MARCH, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My own affairs have been pushed to the background by . . . a break-in. Im 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. Kuglers 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.
"Theres 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. Kuglers 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. Kuglers 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 didnt the burglar go to the warehouse? Was it one of our own warehouse employees, and will he turn us in, now that hes heard Mr. van Daan and maybe even seen him?
Its really scary, since we dont 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 hell stay away?
Yours, Anne
P.S. Wed be delighted if you could hunt up a good detective for us. Obviously, theres one condotion: he must be relied upon not to mform on people in hiding.
THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Margot and I were in the attic together today. I cant enjoy being there with her the way I imagine itd 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 youre 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 didnt all have the same feelings. The only thing that helps is a mothers love, or that of a very, very close friend. But these two mothers dont 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. Theyre all so stupid!
I also talked to Margot about Father and Mother, about how nice it could be here if they werent so aggravating. Wed be able to organize evenings in which everyone could take turns discussing a given subject. But weve already been through all that.
Its impossible for me to talk here! Mr. van Daan goes on the offensive, Mother i gets sarcastic and cant say anythina in a normal voice, Father doesnt 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 arent allowed to have an opinion! My, my, arent they progressive! Not have an opinion!
People can tell you to shut up, but they cant keep you from having an opinion. You cant 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 dont get here. And no one, especially not the idiotic sages around here, is capable of understanding us, since were more sensitive and much more advanced in our thinking than any of them ever suspect!
Love, what is love? I dont 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. Youve shared something, given something away and received something in return, whether or not youre married, whether or not you have a baby.
Losing your virtue doesnt matter, as long as you know that for as long as you live youll have someone at your side who understands you, and who doesnt have to be shared with anyone else!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
At the moment, Mothers grouching at me again; shes 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 didnt find it easy. He finally got it out, though it took a long time. I honestly didnt 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 Ive told you before, Peters very shy, but not too shy to admit that hed be perfectly happy not to see his parents for a year or two. "My father isnt as nice as he looks," he said. "But in the matter of the cigarettes, Mothers absolutely right."
I also told him about my mother. But he came to Fathers 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 Id already told Margot.
But Im sure Margot wont pass it on.
"Oh no, Peter," I said, you dont have to worry about me. Ive learned not to blab everything I hear. I never repeat what you tell me.”
He was glad to hear that. I also told him what terrible gossips we are, and said, "Margots quite right, of course, when she says Im not being honest, because as much as I want to stop gossiping, theres nothing I like better than discussing Mr. Dussel.”
"Its 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 dont like his parents. "Peter," I said, "you know Im always honest, so why shouldnt I tell you this as well? We can see their faults too.”
I added, "Peter, Id really like to help you. Will you let me? Youre caught in an awkward position, and I know, even though you dont say anything, that it upsets you.”
"Oh, your help is always welcome!”
"Maybe itd be better for you to talk to Father. You can tell him anything, he wont pass it on.”
"I know, hes a real pal.”
"You like him a lot, dont 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.
Peters a "terrific guy," just like Father!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
FRIDAY, MARCH 3,1944
My dearest Kitty,
When I looked into the candle tonight, I felt calm and happy again. It seems Grandma is in that candle, and its Grandma who watches over and protects me and makes me feel happy again. But. . . theres someone else who governs all my moods and thats. .
. Peter. I went to get the potatoes today, and while I was standing on the stairway with my pan full, he asked, "What did you do during the lunch break?”
I sat down on the stairs, and we began to talk. The potatoes didnt make it to the kitchen until five-fifteen (an hour after Id gone to get them). Peter didnt say anything more about his parents; we just talked about books and about the past. Oh, he gazes at me with such warmth in his eyes; I dont think it will take much for me to fall in love with him.
He brought the subject up this evening. I went to his room after peeling potatoes and remarked on how hot it was. "You can tell the temperature by looking at Margot and me, because we turn white when its cold and red when its hot." I said.
"In love?" he asked.
"Why should I be in love?" It was a pretty silly answer (or, rather, question).
"Why not?" he said, and then it was time for dinner.
What did he mean? Today I finally managed to ask him whether my chatter bothered him. All he said was, "Oh, its fine with me!" I cant tell how much of his reply was due to shyness.
Kitty, I sound like someone whos in love and can talk about nothing but her dearest
darling. And Peter is a darling. Will I ever be able to tell him that? Only if he thinks the same of me, but Im the kind of person you have to treat with kid gloves, I know that all too well.
And he likes to be left alone, so I dont know how much he likes me. In any case, were getting to know each other a little better. I wish we dared to say more. But who knows, maybe that time will come sooner than I think!
Once or twice a day he gives me a knowing glance, I wink back, and were both happy. It seems crazy to talk about his being happy, and yet I have the overwhelming feeling he thinks the same way I do.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, MARCH 4, 1944
Dear Kitty,
This is the first Saturday in months that hasnt been tiresome, dreary and boring. The reason is Peter. This morning as I was on my way to the attic to hang up my apron, Father asked whether I wanted to stay and practice my French, and I said yes. We spoke French together for a while and I explained something to Peter, and then we worked on our English. Father read aloud from Dickens, and I was in seventh heaven, since I was sitting on Fathers chair, close to Peter.
I went downstairs at quarter to eleven. When I went back up at eleven-thirty, Peter was already waiting for me on the stairs. We talked until quarter to one. Whenever I leave the room, for example after a meal, and Peter has a chance and no one else can hear, he says, "Bye, Anne, see you later.”
Oh, Im so happy! I wonder if hes going to fall in love with me after all? In any case, hes a nice boy, and you have no idea how good it is to talk to him!
Mrs. van D. thinks its all right for me to talk to Peter, but today she asked me teasingly, "Can I trust you two up there?”
"Of course," I protested. "I take that as an insult!”
Morning, noon and night, I look forward to seeing Peter.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
PS. Before I forget, last night everything was blanketed in snow. Now its thawed and theres almost nothing left.
