Part 7
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My own affairs have been pushed to the background by . . . a break-in. I’m boring you with all my break-ins, but what can I do when burglars take such pleasure in honoring Gies & Go. with their presence? This incident is much more complicated than the last one, in July 1943.
Last night at seven-thirty Mr. van Daan was heading, as usual, for Mr. Kugler’s office when he saw that both the glass door and the office door were open. He was surprised, but he went on through and was even more astonished to see that the alcove doors were open as well and that there was a terrible mess in the front office.
“There’s been a burglary” flashed through his mind. But just to make sure, he went downstairs to the front door, checked the lock and found everything closed. “Bep and Peter must just have been very careless this evening,” Mr. van. D. concluded. He remained for a while in Mr. Kugler’s office, switched off the lamp and went upstairs without worrying much about the open doors or the messy office.
Early this morning Peter knocked at our door to tell us that the front door was wide open and that the projector and Mr. Kugler’s new briefcase had disappeared from the closet. Peter was instructed to lock the door. Mr. van Daan told us his discoveries of the night before, and we were extremely worried.
The only explanation is that the burglar must have had a duplicate key, since there were no signs of a forced entry. He must have sneaked in early in the evening, shut the door behind him, hidden himself when he heard Mr. van Daan, fled with the loot after Mr. van Daan went upstairs and, in his hurry, not bothered to shut the door.
Who could have our key? Why didn’t the burglar go to the warehouse? Was it one of our own warehouse employees, and will he turn us in, now that he’s heard Mr. van Daan and maybe even seen him?
It’s really scary, since we don’t know whether the burglar will take it into his head to try and get in again. Or was he so startled when he heard someone else in the building that he’ll stay away?
Yours, Anne
P.S. We’d be delighted if you could hunt up a good detective for us. Obviously, there’s one condition; he must be relied upon not to inform on people in hiding.
THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Margot and I were in the attic together today. I can’t enjoy being there with her the way I imagine it’d be with Peter (or someone else). I know she feels the same about most things as I do!
While doing the dishes, Bep began talking to Mother and Mrs. van Daan about how discouraged she gets. What help did those two offer her? Our tactless mother, especially, only made things go from bad to worse. Do you know what her advice was? That she should think about all the other people in the world who are suffering! How can thinking about the misery of others help if you’re miserable yourself? I said as much. Their response, of course, was that I should stay out of conversations of this sort.
The grown-ups are such idiots! As if Peter, Margot, Bep and I didn’t all have the same feelings. The only thing that helps is a mother’s love, or that of a very, very close friend. But these two mothers don’t understand the first thing about us! Perhaps Mrs. van Daan does, a bit more than Mother. Oh, I wish I could have said something to poor Bep, something that I know from my own experience would have helped. But Father came between us, pushing me roughly aside. They’re all so stupid!
I also talked to Margot about Father and Mother, about how nice it could be here if they weren’t so aggravating. We’d be able to organize evenings in which everyone could take turns discussing a given subject. But we’ve already been through all that. It’s impossible for me to talk here! Mr. van Daan goes on the offensive, Mother gets sarcastic and can’t say anythina in a normal voice, Father doesn’t feel like taking part, nor does Mr. Dussel, and Mrs. van D. is attacked so often that she just sits there with a red face, hardly able to put up a fight anymore. And what about us? We aren’t allowed to have an opinion! My, my, aren’t they progressive! Not have an opinion! People can tell you to shut up, but they can’t keep you from having an opinion. You can’t forbid someone to have an opinion, no matter how young they are! The only thing that would help Bep, Margot, Peter and me would be great love and devotion, which we don’t get here. And no one, especially not the idiotic sages around here, is capable of understanding us, since we’re more sensitive and much more advanced in our thinking than any of them ever suspect!
Love, what is love? I don’t think you can really put it into words. Love is understanding someone, caring for him, sharing his joys and sorrows. This eventually includes physical love. You’ve shared something, given something away and received something in return, whether or not you’re married, whether or not you have a baby. Losing your virtue doesn’t matter, as long as you know that for as long as you live you’ll have someone at your side who understands you, and who doesn’t have to be shared with anyone else!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
At the moment, Mother’s grouching at me again; she’s clearly jealous because I talk to Mrs. van Daan more than to her. What do I care!
