THE DIARY OFA YOUNG GIRL :THEDEFINITIVE EDITIONAnne FrankEdited by Otto H. Frank and MirjamPresslerTranslated by Susan MassottyTABLE OF CONTENTS FOREWORDSUNDAY, JUNE 14, 1942MONDAY, JUNE 15, 1942SATURDAY, JUNE 20,1942SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1942SUNDAY,

JUNE 21, 1942WEDNESDAY, JUNE 24, 1942WEDNESDAY, JULY 1, 1942SUNDAY, JULY 5, 1942WEDNESDAY, JULY 8, 1942THURSDAY, JULY 9, 1942FRIDAY, JULY 10, 1942SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1942SUNDAY, JULY 12, 1942FRIDAY,

AUGUST 14, 1942 FRIDAY, AUGUST 21, 1942 WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1942 MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1942 FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1942 SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1942 MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28,1942 TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1942 THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1942 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1942 WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1942 THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL 53OCTOBER 9, 1942WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1942TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1942

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1942MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1942THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1942SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1942MONDAY, NOVEMBER 9,1942TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1942THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1942TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1942PROSPECTUS AND GUIDE TO THE SECRET

ANNEX THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1942FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1942MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1942THURSDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1942SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1942TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1942WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1943SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1943FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1943

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1943THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943WEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943FRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943FRIDAY, MARCH 19, 1943THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1943APRIL 1, 1943FRIDAY,

APRIL 2, 1943TUESDAY, APRIL 27, 1943SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1943SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943TUESDAY, MAY 18, 1943SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1943TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1943SUNDAY, JULY 11, 1943TUESDAY,

JULY 13, 1943FRIDAY, JULY 16, 1943MONDAY, JULY 19,1943FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1943MONDAY, JULY 26, 1943THURSDAY, JULY 29, 1943TUESDAY, AUGUST 3, 1943WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4,1943THURSDAY, AUGUST 5, 1943SATURDAY,

AUGUST 7, 1943MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1943TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 1943MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1943FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1943THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1943WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1943SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1943FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943WEDNESDAY,

NOVEMBER 3, 1943MONDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER 8,1943NOVEMBER 11, 1943WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1943SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1943MONDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1943FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1943MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943THURSDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1943

SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 1944THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 12, 1944SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 1944WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 19, 1944SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 1944MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 1944FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944

FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944SUNDAY, JANUARY 30, 1944THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1944TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1944SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1944TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1944WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1944

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1944SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1944SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1944WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23,1944SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1944 MONDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1944 WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1, 1944THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1944FRIDAY, MARCH 3,1944SATURDAY, MARCH 4, 1944

MONDAY, MARCH 6, 1944TUESDAY, MARCH 7,1944WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 1944FRIDAY, MARCH 10, 1944 SATURDAY, MARCH 11, 1944 SUNDAY, MARCH 12, 1944 TUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1944 THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944 THURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944 FRIDAY, MARCH 17, 1944 SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 1944 SUNDAY, MARCH 19, 1944 MONDAY, MARCH 20, 1944 WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22,1944

THURSDAY, MARCH 23, 1944 FRIDAY, MARCH 24, 1944 SATURDAY, MARCH 25, 1944 MONDAY, MARCH 27, 1944 TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 1944 WEDNESDAY, MARCH 29, 1944 FRIDAY, MARCH 31, 1944 SATURDAY, APRIL 1, 1944MONDAY, APRIL 3, 1944WEDNESDAY, APRIL 5, 1944APRIL 6, 1944TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1944END OF PART ONE

FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1944SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1944SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 1944MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1944TUESDAY, APRIL 18,1944WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19, 1944FRIDAY, APRIL 21,1944TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 1944THURSDAY, APRIL 27, 1944

FRIDAY, APRIL 28, 1944TUESDAY, MAY 2, 1944WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 1944FRIDAY, MAY 5, 1944SATURDAY, MAY 6, 1944SUNDAY MORNING, MAY 7,1944 MONDAY, MAY 8, 1944TUESDAY, MAY 9, 1944WEDNESDAY, MAY 10, 1944THURSDAY,

MAY 11, 1944THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1944SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1944TUESDAY, MAY 16, 1944FRIDAY, MAY 19, 1944SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1944MONDAY, MAY 22,1944THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1944THE SAME DAYFRIDAY,

MAY 26, 1944WEDNESDAY, MAY 31, 1944FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1944 JMONDAY, JUNE 5, 1944TUESDAY, JUNE 6, 1944FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1944314 ANNE FRANKTUESDAY, JUNE 13, 1944FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 1944FRIDAY,

JUNE 23, 1944TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 1944FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 1944THURSDAY, JULY 6, 1944SATURDAY, JULY 8, 1944SATURDAY, JULY 15,1944FRIDAY, JULY 21, 1944TUESDAY, AUGUST 1, 1944AFTERWORDFOREWORDAnne Frank kept a diary from June 12,

1942, to August 1, 1944. Initially, shewrote it strictly for herself. Then, oneday in 1944, Gerrit Bolkestein, amember of the Dutch government inexile, announced in a radio broadcastfrom London that after the war he hopedto collect eyewitness accounts of thesuffering of the Dutch people under theGerman occupation, which could bemade available to the public. As anexample, he specifically mentionedletters and diaries.Impressed by this speech, Anne Frankdecided that when the war was over shewould publish a book based on herdiary. She began rewriting and editingher diary, improving on the text, omittingpassages she didn't think were

interesting enough and adding othersfrom memory. At the same time, she keptup her original diary. In the scholarlywork The Diary of Anne Frank: TheCritical Edition (1989), Anne's first,unedited diary is referred to as versiona, to distinguish it from her second,edited diary, which is known as versionb. The last entry in Anne's diary is datedAugust 1, 1944. On August 4, 1944, theeight people hiding in the Secret Annexwere arrested. Miep Gies and BepVoskuijl, the two secretaries working inthe building, found Anne's diaries strewnallover the floor. ,Miep Gies tuckedthem away in a desk drawer forsafekeeping. After the war, when itbecame clear that Anne was dead, she

gave the diaries, unread, to Anne'sfather, Otto Frank.After long deliberation, Otto Frankdecided to fulfill his daughter's wish andpublish her diary. He selected materialfrom versions a and b, editing them intoa shorter version later referred to asversion c. Readers all over the worldknow this as The Diary of a fauna Girl.In making his choice, Otto Frank had tobear several points in mind. To beginwith, the book had to be kept short sothat it would fit in with a series put outby the Dutch publisher. In addition,several passages dealing with Anne'ssexuality were omitted; at the time of thediary's initial publication, in 1947, itwas not customary to write openly about

sex, and certainly not in books for youngadults. Out of respect for the dead, OttoFrank also omitted a number ofunflattering passages about his wife andthe other residents of the Secret Annex.Anne Frank, who was thirteen when shebegan her diary and fifteen when shewas forced to stop, wrote withoutreserve about her likes and dislikes.When Otto Frank died in 1980, hewilled his daughter's manuscripts to theNetherlands State Institute for WarDocumentation in Amsterdam. Becausethe authenticity of the diary had beenchallenged ever since its publication, theInstitute for War Documentation ordereda thorough investigation. Once the diarywas proved, beyond a shadow of a

doubt, to be genuine, it was published inits entirety, along with the results of anexhaustive study. The Critical Editioncontains not only versions a, band c, butalso articles on the background of theFrank family, the circumstancessurrounding their arrest and deportation,and the examination into Anne'shandwriting, the document and thematerials used.The Anne Frank-Fonds (Anne FrankFoundation) in Basel (Switzerland),.which as Otto Frank's sole heir had alsoinherited his daughter's copyrights, thendecided to have anew, expanded editionof the diary published for generalreaders. This new edition in no wayaffects the integrity of the old one

originally edited by Otto Frank, whichbrought the diary and its message tomillions of people. The task of compthngthe expanded edition was given to thewriter and translator Mirjam Pressler.Otto Frank's original selection has nowbeen supplemented with passages fromAnne's a and b versions. MirjamPressler's definitive edition, approvedby the Anne Frank-Fonds, containsapproximately 30 percent more materialand is intended to give the reader moreinsight into the world of Anne Frank.In writing her second version (b), Anneinvented pseudonyms for the people whowould appear in her book. She initiallywanted to call herself Anne Aulis, andlater Anne Robin. Otto Frank opted to

call his family by their own names andto follow Anne's wishes with regard tothe others. Over the years, the identity ofthe people who helped the family in theSecret Annex has become commonknowledge. In this edition, the helpersare now referred to by their real names,as they so justly deserve to be. All otherpersons are named in accordance withthe pseudonyms in The Critical Edition.The Institute for War Documentation hasarbitrarily assigned initials to thosepersons wishing to remain anonymous.The real names of the other peoplehiding in the Secret Annex are: THEVAN PELS FAMILY(from Osnabriick, Germany):Auguste van Pels (born September 9,

1890) Hermann van Pels (born March31, 1889) Peter van Pels (bornNovember 8, 1926)Called by Anne, in her manuscript:Petronella, Hans and Alfred van Daan;and in the book: Petronella, Hermannand Peter van Daan.FRITZ PFEFFER(born April 30, 1889, in Giessen,Germany):Called by Anne, in her manuscript and inthe book: Alfred Dussel. The reader maywish to bear in mind that much of thisedition is based on the b version ofAnne's diary, which she wrote when shewas around fifteen years old.Occasionally, Anne went back andcommented on a passage she had written

earlier. These comments are clearlymarked in this edition. Naturally, Anne'sspelling and linguistic errors have beencorrected. Otherwise, the text hasbasically been left as she wrote it, sinceany attempts at editing and clarificationwould be inappropriate in a historicaldocument.June 12, 1942I hope I will be able to confideeverything to you, as I have never beenable to confide in anyone, and I hope youwill be a great source of comfort andsupport.COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ONSEPTEMBER 28, 1942: So far you trulyhave been a great source of comfort tome, and so has Kitty, whom I now write

to regularly. This way of keeping a diaryis much nicer, and now I can hardly waitfor those moments when I'm able towrite in you. Oh, I'm so glad I broughtyou along!SUNDAY, JUNE 14, 1942I'll begin from the moment I got you, themoment I saw you lying on the tableamong my other birthday presents. (Iwent along when you were bought, butthat doesn't count.)On Friday, June 12, I was awake at sixo'clock, which isn't surprising, since itwas my birthday. But I'm not allowed toget up at that hour, so I had to control mycuriosity until quarter to seven. When Icouldn't wait any longer, I went to thedining room, where Moortje (the cat)

welcomed me by rubbing against mylegs.A little after seven I went to Daddy andMama and then to the living room toopen my presents, and you were the firstthing I saw, maybe one of my nicestpresents. Then a bouquet of roses, somepeonies and a potted plant. From Daddyand Mama I got a blue blouse, a game, abottle of grape juice, which to my mindtastes a bit like wine (after all, wine ismade from grapes), a puzzle, a jar ofcold cream, 2.50 guilders and a giftcertificate for two books. I got anotherbook as well, Camera Obscura (butMargot already has it, so I exchangedmine for something else), a platter ofhomemade cookies (which I made

myself, of course, since I've becomequite an expert at baking cookies), lotsof candy and a strawberry tart fromMother. And a letter from Grammy, righton time, but of course that was just acoincidence.Then Hanneli came to pick me up, andwe went to school. During recess Ipassed out cookies to my teachers andmy class, and then it was time to getback to work. I didn't arrive home untilfive, since I went to gym with the rest ofthe class. (I'm not allowed to take partbecause my shoulders and hips tend toget dislocated.) As it was my birthday, Igot to decide which game my classmateswould play, and I chose volleyball.Afterward they all danced around me in

a circle and sang "Happy Birthday."When I got home, Sanne Ledermann wasalready there. Ilse Wagner, HanneliGoslar and Jacqueline van Maarsencame home with me after gym, sincewe're in the same class. Hanneli andSanne used to be my two best friends.People who saw us together used to say,"There goes Anne, Hanne and Sanne." Ionly met Jacqueline van Maarsen when Istarted at the Jewish Lyceum, and nowshe's my best friend. Ilse is Hanneli'sbest friend, and Sanne goes to anotherschool and has friends there.They gave me a beautiful book, DutchSasas and Lesends, but they gave meVolume II by mistake, so I exchangedtwo other books for Volume I. Aunt

Helene brought me a puzzle, AuntStephanie a darling brooch and AuntLeny a terrific book: Daisy Goes to theMountains.This morning I lay in the bathtub thinkinghow wonderful it would be if I had adog like Rin Tin Tin. I'd call him RinTin Tin too, and I'd take him to schoolwith me, where he could stay in thejanitor's room or by the bicycle rackswhen the weather was good.MONDAY, JUNE 15, 1942I had my birthday party on Sundayafternoon. The Rin Tin Tin movie was abig hit with my classmates. I got twobrooches, a bookmark and two books.I'll start by saying a few things about myschool and my class, beginning with the

students.Betty Bloemendaal looks kind of poor,and I think she probably is. She lives onsome obscure street in West Amsterdam,and none of us know where it is. Shedoes very well at school, but that'sbecause she works so hard, not becauseshe's so smart. She's pretty quiet.Jacqueline van Maarsen is supposedlymy best friend, but I've never had a realfriend. At first I thought Jacque would beone, but I was badly mistaken. D.Q.* [*Initials have been assigned at random tothose persons who prefer to remainanonymous.] is a very nervous girl who'salways forgetting things, so the teacherskeep assigning her extra homework aspunishment. She's very kind, especially

to G.Z.E.S. talks so much it isn't funny. She'salways touching your hair or fiddlingwith your buttons when she asks yousomething. They say she can't stand me,but I don't care, since I don't like hermuch either.Henny Mets is a nice girl with a cheerfuldisposition, except that she talks in aloud voice and is really childish whenwe're playing outdoors. Unfortunately,Henny has a girlfriend named Beppywho's a bad influence on her becauseshe's dirty and vulgar.J.R. - I could write a whole book abouther. J. is a detestable, sneaky, stuck-up,two-faced gossip who thinks she's sogrown-up. She's really got Jacque under

her spell, and that's a shame. J. is easilyoffended, bursts into tears at the slightestthing and, to top it all off, is a terribleshow-off. Miss J. always has to be right.She's very rich, and has a closet full ofthe most adorable dresses that are waytoo old for her. She thinks she'sgorgeous, but she's not. J. and I can'tstand each other.Ilse Wagner is a nice girl with a cheerfuldisposition, but she's extremely fInickyand can spend hours moaning andgroaning about something. Ilse likes mea lot. She's very smart, but lazy.Hanneli Goslar, or Lies as she's calledat school, is a bit on the strange side.She's usually shy-outspoken at horne, butreserved around other people. She blabs

whatever you tell her to her mother. Butshe says what she thinks, and lately I'vecorne to appreciate her a great deal.Nannie van Praag-Sigaar is small, funnyand sensible. I think she's nice. She'spretty smart. There isn't much else youcan say about Nannie. Eefje de Jong is,in my opinion, terrific. Though she's onlytwelve, she's quite the lady. She acts asif I were a baby. She's also very helpful,and I like her. G.Z. is the prettiest girl inour class. She has a nice face, but is kindof dumb. I think they're going to hold herback a year, but of course I haven't toldher that.COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE AT ALATER DATE: To my areat surprise,G.Z. wasn't held back a year after all.

And sitting next to G.Z. is the last of ustwelve girls, me.There's a lot to be said about the boys,or maybe not so much after all. MauriceCoster is one of my many admirers, butpretty much of a pest. Sallie Springerhas a filthy mind, and rumor has it thathe's gone all the way. Still, I think he'sterrific, because he's very funny.Emiel Bonewit is G.Z.'s admirer, but shedoesn't care. He's pretty boring. RobCohen used to be in love with me too,but I can't stand him anymore. He's anobnoxious, two-faced, lying, snivelinglittle goof who has an awfully highopinion of himself.Max van de Velde is a farm boy fromMedemblik, but eminently suitable, as

Margot would say.Herman Koopman also has a filthy mind,just like Jopie de Beer, who's a terribleflirt and absolutely girl-crazy.Leo Blom is Jopie de Beer's best friend,but has been ruined by his dirty mind.Albert de Mesquita came from theMontessori School and skipped a grade.He's really smart.Leo Slager came from the same school,but isn't as smart.Ru Stoppelmon is a short, goofy boyfrom Almelo who transferred to thisschool in the middle of the year.C.N. does whatever he's not supposedto.Jacques Kocernoot sits behind us, nextto C., and we (G. and I) laugh ourselves

silly.Harry Schaap is the most decent boy inour class. He's nice.Werner Joseph is nice too, but all thechanges taking place lately have madehim too quiet, so he seems boring. SamSalomon is one of those tough guys fromacross the tracks. A real brat.(Admirer!)Appie Riem is pretty Orthodox, but abrat too.SATURDAY, JUNE 20,1942Writing in a diary is a really strangeexperience for someone like me. Notonly because I've never written anythingbefore, but also because it seems to methat later on neither I nor anyone elsewill be interested in the musings of a

thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Oh well, itdoesn't matter. I feel like writing, and Ihave an even greater need to get allkinds of things off my chest. "Paper hasmore patience than people." I thought ofthis saying on one of those days when Iwas feeling a little depressed and wassitting at home with my chin in my hands,bored and listless, wondering whether tostay in or go out. I finally stayed where Iwas, brooding. Yes, paper does havemore patience, and since I'm notplanning to let anyone else read thisstiff-backed notebook grandly referredto as a "diary," unless I should ever finda real friend, it probably won't make abit of difference.Now I'm back to the point that prompted

me to keep a diary in the first place: Idon't have a friend.Let me put it more clearly, since no onewill believe that a thirteen year-old girlis completely alone in the world. AndI'm not. I have loving parents and asixteen-year-old sister, and there areabout thirty people I can call friends. Ihave a throng of admirers who can't keeptheir adoring eyes off me and whosometimes have to resort to using abroken pocket mirror to try and catch aglimpse of me in the classroom. I have afamily, loving aunts and a good home.No, on the surface I seem to haveeverything, except my one true friend.All I think about when I'm with friends ishaving a good time. I can't bring myself

to talk about anything but ordinaryeveryday things. We don't seem to beable to get any closer, and that's theproblem. Maybe it's my fault that wedon't confide in each other. In any case,that's just how things are, andunfortunately they're not liable to change.This is why I've started the diary. Toenhance the image of this long-awaitedfriend in my imagination, I don't want tojot down the facts in this diary the waymost people would do, but I want thediary to be my friend, and I'm going tocall this friend Kitty. Since no onewould understand a word of my storiesto Kitty if I were to plunge right in, I'dbetter provide a brief sketch of my life,much as I dislike doing so.

My father, the most adorable father I'veever seen, didn't marry my mother untilhe was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born inFrankfurt am Main in Germany in 1926. Iwas born on June 12, 1929. I lived inFrankfurt until I was four. Because we'reJewish, my father immigrated to Hollandin 1933, when he became the ManagingDirector of the Dutch Opekta Company,which manufactures products used inmaking jam. My mother, Edith HollanderFrank, went with him to Holland inSeptember, while Margot and I weresent to Aachen to stay with ourgrandmother. Margot went to Holland inDecember, and I followed in February,when I was plunked down on the table

as a birthday present for Margot.I started right away at the Montessorinursery school. I stayed there until I wassix, at which time I started first grade. Insixth grade my teacher was Mrs.Kuperus, the principal. At the end of theyear we were both in tears as we said aheartbreaking farewell, because I'd beenaccepted at the Jewish Lyceum, whereMargot also went to school.Our lives were not without anxiety,since our relatives in Germany weresuffering under Hitler's anti-Jewishlaws. After the pogroms in 1938 my twouncles (my mother's brothers) fledGermany, finding safe refuge in NorthAmerica. My elderly grandmother cameto live with us. She was seventy-three

years old at the time.After May 1940 the good times werefew and far between: first there was thewar, then the capitulation and then thearrival of the Germans, which is whenthe trouble started for the Jews. Ourfreedom was severely restricted by aseries of anti-Jewish decrees: Jewswere required to wear a yellow star;Jews were required to turn in theirbicycles; Jews were forbidden to usestreet-cars; Jews were forbidden to ridein cars, even their own; Jews wererequired to do their shopping between 3and 5 P.M.; Jews were required tofrequent only Jewish-ownedbarbershops and beauty parlors; Jewswere forbidden to be out on the streets

between 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.; Jews wereforbidden to attend theaters, movies orany other forms of entertainment; Jewswere forbidden to use swimming pools,tennis courts, hockey fields or any otherathletic fields; Jews were forbidden togo rowing; Jews were forbidden to takepart in any athletic activity in public;Jews were forbidden to sit in theirgardens or those of their friends after 8P.M.; Jews were forbidden to visitChristians in their homes; Jews wererequired to attend Jewish schools, etc.You couldn't do this and you couldn't dothat, but life went on. Jacque alwayssaid to me, "I don't dare do anythinganymore, 'cause I'm afraid it's notallowed."

In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sickand had to have an operation, so mybirthday passed with little celebration.In the summer of 1940 we didn't domuch for my birthday either, since thefighting had just ended in Holland.Grandma died in January 1942. No oneknows how often I think of her and stilllove her. This birthday celebration in1942 was intended to make up for theothers, and Grandma's candle was litalong with the rest.The four of us are still doing well, andthat brings me to the present date of June20, 1942, and the solemn dedication ofmy diary.SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1942Dearest Kitty! Let me get started right

away; it's nice and quiet now. Father andMother are out and Margot has gone toplay Ping-Pong with some other youngpeople at her friend Trees's. I've beenplaying a lot of Ping-Pong myself lately.So much that five of us girls have formeda club. It's called "The Little DipperMinus Two." A really silly name, but it'sbased on a mistake. We wanted to giveour club a special name; and becausethere were five of us, we came up withthe idea of the Little Dipper. We thoughtit consisted of five stars, but we turnedout to be wrong. It has seven, like theBig Dipper, which explains the "MinusTwo." Ilse Wagner has a Ping-Pong set,and the Wagners let us play in their bigdining room whenever we want. Since

we five Ping-Pong players like icecream, especially in the summer, andsince you get hot playing Ping-Pong, ourgames usually end with a visit to thenearest ice-cream parlor that allowsJews: either Oasis or Delphi. We'velong since stopped hunting around forour purses or money-most of the time it'sso busy in Oasis that we manage to finda few generous young men of ouracquaintance or an admirer to offer usmore ice cream than we could eat in aweek.You're probably a little surprised to hearme talking about admirers at such atender age. Unfortunately, or not, as thecase may be, this vice seems to berampant at our school. As soon as a boy

asks if he can bicycle home with me andwe get to talking, nine times out of ten Ican be sure he'll become enamored onthe spot and won't let me out of his sightfor a second. His ardor eventually cools,especially since I ignore his passionateglances and pedal blithely on my way. Ifit gets so bad that they start rambling onabout "asking Father's permission," Iswerve slightly on my bike, myschoolbag falls, and the young man feelsobliged to get off his bike and hand methe bag, by which time I've switched theconversation to another topic. These arethe most innocent types. Of course, thereare those who blow you kisses or try totake hold of your arm, but they'redefinitely knocking on the wrong door. I

get off my bike and either refuse to makefurther use of their company or act as ifI'm insulted and tell them in no uncertainterms to go on home without me. Thereyou are. We've now laid the basis forour friendship. Until tomorrow.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1942Dearest Kitty,Our entire class is quaking in its boots.The reason, of course, is the upcomingmeeting in which the teachers decidewho'll be promoted to the next grade andwho'll be kept back. Half the class ismaking bets. G.Z. and I laugh ourselvessick at the two boys behind us, C.N. andJacques Kocernoot, who have stakedtheir entire vacation savings on their bet.

From morning to night, it's "You're goingto pass, No, I'm not," "Yes, you are,""No, I'm not." Even G.'s pleadingglances and my angry outbursts can'tcalm them down. If you ask me, there areso many dummies that about a quarter ofthe class should be kept back, butteachers are the most unpredictablecreatures on earth. Maybe this timethey'll be unpredictable in the rightdirection for a change. I'm not soworried about my girlfriends and myself.We'll make it. The only subject I'm notsure about is math. Anyway, all we cando is wait. Until then, we keep tellingeach other not to lose heart. I get alongpretty well with all my teachers. Thereare nine of them, seven men and two

women. Mr. Keesing, the old fogey whoteaches math, was mad at me for thelongest time because I talked so much.After several warnings, he assigned meextra homework. An essay on the subject"A Chatterbox." A chatterbox, what canyou write about that? I'd wbrry aboutthat later, I decided. I jotted down theassignment in my notebook, tucked it inmy bag and tried to keep quiet. Thatevening, after I'd finished the rest of myhomework, the note about the essaycaught my eye. I began thinking about thesubject while chewing the tip of myfountain pen. Anyone could ramble onand leave big spaces between the words,but the trick was to come up withconvincing arguments to prove the

necessity of talking. I thought andthought, and suddenly I had an idea. Iwrote the three pages Mr. Keesing hadassigned me and was satisfied. I arguedthat talking is a female trait and that Iwould do my best to keep it undercontrol, but that I would never be able tobreak myself of the habit, since mymother talked as much as I did, if notmore, and that there's not much you cando about inherited traits.Mr. Keesing had a good laugh at myarguments, but when I proceeded to talkmy way through the next class, heassigned me a second essay. This time itwas supposed to be on "An IncorrigibleChatterbox." I handed it in, and Mr.Keesing had nothing to complain about

for two whole classes. However, duringthe third class he'd finally had enough."Anne Frank, as punishment for talkingin class, write an essay entitled 'Quack,Quack, Quack,' said MistressChatterback.'" The class roared. I had tolaugh too, though I'd ) nearly exhaustedmy ingenuity on the topic ofchatterboxes. It was time to come upwith something else, j somethingoriginal. My friend Sanne, who's good atpoetry, offered to help me write theessay from beginning to end in verse. Ijumped for joy. Keesing was trying toplay a joke on me with this ridiculoussubject, but I'd make sure the joke wason him. I finished my poem, and it wasbeautiful! It was about a mother duck

and a father swan with three babyducklings who were bitten to death bythe father because they quacked toomuch. Luckily, Keesing took the joke theright way. He read the poem to the class,adding his own comments, and toseveral other classes as well. Since thenI've been allowed to talk and haven'tbeen assigned any extra homework. Onthe contrary, Keesing's always i makingjokes these days.Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, JUNE 24, 1942Dearest Kitty,It's sweltering. Everyone is huffing andpuffing, and in this heat I have to walkeverywhere. Only now do I realize howpleasant a streetcar is, but we Jews are

no longer allowed to make use of thisluxury; our own two feet are goodenough for us. Yesterday at lunchtime Ihad an appointment with the dentist onJan Luykenstraat. It's a long way fromour school on Stadstimmertuinen. Thatafternoon I nearly fell asleep at my desk.Fortunately, people automatically offeryou something to drink. The dentalassistant is really kind. The only modeof transportation left to us is the ferry.The ferryman at Josef Israelkade took usacross when we asked him to. It's not thefault of the Dutch that we Jews arehaving such a bad time.I wish I didn't have to go to school. Mybike was stolen during Easter vacation,and Father gave Mother's bike to some

Christian friends for safekeeping. Thankgoodness summer vacation is almosthere; one more week and our tormentwill be over.Something unexpected happenedyesterday morning. As I was passing thebicycle racks, I heard my name beingcalled. I turned around and there was thenice boy I'd met the evening before at myfriend Wilma's. He's Wilma's secondcousin. I used to think Wilma was nice,which she is, but all she ever talks aboutis boys, and that gets to be a bore. Hecame toward me, somewhat shyly, andintroduced himself as Hello Silberberg.I was a little surprised and wasn't surewhat he wanted, but it didn't take melong to find out. He asked if I would

allow him to accompany me to school."As long as you're headed that way, I'llgo with you," I said. And so we walkedtogether. Hello is sixteen and good attelling all kinds of funny stories.He was waiting for me again thismorning, and I expect he will be fromnow on. AnneWEDNESDAY, JULY 1, 1942Dearest Kitty,Until today I honestly couldn't find thetime to write you. I was with friends allday Thursday, we had company onFriday, and that's how it went untiltoday. Hello and I have gotten to knoweach other very well this past week, andhe's told me a lot about his life. Hecomes from Gelsenkirchen and is living

with his grandparents. His parents are inBelgium, but there's no way he can getthere. Hello used to have a girlfriendnamed Ursula. I know her too. She'sperfectly sweet and perfectly boring.Ever since he met me, Hello has realizedthat he's been falling asleep at Ursul'sside. So I'm kind of a pep tonic. Younever know what you're good for!Jacque spent Saturday night here. Sundayafternoon she was at Hanneli's, and Iwas bored stiff.Hello was supposed to come over thatevening, but he called around six. Ianswered the phone, and he said, "Thisis Helmuth Silberberg. May I pleasespeak to Anne?""Oh, Hello. This is Anne."

