JULY, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My blood runs cold when Peter talks about becoming a criminal or a speculator; of course, hes joking, but I still have the feeling hes afraid of his own weakness.
Margot and Peter are always saying to me, "If I had your spunk and your strength, if I had your drive and unflagging energy, could. . .
Is it really such an admirable trait not to let myself be influenced by others? Am I right in following my own conscience?
To be honest, I cant imagine how anyone could say "Im weak" and then stay that way. If you know that about yourself, why not fight it, why not develop your character? Their answer has always been: "Because its much easier not to!" This reply leaves me feeling rather discouraged. Easy? Does that mean a life of deceit and laziness is easy too? Oh no, that cant be true. It cant be true that people are so readily tempted by ease. . . and money. Ive given a lot of thought to what my answer should be, to how I should get Peter to believe in himself and, most of all, to change himself for the better. I dont know whether Im on the right track.
Ive often imagined how nice it would be if someone were to confide everything to me. But now that its reached that point, I realize how difficult it is to put yourself in someope elses shoes and find the right answer. Especially since "easy" and "money”
are new and com- pletely alien concepts to me.
Peters beginning to lean on me and I dont want that, not under any circumstances.
Its hard enough standing on your own two feet, but when you also have to remain true to your character and soul, its harder still.
Ive been drifting around at sea, have spent days searching for an effective antidote to that terrible word "easy." How can I make it clear to him that, while it may seem easy and wonderful, it will drag him down to the depths, to a place where hell no longer find friends, support or beauty, so far down that he may never rise to the surface again?
Were all alive, but we dont know why or what for; were all searching for happiness;
were all leading lives that are different and yet the same. We three have been raised in good famthes, we have the opportunity to get an education and make something of ourselves. We have many reasons to hope for great happiness, but. . . we have to earn it. And thats something you cant achieve by taking the easy way out. Earning happiness means doing good and working, not speculating and being lazy. Laziness may look inviting, but only work gives you true satisfaction.
I cant understand people who dont like to work, but that isnt Peters problem either.
He just doesnt have a goal, plus he thinks hes too stupid and inferior to ever achieve anything. Poor boy, hes never known how it feels to make someone else happy, and Im afraid I cant teach him. He isnt religious, scoffs at Jesus Christ and takes the Lords name in vain, and though Im not Orthodox either, it hurts me every time to see him so lonely, so scornful, so wretched.
People who are religious should be glad, since not everyone is blessed with the ability to believe in a higher order. You dont even have to live in fear of eternal punishment;
the concepts of purgatory, heaven and hell are difficult for many people to accept, yet religion itself, any religion, keeps a person on the right path. Not the fear of God, but upholding your own sense of honor and obeying your own conscience. How noble and good everyone could be if, at the end of each day, they were to review their own behavior and weigh up the rights and wrongs. They would automatically try to do better at the start of each new day and, after a while, would certainly accomplish a great deal. Everyone is welcome to this prescription; it costs nothing and is definitely useful. Those who dont know will have to find out by experience that "a quiet conscience gives you strength!"
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, JULY 8, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Mr. Broks was in Beverwijk and managed to get hold of strawberries at the produce auction. They arrived here dusty and full of sand, but in large quantities. No less than twenty-four crates for the office and us. That very same evening we canned the first six jars and made eight jars of jam. The next morning Miep started making jam for the office.
At twelve-thirty the outside door was locked, crates were lugged into the kitchen, with Peter, Father and Mr. van Daan stumbling up the stairs. Anne got hot water from the water heater, Margot"",went for a bucket, all hands on deck! With a funny feeling in my stomach, I entered the overcrowded office kitchen. Miep, Bep, Mr. Kleiman, Jan, Father, Peter: the Annex contingent and the Supply Corps all mixed up together, and that in the middle of the day! Curtains and windows open, loud voices, banging doors -- I was trembling with excitement. I kept thinking, "Are we really in hiding?" This must be how it feels when you can finally go out into the world again. The pan was full, so I dashed upstairs, where the rest of the family was hulling strawberries around the kitchen table. At least thats what they were supposed to be doing, but more was going into their mouths than into the buckets. They were bound to need another bucket soon. Peter went back downstairs, but then the doorbell rang twice. Leaving the bucket where it was, Peter raced upstairs and shut the bookcase behind him. We sat kicking our heels impatiently; the strawberries were waiting to be rinsed, but we stuck to the house rule: "No running water when strangers are downstairs -- they might hear the drains.”
Jan came up at one to tell us it had been the mail- man. Peter hurried downstairs again. Ding-dong. . . the doorbell, about-face. I listened to hear if anyone was coming, standing first at the bookcase, then at the top of the stairs. Finally Peter and I leaned over the banister, straining our ears like a couple of burglars to hear the sounds from downstairs. No unfamthar voices. Peter tip- toed halfway down the stairs and called out, "Bep!”
Once more: "Bep!" His voice was drowned out by the racket in the kitchen. So he ran down to the kitchen while I nervously kept watch from above. "Go upstairs at once, Peter, the accountants here, youve got to leave!" It was Mr. Kuglers voice. Sighing, Peter came upstairs and closed the bookcase.