I managed to get hold of Peter this afternoon, and we talked for at least forty-five minutes. He wanted to tell me something about himself, but didn’t find it easy. He finally got it out, though it took a long time. I honestly didn’t know whether it was better for me to stay or to go. But I wanted so much to help him! I told him about Bep and how tactless our mothers are. He told me that his parents fight constantly, about politics and cigarettes and all kinds of things. As I’ve told you before, Peter’s very shy, but not too shy to admit that he’d be perfectly happy not to see his parents for a year or two. “My father isn’t as nice as he looks,” he said, “But in the matter of the cigarettes, Mother’s absolutely right.”
I also told him about my mother. But he came to Father’s defense. He thought he was a “terrific guy”.
Tonight when I was hanging up my apron after doing the dishes, he called me over and asked me not to say anything downstairs about his parents’ having had another argument and not being on speaking terms. I promised, though I’d already told Margot. But I’m sure Margot won’t pass it on.
“Oh no, Peter,” I said, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve learnt not to blab everything I hear. I never repeat what you tell me.”
He was glad to hear that. I also told him what terrible gossips we are, and said, “Margot’s quite right, of course, when she says I’m not being honest, because as much as I want to stop gossiping, there’s nothing I like better than discussing Mr. Dussel.”
“It’s good that you admit it,” he said. He blushed, and his sincere compliment almost embarrassed me too.
Then we talked about “upstairs” and “downstairs” some more. Peter was really rather surprised to hear that don’t like his parents. “Peter,” I said, “you know I’m always honest, so why shouldn’t I tell you this as well? We can see their faults too.”
I added, “Peter, I’d really like to help you. Will you let me? You’re caught in an awkward position, and I know, even though you don’t say anything, that it upsets you.”
“Oh, your help is always welcome!”
“Maybe it’d be better for you to talk to Father. You can tell him anything, he won’t pass it on.”
“I know; he’s a real pal.”
“You like him a lot, don’t you?”
Peter nodded, and I continued, “Well, he likes you too; you know!”
He looked up quickly and blushed. It was really touching to see how happy these few words made him.
“You think so?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You can tell from the little things he lets slip now and then.”
Then Mr. van Daan came in to do some dictating.
Peter’s a “terrific guy,” just like Father!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SATURDAY, APRIL 1, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
And yet everything is still so difficult. You do know what I mean, don’t you? I long so much for him to kiss me, but that kiss is taking its own sweet time. Does he still think of me as a friend? Don’t I mean anything more?
Both you and I know that I’m strong, that I can carry most burdens alone. I’ve never been used to sharing my worries with anyone, and I’ve never clung to a mother, but I’d love to lay my head on his shoulder and just sit there quietly.
I can’t; I simply can’t forget that dream of Peter’s cheek, when everything was so good! Does he have the same longing? Is he just too shy to say he loves me? Why does he want me near him so much? Oh, why doesn’t he say something?
I’ve got to stop, I’ve got to be calm. I’ll try to be strong again, and if I’m patient, the rest will follow. But —and this is the worst part —I seem to be chasing him. I’m always the one who has to go upstairs; he never comes to me. But that’s because of the rooms, and he understands why I object. Oh, I’m sure he understands more than I think.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, APRIL 3, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
Contrary to my usual practice, I’m going to write you a detailed description of the food situation, since it’s become a matter of some difficulty and importance, not only here in the Annex, but in all of Holland, all of Europe and even beyond.
In the twenty-one months we’ve lived here, we’ve been through a good many “food cycles” —you’ll understand what that means in a moment. A “food cycle” is a period in which we have only one particular dish or type of vegetable to eat. For a long time we ate nothing but endive. Endive with sand, endive without sand, endive with mashed potatoes, endive-and-mashed potato casserole. Then it was spinach, followed by kohlrabi, salsify, cucumbers, tomatoes, sauerkraut, etc.
It’s not much fun when you have to eat, say, sauer-kraut every day for lunch and dinner, but when you’re hungry enough, you do a lot of things. Now, however, we’re going through the most delightful period so far, because there are no vegetables at all.
Our weekly lunch menu consists of brown beans, split-pea soup, potatoes with dumplings, potato kugel and, by the grace of God, turnip greens or rotten carrots, and then it’s back to brown beans. Because of the bread shortage, we eat potatoes at every meal, starting with breakfast, but then we fry them a little. To make soup we use brown beans, navy beans, potatoes, packages of vege- table soup, packages of chicken soup and packages of bean soup. There are brown beans in everything, including the bread. For dinner we always have potatoes with imitation gravy and —thank goodness we’ve still got it —beet salad. I must tell you about the dumplings. We make them with government-issue flour, water and yeast. They’re so gluey and tough that it feels as if you had rocks in your stomach, but oh well!