"Oh, hi, Anne. How are you?" ""Fine, thanks.""I just wanted to say I'm sorry but I can'tcome tonight, though I would like tohave a word with you. Is it all right if Icome by and pick you up in about tenminutes"Yes, that's fine. Bye-bye!""Okay, I'll be right over. Bye-bye!"I hung up, quickly changed my clothesand fixed my hair. I was so nervous Ileaned out the window to watch for him.He finally showed up. Miracle ofmiracles, I didn't rush down the stairs,but waited quietly until he rang the bell.I went down to open the door, and he gotright to the point. "Anne, mygrandmother thinks you're too young for

me to be seeing you on a regular basis.She says I should be going to theLowenbachs', but you probably knowthat I'm not going out with Ursulanymore.""No, I didn't know. What happened? Didyou two have a fight?""No, nothing like that. I told Ursul thatwe weren't suited to each other and so itwas better for us not to go togetheranymore, but that she was welcome atmy house and I hoped I would bewelcome at hers. Actually, I thoughtUrsul was hanging around with anotherboy, and I treated her as if she were. Butthat wasn't true. And then my uncle said Ishould apologize to her, but of course Ididn't feel like it, and that's why I broke

up with her. But that was just one of thereasons."Now my grandmother wants me to seeUrsul and not you, but I don't agree andI'm not going to. Sometimes old peoplehave really old-fashioned ideas, but thatdoesn't mean I have to go along withthem. I need my grandparents, but in acertain sense they need me too. Fromnow on I'll be free on Wednesdayevenings. You see, my grandparentsmade me sign up for a wood-carvingclass, but actually I go to a cluborganized by the Zionists. Mygrandparents don't want me to go,because they're anti-Zionists. I'm not afanatic Zionist, but it interests me.Anyway, it's been such a mess lately that

I'm planning to quit. So next Wednesdaywill be my last meeting. That means Ican see you Wednesday evening,Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening,Sunday afternoon and maybe evenmore.""But if your grandparents don't want youto, you? shouldn't go behind their backs.""All's fair in love and war."Just then we passed Blankevoort'sBookstore and there was Peter Schiffwith two other boys; it was the first timehe'd said hello to me in ages, and itreally made me feel good.Monday evening Hello came over tomeet Father and Mother. I had bought acake and some candy, and we had teaand cookies, the works, but neither

Hello nor I felt like sitting stiffly on ourchairs. So we went out for a walk, andhe didn't deliver me to my door until tenpast eight. Father was furious. He said itwas very wrong of me not to get homeon time. I had to promise to be home byten to eight in the future. I've been askedto Hello's on Saturday. Wilma told methat one night when Hello was at herhouse, she asked him, "Who do you likebest, Ursul or Anne?"He said, "It's none of your business."But as he was leaving (they hadn't talkedto each other the rest of the evening), hesaid, "Well, I like Anne better, but don'ttell anyone. Bye!" And whoosh. . . hewas out the door.In everything he says or does, I can see

that Hello is in love with me, and it'skind of nice for a change. Margot wouldsay that Hello is eminently suitable. Ithink so too, but he's more than that.Mother is also full of praise: "A good-looking boy. Nice and polite." I'm gladhe's so popular with everyone. Exceptwith my girlfriends. He thinks they'revery childish, and he's right about that.Jacque still teases me about him, but I'mnot in love with him. Not really. It's allright for me to have boys as friends.Nobody minds. Mother is always askingme who I'm going to marry when I growup, but I bet she'll never guess it's Peter,because I talked her out of that ideamyself, without batting an eyelash. I lovePeter as I've never loved anyone, and I

tell myself he's only going around withall those other girls to hide his feelingsfor me. Maybe he thinks Hello and I arein love with each other, which we're not.He's just a friend, or as Mother puts it, abeau.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, JULY 5, 1942Dear Kitty,The graduation ceremony in the JewishTheater on Friday went as expected. Myreport card wasn't too bad. I got one D, aC- in algebra and all the rest B's, exceptfor two B+'s and two B-'s. My parentsare pleased, but they're not like otherparents when it comes to grades. Theynever worry about report cards, good orbad. As long as I'm healthy and happy

and don't talk back too much, they'resatisfied. If these three things are allright, everything else will take care ofitself.I'm just the opposite. I don't want to be apoor student. I was accepted to theJewish Lyceum on a conditional basis. Iwas supposed to stay in the seventhgrade at the Montessori School, butwhen Jewish children were required togo to Jewish schools, Mr. Elte finallyagreed, after a great deal of persuasion,to accept Lies Goslar and me. Lies alsopassed this year, though she has to repeather geometry exam.Poor Lies. It isn't easy for her to study athome; her baby sister, a spoiled littletwo-year-old, plays in her room all day.

If Gabi doesn't get her way, she startsscreaming, and if Lies doesn't look afterher, Mrs. Goslar starts screaming. SoLies has a hard time doing herhomework, and as long as that's the case,the tutoring she's been getting won't helpmuch. The Goslar household is really asight. Mrs. Goslar's parents live nextdoor, but eat with the family. The there'sa hired girl, the baby, the alwaysabsentminded and absent Mr. Goslar andthe always nervous and irrita Ie Mrs.Goslar, who's expecting another baby.Lies, who's all thumbs, gets lost in themayhem.My sister Margot has also gotten herreport card.Brilliant, as usual. If we had such a thing

as "cum laude," she would have passedwith honors, she's so smart.Father has been home a lot lately.There's nothing for him to do at theoffice; it must be awful to feel you're notneeded. Mr. Kleiman has taken overOpekta, and Mr. Kugler, Gies & Co., thecompany dealing in spices and spicesubstitutes that was set up in 1941.A few days ago, as we were taking astroll around our neighborhood square,Father began to talk about going intohiding. He said it would be very hard forus to live cut off from the rest of theworld. I asked him why he was bringingthis up now."Well, Anne," he replied, "you know thatfor more than a year we've been bringing

clothes, food and furniture to otherpeople. We don't want our belongings tobe seized by the Germans. Nor do wewant to fall into their clutches ourselves.So we'll leave of our own accord andnot wait to be hauled away.""But when, Father?" He sounded soserious that I felt scared."Don't you worry. We'll take care ofeverything. just enjoy your carefree lifewhile you can."That was it. Oh, may these somberwords not come true for as long aspossible. The doorbell's ringing, Hello'shere, time to stop.Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, JULY 8, 1942Dearest Kitty,

It seems like years since Sundaymorning. So much has happened it's as ifthe whole world had suddenly turnedupside down. But as you can see, Kitty,I'm still alive, and that's the main thing,Father says. I'm alive all right, but don'task where or how. You probably don'tunderstand a word I'm saying today, soI'll begin by telling you what happenedSunday afternoon.At three o'clock (Hello had left but wassupposed to come back later), thedoorbell rang. I didn't hear it, since Iwas out on the balcony, lazily reading inthe sun. A little while later Margotappeared in the kitchen doorway lookingvery agitated. "Father has received acall-up notice from the SS," she

whispered. "Mother has gone to see Mr.van Daan" (Mr. van Daan is Father'sbusiness partner and a good friend.)I was stunned. A call-up: everyoneknows what that means. Visions ofconcentration camps and lonely cellsraced through my head. How could welet Father go to such a fate? "Of coursehe's not going," declared Margot as wewaited for Mother in the living room."Mother's gone to Mr. van Daan to askwhether we can move to our hidingplace tomorrow. The van Daans aregoing with us. There will be seven of usaltogether." Silence. We couldn't speak.The thought of Father off visitingsomeone in the Jewish Hospital andcompletely unaware of what was

happening, the long wait for Mother, theheat, the suspense-all this reduced us tosilence.Suddenly the doorbell rang again."That's Hello," I said."Don't open the door!" exclaimedMargot to stop me. But it wasn'tnecessary, since we heard Mother andMr. van Daan downstairs talking toHello, and then the two of them cameinside and shut the door behind them.Every time the bell rang, either Margotor I had to tiptoe downstairs to see if itwas Father, and we didn't let anyoneelse in. Margot and I were sent from theroom, as Mr. van Daan wanted to talk toMother alone.When she and I were sitting in our

bedroom, Margot told me that the call-upwas not for Father, but for her. At thissecond shock, I began to cry. Margot issixteen-apparently they want to sendgirls her age away on their own. Butthank goodness she won't be going;Mother had said so herself, which mustbe what Father had meant when hetalked to me about our going into hiding.Hiding. . . where would we hide? In thecity? In the country? In a house? In ashack? When, where, how. . . ? Thesewere questions I wasn't allowed to ask,but they still kept running through mymind.Margot and I started packing our mostimportant belongings into a schoolbag.The first thing I stuck in was this diary,

and then curlers, handkerchiefs,schoolbooks, a comb and some oldletters. Preoccupied by the thought ofgoing into hiding, I stuck the craziestthings in the bag, but I'm not sorry.Memories mean more to me thandresses.Father finally came hQme around fiveo'clock, and we called Mr. Kleiman toask if he could come by that evening.Mr. van Daan left and went to get Miep.Miep arrived and promised to returnlater that night, taking with her a bag fullof shoes, dresses, jackets, underwearand stockings. After that it was quiet inour apartment; none of us felt like eating.It was still hot, and everything was verystrange.

We had rented our big upstairs room to aMr. Goldschmidt, a divorced man in histhirties, who apparently had nothing todo that evening, since despite all ourpolite hints he hung around until teno'clock.Miep and Jan Gies came at eleven.Miep, who's worked for Father'scompany since 1933, has become aclose friend, and so has her husband Jan.Once again, shoes, stockings, books andunderwear disappeared into Miep's bagand Jan's deep pockets. At eleven-thirtythey too disappeared.I was exhausted, and even though I knewit'd be my last night in my own bed, I fellasleep right away and didn't wake upuntil Mother called me at five-thirty the

next morning. Fortunately, it wasn't ashot as Sunday; a warm rain fellthroughout the day. The four of us werewrapped in so many layers of clothes itlooked as if we were going off to spendthe night in a refrigerator, and all thatjust so we could take more clothes withus. No Jew in our situation would dareleave the house with a suitcase full ofclothes. I was wearing two undershirts,three pairs of underpants, a dress, andover that a skirt, a jacket, a raincoat, twopairs of stockings, heavy shoes, a cap, ascarf and lots more. I was suffocatingeven before we left the house, but no onebothered to ask me how I felt.Margot stuffed her schoolbag withschoolbooks, went to get her bicycle

and, with Miep leading the way, rode offinto the great unknown. At any rate, that'show I thought of it, since I still didn'tknow where our hiding place was. Atseven-thirty we too closed the doorbehind us; Moortje, my cat, was the onlyliving creature I said good-bye to.According to a note we left for Mr.Goldschmidt, she was to be taken to theneighbors, who would give her a goodhome.The stripped beds, the breakfast thingson the table, the pound of meat for thecat in the kitchen-all of these created theimpression that we'd left in a hurry. Butwe weren't interested in impressions.We just wanted to get out of there, to getaway and reach our destination in safety.

Nothing else mattered. More tomorrow.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, JULY 9, 1942Dearest Kitty,So there we were, Father, Mother and I,walking in the pouring rain, each of uswith a schoolbag and a shopping bagfilled to the brim with the most variedassortment of items. The people on theirway to work at that early hour gave ussympathetic looks; you could tell bytheir faces that they were sorry theycouldn't offer us some kind oftransportation; the conspicuous yellowstar spoke for itself.Only when we were walking down thestreet did Father and Mother reveal,little by little, what the plan was. For

months we'd been moving as much of ourfurniture and apparel out of theapartment as we could. It was agreedthat we'd go into hiding on July 16.Because of Margot's call-up notice, theplan had to be moved up ten days, whichmeant we'd have to make do with lessorderly rooms. The hiding place waslocated in Father's office building. That'sa little hard for outsiders to understand,so I'll explain. Father didn't have a lot ofpeople working in his office, just Mr.Kugler, Mr. Kleiman, Miep and atwenty-three-year-old typist named BepVoskuijl, all of whom were informed ofour coming. Mr. Voskuijl, Bep's father,works in the warehouse, along with twoassistants, none of whom were told

anything.Here's a description of the building. Thelarge warehouse on the ground floor isused as a workroom and storeroom andis divided into several differentsections, such as the stockroom and themilling room, where cinnamon, clovesand a pepper substitute are ground.Next to the warehouse doors is anotheroutside' door, a separate entrance to theoffice. Just inside the office door is asecond door, and beyond that a stairway.At the top of the stairs is another door,with a frosted window on which theword "Office" is written in black letters.This is the big front office-very large,very light and very full. Bep, Miep andMr. Kleiman work there during the day.

After passing through an alcovecontaining a safe, a wardrobe and a bigsupply cupboard, you come to the small,dark, stuffy back office. This used to beshared by Mr. Kugler and Mr. van Daan,but now Mr. Kugler is its only occupant.Mr. Kugler's office can also be reachedfrom the hallway, but only through aglass door that can be opened from theinside but not easily from the outside. Ifyou leave Mr. Kugler's office andproceed through the long, narrowhallway past the coal bin and go up foursteps, you find yourself in the privateoffice, the showpiece of the entirebuilding. Elegant mahogany furniture, alinoleum floor covered with throw rugs,a radio, a fancy lamp, everything first

class. Next door is a spacious kitchenwith a hot-water heater and two gasburners, and beside that a bathroom.That's the second floor.A wooden staircase leads from thedownstairs hallway to the third floor. Atthe top of the stairs is a landing, withdoors on either side. The door on the lefttakes you up to the spice storage area,attic and loft in the front part of thehouse. A typically Dutch, very steep,ankle-twisting flight of stairs also runsfrom the front part of the house toanother door opening onto the street. Thedoor to the right of the landing leads tothe "Secret Annex" at the back ofthehouse. No one would ever suspect therewere so many rooms behind that plain

gray door. There's just one small step infront of the door, and then you're inside.Straight ahead of you is a steep flight ofstairs. To the left is a narrow hallwayopening onto a room that serves as theFrank family's living[INSERT MAP HERE]room and bedroom. Next door is asmaller room, the )edroom and study ofthe two young ladies of the family. ro theright of the stairs is a windowlesswashroom. with a link. The door in thecorner leads to the toilet and another oneto Margot's and my room. If you go upthe itairs and open the door at the top,you're surprised to see such a large, lightand spacious room in an old canalsidehouse like this. It contains a stove

(thanks to the fact hat it used to be Mr.Kugler's laboratory) and a sink.This will be the kitchen and bedroom ofMr. and Mrs. van Daan, as well as thegeneral living room, dining room andstudy for us all. A tiny side room is to bePeter van Daan's bedroom. Then, just asin the front part of the building, there'san attic and a loft. So there you are. NowI've introduced you to the whole of ourlovely Annex!Yours, AnneFRIDAY, JULY 10, 1942Dearest Kitty, I've probably bored youwith my long description of our house,but I still think you should know whereI've ended up; how I ended up here issomething you'll figure out from my next

letters.But first, let me continue my story,because, as you know, I wasn't finished.After we arrived at 263 Prinsengracht,Miep quickly led us through the longhallway and up the wooden staircase tothe next floor and into the Annex. Sheshut the door behind us, leaving usalone. Margot had arrived much earlieron her bike and was waiting for us.Our living room and all the other roomswere so full of stuff that I can't find thewords to describe it. All the cardboardboxes that had been sent to the office inthe last few months were piled on thefloors and beds. The small room wasfilled from floor to cethng with linens. Ifwe wanted to sleep in properly made

beds that night, we had to get going andstraighten up the mess. Mother andMargot were unable to move a muscle.They lay down on their bare mattresses,tired, miserable and I don't know whatelse. But Father and I, the two cleaner-uppers in the family, started in rightaway.All day long we unpacked boxes, filledcupboards, hammered nails andstraightened up the mess, until we fellexhausted into our clean beds at night.We hadn't eaten a hot meal all day, butwe didn't care; Mother and Margot weretoo tired and keyed up to eat, and Fatherand I were too busy.Tuesday morning we started where weleft off the night before. Bep and Miep

went grocery shopping with our rationcoupons, Father worked on our blackoutscreens, we scrubbed the kitchen floor,and were once again busy from sunup tosundown. Until Wednesday, I didn't havea chance to think about the enormouschange in my life. Then for the first timesince our arrival in the Secret Annex, Ifound a moment to tell you all about itand to realize what had happened to meand what was yet to happen.Yours, AnneSATURDAY, JULY 11, 1942Dearest Kitty,Father, Mother and Margot still can't getused to the chiming of the Westertorenclock, which tells us the time everyquarter of an hour. Not me, I liked it

from the start; it sounds so reassuring,especially at night. You no doubt want tohear what I think of being in hiding.Well, all I can say is that I don't reallyknow yet. I don't think I'll ever feel athome in this house, but that doesn't meanI hate it. It's more like being on vacationin some strange pension. Kind of an oddway to look at life in hiding, but that'show things are. The Annex is an idealplace to hide in. It may be damp andlopsided, but there's probably not a morecomfortable hiding place in all ofAmsterdam. No, in all of Holland.Up to now our bedroom, with its blankwalls, was very bare. Thanks to Father-who brought my entire postcard andmovie-star collection here beforehand-

and to a brush and a pot of glue, I wasable to plaster the walls with pictures. Itlooks much more cheerful. When the vanDaans arrive, we'll be able to buildcupboards and other odds and ends outof the wood piled in the attic.Margot and Mother have recoveredsomewhat. Yesterday Mother felt wellenough to cook split-pea soup for thefirst time, but then she wasdownstairstalking and forgot all about it.The beans were scorched black, and noamount of scraping could get them out ofthe pan.Last night the four of us went down tothe private office and listened toEngland on the radio. I was so scaredsomeone might hear it that I literally

begged Father to take me back upstairs.Mother understood my anxiety and wentwith me. Whatever we do, we're veryafraid the neighbors might hear or seeus. We started off immediately the firstday sewing curtains. Actually, you canhardly call them that, since they'renothing but scraps of fabric, varyinggreatly in shape, quality and pattern,which Father and I stitched crookedlytogether with unskilled fingers. Theseworks of art were tacked to thewindows, where they'll stay until wecome out of hiding.The building on our right is a branch ofthe Keg Company, a firm from Zaandam,and on the left is a furniture workshop.Though the people who work there are

not on the premises after hours, anysound we make might travel through thewalls. We've forbidden Margot to coughat night, even though she has a bad cold,and are giving her large doses ofcodeine.I'm looking forward to the arrival of thevan Daans, which is set for Tuesday. Itwill be much more fun and also not asquiet. You see, it's the silence that makesme so nervous during the evenings andnights, and I'd give anything to have oneof our helpers sleep here.It's really not that bad here, since we cando our own cooking and can listen to theradio in Daddy's office.Mr. Kleiman and Miep, and BepVoskuijl too, have helped us so much.

We've already canned loads of rhubarb,strawberries and cherries, so for thetime being I doubt we'll be bored. Wealso have a supply of reading material,and we're going to buy lots of games. Ofcourse, we can't ever look out thewindow or go outside. And we have tobe quiet so the people downstairs can'thear us. Yesterday we had our handsfull. We had to pit two crates of cherriesfor Mr. Kugler to can. We're going touse the empty crates to makebookshelves. Someone's calling me.Yours, AnneCOMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ONSEPTEMBER 2g, 1942: Not beina ableto ao outside upsets me more than I cansay, and I'm terrified our hidina place

will be discovered and that we'll beshot. That, of course, is a fairly dismalprospect.SUNDAY, JULY 12, 1942They've all been so nice to me this lastmonth because of my birthday, and yetevery day I feel myself drifting furtheraway from Mother and Margot. I workedhard today and they praised me, only tostart picking on me again five minuteslater.You can easily see the differencebetween the way they deal with Margotand the way they deal with me. Forexample, Margot broke the vacuumcleaner, and because of that we've beenwithout light for the rest of the day.Mother said, "Well, Margot, it's easy to

see you're not used to working;otherwise, you'd have known better thanto yank the plug out by the cord." Margotmade some reply, and that was the endof the story.But this afternoon, when I wanted torewrite something on Mother's shoppinglist because her handwriting is so hardto read, she wouldn't let me. She bawledme out again, and the whole familywound up getting involved. I don't fit inwith them, and I've felt that clearly in thelast few weeks. They're so sentimentaltogether, but I'd rather be sentimental onmy own. They're always saying hownice it is with the four of us, and that weget along so well, without giving amoment's thought to the fact that I don't

feel that way.Daddy's the only one who understandsme, now and again, though he usuallysides with Mother and Margot. Anotherthing I can't stand is having them talkabout me in front of outsiders, tellingthem how I cried or how sensibly I'mbehaving. It's horrible. And sometimesthey talk about Moortje and I can't takethat at all. Moortje is my weak spot. Imiss her every minute of the day, and noone knows how often I think of her;whenever I do, my eyes fill with tears.Moortje is so sweet, and I love her somuch that I keep dreaming she'll comeback to us.I have plenty of dreams, but the reality isthat we'll have to stay here until the war

is over. We can't ever go outside, andthe only visitors we can have are Miep,her husband Jan, Bep Voskuijl, Mr.Voskuijl, Mr. Kugler, Mr. Kleiman andMrs. Kleiman, though she hasn't comebecause she thinks it's too dangerous.COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE INSEPTEMBER 1942: Daddy's always sonice. He understands me perfectly, and Iwish we could have a heart-to-heart talksometime without my bursting instantlyinto tears. But apparently that has to dowith my age. I'd like to spend all mytime writing, but that would probably getboring. Up to now I've only confided mythoughts to my diary. I still haven't gottenaround to writing amusing sketches that Icould read aloud at a later date. In the

future I'm going to devote less time tosentimentality and more time to reality.FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 1942Dear Kitty,I've deserted you for an entire month, butso little has happened that I can't find anewsworthy item to relate every singleday. The van Daans arrived on July 13.We thought they were coming on thefourteenth, but from the thirteenth tosixteenth the Germans were sending outcall-up notices right and left and causinga lot of unrest, so they decided it wouldbe safer to leave a day too early than aday too late.Peter van Daan arrived at nine-thirty inthe morning (while we were still atbreakfast). Peter's going on sixteen, a

shy, awkward boy whose company won'tamount to much. Mr. and Mrs. van Daancame half an hour later.Much to our amusement, Mrs. van Daanwas carrying a hatbox with a largechamber pot inside. "I just don't feel athome without my chamber pot," sheexclaimed, and it was the first item tofind a permanent place under the divan.Instead of a chamber pot, Mr. van D.was lugging a collapsible tea table underhis arm. From the first, we ate our mealstogether, and after three days it felt as ifthe seven of us had become one bigfamily. Naturally, the van Daans hadmuch to tell about the week we'd beenaway from civilization. We wereespecially interested in what had

happened to our apartment and to Mr.Goldschmidt. Mr. van Daan filled us in:"Monday morning at nine, Mr.Goldschmidt phoned and asked if I couldcome over. I went straightaway andfound a very distraught Mr.Goldschmidt. He showed me a note thatthe Frank family had left behind. Asinstructed, he was planning to bring thecat to the neighbors, which I agreed wasa good idea. He was afraid the housewas going to be searched, so we w=ntthrough all the rooms, straightening uphere and there and clearing the breakfastthings off the table. Suddenly I saw anotepad on Mrs. Frank's desk, with anaddress in Maastricht written on it. Eventhough I knew Mrs. Frank had left it on

purpose, I pretended to be surprised andhorrified and begged Mr. Goldschmidtto burn this incriminating piece of paper.I swore up and down that I knew nothingabout your disappearance, but that thenote had given me an idea. 'Mr.Goldschmidt,' I said, 'I bet I know whatthis address refers to. About six monthsago a high-ranking officer came to theoffice. It seems he and Mr. Frank grewup together. He promised to help Mr.Frank if it was ever necessary. As Irecall, he was stationed in Maastricht. Ithink this officer has kept his word andis somehow planning to help them crossover to Belgium and then to Switzerland.There's no harm in telling this to anyfriends of the Franks who come asking

about them. Of course, you don't need tomention the part about Maastricht.' Andafter that I left. This is the story most ofyour friends have been told, because Iheard it later from several other people."We thought it was extremely funny, butwe laughed even harder when Mr. vanDaan told us that certain people havevivid imaginations. For example, onefamily living on our square claimed theysawall four of us riding by on our bikesearly in the morning, and another womanwas absolutely positive we'd beenloaded into some kind of militaryvehicle in the middle of the night. Yours,AnneFRIDAY, AUGUST 21, 1942Dear Kitty,

Now our Secret Annex has truly becomesecret.Because so many houses are beingsearched for hidden bicycles, Mr.Kugler thought it would be better to havea bookcase built in front of the entranceto our hiding place. It swings out on itshinges and opens like a door. Mr.Voskuijl did the carpentry work. (Mr.Voskuijl has been told that the seven ofus are in hiding, and he's been mosthelpful.)Now whenever we want to godownstairs we have to duck and thenjump. After the first three days we wereall walking around with bumps on ourforeheads from banging our headsagainst the low doorway. Then Peter

cushioned it by nailing a towel stuffedwith wood shavings to the doorframe.Let's see if it helps! I'm not doing muchschoolwork. I've given myself a vacationuntil September. Father wants to starttutoring me then, but we have to buy allthe books first. There's little change inour lives here. Peter's hair was washedtoday, but that's nothing special. Mr. vanDaan and I are always at loggerheadswith each other. Mama always treats melike a baby, which I can't stand. For therest, things are going better. I don't thinkPeter's gotten any nicer. He's anobnoxious boy who lies around on hisbed all day, only rousing himself to do alittle carpentry work before returning tohis nap. What a dope!

