” * cervix, but that’s on the inside, where you can’t see it.Everything’s pretty well arranged in us women.Until I was eleven or twelve, I didn’t realize there was a second set of labia onthe inside, since you couldn’t see them. What’s even funnier is that I thoughturine came out of the clitoris. I asked Mother one time what that little bumpwas, and she said she didn’t know. She can really play dumb when she wantsto!But to get back to the subject. How on earth can you explain what it all lookslike without any models?Shall I try anyway? Okay, here goes!When you’re standing up, all you see from the front is hair. Between yourlegs there are two soft, cushiony things, also covered with hair, which presstogether when you’re standing, so you can’t see what’s inside. They separatewhen you sit down, and they’re very red and quite fleshy on the inside. In theupper part, between the outer labia, there’s a fold of skin that, on secondthought, looks like a kind of blister. That’s the clitoris. Then come the innerlabia, which are also pressed together in a kind of crease. When they open up,you can see a fleshy little mound, no bigger than the top of my thumb. Theupper part has a couple of small holes in it, which is where the urine comesout. The lower part looks as if it were just skin, and yet that’s where thevagina is. You can barely find it, because the folds of skin hide the opening.The hole’s so small I can hardly imagine how a man could get in there, muchless how a baby could come out. It’s hard enough trying to get your indexfinger inside. That’s all there is, and yet it plays such an important role!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MARCH 25, 1944Dearest Kitty,You never realize how much you’ve changed until after it’s happened. I’vechanged quite drastically, everything about me is different: my opinions,ideas, critical outlook. Inwardly, outwardly, nothing’s the same. And, I mightsafely add, since it’s true, I’ve changed for the better. I once told you that,after years of being adored, it was hard for me to adjust to the harsh reality ofgrown-ups and rebukes. But Father and Mother are largely to blame for myhaving to put up with so much. At home they wanted me to enjoy life, whichwas fine, but here they shouldn’t have encouraged me to agree with them andonly shown me “their” side of all the quarrels and gossip. It was a long timebefore I discovered the score was fifty-fifty. I now know that many blundershave been committed here, by young and old alike. Father and Mother’sbiggest mistake in dealing with the van Daans is that they’re never candid andfriendly (admittedly, the friendliness might have to be feigned). Above all, Iwant to keep the peace, and to neither quarrel nor gossip. With Father andMargot that’s not difficult, but it is with Mother, which is why I’m glad shegives me an occasional rap on the knuckles. You can win Mr. van Daan toyour side by agreeing with him, listening quietly, not saying much and mostof all . . . responding to his teasing and his corny jokes with a joke of yourown. Mrs.van D. can be won over by talking openly to her and admitting when you’rewrong. She also frankly admits her faults, of which she has many. I know alltoo well that she doesn’t think as badly of me as she did in the beginning. Andthat’s simply because I’m honest and tell people right to their faces what Ithink, even when it’s not very flattering. I want to be honest; I think it getsyou further and also makes you feel better about yourself.Yesterday Mrs. van D. was talking about the rice we gave Mr. Kleiman. “Allwe do is give, give, give. But at a certain point I think that enough is enough.If he’d only take the trouble, Mr. Kleiman could scrounge up his own rice.Why should we give away all our supplies? We need them just as badly.””No, Mrs. van Daan,” I replied. “I don’t agree with you.Mr. Kleiman may very well be able to get hold of a little rice, but he doesn’tlike having to worry about it. It’s not our place to criticize the people who arehelping us. We should give them whatever they need if we can possibly spareit. One less plate of rice a week won’t make that much difference; we canalways eat beans.”Mrs. van D. didn’t see it my way, but she added that, even though shedisagreed, she was willing to back down, and that was an entirely differentmatter.Well, I’ve said enough. Sometimes I know what my place is and sometimes Ihave my doubts, but I’ll eventually get where I want to be! I know I will!Especially now that I have help, since Peter helps me through many a roughpatch and rainy day!I honestly don’t know how much he loves me and whether we’ll ever get asfar as a kiss; in any case, I don’t want to force the issue! I told Father I oftengo see Peter and asked if he approved, and of course he did!It’s much easier now to tell Peter things I’d nor- mally keep to myself; forexample, I told him I want to write later on, and if I can’t be a writer, to writein addition to my work.I don’t have much in the way of money or worldly possessions, I’m notbeautiful, intelligent or clever, but I’m happy, and I intend to stay that way! Iwas born happy, I love people, I have a trusting nature, and I’d like everyoneelse to be happy too.Your devoted friend, Anne M. FrankAn empty day, though clear and bright,Is just as dark as any night.(I wrote this a few weeks ago and it no longer holds true, but I included itbecause my poems are so few and far between.)

MONDAY, MARCH 27, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
At least one long chapter on our life in hiding should be about politics, but
I’ve been avoiding the subject, since it interests me so little. Today, however,
I’ll devote an entire letter to politics.
Of course, there are many different opinions on this topic, and it’s not
surprising to hear it frequently discussed in times of war, but. . . arguing so
much about politics is just plain stupid! Let them laugh, swear, make bets,
grumble and do whatever they want as long as they stew in their own juice.
But don’t let them argue, since that only makes things worse. The people who
come from outside bring us a lot of news that later proves to be untrue;
however, up to now our radio has never lied. Jan, Miep, Mr. Kleiman, Bep
and Mr. Kugler go up and down in their political moods, though Jan least of
all.
Here in the Annex the mood never varies. The end- less debates over the
invasion, air raids, speeches, etc., etc., are accompanied by countless
exclamations such as
“Eempossible!, Urn Gottes Willen* * Oh, for heaven’s sake.
If they’re just getting started now, how long is it going to last!, It’s going
splendidly, But, great!”
Optimists and pessimists — not to mention the realists –air their opinions
with unflagging energy, and as with everything else, they’re all certain that
they have a monopoly on the truth. It annoys a certain lady that her spouse
has such supreme faith in the British, and a certain husband attacks his wife
because of her teasing and disparaging remarks about his beloved nation!
And so it goes from early in the morning to late at night; the funny part is that
they never get tired of it. I’ve discovered a trick, and the effect is
overwhelming, just like pricking someone with a pin and watching them
jump. Here’s how it works: I start talking about politics.
All it takes is a single question, a word or a sentence, and before you know it,
the entire family is involved!
As if the German “Wehrmacht News” and the English BBC
weren’t enough, they’ve now added special air-raid announcements. In a
word, splendid. But the other side of the coin is that the British Air Force is
operating around the clock. Not unlike the German propaganda machine,
which is cranking out lies twenty-four hours a day!
So the radio is switched on every morning at eight (if not earlier) and is
listened to every hour until nine, ten or even eleven at night. This is the best
evidence yet that the adults have infinite patience, but also that their brains
have turned to mush (some of them, I mean, since I wouldn’t want to insult
anyone). One broadcast, two at the most, should be enough to last the entire
day. But no, those old nincompoops. . . never mind, I’ve already said it all!
“Music While You Work,” the Dutch broadcast from England, Frank Phillips
or Queen Wilhelmina, they each get a turn and fInd a willing listener. If the
adults aren’t eating or sleeping, they’re clustered around the radio talking
about eating, sleeping and politics. Whew! It’s getting to be a bore, and it’s all
I can do to keep from turning into a dreary old crone myself! Though with all
the old folks around me, that might not be such a bad idea!
Here’s a shining example, a speech made by our beloved Winston Churchill.
Nine o’clock, Sunday evening. The teapot, under its cozy, is on the table, and
the guests enter the room.
Dussel sits to the left of the radio, Mr. van D. in front of it and Peter to the
side. Mother is next to Mr. van D., willi Mrs. van D. behind them. Margot
and I are sitting in the last row and Pim at the table. I realize this isn’t a very
clear description of our seating arrangements, but it doesn’t matter. The men
smoke, Peter’s eyes close from the strain of listening, Mama is dressed in her
long, dark negligee, Mrs. van D. is trembling because of the planes, which
take no notice of the speech but fly blithely on toward Essen, Father is
slurping his tea, and Margot and I are united in a sisterly way by the sleeping
Mouschi, who has taken possession of both our knees. Margot’s hair is in
curlers and my nightgown is too small, too tight and too short. It all looks so
intimate, cozy and peaceful, and for once it really is. Yet I await the end of
the speech willi dread. They’re impatient, straining at the leash to start
another argument! Pst, pst, like a cat luring a mouse from its hole, they goad
each other into quarrels and dissent.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
As much as I’d like to write more on politics, I have lots of other news to
report today. First, Mother has virtually forbidden me to go up to Peter’s,
since, according to her, Mrs. van Daan is jealous. Second, Peter’s invited
Margot to join us upstairs. Whether he really means it or is just saying it out
of politeness, I don’t know. Third, I asked Father if he thought I should take
any notice of Mrs. van Daan’s jealousy and he said I didn’t have to.
What should I do now? Mother’s angry, doesn’t want me going upstairs,
wants me to go back to doing my homework in the room I share willi Dussel.
She may be jealous herself.
Father doesn’t begrudge us those few hours and thinks it’s nice we get along
so well. Margot likes Peter too, but feels that three people can’t talk about the
same things as two.
Furthermore, Mother thinks Peter’s in love with me. To tell you the truth, I
wish he were. Then we’d be even, and it’d be a lot easier to get to know each
other. She also claims he’s always looking at me. Well, I suppose we do give
each other the occasional wink. But I can’t help it if he keeps admiring my
dimples, can I?
I’m in a very difficult position. Mother’s against me and I’m against her.
Father turns a blind eye to the silent struggle between Mother and me.
Mother is sad, because she still loves me, but I’m not at all unhappy, because
she no longer means anything to me.
As for Peter. . . I don’t want to give him up. He’s so sweet and I admire him
so much. He and I could have a really beautiful relationship, so why are the
old folks poking their noses into our business again? Fortu- nately, I’m used
to hiding my feelings, so I manage not to show how crazy I am about him. Is
he ever going to say anything? Am I ever going to feel his cheek against
mine, the way I felt Petel’s cheek in my dream? Oh, Peter and
Petel, you’re one and the same! They don’t understand us; they’d never
understand that we’re content just to sit beside each other and not say a word.
They have no idea of what draws us together! Oh, when will we overcome all
these difficulties? And yet it’s good that we have to surmount them, since it
makes the end that much more beautiful. When he lays his head on his arms
and closes his eyes, he’s still a child; when he plays with Mouschi or talks
about her, he’s loving; when he carries the potatoes or other heavy loads, he’s
strong; when he goes to watch the gunfire or walks through the dark house to
look for burglars, he’s brave; and when he’s so awkward and clumsy, he’s
hopelessly endearing.
It’s much nicer when he explains something to me than when I have to teach
him. I wish he were superior to me in nearly every way!
What do we care about our two mothers? Oh, if only he’d say something.
Father always says I’m conceited, but I’m not, I’m merely vain! I haven’t had
many people tell me I was pretty, except for a boy at school who said I
looked so cute when I smiled.
Yesterday Peter paid me a true com- pliment, and just for fun I’ll give you a
rough idea of our conversation.
Peter often says, “Smile!” I thought it was strange, so yesterday I asked him,
“Why do you always want me to smile?”
“Because you get dimples in your cheeks. How do you do that?”
“I was born with them. There’s also one in my chin. It’s the only mark of
beauty I possess.”
“No, no, that’s not true!”
“Yes it is. I know I’m not beautiful. I never have been and I never will be!”
“I don’t agree. I think you’re pretty.”
“I am not.”
“I say you are, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”
So of course I then said the same about him.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 29, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Mr. Bolkestein, the Cabinet Minister, speaking on the Dutch broadcast from
London, said that after the war a collection would be made of diaries and
letters dealing with the war. Of course, everyone pounced on my diary. Just
imagine how interesting it would be if I were to publish a novel about the
Secret Annex. The title alone would make people think it was a detective
story.
Seriously, though, ten years after the war people would find it very amusing
to read how we lived, what we ate and what we talked about as Jews in
hiding. Although I tell you a great deal about our lives, you still know very
little about us. How frightened the women are during air raids; last Sunday,
for instance, when 350 British planes dropped 550
tons of bombs on IJmuiden, so that the houses trembled like blades of grass
in the wind. Or how many epidemics are raging here.
You know nothing of these matters, and it would take me all day to describe
everything down to the last detail.
People have to stand in line to buy vegetables and all kinds of goods; doctors
can’t visit their patients, since their cars and bikes are stolen the moment they
turn their backs; burglaries and thefts are so common that you ask yourself
what’s suddenly gotten into the Dutch to make them so light-fingered. Little
children, eight- and eleven-year-olds, smash the windows of people’s homes
and steal whatever they can lay their hands on. People don’t dare leave the
house for even five minutes, since they’re liable to come back and find all
their belongings gone. Every day the newspapers are filled with reward
notices for the return of stolen typewriters, Persian rugs, electric clocks,
fabrics, etc. The electric clocks on street corners are dismantled, public
phones are stripped down to the last wire.
Morale among the Dutch can’t be good. Everyone’s hungry; except for the
ersatz coffee, a week’s food ration doesn’t last two days. The invasion’s long
in coming, the men are being shipped off to Germany, the children are sick or
undernourished, everyone’s wearing worn-out clothes and run-down shoes. A
new sole costs 7.50 guil- ders on the black market. Besides, few shoemakers
will do repairs, or if they do, you have to wait four months for your shoes,
which might very well have disappeared in the meantime.
One good thing has come out of this: as the food gets worse and the decrees
more severe, the acts of sabo- tage against the authorities are increasing. The
ration board, the police, the officials-they’re all either helping their fellow
citizens or denouncing them and sending them off to prison.
Fortunately, only a small percentage of Dutch people are on the wrong side.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, MARCH 31, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Just imagine, it’s still fairly cold, and yet most people have been without coal
for nearly a month. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? There’s a general mood of
optimism about the Russian front, because that’s going great guns! I don’t
often write about the political situation, but I must tell you where the
Russians are at the moment. They’ve reached the Polish border and the Prut
River in Romania. They’re close to Odessa, and they’ve surrounded Ternopol.
Every night we’re expecting an extra communique from Stalin.
They’re firing off so many salutes in Moscow, the city must be rumbling and
shaking all day long. Whether they like to pretend the fighting’s nearby or
they simply don’t have any other way to express their joy, I don’t know!
Hungary has been occupied by German troops.
There are still a million Jews living there; they too are doomed.