Mr. Kugler finally came up at one-thirty. "My gosh, the whole worlds turned to strawberries. I had strawber- ries for breakfast, Jans having diem for lunch, Kleimans eating them as a snack, Mieps bothng them, Beps hulling them, and I can smell them everywhere I go. I come upstairs to get away from all that red and what do I see? People washing strawberries!”
The rest of the strawberries were canned. That evening: two jars came unsealed.
Father quickly turned them into jam. The next morning: two more lids popped up; and that afternoon: four lids. Mr. van Daan hadnt gotten the jars hot enough when he was sterthzing them, so Father ended up making jam every evening. We ate hot cereal with strawberries, buttermilk with strawberries, bread with strawberries, strawberries for dessert, straw- berries with sugar, strawberries with sand. For two days there was nothing but strawberries, strawberries, strawberries, and then our supply was either exhausted or in jars, safely under lock and key.
"Hey, Anne," Margot called out one day, "Mrs. van Hoeven has let us have some peas, twenty pounds!”
"Thats nice of her," I replied. And it certainly was, but its so much work. . . ugh!
"On Saturday, youve aJI got to shell peas," Mother announced at the table.
And sure enough, this morning after breakfast our biggest enamel pan appeared on the table, filled to the brim with peas. If you think shelling peas is boring work, you ought to try removing the inner linings. I dont think many people realize that once youve pulled out the linings, the pods are soft, delicious and rich in vitamins. But an even greater advantage is that you get nearly three times as much as when you eat just the peas.
Stripping pods is a precise and meticulous job that might be suited to pedantic dentists or finicky spice experts, but its a horror for an impatient teenager like me. We started work at nine-thirty; I sat down at ten-thirty, got Up again at eleven, sat down again at eleven-thirty. My ears were humming with the following refrain: snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, etc., etc. My eyes were swimming: green, green, worm, string, rotten pod, green, green. To fight the boredom and have something to do, I chattered all morn- ing, saying whatever came into my head and making everyone laugh. The monotony was killing me. Every string I pulled made me more certain that I never, ever, want to be just a housewife!
At twelve we finally ate breakfast, but from twelve-thirty to one-fifteen we had to strip pods again. When I stopped, I felt a bit seasick, and so did the others. I napped until four, still in a daze because of those wretched peas.
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
SATURDAY, JULY 15,1944
Dearest Kitty,
Weve received a book from the library with the challenging title What Do You Think of the Modern Young Girl? Id like to discuss this subject today.
The writer criticizes "todays youth" from head to toe, though without dismissing them all as "hopeless cases." On the contrary, she believes they have it within their power to build a bigger, better and more beautiful world, but that they occupy themselves with superficial things, without giving a thought to true beauty. In some passages I had the strong feeling that the writer was directing her disapproval at me, which is why I finally want to bare my soul to you and defend myself against this attack.
I have one outstanding character trait that must be obvious to anyone whos known me for any length of time: I have a great deal of self-knowledge. In everything I do, I can watch myself as if I were a stranger. I can stand c across from the everyday Anne and, without being biased or making excuses, watch what shes doing, both the good and the bad. This self-awareness never leaves me, and every time I open my mouth, I think, "You should have said that differently" or "Thats fine the way it is." I condemn myself in so many ways that Im beginning to realize the truth of Fathers adage: "Every child has to raise itself." Parents can only advise their children or point them in the right direction. Ultimately, people shape their own characters. In addition, I face life with an extraordinary amount of courage. I feel so strong and capable of bearing burdens, so young and free! When I first realized this, I was glad, because it means I can more easily withstand the blows life has in store.
But Ive talked about these things so often. Now Id like to turn to the chapter "Father and Mother Dont Understand Me." My parents have always spoiled me rotten, treated me kindly, defended me against the van Daans and done all that parents can. And yet for the longest time Ive felt extremely lonely, left out, neglected and misunderstood.
Father did everything he could to curb my rebellious spirit, but it was no use. Ive cured myself by holding my behavior up to the light and looking at what I was doing wrong.
Why didnt Father support me in my struggle? Why did he fall short when he tried to offer me a helping hand? The answer is: he used the wrong methods. He always talked to me as if I were a child going through a difficult phase. It sounds crazy, since Fathers the only one whos given me a sense of confidence and made me feel as if Im a sensible person. But he overlooked one thing: he failed to see that this struggle to triumph over my difficulties was more important to me than anything else.
I didnt want to hear about "typical adolescent problems," or "other girls," or "youll grow out of it." I didnt want to be treated the same as all-the-other-girls, but as Anne-in-her-own-right, and rim didnt understand that. Besides, I cant confide in anyone unless they tell me a lot about themselves, and because I know very little about him, I cant get on a more intimate footing. rim always acts like the elderly father who once had the same fleeting im- pulses, but who can no longer relate to me as a friend, no matter how hard he tries. As a result, Ive never shared my outlook on life or my long-pondered theories with anyone but my diary and, once in a while, Margot. Ive hid any- thing having to do with me from Father, never shared my ideals with him, deliberately alienated myself from him.