Mama gave me another one of herdreadful sermons this morning. We takethe opposite view of everything. Daddy'sa sweetheart; he may get mad at me, butit never lasts longer than five minutes.It's a beautiful day outside, nice and hot,and in spite of everything, we make themost of the weather by lounging on thefolding bed in the attic. Yours, AnneCOMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ONSEPTEMBER 21, 1942: Mr. van Daanhas been as nice as pie to me recently.I've said nothina, but have been enjoyinait while it lasts.WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1942Dearest Kitty,Mr. and Mrs. van Daan have had aterrible fight. I've never seen anything

like it, since Mother and Father wouldn'tdream of shouting at each other like that.The argument was based on somethingso trivial it didn't seem worth wasting asingle word on it. Oh well, to each hisown.Of course, it's very difficult for Peter,who gets caught in the middle, but noone takes Peter seriously anymore, sincehe's hypersensitive and lazy. Yesterdayhe was beside himself with worrybecause his tongue was blue instead ofpink. This rare phenomenon disappearedas quickly as it came. Today he'swalking around with a heavy scarf onbecause he's got a stiff neck. HisHighness has been complaining oflumbago too. Aches and pains in his

heart, kidneys and lungs are also par forthe course. He's an absolutehypochondriac! (That's the right word,isn't it?)Mother and Mrs. van Daan aren't gettingalong very well. There are enoughreasons for the friction. To give you onesmall example, Mrs. van D. has removedall but three of her sheets from ourcommunal linen closet. She's assumingthat Mother's can be used for bothfamilies. She'll be in for a nasty surprisewhen she discovers that Mother hasfollowed her lead.Furthermore, Mrs. van D. is ticked offbecause we're using her china instead ofours. She's still trying to find out whatwe've done with our plates; they're a lot

closer than she thinks, since they'repacked in cardboard boxes in the attic,behind a load of Opekta advertisingmaterial. As long as we're in hiding, theplates will remain out of her reach.Since I'm always having accidents, it'sjust as well! Yesterday I broke one ofMrs. van D.'s soup bowls."Oh!" she angrily exclaimed. "Can't yoube more careful? That was my last one."Please bear in mind, Kitty, that the twoladies speak abominable Dutch (I don'tdare comment on the gentlemen: they'dbe highly insulted). If you were to heartheir bungled attempts, you'd laugh yourhead off. We've given up pointing outtheir errors, since correcting themdoesn't help anyway. Whenever I quote

Mother or Mrs. van Daan, I'll writeproper Dutch instead of trying toduplicate their speech.Last week there was a brief interruptionin our monotonous routine. This wasprovided by Peter-and a book aboutwomen. I should explain that Margot andPeter are allowed to read nearly all thebooks Mr. Kleiman lends us. But theadults preferred to keep this specialbook to themselves. This immediatelypiqued Peter's curiosity. What forbiddenfruit did it contain? He snuck off with itwhen his mother was downstairs talking,and took himself and his booty to theloft. For two days all was well. Mrs.van Daan knew what he was up to, butkept mum until Mr. van Daan found out

about it. He threw a fit, took the bookaway and assumed that would be the endof the business. However, he'd neglectedto take his son's curiosity into account.Peter, not in the least fazed by hisfather's swift action, began thinking upways to read the rest of this vastlyinteresting book.In the meantime, Mrs. van D. askedMother for her opinion. Mother didn'tthink this particular book was suitablefor Margot, but she saw no harm inletting her read most other books.You see, Mrs. van Daan, Mother Said,there's a big difference between Margotand Peter. To begin with, Margot's agirl, and girls are always more maturethan boys. Second, she's already read

many serious books and doesn't golooking for those which are no longerforbidden. Third, Margot's much moresensible and intellectually advanced, asa result of her four years at an excellentschool." Mrs. van Daan agreed with her,but felt it was wrong as a matter ofprinciple to let youngsters read bookswritten for adults.Meanwhile, Peter had thought of asuitable time when no one would beinterested in either him or the book. Atseven-thirty in the evening, when theentire family was listening to the radioin the private office, he took his treasureand stole off to the loft again. He shouldhave been back by eight-thirty, but hewas so engrossed in the book that he

forgot the time and was just comingdown the stairs when his father enteredthe room. The scene that followed wasnot surprising: after a slap, a whack anda tug-of-war, the book lay on the tableand Peter was in the loft.This is how matters stood when it wastime for the family to eat. Peter stayedupstairs. No one gave him a moment'sthought; he'd have to go to bed withouthis dinner. We continued eating, chattingmerrily away, when suddenly we hearda piercing whistle. We lay down ourforks and stared at each other, the shockclearly visible on our pale faces.Then we heard Peter's voice through thechimney: "I won t come down!" Mr. vanDaan leapt up, his napkin falling to the

floor, and shouted, with the bloodrushing to his face, "I've had enough!"Father, afraid of what might happen,grabbed him by the arm and the two menwent to the attic. After much strugglingand kicking, Peter wound up in his roomwith the door shut, and we went oneating.Mrs. van Daan wanted to save a piece ofbread for her darling son, but Mr. van D.was adamant. "If he doesn't apologizethis minute, he'll have to sleep in theloft."We protested that going without dinnerwas enough punishment. What if Peterwere to catch cold? We wouldn't be ableto call a doctor.Peter didn't apologize, and returned to

the loft.Mr. van Daan decided to leave wellenough alone, though he did note the nextmorning that Peter's bed had been sleptin. At seven Peter went to the attic again,but was persuaded to come downstairswhen Father spoke a few friendly wordsto him. After three days of sullen looksand stubborn silence, everything wasback to normal.Yours, AnneMONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1942Dearest Kitty,Today I'll tell you the general news herein the Annex. A lamp has been mountedabove my divan bed so that in the future,when I hear the guns going off, I'll beable to pull a cord and switch on the

light. I can't use it at the moment becausewe're keeping our window open a little,day and night.The male members of the van Daancontingent have built a very handywood-stained food safe, with realscreens. Up to now this gloriouscupboard has been located in Peter'sroom, but in the interests of fresh air it'sbeen moved to the attic. Where it oncestood, there's now a shelf. I advisedPeter to put his table underneath theshelf, add a nice rug and hang his owncupboard where the table now stands.That might make his little cubbyholemore comfy, though I certainly wouldn'tlike to sleep there.Mrs. van Daan is unbearable. I'm

continually being scolded for myincessant chatter when I'm upstairs. Isimply let the words bounce right offme! Madame now has a new trick up hersleeve: trying to get out of washing thepots and pans. If there's a bit of food leftat the bottom of the pan, she leaves it tospoil instead of transferring it to a glassdish. Then in the afternoon when Margotis stuck with cleaning all the pots andpans, Madame exclaims, "Oh, poorMargot, you have so much work to do!"Every other week Mr. Kleiman bringsme a couple of books written for girlsmy age. I'm enthusiastic about the loopter Heul series. I've enjoyed all of Cissyvan Marxveldt's books very much. I'veread The Zaniest Summer four times, and

the ludicrous situations still make melaugh.Father and I are currently working onour family tree, and he tells mesomething about each person as we goalong. I've begun my schoolwork. I'mworking hard at French, cramming fiveirregular verbs into my head every day.But I've forgotten much too much of whatI learned in school.Peter has taken up his English with greatreluctance. A few schoolbooks have justarrived, and I brought a large supply ofnotebooks, pencils, erasers and labelsfrom home. Pim (that's our pet name forFather) wants me to help him with hisDutch lessons. I'm perfectly willing totutor him in exchange for his assistance

with French and other subjects. But hemakes the most unbelievable mistakes!I sometimes listen to the Dutchbroadcasts from London. PrinceBernhard recently announced thatPrincess juliana is expecting a baby inJanuary, which I think is wonderful. Noone here understands why I take such aninterest in the Royal Family.A few nights ago I was the topic ofdiscussion, and we all decided I was anignoramus. As a result, I threw myselfinto my schoolwork the next day, since Ihave little desire to still be a freshmanwhen I'm fourteen or fifteen. The factthat I'm hardly allowed to read anythingwas also discussed. At the moment,Mother's reading Gentlemen, Wives and

Servants, and of course I'm not allowedto read it (though Margot is!). First Ihave to be more intellectuallydeveloped, like my genius of a sister.Then we discussed my ignorance ofphilosophy, psychology and physiology(I immediately looked up these bigwords in the dictionary!). It's true, I don'tknow anything about these subjects. Butmaybe I'll be smarter next year!I've come to the shocking conclusion thatI have only one long-sleeved dress andthree cardigans to wear in the winter.Father's given me permission to knit awhite wool sweater; the yarn isn't verypretty, but it'll be warm, and that's whatcounts. Some of our clothing was leftwith friends, but unfortunately we won't

be able to get to it until after the war.Provided it's still there, of course.I'd just finished writing something aboutMrs. van Daan when she walked into theroom. Thump, I slammed the book shut."Hey, Anne, can't I even take a peek?""No, Mrs. van Daan.""Just the last page then?""No, not even the last page, Mrs. vanDaan."Of course, I nearly died, since thatparticular page contained a ratherunflattering description of her.There's something happening every day,but I'm too tired and lazy to write it alldown.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1942

Dearest Kitty,Father has a friend, a man in his mid-seventies named Mr. Dreher, who's sick,poor and deaf as a post. At his side, likea useless appendage, is his wife, twenty-seven years younger and equally poor,whose arms and legs are loaded withreal and fake bracelets and rings leftover from more prosperous days. ThisMr. Dreher has already been a greatnuisance to Father, and I've alwaysadmired the saintly patience with whichhe handled this pathetic old man on thephone. When we were still living athome, Mother used to advise him to puta gramophone in front of the receiver,one that would repeat every threeminutes, "Yes, Mr. Dreher" and "No,

Mr. Dreher," since the old man neverunderstood a word of Father's lengthyreplies anyway.Today Mr. Dreher phoned the office andasked Mr. Kugler to come and see him.Mr. Kugler wasn't in the mood and saidhe would send Miep, but Miep canceledthe appointment. Mrs. Dreher called theoffice three times, but since Miep wasreportedly out the entire afternoon, shehad to imitate Bep's voice. Downstairsin the office as well as upstairs in theAnnex, there was great hilarity. Noweach time the phone rings, Bep says''That's Mrs. Dreher!" and Miep has tolaugh, so that the people on the other endof the line are greeted with an impolitegiggle. Can't you just picture it? This has

got to be the greatest office in the wholewide world. The bosses and the officegirls have such fun together!Some evenings I go to the van Daans fora little chat. We eat "mothball cookies"(molasses cookies that were stored in acloset that was mothproofed) and have agood time. Recently the conversationwas about Peter. I said that he often patsme on the cheek, which I don't like. Theyasked me in a typically grown-up waywhether I could ever learn to love Peterlike a brother, since he loves me like asister. "Oh, no!" I said, but what I wasthinking was, "Oh, ugh!" Just imagine! Iadded that Peter's a bit stiff, perhapsbecause he's shy. Boys who aren't usedto being around girls are like that.

I must say that the Annex Committee (themen's section) is very creative. Listen tothe scheme they've come up with to get amessage to Mr. Broks, an Opekta Co.sales representative and friend who'ssurreptitiously hidden some of our thingsfor us! They're going to type a letter to astore owner in southern Zealand who is,indirectly, one of Opekta' s customersand ask him to fill out a form and send itback in the enclosed self-addressedenvelope. Father will write the addresson the envelope himself. Once the letteris returned from Zealand, the form canbe removed and a handwritten messageconfirming that Father is alive can beinserted in the envelope. This way Mr.Broks can read the letter without

suspecting a ruse. They chose theprovince of Zealand because it's close toBelgium (a letter can easily be smuggledacross the border) and because no one isallowed to travel there without a specialpermit. An ordinary salesman like Mr.Broks would never be granted a permit.Yesterday Father put on another act.Groggy with sleep, he stumbled off tobed. His feet were cold, so I lent him mybed socks. Five minutes later he flungthem to the floor. Then he pulled theblankets over his head because the lightbothered him. The lamp was switchedoff, and he gingerly poked his head outfrom under the covers. It was all veryamusing. We started talking about thefact that Peter says Margot is a

"buttinsky." Suddenly Daddy's voicewas heard from the depths: "Sits on herbutt, you mean.Mouschi, the cat, is becoming nicer tome as time goes by, but I'm stillsomewhat afraid of her.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1942Dearest Kitty,Mother and I had a so-called"discussion" today, but the annoying partis that I burst into tears. I can't help it.Daddy is always nice to me, and he alsounderstands me much better. At momentslike these I can't stand Mother. It'sobvious that I'm a stranger to her; shedoesn't even know what I think about themost ordinary things.

We were talking about maids and thefact that you're supposed to refer to themas "domestic help" these days. Sheclaimed that when the war is over, that'swhat they'll want to be called. I didn'tquite see it that way. Then she added thatI talk about' 'later" so often and that I actas if I were such a lady, even though I'mnot, but I don't think building sandcastles in the air is such a terrible thingto do, as long as you don't take it tooseriously. At any rate, Daddy usuallycomes to my defense. Without him Iwouldn't be able to stick it out here.I don't get along with Margot very welleither. Even though our family never hasthe same kind of outbursts they haveupstairs, I find it far from pleasant.

Margot's and Mother's personalities areso alien to me. I understand mygirlfriends better than my own mother.Isn't that a shame?For the umpteenth time, Mrs. van Daanis sulking. She's very moody and hasbeen removing more and more of herbelongings and locking them up. It's toobad Mother doesn't repay every vanDaan "disappearing act" with a Frank"disappearing act."Some people, like the van Daans, seemto take special delight not only in raisingtheir own children but in helping othersraise theirs. Margot doesn't need it,since she's naturally good, kind andclever, perfection itself, but I seem tohave enough mischief for the two of us.

More than once the air has been filledwith the van Daans' admonitions and mysaucy replies. Father and Mother alwaysdefend me fiercely. Without them Iwouldn't be able to jump back into thefray with my usual composure. Theykeep telling me I should talk less, mindmy own business and be more modest,but I seem doomed to failure. If Fatherweren't so patient, I'd have long agogiven up hope of ever meeting myparents' quite moderate expectations.If I take a small helping of a vegetable Iloathe and eat potatoes instead, the vanDaans, especially Mrs. van Daan, can'tget over how spoiled I am. "Come on,Anne, eat some more vegetables," shesays.

"No, thank you, ma'am," I reply. "Thepotatoes are more than enough.""Vegetables are good for you; yourmother says so too. Have some more,"she insists, until Father intervenes andupholds my right to refuse a dish I don'tlike.Then Mrs. van D. really flies off thehandle: "You should have been at ourhouse, where children were brought upthe way they should be. I don't call this aproper upbringing. Anne is terriblyspoiled. I'd never allow that. If Annewere my daughter. . ."This is always how her tirades beginand end: "If Anne were my daughter. . ."Thank goodness I'm not.But to get back to the subject of raising

children, yesterday a silence fell afterMrs. van D. finished her little speech.Father then replied, "I think Anne is verywell brought up. At least she's learnednot to respond to your interminablesermons. As far as the vegetables areconcerned, all I have to say is lookwho's calling the kettle black."Mrs. van D. was soundly defeated. Thepot calling the ketde black refers ofcourse to Madame herself, since shecan't tolerate beans or any kind ofcabbage in the evening because they giveher "gas." But I could say the same.What a dope, don't you think? In anycase, let's hope she stops talking aboutme. It's so funny to see how quickly Mrs.van Daan flushes. I don't, and it secredy

annoys her no end.Yours, AnneMONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28,1942Dearest Kitty,I had to stop yesterday, though I wasnowhere near finished. I'm dying to tellyou about another one of our clashes, butbefore I do I'd like to say this: I think it'sodd that grown-ups quarrel so easily andso often and about such petty matters. Upto now I always thought bickering wasjust something children did and that theyoutgrew it. Often, of course, there'ssometimes a reason to have a realquarrel, but the verbal exchanges thattake place here are just plain bickering. Ishould be used to the fact that thesesquabbles are daily occurrences, but I'm

not and never will be as long as I'm thesubject of nearly every discussion.(They refer to these as "discussions"instead of "quarrels," but Germans don'tknow the difference!) They criticizeeverything, and I mean everything, aboutme: my behavior, my personality, mymanners; every inch of me, from head totoe and back again, is the subject ofgossip and debate. Harsh words andshouts are constantly being flung at myhead, though I'm absolutely not used toit. According to the powers that be, I'msupposed to grin and bear it. But I can't!I have no intention of taking their insultslying down. I'll show them that AnneFrank wasn't born yesterday. They'll situp and take notice and keep their big

mouths shut when I make them see theyought to attend to their own mannersinstead of mine. How dare they act thatway! It's simply barbaric. I've beenastonished, time and again, at suchrudeness and most of all. . . at suchstupidity (Mrs. van Daan). But as soonas I've gotten used to the idea, and thatshouldn't take long, I'll give them a tasteof their own medicine, and then they'llchange their tune! Am I really as bad-mannered, headstrong, stubborn, pushy,stupid, lazy, etc., etc., as the van Daanssay I am? No, of course not. I know Ihave my faults and shortcomings, butthey blow them all out of proportion! Ifyou only knew, Kitty, how I seethe whenthey scold and mock me. It won't take

long before I explode with pent-up rage.But enough of that. I've bored you longenough with my quarrels, and yet I can'tresist adding a highly interesting dinnerconversation.Somehow we landed on the subject ofPim's extreme diffidence. His modesty isa well-known fact, which even thestupidest person wouldn't dream ofquestioning. All of a sudden Mrs. vanDaan, who feels the need to bring herselfinto every conversation, remarked, "I'mvery modest and retiring too, much moreso than my husband!"Have you ever heard anything soridiculous? This sentence clearlyillustrates that she's not exactly whatyou'd call modest!

Mr. van Daan, who felt obliged toexplain the "much more so than myhusband," answered calmly, "I have nodesire to be modest and retiring. In myexperience, you get a lot further by beingpushy!" And turning to me, he added,"Don't be modest and retiring, Anne. Itwill get you nowhere."Mother agreed completely with thisviewpoint. But, as usual, Mrs. van Daanhad to add her two cents. This time,however, instead of addressing medirectly, she turned to my parents andsaid, "You must have a strange outlookon life to be able to say that to Anne.Things were different when I wasgrowing up. Though they probablyhaven't changed much since then, except

in your modern household!"This was a direct hit at Mother's modernchild-rearing methods, which she'sdefended on many occasions. Mrs. vanDaan was so upset her face turned brightred. People who flush easily becomeeven more agitated when they feelthemselves getting hot under the collar,and they quickly lose to their opponents.The nonflushed mother, who nowwanted to have the matter over and donewith as quickly as possible, paused for amoment to think before she replied."Well, Mrs. van Daan, I agree that it'smuch better if a person isn't overmodest.My husband, Margot and Peter are allexceptionally modest. Your husband,Anne and I, though not exactly the

opposite, don't let ourselves be pushedaround." Mrs. van Daan: "Oh, but Mrs.Frank, I don't understand what you mean!Honestly, I'm extremely modest andretiring. How can you say that I'mpushy?" Mother: "I didn't say you werepushy, but no one would describe you ashaving a retiring disposition."Mrs. van D.: "I'd like to know in whatway I'm pushy! If I didn't look out formyself here, no one else would, and I'dsoon starve, but that doesn't mean I'm notas modest and retiring as your husband."Mother had no choice but to laugh at thisridiculous self-defense, which irritatedMrs. van Daan. Not exactly a borndebater, she continued her magnificentaccount in a mixture of German and

Dutch, until she got so tangled up in herown words that she finally rose from herchair and was just about to leave theroom when her eye fell on me. Youshould have seen her! As luck wouldhave it, the moment Mrs. van D. turnedaround I was shaking my head in acombination of compassion and irony. Iwasn't doing it on purpose, but I'dfollowed her tirade so intently that myreaction was completely involuntary.Mrs. van D. wheeled around and gaveme a tongue-lashing: hard, Germanic,mean and vulgar, exactly like some fat,red-faced fishwife. It was a joy tobehold. If I could draw, I'd like to havesketched her as she was then. She struckme as so comical, that silly little

scatterbrain! I've learned one thing: youonly really get to know a person after afight. Only then can you judge their truecharacter!Yours, AnneTUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1942Dearest Kitty,The strangest things happen to you whenyou're in hiding! Try to picture this.Because we don't have a bathtub, wewash ourselves in a washtub, andbecause there's only hot water in theoffice (by which I mean the entire lowerfloor), the seven of us take turns makingthe most of this great opportunity. Butsince none of us are alike and are allplagued by varying degrees of modesty,each member of the family has selected a

different place to wash. Peter takes abath in the office kitchen, even though ithas a glass door. When it's time for hisbath, he goes around to each of us in turnand announces that we shouldn't walkpast the kitchen for the next half hour. Heconsiders this measure to be sufficient.Mr. van D. takes his bath upstairs,figuring that the safety of his own roomoutweighs the difficulty of having tocarry the hot water up all those stairs.Mrs. van D. has yet to take a bath; she'swaiting to see which is the best place.Father bathes in the private office andMother in the kitchen behind a firescreen, while Margot and I havedeclared the front office to be ourbathing grounds. Since the curtains are

drawn on Saturday afternoon, we scrubourselves in the dark, while the one whoisn't in the bath looks out the windowthrough a chink in the curtains and gazesin wonder at the endlessly amusingpeople.A week ago I decided I didn't like thisspot and have been on the lookout formore comfortable bathing quarters. Itwas Peter who gave me the idea ofsetting my washtub in the spacious officebathroom. I can sit down, turn on thelight, lock the door, pour out the waterwithout anyone's help, and all withoutthe fear of being seen. I used my lovelybathroom for the first time on Sundayand, strange as it may seem, I like itbetter than any other place.

The plumber was at work downstairs onWednesday, moving the water pipes anddrains from the office bathroom to thehallway so the pipes won't freeze duringa cold winter. The plumber's visit wasfar from pleasant. Not only were we notallowed to run water during the day, butthe bathroom was also off-limits. I'll tellyou how we handled this problem; youmay find it unseemly of me to bring it up,but I'm not so prudish about matters ofthis kind. On the day of our arrival,Father and I improvised a chamber pot,sacrificing a canning jar for thispurpose. For the duration of theplumber's visit, canning jars were putinto service during the daytime to holdour calls of nature. As far as I was

concerned, this wasn't half as difficult ashaving to sit still all day and not say aword. You can imagine how hard thatwas for Miss Quack, Quack, Quack. Onordinary days we have to speak in awhisper; not being able to talk or moveat all is ten times worse.After three days of constant sitting, mybackside was stiff and sore. Nightlycalisthenics helped.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1942Dear Kitty,Yesterday I had a horrible fright. Ateight o'clock the doorbell suddenly rang.All I could think of was that someonewas coming to get us, you know who Imean. But I calmed down when

everybody swore it must have beeneither pranksters or the mailman.The days here are very quiet. Mr.Levinsohn, a little Jewish pharmacistand chemist, is working for Mr. Kuglerin the kitchen. Since he's familiar withthe entire building, we're in constantdread that he'll take it into his head to gohave a look at what used to be thelaboratory. We're as still as baby mice.Who would have guessed three monthsago that quicksilver Anne would have tosit so quietly for hours on end, andwhat's more, that she could?Mrs. van Daan's birthday was thetwenty-ninth. Though we didn't have alarge celebration, she was showeredwith flowers, simple gifts and good

food. Apparently the red carnations fromher spouse are a family tradition. Let mepause a moment on the subject of Mrs.van Daan and tell you that her attemptsto flirt with Father are a constant sourceof irritation to me. She pats him on thecheek and head, hikes up her skirt andmakes so-called witty remarks in aneffort to get's Pim's attention.Fortunately, he finds her neither prettynor charming, so he doesn't respond toher flirtations. As you know, I'm quitethe jealous type, and I can't abide herbehavior. After all, Mother doesn't actthat way toward Mr. van D., which iswhat I told Mrs. van D. right to her face.From time to time Peter can be veryamusing. He and I have one thing in

common: we like to dress up, whichmakes everyone laugh. One evening wemade our appearance, with Peter in oneof his mother's skin-tight dresses and mein his suit. He wore a hat; I had a cap on.The grown-ups split their sides laughing,and we enjoyed ourselves every bit asmuch.Bep bought new skirts for Margot andme at The Bijenkorf. The fabric ishideous, like the burlap bag potatoescome in. Just the kind of thing thedepartment stores wouldn't dare sell inthe olden days, now costing 24.00guilders (Margot's) and 7.75 guilders(mine).We have a nice treat in store: Bep'sordered a correspondence course in

shorthand for Margot, Peter and me. Justyou wait, by this time next year we'll beable to take perfect shorthand. In anycase, learning to write a secret code likethat is really interesting.I have a terrible pain in my index finger(on my left hand), so I can't do anyironing. What luck!Mr. van Daan wants me to sit next to himat the table, since Margot doesn't eatenough to suit him. Fine with me, I likechanges. There's always a tiny black catroaming around the yard, and it remindsme of my dear sweet Moortje. Anotherreason I welcome the change is thatMama's always carping at me,especially at the table. Now Margot willhave to bear the brunt of it. Or rather,

won't, since Mother doesn't make suchsarcastic remarks to her. Not to thatparagon of virtue! I'm always teasingMargot about being a paragon of virtuethese days, and she hates it. Maybe it'llteach her not to be such a goody-goody.High time she learned.To end this hodgepodge of news, aparticularly amusing joke told by Mr.van Daan: What goes click ninety-ninetimes and clack once?A centipede with a clubfoot.Bye-bye, AnneSATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1942Dear Kitty,Everybody teased me quite a bityesterday because I lay down on the bednext to Mr. van Daan. "At your age!

Shocking! " and other remarks alongthose lines. Silly, of course. I'd neverwant to sleep with Mr. van Daan theway they mean. Yesterday Mother and Ihad another run-in and she really kickedup a fuss. She told Daddy all my sinsand I started to cry, which made me crytoo, and I already had such an awfulheadache. I finally told Daddy that I love"him" more than I do Mother, to whichhe replied that it was just a passingphase, but I don't think so. I simply can'tstand Mother, and I have to force myselfnot to snap at her all the time, and to staycalm, when I'd rather slap her across theface. I don't know why I've taken such aterrible dislike to her. Daddy says that ifMother isn't feeling well or has a

headache, I should volunteer to help her,but I'm not going to because I don't loveher and don't enjoy doing it. I canimagine Mother dying someday, butDaddy's death seems inconceivable. It'svery mean of me, but that's how I feel. Ihope Mother will never read this oranything else I've written.I've been allowed to read more grown-up books lately. Eva's Youth by Nicovan Suchtelen is currently keeping mebusy. I don't think there's much of adifference between this and books forteenage girls. Eva thought that childrengrew on trees, like apples, and that thestork plucked them off the tree when theywere ripe and brought them to themothers. But her girlfriend's cat had

kittens and Eva saw them coming out ofthe cat, so she thought cats laid eggs andhatched them like chickens, and thatmothers who wanted a child also wentupstairs a few days before their time tolay an egg and brood on it. After thebabies arrived, the mothers were prettyweak from all that squatting. At somepoint, Eva wanted a baby too. She took awool scarf and spread it on the groundso the egg could fall into it, and then shesquatted down and began to push. Sheclucked as she waited, but no egg cameout. Finally, after she'd been sitting for along time, something did come, but itwas a sausage instead of an egg. Evawas embarrassed. She thought she wassick. Funny, isn't it? There are also parts

of Eva's Youth that talk about womenselling their bodies on the street andasking loads of money. I'd be mortifiedin front of a man like that. In addition, itmentions Eva's menstruation. Oh, I longto get my period-then I'll really begrown up. Daddy is grumbling again andthreatening to take away my diary. Oh,horror of horrors! From now on, I'mgoing to hide it. Anne FrankWEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1942I imagine that. . .I've gone to Switzerland. Daddy and Isleep in one room, while the boys'. studyis turned into a sitting room, where I canreceive visitors. As a surprise, they'vebought new furniture for me, including atea table, a desk, armchairs and a divan.

