~smells like winter – a few minutes ago outside was warm and sunny like a spring day, and now it’s misty, a thick fog, as if winter is finally ready to come:)

~~~~~

WATCH it

inspite for its commercial look, with its cities collapsing and some people getting away without a scar, 2012 debates some interesting issues and raises questions..

like, is 2012 really gonna happen? how accurate can the mayan prediction be? is it already happening? do we see the effects already? why only some powerful or rich people should be saved? what can we do to prevent the destruction of the entire world or to preserve life? is the salvation in the change of attitude, in the scientific discoveries? are we really in the year we think we are? is the 64,000 years cycle coming to an end?

poles shifting, magnetic fields disturbed, heavy solar erruptions, risk of being hit by all sorts of cosmic debris rising… no matter how much we’d love earth it will one day die. but i do hope it won’t be so soon.

on a final note i can say impressive the special effects, too

Watch

~~~

-part 4-

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 weak-willed
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 their parishioners.
It was beautiful and inspiring. “People of the Netherlands, stand up and take action.
Each of us must choose our own weapons to fight for the freedom of our country,
our people and our reli gion! Give your help and support. Act now!” This is what
they’re preaching from the 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 without informing
Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman. One morning the new landlord arrived with an architect
to look the place over. Thank goodness Mr. Kleiman was in the office. He showed the
gentlemen all there was to see, with the exception of the Secret Annex. He claimed
he’d left the key at home and the new owner asked no further questions. If only he
doesn’t come back demanding to see the Annex. In that case, we’ll be in big trouble!
Father emptied a card file for Margot and me and filled it with index cards that are
blank on one side. This is to become our reading file, in which Margot and I are
supposed to note down the books we’ve read, the author and the date. I’ve learned
two new words: “brothel” and “coquette.” I’ve bought a separate notebook for new
words.
There’s a new division of butter and margarine. Each person is to get their portion on
their own plate. The distribution is very unfair. The van Daans, who always make
breakfast for everyone, give themselves one and a half times more than they do us.
My parents are much too afraid of an argument to say anything, which is a shame,
because I think people like that should always be given a taste of their own medicine.
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943
Dearest 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 he considers 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 a good idea for her to be married to him, and
since she was flattered by the notion, 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 to
Germany. That’s bad for him but good for us because the new one won’t be famthar
with the building. We’re still afraid of the men who work in the warehouse.
Gandhi is eating again.
The black market is doing a booming business. If we had enough money to pay the
ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly. Our greengrocer buys 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 during lunchtime, when the warehouse
employees are out.
So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and cough with 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 to get
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 this morning.
The air flashed with so many coarse expressions that my ears were ringing with
“Anne’s bad this” annd “van Daans’ good that.” Fire and brimstone!
Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
We had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were booming away 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 sounds childish, but wait till it
happens to you! The ack-ack guns make so much noise you can’t hear your own
voice. Mrs. Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid
little voice, “Oh, it’s so awful. Oh, the guns are so loud!” — which is another way
of saying “I’m so scared.”
It didn’t seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark. I was shivering, as
if I had a fever, and begged
Father to relight the candle. He was adamant: there was to be no light. Suddenly we
heard a burst of machine-gun fire, and that’s ten times worse than antiaircraft guns.
Mother jumped out of bed and, to Pim’s great annoyance, lit the candle. Her resolute
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 keep you up
to date on the latest adventures in the Secret Annex, I should tell you this as well.
One night Mrs. van D. thought she heard loud footsteps in the attic, and she was so
afraid of burglars, she woke her husband. At that very same moment, the thieves
disappeared, and the only sound Mr. van D. could hear 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 have taken 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 get back to
sleep!”
Impossible. Mrs. van D. was too scared to sleep.
A few nights later the entire van Daan family was awakened by ghostly noises. Peter
went to the attic with a flashlight and — scurry, scurry — what do you 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 and never 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 the loft to
get some old newspapers. He had to hold on tightly to the trapdoor to climb down the
ladder. He put down his hand without looking, and nearly fell off the ladder from
shock and pain. Without realizing it, he’d put his hand on a large rat, which had bitten
him in the arm. By the time he reached us, white as a sheet and with his knees
knocking, the blood had soaked through his pajamas. No wonder he was so shaken,
since petting a rat isn’t much fun, especially when it takes a chunk out of your arm.
Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
May I introduce: Mama Frank, the children’s advocate! Extra butter for the youngsters,
the problems facing today’s youth — you name 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 went into
hiding. She’s the warehouse and office cat, who keeps the rats at bay in the
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 paths crossed from
time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. The warehouse cat was always the
aggressor, while the attic cat was ultimately the 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 that they got rid of Tommy, but Boche is always there
to amuse us when we go downstairs.
VVe’ve eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I can’t stand to look at
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 sad again, the
poor man!
I can’t tear myself away from the book A Knock at the Door by Ina Bakker Boudier.
This family saga is extremely well written, but the parts dealing with war, writers and
the emancipation of women aren’t very good. To be honest, 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 our favor.
I can’t wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not very practical
around the house. A pair of straw thongs that were purchased for 6.50 guilders were
worn down to the soles within a week. Maybe Miep will be 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 never go to
another barber after the war. If only I didn’t nick his ear so often!
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943
My dearest Kitty,
Turkey’s entered the war. Great excitement. Anxiously awaiting radio reports.