MONDAY, MARCH 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Ever since Peter told me about his parents, Ive felt a certain sense of responsibthty toward him-dont you think thats strange? Its as though their quarrels were just as much my business as his, and yet I dont dare bring it up anymore, because Im afraid it makes him uncomfortable. I wouldnt want to intrude, not for all the money in the world.
I can tell by Peters face that he ponders things just as deeply as I do. Last night I was annoyed when Mrs. van D. scoffed, "The thinker!" Peter flushed and looked embarrassed, and I nearly blew my top.
Why dont these people keep their mouths shut?
You cant imagine what its like to have to stand on the sidelines and see how lonely he is, without being able to do anything. I can imagine, as if I were in his place, how despondent he must sometimes feel at the quarrels. And about love. Poor Peter, he needs to be loved so much!
It sounded so cold when he said he didnt need any friends. Oh, hes so wrong! I dont think he means it. He clings to his masculinity, his solitude and his feigned indif- ference so he can maintain his role, so hell never, ever have to show his feelings.
Poor Peter, how long can he keep it up? Wont he explode from this superhuman effort?
Oh, Peter, if only I could help you, if only you would let me! Together we could banish our loneliness, yours and mine!
Ive been doing a great deal of thinking, but not saying much. Im happy when I see him, and happier still if the sun shines when were together. I washed my hair yesterday, and because I knew he was next door, I was very rambunctious. I couldnt help it; the more quiet and serious I am on the inside, the noisier I get on the outside!
Who will be the first to discover the chink in my armor?
Its just as well that the van Daans dont have a daughter. My conquest could never be so challenging, so beautiful and so nice with someone of the same sex!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
PS. You know Im always honest with you, so I think I should tell you that I live from one encounter to the next. I keep hoping to discover that hes dying to see me, and Im in raptures when I notice his bashful attempts. I think hed like to be able to express himself as easily as I do; little does he know its his awkwardness that I find so touching.
TUESDAY, MARCH 7,1944
Dearest Kitty,
When I think back to my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. The Anne Frank who enjoyed that heavenly existence was completely different from the one who has grown wise within these walls. Yes, it was heavenly. Five admirers on every street corner, twenty or so friends, the favorite of most of my teachers, spoiled rotten by Father and Mother, bags full of candy and a big allowance. What more could anyone ask for?
Youre probably wondering how I could have charmed all those people. Peter says It s ecause I m "attractive," but that isnt it entirely. The teachers were amused and entertained by my clever answers, my witty remarks, my smthng face and my critical mind. Thats all I was: a terrible flirt, coquettish and amusing. I had a few plus points, which kept me in everybodys good graces: I was hardworking, honest and generous. I would never have refused anyone who wanted to peek at my answers, I was magnanimous with my candy, and I wasnt stuck-up.
Would all that admiration eventually have made me overconfident? Its a good thing that, at the height of my glory, I was suddenly plunged into reality. It took me more than a year to get used to doing without admiration.
How did they see me at school? As the class comedian, the eternal ringleader, never in a bad mood, never a crybaby. Was it any wonder that everyone wanted to bicycle to school with me or do me little favors?
I look back at that Anne Frank as a pleasant, amusing, but superficial girl, who has nothing to do with me. What did Peter say about me? "Whenever I saw you, you were
surrounded by a flock of girls and at least two boys, you were always laughing, and you were always the center of attention!" He was right.
Whats remained of that Anne Frank? Oh, I havent forgotten how to laugh or toss off a remark, Im just as good, if not better, at raking people over the coals, and I can still flirt and be amusing, if I want to be . . .
But theres the catch. Id like to live that seemingly carefree and happy life for an evening, a few days, a week. At the end of that week Id be exhausted, and would be grateful to the first person to talk to me about something meaningful. I want friends, not admirers. Peo- ple who respect me for my character and my deeds, not my flattering smile. The circle around me would be much smaller, but what does that matter, as long as theyre sincere?
In spite of everything, I wasnt altogether happy in 1942; I often felt Id been deserted, but because I was on the go all day long, I didnt think about it. I enjoyed myself as much as I could, trying consciously or unconsciously to fill the void with jokes.
Looking back, I realize that this period of my life has irrevocably come to a close; my happy-go-lucky, carefree schooldays are gone forever. I dont even miss them. Ive outgrown them. I can no longer just kid around, since my serious side is always there.
I see my life up to New Years 1944 as if I were looking through a powerful magnifying glass. When I was at home, my life was filled with sunshine. Then, in the middle of 1942, everything changed overnight. The quarrels, the accusations -- I couldnt take it all in. I was caught off guard, and the only way I knew to keep my bearings was to talk back.
The first half of 1943 brought crying spells, loneliness and the gradual realization of my faults and short- comings, which were numerous and seemed even more so. I filled the day with chatter, tried to draw Pim closer to me and failed. This left me on my own to face the difficult task of improving myself so I wouldnt have to hear their reproaches, because they made me so despondent.
The second half of the year was slightly better. I became a teenager, and was treated more like a grown-up. I began to think about things and to write stories, finally coming to the conclusion that the others no longer had anything to do with me. They had no right to swing me back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. I wanted to change myself in my own way. I realized I could man- age without my mother, completely and totally, and that hurt. But what affected me even more was the
realization that I was never going to be able to confide in Father. I didnt trust anyone but myself.
After New Years the second big change occurred: my dream, through which I discovered my longing for . . . a boy; not for a girlfriend, but for a boyfriend. I also discovered an inner happiness underneath my superficial and cheerful exterior. From time to time I was quiet. Now I live only for Peter, since what happens to me in the future depends largely on him!
I lie in bed at night, after ending my prayers with the words "Ich Janke air fur all das Cute una Liebe una Schone,"* [* Thank you, God, for all that is good and dear and beautiful.] and Im filled with joy. I think of going into hiding, my health and my whole being as das Cute; Peters love (which is still so new and fragile and which neither of us dares to say aloud), the future, happiness and love as das Liebe; the world, nature and the tremendous beauty of everything, all that splendor, as das Schone.