The high point is our weekly slice of liverwurst, and the jam on our unbuttered bread. But we’re still alive, and much of the time it still tastes good too!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 5, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
For a long time now I didn’t know why I was bothering to do any schoolwork. The end of the war still seemed so far away, so unreal, like a fairy tale. If the war isn’t over by September, I won’t go back to school, since I don’t want to be two years behind.
Peter filled my days, nothing but Peter, dreams and thoughts until Saturday night, when I felt so utterly miserable; oh, it was awful. I held back my tears when I was with Peter, laughed uproariously with the van Daans as we drank lemon punch and was cheerful and excited, but the minute I was alone I knew I was going to cry my eyes out. I slid to the floor in my nightgown and began by saying my prayers, very fervently. Then I drew my knees to my chest, lay my head on my arms and cried, all huddled up on the bare floor. A loud sob brought me back down to earth, and I choked back my tears, since I didn’t want anyone next door to hear me. Then I tried to pull myself together, saying over and over, “I must, I must, I must. . . ” Stiff from sitting in such an unusual position, I fell back against the side of the bed and kept up my struggle until just before ten-thirty, when I climbed back into bed. It was over!
And now it’s really over. I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that’s what I want! I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but
. . . it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.
“Eva’s Dream” is my best fairy tale, and the odd thing is that I don’t have the faintest idea where it came from. Parts of “Cady’s Life” are also good, but as a whole it’s nothing special. I’m my best and harshest critic. I know what’s good and what isn’t. Unless you write yourself, you can’t know how wonderful it is; I always used to bemoan the fact that I couldn’t draw, but now I’m overjoyed that at least I can write. And if I don’t have the talent to write books or newspaper articles, I can always write for myself. But I want to achieve more than that. I can’t imagine having to live like Mother, Mrs. van Daan and all the women who go about their work and are then forgotten. I need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to! I don’t want to have lived in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death! And that’s why I’m so grateful to God for having given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all that’s inside me!
When I write, I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?
I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies.
I haven’t worked on “Cady’s Life” for ages. In my mind I’ve worked out exactly what happens next, but the story doesn’t seem to be coming along very well. I might never finish it, and it’ll wind up in the wastepaper basket or the stove. That’s a horrible thought, but then I say to myself, “At the age of fourteen and with so little experience, you can’t write about philosophy.”
So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It’ll all work out, because I’m determined to write!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
THURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
You asked me what my hobbies and interests are and I’d like to answer, but I’d better warn you, I have lots of them, so don’t be surprised.
First of all: writing, but I don’t really think of that as a hobby.
Number two: genealogical charts. I’m looking in every newspaper, book and document I can find for the family trees of the French, German, Spanish, English, Austrian, Russian, Norwegian and Dutch royal familier. I’ve made great progress with many of them, because for a long time I’ve been taking notes while reading biographies or history books. I even copy out many of the passages on history.
So my third hobby is history, and Father’s already bought me numerous books. I can hardly wait for the day when I’ll be able to go to the public library and ferret out Iii the information I need.
Number four is Greek and Roman mythology. I have various books on this subject too. I can name the nine Muses and the seven loves of Zeus. I have the wives of Hercules, etc., down pat.
My other hobbies are movie stars and family photographs. I’m crazy about reading and books. I adore the history of the arts, especially when it concerns writers, poets and painters; musicians may come later. I loathe algebra, geometry and arithmetic. I enjoy all my other school subjects, but history’s my favourite!
Yours, Anne M. Frank
TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
My head’s in a whirl, I really don’t know where to begin. Thursday (the last time I wrote you) everything was as usual. Friday afternoon (Good Friday) we played Monopoly; Saturday afternoon too. The days passed very quickly. Around two o’clock on Saturday, heavy firing ii began-machine guns, according to the men. For the rest, everything was quiet.
Sunday afternoon Peter came to see me at four-thirty, at my invitation. At five- fifteen we went to the Ii front attic, where we stayed until six. There was a beautil ful Mozart concert on the radio from six to seven-fifteen; I especially enjoyed the Kleine Nachtmusik. I can hardly bear to listen in the kitchen, since beautiful music stirs me to the very depths of my soul. Sunday evening Peter couldn’t take his balli, because the washtub was down in the office kitchen, filled with laundry. The two of us went to the front attic together, and in order to be able to sit comfortably, I took along the only cushion I could find in my room. We seated ourselves on a packing crate. Since both the crate and the cushion were very narrow, we were sitting quite close, leaning against two other crates; Mouschi kept us company, so we weren’t without a chaperon. Suddenly, at a quarter to nine, Mr. van Daan whistled and asked if we had Mr. Dussel’s cushion. We jumped up and went downstairs willi the cushion, the cat and Mr. van Daan. This cushion was the source of much misery. Dussel was angry because I’d taken the one he uses as a pillow, and he was afraid it might be covered with fleas; he had the entire house in an uproar because of this one cushion. In revenge, Peter and I stuck two hard brushes in his bed, but had to take them out again when Dussel unexpectedly decided to go sit in his room. We had a really good laugh at this little intermezzo.