FRIDAY, MARCH 19, 1943
Dearest 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 about Turkey giving up its neu trality
sometime soon. The newspaper vendor in Dam Square was shouting “Turkey on
England’s side!” and the papers were being snatched out of his hands. This was how
we’d heard the encouraging rumor.
Thousand-guilder notes are being declared invalid. That’ll be a blow to the black
marketeers and others like them, but even more to pe Ie in hiding and anyone else
with money that can’t be accounted for. To turn in a thousand-guilder bill, you have
to be able to state how you came by it and provide proof. They can still be used to
pay taxes, but only until next week. The five-hundred notes will lapse at the same
time. Gies & Co. still had some unaccounted-for thousand-guilder bills, which they
used to pay their estimated taxes for the coming years, so everything seems to be
aboveboard.
Dussel has received an old-fashioned, foot-operated dentist’s drill. That means I’ll
probably be getting a thorough checkup soon.
Dussel is terribly lax when it comes to obeying the rules of the house. Not only does
he write letters to his Charlotte, he’s also carrying on a chatty correspondence with
various other people. Margot, the Annex’s Dutch teacher, has been correcting these
letters for him. Father has forbidden him to keep up the practice and Margot has
stopped correcting the letters, but I think it 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. The wounded
seemed proud of their wounds — the more the better. One was so beside 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 a whole
piece missing. I’ve already asked Father to compensate him for the damages, especially
since Dussel only gets one bar of inferior wartime soap a month.
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Mother, Father, Margot and I were sitting quite pleasantly together last night when
Peter suddenly came in and whispered in Father’s ear. I caught the words “a barrel
falling over in the warehouse” and “someone fiddling with the door.”
Margot heard it too, but was trying to calm me down, since I’d turned white as chalk
and was extremely nervous. The three of us waited while Father and Peter went
downstairs. A minute or two later Mrs. van Daan came up from where she’d been
listening to the radio and told us that Pim had asked her to turn it off and tiptoe
upstairs. But you know what happens when you’re trying to be quiet — the old stairs
creaked twice as loud. Five minutes later Peter and Pim, the color drained from their
faces, appeared again to relate their experiences.
They had positioned themselves under the staircase and waited. Nothing happened.
Then all of a sudden they heard a couple of bangs, as if two doors had been
slammed shut inside the house. Pim bounded up the stairs, while Peter went to warn
Dussel, who finally pre sented himself upstairs, though not without kicking up a fuss
and making a lot of noise. Then we all tiptoed in our stockinged feet to the van Daans
on the next floor. Mr. van D. had a bad cold and had already gone to bed, so we
gathered around his bedside and discussed 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 him codeine. 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 heels when they heard footsteps in an
otherwise quiet building. The problem now was 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 air-raid wardens were to notice it and call the police,
there could be very serious repercus sions. So Mr. van Daan got up, pulled on his coat
and pants, put on his hat and cautiously followed Father down the stairs, with Peter
(armed with 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 five minutes
later and reported that there was no sign of any activity in the building. We agreed
not to run any water or flush the toilet; but since everyone’s stomach was churning
from all the tension, you can imagine the stench after we’d each had a turn in the
bathroom.
Incidents like these are always accompanied by other disasters, and this was no
exception. Number one: the Westertoren bells stopped chiming, and I’d always found
them so comforting. Number two: Mr. Voskuijlleft early last night, and we weren’t
sure if he’d given Bep the key and she’d forgotten to lock the door.
But that was of little importance now. The night had just begun, and we still weren’t
sure what to expect. We were somewhat reassured by the fact that between
eight-fifteen — when the burglar had first entered the building and put 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 would have forced a door so early in the evening,
when there were still people out on the streets. Besides that, it occurred to us that
the warehouse manager at the Keg Company next door might still have been at work.
What with the excitement and the thin walls, it’s easy to mistake the sounds.
Besides, your imagination often plays tricks on you in moments of danger.
So we went to bed, though not to sleep. Father and Mother and Mr. Dussel were
awake most of the night, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that I hardly got a wink
of sleep. This morning the men went downstairs to see if the outside door was still
locked, but all was well!
Of course, we gave the entire office staff a blow-by-blow account of the incident,
which had been far from pleasant. It’s much easier to laugh at these kinds of things
after they’ve happened, and Bep was the only one who took us seriously.
Yours, Anne
PS. This morning the toilet was clogged, and Father had to stick in a long wooden
pole and fish out several pounds of excrement and strawberry recipes (which is what
we use for toilet paper these days). Afterward we burned the pole.

SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
We’ve finished our shorthand course and are now working on improving our speed.
Aren’t we smart! Let me tell you more about my “time killers” (this is what I call
my courses, because all we ever do is try to make the days go by as 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 here thinks my interest is just a
passing fancy, since they’ve never heard of a teenager 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 making an
enormous to-do over it. He gargles with camomile tea, coats the roof of his 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 out of the
German-occupied territories before July 1. The province of Utrecht will be cleansed
of Jews [as if they were cockroaches] between April 1 and May 1, and the provinces
of North and South Holland between May 1 and June 1.” These poor people are being
shipped off to filthiy slaughterhouses like 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 act of
sabotage. A few days later the County Clerk’s Office also went up in flames. Men
posing as German police bound and gagged the guards and managed to destroy some
important documents.
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1943
Dearest 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 five-thirty. 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 a cubbyhole in the attic. You’re not the only one who can’t find
a quiet place to work. You’re always looking for a fight. If your sister Margot, who
has more right to work space than you do, had come to me with the same request, I’d
never even have thought of refusing, but you. . .”
And once again he brought up the business about the mythology and the knitting, and
once again Anne was insulted. However, I showed no sign of it and let Dussel finish:
“But no, it’s impossible to talk to you. You’re shamefully self-centered. No one else
matters, as long as you get your way. I’ve never seen such a child. But after all is
said and done, I’ll be obliged to let you have your way, since I don’t want people
saying later on that Anne Frank failed her exams because Mr. Dussel refused to
relinquish his table!”
He went on and on until there was such a deluge of words I could hardly keep up.
For one fleeting moment I thought, “Him and his lies. I’ll smack his ugly mug 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 an expression 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 those parts
he hadn’t been able to follow himself. rim decided to talk to Dussel that very same
evening, and they spoke for more than half an hour.
They first discussed whether Anne should be allowed to use the table, yes or no.
Father said that he and Dussel had dealt with the subject once before, at which time
he’d professed to agree with Dussel because he didn’t want to contradict the elder in
front of the younger, but that, even then, he hadn’t thought it was fair. Dussel felt I
had no right to talk as if he were an intruder laying claim to everything in sight. But
Father protested strongly, since he himself had heard me say nothing of the kind. And
so the conversation went back 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 work without
interruption two afternoons a week. Dussel looked very sullen, didn’t speak to me for
two days and made sure he occupied the table from five to five-thirty — all very
childish, of course.
Anyone who’s so petty and pedantic at the age of fifty-four was born that way and is
never going to change.