At such moments I dont think about all the misery, but about the beauty that still remains. This is where Mother and I differ greatly. Her advice in the face of melancholy is: "Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful youre not part of it." My advice is: "Go outside, to the country, enjoy the sun and all nature has to offer. Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.”
I dont think Mothers advice can be right, because what are you supposed to do if you become part of the suffering? Youd be completely lost. On the contrary, beauty remains, even in misfortune. If you just look for it, you discover more and more happiness and regain your balance. A person whos happy will make others happy; a person who has courage and faith will never die in misery!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 1944
Margot and I have been writing each other notes, just for fun, of course.
Anne: Its strange, but I can only remember the day after what has happened the night before. For example, I suddenly remembered that Mr. Dussel was snoring loudly last night. (Its now quarter to three on Wednesday af- ternoon and Mr. Dussel is snoring again, which is why it flashed through my mind, of course.) When I had to use the potty, I deliberately made more noise to get the snoring to stop.
Margot: Which is better, the snoring or the gasping for air?
Anne: The snorings better, because it stops when I make noise, without waking the person in question.
What I didnt write to Margot, but what Ill confess to you, dear Kitty, is that Ive been dreaming of Peter a great deal. The night before last I dreamed I was skating right here in our living room with that little boy from the Apollo ice-skating rink; he was with his sister, the girl with the spindly legs who always wore the same blue dress. I introduced myself, overdoing it a bit, and asked him his name. It was Peter.
In my dream I wondered just how many Peters I actually knew!
Then I dreamed we were standing in Peters room, facing each other beside the stairs.
I said something to him; he gave me a kiss, but replied that he didnt love me all that much and that I shouldnt flirt. In a desperate and pleading voice I said, "Im not flirting, Peter!”
When I woke up, I was glad Peter hasnt said it after all.
Last night I dreamed we were kissing each other, but Peters cheeks were very disappointing: they werent as soft as they looked. They were more like Fathers cheeks -- the cheeks of a man who already shaves.
FRIDAY, MARCH 10, 1944
My dearest Kitty,
The proverb "Misfortunes never come singly" defi- nitely applies to today. Peter just got through saying it. Let me tell you all the awful things that have happened and that are still hanging over our heads.
First, Miep is sick, as a result of Henk and Aagjes wedding yesterday. She caught cold in the Westerkerk, where the service was held. Second, Mr. Kleiman hasnt returned to work since the last time his stomach started bleeding, so Beps been left to hold down the fort alone. Third, the police have arrested a man (whose name I wont put in writing). Its terrible not only for him, but for us as well, since hes been supplying us with potatoes, butter and jam. Mr. M., as Ill call him, has five children under the age of thirteen, and another on the way.
Last night we had another little scare: we were in the middle of dinner when suddenly someone knocked on the wall next door. For the rest of the evening we were nervous and gloomy.
Lately I havent been at all in the mood to write down whats been going on here. Ive been more wrapped up in myself. Dont get me wrong, Im terribly upset about whats happened to poor, good-hearted Mr. M., but theres not much room for him in my diary.
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I was in Peters room from four-thirty to five-fifteen. We worked on our French and chatted about one thing and another. I really look forward to that hour or so in the afternoon, but best of all is that I think Peters just as pleased to see me.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL 213 SATURDAY, MARCH 11, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I havent been able to sit still lately. I wander up- stairs and down and then back again. I like talking to Peter, but Im always afraid of being a nuisance. Hes told me a bit about the past, about his parents and about himself, but its not enough, and every five minutes I wonder why I find myself longing for more. He used to think I was a real pain in the neck, and the feeling was mutual. Ive changed my mind, but how do I know hes changed his? I think he has, but that doesnt necessarily mean we have to become the best of friends, although as far as Im concerned, it would make our time here more bearable. But I wont let this drive me crazy. I spend enough time thinking about him and dont have to get you all worked up as well, simply because Im so miserable!
SUNDAY, MARCH 12, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Things are getting crazier here as the days go by.
Peter hasnt looked at me since yesterday. Hes been acting as if hes mad at me. Im doing my best not to chase after him and to talk to him as little as possible, but its
not easy! Whats going on, what makes him keep me at arms length one minute and rush back to my side the next? Perhaps Im imagining that its worse than it really is.
Perhaps hes just moody like me, and tomorrow everything will be all right again!
I have the hardest time trying to maintain a normal facade when Im feeling so wretched and sad. I have to talk, help around the house, sit with the others and, above all, act cheerful! Most of all I miss the outdoors and having a place where I can be alone for as long as I want! I think Im getting everything all mixed up, Kitty, but then, Im in a state of utter confusion: on the one hand, Im half crazy with desire for him, can hardly be in the same room without looking at him; and on the other hand, I wonder why he should matter to me so much and why I cant be calm again!
Day and night, during every waking hour, I do nothing but ask myself, "Have you given him enough chance to be alone? Have you been spending too much time upstairs? Do you talk too much about serious subjects hes not yet ready to talk about? Maybe he doesnt even like you? Has it all been your imagination? But then why has he told you so much about himself? Is he sorry he did?" And a whole lot more.
Yesterday afternoon I was so worn out by the sad news from the outside that I lay down on my divan for a nap. All I wanted was to sleep and not have to think. I slept until four, but then I had to go next door. It wasnt easy, answering all Mothers questions and inventing an excuse to explain my nap to Father. I pleaded a headache, which wasnt a lie, since I did have one. . . on the inside!
Ordinary people, ordinary girls, teenagers like myself, would think Im a little nuts with all my self-pity. But thats just it. I pour my heart out to you, and the rest of the time Im as impudent, cheerful and self-confident as possible to avoid questions and keep from getting on my own nerves.
Margot is very kind and would like me to confide in her, but I cant tell her everything. She takes me too seriously, far too seriously, and spends a lot of time thinking about her loony sister, looking at me closely whenever I open my mouth and wondering, "Is she acting, or does she really mean it?”
