MARCH, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Mrs. van D. has a new nickname -- weve started calling her Mrs. Beaverbrook. Of course, that doesnt 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, weve decided to call her Mrs. Beaverbrook from now on.
Were getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent to Germany. Thats bad for him but good for us because the new one wont be famthar with the building. Were 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 were 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 wont go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and shes going to get sick.
I dont think Father has a very nice business. Noth ing but pectin and pepper. As long as youre 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 "Annes 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 havent gotten over my fear of planes and shooting, and I crawl into
Fathers 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 cant hear your own voice. Mrs. Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid little voice, "Oh, its so awful. Oh, the guns are so loud!" -- which is another way of saying "Im so scared.”
It didnt 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 thats ten times worse than antiaircraft guns.
Mother jumped out of bed and, to Pims 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 dont 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 wifes 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 Peters still safe and sound in his bed?”
"Im sure they havent 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, hed 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 isnt 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 childrens advocate! Extra butter for the youngsters, the problems facing todays 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 havent met Boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we went into hiding. Shes 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.
VVeve eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I cant stand to look at them. Just thinking about them makes me sick.
Our evening serving of bread has been canceled.
Daddy just said that hes not in a very cheerful mood. His eyes look so sad again, the poor man!
I cant 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 arent very good. To be honest, these subjects dont 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 cant 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.
Its time to cut Fathers hair. Pim swears that I do such a good job hell never go to another barber after the war. If only I didnt nick his ear so often!
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943
My dearest Kitty,
Turkeys 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 hasnt 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 Englands side!" and the papers were being snatched out of his hands. This was how wed heard the encouraging rumor.
Thousand-guilder notes are being declared invalid. Thatll 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 cant 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 dentists drill. That means Ill 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, hes also carrying on a chatty correspondence with various other people. Margot, the Annexs 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 wont 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 Dussels soap on the floor and step on it. Now theres a whole piece missing. Ive 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 Fathers 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 Id 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 shed 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 youre 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 everyones stomach was churning from all the tension, you can imagine the stench after wed 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 Id always found them so comforting. Number two: Mr. Voskuijlleft early last night, and we werent sure if hed given Bep the key and shed forgotten to lock the door.
But that was of little importance now. The night had just begun, and we still werent 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 hadnt 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, its 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 Im 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. Its much easier to laugh at these kinds of things after theyve 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,
Weve finished our shorthand course and are now working on improving our speed.
Arent 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 theyve never heard of a teenager with an appreciation of mythology. Well then, I guess Im the first!
Mr. van Daan has a cold. Or rather, he has a scratchy throat, but hes 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, hes 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 Ill 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 Clerks 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