FRIDAY, JULY 16, 1943
Dearest 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, and noticed 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, tuned the radio to a German station and locked the
door. Then they both went back upstairs. 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 as usual we followed these to the letter. We were all glad we’d slept
so well and hadn’t heard anything. For a while we were indignant because no one from
the office came upstairs the entire morning; Mr. Kleiman left us on tenterhooks until
eleven-thirty. He told that the burglars had forced the outside door and the warehouse
door with a crowbar, but when they didn’t find anything worth stealing, they tried
their luck on the next floor. They stole two cashboxes containing 40 guilders, blank
checkbooks and, worst of all, coupons for 330 pounds of sugar, our entire allotment. It
won’t be easy to wangle new ones.
Mr. Kugler thinks this burglar belongs to the same gang as the one who made an
unsuccessful attempt six weeks ago to open all three doors (the warehouse door and
the two outside doors).
The burglary caused another stir, but the Annex seems to thrive on excitement.
Naturally, we were glad the cash register and the typewriters had been safely tucked
away in our clothes closet.
Yours, Anne
PS. Landing in Sicily. Another step closer to the . . . !
MONDAY, JULY 19,1943
Dearest Kitty,
North Amsterdam was very heavily bombed on Sunday. There was apparently a great
deal of destruction. Entire streets are in ruins, and it will take a while for them to dig
out all the bodies. So far there have been two hundred dead and countless wounded;
the hospitals are bursting at the seams. We’ve been told of children searching forlornly
in the smoldering ruins for their dead parents. It still makes me shiver to think of the
dull, distant drone that signified the approaching destruction.
FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1943
Bep is currently able to get hold of notebooks, especially journals and ledgers, 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 ration stamps, they’re i totally
worthless. They consist of twelve sheets of gray I paper with narrow lines that slant
across the page. Margot is thinking about taking a course in calligraphy; I’ve advised
her to go ahead and do it. Mother won’t let me because of my eyes, but I think that’s
silly. Whether I do I that or something else, it all comes down to the same I thing.
Since you’ve never been through a war, Kitty, and since you know very little about
life in hiding, in spite of my letters, let me tell you, just for fun, what we 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 to the brim,
which they can lie in for more than half an hour. Mrs. van Daan would like a cake,
Dussel can think of nothing but seeing his Charlotte, and Mother 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 I wouldn’t know where to begin.
Most of all I long to have a home of our own, to be able to move around freely and
have someone help me with my homework again, at last. In other words, to go back to
school!
Bep has offered to get us some fruit, at so-called bargain prices: grapes 2.50 guilders
a pound, gooseberries 70 cents a pound, one peach 50 cents, melons 75 cents a
pound. No wonder the papers write every evening in big, fat letters: “Keep Prices
Down!”
MONDAY, JULY 26, 1943
Dear 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 of excitement.
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 crossing the coast. I had
a terrible headache, so I lay down for an hour after breakfast and then went to the
office at around two.
At two-thirty Margot had finished her office work and was just gathering her things
together when the sirens began wailing again. So she and I trooped back upstairs.
None too soon, it seems, for less than five minutes later the guns were booming so
loudly that we went and stood in the hall. The house shook and the bombs kept
falling. I was clutching my “escape bag,” more because I wanted to have something to
hold on to than because I wanted to run away. I know we can’t leave here, but if we
had to, being seen on 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 hum
with 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 private office, Mr. van
Daan had been watching from the loft, and those of us on the landing 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 the city were enveloped in a thick fog.
A big fire like that is not a pleasant sight, but fortunately for us it was all over, and
we went baCk to our various chores. Just as we were starting dinner: another air-raid
alarm. The food was good, but I lost my appetite the moment I heard the siren.
Nothing happened, however, and forty-five minutes later the all clear was sounded.
After the dishes had been washed: another air-raid warning, gunfire and swarms of
planes. “Oh, gosh, twice in one day,” we thought, “that’s twice in one day,” we
thought, “that’s twice too many.” Little good that did us, because once agai the bombs
rained down, this time on the others of the city. According to British reports, Schiphol
Airport was bombed. The planes dived and climbed, the air was abuzz with the drone
of engines. It was very 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 was undressing, but I took
no notice and leapt up, wide awake, at the sound of the first 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 last they stopped firing and I was able to go back
“home” again. I finally fell asleep 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 been stolen. 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
of Italy has taken over the government.
We jumped for joy. After the awful events of yesterday, finally something good
happens and brings us. . . hope! Hope for an end to the war, hope for peace.
Mr. Kugler dropped by and told us that the Fokker aircraft factory had been hit hard.
Meanwhile, there was another air-raid alarm this morning, with planes flying over, and
another warning siren. I’ve had it up to here with alarms. 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 by the end of the year are keeping us awake. .
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, JULY 29, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Mrs. van Daan, Dussel and I were doing the dishes, and I was extremely quiet. This
is very unusual for me and they were sure to notice, so in order to avoid any
questions, I quickly racked my brains for a neutral topic. I thought the book Henry
from Across the Street might fit the bill, but I couldn’t have been more wrong; if Mrs.
van Daan doesn’t jump down my throat, Mr. Dussel does. It all boiled down to this:
Mr. Dussel had recommended the book to Margot and me as an example of excellent
writing. We thought it was anything 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 were doing 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 book like 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 about
things 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 you want to catch a husband or
fall in love, since everything is bound to be a disappointment to you. You already
know all there is to know in theory. But in practice? That’s another story!”
Can you imagine how I felt? I astonished myself by calmly replying, “You may think I
haven’t been raised properly, but many people would disagree!”
They apparently believe that good child-rearing includes trying to pit me against my
parents, since that’s all they ever do. And not telling a girl my age about grown-up
subjects is fine. We can all see what happens when. people are raised that way.
At that moment I could have slapped them both for poking fun at me. I was beside
myself with rage, and if I only knew how much longer we had to put up 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 and perpetually
dissatisfied. Add to that, vanity and coquettishness and there’s no question about it:
she’s a thoroughly despicable person. I could write an entire book 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. is friendly to strangers, especially men, so it’s easy
to make a mistake when you first get to know her.
Mother thinks that Mrs. van D. is too stupid for words, Margot that she’s too
unimportant, Pim that she’s too ugly (literally and figuratively!), and after long
observation (I’m never prejudiced at the beginning), I’ve come to the conclusion that
she’s all three of the above, and lots more besides. She has so many bad traits, why
should I single out just one of them?
Yours, Anne
P.S. Will the reader please take into consideration that this story was written before
the writer’s fury had cooled?

~~~

happy people

actually, there was this couple kissing, but still, what a place: Poarta Sarutului, Tg Jiu.. imagine how many kisses it’s been a witness of during the years..

[source]
...

Te iubesc cu toata magia, cu toata blandetea, cu toata inocenta si cu toata
pasiunea din sufletul meu

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http://olegbreslavtsev.deviantart.com/art/love-story-7-137090829

http://tearssweatsaliva.deviantart.com/art/let-s-hold-o….242888

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http://oprisco.deviantart.com/art/words-of-love-141621886

Asa