Its because were always together. I dont want the person I confide in to be around me all the time. When will I untangle my jumbled thoughts? When will I find inner peace again?
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
It might be amusing for you (though not for me) to hear what were going to eat today. The cleaning lady is working downstairs, so at the moment Im seated at the van Daans oilcloth-covered table with a handkerchief sprinkled with fragrant prewar perfume pressed to my nose and mouth. You probably dont have the faintest idea what Im talking about, so let me "begin at the begin- ning." The people who supply us with food coupons have been arrested, so we have just our five black-market ra- -, tion books-no coupons, no fats and oils. Since Miep and Mr. Kleiman are sick again, Bep cant manage the shop- ping. The food is wretched, and so are we. As of tomor- row, we wont have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine. We cant eat fried potatoes for breakfast (which weve been doing to save on bread), so were having hot cereal instead, and because Mrs. van D. thinks were starving, we bought some half-and-half. Lunch today consists of mashed potatoes and pickled kale. This explains the precautionary measure with the handkerchief. You wouldnt believe how much kale can stink when its a few years old! The kitchen smells like a mixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggs and brine. Ugh, just the thought of having to eat that muck makes me want to throw up! Besides that, our potatoes have contracted such strange diseases that one out of every two buckets of pommes de terre winds up in the garbage. We entertain ourselves by trying to figure out which disease theyve got, and weve reached the conclusion that they suffer from cancer, smallpox and measles.
Honestly, being in hiding during the fourth year of the war is no picnic. If only the whole stinking mess were over!
To tell you the truth, the food wouldnt matter so much to me if life here were more pleasant in other ways. But thats just it: this tedious existence is starting to make us all disagreeable. Here are the opinions of the five grown-ups on the present situation (children arent allowed to have opinions, and for once Im sticking to the rules):
Mrs. van Daan: "Id stopped wanting to be queen of the kitchen long ago. But sitting around doing nothing was boring, so I went back to cooking. Still, I cant help complaining: its impossible to cook without oil, and all those disgusting smells make me sick to my stomach. Besides, what do I get in return for my efforts? Ingratitude and rude remarks. Im always the black sheep; I get blamed for everything. Whats more, its my opinion that the war is making very little progress. The Germans will win in the end. Im terrified that were going to starve, and when Im in a bad mood, I snap at everyone who comes near.”
Mr. van Daan: "I just smoke and smoke and smoke. Then the food, the political
situation and Kerlis moods dont seem so bad. Kerlis a sweetheart. If I dont have anything to smoke, I get sick, then I need to eat meat, life becomes unbearable, nothings good enough, and theres bound to be a flaming row. My Kerlis an idiot.”
Mrs. Frank: "Foods not very important, but Id love a slice of rye bread right now, because Im so hungry. If I were Mrs. van Daan, Id have put a stop to Mr. van Daans smoking long ago. But I desperately need a cigarette now, because my heads in such a whirl. The van Daans are horrible people; the English may make a lot of mistakes, but the war is progressing. I should keep my mouth shut and be grateful Im not in Poland.”
Mr. Frank: "Everythings fine, I dont need a thing. Stay calm, weve got plenty of time. Just give me my potatoes, and Ill be quiet. Better set aside some of my rations for Bep. The political situation is improving, Im extremely optimistic.”
Mr. Dussel: "I must complete the task Ive set for myself, everything must be finished on time. The political situation is looking gut, its eempossible for us to get caught.
Me, me, me . . . .”
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Whew! Released from the gloom and doom for a few moments! All Ive been hearing today is: "If this and that happens, were in trouble, and if so-and-so gets sick, well be left to fend for ourselves, and if . . .”
Well, you know the rest, or at any rate I assume youre famthar enough with the residents of the Annex to guess what theyd be talking about.
The reason for all the "ifs" is that Mr. Kugler has been called up for a six-day work detail, Bep is down with a bad cold and will probably have to stay home tomorrow, Miep hasnt gotten over her flu, and Mr. Kleimans stom- ach bled so much he lost consciousness. What a tale of woe!
We think Mr. Kugler should go directly to a reliable doctor for a medical certificate of ill health, which he can present to the City Hall in Hilversum. The warehouse -- employees have been given a day off tomorrow, so Bep will be alone in the office. If (theres another "if) Bep has to stay home, the door will remain locked and well have
to be as quiet as mice so the Keg Company wont hear us. At one oclock Jan will come for half an hour to check on us poor forsaken souls, like a zookeeper.
This afternoon, for the first time in ages, Jan gave us some news of the outside world. You should have seen us gathered around him; it looked exactly like a print:
"At Grandmothers Knee.”
He regaled his grateful audience with talk of-what else?-food. Mrs. P., a friend of Mieps, has been cooking his meals. The day before yesterday Jan ate carrots with green peas, yesterday he had the leftovers, today shes cooking marrowfat peas, and tomorrow shes plan- ning to mash the remaining carrots with potatoes.
We asked about Mieps doctor.
"Doctor?" said Jan. "What doctor? I called him this morning and got his secretary on the line. I asked for a flu prescription and was told I could come pick it up tomor- row morning between eight and nine. If youve got a particularly bad case of flu, the doctor himself comes to the phone and says, Stick out your tongue and say "Aah.”
Oh, I can hear it, your throats infected. Ill write out a prescription and you can bring it to the phar- macy. Good day. And thats that. Easy job hes got, diagnosis by phone. But I shouldnt blame the doctors." After all, a person has only two hands, and these days therere too many patients and too few doctors.”
Still, we all had a good laugh at Jans phone call. I can just imagine what a doctors waiting room looks like these days. Doctors no longer turn up their noses at the poorer patients, but at those with minor illnesses. "Hey, what are you doing here?”
they think. "Go to the end of the line; real patients have priority!”
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
The weather is gorgeous, indescribably beautiful; Ill be going up to the attic in a moment.