But our fun was short-lived. At nine-thirty Peter knocked gently on the door and asked Father to come upstairs and help him with a difficult English sentence.
“That sounds fishy,” I said to Margot. “It’s obviously a pretext. You can tell by the way the men are talking that there’s been a break-in!” I was right. The warehouse was being broken into at that very moment. Father, Mr. van Daan and Peter were downstairs in a flash. Margot, Mother, Mrs. van D. and I waited. Four frightened women need to talk, so that’s what we did until we heard a bang downstairs. After that all was quiet. The clock struck a quarter to ten. The colour had drained from our faces, but we remained calm, even though we were afraid. Where were the men? What was that bang? Were they fighting with the burglars? We were too scared to think; all we could do was wait.
Ten o’clock, footsteps on the stairs. Father, pale and nervous, came inside, followed by Mr. van Daan. “Lights out, tiptoe upstairs, we’re expecting the police!” There wasn’t time to be scared. The lights were switched off, I grabbed a jacket, and we sat down upstairs.
“What happened? Tell us quickly!”
There was no one to tell us; the men had gone back downstairs. The four of them didn’t come back up until ten past ten. Two of them kept watch at Peter’s open window. The door to the landing was locked, the book- case shut. We draped a sweater over our night-light, and then they told us what had happened:
Peter was on the landing when he heard two loud bangs. He went downstairs and saw that a large panel was missing from the left half of the warehouse door. He dashed upstairs, alerted the “Home Guard,” and the four of them went downstairs. When they entered the warehouse, the burglars were going about their business. Without thinking, Mr. van Daan yelled “Police!” Hurried footsteps outside; the burglars had fled. The board was put back in the door, so the police wouldn’t notice the gap, but then a swift kick from outside sent it flying to the floor. The men were amazed at the burglars’ audacity. Both Peter and Mr. van Daan felt a murderous rage come over them. Mr. van Daan slammed an ax against the floor, and all was quiet again. Once more the panel was re- placed, and once more the attempt was foiled. Outside, a man and a woman shone a glaring flashlight through the opening, lighting up the entire warehouse. “What the . . .” mumbled one of the men, but now their roles had been reversed. Instead of policemen, they were now burglars. All four of them raced upstairs. Dussel and Mr. van Daan snatched up Dussel’s books, Peter opened the doors and windows in the kitchen and private office, hurled the phone to the ground, and the four of them finally ended up behind the bookcase.
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1944
Dear Kitty,
Everyone here is still very tense. Pim has nearly reached the boiling point; Mrs. van D. is lying in bed with a cold, grumbling; Mr. van D. is growing pale without his cigarettes; Dussel, who’s having to give up many of his comforts, is carping at everyone, etc. We seem to have run out of luck lately. The toilet’s leaking, and the faucet’s stuck. Thanks to our many connections, we’ll soon be able to get these repaired.
I’m occasionally sentimental, as you know, but from time to time I have reason to be: when Peter and I are sitting close together on a hard wooden crate among the junk and dust, our arms around each other’s shoulders, Peter toying with a lock of my hair; when the birds outside are trilling their songs, when the trees are in bud, when the sun beckons and the sky is so blue–oh, that’s when I wish for so much!
All I see around me are dissatisfied and grumpy faces, all I hear are sighs and stifled complaints. You’d think our lives had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Honestly, things are only as bad as you make them. Here in the Annex no one even bothers to set a good example. We each have to figure out how to get the better of our own moods!
I really believe, Kit, that I’m a little nutty today, and I don’t know why. My writing’s all mixed up, I’m jump- ing from one thing to another, and sometimes I seriously doubt whether anyone will ever be interested in this drivel. They’ll probably call it “The Musings of an Ugly Duckling”. My diaries certainly won’t be of much use to Mr. Bolkestein or Mr. Gerbrandy. Gerrit Bolkestein was the Minister of Education and Pieter Gerbrandy was the Prime Minister of the Dutch government in exile in London.
Yours, Anne M. Frank