Everything's simply wonderful. After afew days Daddy gives me 150 guilders-converted into Swiss money, of course,but I'll call them guilders-and tells me tobuy everything I think I'll need, all formyself. (Later on, I get a guilder a week,which I can also use to buy whatever Iwant.) I set off with Bernd and buy:3 cotton undershirts @ 0.50 = 1.503 cotton underpants @ 0.50 = 1.503 wool undershirts @ O. 75 = 2.253 wool underpants @ O. 75 = 2.252 petticoats @ 0.50 = 1.002 bras (smallest size) @ 0.50 = 1.005 pajamas @ 1.00 = 5.001 summer robe @ 2.50 = 2.501 winter robe @ 3.00 = 3.002 bed jackets @ O. 75 = 1.50

Anne's cousins Bernhard (Bernd) andStephan Elias.1 small pillow @ 1.00 = 1.001 pair of lightweight slippers @ 1.00 =1.001 pair of warm slippers @ 1.50 = 1.501 pair of summer shoes (school) @ 1.50= 1.501 pair of summer shoes (dressy) @ 2.00= 2.001 pair of winter shoes (school) @ 2.50 =2.501 pair of winter shoes (dressy) @ 3.00 =3.002 aprons @ 0.50 = 1.0025 handkerchiefs @ 0.05 = 1.004 pairs of silk stockings @ 0.75 = 3.004 pairs of kneesocks @ 0.50 = 2.00

4 pairs of socks @ 0.25 = 1.002 pairs of thick stockings @ 1.00 = 2.003 skeins of white yarn (underwear, cap)= 1.503 skeins of blue yarn (sweater, skirt) =1.503 skeins of variegated yarn (cap, scarf)= 1.50Scarves, belts, collars, buttons = 1.25Plus 2 school dresses (summer), 2school dresses (winter), 2 good dresses(sumr.ner), 2 good dresses (winter), 1summer skirt, 1 good winter skirt, 1school winter skirt, 1 raincoat, 1 summercoat, 1 winter coat, 2 hats, 2 caps. For atotal of 10g.00 guilders.2 purses, 1 ice-skating outfit, 1 pair ofskates, 1 case (containing powder, skin

cream, foundation cream, cleansingcream, suntan lotion, cotton, first-aid kit,rouge, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, bathsalts, bath powder, eau de cologne,soap, powder puff).Plus 4 sweaters @ 1.50,4 blouses @1.00, miscellaneous items @ 10.00 andbooks, presents @ 4.50.OCTOBER 9, 1942Dearest Kitty,Today I have nothing but dismal anddepressing news to report. Our manyJewish friends and acquaintances arebeing taken away in droves. TheGestapo is treating them very roughlyand transporting them in cattle cars toWesterbork, the big camp in Drenthe towhich they're sending all the Jews. Miep

told us about someone who'd managed toescape from there. It must be terrible inWesterbork. The people get almostnothing to eat, much less to drink, aswater is available only one hour a day,and there's only one toilet and sink forseveral thousand people. Men andwomen sleep in the same room, andwomen and children often have theirheads shaved. Escape is almostimpossible; many people look Jewish,and they're branded by their shorn heads.If it's that bad in Holland, what must itbe like in those faraway and uncivilizedplaces where the Germans are sendingthem? We assume that most of them arebeing murdered. The English radio saysthey're being gassed. Perhaps that's the

quickest way to die.I feel terrible. Miep's accounts of thesehorrors are so heartrending, and Miep isalso very distraught. The other day, forinstance, the Gestapo deposited anelderly, crippled Jewish woman onMiep's doorstep while they set off tofind a car. The old woman was terrifiedof the glaring searchlights and the gunsfiring at the English planes overhead.Yet Miep didn't dare let her in. Nobodywould. The Germans are generousenough when it comes to punishment.Bep is also very subdued. Her boyfriendis being sent to Germany. Every time theplanes fly over, she's afraid they're goingto drop their entire bomb load onBertus's head. Jokes like "Oh, don't

worry, they can't all fall on him" or "Onebomb is all it takes" are hardlyappropriate in this situation. Bertus isnot the only one being forced to work inGermany. Trainloads of young mendepart daily. Some of them try to sneakoff the train when it stops at a smallstation, but only a few manage to escapeunnoticed and find a place to hide. Butthat's not the end of my lamentations.Have you ever heard the term"hostages"? That's the latest punishmentfor saboteurs. It's the most horrible thingyou can imagine. Leading citizens-innocent people-are taken prisoner toawait their execution. If the Gestapocan't find the saboteur, they simply grabfive hostages and line them up against

the wall. You read the announcements oftheir death in the paper, where they'rereferred to as "fatal accidents.' Finespecimens of humanity, those Germans,and to think I'm actually one of them! No,that's not true, Hitler took away ournationality long ago. And besides, thereare no greater enemies on earth than theGermans and the Jews. Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1942Dear Kitty,I'm terribly busy. Yesterday I began bytranslating a chapter from La BelleNivemaise and writing down vocabularywords. Then I worked on an awful mathproblem and translated three pages ofFrench grammar besides. Today, Frenchgrammar and history. I simply refuse to

do that wretched math every day. Daddythinks it's awful too.I'm almost better at it than he is, thoughin fact neither of us is any good, so wealways have to call on Margot's help.I'm also working away at my shorthand,which I enjoy. Of the three of us, I'vemade the most progress. I've read TheStorm Family. It's quite good, but doesn'tcompare to Joop ter Heul. Anyway, thesame words can be found in both books,which makes sense because they'rewritten by the same author. Cissy vanMarxveldt is a terrific writer. I'mdefinitely going to let my own childrenread her books too. Moreover, I've reada lot of Korner plays. I like the way hewrites. For example, Hedwig, The

Cousin from Bremen, The Governess,The Green Domino, etc. Mother, Margotand I are once again the best of buddies.It's actually a lot nicer that way. Lastnight Margot and I were lying side byside in my bed. It was incrediblycramped, but that's what made it fun. Sheasked if she could read my diary once ina while."Parts of it," I said, and asked abouthers. She gave me permission to readher diary as well.The conversation turned to the future,and I asked what she wanted to be whenshe was older. But she wouldn't say andwas quite mysterious about it. I gatheredit had something to do with teaching; ofcourse, I'm not absolutely sure, but I

suspect it's something along those lines. Ireally shouldn't be so nosy.This morning I'lay on Peter's bed, afterfirst having chased him off it. He wasfurious, but I didn't care. He mightconsider being a little more friendly tome from time to time. After all, I didgive him an apple last night. I onceasked Margot if she thought I was ugly.She said that I was cute and had niceeyes. A little vague, don't you think?Well, until next time!Anne FrankPS. This morning we all took turns onthe scale. Margot now weighs 132pounds, Mother 136, Father 155, Anne96, Peter 14g, Mrs. van Daan 117, Mr.van Daan 165. In the three months since

I've been here, I've gained 19 pounds. Alot, huh?TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1942Dearest Kitty,My hand's still shaking, though it's beentwo hours since we had the scare. Ishould explain that there are five fireextinguishers in the building. The officestaff stupidly forgot to warn us that thecarpenter, or whatever he's called, wascoming to fill the extinguishers. As aresult, we didn't bother to be quiet until Iheard the sound of hammering on thelanding (across from the bookcase). Iimmediately assumed it was thecarpenter and went to warn Bep, whowas eating lunch, that she couldn't goback downstairs. Father and I stationed

ourselves at the door so we could hearwhen the man had left. After working forabout fifteen minutes, he laid his hammerand some other tools on our bookcase(or so we thought!) and banged on ourdoor. We turned white with fear. Had heheard something after all and nowwanted to check out this mysterious-looking bookcase? It seemed so, sincehe kept knocking, pulling, pushing andjerking on it.I was so scared I nearly fainted at thethought of this total stranger managing todiscover our wonderful hiding place.Just when I thought my days werenumbered, we heard Mr. Kleiman'svoice saying, "Open up, it's me." Weopened the door at once. What had

happened?The hook fastening the bookcase hadgotten stuck, which is why no one hadbeen able to warn us about the carpenter.After the man had left, Mr. Kleimancame to get Bep, but couldn't open thebookcase. I can't tell you how relieved Iwas. In my imagination, the man Ithought was trying to get inside theSecret Annex had kept growing andgrowing until he'd become not only agiant but also the cruelest Fascist in theworld. Whew. Fortunately, everythingworked out all right, at least this time.We had lots of fun on Monday. Miep andJan spent the night with us. Margot and Islept in Father and Mother's room for thenight so the Gieses could have our beds.

The menu was drawn up in their honor,and the meal was delicious. Thefestivities were briefly interrupted whenFather's lamp caused a short circuit andwe were suddenly plunged intodarkness. What were we to do? We didhave fuses, but the fuse box was at therear of the dark warehouse, which madethis a particularly unpleasant job atnight. Still, the men ventured forth, andten minutes later we were able to putaway the candles.I was up early this morning. Jan wasalready dressed. Since he had to leave ateight-thirty, he was upstairs eatingbreakfast by eight. Miep was busygetting dressed, and I found her in herundershirt when I came in. She wears the

same kind of long underwear I do whenshe bicycles. Margot and I threw on ourclothes as well and were upstairs earlierthan usual. After a pleasant breakfast,Miep headed downstairs. It was pouringoutside and she was glad she didn't haveto bicycle to work. Daddy and I madethe beds, and afterward I learned fiveirregular French verbs. Quiteindustrious, don't you think? Margot andPeter were reading in our room, withMouschi curled up beside Margot on thedivan. After my irregular French verbs, Ijoined them and read The Woods AreSingingfor All Eternity. It's quite abeautiful book, but very unusual. I'malmost finished.Next week it's Bep's turn to spend the

night.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1942My dearest Kitty,I'm very worried. Father's sick. He'scovered with spots and has a hightemperature. It looks like measles. Justthink, we can't even call a doctor!Mother is making him perspire in hopesof sweating out the fever. This morningMiep told us that the furniture has beenremoved from the van Daans' apartmenton Zuider-Amstellaan. We haven't toldMrs. van D. yet. She's been so"nervenmassig"* [*nervous] lately, andwe don't feel like hearing her moan andgroan again about all the beautiful chinaand lovely chairs she had to leave

behind. We had to abandon most of ournice things too. What's the good ofgrumbling about it now?Father wants me to start reading booksby Hebbel and other well-knownGerman writers. I can read Germanfairly well by now, except that I usuallymumble the words instead of readingthem silently to myself. But that'll pass.Father has taken the plays of Goethe andSchiller down from the big bookcaseand is planning to read to me everyevening. We've started off with DonCarlos. Encouraged by Father's goodexample, Mother pressed her prayerbook into my hands. I read a few prayersin German, just to be polite. Theycertainly sound beautiful, but they mean

very little to me. Why is she making meact so religious and devout?Tomorrow we're going to light the stovefor the first time. The chimney hasn'tbeen swept in ages, so the room is boundto fill with smoke. Let's hope the thingdraws!Yours, AnneMONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1942Dear Kitty,Bep stayed with us Friday evening. Itwas fun, but she didn't sleep very wellbecause she'd drunk some wine. For therest, there's nothing special to report. Ihad an awful headache yesterday andwent to bed early. Margot's beingexasperating again.This morning I began sorting out an

index card file from the office, becauseit'd fallen over and gotten all mixed up.Before long I was going nuts. I askedMargot and Peter to help, but they weretoo lazy, so I put it away. I'm not crazyenough to do it all by myself!Anne FrankPS. I forgot to mention the importantnews that I'm probably going to get myperiod soon. I can tell because I keepfinding a whitish smear in my panties,and Mother predicted it would startsoon. I can hardly wait. It's such amomentous event. Too bad I can't usesanitary napkins, but you can't get themanymore, and Mama's tampons can beused only by women who've had a baby.i COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON

JANUARY 22, 1944: I wouldn't be ableto write that kind of thing anymore.Now that I'm rereading my diary after ayear and a half, I'm surprised at mychildish innocence. Deep down I know Icould never be that innocent again,however much I'd like to be. I canunderstand the mood chanaes and thecomments about Margot, Mother andFather as if I'd written them onlyyesterday, but I can't imagine writina soopenly about other matters. Itembarrasses me areatly to read the panesdealina with subjects that I rememberedas beina nicer than they actually were.My descriptions are so indelicate. Butenouah of that. I can also understand myhomesickness and yearning for Moortje.

The whole time I've been here I'velonged unconsciously and at timesconsciously for trust, love and physicalaffection. This longing may change inintensity, but it's always there.THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1942Dear Kitty,The British have finally scored a fewsuccesses in Africa and Stalingrad hasn'tfallen yet, so the men are happy and wehad coffee and tea this morning. For therest, nothing special to report.This week I've been reading a lot anddoing little work. That's the way thingsought to be. That's surely the road tosuccess.Mother and I are getting along betterlately, but we're never close. Father's

not very open about his feelings, but he'sthe same sweetheart he's always been.We lit the stove a few days ago and theentire room is still filled with smoke. Iprefer central heating, and I'm probablynot the only one. Margot's a stinker(there's no other word for it), a constantsource of irritation, morning, noon andnight.Anne FrankSATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1942Dearest Kitty,Mother's nerves are very much on edge,and that doesn't bode well for me. Is itjust a coincidence that Father andMother never scold Margot and alwaysblame me for everything? Last night, forexample, Margot was reading a book

with beautiful illustrations; she got upand put the book aside for later. I wasn'tdoing anything, so I picked it up andbegan looking at the pictures. Margotcarne back, saw' "her" book in myhands, knitted her brow and angrilydemanded the book back. I wanted tolook through it some more. Margot gotmadder by the minute, and Mother buttedin: "Margot was reading that book; giveit back to her."Father came in, and without evenknowing what was going on, saw thatMargot was being wronged and lashedout at me: "I'd like to see what you'd doif Margot was looking at one of yourbooks!"I promptly gave in, put the book down

and, according to them, left the room' 'ina huff." I was neither huffy nor cross, butmerely sad.It wasn't right of Father to pass judgmentwithout knowing what the issue was. Iwould have given the book to Margotmyself, and a lot sooner, if Father andMother hadn't intervened and rushed totake Margot's part, as if she weresuffering some great injustice.Of course, Mother took Margot's side;they always take each other's sides. I'mso used to it that I've become completelyindifferent to Mother's rebukes andMargot's moodiness. I love them, butonly because they're Mother and Margot.I don't give a darn about them as people.As far as I'm concerned, they can go

jump in a lake. It's different with Father.When I see him being partial to Margot,approving Margot's every action,praising her, hugging her, I feel agnawing ache inside, because I'm crazyabout him. I model myself after Father,and there's no one in the world I lovemore. He doesn't realize that he treatsMargot differently than he does me:Margot just happens to be the smartest,the kindest, the prettiest and the best. ButI have a right to be taken seriously too.I've always been the clown and mischiefmaker of the family; I've always had topay double for my sins: once withscoldings and then again with my ownsense of despair. I'm no longer satisfiedwith the meaningless affection or the

supposedly serious talks. I long forsomething from Father that he'sincapable of giving. I'm not jealous ofMargot; I never have been. I'm notenvious of her brains or her beauty. It'sjust that I'd like to feel that Father reallyloves me, not because I'm his child, butbecause I'm me, Anne.I cling to Father because my contempt ofMother is growing daily and it's onlythrough him that I'm able to retain thelast ounce of family feeling I have left.He doesn't understand that I sometimesneed to vent my feelings for Mother. Hedoesn't want to talk about it, and heavoids any discussion involvingMother's failings. And yet Mother, withall her shortcomings, is tougher for me to

deal with. I don't know how I should act.I can't very well confront her with hercarelessness, her sarcasm and her hard-heartedness, yet I can't continue to takethe blame for everything.I'm the opposite of Mother, so of coursewe clash. I don't mean to judge her; Idon't have that right. I'm simply lookingat her as a mother. She's not a mother tome-I have to mother myself. I've cutmyself adrift from them. I'm charting myown course, and we'll see where it leadsme. I have no choice, because I canpicture what a mother and a wife shouldbe and can't seem to find anything of thesort in the woman I'm supposed to call"Mother." I tell myself time and again tooverlook Mother's bad example. I only

want to see her good points, and to lookinside myself for what's lacking in her.But it doesn't work, and the worst part isthat Father and Mother don't realize theirown inadequacies and how much Iblame them for letting me down. Arethere any parents who can make theirchildren completely happy?Sometimes I think God is trying to testme, both now and in the future. I'll haveto become a good person on my own,without anyone to serve as a model oradvise me, but it'll make me stronger inthe end.Who else but me is ever going to readthese letters? Who else but me can I turnto for comfort? I'm frequently in need ofconsolation, I often feel weak, and more

often than not, I fail to meet expectations.I know this, and every day I resolve todo better.They aren't consistent in their treatmentof me. One day they say that Anne's asensible girl and entitled to knoweverything, and the next that Anne's asilly goose who doesn't know a thing andyet imagines she's learned all she needsto know from books! I'm no longer thebaby and spoiled little darling whoseevery deed can be laughed at. I have myown ideas, plans and ideals, but amunable to articulate them yet.Oh well. So much comes into my head atnight when I'm alone, or during the daywhen I'm obliged to put up with people Ican't abide or who invariably

misinterpret my intentions. That's why Ialways wind up coming back to mydiary-I start there and end there becauseKitty's always patient. I promise her that,despite everything, I'll keep going, thatI'll find my own way and choke back mytears. I only wish I could see someresults or, just once, receiveencouragement from someone who lovesme.Don't condemn me, but think of me as aperson who sometimes reaches thebursting point!Yours, AnneMONDAY, NOVEMBER 9,1942Dearest Kitty,Yesterday was Peter's birthday, hissixteenth. I was upstairs by eight, and

Peter and I looked at his presents. Hereceived a game of Monopoly, a razorand a cigarette lighter. Not that hesmokes so much, not at all; it just looksso distinguished.The biggest surprise came from Mr. vanDaan, who reported at one that theEnglish had landed in Tunis, Algiers,Casablanca and Oran."This is the beginning of the end,"everyone was saying, but Churchill, theBritish Prime Minister, who must haveheard the same thing being repeated inEngland, declared, "This is not the end.It is not even the beginning of the end.But it is, perhaps, the end of thebeginning." Do you see the difference?However, there's reason for optimism.

Stalingrad, the Russian city that has beenunder attack for three months, still hasn'tfallen intoGerman hands.In the true spirit of the Annex, I shouldtalk to you about food. (I should explainthat they're real gluttons up on the topfloor.)Bread is delivered daily by a very nicebaker, a friend of Mr. Kleiman's. Ofcourse, we don't have as much as we didat home, but it's enough. We alsopurchase ration books on the blackmarket. The price keeps going up; it'salready risen from 27 to 33 guilders.And that for mere sheets of printedpaper!To provide ourselves with a source of

nutrition that will keep, aside from thehundred cans of food we've stored here,we bought three hundred pounds ofbeans. Not just for us, but for the officestaff as well. We'd hung the sacks ofbeans on hooks in the hallway, justinside our secret entrance, but a fewseams split under the weight. So wedecided to move them to the attic, andPeter was entrusted with the heavylifting. He managed to get five of the sixsacks upstairs intact and was busy withthe last one when the sack broke and aflood, or rather a hailstorm, of brownbeans went flying through the air anddown the stairs. Since there were aboutfifty pounds of beans in that sack, itmade enough noise to raise the dead.

Downstairs they were sure the housewas falling down around their heads.Peter was stunned, but then burst intopeals of laughter when he saw mestanding at the bottom of the stairs, likean island in a sea of brown, with wavesof beans lapping at my ankles. Wepromptly began picking them up, butbeans are so small and slippery that theyroll into every conceivable corner andhole. Now each time we go upstairs, webend over and hunt around so we canpresent Mrs. van Daan with a handful ofbeans. I almost forgot to mention thatFather has recovered from his illness.Yours, AnneP.S. The radio has just announced thatAlgiers has fallen. Morocco, Casablanca

and Oran have been in English hands forseveral days. We're now waiting forTunis.TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1942Dearest Kitty,Great news! We're planning to take aneighth person into hiding with us! Yes,really. We always thought there wasenough room and food for one moreperson, but we were afraid of placing aneven greater burden on Mr. Kugler andMr. Kleiman. But since reports of thedreadful things being done to the Jewsare getting worse by the day, Fatherdecided to sound out these twogentlemen, and they thought it was anexcellent plan. "It's just as dangerous,whether there are seven or eight," they

noted rightly. Once this was settled, wesat down and mentally went through ourcircle of acquaintances, trying to comeup with a single person who wouldblend in well with our extended family.This wasn't difficult. After Father hadrejected all the van Daan relatives, wechose a dentist named Alfred Dussel. Helives with a charming Christian ladywho's quite a bit younger than he is.They're probably not married, but that'sbeside the point. He's known to be quietand refined, and he seemed, from oursuperficial acquaintance with him, to benice. Miep knows him as well, so she'llbe able to make the necessaryarrangements. If he comes, Mr. Dusselwill have to sleep in my room instead of

Margot, who will have to make do withthe folding bed.* [*After Dussel arrived,Margot slept in her parents' bedroom.]We'll ask him to bring along somethingto fill cavities with.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1942Dearest Kitty,Miep came to tell us that she'd been tosee Dr. Dussel. He asked her the momentshe entered the room if she knew of ahiding place and was enormouslypleased when Miep said she hadsomething in mind. She added "that he'dneed to go into hiding as soon aspossible, preferably Saturday, but hethought this was highly improbable,since he wanted to bring his records up

to date, settle his accounts and attend toa couple of patients. Miep relayed themessage to us this morning. We didn'tthink it was wise to wait so long. Allthese preparations require explanationsto various people who we feel ought tobe kept in the dark. Miep went to ask ifDr. Dussel couldn't manage to come onSaturday after all, but he said no, andnow he's scheduled to arrive onMonday. I think it's odd that he doesn'tjump at our proposal. If they pick him upon the street, it won't help either hisrecords or his patients, so why thedelay? If you ask me, it's stupid of Fatherto humor him.Otherwise, no news.Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1942Dearest Kitty!Mr. Dussel has arrived. Everything wentsmoothly. Miep told him to be at acertain place in front of the post office at11 A.M., when a man would meet him,and he was at the appointed place at theappointed time. Mr. Kleiman went up tohim, announced that the man he wasexpecting to meet was unable to comeand asked him to drop by the office tosee Miep. Mr. Kleiman took a streetcarback to the office while Mr. Dusselfollowed on foot.It was eleven-twenty when Mr. Dusseltapped on the office door. Miep askedhim to remove his coat, so the yellowstar couldn't be seen, and brought him to

the private office, where Mr. Kleimankept him occupied until the cleaning ladyhad gone. On the pretext that the privateoffice was needed for something else,Miep took Mr. Dussel upstairs, openedthe bookcase and stepped inside, whileMr. Dussellooked on in amazement.In the meantime, the seven of us hadseated ourselves around the dining tableto await the latest addition to our familywith coffee and cognac. Miep first ledhim into the Frank family's room. Heimmediately recognized our furniture,but had no idea we were upstairs, justabove his head. When Miep told him, hewas so astonished he nearly fainted.Thank goodness she didn't leave him insuspense any longer, but brought him

upstairs. Mr. Dussel sank into a chairand stared at us in dumbstruck silence,as though he thought he could read thetruth on our faces. Then he stuttered,"Aber . . . but are you nicht in Belgium?The officer, the auto, they were notcoming? Your escape was not working?"We explained the whole thing to him,about how we'd deliberately spread therumor of the officer and the car to throwthe Germans and anyone else who mightcome looking for us off the track. Mr.Dussel was speechless in the face ofsuch ingenuity, and could do nothing butgaze around in surprise as he exploredthe rest of our lovely and ultrapracticalAnnex. We all had lunch together. Thenhe took a short nap, joined us for tea, put

away the few belongings Miep had beenable to bring here in advance and beganto feel much more at home. Especiallywhen we handed him the followingtypewritten rules and regulations for theSecret Annex (a van Daan production):PROSPECTUS AND GUIDE TO THESECRET ANNEXA Unique Facility for the TemporaryAccommodation of Jews and OtherDispossessed PersonsOpen all year round: Located inbeautiful, quiet, wooded surroundings inthe heart of Amsterdam. No privateresidences in the vicinity. Can bereached by streetcar 13 or 17 and alsoby car and bicycle. For those to whomsuch transportation has been forbidden

by the German authorities, it can also bereached on foot. Furnished andunfurnished rooms and apartments areavailable at all times, with or withoutmeals.Price: Free.Diet: Low-fat.Runnina water in the bathroom (sorry, nobath) and on various inside and outsidewalls. Cozy wood stoves for heating.Ample storage space for a variety ofgoods. Two large, modern safes. Privateradio with a direct line to London, NewYork, Tel Aviv and many other stations.Available to all residents after 6 P.M.No listening to forbidden broadcasts,with certain exceptions, i.e., Germanstations may only be tuned in to listen to

classical music. It is absolutelyforbidden to listen to German newsbulletins (regardless of where they aretransmitted from) and to pass them on toothers.Rest hours: From 10 P.M. to 7:30 A.M.;10:15 A.M. on Sundays. Owing tocircumstances, residents are required toobserve rest hours during the daytimewhen instructed to do so by theManagement. To ensure the safety of all,rest hours must be strictly observed!!!Free-time activities: None allowedoutside the house until further notice.Use of language: It is necessary to speaksoftly at all times. Only the language ofcivilized people may be spoken, thus noGerman.

Reading and relaxation: No Germanbooks may be read, except for theclassics and works of a scholarly nature.Other books are optional.Calisthenics: Daily.Singing: Only softly, and after 6 P.M.Movies: Prior arrangements required.Classes: A weekly correspondencecourse in shorthand. Courses in English,French, math and history offered at anyhour of the day or night. Payment in theform of tutoring, e.g., Dutch.Separate department for the care ofsmall household pets (with the exceptionof vermin, for which special permits arerequired).Mealtimes:Breakfast: At 9 A.M. daily except

holidays and Sundays; at approximately11:30 A.M. on Sundays and holidays.Lunch: A light meal. From 1:15 P.M. to1:45 P.M.Dinner: Mayor not be a hot meal.Mealtime depends on news broadcasts.Obligations with respect to the SupplyCorps: Residents must be prepared tohelp with office work at all times. Baths:The washtub is available to all residentsafter 9 A.M. on Sundays. Residents maybathe in the bathroom, kitchen, privateoffice or front office, as they choose.Alcohol: For medicinal purposes only.The end.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1942Dearest Kitty,

Just as we thought, Mr. Dussel is a verynice man. Of course he didn't mindsharing a room with me; to be honest, I'mnot exactly delighted at having a strangeruse my things, but you have to makesacrifices for a good cause, and I'm gladI can make this small one. "If we cansave even one of our friends, the restdoesn't matter," said Father, and he'sabsolutely right. The first day Mr.Dussel was here, he asked me all sortsof questions-for example, what time thecleaning lady comes to the office, howwe've arranged to use the washroom andwhen we're allowed to go to the toilet.You may laugh, but these things aren't soeasy in a hiding place. During thedaytime we can't make any noise that

might be heard downstairs, and whensomeone else is there, like the cleaninglady, we have to be extra careful. Ipatiently explained all this to Mr.Dussel, but I was surprised to see howslow he is to catch on. He askseverything twice and still can'tremember what you've told him.Maybe he's just confused by the suddenchange and he'll get over it. Otherwise,everything is going fine.Mr. Dussel has told us much about theoutside world we've missed for so long.He had sad news. Countless friends andacquaintances have been taken off to adreadful fate. Night after night, green andgray military vehicles cruise the streets.They knock on every door, asking

whether any Jews live there. If so, thewhole family is immediately taken away.If not, they proceed to the next house. It'simpossible to escape their clutchesunless you go into hiding. They often goaround with lists, knocking only on thosedoors where they know there's a big haulto be made. They frequently offer abounty, so much per head. It's like theslave hunts of the olden days. I don'tmean to make light ofthisj it's much tootragic for that. In the evenings when it'sdark, I often see long lines of good,innocent people, accompanied by cryingchildren, walking on and on, orderedabout by a handful of men who bully andbeat them until they nearly drop. No oneis spared. The sick, the elderly, children,

babies and pregnant women-all aremarched to their death.We're so fortunate here, away from theturmoil. We wouldn't have to give amoment's thought to all this suffering if itweren't for the fact that we're so worriedabout those we hold dear, whom we canno longer help. I feel wicked sleeping ina warm bed, while somewhere out theremy dearest friends are dropping fromexhaustion or being knocked to theground.I get frightened myself when I think ofclose friends who are now at the mercyof the cruelest monsters ever to stalk theearth.And all because they're Jews.Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1942Dearest Kitty,We don't really know how to react. Upto now very little news about the Jewshad reached us here, and we thought itbest to stay as cheerful as possible.Every now and then Miep used tomention what had happened to a friend,and Mother or Mrs. van Daan wouldstart to cry, so she decided it was betternot to say any more. But we bombardedMr. Dussel with questions, and thestories he had to tell were so gruesomeand dreadful that we can't get them out ofour heads. Once we've had time to digestthe news, we'll probably go back to ourusual joking and teasing. It won't do usor those outside any good if we continue

to be as gloomy as we are now. Andwhat would be the point of turning theSecret Annex into a Melancholy Annex?No matter what I'm doing, I can't helpthinking about those who are gone. Icatch myself laughing and remember thatit's a disgrace to be so cheerful. But am Isupposed to spend the whole day crying?No, I can't do that. This gloom will pass.Added to this misery there's another, butof a more personal nature, and it pales incomparison to the suffering I've just toldyou about. Still, I can't help telling youthat lately I've begun to feel deserted. I'msurrounded by too great a void. I neverused to give it much thought, since mymind was filled with my friends andhaving a good time. Now I think either

about unhappy things or about myself.It's taken a while, but I've finallyrealized that Father, no matter how kindhe may be, can't take the place of myformer world. When it comes to myfeelings, Mother and Margot ceased tocount long ago. But why do I bother youwith this foolishness? I'm terriblyungrateful, Kitty, I know, but when I'vebeen scolded for the umpteenth time andhave all these other woes to think aboutas well, my head begins to reel!Yours, AnneSATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2g, 1942Dearest Kitty,We've been using too much electricityand have now exceeded our ration. Theresult: excessive economy and the

prospect of having the electricity cut off.No light for fourteen days; that's apleasant thought, isn't it? But whoknows, maybe it won't be so long! It'stoo dark to read after four or four-thirty,so we while away the time with allkinds of crazy activities: telling riddles,doing calisthenics in the dark, speakingEnglish or French, reviewing books-after a while everything gets boring.Yesterday I discovered a new pastime:using a good pair of binoculars to peekinto the lighted rooms of the neighbors.During the day our curtains can't beopened, not even an inch, but there's noharm when it's so dark.I never knew that neighbors could be sointeresting. Ours are, at any rate. I've

come across a few at dinner, one familymaking home movies and the dentistacross the way working on a frightenedold lady.Mr. Dussel, the man who was said to getalong so well with children and toabsolutely adore them, has turned out tobe an old-fashioned disciplinarian andpreacher of unbearably long sermons onmanners. Since I have the singularpleasure (!) of sharing my far too narrowroom with His Excellency, and since I'mgenerally considered to be the worstbehaved of the three young people, it'sall I can do to avoid having the same oldscoldings and admonitions repeatedlyflung at my head and to pretend not tohear. This wouldn't be so bad if Mr.