Nothing special is happening here. Today is Mr. van Daan’s birthday. He
received two packets of tobacco, one serving of coffee, which his wife had
managed to save, lemon punch from Mr. Kugler, sardines from Miep, eau de
cologne from us, lilacs, tulips and, last but not least, a cake with raspberry
filling, slightly gluey because of the poor quality of the flour and the lack of
butter, but deli- cious anyway.
All that talk about Peter and me has died down a bit. He’s coming to pick me
up tonight. Pretty nice of him, don’t you think, since he hates doing it! We’re
very good friends. We spend a lot of time together and talk about every
imaginable subject. It’s so nice not having to hold back when we come to a
delicate topic, the way I would with other boys. For example, we were
talking about blood and somehow the conversation turned to menstruation,
etc. He thinks we women are quite tough to be able to withstand the loss of
blood, and that I am too. I wonder why?
My life here has gotten better, much better. God has not forsaken me, and He
never will.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SATURDAY, APRIL 1, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
And yet everything is still so difficult. You do know what I mean, don’t you?
I long so much for him to kiss me, but that kiss is taking its own sweet time.
Does he still think of me as a friend? Don’t I mean anything more?
You and I both know that I’m strong, that I can carry most burdens alone. I’ve
never been used to sharing my worries with anyone, and I’ve never clung to a
mother, but I’d love to lay my head on his shoulder and just sit there quietly.
I can’t, I simply can’t forget that dream of Peter’s cheek, when everything was
so good! Does he have the same longing? Is he just too shy to say he loves
me? Why does he want me near him so much? Oh, why doesn’t he say
something?
I’ve got to stop, I’ve got to be calm. I’ll try to be strong again, and if I’m
patient, the rest will follow. But
— and this is the worst part — I seem to be chasing him.
I’m always the one who has to go upstairs; he never comes to me. But that’s
because of the rooms, and he understands why I object. Oh, I’m sure he
understands more than I think .
Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, APRIL 3, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Contrary to my usual practice, I’m going to write you a detailed description of
the food situation, since it’s become a matter of some difficulty and
importance, not only here in the Annex, but in all of Holland, all of Europe
and even beyond.
In the twenty-one months we’ve lived here, we’ve been through a good many
“food cycles” — you’ll understand what that means in a moment. A “food
cycle” is a period in which we have only one particular dish or type of
vegetable to eat.
For a long time we ate nothing but endive. Endive with sand, endive without
sand, endive with mashed potatoes, endive-and-mashed potato casserole.
Then it was spinach, followed by kohlrabi, salsify, cucumbers, tomatoes,
sauerkraut, etc., etc.
It’s not much fun when you have to eat, say, sauer- kraut every day for lunch
and dinner, but when you’re hungry enough, you do a lot of things. Now,
however, we’re going through the most delightful period so far, because there
are no vegetables at all.
Our weekly lunch menu consists of brown beans, split-pea soup, potatoes
with dumplings, potato kugel and, by the grace of God, turnip greens or
rotten carrots, and then it’s back to brown beans. Because of the bread
shortage, we eat potatoes at every meal, starting with breakfast, but then we
fry them a little. To make soup we use brown beans, navy beans, potatoes,
packages of vege- table soup, packages of chicken soup and packages of bean
soup. There are brown beans in everything, including the bread. For dinner
we always have potatoes with imitation gravy and — thank goodness we’ve
still got it — beet salad. I must tell you about the dumplings. We make them
with government-issue flour, water and yeast. They’re so gluey and tough that
it feels as if you had rocks in your stomach, but oh well!
The high point is our weekly slice of liverwurst, and the jam on our
unbuttered bread. But we’re still alive, and much of the time it still tastes
good too!
Yours, Anne M. Frank

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

SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
“There’s just one bad thing after another. When will it all end?” You can sure
say that again. Guess what’s happened now? Peter forgot to unbolt the front
door. As a result, Mr.
Kugler and the warehouse employees couldn’t get in. He went to Keg’s,
smashed in our office kitchen window and got in that way. The windows in
the Annex were open, and the Keg people saw that too. What must they be
thinking? And van Maaren? Mr. Kugler’s furious. We accuse him of not
doing anything to reinforce the doors, and then we do a stupid thing like this!
Peter’s extremely upset. At the table, Mother said she felt more sorry for Peter
than for anyone else, and he nearly began to cry. We’re equally to blame,
since we usually ask him every day if he’s unbolted the door, and so does Mr.
van Daan. Maybe I can go comfort him later on. I want to help him so much!
Here are the latest news bulletins about life in the Secret Annex over the last
few weeks:
A week ago Saturday, Boche suddenly got sick. He sat quite still and started
drooling. Miep immediately picked him up, rolled him in a towel, tucked him
in her shopping bag and brought him to the dog-and-cat clinic. Boche had
some kind of intestinal problem, so the vet gave him medicine. Peter gave it
to him a few times, but Boche soon made himself scarce.
I’ll bet he was out courting his sweetheart. But now his nose is swollen and he
meows whenever you pick him up-he was probably trying to steal food and
somebody smacked him.
Mouschi lost her voice for a few days. Just when we decided she had to be
taken to the vet too, she started getting better.
We now leave the attic window open a crack every night.
Peter and I often sit up there in the evening.
Thanks to rubber cement and oil paint, our toilet ; could quickly be repaired.
The broken faucet has been replaced.
Luckily, Mr. Kleiman is feeling better. He’s going to see a specialist soon.
We can only hope he won’t need an operation.
This month we received eight Tation books. Unfortunately, for the next two
weeks beans have been substituted for oatmeal or groats. Our latest delicacy
is piccalilli. If you’re out of luck, all you get is a jar full of cucumber and
mustard sauce.
Vegetables are hard to come by. There’s only lettuce, lettuce and more
lettuce. Our meals consist entirely of potatoes and imitation gravy.
The Russians are in possession of more than half the Crimea. The British
aren’t advancing beyond Cassino. We’ll have to count on the Western Wall.
There have been a lot of unbelievably heavy air raids. The Registry of Births,
Deaths and Marriages in The Hague was bombed. All Dutch people will be
issued new ration registration cards.
Enough for today.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Remember yesterday’s date, since it was a red-letter day for me. Isn’t it an
important day for every girl when she gets her first kiss? Well then, it’s no
less important to me.
The time Bram kissed me on my right cheek or Mr. Woudstra on my right
hand doesn’t count. How did I suddenly come by this kiss? I’ll tell you.
Last night at eight I was sitting with Peter on his divan and it wasn’t long
before he put an arm around me. (Since it was Saturday, he wasn’t wearing
his overalls.)”Why don t we move over a little,” I said, “so won t keep
bumping my head against the cupboard.”
He moved so far over he was practically in the corner. I slipped my arm
under his and across his back, and he put his arm around my shoulder, so that
I was nearly engulfed by him.
We’ve sat like this on other occasions, but never so close as we were last
night. He held me firmly against him, my left side against his chest; my heart
had already begun to beat faster, but there was more to come. He wasn’t
satisfied until my head lay on his shoulder, with his on top of mine. I sat up
again after about five minutes, but before long he took my head in his hands
and put it back next to his. Oh, it was so wonderful. I could hardly talk, my
pleasure was too intense; he caressed my cheek and arm, a bit clumsily, and
played with my hair. Most of the time our heads were touching.
I can’t tell you, Kitty, the feeling that ran through me.
I was too happy for words, and I think he was too.
At nine-thirty we stood up. Peter put on his tennis shoes so he wouldn’t make
much noise on his nightly round of the building, and I was standing next to
him. How I suddenly made the right movement, I don’t know, but before we
went downstairs, he gave me a. kiss, through my hair, half on my left cheek
and half on my ear. I tore downstairs without looking back, and I long so
much for today.
Sunday morning, just before eleven.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Do you think Father and Mother would approve of a girl my age sitting on a
divan and kissing a seventeen-and-a-half-year-old boy? I doubt they would,
but I have to trust my own judgment in this matter. It’s so peaceful and safe,
lying in his arms and dreaming, it’s so thrilling to feel his cheek against mine,
it’s so wonderful to know there’s someone waiting for me. But, and there is a
but, will Peter want to leave it at that? I haven’t forgotten his promise, but. . .
he is a boy!
I know I’m starting at a very young age. Not even fifteen and already so
independent — that’s a little hard for other people to understand. I’m pretty
sure Margot would never kiss a boy unless there was some talk of an
engagement or marriage. Neither Peter nor I has any such plans. I’m also sure
that Mother never touched a man before she met Father.
What would my girlfriends or Jacque say if they knew I’d lain in Peter’s arms
with my heart against his chest, my head on his shoulder and his head and
face against mine!
Oh, Anne, how terribly shocking! But seriously, I don’t think it’s at all
shocking; we’re cooped up here, cut off from the world, anxious and fearful,
especially lately. Why should we stay apart when we love each other? Why
shouldn’t we kiss each other in times like these? Why should we wait until
we’ve reached a suitable age? Why should we ask anybody’s permission?
I’ve decided to look out for my own interests. He’d never want to hurt me or
make me unhappy. Why shouldn’t I do what my heart tells me and makes
both of us happy?
Yet I have a feeling, Kitty, that you can sense my doubt.
It must be my honesty rising in revolt against all this sneaking around. Do
you think it’s my duty to tell Father what I’m up to? Do you think our secret
should be shared with a third person? Much of the beauty would be lost, but
would it make me feel better inside? I’ll bring it up with him.
Oh, yes, I still have so much I want to discuss with him, since I don’t see the
point of just cuddling. Sharing our thoughts with each other requires a great
deal of trust, but we’ll both be stronger because of it!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
P.S. We were up at six yesterday morning, because the whole family heard
the sounds of a break-in again. It must have been one of our neighbors who
was the victim this time.
When we checked at seven o’clock, our doors were still shut tight, thank
goodness!
TUESDAY, APRIL 18,1944
Dearest Kitty,
Everything’s fine here. Last night the carpenter came again to put some sheets
of iron over the door panels. Father just got through saying he definitely
expects large-scale operations in Russia and Italy, as well as in the West,
before May 20; the longer the war lasts, the harder it is to imagine being
liberated from this place.
Yesterday Peter and I finally got around to having the talk we’ve been
postponing for the last ten days. I told him all about girls, without hesitating
to discuss the most intimate matters. I found it rather amusing that he thought
the opening in a woman’s body was simply left out of illustrations. He
couldn’t imagine that it was actually located between a woman’s legs. The
evening ended with a mutual kiss, near the mouth. It’s really a lovely feeling!
I might take my “favorite quotes notebook” up with me sometime so Peter
and I can go more deeply into matters. I don’t think lying in each other’s arms
day in and day out is very satisfying, and I hope he feels the same.
After our mild winter we’ve been having a beautiful spring. April is glorious,
not too hot and not too cold, with occasional light showers. Our chestnut tree
is in leaf, and here and there you can already see a few small blossoms.
Bep presented us Saturday with four bouquets of flowers: three bouquets of
daffodils, and one bouquet of grape hyacinths for me. Mr. Kugler is
supplying us with more and more newspapers.
It’s time to do my algebra, Kitty. Bye.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19, 1944
Dearest Darling,
(That’s the title of a movie with Dorit Kreysler, Ida Wust and Harald
Paulsen!)
What could be nicer than sitting before an open window, enjoying nature,
listening to the birds sing, feeling the sun on your cheeks and holding a
darling boy in your arms? I feel so peaceful and safe with his arm around me,
knowing he’s near and yet not having to speak; how can this be bad when it
does me so much good? Oh, if only we were never disturbed again, not even
by Mouschi.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, APRIL 21,1944
My dearest Kitty,
I stayed in bed yesterday with a sore throat, but since I was already bored the
very first afternoon and didn’t have a fever, I got up today. My sore throat has
nearly
“verschwunden”* * disappeared.
Yesterday, as you’ve probably already discovered, was our Fiihrer’s fifty-fifth
birthday. Today is the eighteenth birthday of Her Royal Highness Princess
Elizabeth of York.
The BBC reported that she hasn’t yet been declared of age, though royal
children usually are. We’ve been wondering which prince they’ll marry this
beauty off to, but can’t think of a suitable candidate; perhaps her sister,
Princess Margaret Rose, can have Crown Prince Baudouin of Belgium!
Here we’ve been going from one disaster to the next. No sooner have the
outside doors been reinforced than van Maaren rears his head again. In all
likelihood he’s the one who stole the potato flour, and now he’s trying to pin
the blame on Bep. Not surprisingly, the Annex is once again in an uproar.
Bep is beside herself with rage. Perhaps Mr. Kugler will finally have this
shady character tailed.
The appraiser from Beethovenstraat was here this morning.
He offered us 400 guilders for our chest; in our opinion, the other estimates
are also too low.
I want to ask the magazine The Prince if they’ll take one of my fairy tales,
under a pseudonym, of course. But up to now all my fairy tales have been too
long, so I don’t think I have much of a chance.
Until the next time, darling.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
For the last ten days Dussel hasn’t been on speaking terms with Mr. van
Daan, and all because of the new security measures since the break-in. One of
these was that he’s no longer allowed to go downstairs in the evenings. Peter
and Mr. van Daan make the last round every night at nine-thirty, and after
that no one may go downstairs. We can’t flush the toilet anymore after eight
at night or after eight in the morning. The windows may be opened only in
the morning when the lights go on in Mr. Kugler’s office, and they can no
longer be propped open with a stick at night. This last measure is the reason
for Dussel’s sulking. He claims that Mr. van Daan bawled him out, but he has
only himself to blame. He says he’d rather live without food than without air,
and that they simply must figure out a way to keep the windows open.
“I’ll have to speak to Mr. Kugler about this,” he said to me.
I replied that we never discussed matters of this sort with Mr. Kugler, only
within the group.
“Everything’s always happening behind my back. I’ll have to talk to your
father about that.”
He’s also not allowed to sit in Mr. Kugler’s office anymore on Saturday
afternoons or Sundays, because the manager of Keg’s might hear him if he
happens to be next door. Dussel promptly went and sat there anyway. Mr.
van Daan was furious, and Father went downstairs to talk to Dussel, who
came up with some flimsy excuse, but even Father didn’t fall for it this time.
Now Father’s keep- ing his dealings with Dussel to a minimum because
Dussel insulted him. Not one of us knows what he said, but it must have been
pretty awful.
And to think that that miserable man has his birthday next week. How can
you celebrate your birthday when you’ve got the sulks, how can you accept
gifts from people you won’t even talk to?