I now know why Im so much more restless than Peter. He has his own room, where he can work, dream, think and sleep. Im constantly being chased from one corner to another. Im never alone in the room I share with Dussel, though I long to be so much. Thats another reason I take refuge in the attic. When Im there, or with you, I
can be myself, at least for a little while. Still, I dont want to moan and groan. On the contrary, I want to be brave!
Thank goodness the others notice nothing of my innermost feelings, except that every day Im growing cooler and more contemptuous of Mother, less affection- ate to Father and less willing to share a single thought with Margot; Im closed up tighter than a drum. Above all, I have to maintain my air of confidence. No one must know that my heart and mind are constantly at war with each other. Up to now reason has always won the battle, but will my emotions get the upper hand? Sometimes I fear they will, but more often I actually hope they do!
Oh, its so terribly hard not to talk to Peter about these things, but I know I have to let him begin; its so hard to act during the daytime as if everything Ive said and done in my dreams had never taken place! Kitty, Anne is crazy, but then these are crazy times and even crazier circumstances.
The nicest part is being able to write down all my thoughts and feelings; otherwise, Id absolutely suffocate. I wonder what Peter thinks about all these things? I keep thinking Ill be able to talk to him about them one day. He must have guessed something about the inner me, since he couldnt possibly love the outer Anne hes known so far! How could someone like Peter, who loves peace and quiet, possibly stand my bustle and noise? Will he be the first and only person to see whats beneath my granite mask? Will it take him long? Isnt there some old saying about love being akin to pity? Isnt that whats happening here as well? Because I often pity him as much as I do myself!
I honestly dont know how to begin, I really dont, so how can I expect Peter to when talking is so much harder for him? If only I could write to him, then at least hed know what I was trying to say, since its so hard to say it out loud!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
FRIDAY, MARCH 17, 1944
My dearest darling, Everything turned out all right after all; Bep just had a sore throat, not the flu, and Mr. Kugler got a medical certificate to excuse him from the work detail. The entire Annex breathed a huge sigh of relief. Everythings fine here! Except that Margot and I are rather tired of our parents.
Dont get me wrong. I still love Father as much as ever and Margot loves both Father and Mother, but when youre as old as we are, you want to make a few decisions for yourself, get out from under their thumb. Whenever I go upstairs, they ask what Im going to do, they wont let me salt my food, Mother asks me every evening at eight-fifteen if it isnt time for me to change into my nighty, I and they have to approve every book I read. I must admit, theyre not at all strict about that and let me read nearly everything, but Margot and I are sick and tired of having to listen to their comments and questions all day long.
Theres something else that displeases them: I no longer feel like giving them little kisses morning, noon and night. All those cute nicknames seem so affected, and Fathers fondness for talking about farting and going to the bathroom is disgusting. In short, Id like nothing better than to do without their company for a while, and they dont understand that. Not that Margot and I have ever said any of this to them. What would be the point? They wouldnt understand anyway.
Margot said last night, "What really bothers me is that if you happen to put your head in your hands and sigh once or twice, they immediately ask whether you have a headache or dont feel well.”
For both of us, its been quite a blow to suddenly realize that very little remains of the close and harmoni- ous family we used to have at home! This is mostly because everythings out of kilter here. By that I mean that were treated like children when it comes to external matters, while, inwardly, were much older than other girls our age.
Even though Im only fourteen, I know what I want, I know whos right and whos wrong, I have my own opinions, ideas and principles, and though it may sound odd coming from a teenager, I feel Im more of a person than a child -- I feel Im completely independent of others. I know Im better at debating or carrying on a discussion than Mother, I know Im more objective, I dont exaggerate as much, Im much tidier and better with my hands, and because of that I feel (this may make you laugh) that Im superior to her in many ways. To love someone, I have to admire and respect the person, but I feel neither respect nor admiration for Mother!
Everything would be all right if only I had Peter, since I admire him in many ways.
Hes so decent and clever!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Ive told you more about myself and my feelings than Ive ever told a living soul, so why shouldnt that include sex?
Parents, and people in general, are very peculiar when it comes to sex. Instead of telling their sons and daughters everything at the age of twelve, they send the children out of the room the moment the subject arises and leave them to find out everything on their own. Later on, when parents notice that their children have, somehow, come by their information, they assume they know more (or less) than they actually do. So why dont they try to make amends by asking them whats what?
A major stumbling block for the adults -- though in my opinion its no more than a pebble -- is that theyre afraid their children will no longer look upon marriage as sacred and pure once they realize that, in most cases, this purity is a lot of nonsense.
As far as Im concerned, its not wrong for a man to bring a little experience to a marriage. After all, it has nothing to do with the marriage itself, does it?
Soon after I turned eleven, they told me about menstruation. But even then, I had no idea where the blood came from or what it was for. When I was twelve and a half, I learned some more from Jacque, who wasnt as ignorant as I was. My own intuition told me what a man and a woman do when theyre together; it seemed like a crazy idea at first, but when Jacque confirmed it, I was proud of myself for having figured it out!
It was also Jacque who told me that children didnt come out of their mothers tummies. As she put it, "Where the ingredients go in is where the finished product comes out!" Jacque and I found out about the hymen, and quite a few other details, from a book on sex education. I also knew that you could keep from having children, but how that worked inside your body remained a mystery. When I came here, Father told me about prostitutes, etc., but all in all there are still unanswered questions.
If mothers dont tell their children everything, they hear it in bits and pieces, and that cant be right.
Even though its Saturday, Im not bored! Thats because Ive been up in the attic with Peter. I sat there dreaming with my eyes closed, and it was wonderful.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SUNDAY, MARCH 19, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Yesterday was a very important day for me. After lunch everything was as usual. At five I put on the potatoes, and Mother gave me some blood sausage to take to Peter.
I didnt want to at first, but I finally went. He wouldnt accept the sausage, and I had the dreadful feel- ing it was still because of that argument wed had about distrust.
Suddenly I couldnt bear it a moment longer and my eyes filled with tears. Without another word, I re- turned the platter to Mother and went to the bathroom to have a good cry. Afterward I decided to talk things out with Peter. Before dinner the four of us were helping him with a crossword puzzle, so I couldnt say anything. But as we were sitting down to eat, I whispered to him, "Are you going to practice your shorthand tonight, Peter?”