Dussel weren't such a tattletale andhadn't singled out Mother to be therecipient of his reports. If Mr. Dussel'sjust read me the riot act, Mother lecturesme all over again, this time throwing thewhole book at me. And if I'm reallylucky, Mrs. van D. calls me to accountfive minutes later and lays down the lawas well!Really, it's not easy being the badlybrought-up center of attention of a familyof nitpickers.In bed at night, as I ponder my many sinsand exaggerated shortcomings, I get soconfused by the sheer amount of things Ihave to consider that I either laugh orcry, depending on my mood. Then I fallasleep with the strange feeling of

wanting to be different than I am orbeing different than I want to be, orperhaps of behaving differently than I amor want to be.Oh dear, now I'm confusing you too.Forgive me, but I don't like crossingthings out, and in these times ofscarcity, tossing away a piece of paperis clearly taboo. So I can only adviseyou not to reread the above passage andto make no attempt to get to the bottom ofit, because you'll never find your wayout again!Yours, AnneMONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1942Dearest Kitty,Hanukkah and St. Nicholas Day nearlycoincided this year; they were only one

day apart. We didn't make much of a fusswith Hanukkah, merely exchanging a fewsmall gifts and lighting the candles.Since candles are in short supply, we litthem for only ten minutes, but as long aswe sing the song, that doesn't matter. Mr.van Daan made a menorah out of wood,so that was taken care of too.St. Nicholas Day on Saturday was muchmore fun. During dinner Bep and Miepwere so busy whispering to Father thatour curiosity was aroused and wesuspected they were up to something.Sure enough, at eight o'clock we alltrooped downstairs through the hall inpitch darkness (it gave me the shivers,and I wished I was safely back upstairs!)to the alcove. We could switch on the

light, since this room doesn't have anywindows. When that was done, Fatheropened the big cabinet."Oh, how wonderful!" we all cried.In the corner was a large basketdecorated with colorful paper and amask of Black Peter.We quickly took the basket upstairs withus. Inside was a little gift for everyone,including an appropriate verse. Sinceyou're famthar with the kinds of poemspeo ple write each other on St. NicholasDay, I won't copy them down for you.I received a Kewpie doll, Father gotbookends, and so on. Well anyway, itwas a nice idea, and since the eight of ushad never celebrated St. Nicholas Daybefore, this was a good time to begin.

Yours, AnnePS. We also had presents for everyonedownstairs, a few things .left over fromthe Good Old Days; plus Miep and Bepare always grateful for money. Todaywe heard that Mr. van Daan' s ashtray,Mr. Dussel's picture frame and Father'sbookends were made by none other thanMr. Voskuijl. How anyone can be soclever with his hands is a mystery to me!THURSDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1942Dearest Kitty,Mr. van Daan used to be in the meat,sausage and spice business. He washired for his knowledge of spices, andyet, to our great delight, it's his sausagetalents that have come in handy now.We ordered a large amount of meat

(under the counter, of course) that wewere planning to preserve in case therewere hard times ahead. Mr. van Daandecided to make bratwurst, sausages andmettwurst. I had fun watching him put themeat through the grinder: once, twice,three times. Then he added the remainingingredi ents to the ground meat and useda long pipe to force the mixture into thecasings. We ate the bratwurst withsauerkraut for lunch, but the sausages,which were going to be canned, had todry first, so we hung them over a polesuspended from the cethng. Everyonewho came into the room burst intolaughter when they saw the danglingsausages.It was such a comical sight.The kitchen was a shambles. Mr. van

Daan, clad in his wife's apron andlooking fatter than ever, was workingaway at the meat. What with his bloodyhands, red face and spotted apron, helooked like a real butcher. Mrs. D. wastrying to do everything at once: learningDutch out of a book, stirring the soup,watching the meat, sighing and moaningabout her broken rib. That's whathappens when old (!) ladies do suchstupid exercises to get rid of their fatbehinds! Dussel had an eye infection andwas sitting next to the stove dabbing hiseye with camomile tea. Pim, seated inthe one ray of sunshine coming throughthe window, kept having to move hischair this way and that to stay out of theway. His rheumatism must have been

bothering him because he was slightlyhunched over and was keeping an eye onMr. van Daan with an agonizedexpression on his face. He reminded meof those aged invalids you see in thepoor-house. Peter was romping aroundthe room with Mouschi, the cat, whileMother, Margot and I were peelingboiled potatoes. When you get rightdown to it, none of us were doing ourwork properly, because we were all sobusy watching Mr. van Daan.Dussel has opened his dental practice.Just for fun, I'll describe the session withhis very first patient.Mother was ironing, and Mrs. van D.,the first victim, sat down on a chair inthe middle of the room. Dussel,

unpacking his case with an air ofimportance, asked for some eau decologne, which could be used as adisinfectant, and vaseline, which wouldhave to do for wax. He looked in Mrs.van D.'s mouth and found two teeth thatmade her wince with pain and utterincoherent cries every time he touchedthem. After a lengthy examination(lengthy as far as Mrs. van D. wasconcerned, since it actually took nolonger than two minutes), Dussel beganto scrape out a cavity. But Mrs. van D.had no intention of letting him. Sheflailed her arms and legs until Dusselfinally let go of his probe and it . . .remained stuck in Mrs. van D.'s tooth.That really did it! Mrs. van D. lashed out

wildly in all directions, cried (as muchas you can with an instrument like that inyour mouth), tried to remove it, but onlymanaged to push it in even farther. Mr.Dussel calmly observed the scene, hishands on his hips, while the rest of theaudience roared with laughter. Ofcourse, that was very mean of us. If it'dbeen me, I'm sure I would have yelledeven louder. After a great deal ofsquirming, kicking, screaming andshouting, Mrs. van D. finally managed toyank the thing out, and Mr. Dussel wenton with his work as if nothing hadhappened. He was so quick that Mrs.van D. didn't have time to pull any moreshenanigans. But then, he had more helpthan he's ever had before: no fewer than

two assis tants; Mr. van D. and Iperformed our job well. The wholescene resembled one of those engravingsfrom the Middle Ages entitled" A Quackat Work." In the meantime, however, thepatient was getting restless, since shehad to keep an eye on "her" soup and"her" food. One thing is certain: it'll be awhile before Mrs. van D. makes anotherdental appointment!Yours, AnneSUNDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1942Dearest Kitty, I'm sitting here nice andcozy in the front office, peering outthrough a chink in the heavy curtains. It'sdusky, but there's just enough light towrite by. It's really strange watchingpeople walk past. They all seem to be in

such a hurry that they nearly trip overtheir own feet. Those on bicycles whizby so fast I can't even tell who's on thebike. The people in this neighborhoodaren't particularly attractive to look at.The children especially are so dirty youwouldn't want to touch them with a ten-foot pole. Real slum kids with runnynoses. I can hardly understand a wordthey say.Yesterday afternoon, when Margot and Iwere taking a bath, I said, "What if wetook a fishing rod and reeled in each ofthose kids one by one as they walked by,stuck them in the tub, washed andmended their clothes and then. . ." "Andthen tomorrow they'd be just as dirty andtattered as they were before," Margot

replied. But I'm babbling. There are also otherthings to look at cars, boats and the rain.I can hear the streetcar and the childrenand I'm enjoying myself. Our thoughtsare subject to as little change as we are.They're like a merry-go-round, turningfrom the Jews to food, from food topolitics. By the way, speaking of Jews, Isaw two yesterday when I was peekingthrough ; the curtains. I felt as though Iwere gazing at one of the SevenWonders of the World. It gave me such afunny feeling, as if I'd denounced them tothe authorities and was now spying ontheir misfortune.Across from us is a houseboat. Thecaptain lives there with his wife and

children. He has a small yapping dog.We know the little dog only by its barkand by its tail, which we can seewhenever it runs around the deck. Oh,what a shame, it's just started raining andmost of the people are hidden under theirumbrellas. All I can see are raincoats,and now and again the back of astocking-capped head. Actually, I don'teven need to look. By now I canrecognize the women at a glance: gone tofat from eating potatoes, dressed in a redor green coat and worn-out shoes, ashopping bag dangling from their arms,with faces that are either grim or good-humored, depending on the mood of theirhusbands.Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1942Dearest Kitty,The Annex was delighted to hear thatwe'll all be receiving an extra quarterpound of butter for Christmas.According to the newspaper, everyone isentitled to half a pound, but they meanthose lucky souls who get their rationbooks from the government, not Jews inhiding like us who can only afford to buyfour rather than eight ration books on theblack market. Each of us is going to bakesomething with the butter. This morning Imade two cakes and a batch of cookies.It's very busy upstairs, and Mother hasinformed me that I'm not to do anystudying or reading until all thehousehold chores have been finished.

Mrs. van Daan is lying in bed nursingher bruised rib. She complains all daylong, constantly demands that thebandages be changed and is generallydissatisfied with everything. I'll be gladwhen she gets back on her feet and canclean up after herself because, I mustadmit, she's extraordinarily hardworkingand neat, and as long as she's in goodphysical and mental condition, she'squite cheerful.As if I don't hear "shh, shh" enoughduring the day because I'm alwaysmaking "too much" noise, my dearroommate has come up with the idea ofsaying "shh, shh" to me all night too.According to him, I shouldn't even turnover. I refuse to take any notice of him,

and the next time he shushes me, I'mgoing to shush him right back.He gets more exasperating andegotistical as the days go by. Except forthe first week, I haven't seen even one ofthe cookies he so generously promisedme. He's partic ularly infuriating onSundays, when he switches on the lightat the crack of dawn to exercise for tenminutes.To me, the torment seems to last forhours, since the chairs I use to make mybed longer are constantly being jiggledunder my sleepy head. After rounding offhis limbering-up exercises with a fewvigorous arm swings, His Lordshipbegins dressing. His underwear ishanging on a hook, so first he lumbers

over to get it and then lumbers back, pastmy bed. But his tie is on the table, soonce again he pushes and bumps his waypast the chairs.But I mustn't waste any more of yourtime griping about disgusting old men. Itwon't help matters anyway. My plans forrevenge, such as unscrewing thelightbulb, locking the door and hiding hisclothes, have unfortu nately had to beabandoned in the interests of peace.Oh, I'm becoming so sensible! We've gotto be reasonable about everything we dohere: studying, listen ing, holding ourtongues, helping others, being kind,making compromises and I don't knowwhat else! I'm afraid my common sense,which was in short supply to begin with,

will be used up too quickly and I won'thave any left by the time the war is over.Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1943Dearest Kitty,This morning I was constantlyinterrupted, and as a result I haven't beenable to finish a single thing I've begun.We have a new pastime, namely, fillingpackages with powdered gravy. Thegravy is one of Gies & Co.'s products.Mr. Kugler hasn't been able to findanyone else to fill the packages, andbesides, it's cheaper if we do the job. It'sthe kind of work they do in prisons. It'sincredibly boring and makes us dizzyand giggly.Terrible things are happening outside. At

any time of night and day, poor helplesspeople are being dragged out of theirhomes. They're allowed to take only aknapsack and a little cash with them, andeven then, they're robbed of thesepossessions on the way. Families aretorn apart; men, women and children areseparated. Children come home fromschool to find that their parents havedisap peared. Women return fromshopping to find their houses sealed,their famthes gone. The Christians inHolland are also living in fear becausetheir sons are being sent to Germany.Everyone is scared. Every nighthundreds of planes pass over Holland ontheir way to German cities, to sow theirbombs on German soil. Every hour

hundreds, or maybe even thousands, ofpeople are being killed in Russia andAfrica. No one can keep out of theconflict, the entire world is at war, andeven though theAllies are doing better, the end isnowhere in sight.As for us, we're quite fortunate. Luckierthan millions of people. It's quiet andsafe here, and we're using our money tobuy food. We're so selfish that we talkabout "after the war" and look forwardto new clothes and shoes, when actuallywe should be saving every penny to helpothers when the war is over, to salvagewhatever we can.The children in this neighborhood runaround in thin shirts and wooden shoes.

They have no coats, no caps, nostockings and no one to help them.Gnawing on a carrot to still their hungerpangs, they walk from their cold housesthrough cold streets to an even colderclassroom. Things have gotten so bad inHolland that hordes of children stoppassersby in the streets to beg for apiece of bread.I could spend hours telling you about thesuffering the war has brought, but I'donly make myself more miserable. Allwe can do is wait, as calmly aspossible, for it to end. Jews andChristians alike are waiting, the wholeworld is waiting, and many are waitingfor death.Yours, Anne

SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1943Dearest Kitty,I'm seething with rage, yet I can't showit. I'd like to scream, stamp my foot, giveMother a good shaking, cry and I don'tknow what else because of the nastywords, mocking looks and accusationsthat she hurls at me day after day,piercing me like arrows from a tightlystrung bow, which are nearly impossibleto pull from my body. I'd like to screamat Mother, Margot, the van Daans,Dussel and Father too: "Leave me alone,let me have at least one night when Idon't cry myself to sleep with my eyesburning and my head pounding. Let meget away, away from everything, awayfrom this world!" But I can't do that. I

can't let them see my doubts, or thewounds they've inflicted on me. Icouldn't bear their sympathy or theirgood-humored derision. It would onlymake me want to scream even more.Everyone thinks I'm showing off when Italk, ridicu lous when I'm silent, insolentwhen I answer, cunning when I have agood idea, lazy when I'm tired, selfishwhen I eat one bite more than I should,stupid, cowardly, calculating, etc., etc.All day long I hear nothing but what anexasperating child I am, and although Ilaugh it off and pretend not to mind, I domind. I wish I could ask God to give meanother personality, one that doesn'tantagonize everyone.But that's impossible. I'm stuck with the

character I was born with, and yet I'msure I'm not a bad person. I do my best toplease everyone, more than they'd eversuspect in a million years. When I'mupstairs, I try to laugh it off because Idon't want them to see my troubles.More than once, after a series of absurdreproaches, I've snapped at Mother: "Idon't care what you say. Why don't youjust wash your hands of me-I'm ahopeless case." Of course, she'd tell menot to talk back and virtually ignore mefor two days. Then suddenly all wouldbe forgotten and she'd treat me likeeveryone else.It's impossible for me to be all smilesone day and venomous the next. I'drather choose the golden mean, which

isn't so golden, and keep my thoughts tomyself. Perhaps sometime I'll treat theothers with the same contempt as theytreat me. Oh, if only I could.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1943Dearest Kitty,Though it's been ages since I've writtento you about the squabbles, there's stillno change. In the begin ning Mr. Dusseltook our soon-forgotten clashes veryseriously, but now he's grown used tothem and no longer tries to mediate.Margot and Peter aren't exactly whatyou'd call "young"; they're both so quietand boring. Next to them, I stick out likea sore thumb, and I'm always being told,"Margot and Peter don't act that way.

Why don't you follow your sister'sexample!" I hate that.I confess that I have absolutely no desireto be like Margot. She's too weak-willedand passive to suit me; she lets herselfbe swayed by others and always backsdown under pressure. I want to havemore spunk! But I keep ideas like theseto myself. They'd only laugh at me if Ioffered this in my defense. During mealsthe air is filled with tension. Fortunately,the outbursts are sometimes held incheck by the "soup eaters," the peoplefrom the office who come up to have acup of soup for lunch.This afternoon Mr. van Daan againbrought up the fact that Margot eats solittle. "I suppose you do it to keep your

figure," he added in a mocking tone.Mother, who always comes to Margot'sdefense, said in a loud voice, "I can'tstand that stupid chatter of yours aminute longer."Mrs. van D. turned red as a beet. Mr.van D. stared straight ahead and saidnothing.Still, we often have a good laugh. Notlong ago Mrs. van D. was entertaining uswith some bit of nonsense or another.She was talking about the past, abouthow well she got along with her fatherand what a flirt she was. "And youknow," she continued, "my father told methat if a gentleman ever got fresh, I wasto say, 'Remem ber, sir, that I'm a lady,'and he'd know what I meant." We split

our sides laughing, as if she'd told us agood joke.Even Peter, though he's usually quiet,occasionally gives rise to hilarity. Hehas the misfortune of adoring foreignwords without knowing what they mean.One afternoon we couldn't use the toiletbecause there were visitors in the office.Unable to wait, he went to the bathroombut didn't flush the toilet. To warn us ofthe unpleasant odor, he tacked a sign tothe bathroom door: "RSVP-gas!" Ofcourse, he meant "Danger-gas!" but hethought "RSVP" looked more elegant. Hedidn't have the faintest idea that it meant"please reply." Yours, AnneSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1943Dearest Kitty,

Pim is expecting the invasion any daynow. Churchill has had pneumonia, butis gradually getting better. Gandhi, thechampion of Indian freedom, is on one ofhis umpteenth hunger strikes.Mrs. van D. claims she's fatalistic. Butwho's the most afraid when the guns gooff? None other than Petronella vanDaan.Jan brought along the episcopal letterthat the bishops addressed to theirparishioners. It was beautiful andinspiring. "People of the Netherlands,stand up and take action. Each of us mustchoose our own weapons to fight for thefreedom of our country, our people andour reli gion! Give your help andsupport. Act now!" This is what they're

preaching from the pulpit. Will it do anygood? It's definitely too late to help ourfellow Jews.Guess what's happened to us now? Theowner of the building sold it withoutinforming Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman.One morning the new landlord arrivedwith an architect to look the place over.Thank goodness Mr. Kleiman was in theoffice. He showed the gentlemen allthere was to see, with the exception ofthe Secret Annex. He claimed he'd leftthe key at home and the new ownerasked no further questions. If only hedoesn't come back demanding to see theAnnex. In that case, we'll be in bigtrouble!Father emptied a card file for Margot

and me and filled it with index cards thatare blank on one side. This is to becomeour reading file, in which Margot and Iare supposed to note down the bookswe've read, the author and the date. I'velearned two new words: "brothel" and"coquette." I've bought a separatenotebook for new words.There's a new division of butter andmargarine. Each person is to get theirportion on their own plate. Thedistribution is very unfair. The vanDaans, who always make breakfast foreveryone, give themselves one and a halftimes more than they do us. My parentsare much too afraid of an argument tosay anything, which is a shame, becauseI think people like that should always be

given a taste of their own medicine.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mrs. van D. has a new nickname-we'vestarted calling her Mrs. Beaverbrook. Ofcourse, that doesn't mean anything toyou, so let me explain. A certain Mr.Beaverbrook often talks on the Englishradio about what he considers to be thefar too lenient bombardment ofGermany. Mrs. van Daan, who alwayscontradicts everyone, includingChurchill and the news reports, is incomplete agreement with Mr.Beaverbrook. So we thought it would bea good idea for her to be married to him,and since she was flattered by the

notion, we've decided to call her Mrs.Beaverbrook from now on.We're getting a new warehouseemployee, since the old one is being sentto Germany. That's bad for him but goodfor us because the new one won't befamthar with the building. We're stillafraid of the men who work in thewarehouse.Gandhi is eating again.The black market is doing a boomingbusiness. If we had enough money to paythe ridiculous prices, we could stuffourselves silly. Our greengrocer buyspotatoes from the "Wehrmacht" andbrings them in sacks to the privateoffice. Since he suspects we're hidinghere, he makes a point of coming during

lunchtime, when the warehouseemployees are out.So much pepper is being ground at themoment that we sneeze and cough withevery breath we take. Everyone whocomes upstairs greets us with an "ah-CHOO." Mrs. van D. swears she won'tgo downstairs; one more whiff of pepperand she's going to get sick.I don't think Father has a very nicebusiness. Noth ing but pectin andpepper. As long as you're in the foodbusiness, why not make candy?A veritable thunderstorm of words camecrashing down on me again this morning.The air flashed with so many coarseexpressions that my ears were ringingwith "Anne's bad this" annd "van Daans'

good that." Fire and brimstone! Yours,AnneWEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943Dearest Kitty,We had a short circuit last night, andbesides that, the guns were boomingaway until dawn. I still haven't gottenover my fear of planes and shooting, andI crawl into Father's bed nearly everynight for comfort. I know it soundschildish, but wait till it happens to you!The ack-ack guns make so much noiseyou can't hear your own voice. Mrs.Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practicallyburst into tears and said in a timid littlevoice, "Oh, it's so awful. Oh, the gunsare so loud!"-which is another way ofsaying "I'm so scared." It didn't seem

nearly as bad by candlelight as it did inthe dark. I was shivering, as if I had afever, and beggedFather to relight the candle. He wasadamant: there was to be no light.Suddenly we heard a burst of machine-gun fire, and that's ten times worse thanantiaircraft guns. Mother jumped out ofbed and, to Pim's great annoyance, lit thecandle. Her resolute answer to hisgrumbling was, "After all, Anne is not anex-soldier!" And that was the end ofthat!Have I told you any of Mrs. van D.'sother fears? I don't think so. To keep youup to date on the latest adventures in theSecret Annex, I should tell you this aswell. One night Mrs. van D. thought she

heard loud footsteps in the attic, and shewas so afraid of burglars, she woke herhusband. At that very same moment, thethieves disappeared, and the only soundMr. van D. could hear was the frightenedpounding of his fatalistic wife's heart."Oh, Putti!" she cried. (Putti is Mrs. vanD.'s pet name for her husband.) "Theymust have taken all our sausages anddried beans. And what about Peter? Oh,do you think Peter's still safe and soundin his bed?""I'm sure they haven't stolen Peter. Stopbeing such a ninny, and let me get backto sleep!"Impossible. Mrs. van D. was too scaredto sleep.A few nights later the entire van Daan

family was awakened by ghostly noises.Peter went to the attic with a flashlightand-scurry, scurry-what do you think hesaw running away? A whole slew ofenormous rats!Once we knew who the thieves were,we let Mouschi sleep in the attic andnever saw our uninvited guests again. . .at least not at night.A few evenings ago (it was seven-thirtyand still light), Peter went up to the loftto get some old newspapers. He had tohold on tightly to the trapdoor to climbdown the ladder. He put down his handwithout looking, and nearly fell off theladder from shock and pain. Withoutrealizing it, he'd put his hand on a largerat, which had bitten him in the arm. By

the time he reached us, white as a sheetand with his knees knocking, the bloodhad soaked through his pajamas. Nowonder he was so shaken, since pettinga rat isn't much fun, especially when ittakes a chunk out of your arm.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943Dearest Kitty,May I introduce: Mama Frank, thechildren's advocate! Extra butter for theyoungsters, the problems facing today'syouth-you name it, and Mother defendsthe younger generation. After a skirmishor two, she always gets her way. One ofthe jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. Afeast for Mouschi and Boche. Youhaven't met Boche yet, despite the fact

that she was here before we went intohiding. She's the warehouse and officecat, who keeps the rats at bay in thestoreroom.Her odd, political name can easily beexplained. For a while the firm Gies &Co. had two cats: one for the warehouseand one for the attic. Their paths crossedfrom time to time, which invariablyresulted in a fight. The warehouse catwas always the aggressor, while theattic cat was ultimately the victor, just asin politics. So the warehouse cat wasnamed the German, or "Boche," and theattic cat the Englishman, or "Tommy."Sometime after that they got rid ofTommy, but Boche is always there toamuse us when we go downstairs.

VVe've eaten so many brown beans andnavy beans that I can't stand to look atthem. Just thinking about them makes mesick.Our evening serving of bread has beencanceled.Daddy just said that he's not in a verycheerful mood. His eyes look so sadagain, the poor man!I can't tear myself away from the book AKnock at the Door by Ina BakkerBoudier. This family saga is extremelywell written, but the parts dealing withwar, writers and the emancipation ofwomen aren't very good. To be honest,these subjects don't interest me much.Terrible bombing raids on Germany. Mr.van Daan is grouchy. The reason: the

cigarette shortage.The debate about whether or not to starteating the canned food ended in ourfavor.I can't wear any of my shoes, except myski boots, which are not very practicalaround the house. A pair of straw thongsthat were purchased for 6.50 guilderswere worn down to the soles within aweek. Maybe Miep will be able toscrounge up something on the blackmarket.It's time to cut Father's hair. Pim swearsthat I do such a good job he'll never goto another barber after the war. If only Ididn't nick his ear so often!Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943

My dearest Kitty,Turkey's entered the war. Greatexcitement. Anxiously awaiting radioreports. FRIDAY, MARCH 19, 1943Dearest Kitty,In less than an hour, joy was followedby disappoint ment. Turkey hasn'tentered the war yet. It was only a cabinetminister talking about Turkey giving upits neu trality sometime soon. Thenewspaper vendor in Dam Square wasshouting "Turkey on England's side!" andthe papers were being snatched out ofhis hands. This was how we'd heard theencouraging rumor.Thousand-guilder notes are beingdeclared invalid. That'll be a blow to theblack marketeers and others like them,

but even more to pe Ie in hiding andanyone else with money that can't beaccounted for. To turn in a thousand-guilder bill, you have to be able to statehow you came by it and provide proof.They can still be used to pay taxes, butonly until next week. The five-hundrednotes will lapse at the same time. Gies& Co. still had some unaccounted-forthousand-guilder bills, which they usedto pay their estimated taxes for thecoming years, so everything seems to beaboveboard. Dussel has received anold-fashioned, foot-operated dentist'sdrill. That means I'll probably be gettinga thorough checkup soon.Dussel is terribly lax when it comes toobeying the rules of the house. Not only

does he write letters to his Charlotte,he's also carrying on a chattycorrespondence with various otherpeople. Margot, the Annex's Dutchteacher, has been correcting these lettersfor him. Father has forbidden him tokeep up the practice and Margot hasstopped correcting the letters, but I thinkit won't be long before he starts upagain.The Fuhrer has been talking to woundedsoldiers. We listened on the radio, and itwas pathetic. The questions and answerswent something like this: "My name isHeinrich Scheppel.""Where were you wounded?""Near Stalingrad.""What kind of wound is it?"