~~~~~

Anne Frank – Diary of a Young Girl, part 3

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 9,1942
Dearest Kitty,
Yesterday was Peter’s birthday, his sixteenth. I was upstairs by eight, and Peter and I
looked at his presents. He received a game of Monopoly, a razor and 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 the English
had landed in Tunis, Algiers, Casablanca and Oran.
“This is the beginning of the end,” everyone was saying, but Churchill, the British
Prime Minister, who must have heard the same thing being repeated in 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
reason for optimism. Stalingrad, the Russian city that has been under attack for three
months, still hasn’t fallen into
German hands.
In the true spirit of the Annex, I should talk to you about food. (I should explain 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. Of course,
we don’t have as much as we did at home, but it’s enough. We also purchase ration
books on the black market. The price keeps going up; it’s already risen from 27 to 33
guilders. And that for mere sheets of printed paper!
To provide ourselves with a source of nutrition that will keep, aside from the hundred
cans of food we’ve stored here, we bought three hundred pounds of beans. Not just
for us, but for the office staff as well. We’d hung the sacks of beans on hooks in the
hallway, just inside our secret entrance, but a few seams split under the weight. So
we decided to move them to the attic, and Peter was entrusted with the heavy lifting.
He managed to get five of the six sacks upstairs intact and was busy with the last
one when the sack broke and a flood, or rather a hailstorm, of brown beans went
flying through the air and down the stairs. Since there were about fifty 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 me standing at the bottom of the stairs, like an island
in a sea of brown, with waves of beans lapping at my ankles. We promptly began
picking them up, but beans are so small and slippery that they roll into every
conceivable corner and hole. Now each time we go upstairs, we bend over and hunt
around 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, Anne
P.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, 1942
Dearest 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 one more 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 done to the Jews are getting worse by
the day, Father decided to sound out these two 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 went through our circle of
acquaintances, trying to come up with a single person who 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 named Alfred Dussel. He lives with a charming Christian
lady who’s quite a bit younger 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
superficial acquaintance with him, to be nice. Miep knows him as well, so she’ll be
able to make the necessary arrangements. If he comes, Mr. Dussel will have to sleep
in my room instead of Margot, who will have to make do with the folding bed.*
[*After Dussel arrived, Margot slept in her parents' bedroom.] We’ll ask him to bring
along something to fill cavities with.
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Miep came to tell us that she’d been to see Dr. Dussel. He asked her the moment she
entered the room if she knew of a hiding place and was enormously 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, but he thought this was highly improbable, since
he wanted to bring his records up to date, settle his accounts and attend to a couple
of patients. Miep relayed the 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
feel ought 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, and now 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 the
street, it won’t help either his records or his patients, so why the delay? If you ask
me, it’s stupid of Father to humor him.
Otherwise, no news.
Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1942
Dearest Kitty!
Mr. Dussel has arrived. Everything went smoothly. Miep told him to be at a certain
place in front of the post office at 11 A.M., when a man would meet him, and he was
at the appointed place at the appointed time. Mr. Kleiman went up to him, announced
that the man he was expecting to meet was unable to come and asked him to drop by
the office to see Miep. Mr. Kleiman took a streetcar back to the office while Mr.
Dussel followed on foot.
It was eleven-twenty when Mr. Dussel tapped on the office door. Miep asked him to
remove his coat, so the yellow star couldn’t be seen, and brought him to the private
office, where Mr. Kleiman kept him occupied until the cleaning lady had gone. On the
pretext that the private office was needed for something else, Miep took Mr. Dussel
upstairs, opened the bookcase and stepped inside, while Mr. Dussellooked on in
amazement.
In the meantime, the seven of us had seated ourselves around the dining table to
await the latest addition to our family with coffee and cognac. Miep first led him into
the Frank family’s room. He immediately recognized our furniture, but had no idea we
were upstairs, just above his head. When Miep told him, he was so astonished he
nearly fainted. Thank goodness she didn’t leave him in suspense any longer, but
brought him upstairs. Mr. Dussel sank into a chair and stared at us in dumbstruck
silence, as though he thought he could 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 the rumor of
the officer and the car to throw the Germans and anyone else who might come looking
for us off the track. Mr. Dussel was speechless in the face of such ingenuity, and
could do nothing but gaze around in surprise as he explored the rest of our lovely and
ultrapractical Annex. We all had lunch together. Then he took a short nap, joined us
for tea, put away the few belongings Miep had been able to bring here in advance and
began to feel much more at home. Especially when we handed him the following
typewritten rules and regulations for the Secret Annex (a van Daan production):
PROSPECTUS AND GUIDE TO THE SECRET ANNEX
A Unique Facility for the Temporary
Accommodation of Jews and Other
Dispossessed Persons
Open all year round: Located in beautiful, quiet, wooded surroundings in the heart of
Amsterdam. No private residences in the vicinity. Can be reached by streetcar 13 or
17 and also by car and bicycle. For those to whom such transportation has been
forbidden by the German authorities, it can also be reached on foot. Furnished and
unfurnished rooms and apartments are available at all times, with or without meals.
Price: Free.
Diet: Low-fat.
Runnina water in the bathroom (sorry, no bath) and on various inside and outside
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 many other
stations. Available to all residents after 6 P.M. No listening to forbidden broadcasts,
with certain exceptions, i.e., German stations may only be tuned in to listen to
classical music. It is absolutely forbidden to listen to German news bulletins
(regardless of where they are transmitted from) and to pass them on to others.
Rest hours: From 10 P.M. to 7:30 A.M.; 10:15 A.M. on Sundays. Owing to
circumstances, residents are required to observe rest hours during the daytime when
instructed to do so by the Management. To ensure the safety of all, rest hours 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 the language of
civilized people may be spoken, thus no German.
Reading and relaxation: No German books may be read, except for the classics 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 four-thirty, 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

Ultima  frunza

Arrival

carpet of leaves

*~*~*

what a beautiful city

“Casa la rosu” reprezinta constructia fara finisaje si fara partea exterioara a acoperisului (tigla, tabla, etc.). Include fundatia, ridicarea peretilor si structura acoperisului pe care se monteaza ulterior tigla sau tabla. De asemenea, in faza de „casa la rosu” nu este realizata nici partea de instalatii (cabluri electrice, tevile de apa/gaze, racordare la utilitati), acestea fiind adaugate ulterior.

~~~

Planetarium

****

Very cool movie, watch it

***

i want a loving kind sweet gentle childish friendly intelligent dreamer to be always with me

in such a heart i find my home

in such a face i find my smile

only such a person i can love

You.