Mr. Voskuijl is going downhill rapidly. For more than ten days he’s had a
temperature of almost a hundred and four. The doctor said his condition is
hopeless; they think the cancer has spread to his lungs. The poor man, we’d
so like to help him, but only God can help him now!
I’ve written an amusing story called “Blurry the Explorer,” which was a big
hit with my three listeners.
I still have a bad cold and have passed it on to Margot, as well as Mother and
Father. If only Peter doesn’t get it.
He insisted on a kiss, and called me his El Dorado. You can’t call a person
that, silly boy! But he’s sweet anyway!
Yours, Anne M. Frank

THURSDAY, APRIL 27, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Mrs. van D. was in a bad mood this morning. All she did was complain, first
about her cold, not being able to get cough drops and the agony of having to
blow her nose all the time. Next she grumbled that the sun wasn’t shining, the
invasion hadn’t started, we weren’t allowed to look out the windows, etc., etc.
We couldn’t help but laugh at her, and it couldn’t have been that bad, since
she soon joined in.
Our recipe for potato kugel, modified due to lack of onions:
Put peeled potatoes through a food mill and add a little dry government-issue
flour and salt. Grease a mold or ovenproof dish with paraffin or stearin and
bake for 21/2
hours. Serve with rotten strawberry compote. (Onions not available. Nor oil
for mold or dough!)
At the moment I’m reading Emperor Charles V, written by a professor at the
University of Gottingen; he’s spent forty years working on this book. It took
me five days to read fifty pages. I can’t do any more than that. Since the book
has 598 pages, you can figure out just how long it’s going to take me. And
that’s not even counting the second volume. But.
. . very interesting!
The things a schoolgirl has to do in the course of a single day! Take me, for
example. First, I translated a passage on Nelson’s last battle from Dutch into
English.
Then, I read more about the Northern War (1700-21) involving Peter the
Great, Charles XII, Augustus the Strong, Stanislaus Leczinsky, Mazeppa, von
Gorz, Bran- denburg, Western Pomerania, Eastern Pomerania and Denmark,
plus the usual dates. Next, I wound up in Brazil, where I read about Bahia
tobacco, the abundance of coffee, the one and a half million inhabitants of
Rio de Janeiro, Pernambuco and Sao Paulo and, last but not least, the
Amazon River. Then about Negroes, mulattoes, mestizos, whites, the
illiteracy rate — over 50
percent — and malaria. Since I had some time left, I glanced through a
genealogical chart: John the Old, William Louis, Ernest Casimir I, Henry
Casimir I, right up to little Margriet Franciska (born in 1943 in Ottawa).
Twelve o’clock: I resumed my studies in the attic, reading about deans,
priests, ministers, popes and . . . whew, it was one o’clock!
At two the poor child (ho hum) was back at work. Old World and New World
monkeys were next. Kitty, tell me quickly, how many toes does a
hippopotamus have?
Then came the Bible, Noah’s Ark, Shem, Ham and Japheth.
After that, Charles V. Then, with Peter, Thack- eray’s book about the colonel,
in English. A French test, and then a comparison between the Mississippi and
the Missouri!
Enough for today. Adieu!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, APRIL 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I’ve never forgotten my dream of Peter Schiff (see the beginning of January).
Even now I can still feel his cheek against mine, and that wonderful glow that
made up for all the rest. Once in a while I’d had the same feeling with this
Peter, but never so intensely. . . until last night. We were sitting on the divan,
as usual, in each other’s arms.
Suddenly the everyday Anne slipped away and the second Anne took her
place. The second Anne, who’s never overconfident or amusing, but wants
only to love and be gentle.
I sat pressed against him and felt a wave of emotion come over me. Tears
rushed to my eyes; those from the left fell on his overalls, while those from
the right trickled down my nose and into the air and landed beside the first.
Did he notice? He made no movement to show that he had. Did he feel the
same way I did? He hardly said a word. Did he realize he had two Annes at
his side? My questions went unanswered.
At eight-thirty I stood up and went to the window, where we always say
good-bye. I was still trembling, I was still Anne number two. He came over
to me, and I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on his left cheek.
I was about to kiss the other cheek when my mouth met his, and we pressed
our lips together. In a daze, we embraced, over and over again, never to stop,
oh!
Peter needs tenderness. For the first time in his life he’s discovered a girl; for
the first time he’s seen that even the biggest pests also have an inner self and
a heart, and are transformed as soon as they’re alone with you. For the first
time in his life he’s given himself and his friendship to another person. He’s
never had a friend before, boy or girl. Now we’ve found each other. I, for that
matter, didn’t know him either, had never had someone I could confide in,
and it’s led to this . . .
The same question keeps nagging me: “Is it right?” Is it right for me to yield
so soon, for me to be so passionate, to be filled with as much passion and
desire as Peter? Can I, a girl, allow myself to go that far?
There’s only one possible answer: “I’m longing so much. .
. and have for such a long time. I’m so lonely and now I’ve found comfort!”
In the mornings we act normally, in the afternoons too, except now and then.
But in the evenings the suppressed longing of the entire day, the happiness
and the bliss of all the times before come rushing to the surface, and all we
can think about is each other. Every night, after our last kiss, I feel like
running away and never looking him in the eyes again. Away, far away into
the darkness and alone!
And what awaits me at the bottom of those fourteen stairs?
Bright lights, questions and laughter. I have to act normally and hope they
don’t notice anything.
My heart is still too tender to be able to recover so quickly from a shock like
the one I had last night. The gentle Anne makes infrequent appearances, and
she’s not about to let herself be shoved out the door so soon after she’s
arrived. Peter’s reached a part of me that no one has ever reached before,
except in my dream! He’s taken hold of me and turned me inside out. Doesn’t
everyone need a little quiet time to put themselves to rights again? Oh, Peter,
what have you done to me? What do you want from me?
Where will this lead? Oh, now I understand Bep. Now, now that I’m going
through it myself, I understand her doubts; if I were older and he wanted to
marry me, what would my answer be? Anne, be honest! You wouldn’t be able
to marry him. But it’s so hard to let go. Peter still has too little character, too
little willpower, too little courage and strength. He’s still a child, emotionally
no older than I am; all he wants is happiness and peace of mind. Am I really
only fourteen? Am I really just a silly schoolgirl? Am I really so
inexperienced in everything? I have more experience than most; I’ve
experienced something almost no one my age ever has.
I’m afraid of myself, afraid my longing is making me yield too soon. How
can it ever go right with other boys later on?
Oh, it’s so hard, the eternal struggle between heart and mind. There’s a time
and a place for both, but how can I be sure that I’ve chosen the right time?
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, MAY 2, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Saturday night I asked Peter whether he thinks I should tell Father about us.
After we’d discussed it, he said he thought I should. I was glad; it shows he’s
sensible, and sensitive. As soon as I came downstairs, I went with Father to
get some water. While we were on the stairs, I said,
“Father, I’m sure you’ve gathered that when Peter and I are together, we don’t
exactly sit at opposite ends of the room.
Do you think that’s wrong?”
Father paused before answering: “No, I don’t think it’s wrong. But Anne,
when you’re living so close together, as we do, you have to be careful.” He
said some other words to that effect, and then we went upstairs.
Sunday morning he called me to him and said, “Anne, I’ve been thinking
about what you said.” (Oh, oh, I knew what was coming!) “Here in the Annex
it’s not such a good idea. I thought you were just friends. Is Peter in love with
you?”
“Of course not,” I answered.
“Well, you know I understand both of you. But you must be the one to show
restraint; don’t go upstairs so often, don’t encourage him more than you can
help. In matters like these, it’s always the man who takes the active role, and
it’s up to the woman to set the limits. Outside, where you’re free, things are
quite different. You see other boys and girls, you can go outdoors, take part
in sports and all kinds of activities. But here, if you’re together too much and
want to get away, you can’t. You see each other every hour of the day-all the
time, in fact. Be careful, Anne, and don’t take it too seriously!
“I don’t, Father, but Peter’s a decent boy, a nice boy.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t have much strength of character. He can easily be
influenced to do good, but also to do bad. I hope for his sake that he stays
good, because he’s basically a good person.”
We talked some more and agreed that Father would speak to him too.
Sunday afternoon when we were in the front attic, Peter asked, “Have you
talked to your Father yet, Anne?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’ll tell you all about it. He doesn’t think it’s wrong, but he
says that here, where we’re in such close quarters, it could lead to conflicts.”
“We’ve already agreed not to quarrel, and I plan to keep my promise.”
“Me too, Peter. But Father didn’t think we were serious, he thought we were
just friends. Do you think we still can be?”
“Yes, I do. How about you?”
“Me too. I also told Father that I trust you. I do trust you, Peter, just as much
as I do Father. And I think you’re worthy of my trust. You are, aren’t you?”
“I hope so.” (He was very shy, and blushing.)
“I believe in you, Peter,” I continued. “I believe you have a good character
and that you’ll get ahead in this world.”
After that we talked about other things. Later I said, “If we ever get out of
here, I know you won’t give me another thought.”
He got all fired up. “That’s not true, Anne. Oh no, I won’t let you even think
that about me!”
Just then somebody called us.
Father did talk to him, he told me Monday. “Your Father thought our
friendship might turn into love,” he said. “But I told him we’d keep ourselves
under control.”
Father wants me to stop going upstairs so often, but I don’t want to. Not just
because I like being with Peter, but because I’ve said I trust him. I do trust
him, and I want to prove it to him, but I’ll never be able to if I stay downstairs
out of distrust.
No, I’m going!
In the meantime, the Dussel drama has been resolved.
Saturday evening at dinner he apologized in beautiful Dutch.
Mr. van Daan was immediately reconciled. Dussel must have spent all day
practicing his speech.
Sunday, his birthday, passed without incident. We gave him a bottle of good
wine from 1919, the van Daans (who can now give their gift after all)
presented him with a jar of piccalilli and a package of razor blades, and Mr.
Kugler gave him a jar of lemon syrup (to make lemonade), Miep a book,
Little Martin, and Bep a plant. He treated everyone to an egg.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
First the weekly news! We’re having a vacation from politics. There’s
nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, to report. I’m also gradually starting
to believe that the invasion will come. After all, they can’t let the Russians do
all the dirty work; actually, the Russians aren’t doing anything at the moment
either.
Mr. Kleiman comes to the office every morning now. He got a new set of
springs for Peter’s divan, so Peter will have to get to work reupholstering it;
Not surprisingly, he isn’t at all in the mood. Mr. Kleiman also brought some
flea powder for the cats.
Have I told you that our Boche has disappeared? We haven’t seen hide nor
hair of her since last Thursday. She’s probably already in cat heaven, while
some animal lover has turned her into a tasty dish. Perhaps some girl who can
afford it will be wearing a cap made of Boche’s fur. Peter is heartbroken.
For the last two weeks we’ve been eating lunch at eleven-thirty on Saturdays;
in the mornings we have to make do with a cup of hot cereal. Starting
tomorrow it’ll be like this every day; that saves us a meal. Vegetables are still
very hard to come by. This afternoon we had rotten boiled lettuce. Ordinary
lettuce, spinach and boiled let- tuce, that’s all there is. Add to that rotten
potatoes, and you have a meal fit for a king!
I hadn’t had my period for more than two months, but it finally started last
Sunday. Despite the mess and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t deserted me.
As you can no doubt imagine, we often say in despair,
“What’s the point of the war? Why, oh, why can’t people live together
peacefully? Why all this destruction?”
The question is understandable, but up to now no one has come up with a
satisfactory answer. Why is England manufacturing bigger and better
airplanes and bombs and at the same time churning out new houses for
reconstruction? Why are millions spent on the war each day, while not a
penny is available for medical science, artists or the poor? Why do people
have to starve when mountains of food are rotting away in other parts of the
world? Oh, why are people so crazy?
I don’t believe the war is simply the work of politicians and capitalists. Oh
no, the common man is every bit as guilty; otherwise, people and nations
would have re- belled long ago! There’s a destructive urge in people, the urge
to rage, murder and kill. And until all of humanity, without exception,
undergoes a metamorphosis, wars will continue to be waged, and everything
that has been carefully built up, cultivated and grown will be cut down and
destroyed, only to start allover again!
I’ve often been down in the dumps, but never desperate. I look upon our life
in hiding as an interesting adventure, full of danger and romance, and every
privation as an amusing addition to my diary. I’ve made up my mind to lead a
different life from other girls, and not to become an ordinary housewife later
on. What I’m experiencing here is a good beginning to an interesting life, and
that’s the reason
— the only reason — why I have to laugh at the humorous side of the most
dangerous moments.
I’m young and have many hidden qualities; I’m young and strong and living
through a big adventure; I’m right in the middle of it and can’t spend all day
complaining because it’s impossible to have any fun! I’m blessed with many
things: happiness, a cheerful disposition and strength. Every day I feel myself
maturing, I feel liberation drawing near, I feel the beauty of nature and the
goodness of the people around me. Every day I think what a fascinating and
amusing adventure this is! With all that, why should I despair?
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 1944
Dear Kitty,
Father’s unhappy with me. After our talk on Sunday he thought I’d stop going
upstairs every evening. He won’t have any of that “Knutscherej”* * Necking
going on. I can’t stand that word. Talking about it was bad enough — why
does he have to make me feel bad too! I’ll have a word with him today.
Margot gave me some good advice.
Here’s more or less what I’d like to say:
I think you expect an explanation from me, Father, so I’ll give you one.
You’re disap- pointed in me, you expected more restraint from me, you no
doubt want me to act the way a fourteen-year-old is supposed to. But that’s
where you’re wrong!
Since we’ve been here, from July 1942 until a few weeks ago, I haven’t had
an easy time. If only you knew how much I used to cry at night, how
unhappy and despondent I was, how lonely I felt, you’d understand my
wanting to go upstairs!
I’ve now reached the point where I don’t need the support of Mother or
anyone else. It didn’t happen overnight. I’ve struggled long and hard and shed
many tears to become as independent as I am now. You can laugh and refuse
to believe me, but I don’t care. I know I’m an independent person, and I don’t
feel I need to account to you for my actions. I’m only telling you this because
I don’t want you to think I’m doing things behind your back. But there’s only
one person I’m accountable to, and that’s me.
When I was having problems, everyone — and that includes you — closed
their eyes and ears and didn’t help me. On the contrary, all I ever got were
admonitions not to be so noisy.