"Two frostbitten feet and a fracture ofthe left arm."This is an exact report of the hideouspuppet show aired on the radio. Thewounded seemed proud of their wounds-the more the better. One was so besidehimself at the thought of shaking hands (Ipresume he still had one) with the Fuhrerthat he could barely say a word.I happened to drop Dussel's soap on thefloor and step on it. Now there's a wholepiece missing. I've already asked Fatherto compensate him for the damages,especially since Dussel only gets onebar of inferior wartime soap a month.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943Dearest Kitty,

Mother, Father, Margot and I weresitting quite pleasantly together last nightwhen Peter suddenly came in andwhispered in Father's ear. I caught thewords "a barrel falling over in thewarehouse" and "someone fiddling withthe door." Margot heard it too, but wastrying to calm me down, since I'd turnedwhite as chalk and was extremelynervous. The three of us waited whileFather and Peter went downstairs. Aminute or two later Mrs. van Daan cameup from where she'd been listening to theradio and told us that Pim had asked herto turn it off and tiptoe upstairs. But youknow what happens when you're tryingto be quiet-the old stairs creaked twiceas loud. Five minutes later Peter and

Pim, the color drained from their faces,appeared again to relate theirexperiences. They had positionedthemselves under the staircase andwaited. Nothing happened. Then all of asudden they heard a couple of bangs, asif two doors had been slammed shutinside the house. Pim bounded up thestairs, while Peter went to warn Dussel,who finally pre sented himself upstairs,though not without kicking up a fuss andmaking a lot of noise. Then we alltiptoed in our stockinged feet to the vanDaans on the next floor. Mr. van D. hada bad cold and had already gone to bed,so we gathered around his bedside anddiscussed our suspicions in a whisper.Every time Mr. van D. coughed loudly,

Mrs. van D. and I nearly had a nervousfit. He kept coughing until someone cameup with the bright idea of giving himcodeine. His cough subsidedimmediately. Once again we waited andwaited, but heard nothing. Finally wecame to the conclusion that the burglarshad taken to their heels when they heardfootsteps in an otherwise quiet building.The problem now was that the chairs inthe private office were neatly groupedaround the radio, which was tuned toEngland. If the burglars had forced thedoor and the air-raid wardens were tonotice it and call the police, there couldbe very serious repercus sions. So Mr.van Daan got up, pulled on his coat andpants, put on his hat and cautiously

followed Father down the stairs, withPeter (armed with a heavy hammer, to beon the safe side) right behind him. Theladies (including Margot and me) waitedin suspense until the men returned fiveminutes later and reported that there wasno sign of any activity in the building.We agreed not to run any water or flushthe toilet; but since everyone's stomachwas churning from all the tension, youcan imagine the stench after we'd eachhad a turn in the bathroom.Incidents like these are alwaysaccompanied by other disasters, and thiswas no exception. Number one: theWestertoren bells stopped chiming, andI'd always found them so comforting.Number two: Mr. Voskuijlleft early last

night, and we weren't sure if he'd givenBep the key and she'd forgotten to lockthe door. But that was of littleimportance now. The night had justbegun, and we still weren't sure what toexpect. We were somewhat reassured bythe fact that between eight-fifteen-whenthe burglar had first entered the buildingand put our lives in jeopardy, and ten-thirty, we hadn't heard a sound. Themore we thought about it, the less likelyit seemed that a burglar would haveforced a door so early in the evening,when there were still people out on thestreets. Besides that, it occurred to usthat the warehouse manager at the KegCompany next door might still have beenat work. What with the excitement and

the thin walls, it's easy to mistake thesounds. Besides, your imagination oftenplays tricks on you in moments ofdanger.So we went to bed, though not to sleep.Father and Mother and Mr. Dussel wereawake most of the night, and I'm notexaggerating when I say that I hardly gota wink of sleep. This morning the menwent downstairs to see if the outsidedoor was still locked, but all was well!Of course, we gave the entire office staffa blow-by-blow account of the incident,which had been far from pleasant. It'smuch easier to laugh at these kinds ofthings after they've happened, and Bepwas the only one who took us seriously.Yours, Anne

PS. This morning the toilet was clogged,and Father had to stick in a long woodenpole and fish out several pounds ofexcrement and strawberry recipes(which is what we use for toilet paperthese days). Afterward we burned thepole.SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1943Dearest Kitty,We've finished our shorthand course andare now working on improving ourspeed. Aren't we smart! Let me tell youmore about my "time killers" (this iswhat I call my courses, because all weever do is try to make the days go by asquickly as possible so we are that muchcloser to the end of our time here). Iadore mythology, espe cially the Greek

and Roman gods. Everyone here thinksmy interest is just a passing fancy, sincethey've never heard of a teenager with anappreciation of mythology. Well then, Iguess I'm the first!Mr. van Daan has a cold. Or rather, hehas a scratchy throat, but he's making anenormous to-do over it. He gargles withcamomile tea, coats the roof of his mouthwith a tincture of myrrh and rubsMentholatum over his chest, nose, gumsand tongue. And to top it off, he's in afoul mood!Rauter, some German bigwig, recentlygave a speech. "All Jews must be out ofthe German-occupied territories beforeJuly 1. The province of Utrecht will becleansed of Jews [as if they were

cockroaches] between April 1 and May1, and the provinces of North and SouthHolland between May 1 and June 1."These poor people are being shipped offto filthiy slaughterhouses like a herd ofsick and neglected cattle. But I'll say nomore on the subject. My own thoughtsgive me nightmares!One good piece of news is that the LaborExchange was set on fire in an act ofsabotage. A few days later the CountyClerk's Office also went up in flames.Men posing as German police bound andgagged the guards and managed todestroy some important documents.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1943Dearest Kitty,

I'm not really in the mood for pranks(see the date).On the contrary, today I can safely quotethe saying" Misfortunes never comesingly." First, Mr. Kleiman, our merrysunshine, had another bout ofgastrointestinal hemorrhaging yesterdayand will have to stay in bed for at leastthree weeks. I should tell you that hisstomach has been bothering him quite abit, and there's no cure. Second, Bep hasthe flu. Third, Mr. Voskuijl has to go tothe hospital next week. He probably hasan ulcer and will have to undergosurgery. Fourth, the managers ofPomosin Industries came from Frankfurtto discuss the new Opekta deliveries.Father had gone yer the important points

with Mr. Kleiman, and there wasn'tenough time to give Mr. Kugler a thorough briefing.The gentlemen arrived from Frankfurt,and Father was already shaking at thethought of how the talks would go. "Ifonly I could be there, if only I weredownstairs," he exclaimed."Go lie down with your ear to the floor.They'll be brought to the private office,and you'll be able to hear everything.' Father's face cleared, and yesterdaymorning at ten-thirty Margot and Pim(two ears are better than one) took uptheir posts on the floor. By noon the talksweren't finished, but Father was in noshape to continue his listen ingcampaign. He was in agony from having

to lie for hours in such an unusual anduncomfortable position. At two-thirty weheard voices in the hall, and I took hisplace; Margot kept me company. Theconversation was so long-winded andboring that I suddenly fell asleep on thecold, hard linoleum. Margot didn't daretouch me for fear they'd hear us, and ofcourse she couldn't shout. I slept for agood half hour and then awoke with astart, having forgotten every word of theimportant discussion. Luckily, Margothad paid more attention. Yours, AnneFRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1943Dearest Kitty,Oh my, another item has been added tomy list of sins. Last night~ was lying inbed, waiting for Father to tuck me in an

say my prayers with me, when Mothercame into the room, sat on my bed andasked very gently, "Anne, Daddy isn'tready. How about if I listen to yourprayers tonight?""No, Momsy," I replied.Mother got up, stood beside my bed fora moment and then slowly walkedtoward the door. Suddenly she turned,her face contorted with pain, and said, "Idon't want to be angry with you. I can'tmake you love me!" A few tears sliddown her cheeks as she went out thedoor.I lay still, thinking how mean it was ofme to reject her so cruelly, but I alsoknew that I was incapable of answeringher any other way. I can't be a hypocrite

and pray with her when I don't feel likeit. It just doesn't work that way. I feltsorry for Mother-very, very sorry-because for the first time in my life Inoticed she wasn't indifferent to mycoldness. I saw the sorrow in her facewhen she talked about not being able tomake me love her. It's hard to tell thetruth, and yet the truth is that she's theone who's rejected me. She's the onewhose tactless comments and cruel jokesabout matters I don't think are funny havemade me insensitive to any sign of loveon her part. Just as my heart sinks everytime I hear her harsh words, that's howher heart sank when she realized therewas no more love between us.She cried half the night and didn't get any

sleep. Father has avoided looking at me,and if his eyes do happen to cross mine,I can read his unspoken words: "Howcan you be so unkind? How dare youmake your mother so sad!" Everyoneexpects me to apologize, but this is notsomething I can apologize for, because Itold the truth, and sooner or later Mothjrwas bound to find out anyway. I seem tobe indifferent to Mother's tears andFather's glances, and I am, because bothof them are now feeling what I'vealways felt. I can only feel sorry forMother, who will have to figure outwhat her attitude should be all byherself. For my part, I will continue toremain silent and aloof, and I don'tintend to shrink from the truth, because

the longer it's postponed, the harder itwill be for them to accept it when theydo hear it!Yours, AnneTUESDAY, APRIL 27, 1943Dearest Kitty,The house is still trembling from theaftereffects of the quarrels. Everyone ismad at everyone else: Mother and I, Mr.van Daan and Father, Mother and Mrs.van D. Terrific atmosphere, don't youthink? Once again Anne's usual list ofshortcomings has been extensively aired.Our German visitors were back lastSaturday. They stayed until six. We allsat upstairs, not daring to move an inch.If there's no one else working in thebuilding or in the neighborhood, you can

hear every single step in the privateoffice. I've got ants in my pants againfrom having to sit still so long.Mr. Voskuijl has been hospitalized, butMr. Kleiman's back at the office. Hisstomach stopped bleeding sooner than itnormally does. He told us that theCounty Clerk's Office took an extrabeating because the firemen flooded theentire building instead of just putting outthe fire. That does my heart good! TheCarlton Hotel has been destroyed. TwoBritish planes loaded with firebombslanded right on top of theGerman Officers' Club. The entirecorner of Vijzelstraat and Singel hasgone up in flames. The number of airstrikes on German cities is increasing

daily. We haven't had a good night's restin ages, and I have bags under my eyesfrom lack of sleep.Our food is terrible. Breakfast consistsof plain, unbuttered brea and ersatzcoffee. For the last two weeks lunch hasbeen e. spinach or cooked lettuce withhuge potatoes that have a rotten,sweetish taste. If you're trying to diet, theAnnex is the place to be! Upstairs theycomplain bitterly, but we don't think it'ssuch a tragedy.All the Dutch men who either fought orwere mobilized in 1940 have beencalled up to work in prisoner-of-warcamps. I bet they're taking thisprecaution because of the invasion!Yours, Anne

SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1943Dearest Kitty,Yesterday was Dussel's birthday. Atfirst he acted as if he didn't want tocelebrate it, but when Miep arrived witha large shopping bag overflowing withgifts, he was as excited as a little kid.His darling' 'Lotje" has sent him eggs,butter, cookies, lemonade, bread,cognac, spice cake, flowers, oranges,chocolate, books and writing paper. Hepiled his presents on a table anddisplayed them for no fewer than threedays, the silly old goat! You mustn't getthe idea that he's starving. We foundbread, cheese, jam and eggs in hiscupboard. It's absolutely disgraceful thatDussel, whom we've treated with such

kindness and whom we took in to savefrom destruction, should stuff himselfbehind our backs and not give usanything. After all, we've shared all wehad with him! But what's worse, in ouropinion, is that he's so stingy withrespect to Mr. Kleiman, Mr. Voskuijland Bep. He doesn't give them a thing. InDussel's view the oranges that Kleimanso badly needs for his sick stomach willbenefit his own stomach even more.Tonight the guns have been bangingaway so much that I've already had togather up my belongings four times.Today I packed a suitcase Wl f;the stuffI'd need in case we had to flee, but as Mther correctly noted,"Where would you go?"

All of Holland is being punishe or theworkers' strikes. Martial law has beendeclared, and everyone is going to getone less butter coupon. What naughtychildren.I washed Mother's hair this evening,which is no easy task these days. Wehave to use a very sticky liquid cleanserbecause there's no more shampoo.Besides that, Moms had a hard timecombing her hair because the familycomb has only ten teeth left.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943When I think about our lives here, Iusually come to the conclusion that welive in a paradise compared to the Jewswho aren't in hiding. All the same, later

on, when everything has returned tonormal, I'll probably wonder how we,who always lived in such comfortablecircumstances, could have "sunk" solow. With respect to manners, I mean.For example, the same oilcloth hascovered the dining table ever sincewe've been here. After so much use, it'shardly what you'd call spotless. I do mybest to clean it, but since the dishclothwas also purchased before we went intohiding and consists of more holes thancloth, it's a thankless task. The vanDaans have been sleeping all winterlong on the same flannel sheet, whichcan't be washed because detergent isrationed and in short supply. Besides,it's of such poor quality that it's

practically useless. Father is walkingaround in frayed trousers, and his tie isalso showing signs of wear and tear.Mama's corset snapped today and isbeyond repair, while Margot is wearinga bra that's two sizes too small, Motherand Margot have shared the same threeundershorts the entire winter, and mineare so small they don't even cover mystomach. These are all things that can beovercome, but I sometimes wonder: howcan we, whose every possession, frommy underpants to Father's shaving brush,is so old and worn, ever hope to regainthe position we had before the war?SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943The Attitude of the Annex ResidentsToward the War

Mr. van Daan. In the opinion of us all,this revered gentleman has great insightinto politics. Nevertheless, he predictswe'll have to stay here until the end of'43. That's a very long time, and yet it'spossible to hold out until then. But whocan assure us that this war, which hascaused nothing but pain and sorrow, willthen be over? And that nothing will havehappened to us and our helpers longbefore that time? No one! That's whyeach and every day is filled withtension. Expectation and hope generatetension, as does fear-for example, whenwe hear a noise inside or outside thehouse, when the guns go off or when weread new "proclamations" in the paper,since we're afraid our helpers might be

forced to go into hiding themselvessometime. These days everyone istalking about having to hide. We don'tknow how many people are actually inhiding; of course, the number isrelatively small compared to the generalpopulation, but later on we'll no doubtbe astonished at how many good peoplein Holland were willing to take Jewsand Christians, with or without money,into their homes. There're also anunbelievable number of people withfalse identity papers.Mrs. van Daan. When this beautifuldamsel (by her own account) heard thatit was getting easier these days to obtainfalse IDs, she immediately proposed thatwe each have one made. As if there

were nothing to it, as if Father and Mr.van Daan were made of money.Mrs. van Daan is always sating the mostridiculous things, and her Putti is oftenexasperated. But that's not surprising,because one day Kerli announces,"When this is allover, I'm going to havemyself baptized"; and the next, "As longas I can remember, I've wanted to go toJerusalem. I only feel at home with otherjews!"Pim is a big optimist, but he always hashis reasons.Mr. Dussel makes up everything as hegoes along, and anyone wishing tocontradict His Majesty had better thinktwice. In Alfred Dussel's home his wordis law, but that doesn't suit Anne Frank

in the least.What the other members of the Annexfamily think about the war doesn'tmatter. When it comes to politics, thesefour are the only ones who count.Actually, only two of them do, butMadame van Daan and Dussel includethemselves as well. TUESDAY, MAY18, 1943Dearest Kit,I recently witnessed a fierce dogfightbetween German and English pilots.Unfortunately, a couple of Allied airmenhad to jump out of their burning plane.Our milkman, who lives in Halfweg,saw four Canadians sitting along the sideof the road, and one of them spoke fluentDutch. He asked the milkman if he had a

light for his cigarette, and then told himthe crew had consisted of six men. Thepilot had been burned to death, and thefifth crew member had hidden himselfsomewhere. The German Security Policecame to pick up the four remaining men,none of whom were injured. Afterparachuting out of a flaming plane, howcan anyone have such presence of mind?Although it's undeniably hot, we have tolight a fire every other day to burn ourvegetable peelings and garbage. Wecan't throw anything into trash cans,because the warehouse employees mightsee it. One small act of carelessness andwe're done for!All college students are being asked tosign an official statement to the effect

that they "sympathize with the Germansand approve of the New Order." Eightypercent have decided to obey thedictates of their conscience, but thepenalty will be severe. Any studentrefusing to sign will be sent to a Germanlabor camp. What's to become of theyouth of our country if they've all got todo hard labor in Germany?Last night the guns were making so muchnoise that Mother shut the window; Iwas in Pim's bed. Suddenly, right aboveour heads, we heard Mrs. van D. leapup, as if she'd been bitten by Mouschi.This was followed by a loud boom,which sounded as if a firebomb hadlanded beside my bed. "Lights! Lights!" Iscreamed.

Pim switched on the lamp. I expected theroom to burst into flames any minute.Nothing happened. We all rushedupstairs to see what was going on. Mr.and Mrs. van D. had seen a red glowthrough the open window, and he thoughtthere was a fire nearby, while she wascertain our house was ablaze. Mrs. vanD. was already standing beside her bedwith her knees knocking when the boomcame. Dussel stayed upstairs to smoke acigarette, and we crawled back into bed.Less than fifteen minutes later theshooting started again. Mrs. van D.sprang out of bed and went downstairsto Dussel' s room to seek the comfort shewas unable to find with her spouse.Dussel welcomed her with the words

"Come into my bed, my child!"We burst into peals of laughter, and theroar of the guns bothered us no more; ourfears had all been swept away.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1943Dearest Kitty,The poem Father composed for mybirthday is too nice to keep to myself.Since Pim writes his verses only inGerman, Margot volunteered to translateit into Dutch. See for yourself whetherMargot hasn't done herself proud. Itbegins with the usual summary of theyear's events and then continues: Asyoungest among us, but small no more,Your life can be trying, for we have thechore

Of becoming your teachers, a terriblebore."We've got experience! Take it fromme!""We've done this all before, you see.We know the ropes, we know the same."Since time immemorial, always thesame.One's own shortcomings are nothing butfluff,But everyone else's are heavier stuff:Faultfinding comes easy when this is ourplight,But it's hard for your parents, try as theymight,To treat you with fairness, and kindnessas well;Nitpicking's a habit that's hard to dispel.

Men you're living with old folks, all youcan doIs put up with their nagging-it's hard butit's true.The pill may be bitter, but down it mustgo,For it's meant to keep the peace, youknow.The many months here have not been invain,Since wasting time noes against yourBrain.You read and study nearly all the day,Determined to chase the boredom away.The more difficult question, much harderto bear,Is "What on earth do I have to wear?I've got no more panties, my clothes are

too tight,My shirt is a loincloth, I'm really a siaht!To put on my shoes I must off my toes,Dh dear, I'm plagued with so manywoes!"Margot had trouble getting the part aboutfood to rhyme, so I'm leaving it out. Butaside from that, don't you think it's agood poem?For the rest, I've been thoroughly spoiledand have received a number of lovelypresents, including a big book on myfavorite subject, Greek and Romanmythology. Nor can I complain about thelack of candy; everyone had dipped intotheir last reserves. As the Benjamin ofthe Annex, I got more than I deserve.Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1943Dearest Kitty,Heaps of things have happened, but Ioften think I'm boring you with mydreary chitchat and that you'd just assoon have fewer letters. So I'll keep thenews brief.Mr. Voskuijl wasn't operated on for hisulcer after all. Once the doctors had himon the operating table and opened himup, they saw that he had cancer. It was insuch an advanced stage that an operationwas pointless. So they stitched him upagain, kept him in the hospital for threeweeks, fed him well and sent him backhome. But they made an unforgivableerror: they told the poor man exactlywhat was in store for him. He can't work

anymore, and he's just sitting at home,surrounded by his eight children,brooding about his approaching death. Ifeel very sorry for him and hate notbeing able to go out; otherwise, I'd visithim as often as I could and help take hismind off matters. Now the good man canno longer let us know what's being saidand done in the warehouse, which is adisaster for us. Mr. Voskuijl was ourgreatest source of help and suppor whenit came to safety measures. We miss himvery much.Next month it's our turn to hand over ourradio to the authorities. Mr. Kleiman hasa small set hidden in his home that he'sgiving us to replace our beautiful cabinetradio. It's a pity we have to turn in our

big Philips, but when you're in hiding,you can't afford to bring the authoritiesdown on your heads. Of course, we'llput the "baby" radio upstairs. What's aclandestine radio when there are alreadyclandestine Jews and clandestinemoney?All over the country people are trying toget hold of an old radio that they canhand over instead of their "moralebooster." It's true: as the reports fromoutside grow worse and worse, theradio, with its wondrous voice, helps usnot to lose heart and to keep tellingourselves, "Cheer up, keep your spiritshigh, things are bound to get better!"Yours, AnneSUNDAY, JULY 11, 1943

Dear Kitty,To get back to the subject of child-rearing (for the umpteenth time), let metell you that I'm doing my best to behelpful, friendly and kind and to do all Ican to keep the rain of rebukes down to alight drizzle. It's not easy trying tobehave like a model child with peopleyou can't stand, especially when youdon't mean a word of it. But I can seethat a little hypocrisy gets me a lotfurther than myoid method of sayingexactly what I think (even though no oneever asks my opinion or cares one wayor another). Of course, I often forget myrole and find it impossible to curb myanger when they're unfair, so that theyspend the next month saying the most

impertinent girl in the world. Don't youthink I'm to be pitied sometimes? It's agood thing I'm not the grouchy type,because then I might become sour andbad-tempered. I can usually see thehumorous side of their scoldings, but it'seasier when somebody else is beingraked over the coals.Further, I've decided (after a great dealof thought) to drop the shorthand. First,so that I have more time for my othersubjects, and second, because of myeyes. That's a sad story. I've becomevery nearsighted and should have hadglasses ages ago. (Ugh, won't I look likea dope!). But as you know, people inhiding can't. . .Yesterday all anyone here could talk

about was Anne's eyes, because Motherhad suggested I go to the ophthalmologistwith Mrs. Kleiman. Just hearing thismade my knees weak, since it's no smallmatter. Going outside! Just think of it,walking down the street! I can't imagineit. I was petrified at first, and then glad.But it's not as simple as all that; thevarious authorities who had to approvesuch a step were unable to reach a quickdecision. They first had to carefullyweigh all the difficulties and risks,though Miep was ready to set offimmediately with me in tow. In themeantime, I'd taken my gray coat fromthe closet, but it was so small it lookedas if it might have belonged to my littlesister. We lowered the hem, but I still

couldn't button it. I'm really curious tosee what they decide, only I don't thinkthey'll ever work out a plan, because theBritish have landed in Sicily andFather's all set for a "quick finish."Bep's been giving Margot and me a lotof office work to do. It makes us bothfeel important, and it's a big help to her.Anyone can file letters and make entriesin a sales book, but we do it withremarkable accuracy.Miep has so much to carry she looks likea pack mule. She goes forth nearly everyday to scrounge up vegetables, and thenbicycles back with her purchases inlarge shopping bags. She's also the onewho brings five library books with herevery Saturday. We long for Saturdays

because that means books. We're like abunch of little kids with a present.Ordinary people don't know how muchbooks can mean to someone who'scooped up.Our only diversions are reading,studying and listening to the radio.Yours, AnneTUESDAY, JULY 13, 1943The Best Little TableYesterday afternoon Father gave mepermission to ask Mr. Dussel whether hewould please be so good as to allow me(see how polite I am?) to use the table inour room two afternoons a week, fromfour to five-thirty. I already sit thereevery day from two-thirty to four whileDussel takes a nap, but the rest of the

time the room and the table are off-limitsto me. It's impossible to study next doorin the afternoon, because there's toomuch going on. Besides, Fathersometimes likes to sit at the desk duringthe afternoon.So it seemed like a reasonable request,and I asked Dussel very politely. Whatdo you think the learned gentleman'sreply was? "No." Just plain "No!" I wasincensed and wasn't about to let myselfbe put off like that. I asked him thereason for his "No," but this didn't getme anywhere. The gist of his reply was:"I have to study too, you know, and if Ican't do that in the afternoons, I won't beable to fit it in at all. I have to finish thetask I've set for myself; otherwise,

there's no point in starting. Besides, youaren't serious about your studies.Mythology-what kind of work is that?Reading and knitting don't count either. Iuse that table and I'm not going to give itup!" I replied, "Mr. Dussel, I do take mywsork seriously. I can't study next doorin the afternoons, and I would appreciateit if you would reconsider my request!"Having said these words, the insultedAnne turned around and pretended thelearned doctor wasn't there. I wasseething with rage and felt that Dusselhad been incredibly rude (which hecertainly had been) and that I'd beenvery polite.That evening, when I managed to gethold of Pim, I told him what had

happened and we discussed what mynext step should be, because I had nointention of giving up and preferred todeal with the matter myself. Pim gaveme a rough idea of how to approachDussel, but cautioned me to wait untilthe next day, since I was in such a flap. Iignored this last piece of advice andwaited for Dussel after the dishes hadbeen done. Pim was sitting next door andthat had a calming effect.I began, "Mr. Dussel, you seem tobelieve further discussion of the matteris pointless, but I beg you to reconsider."Dussel gave me his most charming smileand said, "I'm always prepared todiscuss the matter, even though it'salready been settled."

I went on talking, despite Dussel'srepeated interruptions. When you firstcame here," I said, "we agreed that theroom was to be shared by the two of us.If we were to divide it fairly, you'd havethe entire morning and I'd have the entireafternoon! I'm not asking for that much,but two afternoons a week does seemreasonable to me."Dussel leapt out of his chair as if he'dsat on a pin. "You have no businesstalking about your rights to the room.Where am I supposed to go? Maybe Ishould ask Mr. van Daan to build me acubbyhole in the attic. You're not theonly one who can't find a quiet place towork. You're always looking for a fight.If your sister Margot, who has more right

to work space than you do, had come tome with the same request, I'd never evenhave thought of refusing, but you. . ."And once again he brought up thebusiness about the mythology and theknitting, and once again Anne wasinsulted. However, I showed no sign ofit and let Dussel finish: "But no, it'simpossible to talk to you. You'reshamefully self-centered. No one elsematters, as long as you get your way. I'venever seen such a child. But after all issaid and done, I'll be obliged to let youhave your way, since I don't want peoplesaying later on that Anne Frank failedher exams because Mr. Dussel refused torelinquish his table!"He went on and on until there was such a

deluge of words I could hardly keep up.For one fleeting moment I thought, "Himand his lies. I'll smack his ugly mug sohard he'll go bouncing off the wall!" Butthe next moment I thought, "Calm down,he's not worth getting so upset about!"At long last Mr. Dussel' s fury wasspent, and he left the room with anexpression of triumph mixed with wrath,his coat pockets bulging with food. Iwent running over to Father andrecounted the entire story, or at leastthose parts he hadn't been able to followhimself. rim decided to talk to Dusselthat very same evening, and they spokefor more than half an hour.They first discussed whether Anneshould be allowed to use the table, yes

or no. Father said that he and Dussel haddealt with the subject once before, atwhich time he'd professed to agree withDussel because he didn't want tocontradict the elder in front of theyounger, but that, even then, he hadn'tthought it was fair. Dussel felt I had noright to talk as if he were an intruderlaying claim to everything in sight. ButFather protested strongly, since hehimself had heard me say nothing of thekind. And so the conversation went backand forth, with Father defending my"selfishness" and my "busywork" andDussel grumbling the whole time.Dussel finally had to give in, and I wasgranted the opportunity to work withoutinterruption two afternoons a week.

Dussel looked very sullen, didn't speakto me for two days and made sure heoccupied the table from five to five-thirty-all very childish, of course.Anyone who's so petty and pedantic atthe age of fifty-four was born that wayand is never going to change.FRIDAY, JULY 16, 1943Dearest Kitty,There's been another break-in, but thistime a real one! Peter went down to thewarehouse this morning at seven, asusual, and noticed at once that both thewarehouse door and the street door wereopen. He immediately reported this toPim, who went to the private office,tuned the radio to a German station andlocked the door. Then they both went

back upstairs. In such cases our ordersare not to wash ourselves or run anywater, to be quiet, to be dressed by eightand not to go to the bathroom," and asusual we followed these to the letter. Wewere all glad we'd slept so well andhadn't heard anything. For a while wewere indignant because no one from theoffice came upstairs the entire morning;Mr. Kleiman left us on tenterhooks untileleven-thirty. He told that the burglarshad forced the outside door and thewarehouse door with a crowbar, butwhen they didn't find anything worthstealing, they tried their luck on the nextfloor. They stole two cashboxescontaining 40 guilders, blankcheckbooks and, worst of all, coupons

for 330 pounds of sugar, our entireallotment. It won't be easy to wanglenew ones.Mr. Kugler thinks this burglar belongs tothe same gang as the one who made anunsuccessful attempt six weeks ago toopen all three doors (the warehousedoor and the two outside doors).The burglary caused another stir, but theAnnex seems to thrive on excitement.Naturally, we were glad the cashregister and the typewriters had beensafely tucked away in our clothes closet.Yours, AnnePS. Landing in Sicily. Another stepcloser to the . . . !MONDAY, JULY 19,1943Dearest Kitty,

North Amsterdam was very heavilybombed on Sunday. There wasapparently a great deal of destruction.Entire streets are in ruins, and it willtake a while for them to dig out all thebodies. So far there have been twohundred dead and countless wounded;the hospitals are bursting at the seams.We've been told of children searchingforlornly in the smoldering ruins fortheir dead parents. It still makes meshiver to think of the dull, distant dronethat signified the approachingdestruction.FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1943Bep is currently able to get hold ofnotebooks, especially journals andledgers, useful for my bookkeeping

sister! Other kinds are for sale as well,but don't ask what they're like or howlong they'll last. At the moment \ they'reall labeled "No Coupons Needed!" Likeeverything else you can purchase withoutration stamps, they're i totally worthless.They consist of twelve sheets of gray Ipaper with narrow lines that slant acrossthe page. Margot is thinking about takinga course in calligraphy; I've advised herto go ahead and do it. Mother won't letme because of my eyes, but I think that'ssilly. Whether I do I that or somethingelse, it all comes down to the same Ithing. Since you've never been through awar, Kitty, and since you know verylittle about life in hiding, in spite of myletters, let me tell you, just for fun, what

we each want to do first when we'reable to go outside again. Margot and Mr.van Daan wish, above all else, to have ahot bath, filled to the brim, which theycan lie in for more than half an hour.Mrs. van Daan would like a cake,Dussel can think of nothing but seeinghis Charlotte, and Mother is dying for acup of real coffee. Father would like tovisit Mr. Voskuijl, Peter would godowntown, and as for me, I'd be sooverjoyed I wouldn't know where tobegin.Most of all I long to have a home of ourown, to be able to move around freelyand have someone help me with myhomework again, at last. In other words,to go back to school!

Bep has offered to get us some fruit, atso-called bargain prices: grapes 2.50guilders a pound, gooseberries 70 centsa pound, one peach 50 cents, melons 75cents a pound. No wonder the paperswrite every evening in big, fat letters:"Keep Prices Down!"MONDAY, JULY 26, 1943Dear Kitty,Yesterday was a very tumultuous day,and we're still all wound up. Actually,you may wonder if there's ever a day thatpasses without some kind of excitement.The first warning siren went off in themorning while we were at breakfast, butwe paid no attention, because it onlymeant that the planes were crossing thecoast. I had a terrible headache, so I lay

down for an hour after breakfast and thenwent to the office at around two.At two-thirty Margot had finished heroffice work and was just gathering herthings together when the sirens beganwailing again. So she and I trooped backupstairs. None too soon, it seems, forless than five minutes later the guns werebooming so loudly that we went andstood in the hall. The house shook andthe bombs kept falling. I was clutchingmy "escape bag," more because I wantedto have something to hold on to thanbecause I wanted to run away. I knowwe can't leave here, but if we had to,being seen on the streets would be justas dangerous as getting caught in an airraid. After half an hour the drone of

engines faded and the house began tohum with activity again. Peter emergedfrom his lookout post in the front attic,Dussel remained in the front office, Mrs.van D. felt safest in the private office,Mr. van Daan had been watching fromthe loft, and those of us on the landingspread out to watch the columns ofsmoke rising from the harbor. Beforelong the smell of fire was everywhere,and outside it looked as if the city wereenveloped in a thick fog. A big fire likethat is not a pleasant sight, butfortunately for us it was all over, and wewent baCk to our various chores. Just aswe were starting dinner: another air-raidalarm. The food was good, but I lost myappetite the moment I heard the siren.