~~~~~

Continuing

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
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 their
execution. If the Gestapo can’t find the saboteur, they simply grab five hostages and
line them up against the wall. You read the announcements of their 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 of them!
No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago. And besides, there are
no greater enemies on earth than the Germans and the Jews.
Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1942
Dear Kitty,
I’m terribly busy. Yesterday I began by translating a chapter from La Belle Nivemaise
and writing down vocabulary words. Then I worked on an awful math problem and
translated three pages of French grammar besides. Today, French grammar and history.
I simply refuse to do that wretched math every day. Daddy thinks it’s awful too.
I’m almost better at it than he is, though in fact neither of us is any good, so we
always have to call on Margot’s help. I’m also working away at my shorthand, 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 ter Heul.
Anyway, the same words can be found in both books, which makes sense because
they’re written by the same author. Cissy van Marxveldt is a terrific 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. For example,
Hedwig, The Cousin from Bremen, The Governess, The Green Domino, 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 by side in my bed. It was incredibly
cramped, but that’s what made it fun. She asked 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 her diary
as well.
The conversation turned to the future, and I asked what she wanted to be when she
was older. But she wouldn’t say and was quite mysterious about it. I gathered it had
something to do with teaching; of course, I’m not absolutely sure, but I suspect it’s
something along those lines. I really shouldn’t be so nosy.
This morning I’lay on Peter’s bed, after first having chased him off it. He was furious,
but I didn’t care. He might consider being a little more friendly to me from 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 and had nice
eyes. A little vague, don’t you think?
Well, until next time!
Anne Frank
PS. This morning we all took turns on the scale. Margot now weighs 132 pounds,
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 19 pounds. A lot, huh?

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
My hand’s still shaking, though it’s been two hours since we had the scare. I should
explain that there are five fire extinguishers in the building. The office staff 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 quiet until I heard the sound of
hammering on the landing (across from the bookcase). 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 I stationed ourselves at the door so we could hear when the
man had left. After working for about fifteen minutes, he laid his hammer and some
other tools on our bookcase (or so we thought!) and banged on our door. We turned
white with fear. Had he heard something after all and now wanted to check out 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 managing to
discover our wonderful hiding place. Just when I thought my days were numbered, we
heard Mr. Kleiman’s voice saying, “Open up, it’s me.” We opened the door at once.
What had happened?
The hook fastening the bookcase had gotten stuck, which is why no one had been able
to warn us about the carpenter. After the man had left, Mr. Kleiman came to get Bep,
but couldn’t open the bookcase. I can’t tell you how relieved I was. In my imagination,
the man I thought was trying to get inside the Secret Annex had kept growing and
growing until he’d become not only a giant but also the cruelest Fascist in the world.
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. Margot and I
slept in Father and Mother’s room for the night so the Gieses could have our 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 short circuit 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 ventured forth, 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 came in. 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 than usual. After a pleasant breakfast, Miep headed
downstairs. It was pouring outside and she was glad she didn’t have to bicycle to
work. Daddy and I made the beds, and afterward I learned five irregular French verbs.
Quite industrious, don’t you think?
Margot and Peter were reading in our room, with Mouschi curled up beside Margot on
the divan. After my irregular French verbs, I joined them and read The Woods Are
Singingfor All Eternity. It’s quite a beautiful book, but very unusual. I’m almost
finished.
Next week it’s Bep’s turn to spend the night.
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1942
My dearest Kitty,
I’m very worried. Father’s sick. He’s covered with spots and has a high temperature.
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 van Daans’
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 moan and groan
again about all the beautiful china and lovely chairs she had to leave behind. We had
to abandon most of our nice things too. What’s the good of grumbling about it now?
Father wants me to start reading books by Hebbel and other well-known German
writers. I can read German fairly well by now, except that I usually mumble 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 big bookcase and is planning to read to
me every evening. We’ve started off with Don Carlos. Encouraged by Father’s good
example, Mother pressed her prayer 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 she making me act so religious and devout?
Tomorrow we’re going to light the stove for the first time. The chimney hasn’t been
swept in ages, so the room is bound to fill with smoke. Let’s hope the thing draws!
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Bep stayed with us Friday evening. It was fun, but she didn’t sleep very well because
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 being exasperating again.
This morning I began sorting out an index card file from the office, because it’d fallen
over and gotten all mixed up. Before long I was going nuts. I asked Margot and Peter
to help, but they were too lazy, so I put it away.
I’m not crazy enough to do it all by myself!
Anne Frank
PS. I forgot to mention the important news that I’m probably going to get my period
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 a momentous event. Too bad
I can’t use sanitary napkins, but you can’t get them anymore, and Mama’s tampons can
be used only by women who’ve had a baby. i

COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON JANUARY 22, 1944: I wouldn’t be able to write
that kind of thing anymore.
Now that I’m rereading my diary after a year and a half, I’m surprised at my childish
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 the comments about Margot,
Mother and Father as if I’d written them only yesterday, but I can’t imagine writina so
openly about other matters. It embarrasses me areatly to read the panes dealina with
subjects that I remembered as beina nicer than they actually were. My descriptions
are so indelicate. But enouah of that.
I can also understand my homesickness and yearning for Moortje. The whole time I’ve
been here I’ve longed unconsciously and at times consciously for trust, love and

physical affection. This longing may change in intensity, but it’s always there.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1942
Dear Kitty,
The British have finally scored a few successes in Africa and Stalingrad hasn’t fallen
yet, so the men are happy and we had coffee and tea this morning. 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’s not very
open about his feelings, but he’s the same sweetheart he’s always been. We lit the
stove a few days ago and the entire room is still filled with smoke. 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, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mother’s nerves are very much on edge, and that doesn’t bode well for me. Is it just
a coincidence that Father and Mother never scold Margot and always blame me for
everything? Last night, for example, Margot was reading a book with beautiful
illustrations; she got up and put the book aside for later. I wasn’t doing anything, so I
picked it up and began looking at the pictures. Margot carne back, saw’ “her” book in
my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back. I wanted to look
through it some more. Margot got madder by the minute, and Mother butted in:
“Margot was reading that book; give it back to her.”
Father came in, and without even knowing what was going on, saw that Margot 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 issue was. I
would have given the book to Margot myself, and a lot sooner, if Father and Mother
hadn’t intervened and rushed to take Margot’s part, as if she were suffering some
great injustice.
Of course, Mother took Margot’s side; they always take each other’s sides. I’m so
used to it that I’ve become completely indifferent to Mother’s rebukes and Margot’s
moodiness. I love them, but only because they’re Mother and Margot. 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 being partial 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 myself after Father, and there’s no one in the world I love more.
He doesn’t realize that he treats Margot differently than he does me: Margot just
happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. But I have a right
to be taken seriously too. I’ve always been the clown and mischief maker of the
family; I’ve always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again
with my own sense of despair. I’m no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection
or the supposedly serious talks. I long for something from Father that he’s incapable
of giving. I’m not jealous of Margot; I never have been. I’m not envious of her brains
or her beauty. It’s just that I’d like to feel that Father really loves me, not because
I’m his child, but because I’m me, Anne.
I cling to Father because my contempt of Mother is growing daily and it’s only
through him that I’m able to retain the last ounce of family feeling I have left. He
doesn’t understand that I sometimes need to vent my feelings for Mother. He doesn’t
want to talk about it, and he avoids any discussion involving Mother’s failings. And yet
Mother, with all her shortcomings, is tougher for me to deal with. I don’t know how I
should act. I can’t very well confront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm and her
hard-heartedness, yet I 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; I don’t
have that right. I’m simply looking at her as a mother. She’s not a mother to me –
I have to mother myself. I’ve cut myself adrift from them. I’m charting 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 to find 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 to see her
good points, and to look inside myself for what’s lacking in her. But it doesn’t work,
and the worst part is that Father and Mother don’t realize their own inadequacies and
how much I blame them for letting me down. Are there 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’ll have to
become a good person on my own, without anyone to serve as a model 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 I turn 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 every day I resolve to do
better.
They aren’t consistent in their treatment of me. One day they say that Anne’s a
sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that Anne’s a silly goose
who doesn’t know a thing and yet imagines she’s learned all she needs to know from
books! I’m no longer the baby and spoiled little darling whose 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 the day
when I’m obliged to put up with people I can’t abide or who invariably misinterpret my
intentions. That’s why I always wind up coming back to my diary — I start there
and end there because Kitty’s always patient. I promise her that, despite everything,
I’ll keep going, that I’ll find my own way and choke 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 the bursting
point!
Yours, Anne