"No," was his reply.
"Id like to talk to you later on.”
He agreed.
After the dishes were done, I went to his room and asked if hed refused the sausage because of our last quar- rel. Luckily, that wasnt the reason; he just thought it was bad manners to seem so eager. It had been very hot downstairs and my face was as red as a lobster. So after taking down some water for Margot, I went back up to get a little fresh air. For the sake of appearances, I first went and stood beside the van Daans window before going to Peters room. He was standing on the left side of the open window, so I went over to the right side. Its much easier to talk next to an open window in semidarkness than in broad daylight, and I think Peter felt the same way. We told each other so much, so very much, that I cant repeat it all. But it felt good; it was the most won- derful evening Ive ever had in the Annex. Ill give you a brief description of the various subjects we touched on.
First we talked about the quarrels and how I see them in a very different light these days, and then about how weve become alienated from our parents. I told Peter about Mother and Father and Margot and myself. At one point he asked, "You always give each other a good-night kiss, dont you?”
"One? Dozens of them. You dont, do you?”
"No, Ive never really kissed anyone.”
"Not even on your birthday?"
"Yeah, on my birthday I have.”
We talked about how neither of us really trusts our parents, and how his parents love each other a great deal and wish hed confide in them, but that he doesnt want to.
How I cry my heart out in bed and he goes up to the loft and swears. How Margot and I have only recently gotten to know each other and yet still tell each other very little, since were always together. We talked about every imaginable thing, about trust, feelings and ourselves. Oh, Kitty, he was just as I thought he would be.
Then we talked about the year 1942, and how different we were back then; we dont even recognize ourselves from that period. How we couldnt stand each other at first.
Hed thought I was a noisy pest, and Id quickly concluded that he was nothing special.
I didnt understand why he didnt flirt with me, but now Im glad. He also mentioned how he often used to retreat to his room. I said that my noise and exuberance and his silence were two sides of the same coin, and that I also liked peace and quiet but dont have anything for myself alone, except my diary, and that everyone would rather see the back of me, starting with Mr. Dussel, and that I dont always want to sit with my parents. We discussed how glad he is that my parents have children and how glad I am that hes here.
How I now understand his need to withdraw and his relationship to his parents, and how much Id like to help him when they argue.
"But youre always a help to me!" he said.
"How?" I asked, greatly surprised.
"By being cheerful.”
That was the nicest thing he said all evening. He also told me that he didnt mind my coming to his room the way he used to; in fact, he liked it. I also told him that all of Fathers and Mothers pet names were meaningless, that a kiss here and there didnt automatically lead to trust. We also talked about doing things your own way, the diary, loneliness, the difference between everyones inner and outer selves, my mask, etc.
It was wonderful. He must have come to love me as a friend, and, for the time being, thats enough. Im so grateful and happy, I cant find the words. I must apolo- gize, Kitty, since my style is not up to my usual standard today. Ive just written whatever came into my head!
I have the feeling that Peter and I share a secret. Whenever he looks at me with those eyes, with that smile and that wink, its as if a light goes on inside me. I hope things will stay like this and that well have many, many more happy hours together.
Your grateful and happy Anne MONDAY, MARCH 20, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
This morning Peter asked me if Id come again one evening. He swore I wouldnt be disturbing him, and said that where there was room for one, there was room for two.
I said I couldnt see him every evening, since my parents didnt think it was a good idea, but he thought I shouldnt let that bother me. So I told him Id like to come some Saturday evening and also asked him if hed let me know when you could see the moon.
"Sure," he said, "maybe we can go downstairs and look at the moon from there." I agreed; Im not really so scared of burglars.
In the meantime, a shadow has fallen on my happiness. For a long time Ive had the feeling that Margot likes Peter. Just how much I dont know, but the whole situation is very unpleasant. Now every time I go see Peter Im hurting her, without meaning to.
The funny thing is that she hardly lets it show. I know Id be insanely jealous, but Margot just says I shouldnt feel sorry for her.
"I think its so awful that youve become the odd one out," I added.
"Im used to that," she replied, somewhat bitterly.
I dont dare tell Peter. Maybe later on, but he and I need to discuss so many other things first.
Mother slapped me last night, which I deserved. I mustnt carry my indifference and contempt for her too far. In spite of everything, I should try once again to be friendly and keep my remarks to myself!
Even Pim isnt as nice as he used to be. Hes been trying not to treat me like a child, but now hes much too cold. Well just have to see what comes of it! Hes warned me that if I dont do my algebra, I wont get any tutoring after the war. I could simply wait and see what happens, but Id like to start again, provided I get a new book.
Thats enough for now. I do nothing but gaze at Peter, and Im filled to overflowing!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
Evidence of Margots goodness. I received this today, March 20, 1944:
Anne, yesterday when I said I wasnt jeal- ous of you, I wasnt being entirely honest.
The situation is this: Im not jealous of either you or Peter. Im just sorry I havent found anyone willi whom to share my thoughts and feelings, and Im not likely to in the near future. But thats why I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that you will both be able to place your trust in each other. Youre already missing out on so much here, things other people take for granted.
On the other hand, Im certain Id never have gotten as far with Peter, because I think Id need to feel very close to a person before I could share my thoughts. Id want to have the feeling that he understood me through and through, even if I didnt say much.
For this reason it would have to be someone I felt was intellectually superior to me, and that isnt the case with Peter. But I can imagine your feeling close to him.
So theres no need for you to reproach yourself because you think you te taking something I was entitled to; nothing could be further from the truth. You and Peter have everything to gain by your friendship.
My answer:
Dearest Margot, Your letter was extremely kind, but I still dont feel completely happy about the situation, and I dont think I ever will.