Nothing happened, however, and forty-five minutes later the all clear wassounded. After the dishes had beenwashed: another air-raid warning,gunfire and swarms of planes. "Oh, gosh,twice in one day," we thought, "that'stwice in one day," we thought, "that'stwice too many." Little good that did us,because once agai the bombs raineddown, this time on the others of the city.According to British reports, SchipholAirport was bombed. The planes divedand climbed, the air was abuzz with thedrone of engines. It was very scary, andthe whole time I kept thinking, "Here itcomes, this is it."I can assure you that when I went to bedat nine, my legs were still shaking. At

the stroke of midnight I woke up again:more planes! Dussel was undressing, butI took no notice and leapt up, wideawake, at the sound of the first shot. Istayed in Father's bed until one, in myown bed until one-thirty, and was backin Father's bed at two. But the planeskept on coming. At last they stoppedfiring and I was able to go back "home"again. I finally fell asleep at half pasttwo.Seven o'clock. I awoke with a start andsat up in bed. Mr. van Daan was withFather. My first thought was: burglars."Everything," I heard Mr. van Daan say,and I thought everything had been stolen.But no, this time it was wonderful news,the best we've had in months, maybe

even since the war began. Mussolini hasresigned and the King of Italy has takenover the government. We jumped for joy.After the awful events of yesterday,finally something good happens andbrings us. . . hope! Hope for an end tothe war, hope for peace. Mr. Kuglerdropped by and told us that the Fokkeraircraft factory had been hit hard.Meanwhile, there was another air-raidalarm this morning, with planes flyingover, and another warning siren. I've hadit up to here with alarms. I've hardlyslept, and the last thing I want to do iswork. But now the suspense about Italyand the hope that the war will be over bythe end of the year are keeping us awake..

Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, JULY 29, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mrs. van Daan, Dussel and I were doingthe dishes, and I was extremely quiet.This is very unusual for me and theywere sure to notice, so in order to avoidany questions, I quickly racked mybrains for a neutral topic. I thought thebook Henry from Across the Street mightfit the bill, but I couldn't have been morewrong; if Mrs. van Daan doesn't jumpdown my throat, Mr. Dussel does. It allboiled down to this: Mr. Dussel hadrecommended the book to Margot andme as an example of excellent writing.We thought it was anything but that. Thelittle boy had been portrayed well, but

as for the rest. . . the less said the better.I mentioned something to that effectwhile we were doing the dishes, andDussel launched into a veritable tirade."How can you possibly understand thepsychology of a man? That of a childisn't so difficult [!]. But you're far tooyoung to read a book like that. Even atwenty-year-old man would be unable tocomprehend it." (So why did he go outof his way to recommend it to Margotand me?)Mrs. van D. and Dussel continued theirharangue: "You know way too muchabout things you're not supposed to.You've been brought up all wrong. Lateron, when you're older, you won't be ableto enjoy anything anymore. You'll say,

'Oh, I read that twenty years ago in somebook.' You'd better hurry if you want tocatch a husband or fall in love, sinceeverything is bound to be adisappointment to you. You alreadyknow all there is to know in theory. Butin practice? That's another story!"Can you imagine how I felt? I astonishedmyself by calmly replying, "You maythink I haven't been raised properly, butmany people would disagree!" Theyapparently believe that good child-rearing includes trying to pit me againstmy parents, since that's all they ever do.And not telling a girl my age aboutgrown-up subjects is fine. We can allsee what happens when. people areraised that way.

At that moment I could have slappedthem both for poking fun at me. I wasbeside myself with rage, and if I onlyknew how much longer we had to put upwith each other's company, I'd startcounting the days.Mrs. van Daan's a fine one to talk! Shesets an example all right-a bad one!She's known to be exceedingly pushy,egotistical, cunning, calculating andperpetually dissatisfied. Add to that,vanity and coquettishness and there's noquestion about it: she's a thoroughlydespicable person. I could write anentire book about Madame van Daan,and who knows, maybe someday I will.Anyone can put on a charming exteriorwhen they want to. Mrs. van D. is

friendly to strangers, especially men, soit's easy to make a mistake when youfirst get to know her.Mother thinks that Mrs. van D. is toostupid for words, Margot that she's toounimportant, Pim that she's too ugly(literally and figuratively!), and afterlong observation (I'm never prejudicedat the beginning), I've come to theconclusion that she's all three of theabove, and lots more besides. She has somany bad traits, why should I single outjust one of them?Yours, AnneP.S. Will the reader please take intoconsideration that this story was writtenbefore the writer's fury had cooled?TUESDAY, AUGUST 3, 1943

Dearest Kitty,Things are going well on the politicalfront. Italy has banned the Fascist Party.The people are fighting the Fascists inmany places-even the army has joinedthe fight. How can a country like thatcontinue to wage war against England?Our beautiful radio was taken away lastweek. Dussel was very angry at Mr.Kugler for turning it in on the appointedday. Dussel is slipping lower and lowerin my estimation, and he's already belowzero. hatever he says about politics,history, geography or ything else is soridiculous that I hardly dare repeat it:Hitler will fade from history; the harborin Rotterdam is bigger than the one inHamburg; the English are idiots for not

taking the opportunity to bomb Italy tosmithereens; etc., etc.We just had a third air raid. I decided togrit my teeth and practice beingcourageous.Mrs. van Daan, the one who always said"Let them fall" and "Better to end with abang than not to end at all," is the mostcowardly one among us. She wasshaking like a leaf this morning and evenburst into tears. She was comforted byher husband, with whom she recentlydeclared a truce after a week ofsquabbling; I nearly got sentimental atthe sight.Mouschi has now proved, beyond ashadow of a doubt, that having a cat hasdisadvantages as well as advantages.

The whole house is crawling with fleas,and it's getting worse each day. Mr.Kleiman sprinkled yellow powder inevery nook and cranny, but the fleashaven't taken the slightest notice. It'smaking us all very jittery; we're foreverimagining a bite on our arms and legs orother parts of our bodies, so we leap upand do a few exercises, since it gives usan excuse to take a better look at ourarms or necks. But now we're paying theprice for having had so little physicalexercise; we're so stiff we can hardlyturn our heads. The real calisthenics fellby the wayside long ago. Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4,1943Dearest Kitty,Now that we've been in hiding for a

little over a year, you know a great dealabout our lives. Still, I can't possibly tellyou everything, since it's all so differentcompared to ordinary times and ordinarypeople. Nevertheless, to give you acloser look into our lives, from time totime I'll describe part of an ordinaryday. I'll start with the evening and night.Nine in the evening. Bedtime alwaysbegins in the Annex with an enormoushustle and bustle. Chairs are shifted,beds pulled out, blankets unfolded-nothing stays where it is during thedaytime. I sleep on a small divan, whichis only five feet long, so we have to adda few chairs to make it longer.Comforter, sheets, pillows, blankets:everything has to be removed from

Dussel' s bed, where it's kept during theday.In the next room there's a terriblecreaking: that's Margot's folding bedbeing set up. More blankets and pillows,anything to make the wooden slats a bitmore comfortable. Upstairs it soundslike thunder, but it's only Mrs. van D.'sbed being shoved against the window sothat Her Majesty, arrayed in her pinkbed jacket, can sniff the night air throughher delicate little nostrils. Nine o'clock.After Peter's finished, it's my turn for thebathroom. I wash myself from head totoe, and more often than not I find a tinyflea floating in the sink (only during thehot months, weeks or days). I brush myteeth, curl my hair, manicure my nails

and dab peroxide on my upper lip tobleach the black hairs-all this in lessthan half an hour.Nine-thirty. I throw on my bathrobe.With soap in one hand, and potty,hairpins, panties, curlers and a wad ofcotton in the other, I hurry out of thebathroom. The next in line invariablycalls me back to remove the gracefullycurved but unsightly hairs that I've left inthe sink.Ten o'clock. Time to put up the blackoutscreen and say good-night. For the nextfifteen minutes, at least, the house isfilled with the creaking of beds and thesigh of broken springs, and then,provided our upstairs neighbors aren'thaving a marital spat in bed, all is quiet.

Eleven-thirty. The bathroom doorcreaks. A narrow strip of light falls intothe room. Squeaking shoes, a large coat,even larger than the man inside it . . .Dussel is returning from his nightly workin Mr. Kugler's office. I hear himshuffiing back and forth for ten wholeminutes, the rustle of paper (from thefood he's tucking away in his cupboard)and the bed being made up. Then thefigure disappears again, and the onlysound is the occasional suspicious noisefrom the bathroom.Approximately three o'clock. I have toget up to use the tin can under my bed,which, to be on the safe side, has arubber mat underneath in case of leaks. Ialways hold my breath while I go, since

it clatters into the can like a brook downa mountainside. The potty is returned toits place, and the figure in the whitenightgown (the one that causes Margot toexclaim every evening, "Oh, thatindecent nighty!") climbs back into bed.A certain somebody lies awake forabout fifteen minutes, listening to thesounds of the night. In the first place, tohear whether there are any burglarsdownstairs, and then to the various beds-upstairs, next door and in my room-totell whether the others are asleep or halfawake. This is no fun, especially when itconcerns a member of the family namedDr. Dussel. First, there's the sound of afish gasping for air, and this is repeatednine or ten times. Then, the lips are

moistened profusely. This is alternatedwith little smacking sounds, followed bya long period of tossing and turning andrearranging the pillows. After fiveminutes of perfect quiet, the samesequence repeats itself three more times,after which he's presumably lulledhimself back to sleep for a while.Sometimes the guns go off during thenight, between one and four. I'm neveraware of it before it happens, but all of asudden I find myself standing beside mybed, out of sheer habit. Occasionally I'mdreaming so deeply (of irregular Frenchverbs or a quarrel upstairs) that I realizeonly when my dream is over that theshooting has stopped and that I'veremained quietly in my room. But

usually I wake up. Then I grab a pillowand a handkerchief, throw on my robeand slippers and dash next door toFather, just the way Margot described inthis birthday poem:When shots rino out in the dark of night,The door creaks open and into sightCome a hanky, a pillow, a figure inwhite. . .Once I've reached the big bed, the worstis over, except when the shooting isextra loud.Six forty-five. Brrring . . . the alarmclock, which raises its shrill voice atany hour of the day or night, whether youwant it to or not. Creak. . . wham. . .Mrs. van D. turns it off. Screak . . . Mr.van D. gets up, puts on the water and

races to the bathroom.Seven-fifteen. The door creaks again.Dussel can go to the bathroom. Alone atlast, I remove the blackout screen . . .and a new day begins in the Annex.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, AUGUST 5, 1943Dearest Kitty,Today let's talk about the lunch break.It's twelve-thirty. The whole gangbreathes a sigh of relief: Mr. vanMaaren, the man with the shady past, andMr. de Kok have gone home for lunch.Upstairs you can hear the thud of thevacuum cleaner on Mrs. van D.'sbeautiful and only rug. Margot tucks afew books under her arm and heads forthe class for "slow learners," which is

what Dussel seems to be. Pim goes andsits in a corner with his constantcompanion, Dickens, in hopes of findinga bit of peace and quiet. Mother hastensupstairs to help the busy little housewife,and I tidy up both the bathroom andmyself at the same time.Twelve forty-five. One by one theytrickle in: first Mr.Gies and then either Mr. Kleiman or Mr.Kugler, followed by Bep and sometimeseven Miep.One. Clustered around the radio, they alllisten raptly to the BBC. This is the onlytime the members of the Annex familydon't interrupt each other, since even Mr.van Daan can't argue with the speaker.One-fifteen. Food distribution. Everyone

from downstairs gets a cup of soup, plusdessert, if there happens to be any. Acontented Mr. Gies sits on the divan orleans against the desk with hisnewspaper, cup and usually the cat at hisside. If one of the three is missing, hedoesn't hesitate to let his protest beheard. Mr. Kleiman relates the latestnews from town, and he's an excellentsource. Mr. Kugler hurries up the stairs,gives a short but solid knock on the doorand comes in either wringing his handsor rubbing them in glee, depending onwhether he's quiet and in a bad mood ortalkative and in a good mood.One forty-five. Everyone rises from thetable and goes about their business.Margot and Mother do the dishes, Mr.

and Mrs. van D. head for the divan,Peter for the attic, Father for his divan,Dussel too, and Anne does herhomework. What comes next is thequietest hour of the day; when they're allasleep, there are no disturbances. Tojudge by his face, Dussel is dreaming offood. But I don't look at him long,because the time whizzes by and beforeyou know it, it'll be 4 P.M. and thepedantic Dr. Dussel will be standingwith the clock in his hand because I'mone minute ,late clearing off the table.Yours, AnneSATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 1943Dearest Kitty, A few weeks ago I startedwriting a story, something I made upfrom beginning to end, and I've enjoyed

it so much that the products of my penare piling up. Yours, AnneMONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1943Dearest Kitty,We now continue with a typical day inthe Annex. Since we've already hadlunch, it's time to describe dinner.Mr. van Daan. Is served first, and takesa generous portion of whatever he likes.Usually joins in the conversation, neverfails to give his opinion. Once he'sspoken, his word is final. If anyonedares to suggest otherwise, Mr. van D.can put up a good fight. Oh, he can hisslike a cat. . . but I'd rather he didn't.Once you've seen it, you never want tosee it again. His opinion is the best, heknows the most about everything.

Granted, the man has a good head on hisshoulders, but it's swelled to no smalldegree.Madame. Actually, the best thing wouldbe to say nothing. Some days, especiallywhen a foul mood is on the way, her faceis hard to read. If you analyze thediscussions, you realize she's not thesubject, but the guilty party! A facteveryone prefers to ignore. Even so, youcould call her the instigator. Stirring uptrouble, now that's what Mrs. van Daancalls fun. Stirring up trouble betweenMrs. Frank and Anne. Margot and Mr.Frank aren t qwte as easy. But let'sreturn to the table. Mrs. van D. may thinkshe doesn't always get enough, but that'snot the case. The choicest potatoes, the

tastiest morsel, the tenderest bit ofwhatever there is, that's Madame'smotto. The others can all have their turn,as long as I get the best. (Exactly whatshe accuses Anne Frank of doing.) Hersecond watchword is: keep talking. Aslong as somebody's listening, it doesn'tseem to occur to her to wonder whetherthey're interested. She must think thatwhatever Mrs. van Daan says willinterest everyone.Smile coquettishly, pretend you knoweverything, offer everyone a piece ofadvice and mother them-that's sure tomake a good impression. But if you takea better look, the good impression fades.One, she's hardworking; two, cheerful;three, coquettish-and sometimes a cute

face. That's Petronella van Daan. Thethird diner. Says very little. Young Mr.van Daan is usually quiet and hardlymakes his presence known. As far as hisappetite is concerned, he's a Danaldeanvessel that never gets full. Even after themost substantial meal, he can look youcalmly in the eye and claim he couldhave eaten twice as much. Number four-Margot. Eats like a bird and doesn't talkat all. She eats only vegetables and fruit."Spoiled," in the opinion of the vanDaans. "Too little exercise and freshair," in ours.Beside her-Mama. Has a hearty appetite,does her share of the talking. No one hasthe impression, as they do with Mrs. vanDaan, that this is a housewife. What's the

difference between the two? Well, Mrs.van D. does the cooking and Motherdoes the dishes and polishes thefurniture.Numbers six and seven. I won't say muchabout Father and me. The former is themost modest person at the table. Healways looks to see whether the othershave been served first. He needs nothingfor himself; the best things are for thechildren. He's goodness personified.Seated next to him is the Annex's littlebundle of nerves.Dussel. Help yourself, keep your eyes onthe food, eat and don't talk. And if youhave to say something, then forgoodness' sake talk about food. Thatdoesn't lead to quarrels, just to bragging.

He consumes enormous portions, and"no" is not part of his vocabulary,whether the food is good or bad. Pantsthat come up to his chest, a red jacket,black patent-leather slippers and horn-rimmed glasses-that's how he lookswhen he's at work at the little table,always studying and never progressing.This is interrupted only by his afternoonnap, food and-his favorite spot-thebathroom. Three, four or five times aday there's bound to be someone waitingoutside the bathroom door, hoppingimpatiently from one foot to another,trying to hold it in and barely managing.Does Dussel care? Not a whit. Fromseven-fifteen to seven-thirty, fromtwelve-thirty to one, from two to two-

fifteen, from four to four-fifteen, from sixto six-fifteen, from eleven-thirty totwelve. You can set your watch by them;these are the times for his "regularsessions." He never deviates or letshimself be swayed by the voices outsidethe door, begging him to open up beforea disaster occurs.Number nine is not part of our Annexfamily, although she does share ourhouse and table. Hep has a healthyappetite. She cleans her plate and isn'tchoosy. Hep's easy to please and thatpleases us. She can be characterized asfollows: cheerful, good-humored, kindand willing.TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 1943Dearest Kitty, .

A new idea: during meals I talk more tomyself than to the others, which has twoadvantages. First, they're glad they don'thave to listen to my continuous chatter,and second, I don't have to get annoyedby their opinions. I don't think myopinions are stupid but other people do,so it's better to keep them to myself. Iapply the same tactic when I have to eatsomething I loathe. I put the dish in frontof me, pretend it's delicious, avoidlooking at it as much as possible, and it'sgone before I've had time to realize whatit is. When I get up in the morning,another very disagreeable moment, Ileap out of bed, think to myself, "You'llbe slipping back under the covers soon,"walk to the window, take down the

blackout screen, sniff at the crack until Ifeel a bit of fresh air, and I'm awake. Istrip the bed as fast as I can so I won'tbe tempted to get back in. Do you knowwhat Mother calls this sort of thing? Theart of living. Isn't that a funnyexpression?We've all been a little confused this pastweek because our dearly belovedWestertoren bells have been carted offto be melted down for the war, so wehave no idea of the exact time, eithernight or day. I still have hopes thatthey'll come up with a substitute, madeof tin or copper or some such thing, toremind the neighborhood of the clock.Everywhere I go, upstairs or down, theyall cast admiring glances at my feet,

which are adorned by a pair ofexceptionally beautiful (for times likethese!) shoes. Miep managed to snapthem up for 27.50 guilders. Burgundy-colored suede and leather with medium-sized high heels. I feel as if I were onstilts, and look even taller than I alreadyam.Yesterday was my unlucky day. Ipricked my right thumb with the bluntend of a big needle. As a result, Margothad to peel potatoes for me (take thegood with the bad), and writing wasawkward. Then I bumped into thecupboard door so hard it nearly knockedme over, and was scolded for makingsuch a racket. They wouldn't let me runwater to bathe my forehead, so now I'm

walking around with a giant lump overmy right eye. To make matters worse, thelittle toe on my right foot got stuck in thevacuum cleaner. It bled and hurt, but myother ailments were already causing meso much trouble that I let this one slide,which was stupid of me, because nowI'm walking around with an infected toe.What with the salve, the gauze and thetape, I can't get my heavenly new shoeon my foot.Dussel has put us in danger for theumpteenth time. He actually had Miepbring him a book, an anti-Mussolinitirade, which has been banned. On theway here she was knocked down by anSS motorcycle. She lost her head andshouted "You brutes!" and went on her

way. I don't dare think what would havehappened if she'd been taken down toheadquarters.Yours, AnneA Daily Chore in Our Little Community:Peeling Potatoes!One person goes to get somenewspapers; another, the knives(keeping the best for himself, of course);the third, the potatoes; and the fourth, thewater. Mr. Dussel begins. He may notalways peel them very well, but he doespeel nonstop, glancing left and right tosee if everyone is doing it the way hedoes. No, they're not!"Look, Anne, I am taking peeler in myhand like so and going from the top tobottom! Nein, not so . . . but so!"

"I think my way is easier, Mr. Dussel," Isay tentatively."But this is best way, Anne. This you cantake from me. Of course, it is no matter,you do the way you want."We go on peeling. I glance at Dussel outof the corner of my eye. Lost in thought,he shakes his head (over me, no doubt),but says no more. I keep on peeling.Then I look at Father, on the other sideof me. To Father, peeling potatoes is nota chore, but precision work. When hereads, he has a deep wrinkle in the backof his head. But when he's preparingpotatoes, beans or vegetables, he seemsto be totally absorbed in his task. Heputs on his potato-peeling face, andwhen it's set in that particular way, it

would be impossible for him to turn outanything less than a perfectly peeledpotato. I keep on working. I glance upfor a second, but that's all the time Ineed. Mrs. van D. is trying to attractDussel's attention. She starts by lookingin his direction, but Dussel pretends notto notice. She winks, but Dussel goes onpeeling. She laughs, but Dussel stilldoesn't look up. Then Mother laughs too,but Dussel pays them no mind. Havingfailed to achieve her goal, Mrs. van D.is obliged to change tactics. There's abrief silence. Then she says, "Putti, whydon't you put on an apron? Otherwise,I'll have to spend all day tomorrowtrying to get the spots out of your suit!""I'm not getting it dirty."

Another brief silence. "Putti, why don'tyou sit down?'"I'm fine this way. I like standing up!"Silence."Putti, look out, du spritzt schon!".*[*Now you're splashing!]"I know, Mommy, but I'm being careful."Mrs. van D. casts about for anothertopic. "Tell me, Putti, why aren't theBritish carrying out any bombing raidstoday?""Because the weather's bad, Kerli!""But yesterday it was such nice weatherand they weren't flying then either.""Let's drop the subject.""Why? Can't a person talk about that oroffer an opinion?'"Well, why in the world not?"

"Oh, be quiet, Mammichen!"*[*Mommy]"Mr. Frank always answers his wife."Mr. van D. is trying to control himself.This remark always rubs him the wrongway, but Mrs. van D.'s not one to quit:"Oh, there's never going to be aninvasion!"Mr. van D. turns white, and when shenotices it, Mrs. van D. turns red, butshe's not about to be deterred: "TheBritish aren't doing a thing!" The bombbursts. "And now shut up, Donnerwetternoch mal!* [*For crying out loud!"]Mother can barely stifle a laugh, and Istare straight ahead.Scenes like these are repeated almostdaily, unless they've just had a terrible

fight. In that case, neither Mr. nor Mrs.van D. says a word.It's time for me to get some morepotatoes. I go up to the attic, where Peteris busy picking fleas from the cat.He looks up, the cat notices it, andwhoosh. . . he's gone. Out the windowand into the rain gutter.Peter swears; I laugh and slip out of theroom.Freedom in the AnnexFive-thirty. Bep's arrival signals thebeginning of our nightly freedom. Thingsget going right away. I go upstairs withBep, who usually has her dessert beforethe rest of us. The moment she sits down,Mrs. van D. begins stating her wishes.Her list usually starts with "Oh, by the

way, Bep, something else I'd like. . ."Bep winks at me. Mrs. van D. doesn'tmiss a chance to make her wishes knownto whoever comes upstairs. It must beone of the reasons none of them like togo up there.Five forty-five. Bep leaves. I go downtwo floors to have a look around: first tothe kitchen, then to the private office andthen to the coal bin to open the cat doorfor Mouschi.After a long tour of inspection, I wind upin Mr. Kugler's office. Mr. van Daan iscombing all the drawers and files fortoday's mail. Peter picks up Boche andthe warehouse key; Pim lugs thetypewriters upstairs; Margot looksaround for a quiet place to do her office

work; Mrs. van D. puts a kettle of wateron the stove; Mother comes down thestairs with a pan of potatoes; we allknow our jobs.Soon Peter comes back from thewarehouse. The first question they askhim is whether he's remembered thebread. No, he hasn't. He crouches beforethe door to the front office to makehimself as small as possible and crawlson his hands and knees to the steelcabinet, takes out the bread and starts toleave. At any rate, that's what he intendsto do, but before he knows what'shappened, Mouschi has jumped over himand gone to sit under the desk.Peter looks all around him. Aha, there'sthe cat! He crawls back into the office

and grabs the cat by the tail. Mouschihisses, Peter sighs. What has heaccomplished? Mouschi's now sitting bythe window licking herself, very pleasedat having escaped Peter's clutches. Peterhas no choice but to lure her with apiece of bread. Mouschi takes the bait,follows him out, and the door closes. Iwatch the entire scene through a crack inthe door.Mr. van Daan is angry and slams thedoor. Margot and I exchange looks andthink the same thing: he must haveworked himself into a rage againbecause of some blunder on Mr.Kugler's part, and he's forgotten allabout the Keg Company next door.Another step is heard in the hallway.

Dussel comes in, goes toward thewindow with an air of propriety, sniffs. .. coughs, sneezes and clears his throat.He's out of luck-it was pepper. Hecontinues on to the front office. Thecurtains are open, which means he can'tget at his writing paper. He disappearswith a scowl.Margot and I exchange another glance."One less page for his sweethearttomorrow," I hear her say. I nod inagreement.An elephant's tread is heard on thestairway. It's Dussel, seeking comfort inhis favorite spot.We continue working. Knock, knock,knock. . . Three taps means dinnertime!MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1943

Wenn Die Uhr Halb Neune Schlaat . . .*[* When the clock strikes half pasteight.]Margot and Mother are nervous. "Shh . .. Father. Be quiet, Otto. Shh . . . Pim! It'seight-thirty.Come here, you can't run the wateranymore. Walk softly!" A sample ofwhat's said to Father in the bathroom. Atthe stroke of half past eight, he has to bein the living room. No running water, noflushing toilet, no walking around, nonoise whatsoever. As long as the officestaff hasn't arrived, sounds travel moreeasily to the warehouse.The door opens upstairs at eight-twenty,and this is followed by three gentle tapson the floor. . . Anne's hot cereal. I

clamber up the stairs to get my doggiedish.Back downstairs, everything has to bedone quickly, quickly: I comb my hair,put away the potty, shove the bed back inplace. Quiet! The clock is striking eight-thirty! Mrs. van D. changes shoes andshuffles through the room in her slippers;Mr. van D. too-a veritable CharlieChaplin. All is quiet. The ideal familyscene has now reached its high point. Iwant to read or study and Margot doestoo. Father and Mother ditto. Father issitting (with Dickens and the dictionary,of course) on the edge of the sagging,squeaky bed, which doesn't even have adecent mattress. Two bolsters can bepiled on top of each other. "I don't need

these," he thinks. "I can manage withoutthem!" Once he starts reading, he doesn'tlook up. He laughs now and then andtries to get Mother to read a story."I don't have the time right now!"He looks disappointed, but thencontinues to read.A little while later, when he comesacross another good passage, he triesagain: "You have to read this, Mother!"Mother sits on the folding bed, eitherreading, sewing, knitting or studying,whichever is next on her list. An ideasuddenly occurs to her, and she quicklysays, so as not to forget, "Anne,remember to . . . Margot, jot this down. .. "After a while it's quiet again. Margot

slams her book shut; Father knits hisforehead, his eyebrows forming a funnycurve and his wrinkle of concentrationreappearing I at the back of his head, andhe buries himself in his book 1 again;Mother starts chatting with Margot; and Iget curious and listen too. Pim is drawninto the conversation . . . Nine o'clock.Breakfast! FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10,1943Dearest Kitty,Every time I write to you, somethingspecial has happened, usually unpleasantrather than pleasant. This time, however,something wonderful is going on. OnWednesday, September 8, we werelistening to the seven o'clock news whenwe heard an announcement: "Here is

some of the best news of the war so far:Italy has capitulated." Italy hasunconditionally surrendered! The Dutchbroadcast from England began at eight-fifteen with the news: "Listeners, an hourand fifteen minutes ago, just as I finishedwriting my daily report, we received thewonderful news of Italy's capitulation. Itell you, I never tossed my notes into thewastepaper basket with more delightthan I did today!""God Save the King," the Americannational anthem and the Russian''Internationale" were played. As always,the Dutch program was uplifting withoutbeing too optimistic.The British have landed in Naples.Northern Italy is occupied by the

Germans. The truce was signed onFriday, September 3, the day the Britishlanded in Italy. The Germans are rantingand raving in all the newspapers at thetreachery of Badoglio and the Italianking.Still, there's bad news as well. It's aboutMr. Kleiman. As you know, we all likehim very much. He's unfailingly cheerfuland amazingly brave, despite the factthat he's always sick and in pain andcan't eat much or do a lot of walking."When Mr. Kleiman enters a room, thesun begins to shine," Mother saidrecently, and she's absolutely right.Now it seems he has to go to the hospitalfor a very difficult operation on hisstomach, and will have to stay there for

at least four weeks. You should haveseen him when he told us good-bye. Heacted so normally, as though he werejust off to do an errand.Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1943Dearest Kitty,Relationships here in the Annex aregetting worse all the time. We don't dareopen our mouths at mealtime (except toslip in a bite of food), because no matterwhat we say, someone is bound to resentit or take it the wrong way. Mr. Voskuijloccasionally comes to visit us.Unfortunately, he's not doing very well.He isn't making it any easier for hisfamily, because his attitude seems to be:what do I care, I'm going to die anyway!