I was noisy only to keep myself from being miserable all the time. I was
overconfident to keep from having to listen to the voice inside me. I’ve been
putting on an act for the last year and a half, day in, day out. I’ve never
complained or dropped my mask, nothing of the kind, and now. . . now the
battle is over. I’ve won! I’m independent, in both body and mind. I don’t need
a mother anymore, and I’ve emerged from the struggle a stronger person.
Now that it’s over, now that I know the battle has been won, I want to go my
own way, to follow the path that seems right to me. Don’t think of me as a
fourteen-year-old, since all these troubles have made me older; I won’t regret
my actions, I’ll behave the way I think I should!
Gentle persuasion won’t keep me from going upstairs.
You’ll either have to forbid it, or trust me through thick and thin. Whatever
you do, just leave me alone!
Yours, Anne M. Frank

SATURDAY, MAY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,Last night before dinner I tucked the letter I’d written into Father’s pocket.According to Margot, he read it and was upset for the rest of the evening. (Iwas upstairs doing the dishes!) Poor Pim, I might have known what the effectof such an epistle would be. He’s so sensitive! I immediately told Peter not toask any questions or say anything more. Pim’s said nothing else to me aboutthe matter. Is he going to?Everything here is more or less back to normal. We can hardly believe whatJan, Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman tell us about the prices and the people onthe outside; half a pound of tea costs 350.00 guilders, half a pound of coffee80.00guilders, a pound of butter 35.00 guilders, one egg 1.45guilders. People are paying 14.00 guilders an ounce for Bulgarian tobacco!Everyone’s trading on the black market; every errand boy has something tooffer. The delivery boy from the bakery has supplied us with darning thread-90 cents for one measly skein-the milkman can get hold of ration books, anundertaker delivers cheese. Break-ins, murders and thefts are dailyoccurrences. Even the police and night watchmen are getting in on the act.Everyone wants to put food in their stomachs, and since salaries have beenfrozen, people have had to resort to swindling. The police have their handsfull trying to track down the many girls of fifteen, sixteen, seventeen andolder who are reported missing every day.I want to try to finish my story about Ellen, the fairy.Just for fun, I can give it to Father on his birthday, together with all thecopyrights.See you later! (Actually, that’s not the right phrase. In the German programbroadcast from England they always close with “Aufwiederhoren.” So I guessI should say, “Until we write again.”)Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY MORNING, MAY 7,1944Dearest Kitty,Father and I had a long talk yesterday afternoon. I cried my eyes out, and hecried too. Do you know what he said to me, Kitty?”I’ve received many letters in my lifetime, but none as hurtful as this. You,who have had so much love from your parents. You, whose parents havealways been ready to help you, who have always defended you, no matterwhat. You talk of not having to account to us for your actions! You feelyou’ve been wronged and left to your own devices. No, Anne, you’ve done usa great injustice!”Perhaps you didn’t mean it that way, but that’s what you wrote. No, Anne,we have done nothing to deserve such a reproach!”Oh, I’ve failed miserably. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my entirelife. I used my tears to show off, to make myself seem important so he’drespect me. I’ve certainly had my share of unhappiness, and everything I saidabout Mother is true. But to accuse Pim, who’s so good and who’s doneeverything for me-no, that was too cruel for words.It’s good that somebody has finally cut me down to size, has broken my pride,because I’ve been far too smug. Not everything Mistress Anne does is good!Any- one who deliberately causes such pain to someone they say they love isdespicable, the lowest of the low!What I’m most ashamed of is the way Father has forgiven me; he said he’sgoing to throw the letter in the stove, and he’s being so nice to me now, as ifhe were the one who’d done something wrong. Well, Anne, you still have alot to learn. It’s time you made a beginning, in- stead of looking down atothers and always giving them the blame!I’ve known a lot of sorrow, but who hasn’t at my age? I’ve been putting on anact, but was hardly even aware of it. I’ve felt lonely, but never desperate! Notlike Father, who once ran out into the street with a knife so he could put anend to it all. I’ve never gone that far.I should be deeply ashamed of myself, and I am. What’s done can’t beundone, but at least you can keep it from happening again. I’d like to start allover, and that shouldn’t be difficult, now that I have Peter. With himsupporting me, I know I can do it! I’m not alone anymore. He loves me, I lovehim, I have my books, my writing and my diary. I’m not all that ugly, or thatstupid, I have a sunny disposition, and I want to develop a good character!Yes, Anne, you knew full well that your letter was unkind and untrue, butyou were actually proud of it! I’ll take Father as my example once again, andI will improve myself.Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, MAY 8, 1944Dearest Kitty,Have I ever told you anything about our family? I don’t think I have, so letme begin. Father was born in Frankfurt am Main to very wealthy parents:Michael Frank owned a bank and became a millionaire, and Alice Stern’sparents were prominent and well-to-do. Michael Frank didn’t start out rich; hewas a self-made man. In his youth Father led the life of a rich man’s son.Parties every week, balls, banquets, beautiful girls, waltzing, dinners, a hugehouse, etc. After Grandpa died, most of the money was lost, and after theGreat War and inflation there was nothing left at all. Up until the war therewere still quite a few rich relatives. So Father was extremely well-bred, andhe had to laugh yesterday because for the first time in his fifty-five years, hescraped out the frying pan at the table.Mother’s family wasn’t as wealthy, but still fairly well-off, and we’ve listenedopenmouthed to stories of private balls, dinners and engagement parties with250guests.We’re far from rich now, but I’ve pinned all my hopes on after the war. I canassure you, I’m not so set on a bourgeois life as Mother and Margot. I’d liketo spend a year in Paris and London learning the languages and studying arthistory. Compare that with Margot, who wants to nurse newborns inPalestine. I still have visions of gorgeous dresses and fascinating people. AsI’ve told you many times before, I want to see the world and do all kinds ofexciting things, and a little money won’t hurt!This morning Miep told us about her cousin’s engagement party, which shewent to on Saturday. The cousin’s parents are rich, and the groom’s are evenricher. Miep made our mouths water telling us about the food that wasserved: vegetable soup with meatballs, cheese, rolls with sliced meat, horsd’oeuvres made with eggs and roast beef, rolls with cheese, genoise, wine andcigarettes, and you could eat as much as you wanted.Miep drank ten schnapps and smoked three cigarettes –could this be ourtemperance advocate? If Miep drank all those, I wonder how many herspouse managed to toss down?Everyone at the party was a little tipsy, of course. There were also twoofficers from the Homicide Squad, who took photographs of the weddingcouple. You can see we’re never far from Miep’s thoughts, since she promptlynoted their names and addresses in case anything should happen and weneeded contacts with good Dutch people.Our mouths were watering so much. We, who’d had nothing but twospoonfuls of hot cereal for breakfast and were absolutely famished; we, whoget nothing but half-cooked spinach (for the vitamins!) and rotten pota- toesday after day; we, who fill our empty stomachs with nothing but boiledlettuce, raw lettuce, spinach, spinach and more spinach.Maybe we’ll end up being as strong as Popeye, though up to now I’ve seen nosign of it!If Miep had taken us along to the party, there wouldn’t have been any rollsleft over for the other guests. If we’d been there, we’d have snatched upeverything in sight, including the furniture. I tell you, we were practicallypulling the words right out of her mouth. We were gathered around her as ifwe’d never in all our lives heard of”delicious food or elegant people! And these are the granddaughters of thedistinguished millionaire. The world is a crazy place!Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, MAY 9, 1944Dearest Kitty,I’ve finished my story about Ellen, the fairy. I’ve copied it out on nicenotepaper, decorated it with red ink and sewn the pages together. The wholething looks quite pretty, but I don’t know if it’s enough of a birthday present.Margot and Mother have both written poems.Mr. Kugler came upstairs this afternoon with the news that starting Monday,Mrs. Broks would like to spend two hours in the office every afternoon. Justimagine! The office staff won’t be able to come upstairs, the potatoes can’t bedelivered, Bep won’t get her dinner, we can’t go to the bathroom, we won’t beable to move and all sorts of other inconveniences! We proposed a variety ofways to get rid of her. Mr. van Daan thought a good laxative in her coffeemight do the trick. “No,” Mr. Kleiman answered, “please don’t, or we’ll neverget her off the can.A roar of laughter. “The can?” Mrs. van D. asked. “What does that mean?”An explanation was given. “Is it all right to use that word?” she asked inperfect innocence. “Just imagine,” Bep giggled, “there you are shopping atThe Bijenkorf and you ask the way to the can. They wouldn’t even knowwhat you were talking about!”Dussel now sits on the “can,” to borrow the expression, every day at twelvethirty on the dot. This afternoon I boldly took a piece of pink paper andwrote: Mr. Dussel’s Toilet TimetableMornings from 7: 15 to 7:30 A.M.Afternoons after 1 P.M.Otherwise, only as needed!I tacked this to the green bathroom door while he was still inside. I mightwell have added’ ‘Transgressors will be subject to confinement!” Because ourbathroom can be locked from both the inside and the outside.Mr. van Daan’s latest joke:After a Bible lesson about Adam and Eve, a thirteen-year-old boy asked hisfather, “Tell me, Father, how did I get born?””Well,” the father replied, “the stork plucked you out of the ocean, set youdown in Mother’s bed and bit her in the leg, hard. It bled so much she had tostay in bed for a week.”Not fully satisfied, the boy went to his mother. “Tell me, Mother,” he asked,”how did you get born and how did I get born?”His mother told him the very same story. Finally, hoping to hear the finepoints, he went to his grandfather. “Tell me, Grandfather,” he said, “how didyou get born and how did your daughter get born?” And for the third time hewas told exactly the same story.That night he wrote in his diary: “After careful inquiry, I must conclude thatthere has been no sexual intercourse in our family for the last threegenerations!”I still have work to do; it’s already three o’clock.Yours, Anne M. FrankPS. Since I think I’ve mentioned the new cleaning lady, I just want to notethat she’s married, sixty years old and hard of hearing! Very convenient, inview of all the noise that eight people in hiding are capable of mak- ing.Oh, Kit, it’s such lovely weather. If only I could go outside!WEDNESDAY, MAY 10, 1944Dearest Kitty,We were sitting in the attic yesterday afternoon working on our French whensuddenly I heard the splatter of water behind me. I asked Peter what it mightbe. Without pausing to reply, he dashed up to the loft-the scene of the disaster-and shoved Mouschi, who was squatting beside her soggy litter box, back tothe right place. This was followed by shouts and squeals, and then Mouschi,who by that time had finished peeing, took off downstairs. In search ofsomething similar to her box, Mouschi had found herself a pile of woodshavings, right over a crack in the floor. The puddle immediately trickleddown to the attic and, as luck would have it, landed in and next to the potatobarrel. The cethng was dripping, and since the attic floor has also got its shareof cracks, little yellow drops were leaking through the ceiling and onto thedining table, between a pile of stockings and books.I was doubled up with laughter, it was such a funny sight.There was Mouschi crouched under a chair, Peter armed with water,powdered bleach and a cloth, and Mr. van Daan trying to calm everyonedown. The room was soon set to rights, but it’s a well-known fact that catpuddles stink to high heaven.The potatoes proved that all too well, as did the wood shavings, which Fathercollected in a bucket and brought downstairs to burn.Poor Mouschi! How were you to know it’s impossible to get peat for yourbox?AnneTHURSDAY, MAY 11, 1944Dearest Kitty,A new sketch to make you laugh:Peter’s hair had to be cut, and as usual his mother was to be the hairdresser.At seven twenty-five Peter vanished into his room, and reappeared at thestroke of seven-thirty, stripped down to his blue swimming trunks and a pairof tennis shoes.”Are you coming?” he asked his mother.”Yes, I’ll be up in a minute, but I can’t find the scissors!”Peter helped her look, rummaging around in her cosmetics drawer. “Don’tmake such a mess, Peter,” she grumbled.I didn’t catch Peter’s reply, but it must have been insolent, because she cuffedhim on the arm. He cuffed her back, she punched him with all her might, andPeter pulled his arm away with a look of mock horror on his face. “Come on,old girl!”Mrs. van D. stayed put. Peter grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her allaround the room. She laughed, cried, scolded and kicked, but nothing helped.Peter led his prisoner as far as the attic stairs, where he was obliged to let goof her. Mrs. van D. came back to the room and collapsed into a chair with aloud sigh.”Die Enifu”hruna der Mutter,”. I joked. * The Abduction of Mother, apossible reference to Mozart’s opera The Abduction from the Seraglio.”Yes, but he hurt me.”I went to have a look and cooled her hot, red wrists with water. Peter, still bythe stairs and growing impa- tient again, strode into the room with his belt inhis hand, like a lion tamer. Mrs. van D. didn’t move, but stayed by her writingdesk, looking for a handkerchief. “You’ve got to apologize first.””All right, I hereby offer my apologies, but only because if I don’t, we’ll behere till midnight.”Mrs. van D. had to laugh in spite of herself. She got up and went toward thedoor, where she felt obliged to give us an explanation. (By us I mean Father,Mother and me; we were busy doing the dishes.) “He wasn’t like this athome,” she said. “I’d have belted him so hard he’d have gone flying down thestairs !. He’s never been so insolent. This isn’t the first time he’s deserved agood hiding. That’s what you get with a modern upbringing, modern children.I’d never have grabbed my mother like that. Did you treat your mother thatway, Mr. Frank?” She was very upset, pacing back and forth, sayingwhatever came into her head, and she still hadn’t gone upstairs. Finally, atlong last, she made her exit.Less than five minutes later she stormed back down the stairs, with hercheeks all puffed out, and flung her apron on a chair. When I asked if she wasthrough, she replied that she was going downstairs. She tore down the stairslike a tornado, probably straight into the arms of her Putti.She didn’t come up again until eight, this time with her husband. Peter wasdragged from the attic, given a merciless scolding and showered with abuse:ill-mannered brat, no-good bum, bad example, Anne this, Margot that, Icouldn’t hear the rest.Everything seems to have calmed down again today!

Yours, Anne M. Frank

P.S. Tuesday and Wednesday evening our beloved Queen addressed the
country. She’s taking a vacation so she’ll be in good health for her return to
the Netherlands.
She used words like “soon, when I’m back in Holland,” “a swift liberation,”
“heroism” and “heavy burdens.”
This was followed by a speech by Prime Minister Gerbrandy.
He has such a squeaky little child’s voice that Mother instinctively said,
“Oooh.” A clergyman, who must have borrowed his voice from Mr. Edel,
concluded by asking God to take care of the Jews, all those in concentration
camps and prisons and everyone working in Germany.

THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1944Dearest Kitty,Since I’ve left my entire “junk box” — including my fountain pen — upstairsand I’m not allowed to disturb the grown-ups during their nap time (until twothirty), you’ll have to make do with a letter in pencil.I’m terribly busy at the moment, and strange as it may sound, I don’t haveenough time to get through my pile of work. Shall I tell you briefly what I’vegot to do? Well then, before tomorrow I have to finish reading the firstvolume of a biography of Galileo Galilei, since it has to be returned to thelibrary. I started reading it yesterday and have gotten up to page 220 out of320 pages, so I’ll manage it. Next week I have to read Palestine at the Crossroads and the second volume of Galilei. Besides that, I finished the firstvolume of a biography of Emperor Charles Vyesterday, and I still have to work out the many genealogical charts I’vecollected and the notes I’ve taken. Next I have three pages of foreign wordsfrom my various books, all of which have to be written down, memorized andread aloud.Number four: my movie stars are in a terrible disarray and are dying to bestraightened out, but since it’ll take several days to do that and ProfessorAnne is, as she’s already said, up to her ears in work, they’ll have to put upwith the chaos a while longer. Then there’re Theseus, Oedipus, Peleus,Orpheus, Jason and Hercules all waiting to be untangled, since their variousdeeds are running crisscross through my mind like mul- ticolored threads in adress. Myron and Phidias are also urgently in need of attention, or else I’llforget entirely how they fit into the picture. The same applies, for example, tothe Seven Years’War and the Nine Years’ War. Now I’m getting everything all mixed up.Well, what can you do with a memory like mine! Just imagine how forgetfulI’ll be when I’m eighty!Oh, one more thing. The Bible. How long is it going to take before I come tothe story of the bathing Susanna? And what do they mean by Sodom andGomorrah? Oh, there’s still so much to find out and learn. And in themeantime, I’ve left Charlotte of the Palatine in the lurch.You can see, can’t you, Kitty, that I’m full to bursting?And now something else. You’ve known for a long time that my greatest wishis to be a journalist, and later on, a famous writer. We’ll have to wait and seeif these grand illusions (or delusions!) will ever come true, but up to now I’vehad no lack of topics. In any case, after the war I’d like to publish a bookcalled The Secret Annex. It remains to be seen whether I’ll succeed, but mydiary can serve as the basis.I also need to finish “Cady’s Life.” I’ve thought up the rest of the plot. Afterbeing cured in the sanatorium, Cady goes back home and continues writing toHans. It’s 1941, and it doesn’t take her long to discover Hans’s Nazisympathies, and since Cady is deeply concerned with the plight of the Jewsand of her friend Marianne, they begin drifting apart.They meet and get back together, but break up when Hans takes up withanother girl. Cady is shattered, and because she wants to have a good job, shestudies nursing. After graduation she accepts a position, at the urging of herfather’s friends, as a nurse in a TB sanatorium in Switzerland. During her firstvacation she goes to Lake Como, where she runs into Hans. He tells her thattwo years earlier he’d married Cady’s successor, but that his wife took her lifein a fit of depression. Now that he’s seen his little Cady again, he realizes howmuch he loves her, and once more asks for her hand in marriage. Cadyrefuses, even though, in spite of herself, she loves him as much as ever. Buther pride holds her back. Hans goes away, and years later Cady learns thathe’s wound up in England, where he’s struggling with ill health.When she’s twenty-seven, Cady marries a well-to-do man from the country,named Simon. She grows to love him, but not as much as Hans. She has twodaughters and a son, Lthan, Judith and Nico. She and Simon are happytogether, but Hans is always in the back of her mind until one night shedreams of him and says farewell.. . .It’s not sentimental nonsense: it’s based on the story of Father’s life.Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MAY 13, 1944My dearest Kitty,Yesterday was Father’s birthday, Father and Mother’s nineteenth weddinganniversary, a day without the cleaning lady. . . and the sun was shining as it’snever shone before in 1944. Our chestnut tree is in full bloom. It’s coveredwith leaves and is even more beautiful than last year.Father received a biography of Linnaeus from Mr. Kleiman, a book on naturefrom Mr. Kugler, The Canals of Amsterdam from Dussel, a huge box fromthe van Daans (wrapped so beautifully it might have been done by aprofessional), containing three eggs, a bottle of beer, a jar of yogurt and agreen tie. It made our jar of molasses seem rather paltry.My roses smelled wonderful compared to Miep and Bep’s red carnations. Hewas thoroughly spoiled. Fifty petits fours arrived from Siemons’Bakery, delicious! Father also treated us to spice cake, the men to beer andthe ladies to yogurt. Everything was scrumptious!Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, MAY 16, 1944My dearest Kitty, just for a change (since we haven’t had one of these in solong) I’ll recount a little discussion between Mr. and Mrs. van D. last night:Mrs. van D.: “The Germans have had plenty of time to fortify the AtlanticWall, and they’ll certainly do everything within their power to hold back theBritish. It’s amazing how strong the Germans are!”Mr. van D.: “Oh, yes, amazing.Mrs. van D.: “It is!”Mr. van D.: “They are so strong they’re bound to win the war in the end, isthat what you mean?”Mrs. van D.: “They might. I’m not convinced that they won’t.”Mr. van D.: “I won’t even answer that.”Mrs. van D.: “You always wind up answering. You let yourself get carriedaway, every single time.”Mr. van D.: “No, I don’t. I always keep my answers to the bare minimum.”Mrs. van D.: “But you always do have an answer and you always have to beright! Your predictions hardly ever come true, you know!”Mr. van D.: “So far they have.”Mrs. van D.: “No they haven’t. You said the invasion was going to start lastyear, the Finns were supposed to have been out of the war by now, the Italiancampaign ought to have been over by last winter, and the Russians shouldalready have captured Lemberg. Oh no, I don’t set much store by yourpredictions.”Mr. van D. (leaping to his feet): “Why don’t you shut your trap for a change?I’ll show you who’s right; someday you’ll get tired of needling me. I can’tstand your bellyaching a minute longer. just wait, one day I’ll make you eatyour words!” (End of Act One.)Actually, I couldn’t help giggling. Mother couldn’t either, and even Peter wasbiting his lips to keep from laughing. Oh, those stupid grown-ups. They needto learn a few things first before they start making so many remarks about theyounger generation!Since Friday we’ve been keeping the windows open again at night.Yours, Anne M. FrankWhat Our Annex Family Is Interested In(A Systematic Survey of Courses and Readina Matter) Mr. van Daan. Nocourses; looks up many things in Knaur’s Encyclopedia and Lexicon; likes toread detective stories, medical books and love stories, exciting or trivial.Mrs. van Daan. A correspondence course in English; likes to readbiographical novels and occasionally other kinds of novels.Mr. Frank. Is learning English (Dickens!) and a bit of Latin; never readsnovels, but likes serious, rather dry descriptions of people and places.Mrs. Frank. A correspondence course in English; reads everything exceptdetective stories.Mr. Dussel. Is learning English, Spanish and Dutch with no noticeableresults; reads everything; goes along with the opinion of the majority.Peter van Daan. Is learning English, French (correspondence course),shorthand in Dutch, English and German, commercial correspondence inEnglish, woodworking, economics and sometimes math; seldom reads,sometimes geography.Margot Frank. Correspondence courses in English, French and Latin,shorthand in English, German and Dutch, trigonometry, solid geometry,mechanics, phys- ics, chemistry, algebra, geometry, English literature, Frenchliterature, German literature, Dutch literature, bookkeeping, geography,modern history, biology, economics; reads everything, preferably on religionand medicine.Anne Frank. Shorthand in French, English, German and Dutch, geometry,algebra, history, geography, art history, mythology, biology, Bible history,Dutch literature; likes to read biographies, dull or exciting, and history books(sometimes novels and light reading).FRIDAY, MAY 19, 1944Dearest Kitty,I felt rotten yesterday. Vomiting (and that from Anne!), headache,stomachache and anything else you can imagine. I’m feeling better today. I’mfamished, but I think I’ll skip the brown beans we’re having for dinner.Everything’s going fine between Peter and me. The poor boy has an evengreater need for tenderness than I do. He still blushes every evening when hegets his good-night kiss, and then begs for another one. Am I merely a bettersubstitute for Boche? I don’t mind. He’s so happy just knowing somebodyloves him.After my laborious conquest, I’ve distanced myself a little from the situation,but you mustn’t think my love has cooled. Peter’s a sweetheart, but I’veslammed the door to my inner self; if he ever wants to force the lock again,he’ll have to use a harder crowbar!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MAY 20, 1944Dearest Kitty,Last night when I came down from the attic, I noticed, the moment I enteredthe room, that the lovely vase of carnations had fallen over. Mother wasdown on her hands and knees mopping up the water and Margot was fishingmy papers off the floor. “What happened?” I asked with anxious foreboding,and before they could reply, I assessed the damage from across the room. Myentire genealogy file, my notebooks, my books, everything was afloat. Inearly cried, and I was so upset I started speaking German. I can’t remembera word, but according to Margot I babbled something about”unlioersehbarer Schaden, schrecklich, entsetzlich, nie zu ersetzen”* *Incalculable loss, terrible, awful, irreplaceable. and much more. Fadier burstout laughing and Modier and Margot joined in, but I felt like crying becauseall my work and elaborate notes were lost.I took a closer look and, luckily, die “incalculable loss”wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. Up in die attic I carefully peeled apart diesheets of paper diat were stuck togedier and dien hung diem on dieclodiesline to dry. It was such a funny sight, even I had to laugh. Maria de’Medici alongside Charles V, William of Orange and Marie Antoinette.”It’s Rassenschande,”* Mr. van Daan joked. An affront to racial purity.After entrusting my papers to Peter’s care, I went back downstairs.”Which books are ruined?” I asked Margot, who was going dirough them.”Algebra,” Margot said.But as luck would have it, my algebra book wasn’t entirely ruined. I wish ithad fallen right in the vase. I’ve never loathed any book as much as that one.Inside the front cover are the names of at least twenty girls who had it beforeI did. It’s old, yellowed, full of scribbles, crossed-out words and revisions.The next time I’m in a wicked mood, I’m going to tear the darned thing topieces!Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, MAY 22,1944Dearest Kitty,On May 20, Father lost his bet and had to give five jars of yogurt to Mrs. vanDaan: the invasion still hasn’t begun.I can safely say that all of Amsterdam, all of Holland, in fact the entirewestern coast of Europe, all the way down to Spain, are talking about theinvasion day and night, debating, making bets and . . . hoping.The suspense is rising to fever pitch; by no means has everyone we think ofas “good” Dutch people kept their faith in the English, not everyone thinksthe English bluff is a masterful strategical move. Oh no, people want deedsgreat, heroic deeds.No one can see farther than the end of their nose, no one gives a thought tothe fact that the British are fighting for their own country and their ownpeople; everyone thinks it’s England’s duty to save Holland, as quickly aspossible. What obligations do the English have toward us? What have theDutch done to deserve the generous help they so clearly expect? Oh no, theDutch are very much mistaken. The English, despite their bluff, are certainlyno more to blame for the war than all the other countries, large and small, thatare now occupied by the Germans. The British are not about to offer theirexcuses; true, they were sleeping during the years Germany was rearmingitself, but all the other countries, especially those bordering on Germany,were asleep too. England and the rest of the world have discovered thatburying your head in the sand doesn’t work, and now each of them, especiallyEngland, is having to pay a heavy price for its ostrich policy.No country sacrifices its men without reason, and certainly not in the interestsof another, and England is no exception. The invasion, liberation andfreedom will come someday; yet England, not the occupied territories, willchoose the moment.To our great sorrow and dismay, we’ve heard that many people have changedtheir attitude toward us Jews. We’ve been told that anti-Semitism has croppedup in circles where once it would have been unthinkable. This fact hasaffected us all very, very deeply. The reason for the hatred is understandable,maybe even human, but that doesn’t make it right. According to theChristians, the Jews are blabbing their secrets to the Germans, denouncingtheir helpers and causing them to suffer the dreadful fate and punishmentsthat have already been meted out to so many. All of this is true.But as with everything, they should look at the matter from both sides: wouldChristians act any differently if they were in our place? Could anyone,regardless of whether they’re Jews or Christians, remain silent in the face ofGerman pressure? Everyone knows it’s practically impossible, so why do theyask the impossible of the Jews?It’s being said in underground circles that the German Jews who immigratedto Holland before the war and have now been sent to Poland shouldn’t beallowed to return here. They were granted the right to asylum in Holland, butonce Hitler is gone, they should go back to Germany.When you hear that, you begin to wonder why we’re fighting this long anddifficult war. We’re always being told that we’re fighting for freedom, truthand justice! The war isn’t even over, and already there’s dissension and Jewsare regarded as lesser beings. Oh, it’s sad, very sad that the old adage hasbeen confirmed for the umpteenth time: “What one Christian does is his ownresponsibthty, what one Jew does reflects on all Jews.”To be honest, I can’t understand how the Dutch, a nation of good, honest,upright people, can sit in judgment on us the way they do. On us-the mostoppressed, unfortunate and pitiable people in all the world.I have only one hope: that this anti-Semitism is just a passing thing, that theDutch will show their true colors, that they’ll never waver from what theyknow in their hearts to be just, for this is unjust!And if they ever carry out this terrible threat, the meager handful of Jews stillleft in Holland will have to go.We too will have to shoulder our bundles and move on, away from thisbeautiful country, which once so kindly took us in and now turns its back onus.I love Holland. Once I hoped it would become a fatherland to me, since I hadlost my own. And I hope so still!Yours, Anne M. Frank

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Bep’s engaged! The news isn’t much of a surprise, though none of us are
particularly pleased. Bertus may be a nice, steady, athletic young man, but
Bep doesn’t love him, and to me that’s enough reason to advise her against
marrying him.
Bep’s trying to get ahead in the world, and Bertus is pulling her back; he’s a
laborer, without any interests or any desire to make something of himself,
and I don’t think that’ll make Bep happy. I can understand Bep’s wanting to
put an end to her indecision; four weeks ago she decided to write him off, but
then she felt even worse. So she wrote him a letter, and now she’s engaged.
There are several factors involved in this engagement.
First, Bep’s sick father, who likes Bertus very much. Second, she’s the oldest
of the Voskuijl girls and her mother teases her about being an old maid.
Third, she’s just turned twenty-four, and that matters a great deal to Bep.
Mother said it would have been better if Bep had simply had an affair with
Bertus. I don’t know, I feel sorry for Bep and can understand her loneliness.
