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