At the moment, Peter and I dont trust each other as much as you seem to think. Its just that when youre standing beside an open window at twthght, you can say more to each other than in bright sunshine. Its also easier to whisper your feelings than to shout them from the rooftops. I think youve begun to feel a kind of sisterly affection for Peter and would like to help him, just as much as I would. Perhaps youll be able to do that someday, though thats not the kind of trust we have in mind. I believe that trust has to corne from both sides; I also think thats the reason why Father and I have never really grown so close. But lets not talk about it anymore. If theres anything you still want to discuss, please write, because its easier for me to say what I mean as on paper than face-to-face. You know how le much I admire you, and only
hope that some of your goodness and Fathers goodness will rub off on me, because, in that sense, you two are a lot alike.
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22,1944
Dearest Kitty,
I received this letter last night from Margot:
Dear Anne, After your letter of yesterday I have the unpleasant feeling that your conscience bothers you whenever you go to Peters to work or talk; theres really no reason for that. In my heart, I know theres someone who deserves t my trust (as I do his), and I wouldnt be able to tolerate Peter in his place.
However, as you wrote, I do think of Peter as a kind of brother. . . a younger brother; weve been sending out feelers, and a brotherly and sisterly affection mayor may not develop at some later date, but its certainly not reached that stage yet. So theres no need for you to feel sorry for me. Now that youve found companionship, enjoy it as much as you can.
In the meantime, things are getting more and more wonderful here. I think, Kitty, that true love may be developing in the Annex. All those jokes about marrying Peter if we stayed here long enough werent so silly after all. Not that Im thinking of marrying him, mind you. I dont even know what hell be like when he grows up. Or if well even love each other enough to get married.
Im sure now that Peter loves me too; I just dont know in what way. I cant figure out if he wants only a good friend, or if hes attracted to me as a girl or as a sister.
When he said I always helped him when his parents were arguing, I was tremendously happy; it was one step toward making me believe in his friendship. I asked him yesterday what hed do if there were a dozen Annes who kept popping in to see him.
His answer was: "If they were all like you, it wouldnt be so bad." Hes extremely hospitable, and I think he really likes to see me. Mean- while, hes been working hard at learning French, even studying in bed until ten-fifteen.
Oh, when I think back to Saturday night, to our words, our voices, I feel satisfied with myself for the very first time; what I mean is, Id still say the same and wouldnt
want to change a thing, the way I usually do. Hes so handsome, whether hes smthng or just sitting still. Hes so sweet and good and beautiful. I think what surprised him most about me was when he discovered that Im not at all the superficial, worldly Anne I appear to be, but a dreamer, like he is, with just as many troubles!
Last night after the dinner dishes, I waited for him to ask me to stay upstairs. But nothing happened; I went away. He came downstairs to tell Dussel it was time to listen to the radio and hung around the bathroom for a while, but when Dussel took too long, he went back upstairs. He paced up and down his room and went to bed early.
The entire evening I was so restless I kept going to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I read a bit, daydreamed some more, looked at the clock and waited, waited, waited, all the while listening to his foot- steps. I went to bed early, exhausted.
Tonight I have to take a bath, and tomorrow?
Tomorrows so far away!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
My answer:
Dearest Margot, I think the best thing is simply to wait and see what happens. It cant be much longer before Peter and I will have to decide whether to go back to the way we were or do some- thing else. I dont know how itll turn out; I cant see any farther than the end of my nose.
But Im certain of one thing: if Peter and I do become friends, Im going to tell him youre also very fond of him and are prepared to help him if he needs you. You wouldnt want me to, Im sure, but I dont care; I dont know what Peter thinks of you, but Ill ask him when the time comes. Its certainly nothing bad -- on the contrary! Youre welcome to join us in the attic, or wherever we are. You wont be disturbing us, because we have an unspoken agreement to talk only in the evenings when its dark.
Keep your spirits up! Im doing my best, though its not always easy. Your time may come sooner than you think.
Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 23, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Things are more or less back to normal here. Our coupon men have been released from prison, thank goodness!
Mieps been back since yesterday, but today it was her husbands turn to take to his bed-chills and fever, the usual flu symptoms. Bep is better, though she still has a cough, and Mr. Kleiman will have to stay home for a long time.
Yesterday a plane crashed nearby. The crew was able to parachute out in time. It crashed on top of a school, but luckily there were no children inside. There was a small fire and a couple of people were killed. As the airmen made their descent, the Germans sprayed them with bullets. The Amsterdammers who saw it seethed with rage at such a dastardly deed. We-by which I mean the ladies-were also scared out of our wits. Brrr, I hate the sound of gunfire.
Now about myself.
I was with Peter yesterday and, somehow, I honestly dont know how, we wound up talking about sex. Id made up my mind a long time ago to ask him a few things. He knows everything; when I said that Margot and I werent very well informed, he was amazed. I told him a lot about Margot and me and Mother and Father and said that lately I didnt dare ask them anything. He offered to enlighten me, and I gratefully accepted: he described how contraceptives work, and I asked him very boldly how boys could tell they were grown up. He had to think about that one; he said hed tell me tonight. I told him what had happened to Jacque, and said that girls are defenseless against strong boys. "Well, you dont have to be afraid of me," he said.
When I came back that evening, he told me how it is with boys. Slightly embarrassing, but still awfully nice to be able to discuss it with him. Neither he nor I had ever imagined wed be able to talk so openly to a girl or a boy, respectively, about such intimate matters. I think I know everything now. He told me a lot about what he called Prasentivmitteln* [* Should be Praservativmitteln: prophylactics] in German.
That night in the bathroom Margot and I were talking about Bram and Trees, two friends of hers.
This morning I was in for a nasty surprise: after breakfast Peter beckoned me upstairs. "That was a dirty trick you played on me," he said. "I heard what you and Margot were saying in the bathroom last night. I think you just wanted to find out how much Peter knew and then have a good laugh!”
I was stunned! I did everything I could to talk him out of that outrageous idea; I could understand how he must have felt, but it just wasnt true!