I couldnt have done it any other way. Ive let myself be guided entirely by my feelings. It was egotistical, but Ive done what was best for my own peace of mind. I would lose that, plus the self-confidence Ive worked so hard to achieve, if I were to be subjected to criticism halfway through the job. It may sound hard-hearted, but I cant take criticism from rim either, because not only do I never share my innermost thoughts with him, but Ive pushed him even further away by being irritable.
This is a point I think about quite often: why is it that rim annoys me so much sometimes? I can hardly bear to have him tutor me, and his affection seems forced. I want to be left alone, and Id rather he ignored me for a while until Im more sure of myself when Im talking to him! Im still torn with guilt about the mean letter I wrote him when I was so upset. Oh, its hard to be strong and brave in every way!
. . .
Still, this hasnt been my greatest disappointment. No, I think about Peter much more than I do Father. I know very well that he was my conquest, and not the other way around. I created an image of him in my mind, pictured him as a quiet, sweet, sensitive boy badly in need of friendship and love! I needed to pour out my heart to a living person. I wanted a friend who would help me find my way again. I accomplished what I set out to do and drew him, slowly but surely, toward me. When I finally got him to be my friend, it automatically developed into an intimacy that, when I think about it now, seems outrageous. We talked about the most private things, but we havent yet touched upon the things closest to my heart. I still cant make head or tail
of Peter. Is he superficial, or is it shyness that holds him back, even with me? But putting all that aside, I made one mistake: I used intimacy to get closer to him, and in doing so, I ruled out other forms of friendship. He longs to be loved, and I can see hes beginning to like me more with each passing day. Our time together leaves him feeling satisfied, but just makes me want to start all over again. I never broach the subjects I long to bring out into the open. I forced Peter, more than he realizes, to get close to me, and now hes holding on for dear life. I honestly dont see any effective way of shaking him off and getting him back on his own two feet. I soon realized he could never be a kindred spirit, but still tried to help him break out of his narrow world and expand his youthful horizons.
"Deep down, the young are lonelier than the old." I read this in a book somewhere and its stuck in my mind. As far as I can tell, its true.
So if youre wondering whether its harder for the adults here than for the children, the answer is no, its certainly not. Older people have an opinion about everything and are sure of themselves and their actions. Its twice as hard for us young people to hold on to our opinions at a time when ideals are being shattered and destroyed, when the worst side of human nature predominates, when everyone has come to doubt truth, justice and God.
Anyone who claims that the older folks have a more difficult time in the Annex doesnt realize that the problems have a far greater impact on us. Were much too young to deal with these problems, but they keep thrusting themselves on us until, finally, were forced to think up a solution, though most of the time our solutions crumble when faced with the facts. Its difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality. Its a wonder I havent abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.
Its utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, I feel the suffering of millions.
And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquthty will return once more. In the meantime, I must hold on to my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when Ill be able to realize them!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank
FRIDAY, JULY 21, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Im finally getting optimistic. Now, at last, things are going well! They really are!
Great news! An assassination attempt has been made on Hitlers life, and for once not by Jewish Communists or English capitalists, but by a German general whos not only a count, but young as well. The Fuhrer owes his life to "Divine Providence": he escaped, unfortunately, with only a few minor burns and scratches. A number of the officers and generals who were nearby were killed or wounded. The head of the conspiracy has been shot.
This is the best proof weve had so far that many officers and generals are fed up with the war and would like to see Hitler sink into a bottomless pit, so they can establish a mthtary dictatorship, make peace with the Allies, rearm themselves and, after a few decades, start a new war. Perhaps Providence is deliberately biding its time getting rid of Hider, since its much easier, and cheaper, for the Allies to let the impeccable Germans kill each other off. Its less work for the Russians and the British, and it allows them to start rebuilding their own cities all that much sooner. But we havent reached that point yet, and Id hate to anticipate the glorious event. Still, youve probably noticed that Im telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. For once, Im not rattling on about high ideals.
Furthermore, Hitler has been so kind as to announce to his loyal, devoted people that as of today all mthtary personnel are under orders of the Gestapo, and that any soldier who knows that one of his superiors was involved in this cowardly attempt on the Fuhrers life may shoot him on sight!
A fine kettle of fish that will be. Little Johnnys feet are sore after a long march and his commanding officer bawls him out. Johnny grabs his rifle, shouts, "You, you tried to kill the Fuhrer. Take that!" One shot, and the snooty officer who dared to reprimand him passes into eternal life (or is it eternal death?). Eventually, every time an officer sees a soldier or gives an order, hell be practically wetting his pants, because the soldiers have more say-so than he does.
Were you able to follow that, or have I been skipping from one subject to another again? I cant help it, the prospect of going back to school in October is making me too happy to be logical! Oh dear, didnt I just get through telling you I didnt want to anticipate events? Forgive me, Kitty, they dont call me a bundle of contradictions for nothing!
Yours, Anne
M. Frank