In any case, they can get married only after the war, since Bertus is in hiding,
or at any rate has gone underground. Besides, they don’t have a penny to their
name and nothing in the way of a hope chest.
What a sorry prospect for Bep, for whom we all wish the best.
I only hope Bertus improves under her influence, or that Bep finds another
man, one who knows how to appreciate her!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
THE SAME DAY
There’s something happening every day. This morning Mr.
van Hoeven was arrested. He was hiding two Jews in his house.
It’s a heavy blow for us, not only because those poor Jews are once again
balancing on the edge of an abyss, but also because it’s terrible for Mr. van
Hoeven.
The world’s been turned upside down. The most decent people are being sent
to concentration camps, prisons and lonely cells, while the lowest of the low
rule over young and old, rich and poor. One gets caught for black
marketeering, another for hiding Jews or other un- fortunate souls. Unless
you’re a Nazi, you don’t know what’s going to happen to you from one day to
the next.
Mr. van Hoeven is a great loss to us too. Bep can’t possibly lug such huge
amounts of potatoes all the way here, nor should she have to, so our only
choice is to eat fewer of them. I’ll tell you what we have in mind, but it’s
certainly not going to make life here any more agreeable. Mother says we’ll
skip breakfast, eat hot cereal and bread for lunch and fried potatoes for dinner
and, if possible, vegetables or lettuce once or twice a week. That’s all there is.
We’re going to be hungry, but nothing’s worse than being caught.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, MAY 26, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
At long, long last, I can sit quietly at my table before the crack in the window
frame and write you everything, everything I want to say.
I feel more miserable than I have in months. Even after the break-in I didn’t
feel so utterly broken, inside and out.
On the one hand, there’s the news about Mr. van Hoeven, the Jewish question
(which is discussed in detail by everyone in the house), the invasion (which is
so long in coming), the awful food, the tension, the misera- ble atmosphere,
my disappointment in Peter. On the other hand, there’s Bep’s engagement, the
Pentecost reception, the flowers, Mr.
Kugler’s birthday, cakes and stories about cabarets, movies and concerts. That
gap, that enormous gap, is always there.
One day we’re laugh- ing at the comical side of life in hiding, and the next
day (and there are many such days), we’re frightened, and the fear, tension
and despair can be read on our faces.
Miep and Mr. Kugler bear the greatest burden for us, and for all those in
hiding-Miep in everything she does and Mr.
Kugler through his enormous responsibthty for the eight of us, which is
sometimes so overwhelming that he can hardly speak from the pent-up
tension and strain. Mr. Kleiman and Bep also take very good care of us, but
they’re able to put the Annex out of their minds, even if it’s only for a few
hours or a few days. They have their own worries, Mr. Kleiman with his
health and Bep with her engagement, which isn’t looking very promising lat
the moment. But they also have their outings, their visits with friends, their
everyday lives as ordinary people, so that the tension is sometimes relieved,
if only for a short while, while ours never is, never has been, not once in the
two years we’ve been here.
How much longer will this increasingly oppressive, unbearable weight press I
down on us?
The drains are clogged again. We can’t run the wa- ter, or if we do, only a
trickle; we can’t flush the toilet, so we have to use a toilet brush; and we’ve
been putting our dirty water into a big earthenware jar. We can man- age for
today, but what will happen if the plumber can’t fix it on his own?
The Sanitation Department can’t come until Tuesday.
Miep sent us a raisin bread with “Happy Pentecost” written on top. It’s almost
as if she were mocking us, since our moods and cares are far from “happy.”
We’ve all become more frightened since the van Hoeven business. Once
again you hear “shh” from all I sides, and we’re doing everything more
quietly. The police forced the door there; they could just as easily do that here
too! What will we do if we’re ever. . . no, I mustn’t write that down.
But the question won’t let itself be pushed to the back of my mind today; on
the contrary, all the fear I’ve ever felt is looming before me in all its horror.
I had to go downstairs alone at eight this evening to use the bathroom. There
was no one down there, since they were all listening to the radio. I wanted to
be brave, but it was hard. I always feel safer upstairs than in that huge, silent
house; when I’m alone with those mysterious muffied sounds from upstairs
and the honking of horns in the street, I have to hurry and remind myself
where I am to keep from getting the shivers.
Miep has been acting much nicer toward us since her talk with Father. But I
haven’t told you about that yet. Miep came up one afternoon all flushed and
asked Father straight out if we thought they too were infected with the current
anti-Semitism. Father was stunned and quickly talked her out of the idea, but
some of Miep’s suspicion has lingered on.
They’re doing more errands for us now and showing more of an interest in
our troubles, though we certainly shouldn’t bother them with our woes. Oh,
they’re such good, noble people!
I’ve asked myself again and again whether it wouldn’t have been better if we
hadn’t gone into hiding, if we were dead now and didn’t have to go through
this misery, especially so that the others could be spared the burden. But we
all shrink from this thought. We still love life, we haven’t yet forgotten the
voice of nature, and we keep hoping, hoping for. . . everything.
Let something happen soon, even an air raid. Nothing can be more crushing
than this anxiety. Let the end come, however cruel; at least then we’ll know
whether we are to be the victors or the vanquished.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, MAY 31, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday it was too hot to hold my fountain
pen, which is why I couldn’t write to you.
Friday the drains were clogged, Saturday they were fixed.
Mrs. Kleiman came for a visit in the afternoon and told us a lot about Jopiej
she and Jacque van Maarsen are in the same hockey club. Sunday Bep
dropped by to make sure there hadn’t been a break-in and stayed for
breakfast. Monday (a holiday because of Pentecost), Mr. Gies served as the
Annex watchman, and Tuesday we were finally allowed to open the
windows.
We’ve seldom had a Pentecost weekend that was so beautiful and warm. Or
maybe “hot” is a better word. Hot weather is horrible in the Annex. To give
you an idea of the numerous complaints, I’ll briefly describe these sweltering
days.
Saturday: “Wonderful, what fantastic weather,” we all said in the morning.
“If only it weren’t quite so hot,” we said in the afternoon, when the windows
had to be shut.
Sunday: “The heat’s unbearable, the butter’s melt- ing, there’s not a cool spot
anywhere in the house, the bread’s drying out, the milk’s going sour, the
windows can’t be opened. We poor outcasts are suffocating while everyone
else is enjoying their Pentecost.” (According to Mrs. van D.) Monday: “My
feet hurt, I have nothing cool to wear, I can’t do the dishes in this heat!”
Grumbling from early in the morning to late at night. It was awful.
I can’t stand the heat. I’m glad the wind’s come up today, but that the sun’s
still shining.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1944 J
Dear Kitty,
“If you’re going to the attic, take an umbrella with you, preferably a large
one!” This is to protect you from
“household showers.” There’s a Dutch proverb: “High and dry, safe and
sound,” but it obviously doesn’t apply to wartime (guns!) and to people in
hiding (cat box!). Mouschi’s gotten into the habit of relieving herself on some
newspapers or between the cracks in the floor boards, so we have good
reason to fear the splatters and, even worse, the stench. The new Moortje in
the warehouse has the same problem. Anyone who’s ever had a cat that’s not
housebroken can imagine the smells, other than pepper and thyme, that
permeate this house.
I also have a brand-new prescription for gunfire jitters: When the shooting
gets loud, proceed to the nearest wooden staircase. Run up and down a few
times, making sure to stumble at least once. What with the scratches and the
noise of running and falling, you won’t even be able to hear the shooting,
much less worry about it. Yours truly has put this magic formula to use, with
great success!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, JUNE 5, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
New problems in the Annex. A quarrel between Dussel and the Franks over
the division of butter. Capitulation on the part of Dussel. Close friendship
between the latter and Mrs.
van Daan, flirtations, kisses and friendly little smiles.
Dussel is beginning to long for female companionship.
The van Daans don’t see why we should bake a spice cake for Mr. Kugler’s
birthday when we can’t have one ourselves.
All very petty. Mood upstairs: bad. Mrs. van D. has a cold.
Dussel caught with brewer’s yeast tablets, while we’ve got none.
The Fifth Army has taken Rome. The city neither destroyed nor bombed.
Great propaganda for Hitler.
Very few potatoes and vegetables. One loaf of bread was moldy.
Scharminkeltje (name of new warehouse cat) can’t stand pepper. She sleeps
in the cat box and does her business in the wood shavings. Impossible to keep
her.
Bad weather. Continuous bombing of Pas de Calais and the west coast of
France.
No one buying dollars. Gold even less interesting.
The bottom of our black moneybox is in sight. What are we going to live on
next month?
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, JUNE 6, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
“This is D Day,” the BBC announced at twelve.
“This is the day.” The invasion has begun!
This morning at eight the British reported heavy bombing of Calais,
Boulogne, Le Havre and Cherbourg, as well as Pas de Calais (as usual).
Further, as a precautionary measure for those in the occupied territories,
everyone living within a zone of twenty miles from the coast was warned to
prepare for bombardments. Where possible, the British will drop pamphlets
an hour ahead of time.
According to the German news, British paratroopers have landed on the coast
of France. “British landing craft are engaged in combat with German naval
units,” according to the BBC.
Conclusion reached by the Annex while breakfasting at nine: this is a trial
landing, like the one two years ago in Dieppe.
BBC broadcast in German, Dutch, French and other languages at ten: The
invasion has begun! So this is the “real”
invasion. BBC broadcast in German at eleven: speech by Supreme
Commander General Dwight Eisenhower.
BBC broadcast in English: “This is 0 Day.” General Eisenhower said to the
French people: “Stiff fighting will come now, but after this the victory. The
year 1944 is the year of complete victory. Good luck!”
BBC broadcast in English at one: 11,000 planes are shuttling back and forth
or standing by to land troops and bomb behind enemy lines; 4,000 landing
craft and small boats are continually arriving in the area between Cher- bourg
and Le Havre. English and American troops are already engaged in heavy
combat. Speeches by Gerbrandy, the Prime Minister of Belgium, King
Haakon of Norway, de Gaulle of France, the King of England and, last but
not least, Churchill.
A huge commotion in the Annex! Is this really the beginning of the longawaited liberation? The liberation we’ve all talked so much about, which still
seems too good, too much of a fairy tale ever to come true? Will this year,
1944, bring us victory? We don’t know yet. But where there’s hope, there’s
life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again. We’ll need to be
brave to endure the many fears and hardships and the suffering yet to come.
It’s now a matter of remaining calm and steadfast, of gritting our teeth and
keeping a stiff upper lip! France, Russia, Italy, and even Germany, can cry
out in agony, but we don’t yet have that right!
Oh, Kitty, the best part about the invasion is that I have the feeling that
friends are on the way. Those terrible Germans have oppressed and
threatened us for so long that the thought of friends and salvation means
everything to us! Now it’s not just the Jews, but Holland and all of occupied
Europe. Maybe, Margot says, I can even go back to school in October or
September.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
P.S. I’ll keep you informed of the latest news!
This morning and last night, dummies made of straw and rubber were
dropped from the air behind German lines, and they exploded the minute they
hit the ground. Many paratroopers, their faces blackened so they couldn’t be
seen in the dark, landed as well. The French coast was bombarded with 5,500
tons of bombs during the night, and then, at six in the morning, the first
landing craft came ashore. Today there were 20,000 airplanes in action. The
German coastal batteries were destroyed even before the landing; a small
bridgehead has already been formed. Everything’s going well, despite the bad
weather. The army and the people are “one will and one hope.”

FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1944Dearest Kitty,Great news of the invasion! The Allies have taken Bayeux, a village on thecoast of France, and are now fighting for Caen. They’re clearly intending tocut off the peninsula where Cherbourg is located. Every evening the warcorrespondents report on the difficulties, the courage and the fighting spirit ofthe army. To get their stories, they pull off the most amazing feats. A few ofthe wounded who are already back in England also spoke on the radio.Despite the miserable weather, the planes are flying dthgently back and forth.We heard over the BBC that Churchill wanted to land along with the troopson D Day, but Eisenhower and the other generals managed to talk him out ofit. Just imagine, so much courage for such an old man he must be at leastseventy!The excitement here has died down somewhat; still, we’re all hoping that thewar will finally be over by the end of the year. It’s about time! Mrs. vanDaan’s constant griping is unbearable; now that she can no longer drive uscrazy with the invasion, she moans and groans all day about the bad weather.If only we could plunk her down in the loft in a bucket of cold water!Everyone in the Annex except Mr. van Daan and Peter has read theHunaarian Rhapsody trilogy, a biography of the composer, piano virtuosoand child prodigy Franz Liszt. It’s very interesting, though in my opinionthere’s a bit too much emphasis on women; Liszt was not only the greatestand most famous pianist of his time, he was also the biggest womanizer, evenat the age of seventy. He had an affair with Countess Marie d’ Agoult,Princess Carolyne Sayn-Wittgenstein, the dancer Lola Montez, the pianistAgnes Kingworth, the pianist Sophie Menter, the Circassian princess OlgaJanina, Baroness Olga Meyen- dorff, actress Lilla what’s-her-name, etc., etc.,and there’s no end to it. Those parts of the book dealing with music and theother arts are much more interesting. Some of the people mentioned areSchumann, Clara Wieck, Hector Berlioz, Johannes Brahms, Beethoven,Joachim, Richard Wagner, Hans von Bulow, Anton Rubinstein, FredericChopin, Victor Hugo, Honore de Balzac, Hiller, Hummel, Czerny, Rossini,Cherubini, Paganini, Mendels- sohn, etc., etc.Liszt appears to have been a decent man, very generous and modest, thoughexceptionally vain. He helped others, put art above all else, was extremelyfond of cognac and women, couldn’t bear the sight of tears, was a gentleman,couldn’t refuse anyone a favor, wasn’t interested in money and cared aboutreligious freedom and the world.Yours, Anne M. Frank314 ANNE FRANKTUESDAY, JUNE 13, 1944Dearest Kit,Another birthday has gone by, so I’m now fifteen. I received quite a few gifts:Springer’s five-volume art history book, a set of underwear, two belts, ahandkerchief, two jars of yogurt, a jar of jam, two honey cookies (small), abotany book from Father and Mother, a gold bracelet from Margot, a stickeralbum from the van Daans, Biomalt and sweet peas from Dussel, candy fromMiep, candy and notebooks from Bep, and the high point: the book MariaTheresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Mr. Kugler. Peter gave mea lovely bouquet of peonies; the poor boy had put a lot of effort into finding apresent, but nothing quite worked out.The invasion is still going splendidly, in spite of the miserable weather –pouring rains, gale winds and high seas.Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower and Arnold visited the Frenchvillages that the British have captured and liberated. Churchill was on atorpedo boat that shelled the coast. Uke many men, he doesn’t seem to knowwhat fear is -an enviable trait!From our position here in Fort Annex, it’s difficult to gauge the mood of theDutch. No doubt many people are glad the idle (!) British have finally rolledup their sleeves and gotten down to work. Those who keep claim- ing theydon’t want to be occupied by the British don’t realize how unfair they’rebeing. Their line of reasoning boils down to this: England must fight, struggleand sacri- fice its sons to liberate Holland and the other occupied countries.After that the British shouldn’t remain in Hol- land: they should offer theirmost abject apologies to all the occupied countries, restore the Dutch EastIndies to its rightful owner and then return, weakened and impoverished, toEngland. What a bunch of idiots. And yet, as I’ve already said, many Dutchpeople can be counted among their ranks. What would have become ofHolland and its neighbors if England had signed a peace treaty withGermany, as it’s had ample opportunity to do?Holland would have become German, and that would have been the end ofthat!All those Dutch people who still look down on the British, scoff at Englandand its government of old fogies, call the English cowards, yet hate theGermans, should be given a good shaking, the way you’d plump up a pillow.Maybe that would straighten out their jumbled brains!Wishes, thoughts, accusations and reproaches are swirling around in myhead. I’m not really as conceited as many people think; I know my variousfaults and shortcomings better than anyone else, but there’s one difference: Ialso know that I want to change, will change and already have changedgreatly!Why is it, I often ask myself, that everyone still thinks I’m so pushy and sucha know-it-all? Am I really so arrogant?Am I the one who’s so arrogant, or are they? It sounds crazy, I know, but I’mnot going to cross out that last sentence, because it’s not as crazy as it seems.Mrs. van Daan and Dussel, my two chief accusers, are known to be totallyunintelligent and, not to put too fine a point on it, just plain “stupid”! Stupidpeople usually can’t bear it when others do something better than they do; thebest examples of this are those two dummies, Mrs. van Daan and Dussel.Mrs.van D. thinks I’m stupid because I don’t suffer so much from this ailment asshe does, she thinks I’m pushy because she’s even pushier, she thinks mydresses are too short because hers are even shorter, and she thinks I’m such aknow-it-all because she talks twice as much as I do about topics she knowsnothing about. The same goes for Dussel. But one of my favorite sayings is”Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” and I readily admit I’m a know-it-all.What’s so difficult about my personality is that I scold and curse myself muchmore than anyone else does; if Mother adds her advice, the pile of sermonsbecomes so thick that I despair of ever getting through them. Then I talk backand start contradicting everyone until the old famthar Anne refrain inevitablycrops up again: “No one understands me!”This phrase is part of me, and as unlikely as it may seem, there’s a kernel oftruth in it. Sometimes I’m so deeply buried under self-reproaches that I longfor a word of comfort to help me dig myself out again. If only I had someonewho took my feelings seriously. Alas, I haven’t yet found that person, so thesearch must go on.I know you’re wondering about Peter, aren’t you, Kit? It’s true, Peter lovesme, not as a girlfriend, but as a friend.His affection grows day by day, but some mysterious force is holding usback, and I don’t know what it is.Sometimes I think my terrible longing for him was overexaggerated. Butthat’s not true, because if I’m unable to go to his room for a day or two, I longfor him as desperately as I ever did. Peter is kind and good, and yet I can’tdeny that he’s disappointed me in many ways. I especially don’t care for hisdislike of religion, his table conversations and various things of that nature.Still, I’m firmly convinced that we’ll stick to our agreement never to quarrel.Peter is peace-loving, tolerant and extremely easygoing. He lets me say a lotof things to him that he’d never accept from his mother. He’s making adetermined effort to remove the blots from his copybook and keep his affairsin order. Yet why does he hide his innermost self and never allow me access?Of course, he’s much more closed than I am, but I know from experience(even though I’m constantly being accused of knowing all there is to know intheory, but not in practice) that in time, even the most uncommunicativetypes will long as much, or even more, for someone to confide in.Peter and I have both spent our contemplative years in the Annex. We oftendiscuss the future, the past and the present, but as I’ve already told you, I missthe real thing, and yet I know it exists!Is it because I haven’t been outdoors for so long that I’ve become so smittenwith nature? I remember a time when a magnificent blue sky, chirping birds,moonlight and budding blossoms wouldn’t have captivated me. Things havechanged since I came here. One night during the Pentecost holiday, forinstance, when it was so hot, I struggled to keep my eyes open until eleventhirty so I could get a good look at the moon, all on my own for once. Alas,my sacrifice was in vain, since there was too much glare and I couldn’t riskopening a window. An- other time, several months ago, I happened to beupstairs one night when the window was open. I didn’t go back down until ithad to be closed again. The dark, rainy evening, the wind, the racing clouds,had me spellbound; it was the first time in a year and a half that I’d seen thenight face-to-face. After that evening my longing to see it again was evengreater than my fear of burglars, a dark rat-infested house or robberies. I wentdownstairs all by myself and looked out the windows in the kitchen andprivate office. Many people think nature is beautiful, many people sleep fromtime to time under the starry sky, and many people in hospitals and prisonslong for the day when they’ll be free to enjoy what nature has to offer. Butfew are as isolated and cut off as we are from dle joys of nature, which can beshared by rich and poor alike.It’s not just my imagination — looking at dle sky, dle clouds, dle moon anddle stars really does make me feel calm and hopeful. It’s much bettermedicine than valerian or bromide. Nature makes me feel humble and readyto face every blow with courage!As luck would have it, I’m only able — except for a few rare occasions-toview nature through dusty curtains tacked over dirt-caked windows; it takesdle pleasure out of looking. Nature is dle one thing for which dlere is nosubstitute!One of dle many questions that have often bodlered me is why women havebeen, and still are, thought to be so inferior to men. It’s easy to say it’s unfair,but that’s not enough for me; I’d really like to know the reason for this greatinjustice!Men presumably dominated women from the very beginning because of theirgreater physical strength; it’s men who earn a living, beget children and do asthey please. . . Until recently, women silently went along willi this, whichwas stupid, since the longer it’s kept up, the more deeply entrenched itbecomes. Fortunately, education, work and progress have opened women’seyes. In many countries they’ve been granted equal rights; many people,mainly women, but also men, now realize how wrong it was to tolerate thisstate of affairs for so long. Modern women want the right to be completelyindependent!But that’s not all. Women should be respected as well!Generally speaking, men are held in great esteem in all parts ofthe world, sowhy shouldn’t women have their share?Soldiers and war heroes are honored and commemorated, explorers aregranted immortal fame, martyrs are revered, but how many people look uponwomen too as soldiers?In the book Soldiers on the Home Front I was greatly struck by the fact thatin childbirth alone, women commonly suffer more pain, illness and miserythan any war hero ever does. And what’s her reward for enduring all thatpain? She gets pushed aside when she’s disfigured by birth, her children soonleave, her beauty is gone. Women, who struggle and suffer pain to ensure thecon- tinuation of the human race, make much tougher and more courageoussoldiers than all those big-mouthed freedom-fighting heroes put together!I don’t mean to imply that women should stop having children; on thecontrary, nature intended them to, and that’s the way it should be. What Icondemn are our system of values and the men who don’t acknowledge howgreat, difficult, but ultimately beautiful women’s share in society is.I agree completely with Paul de Kruif, the author of this book, when he saysthat men must learn that birth is no longer thought of as inevitable andunavoidable in those parts of the world we consider civthzed. It’s easy formen to talk — they don’t and never will have to bear the woes that women do!I believe that in the course of the next century the notion that it’s a woman’sduty to have children will change and make way for the respect andadmiration of all women, who bear their burdens without complaint or a lotof pompous words!Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JUNE 16, 1944Dearest Kitty,New problems: Mrs. van D. is at her wit’s end. She’s talking about gettingshot, being thrown in prison, being hanged and suicide. She’s jealous thatPeter confides in me and not in her, offended that Dussel doesn’t re- spondsufficiently to her flirtations and afraid her husband’s going to squander allthe fur-coat money on to- bacco. She quarrels, curses, cries, feels sorry forherself, laughs and starts allover again.What on earth can you do with such a silly, sniveling specimen of humanity?Nobody takes her seriously, she has no strength of character, she complainsto one and all, and you should see how she walks around: von hintenLyzeum, yon vorne Museum.* Acts like a schoolgirl, looks like a frump.Even worse, Peter’s becoming insolent, Mr. van Daan irritable and Mothercynical. Yes, everyone’s in quite a state! There’s only one rule you need toremember: laugh at everything and forget everybody else! It soundsegotistical, but it’s actually the only cure for those suffering from self-pity.Mr. Kugler’s supposed to spend four weeks in Alkmaar on a work detail. He’strying to get out of it with a doctor’s certificate and a letter from Opekta. Mr.Kleiman’s hoping his stomach will be operated on soon. Starting at elevenlast night, all private phones were cut off.Yours, Anne M. Frank

FRIDAY, JUNE 23, 1944Dearest Kitty,Nothing special going on here. The British have begun their all-out attack onCherbourg. According to Pim and Mr.van Oaan, we’re sure to be liberated before October 10. The Russians aretaking part in the cam- paign; yesterday they started their offensive nearVitebsk, exactly three years to the day that the Germans invaded Russia.Bep’s spirits have sunk lower than ever. We’re nearly out of potatoes; fromnow on, we’re going to count them out for each person, then everyone can dowhat they want with them.Starting Monday, Miep’s taking a week of vacation. Mr.Kleiman’s doctors haven’t found anything on the X rays. He’s torn betweenhaving an operation and letting matters take their course.Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, JUNE 27, 1944My dearest Kitty,The mood has changed, everything’s going enormously well.Cherbourg, Vitebsk and Zhlobin fell today. They’re sure to have captured lotsof men and equipment. Five German generals were killed near Cherbourgand two taken captive. Now that they’ve got a harbor, the British can bringwhatever they want on shore. The whole Cotentin Peninsula has beencaptured just three weeks after the invasion! What a feat!In the three weeks since D Day there hasn’t been a day without rain andstorms, neither here nor in France, but this bad luck hasn’t kept the Britishand the Americans from displaying their might. And how! Of course, theGermans have launched their wonder weapon, but a little firecracker like thatwon’t hardly make a dent, except maybe minor damage in England andscreaming headlines in the Kraut newspapers.Anyway, when they realize in “Krautland” that the Bolsheviks really aregetting closer, they’ll be shaking in their boots.All German women who aren’t working for the military are being evacuated,together with their children, from the coastal regions to the provinces ofGroningen, Friesland and Gelderland. Mussert* * The leader of the DutchNational Socialist (Nazi) Party has announced that if the invasion reachesHolland, he’ll enlist. Is that fat pig planning to fight? He could have done thatin Russia long before now.Finland turned down a peace offer some time ago, and now the negotiationshave been broken off again. Those numbskulls, they’ll be sorry!How far do you think we’ll be on July 27?Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JUNE 30, 1944Dearest Kitty,Bad weather from one at a stretch to the thirty June*Anne’s English. Don’t I say that well? Oh yes, I already know a littleEnglish; just to prove it I’m reading An Ideal Husband with the help of adictionary! War’s going wonderfully: Bobruysk, Mogilev and Orsha havefallen, lots of prisoners.Everything’s all right here. Spirits are improving, our superoptimists aretriumphant, the van Daans are doing disappearing acts with the sugar, Bep’ schanged her hair, and Miep has a week off. That’s the latest news!I’ve been having really ghastly root-canal work done on one of my frontteeth. It’s been terribly painful. It was so bad Dussel thought I was going tofaint, and I nearly did.Mrs. van D. promptly got a toothache as well!Yours, Anne M. FrankP.S. We’ve heard from Basel that Bernd* Cousin Bernhard (Buddy) Elias.played the part of the innkeeper in Minna von Barnhelm. He has “artisticleanings,” says Mother.THURSDAY, JULY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,My blood runs cold when Peter talks about becoming a criminal or aspeculator; of course, he’s joking, but I still have the feeling he’s afraid of hisown weakness.Margot and Peter are always saying to me, “If I had your spunk and yourstrength, if I had your drive and unflagging energy, could. . .Is it really such an admirable trait not to let myself be influenced by others?Am I right in following my own conscience?To be honest, I can’t imagine how anyone could say “I’m weak” and then staythat way. If you know that about yourself, why not fight it, why not developyour character?Their answer has always been: “Because it’s much easier not to!” This replyleaves me feeling rather discouraged. Easy?Does that mean a life of deceit and laziness is easy too? Oh no, that can’t betrue. It can’t be true that people are so readily tempted by ease. . . and money.I’ve given a lot of thought to what my answer should be, to how I should getPeter to believe in himself and, most of all, to change himself for the better. Idon’t know whether I’m on the right track.I’ve often imagined how nice it would be if someone were to confideeverything to me. But now that it’s reached that point, I realize how difficultit is to put yourself in someope else’s shoes and find the right answer.Especially since “easy” and “money” are new and com- pletely alien conceptsto me.Peter’s beginning to lean on me and I don’t want that, not under anycircumstances. It’s hard enough standing on your own two feet, but when youalso have to remain true to your character and soul, it’s harder still.I’ve been drifting around at sea, have spent days searching for an effectiveantidote to that terrible word”easy.” How can I make it clear to him that, while it may seem easy andwonderful, it will drag him down to the depths, to a place where he’ll nolonger find friends, support or beauty, so far down that he may never rise tothe surface again?We’re all alive, but we don’t know why or what for; we’re all searching forhappiness; we’re all leading lives that are different and yet the same. We threehave been raised in good famthes, we have the opportunity to get aneducation and make something of ourselves. We have many reasons to hopefor great happiness, but. . . we have to earn it. And that’s something you can’tachieve by taking the easy way out.Earning happiness means doing good and working, not speculating and beinglazy. Laziness may look inviting, but only work gives you true satisfaction.I can’t understand people who don’t like to work, but that isn’t Peter’s problemeither. He just doesn’t have a goal, plus he thinks he’s too stupid and inferiorto ever achieve anything. Poor boy, he’s never known how it feels to makesomeone else happy, and I’m afraid I can’t teach him. He isn’t religious, scoffsat Jesus Christ and takes the Lord’s name in vain, and though I’m notOrthodox either, it hurts me every time to see him so lonely, so scornful, sowretched.People who are religious should be glad, since not everyone is blessed withthe ability to believe in a higher order. You don’t even have to live in fear ofeternal punishment; the concepts of purgatory, heaven and hell are difficultfor many people to accept, yet religion itself, any religion, keeps a person onthe right path. Not the fear of God, but upholding your own sense of honorand obeying your own conscience. How noble and good everyone could be if,at the end of each day, they were to review their own behavior and weigh upthe rights and wrongs. They would automatically try to do better at the startof each new day and, after a while, would certainly accomplish a great deal.Everyone is welcome to this prescription; it costs nothing and is definitelyuseful. Those who don’t know will have to find out by experience that “aquiet conscience gives you strength!”Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, JULY 8, 1944Dearest Kitty,Mr. Broks was in Beverwijk and managed to get hold of strawberries at theproduce auction. They arrived here dusty and full of sand, but in largequantities. No less than twenty-four crates for the office and us. That verysame evening we canned the first six jars and made eight jars of jam. Thenext morning Miep started making jam for the office.At twelve-thirty the outside door was locked, crates were lugged into thekitchen, with Peter, Father and Mr. van Daan stumbling up the stairs. Annegot hot water from the water heater, Margot””,went for a bucket, all hands ondeck! With a funny feeling in my stomach, I entered the overcrowded officekitchen. Miep, Bep, Mr. Kleiman, Jan, Father, Peter: the Annex contingentand the Supply Corps all mixed up together, and that in the middle of theday! Curtains and windows open, loud voices, banging doors — I wastrembling with excitement. I kept thinking, “Are we really in hiding?” Thismust be how it feels when you can finally go out into the world again. Thepan was full, so I dashed upstairs, where the rest of the family was hullingstrawberries around the kitchen table. At least that’s what they were supposedto be doing, but more was going into their mouths than into the buckets. Theywere bound to need another bucket soon. Peter went back downstairs, butthen the doorbell rang twice.Leaving the bucket where it was, Peter raced upstairs and shut the bookcasebehind him. We sat kicking our heels impatiently; the strawberries werewaiting to be rinsed, but we stuck to the house rule: “No running water whenstrangers are downstairs — they might hear the drains.”Jan came up at one to tell us it had been the mail- man.Peter hurried downstairs again. Ding-dong. . . the doorbell, about-face. Ilistened to hear if anyone was coming, standing first at the bookcase, then atthe top of the stairs. Finally Peter and I leaned over the banister, straining ourears like a couple of burglars to hear the sounds from downstairs. Nounfamthar voices. Peter tip- toed halfway down the stairs and called out,”Bep!”Once more: “Bep!” His voice was drowned out by the racket in the kitchen.So he ran down to the kitchen while I nervously kept watch from above. “Goupstairs at once, Peter, the accountant’s here, you’ve got to leave!” It was Mr.Kugler’s voice. Sighing, Peter came upstairs and closed the bookcase.Mr. Kugler finally came up at one-thirty. “My gosh, the whole world’s turnedto strawberries. I had strawber- ries for breakfast, Jan’s having diem forlunch, Kleiman’s eating them as a snack, Miep’s bothng them, Bep’s hullingthem, and I can smell them everywhere I go. I come upstairs to get awayfrom all that red and what do I see? People washing strawberries!”The rest of the strawberries were canned. That evening: two jars cameunsealed. Father quickly turned them into jam.The next morning: two more lids popped up; and that afternoon: four lids.Mr. van Daan hadn’t gotten the jars hot enough when he was sterthzing them,so Father ended up making jam every evening. We ate hot cereal withstrawberries, buttermilk with strawberries, bread with strawberries,strawberries for dessert, straw- berries with sugar, strawberries with sand. Fortwo days there was nothing but strawberries, strawberries, strawberries, andthen our supply was either exhausted or in jars, safely under lock and key.”Hey, Anne,” Margot called out one day, “Mrs. van Hoeven has let us havesome peas, twenty pounds!””That’s nice of her,” I replied. And it certainly was, but it’s so much work. . .ugh!”On Saturday, you’ve aJI got to shell peas,” Mother announced at the table.And sure enough, this morning after breakfast our biggest enamel panappeared on the table, filled to the brim with peas. If you think shelling peasis boring work, you ought to try removing the inner linings. I don’t thinkmany people realize that once you’ve pulled out the linings, the pods are soft,delicious and rich in vitamins. But an even greater advantage is that you getnearly three times as much as when you eat just the peas.Stripping pods is a precise and meticulous job that might be suited topedantic dentists or finicky spice experts, but it’s a horror for an impatientteenager like me. We started work at nine-thirty; I sat down at ten-thirty, gotUp again at eleven, sat down again at eleven-thirty. My ears were hummingwith the following refrain: snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod inthe pan, snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, etc., etc.My eyes were swimming: green, green, worm, string, rotten pod, green,green. To fight the boredom and have something to do, I chattered all morning, saying whatever came into my head and making everyone laugh. Themonotony was killing me. Every string I pulled made me more certain that Inever, ever, want to be just a housewife!At twelve we finally ate breakfast, but from twelve-thirty to one-fifteen wehad to strip pods again. When I stopped, I felt a bit seasick, and so did theothers. I napped until four, still in a daze because of those wretched peas.Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, JULY 15,1944Dearest Kitty,We’ve received a book from the library with the challenging title What DoYou Think of the Modern Young Girl?I’d like to discuss this subject today.The writer criticizes “today’s youth” from head to toe, though withoutdismissing them all as “hopeless cases.” On the contrary, she believes theyhave it within their power to build a bigger, better and more beautiful world,but that they occupy themselves with superficial things, without giving athought to true beauty. In some passages I had the strong feeling that thewriter was directing her disapproval at me, which is why I finally want tobare my soul to you and defend myself against this attack.I have one outstanding character trait that must be obvious to anyone who’sknown me for any length of time: I have a great deal of self-knowledge. Ineverything I do, I can watch myself as if I were a stranger. I can stand cacross from the everyday Anne and, without being biased or making excuses,watch what she’s doing, both the good and the bad. This self-awareness neverleaves me, and every time I open my mouth, I think, “You should have saidthat differently” or “That’s fine the way it is.” I condemn myself in so manyways that I’m beginning to realize the truth of Father’s adage: “Every childhas to raise itself.” Parents can only advise their children or point them in theright direction. Ultimately, people shape their own characters. In addition, Iface life with an extraordinary amount of courage. I feel so strong andcapable of bearing burdens, so young and free! When I first realized this, Iwas glad, because it means I can more easily withstand the blows life has instore.But I’ve talked about these things so often. Now I’d like to turn to the chapter”Father and Mother Don’t Understand Me.” My parents have always spoiledme rotten, treated me kindly, defended me against the van Daans and done allthat parents can. And yet for the longest time I’ve felt extremely lonely, leftout, neglected and misunderstood. Father did everything he could to curb myrebellious spirit, but it was no use. I’ve cured myself by holding my behaviorup to the light and looking at what I was doing wrong.Why didn’t Father support me in my struggle? Why did he fall short when hetried to offer me a helping hand? The answer is: he used the wrong methods.He always talked to me as if I were a child going through a difficult phase. Itsounds crazy, since Father’s the only one who’s given me a sense ofconfidence and made me feel as if I’m a sensible person. But he overlookedone thing: he failed to see that this struggle to triumph over my difficultieswas more important to me than anything else. I didn’t want to hear about”typical adolescent problems,” or “other girls,” or”you’ll grow out of it.” I didn’t want to be treated the same as all-the-othergirls, but as Anne-in-her-own-right, and rim didn’t understand that. Besides, Ican’t confide in anyone unless they tell me a lot about themselves, andbecause I know very little about him, I can’t get on a more intimate footing.rim always acts like the elderly father who once had the same fleeting impulses, but who can no longer relate to me as a friend, no matter how hard hetries. As a result, I’ve never shared my outlook on life or my long-ponderedtheories with anyone but my diary and, once in a while, Margot. I’ve hid anything having to do with me from Father, never shared my ideals with him,deliberately alienated myself from him.I couldn’t have done it any other way. I’ve let myself be guided entirely bymy feelings. It was egotistical, but I’ve done what was best for my own peaceof mind. I would lose that, plus the self-confidence I’ve worked so hard toachieve, if I were to be subjected to criticism halfway through the job. It maysound hard-hearted, but I can’t take criticism from rim either, because notonly do I never share my innermost thoughts with him, but I’ve pushed himeven further away by being irritable.This is a point I think about quite often: why is it that rim annoys me so muchsometimes? I can hardly bear to have him tutor me, and his affection seemsforced. I want to be left alone, and I’d rather he ignored me for a while untilI’m more sure of myself when I’m talking to him! I’m still torn with guiltabout the mean letter I wrote him when I was so upset. Oh, it’s hard to bestrong and brave in every way!. . .Still, this hasn’t been my greatest disappointment. No, I think about Petermuch more than I do Father. I know very well that he was my conquest, andnot the other way around. I created an image of him in my mind, pictured himas a quiet, sweet, sensitive boy badly in need of friendship and love! I neededto pour out my heart to a living person. I wanted a friend who would help mefind my way again. I accomplished what I set out to do and drew him, slowlybut surely, toward me. When I finally got him to be my friend, itautomatically developed into an intimacy that, when I think about it now,seems outrageous. We talked about the most private things, but we haven’tyet touched upon the things closest to my heart. I still can’t make head or tailof Peter. Is he superficial, or is it shyness that holds him back, even with me?But putting all that aside, I made one mistake: I used intimacy to get closer tohim, and in doing so, I ruled out other forms of friendship. He longs to beloved, and I can see he’s beginning to like me more with each passing day.Our time together leaves him feeling satisfied, but just makes me want to startall over again. I never broach the subjects I long to bring out into the open. Iforced Peter, more than he realizes, to get close to me, and now he’s holdingon for dear life. I honestly don’t see any effective way of shaking him off andgetting him back on his own two feet. I soon realized he could never be akindred spirit, but still tried to help him break out of his narrow world andexpand his youthful horizons.”Deep down, the young are lonelier than the old.” I read this in a booksomewhere and it’s stuck in my mind. As far as I can tell, it’s true.So if you’re wondering whether it’s harder for the adults here than for thechildren, the answer is no, it’s certainly not. Older people have an opinionabout everything and are sure of themselves and their actions. It’s twice ashard for us young people to hold on to our opinions at a time when ideals arebeing shattered and destroyed, when the worst side of human naturepredominates, when everyone has come to doubt truth, justice and God.Anyone who claims that the older folks have a more difficult time in theAnnex doesn’t realize that the problems have a far greater impact on us.We’re much too young to deal with these problems, but they keep thrustingthemselves on us until, finally, we’re forced to think up a solution, thoughmost of the time our solutions crumble when faced with the facts. It’s difficultin times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only tobe crushed by grim reality. It’s a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals,they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I stillbelieve, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.It’s utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos,suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into awilderness, I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, Ifeel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehowfeel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end,that peace and tranquthty will return once more. In the meantime, I must holdon to my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I’ll be able to realize them!Yours, Anne M. Frank

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.

AFTERWORD

On the morning of August 4, 1944, sometime between ten and ten-thirty, a
car pulled up at 263 Prinsengracht. Several figures emerged: an SS sergeant,
Karl Josef Silberbauer, in full uniform, and at least three Dutch members of
the Security Police, armed but in civilian clothes. Someone must have tipped
them off.
They arrested the eight people hiding in the Annex, as well as two of their
helpers, Victor Kugler and Johannes Kleiman — though not Miep Gies and
Elisabeth (Bep) Voskuijl-and took all the valuables and cash they could find
in the Annex.
After the arrest, Kugler and Kleiman were taken to a prison in Amsterdam.
On September 11, 1944, they were transferred, without benefit of a trial, to a
camp in Amersfoort (Holland). Kleiman, because of his poor health, was
released on September 18, 1944. He remained in Amsterdam until his death
in 1959.
Kugler managed to escape his imprisonment on March 28, 1945, when he
and his fellow prisoners were being sent to Germany as forced laborers. He
immigrated to Canada in 1955
and died in Toronto in 1989.
Elisabeth (Bep) Voskuijl Wijk died in Amsterdam in 1983.
Miep Santrouschitz Gies is still living in Amsterdam; her husband Jan died in
1993.
Upon their arrest, the eight residents of the Annex were first brought to a
prison in Amsterdam and then transferred to Westerbork, the transit camp for
Jews in the north of Holland. They were deported on September 3, 1944, in
the last transport to leave Westerbork, and arrived three days later in
Auschwitz (Poland).
Hermann van Pels (van Daan) was, according to the testimony of Otto Frank,
gassed to death in Auschwitz in October or November 1944, shortly before
the gas chambers were dismantled.
Auguste van Pels (Petronella van Daan) was transported from Auschwitz to
Bergen-Belsen, from there to Buchenwald, then to Theresienstadt on April 9,
1945, and apparently to another concentration camp after that. It is certain
that she did not survive, though the date of her death is unknown.
Peter van Pels (van Daan) was forced to take part in the January 16, 1945
“death march” from Auschwitz to Mauthausen (Austria), where he died on
May 5, 1945, three days before the camp was liberated.
Fritz Pfeffer (Albert Dussel) died on December 20, 1944, in the
Neuengamme concentration camp, where he had been transferred from either
Buchenwald or Sachsenhausen.
Edith Frank died in Auschwitz-Birkenau on January 6, 1945, from hunger
and exhaustion.
Margot and Anne Frank were transported from Auschwitz at the end of
October and brought to Bergen Belsen, a concentration camp near Hannover
(Germany). The typhus epidemic that broke out in the winter of 1944-1945,
as a result of the horrendous hygenic conditions, killed thousands of
prisoners, including Margot and, a few days later, Anne.
She must have died in late February or early March. The bodies of both girls
were probably dumped in Bergen-Belsen’s mass graves. The camp was
liberated by British troops on April 12, 1945.
Otto Frank was the only one of the eight to survive the concentration camps.
After Auschwitz was liberated by Russian troops, he was repatriated to
Amsterdam by way of Odessa and Marseille. He arrived in Amsterdam on
June 3, 1945, and stayed there until 1953, when he moved to Basel
(Switzerland), where his sister and her family, and later his brother, lived. He
married Elfriede Markovits Geiringer, originally from Vienna, who had
survived Auschwitz and lost a husband and son in Mauthausen. Until his
death on August 19, 1980, Otto Frank continued to live in Birsfelden, outside
Basel, where he devoted himself to sharing the message of his daughter’s
diary with people all over the world.