"Oh no, Peter," I said. "Id never be so mean. I told you I wouldnt pass on anything you said to me and I wont. To put on an act like that and then deliberately be so mean. . . No,Peter, thats not my idea ofa joke.
It wouldnt be fair. I didnt say anything, honest. Wont you believe me?" He assured me he did, but I think well have to talk about it again sometime. Ive done nothing all day but worry about it. Thank goodness he came right out and said what was on his mind. Imagine if hed gone around thinking I could be that mean. Hes so sweet!
Now Ill have to tell him everything!
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, MARCH 24, 1944
Dear Kitty,
I often go up to Peters room after dinner nowadays to breathe in the fresh evening air. You can get around to meaningful conversations more quickly in the dark than with the sun tickling your face. Its cozy and snug sitting beside him on a chair and looking outside. The van Daans and Dussel make the silliest remarks when I disappear into his room. "Annes zweite Heimat,"* [* Annes second home] they say, or "Is it proper for a gentleman to receive young girls in his room at night with the lights out?" Peter has amazing presence of mind in the face of these so-called witticisms. My mother, incidentally, is also bursting with curiosity and simply dying to ask what we talk about, only shes secretly afraid Id refuse to answer. Peter says the grown-ups are just jealous because were young and that we shouldnt take their obnoxious comments to heart.
Sometimes he comes downstairs to get me, but thats awkward too, because in spite of all his precautions his face turns bright red and he can hardly get the words out of his mouth. Im glad I dont blush; it must be extremely unpleasant.
Besides, it bothers me that Margot has to sit downstairs all by herself, while Im upstairs enjoying Peters company. But what can I do about it? I wouldnt mind it if she came, but shed just be the odd one out, sitting there like a lump on a log.
Ive had to listen to countless remarks about our sudden friendship. I cant tell you how often the conversation at meals has been about an Annex wedding, should the war last another five years. Do we take any notice of this parental chitchat? Hardly, since its all so silly. Have my parents forgotten that they were young once? Apparently they have. At any rate, they laugh at us when were serious, and theyre serious when were joking.
I dont know whats going to happen next, or whether well run out of things to say.
But if it goes on like this, well eventually be able to be together without talking. If only his parents would stop acting so strangely. Its probably because they dont like seeing me so often; Peter and I certainly never tell them what we talk about. Imagine if they knew we were discussing such intimate things.
Id like to ask Peter whether he knows what girls look like down there. I dont think boys are as complicated as girls. You can easily see what boys look like in photographs or pictures of male nudes, but with women its different. In women, the genitals, or whatever theyre called, are hidden between their legs. Peter has probably never seen a girl up close. To tell you the truth, neither have I. Boys are a lot easier.
How on earth would I go about describing a girls parts? I can tell from what he said that he doesnt know exactly how it all fits together. He was talking about the "Muttermund," [* cervix], but thats on the inside, where you cant see it. Everythings pretty well arranged in us women. Until I was eleven or twelve, I didnt realize there was a second set of labia on the inside, since you couldnt see them. Whats even funnier is that I thought urine came out of the clitoris. I asked Mother one time what that little bump was, and she said she didnt know. She can really play dumb when she wants to!
But to get back to the subject. How on earth can you explain what it all looks like without any models?
Shall I try anyway? Okay, here goes!
When youre standing up, all you see from the front is hair. Between your legs there are two soft, cushiony things, also covered with hair, which press together when youre standing, so you cant see whats inside. They separate when you sit down, and theyre very red and quite fleshy on the inside. In the upper part, between the outer
labia, theres a fold of skin that, on second thought, looks like a kind of blister. Thats the clitoris. Then come the inner labia, which are also pressed together in a kind of crease. When they open up, you can see a fleshy little mound, no bigger than the top of my thumb. The upper part has a couple of small holes in it, which is where the urine comes out. The lower part looks as if it were just skin, and yet thats where the vagina is. You can barely find it, because the folds of skin hide the opening. The holes so small I can hardly imagine how a man could get in there, much less how a baby could come out. Its hard enough trying to get your index finger inside. Thats all there is, and yet it plays such an important role!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, MARCH 25, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
You never realize how much youve changed until after its happened. Ive changed quite drastically, everything about me is different: my opinions, ideas, critical outlook.
Inwardly, outwardly, nothings the same. And, I might safely add, since its true, Ive changed for the better. I once told you that, after years of being adored, it was hard for me to adjust to the harsh reality of grown-ups and rebukes. But Father and Mother are largely to blame for my having to put up with so much. At home they wanted me to enjoy life, which was fine, but here they shouldnt have encouraged me to agree with them and only shown me "their" side of all the quarrels and gossip. It was a long time before I discovered the score was fifty-fifty. I now know that many blunders have been committed here, by young and old alike. Father and Mothers biggest mistake in dealing with the van Daans is that theyre never candid and friendly (admittedly, the friendliness might have to be feigned). Above all, I want to keep the peace, and to neither quarrel nor gossip. With Father and Margot thats not difficult, but it is with Mother, which is why Im glad she gives me an occasional rap on the knuckles. You can win Mr. van Daan to your side by agreeing with him, listening quietly, not saying much and most of all . . . responding to his teasing and his corny jokes with a joke of your own. Mrs. van D. can be won over by talking openly to her and admitting when youre wrong. She also frankly admits her faults, of which she has many. I know all too well that she doesnt think as badly of me as she did in the beginning. And thats simply because Im honest and tell people right to their faces what I think, even when its not very flattering. I want to be honest; I think it gets you further and also makes you feel better about yourself.
Yesterday Mrs. van D. was talking about the rice we gave Mr. Kleiman. "All we do is give, give, give. But at a certain point I think that enough is enough. If hed only take
the trouble, Mr. Kleiman could scrounge up his own rice. Why should we give away all our supplies? We need them just as badly.”
"No, Mrs. van Daan," I replied. "I dont agree with you. Mr. Kleiman may very well be able to get hold of a little rice, but he doesnt like having to worry about it. Its not our place to criticize the people who are helping us. We should give them whatever they need if we can possibly spare it. One less pl