footsteps

i will always love you

Partea 1 – for all of you who wanna read it…

~~

June 12, 1942
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.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 28, 1942: So far you truly have been
a areat source of comfort to me, and so has Kitty, whom I now write to regularly.
This way of keeping a diary is much nicer, and now I can hardly wait for those
moments when I’m able to write in you. Oh, I’m so alad I brought you along!

SUNDAY, JUNE 14, 1942
I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the table among
my other birthday presents. (I went along when you were bought, but that doesn’t
count.)
On Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o’clock, which isn’t surprising, since it was
my birthday. But I’m not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my
curiosity until quarter to seven. When I couldn’t wait 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 to open
my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicest presents.
Then a bouquet of roses, some peonies and a potted plant. From Daddy and Mama I
got a blue blouse, a game, a bottle of grape juice, which to my mind tastes a bit like
wine (after all, wine is made from grapes), a puzzle, a jar of cold cream, 2.50 guilders
and a gift certificate for two books. I got another book as well, Camera Obscura (but
Margot already has it, so I exchanged mine for something else), a platter of
homemade cookies (which I made myself, of course, since I’ve become quite an expert
at baking cookies), lots of candy and 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 it was time to get back to work. I
didn’t arrive home until five, since I went to gym with the rest of the class. (I’m not
allowed to take part because my shoulders and hips tend to get dislocated.) As it was
my birthday, I got to decide 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, Hanneli Goslar
and Jacqueline van Maarsen came home with me after gym, since we’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 and Sanne.” I only met Jacqueline van Maarsen
when I started at the Jewish Lyceum, and now she’s my best friend. Ilse is Hanneli’s
best friend, and Sanne goes to another school and has friends there.
They gave me a beautiful book, Dutch Sasas and Lesends, but they gave me Volume II
by mistake, so I exchanged two other books for Volume I. Aunt Helene brought me a
puzzle, Aunt Stephanie a darling brooch and Aunt Leny a terrific book: Daisy Goes to
the Mountains.
This morning I lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it would be if I had a dog
like Rin Tin Tin. I’d call him Rin Tin Tin too, and I’d take him to school with me,
where he could stay in the janitor’s room or by the bicycle racks when the weather
was good.

MONDAY, JUNE 15, 1942
I had my birthday party on Sunday afternoon. The Rin Tin Tin movie was a big 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 with the students.
Betty Bloemendaal looks kind of poor, and I think she probably is. She lives on 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, not because she’s so smart.
She’s pretty quiet.

Jacqueline van Maarsen is supposedly my best friend, but I’ve never had a real 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 to remain
anonymous.] is a very nervous girl who’s always forgetting things, so the teachers
keep assigning her extra homework as punishment. She’s very kind, especially to G.Z.
E.S. talks so much it isn’t funny. She’s always touching your hair or fiddling with 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 in a loud
voice and is really childish when we’re playing outdoors. Unfortunately, Henny has a
girlfriend named Beppy who’s a bad influence on her because she’s dirty and vulgar.
J.R. – I could write a whole book about her. J. is a detestable, sneaky, stuck-up,
two-faced gossip who thinks she’s so grown-up. She’s really got Jacque under her
spell, and that’s a shame. J. is easily offended, bursts into tears at the slightest thing
and, to top it all off, is a terrible show-off. Miss J. always has to be right. She’s
very rich, and has a closet full of the most adorable dresses 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 extremely fInicky and
can spend hours moaning and groaning about something. Ilse likes 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’s pretty
smart. There isn’t much else you can say about Nannie. Eefje de Jong is, in my
opinion, terrific. Though she’s only twelve, she’s quite the lady. She acts 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 her that.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE AT A LATER DATE: To my areat surprise, 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. Sallie
Springer has a filthy mind, and rumor has it that he’s gone all the way. Still, I think
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’t stand him anymore. He’s an obnoxious,
two-faced, lying, sniveling little goof who has an awfully high opinion of himself.
Max van de Velde is a farm boy from Medemblik, but eminently suitable, as Margot
would say.
Herman Koopman also has a filthy mind, just like Jopie de Beer, who’s a terrible flirt
and absolutely girl-crazy.
Leo Blom is Jopie de Beer’s best friend, but has been ruined by his dirty mind.
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 this school 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 made him too
quiet, so he seems boring. Sam Salomon is one of those tough guys from across the
tracks. A real brat. (Admirer!)
Appie Riem is pretty Orthodox, but a brat too.

SATURDAY, JUNE 20,1942
Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only
because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later
on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a 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 of those days
when I was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home with my chin in my
hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out. I finally stayed
where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have more patience, and since I’m not planning
to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a “diary,”
unless I should ever find a real friend, it probably won’t make a bit of difference.
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-old girl is
completely alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents and a
sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people I can call friends. I have a
throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have
to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the
classroom. I have a family, loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I seem
to have everything, except my one true friend. All I think about when I’m with friends
is having a good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary
everyday things. We don’t seem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem.
Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other. In any case, that’s just how
things are, and unfortunately 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’t want to
jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but I want 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 to plunge right
in, I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike doing so.
My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen, didn’t marry my mother until he
was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born in Frankfurt am
Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12, 1929. I lived in Frankfurt until I
was four. Because we’re Jewish, my father immigrated to Holland in 1933, when he
became the Managing Director of the Dutch Opekta Company, which manufactures
products used in making jam. My mother, 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 I
was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot.
I started right away at the Montessori nursery school. I stayed there until I was six,
at which time I started first grade. In sixth grade my teacher was Mrs. Kuperus, the
principal. At the end of the year we were both in tears as we said a heartbreaking
farewell, because I’d been accepted at the Jewish Lyceum, where Margot also went to
school.
Our lives were not without anxiety, since our relatives in Germany were suffering
under Hitler’s anti-Jewish laws. After the pogroms in 1938 my two uncles (my
mother’s brothers) fled Germany, finding safe refuge in North America. My elderly
grandmother came to live with us. She was seventy-three years old at the time.
After May 1940 the good times were few and far between: first there was the war,
then the capitulation and then the arrival of the Germans, which is when the trouble
started for the Jews. Our freedom was severely restricted by a series of anti-Jewish
decrees: Jews were required to wear a yellow star; Jews were 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 do their shopping between 3 and 5 P.M.;
Jews were required to frequent only Jewish-owned barbershops and beauty parlors;
Jews were forbidden to be out on the streets between 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.; Jews were
forbidden to attend theaters, movies or any other forms of entertainment; Jews were
forbidden to use swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic
fields; Jews were forbidden to go rowing; Jews were forbidden to take part in any
athletic activity in public; Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their
friends after 8 P.M.; Jews were forbidden to visit Christians in their homes; Jews
were required to attend Jewish schools, etc. You couldn’t do this and you couldn’t do
that, but life went on. Jacque always said to me, “I don’t dare do anything anymore,
’cause I’m afraid it’s not allowed.”
In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so my
birthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940 we didn’t do much 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 and still love her. This birthday
celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others, and Grandma’s candle was
lit along with the rest.
The four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date of June 20,
1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary.

SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1942
Dearest Kitty! Let me get started right away; it’s nice and quiet now. Father and
Mother are out and Margot has gone to play Ping-Pong with some other young people
at her friend Trees’s. I’ve been playing a lot of Ping-Pong myself lately. So much
that five of us girls have formed a club. It’s called “The Little Dipper Minus Two.” A
really silly name, but it’s based on a mistake. We wanted to give our club a special
name; and because there were five of us, we came up with the idea of the Little
Dipper. We thought it consisted of five stars, but we turned out to be wrong. It has
seven, like the Big Dipper, which explains the “Minus Two.” Ilse Wagner has a
Ping-Pong set, 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 visit to the
nearest ice-cream parlor that allows Jews: either Oasis or Delphi. We’ve long since
stopped hunting around for our purses or money — most of the time it’s so busy in
Oasis that we manage to find a few generous young men of our acquaintance or an
admirer to offer us more ice cream than we could eat in a week.
You’re probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such a tender
age. Unfortunately, or not, as the case may be, this vice seems to be rampant at our
school. As soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with me and we get to talking,
nine times out of ten I can be sure he’ll become enamored on the spot and won’t let
me out of his sight for a second. His ardor eventually cools, especially since I ignore
his passionate glances and pedal blithely on my way. If it gets so bad that they start
rambling on about “asking Father’s permission,” I swerve slightly on my bike, my
schoolbag falls, and the young man feels obliged to get off his bike and hand me the
bag, by which time I’ve switched the conversation to another topic. These are the
most innocent types. Of course, there are those who blow you kisses or try to take
hold of your arm, but they’re definitely knocking on the wrong door. I get off my bike
and either refuse to make further use of their company or act as if I’m insulted and
tell them in no uncertain terms to go on home without me. There you are. We’ve now
laid the basis for our friendship. Until tomorrow.
Yours, Anne

SUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Our entire class is quaking in its boots. The reason, of course, is the upcoming
meeting in which the teachers decide who’ll be promoted to the next grade and who’ll
be kept back. Half the class is making bets. G.Z. and I laugh ourselves sick at the two
boys behind us, C.N. and Jacques Kocernoot, who have staked their entire vacation
savings on their bet. From morning to night, it’s “You’re going to pass, No, I’m not,”
“Yes, you are,” “No, I’m not.” Even G.’s pleading glances and my angry outbursts can’t
calm them down. If you ask me, there are so many dummies that about a quarter of
the class should be kept back, but teachers are the most unpredictable creatures on
earth. Maybe this time they’ll be unpredictable in the right direction for a change. I’m
not so worried about my girlfriends and myself.
We’ll make it. The only subject I’m not sure about is math. Anyway, all we can 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, seven men and
two women. Mr. Keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was mad at 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.” A chatterbox, what can you write
about that? I’d wbrry about that later, I decided. I jotted down the assignment in my
notebook, tucked it in my bag and tried to keep quiet.
That evening, after I’d finished the rest of my homework, the note about the essay
caught my eye. I began thinking about the subject while chewing the tip of my
fountain pen. Anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words, but the
trick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity of talking. I
thought and thought, and suddenly I had an idea. I wrote the three pages Mr. Keesing
had assigned me and was satisfied. I argued that talking is a female trait and that I
would do my best to keep it under control, but that I would never be able to break
myself of the habit, since my mother talked as much as I did, if not more, and that
there’s not much you can do about inherited traits.
Mr. Keesing had a good laugh at my arguments, but when I proceeded to talk my way
through the next class, he assigned me a second essay. This time it was 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 he’d finally had
enough. “Anne Frank, as punishment for talking in class, write an essay entitled
‘Quack, Quack, Quack,’ said Mistress Chatterback.’”
The class roared. I had to laugh too, though I’d ) nearly exhausted my ingenuity on
the topic of chatterboxes. It was time to come up with something else, j something
original. My friend Sanne, who’s good at poetry, offered to help me write the essay
from beginning to end in verse. I jumped for joy. Keesing was trying to play a joke on
me with this ridiculous subject, but I’d make sure the joke was on him. I finished my
poem, and it was beautiful! It was about a mother duck and a father swan with three
baby ducklings who were 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 his own comments, and to several other classes as well. Since then I’ve been
allowed to talk and haven’t been assigned any extra homework. On the contrary,
Keesing’s always i making jokes these days.
Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 24, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
It’s sweltering. Everyone is huffing and puffing, and in this heat I have to walk
everywhere. Only now do I realize how pleasant a streetcar is, but we Jews are no
longer allowed to make use of this luxury; our own two feet are good enough for us.
Yesterday at lunchtime I had an appointment with the dentist on Jan Luykenstraat. It’s
a long way from our school on Stadstimmertuinen. That afternoon I nearly fell asleep
at my desk. Fortunately, people automatically offer you something to drink. The dental
assistant 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. It’s not the fault of the Dutch that
we Jews are having such a bad time.
I wish I didn’t have to go to school. My bike was stolen during Easter vacation, and
Father gave Mother’s bike to some Christian friends for safekeeping. Thank goodness
summer vacation is almost here; one more week and our torment will be over.
Something unexpected happened yesterday morning. As I was passing the bicycle
racks, I heard my name being called. I turned around and there was the nice boy I’d
met the evening before at my friend Wilma’s. He’s Wilma’s second cousin. I used to
think Wilma was nice, which she is, but all she ever talks about is boys, and that gets
to be a bore. He came toward me, somewhat shyly, and introduced himself as Hello
Silberberg. I was a little surprised and wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it didn’t take
me long to find out. He asked if I would allow him to accompany me to school. “As
long as you’re headed that way, I’ll go with you,” I said. And so we walked together.
Hello is sixteen 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 good-looking 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 the mayhem.
My sister Margot has also gotten her report card.
Brilliant, as usual. If we had such a thing as “cum laude,” she would have passed 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 over Opekta, and Mr.
Kugler, Gies & Co., the company dealing in spices and spice substitutes 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 hard for us to live cut
off from the rest of the world. I asked him why he was bringing this up now.
“Well, Anne,” he replied, “you know that for more than a year we’ve been bringing
clothes, food and furniture to other people. We don’t want our belongings to be seized
by the Germans. Nor do we want to fall into their clutches ourselves. So we’ll leave
of our own accord and not wait to be hauled 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 life while
you can.”
That was it. Oh, may these somber words not come true for as long as possible.
The doorbell’s ringing, Hello’s here, time to stop.
Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, JULY 8, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
It seems like years since Sunday morning. So much has happened it’s as if the whole
world had suddenly turned upside down. But as you can see, Kitty, I’m still alive, and
that’s the main thing, Father says. I’m alive all right, but don’t ask 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), the doorbell
rang. I didn’t hear it, since I was out on the balcony, lazily reading in the sun. A little
while later Margot appeared in the kitchen doorway looking very agitated. “Father has
received a call-up notice from the SS,” she whispered. “Mother has gone to see Mr.
van Daan” (Mr. van Daan is Father’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. How could we let Father go to such a
fate? “Of course he’s not going,” declared Margot 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 van Daans are going with us. There will be seven of us
altogether.” Silence. We couldn’t speak. The thought of Father off visiting someone in
the Jewish Hospital and completely unaware of what was happening, the long wait for
Mother, 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, and then the two of
them came inside and shut the door behind them. Every time the bell rang, either
Margot or I had to tiptoe downstairs to see if it was Father, and we didn’t let anyone
else in. Margot and I were sent from the room, 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-up was not
for Father, but for her. At this second shock, I began to cry. Margot is 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, which must be what Father had meant
when he talked to me about our going into hiding. 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 running through 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 of going 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 to ask if he
could come by that evening. Mr. van Daan left and went to get Miep. Miep arrived and
promised to return later 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 still hot, and everything was very strange.
We had rented our big upstairs room to a Mr. Goldschmidt, a divorced man in his
thirties, who apparently had nothing to do that evening, since despite all our polite
hints he hung around until ten o’clock.
Miep and Jan Gies came at eleven. Miep, who’s worked for Father’s company since
1933, has become a close friend, and so has her husband Jan. Once again, shoes,
stockings, books and underwear disappeared into Miep’s bag and 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 five-thirty 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 we were
going off to spend the night in a refrigerator, and all that just so we could take more
clothes with us. No Jew in our situation would dare leave the house with a suitcase
full of clothes. I was wearing two undershirts, three pairs of underpants, a dress, and
over that a skirt, a jacket, a raincoat, two pairs of stockings, heavy shoes, a cap, a
scarf and lots more. I was suffocating even before we left the house, but no one
bothered to ask me how I 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 the only
living creature I said good-bye to. According to a note we left for Mr. Goldschmidt,
she was to be taken to the neighbors, who would give her a good home.
The stripped beds, the breakfast things on the table, the pound of meat for the cat in
the kitchen — all of these created the impression that we’d left in a hurry. But we
weren’t interested in impressions. We just wanted to get out of there, to get away and
reach our destination in safety. Nothing else mattered.
More tomorrow.
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, JULY 9, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
So there we were, Father, Mother and I, walking in the pouring rain, each of us with
a schoolbag and a shopping bag filled to the brim with the most varied 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 some kind 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 of our furniture and
apparel out of the apartment as we could. It was agreed that we’d go into hiding on
July 16. Because of Margot’s call-up notice, the plan had to be moved up ten days,
which meant we’d have to make do with less orderly 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’t have 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 whom were informed of our coming. Mr. Voskuijl, Bep’s
father, works in the warehouse, along with two assistants, none of whom were told
anything.
Here’s a description of the building. The large warehouse on the ground floor is used
as a workroom and storeroom and is divided into several different sections, 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 to the
office. Just inside the office door is a second door, and beyond that a stairway. At the
top of the stairs is another door, with a frosted window on which 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 through
an alcove containing a safe, a wardrobe and a big supply cupboard, you come to the
small, dark, stuffy back office. This used to be shared by Mr. Kugler and Mr. van
Daan, but now Mr. Kugler is its only occupant. Mr. Kugler’s office can also be reached
from the hallway, but only through a glass door that can be opened from the inside
but not easily from the outside. If you leave Mr. Kugler’s office and proceed through
the long, narrow hallway past the coal bin and go up four steps, you find yourself in
the private office, the showpiece of the entire building. Elegant mahogany furniture, a
linoleum floor 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. At the top of
the stairs is a landing, with doors on either side. The door on the left takes you up to
the spice storage area, attic and loft in the front part of the house. A typically Dutch,
very steep, ankle-twisting flight of stairs also runs from 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 back ofthe
house. No one would ever suspect there were so many rooms behind that plain gray
door. There’s just one small step in front of the door, and then you’re inside. Straight
ahead of you is a steep flight of stairs. To the left is a narrow hallway opening onto
a room that serves as the Frank family’s living
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room and bedroom. Next door is a smaller room, the )edroom and study of the two
young ladies of the family. ro the right of the stairs is a windowless washroom. with
a link. The door in the corner leads to the toilet and another one to Margot’s and my
room. If you go up the itairs and open the door at the top, you’re surprised to see
such a large, light and spacious room in an old canalside house like this. It contains a
stove (thanks to the fact hat it used to be Mr. Kugler’s laboratory) and a sink.
This will be the kitchen and bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. van Daan, as well as the
general living room, dining room and study for us all. A tiny side room is to 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 the whole 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 eight-thirty, 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 wood-stained
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

..

Summer In The South

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.

~~

Watch:

sa te strang in brate, sa se plimbe mana pe spatele tau, sa ne sarutam, sa iti simt parfumul si dulceata buzelor… sa simt cand iti e cald sau frig sau cand zambesti sau cand visezi sau cand esti vesel sau cand vrei sa imi zici ceva sau cand orice, nu e nimic mai magic.