When I think how touchy everyone ishere, I can just imagine what it must belike at the Voskuijls'. I've been takingvalerian every day to fight the anxietyand depression, but it doesn't stop mefrom being even more miserable the nextday. A good hearty laugh would helpbetter than ten valerian drops, but we'vealmost forgotten how to laugh.Sometimes I'm afraid my face is going tosag with all this sorrow and that mymouth is going to permanently droop atthe corners. The others aren't doing anybetter. Everyone here is dreading thegreat terror known as winter. Anotherfact that doesn't exactly brighten up ourdays is that Mr. van Maaren, the manwho works in the warehouse, is getting

suspicious about the Annex. A personwith any brains must have noticed bynow that Miep sometimes says she'sgoing to the lab, Bep to the file room andMr. Kleiman to the Opekta supplies,while Mr. Kugler claims the Annexdoesn't belong to this building at all, butto the one next door.We wouldn't care what Mr. van Maarenthought of the situation except that he'sknown to be unreliable and to possess ahigh degree of curiosity. He's not onewho can be put off with a flimsy excuse.One day Mr. Kugler wanted to be extracautious, so at twenty past twelve he puton his coat and went to the drugstorearound the corner. Less than five minuteslater he was back, and he sneaked up the

stairs like a thief to visit us. At one-fifteen he started to leave, but Bep methim on the landing and warned him thatvan Maaren was in the office. Mr.Kugler did an about-face and stayedwith us until one-thirty. Then he took offhis shoes and went in his stockinged feet(despite his cold) to the front attic anddown the other stairway, taking one stepat a time to avoid the creaks. It took himfifteen minutes to negotiate the stairs, buthe wound up safely in the office afterhaving entered from the outside.In the meantime, Bep had gotten rid ofvan Maaren and come to get Mr. Kuglerfrom the Annex. But he'd already left andat that moment was still tiptoeing downthe stairs. What must the passersby have

thought when they saw the managerputting on his shoes outside? Hey, youthere, in the socks!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1943Dearest Kitty,It's Mrs. van Daan's birthday. Other thanone ration stamp each for cheese, meatand bread, all she received from us wasa jar of jam. Her husband, Dussel andthe office staff gave her nothing butflowers and also food. Such are thetimes we live in!Bep had a nervous fit last week becauseshe had so many errands to do. Tentimes a day people were sending her outfor something, each time insisting she goright away or go again or that she'd done

it all wrong. And when you think that shehas her regular office work to do, thatMr. Kleiman is sick, that Miep is homewith a cold and that Bep herself has asprained ankle, boyfriend troubles and agrouchy father, it's no wonder she's atthe end of her tether. We comforted herand told her that if she'd put her footdown once or twice and say she didn'thave the time, the shopping lists wouldshrink of their own accord.Saturday there was a big drama, thelikes of which have never been seenhere before. It started with a discussionof van Maaren and ended in a generalargument and tears. Dussel complainedto Mother that he was being treated likea leper, that no one was friendly to him

and that, after all, he hadn't doneanything to deserve it. This wasfollowed by a lot of sweet talk, whichluckily Mother didn't fall for this time.She told him we were disappointed inhim and that, on more than one occasion,he'd been a source of great annoyance.Dussel promised her the moon, but, asusual, we haven't seen so much as abeam. There's trouble brewing with thevan Daans, I can tell! Father's furiousbecause they're cheating us: they've beenholding back meat and other things. Oh,what kind of bombshell is about to burstnow? If only I weren't so involved in allthese skirmishes! If only I could leavehere! They're driving us crazy! Yours,Anne

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1943Dearest Kitty,Mr. Kleiman is back, thank goodness!He looks a bit pale, and yet he cheerfullyset off to sell some clothes for Mr. vanDaan. The disagreeable fact is that Mr.van Daan has run out of money. He losthis last hundred guilders in thewarehouse, which is still creatingtrouble for us: the men are wonderinghow a hundred guilders could wind up inthe warehouse on a Monday morning.Suspicion abounds. Meanwhile, thehundred guilders have been stolen.Who's the thief? But I was talking aboutthe money shortage. Mrs. van D. hasscads of dresses, coats and shoes, noneof which she feels she can do without.

Mr. van D.'s suit is difficult to sell, andPeter's bike was put on the block, but isback again, since nobody wanted it. Butthe story doesn't end there. You see,Mrs. van D. is going to have to part withher fur coat. In her opinion, the firmshould pay for our upkeep, but that'sridiculous. They just had a flaming rowabout it and have entered the "oh, mysweet Putti" and "darling Kerli" stage ofreconciliation.My mind boggles at the profanity thishonorable house has had to endure in thepast month. Father walks around with hislips pressed together, and whenever hehears his name, he looks up in alarm, asifhe's afraid he'll be called upon toresolve another delicate problem.

Mother's so wrought up her cheeks areblotched with red, Margot complains ofheadaches, Dussel can't sleep, Mrs. vanD. frets and fumes all day long, and I'vegone completely round the bend. To tellyou the truth, I sometimes forget whowe're at odds with and who we're not.The only way to take my mind off it is tostudy, and I've been doing a lot of thatlately.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943My dearest Kitty,Mr. Kleiman is out again; his stomachwon't give him a moment's peace. Hedoesn't even know whether it's stoppedbleeding. He came to tell us he wasn'tfeeling well and was going home, and

for the first time he seemed really down.Mr. and Mrs. van D. have had moreraging battles. The reason is simple:they're broke. They wanted to sell anovercoat and a suit of Mr. van D. 's, butwere unable to find any buyers. Hisprices were way too high.Some time ago Mr. Kleiman was talkingabout a furrier he knows. This gave Mr.van D. the idea of selling his wife's furcoat. It's made of rabbit skin, and she'shad it for seventeen years. Mrs. van D.got 325 guilders for it, an enormousamount. She wanted to keep the moneyherself to buy new clothes after the war,and it took some doing before Mr. vanD. could make her understand that it wasdesperately needed to cover household

expenses.You can't imagine the screaming,shouting, stamping of feet and swearingthat went on. It was terrifying. My familystood holding its breath at the bottom ofthe stairs, in case it might be necessaryto drag them apart. All the bickering,tears and nervous tension have becomesuch a stress and strain that I fall into mybed at night crying and thanking my luckystars that I have half an hour to myself.I'm doing fine, except I've got noappetite. I keep hearing: "Goodness, youlook awful!" I must admit they're doingtheir best to keep me in condition:they're plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewer's yeast and calcium.My nerves often get the better of me,

especially on Sundays; that's when Ireally feel miserable. The atmosphere isstifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, youdon't hear a single bird, and a deathly,oppressive silence hangs over the houseand clings to me as if it were going todrag me into the deepest regions of theunderworld. At times like these, Father,Mother and Margot don't matter to me inthe least. I wander from room to room,climb up and down the stairs and feellike a songbird whose wings have beenripped off and who keeps hurling itselfagainst the bars of its dark cage. "Let meout, where there's fresh air andlaughter!" a voice within me cries. Idon't even bother to reply anymore, butlie down on the divan. Sleep makes the

silence and the terrible fear go by morequickly, helps pass the time, since it'simpossible to kill it. Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1943Dearest Kitty,To take our minds off matters as well asto develop them, Father ordered acatalog from a correspondence school.Margot pored through the thick brochurethree times without finding anything toher liking and within her budget. Fatherwas easier to satisfy and decided towrite and ask for a trial lesson in"Elementary Latin." No sooner said thandone. The lesson arrived, Margot set towork enthusiastically and decided totake the course, despite the expense. It'smuch too hard for me, though I'd really

like to learn Latin.To give me a new project as well,Father asked Mr. Kleiman for achildren's Bible so I could finally learnsomething about the New Testament."Are you planning to give Anne a Biblefor Hanukkah?" Margot asked, somewhatperturbed."Yes. . . Well, maybe St. Nicholas Daywould be a better occasion," Fatherreplied.Jesus and Hanukkah don't exactly gotogether.Since the vacuum cleaner's broken, Ihave to take an old brush to the rug everynight. The window's closed, the light'son, the stove's burning, and there I ambrushing away at the rug. "That's sure to

be a problem," I thought to myself thefirst time. "There're bound to becomplaints." I was right: Mother got aheadache from the thick clouds of dustwhirling around the room, Margot's newLatin dictionary was caked with dirt,and rim grumbled that the floor didn'tlook any different anyway. Small thanksfor my pains.We've decided that from now on thestove is going to be lit at seven-thirty onSunday mornings instead of five-thirty. Ithink it's risky. What will the neighborsthink of our smoking chimney?It's the same with the curtains. Eversince we first went into hiding, they'vebeen tacked firmly to the windows.Sometimes one of the ladies or

gentlemen can't resist the urge to peekoutside. The result: a storm ofreproaches. The response: "Oh, nobodywill notice." That's how every act ofcarelessness begins and ends. No onewill notice, no one will hear, no onewill pay the least bit of attention. Easy tosay, but is it true?At the moment, the tempestuous quarrelshave subsided; only Dussel and the vanDaans are still at loggerheads. WhenDussel is talking about Mrs. van D., heinvariably calls her' 'that old bat" or"that stupid hag," and conversely, Mrs.van D. refers to our ever so learnedgentleman as an "old maid" or a "touchyneurotic spinster, etc.The pot calling the kettle black!

Yours, AnneMONDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER8,1943Dearest Kitty,If you were to read all my letters in onesitting, you'd be struck by the fact thatthey were written in a variety of moods.It annoys me to be so dependent on themoods here in the Annex, but I'm not theonly one: we're all subject to them. If I'mengrossed in a book, I have to rearrangemy thoughts before I can mingle withother people, because otherwise theymight think I was strange. As you cansee, I'm currently in the middle of adepression. I couldn't really tell youwhat set it off, but I think it stems frommy cowardice, which confronts me at

every turn. This evening, when Bep wasstill here, the doorbell rang long andloud. I instantly turned white, mystomach churned, and my heart beatwildly-and all because I was afraid.At night in bed I see myself alone in adungeon, without Father and Mother. OrI'm roaming the streets, or the Annex ison fire, or they come in the middle of thenight to take us away and I crawl undermy bed in desperation. I see everythingas if it were actually taking place. Andto think it might all happen soon!Miep often says she envies us becausewe have such peace and quiet here. Thatmay be true, but she's obviously notthinking about our fear.I simply can't imagine the world will

ever be normal again for us. I do talkabout "after the war," but it's as if I weretalking about a castle in the air,something that can Ii never come true.I see the ei ght of us in the Annex as ifwe were a patch of blue sky surroundedby menacing black clouds. The perfectlyround spot on which we're standing isstill safe, but the clouds are moving inon us, and the ring between us and theapproaching danger is being pulledtighter and tighter. We're surrounded bydarkness and danger, and in ourdesperate search for a way out we keepbumping into each other. We look at thefighting down below and the peace andbeauty up above. In the meantime, we'vebeen cut off by the dark mass of clouds,

so that we can go neither up nor down. Itlooms before us like an impenetrablewall, trying to crush us, but not yet ableto. I can only cry out and implore, "Oh,ring, ring, open wide and let us out!"Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1943Dearest Kitty,I have a good title for this chapter: Odeto My Fountain PenIn MemoriamMy fountain pen was always one of mymost prized possessions; I valued ithighly, especially because it had a thicknib, and I can only write neatly withthick nibs. It has led a long andinteresting fountain-pen life, which Iwill summarize below.

When I was nine, my fountain pen(packed in cotton) arrived as a "sampleof no commercial value" all the wayfrom Aachen, where my grandmother(the kindly donor) used to live. I lay inbed with the flu, while the Februarywinds howled around the apartmenthouse. This splendid fountain pen camein a red leather case, and I showed it tomy girlfriends the first chance I got. Me,Anne Frank, the proud owner of afountain pen.When I was ten, I was allowed to takethe pen to school, and to my surprise, theteacher even let me write with it. When Iwas eleven, however, my treasure had tobe tucked away again, because my sixth-grade teacher allowed us to use only

school pens and inkpots. When I wastwelve, I started at the Jewish Lyceumand my fountain pen was given a newcase in honor of the occasion. Not onlydid it have room for a pencil, it also hada zipper, which was much moreimpressive. When I was thirteen, thefountain pen went with me to the Annex,and together we've raced throughcountless diaries and compositions. I'dturned fourteen and my fountain pen wasenjoying the last year of its life with mewhen . . .It was just after five on Friday afternoon.I came out of my room and was about tosit down at the table to write when I wasroughly pushed to one side to make roomfor Margot and Father, who wanted to

practice their Latin. The fountain penremained unused on the table, while itsowner, sighing, was forced to make dowith a very tiny corner of the table,where she began rubbing beans. That'show we remove mold from the beansand restore them to their original state.At a quarter to six I swept the floor,dumped the dirt into a news paper, alongwith the rotten beans, and tossed it intothe stove. A giant flame shot up, and Ithought 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 studentshad left, and I sat down at the table topick up where I'd left off. But no matterwhere I looked, my fountain pen was

nowhere in sight. I took another look.Margot looked, Mother looked, Fatherlooked, Dussel looked. But it hadvanished."Maybe it fell in the stove, along withthe beans!" Margot suggested. "No, itcouldn't have!" I replied.But that evening, when my fountain penstill hadn't turned up, we all assumed ithad been burned, especially becausecelluloid is highly inflammable. Ourdarkest fears were confirmed the nextday when Father went to empty the stoveand discovered the clip, used to fasten itto a pocket, among the ashes. Not a traceof the gold nib was left. "It must havemelted into stone," Father conjectured.I'm left with one consolation, small

though it may be: my fountain pen wascremated, just as I would like to besomeday!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1943Dearest Kitty,Recent events have the house rocking onits foundations. Owing to an outbreak ofdiphtheria at Bep's, she won't beallowed to come in contact with us forsix weeks. Without her, the cooking andshopping will be very difficult, not tomention how much we'll miss hercompany. Mr. Kleiman is still in bed andhas eaten nothing but gruel for threeweeks. Mr. Kugler is up to his neck inwork. Margot sends her Latin lessons toa teacher, who corrects and then returns

them. She's registered under Bep's name.The teacher's very nice, and witty too. Ibet he's glad to have such a smartstudent.Dussel is in a turmoil and we don't knowwhy. It all began with Dussel's sayingnothing when he was upstairs; he didn'texchange so much as a word with eitherMr. or Mrs. van Daan. We all noticed it.This went on for a few days, and thenMother took the opportunity to warn himabout Mrs. van D., who could make lifemiserable for him. Dussel said Mr. vanDaan had started the silent treatment andhe had no intention of breaking it. Ishould explain that yesterday wasNovember 16, the first anniversary ofhis living in the Annex. Mother received

a plant in honor of the occasion, but Mrs.van Daan, who had alluded to the datefor weeks and made no bones about thefact that she thought Dussel should treatus to dinner, received nothing. Instead ofmaking use of the opportunity to thankus-for the first time-for unselfishly takinghim in, he didn't utter a word. And on themorning of the sixteenth, when I askedhim whether I should offer him mycongratulations or my condolences, hereplied that either one would do.Mother, having cast herself in the role ofpeacemaker, made no headwaywhatsoever, and the situation finallyended in a draw.I can say without exaggeration thatDussel has definitely got a screw loose.

We often laugh to ourselves because hehas no memory, no fixed opinions and nocommon sense. He's amused us morethan once by trying to pass on the newshe's just heard, since the messageinvariably gets garbled in transmission.Furthermore, he answers every reproachor accusation with a load of fine 1\promises, which he never manages tokeep."Der Mann hat einen grossen GeistUna ist so klein van Taten!"*[*A well-known expression:"The spirit of the man is great,How puny are his deeds."Yours, AnneSATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1943Dearest Kitty,

Last night, just as I was falling asleep,Hanneli suddenly appeared before me. Isaw her there, dressed in rags, her facethin and worn. She looked at me withsuch sadness and reproach in herenormous eyes that I could read themessage in them: "Oh, Anne, why haveyou deserted me? Help me, help me,rescue me from this hell!"And I can't help her. I can only stand byand watch while other people suffer anddie. All I can do is pray to God to bringher back to us. I saw Hanneli, and noone else, and I understood why. Imisjudged her, wasn't mature enough tounderstand how difficult it was for her.She was devoted to her girlfriend, and itmust 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 inmyself! I had an occasional flash ofunderstanding, but then got selfishlywrapped up again in my own problemsand pleasures.It was mean of me to treat her that way,and now she was looking at me, oh sohelplessly, with her pale face andbeseeching eyes. If only I could help her!Dear God, I have everything I couldwish for, while fate has her in its deadlyclutches. She was as devout as I am,maybe even more so, and she too wantedto do what was right. But then why haveI been chosen to live, while she'sprobably going to die? What's the

difference between us? Why are we nowso far apart?To be honest, I hadn't thought of her formonths-no, for at least a year. I hadn'tforgotten her entirely, and yet it wasn'tuntil I saw her before me that I thought ofall her suffering.Oh, Hanneli, I hope that if you live to theend of the war and return to us, I'll beable to take you in and make up for thewrong I've done you. But even if I wereever in a position to help, she wouldn'tneed it more than she does now. Iwonder if she ever thinks of me, andwhat she's feeling? Merciful God,comfort her, so that at least she won't bealone. Oh, if only You could tell her I'mthinking of her with compassion and

love, it might help her go on.I've got to stop dwelling on this. It won'tget me anywhere. I keep seeing herenormous eyes, and they haunt me. DoesHanneli really and truly believe in God,or has religion merely been foisted uponher? I don't even know that. I never tookthe trouble to ask.Hanneli, Hanneli, if only I could takeyou away, if only I could shareeverything I have with you. It's too late. Ican't help, or undo the wrong I've done.But I'll never forget her again and I'llalways pray for her! Yours, AnneMONDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1943Dearest Kitty,The closer it got to St. Nicholas Day, themore we all thought back to last year's

festively decorated basket.More than anyone, I thought it would beterrible to skip a celebration this year.After long deliberation, I finally came upwith an idea, something funny. Iconsulted rim, and a week ago we set towork writing a verse for each person.Sunday evening at a quarter to eight wetrooped upstairs carrying the big laundrybasket, which had been decorated withcutouts and bows made of pink and bluecarbon paper. On top was a large pieceof brown wrapping paper with a noteattached. Everyone was rather amazed atthe sheer size of the gift. I removed thenote and read it aloud:"Once again St. Nicholas DayHas even come to our hideaway;

It won't be quite as Jun, I fear,As the happy day we had last year.Then we were hopeful, no reason todoubtThat optimism would win the bout,And by the time this year came round,We'd all be free, and s* and sound.Still, let's not Jorget it's St. NicholasDay,Though we've nothing left to give away.We'll have to find something else to do:So everyone please look in their shoe!"As each person took their own shoe outof the basket, there was a roar oflaughter. Inside each shoe was a littlewrapped package addressed to itsowner. Yours, AnneDearest Kitty,

A bad case of flu has prevented me fromwriting to you until today. Being sickhere is dreadful. With every cough, I hadto duck under the blanket-once, twice,three times-and try to keep fromcoughing anymore.Most of the time the tickle refused to goaway, so I had to drink milk with honey,sugar or cough drops. I get dizzy justthinking about all the cures I've beensubjected to: sweating out the fever,steam treatment, wet compresses, drycompresses, hot drinks, swabbing mythroat, lying still, heating pad, hot-waterbottles, lemonade and, every two hours,the thermometer. Will these remediesreally make you better? The worst partwas when Mr. Dussel decided to play

doctor and lay his pomaded head on mybare chest to listen to the sounds. Notonly did his hair tickle, but I wasembarrassed, even though he went toschool thirty years ago and does havesome kind of medical degree. Whyshould he lay his head on my heart?After all, he's not my boyfriend! For thatmatter, he wouldn't be able to tell ahealthy sound from an unhealthy one.He'd have to have his ears cleaned first,since he's becoming alarmingly hard ofhearing. But enough about my illness. I'mfit as a fiddle again. I've grown almosthalf an inch and gained two pounds. I'mpale, but itching to get back to my books.Ausnahmsweise* (the only word thatwill do here [* By way of exception]),

we're all getting on well together. Nosquabbles, though that probably won'tlast long. There hasn't been such peaceand quiet in this house for at least sixmonths.Bep is still in isolation, but any day nowher sister will no longer be contagious.For Christmas, we're getting extracooking oil, candy and molasses. ForHanukkah, Mr. Dussel gave Mrs. vanDaan and Mother a beautiful cake, whichhe'd asked Miep to bake. On top of allthe work she has to do! Margot and Ireceived a brooch made out of a penny,all bright and shiny. I can't reallydescribe it, but it's lovely.I also have a Christmas present for Miepand Bep. For a whole month I've saved

up the sugar I put on my hot cereal, andMr. Kleiman has used it to have fondantmade.The weather is drizzly and overcast, thestove stinks, and the food lies heavily onour stomachs, producing a variety ofrumbles.The war is at an impasse, spirits arelow.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1943Dear Kitty,As I've written you many times before,moods have a tendency to affect us quitea bit here, and in my case it's beengetting worse lately. "Himmelhochjauchzend, zu Tode betru'bt"* [* Afamous line from Goethe: "On top of the

world, or in the depths of despair."]certainly applies to me. I'm "on top ofthe world" when I think of how fortunatewe are and compare myself to otherJewish children, and "in the depths ofdespair" when, for example, Mrs.Kleiman comes by and talks aboutJopie's hockey club, canoe trips, schoolplays and afternoon teas with friends.I don't think I'm jealous of Jopie, but Ilong to have a really good time for onceand to laugh so hard it hurts.We're stuck in this house like lepers,especially during winter and theChristmas and New Year's holidays.Actually, I shouldn't even be writingthis, since it makes me seem soungrateful, but I can't keep everything to

myself, so I'll repeat what I said at thebeginning: "Paper is more patient thanpeople." Whenever someone comes infrom outside, with the wind in theirclothes and the cold on their cheeks, Ifeel like burying my head under theblankets to keep from thinking, "Whenwill we be allowed to breathe fresh airagain?" I can't do that-on the contrary, Ihave to hold my head up high and put abold face on things, but the thoughts keepcoming anyway. Not just once, but overand over. Believe me, if you've beenshut up for a year and a half, it can get tobe too much for you sometimes. Butfeelings can't be ignored, no matter howunjust or ungrateful they seem. I long toride a bike, dance, whistle, look at the

world, feel young and know that I'm free,and yet I can't let it show. just imaginewhat would happen if all eight of uswere to feel sorry for ourselves or walkaround with the discontent clearlyvisible on our faces. Where would thatget us? I sometimes wonder if anyonewill ever understand what I mean, ifanyone will ever overlook myingratitude and not worry about whetheror not I'm Jewish and merely see me as ateenager badly in need of some goodplain fun. I don't know, and I wouldn't beable to talk about it with anyone, sinceI'm sure I'd start to cry. Crying can bringrelief, as long as you don't cry alone.Despite all my theories and efforts, Imiss-every day and every hour of the

day-having a mother who understandsme. That's why with everything I do andwrite, I imagine the kind of mom I'd liketo be to my children later on. The kind ofmom who doesn't take everything peoplesay too seriously, but who does take meseriously. I find it difficult to describewhat I mean, but the word' 'mom" says itall. Do you know what I've come upwith? In order to give me the feeling ofcalling my mother something that soundslike "Mom," I often call her" Momsy."Sometimes I shorten it to "Moms"; animperfect "Mom." I wish I could honorher by removing the "s." It's a good thingshe doesn't realize this, since it wouldonly make her unhappy.Well, that's enough of that. My writing

has raised me somewhat from "thedepths of despair."Yours, AnneIt's the day after Christmas, and I can'thelp thinking about Pim and the story hetold me this time last year. I didn'tunderstand the meaning of his wordsthen as well as I do now. If only he'dbring it up again, I might be able to showhim I understood what he meant!I think Pim told me because he, whoknows the "intimate secrets" of so manyothers, needed to express his ownfeelings for once; Pim never talks abouthimself, and I don't think Margot has anyinkling of what he's been through. PoorPim, he can't fool me into thinking he'sforgotten that girl. He never will. It's

made him very accommodating, sincehe's not blind to Mother's faults. I hopeI'm going to be a little like him, withouthaving to go through what he has!AnneMONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943Friday evening, for the first time in mylife, I received a Christmas present. Mr.Kleiman, Mr. Kugler and the girls hadprepared a wonderful surprise for us.Miep made a delicious Christmas cakewith "Peace 1944" written on top, andBep provided a batch of cookies thatwas up to prewar standards.There was a jar of yogurt for Peter,Margot and me, and a bottle of beer foreach of the adults. And once againeverything was wrapped so nicely, with

pretty pictures glued to the packages.For the rest, the holidays passed byquickly for us.AnneWEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943I was very sad again last night. Grandmaand Hanneli came to me once more.Grandma, oh, my sweet Grandma. Howlittle we understood what she suffered,how kind she always was and what aninterest she took in everything thatconcerned us. And to think that all thattime she was carefully guarding herterrible secret. * [*Anne's grandmotherwas terminally ill.]Grandma was always so loyal and good.She would never have let any of usdown. Whatever happened, no matter

how much I misbehaved, Grandmaalways stuck up for me. Grandma, didyou love me, or did you not understandme either? I don't know. How lonelyGrandma must have been, in spite of us.You can be lonely even when you'reloved by many people, since you're stillnot bd'"dI" any 0 y s one an only.And Hanneli? Is she still alive? What'sshe doing? Dear God, watch over herand bring her back to us. Hanneli, you'rea reminder of what my fate might havebeen. I keep seeing myself in your place.So why am I often miserable about whatgoes on here? Shouldn't I be happy,contented and glad, except when I'mthinking of Hanneli and those sufferingalong with her? I'm selfish and

cowardly. Why do I always think anddream the most awful things and want toscream in terror? Because, in spite ofeverything, I still don't have enough faithin God. He's given me so much, which Idon't deserve, and yet each day I makeso many mistakes!Thinking about the suffering of those youhold dear can reduce you to tears; infact, you could spend the whole daycrying. The most you can do is pray forGod to perform a miracle and save atleast some of them. And I hope I'm doingenough of that!AnneTHURSDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1943Since the last raging quarrels, thingshave settled down here, not only

between ourselves, Dussel and"upstairs," but also between Mr. andMrs. van D. Nevertheless, a few darkthunderclouds are heading this way, andall because of . . . food. Mrs. van D.came up with the ridiculous idea offrying fewer potatoes in the morning andsaving them for later in the day. Motherand Dussel and the rest of us didn't agreewith her, so now we're dividing up thepotatoes as well. It seems the fats andoils aren't being doled out fairly, andMother's going to have to put a stop to it.I'll let you know if there are anyinteresting developments. For the lastfew months now we've been splitting upthe meat (theirs with fat, ours without),the soup (they eat it, we don't), the

potatoes (theirs peeled, ours not), theextras and now the fried potatoes too. Ifonly we could split up completely!Yours, AnneP.S. Bep had a picture postcard of theentire Royal Family copied for me.Juliana looks very young, and so doesthe Queen. The three little girls areadorable. It was incredibly nice of Bep,don't you think?SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 1944Dearest Kitty,This morning, when I had nothing to do, Ileafed through the pages of my diary andcame across so many letters dealing withthe subject of "Mother" in such strongterms that I was shocked. I said tomyself, "Anne, is that really you talking

about hate? Oh, Anne, how could you?"I continued to sit with the open book inmy hand and wonder why I was filledwith so much anger and hate that I had toconfide it all to you. I tried to understandthe Anne of last year and make apologiesfor her, because as long as I leave youwith these accusations and don't attemptto explain what prompted them, myconscience won't be clear. I wassuffering then (and still do) from moodsthat kept my head under water(figuratively speaking) and allowed meto see things only from my ownperspective, without calmly consideringwhat the others-those whom I, with mymercurial temperament, had hurt oroffended-had said, and then acting as

they would have done.I hid inside myself, thought of no one butmyself and calmly wrote down all myjoy, sarcasm and sorrow in my diary.Because this diary has become a kind ofmemory book, it means a great deal tome, but I could easily write "over anddone with" on many of its pages.I was furious at Mother (and still am alot of the time). It's true, she didn'tunderstand me, but I didn't understandher either. Because she loved me, shewas tender and affectionate, but becauseof the difficult situations I put her in, andthe sad circumstances in which shefound herself, she was nervous andirritable, so I can understand why shewas often short with me.

I was offended, took it far too much toheart and was insolent and beastly toher, which, in turn, made her unhappy.We were caught in a vicious circle ofunpleasantness and sorrow. Not a veryhappy period for either of us, but at leastit's coming to an end. I didn't want to seewhat was going on, and I felt very sorryfor myself, but that's understandable too.Those violent outbursts on paper aresimply expressions of anger that, innormal life, I could have worked off bylocking myself in my room and stampingmy foot a few times or calling Mothernames behind her back.The period of tearfully passing judgmenton Mother is over. I've grown wiser andMother's nerves are a bit steadier. Most

of the time I manage to hold my tonguewhen I'm annoyed, and she does too; soon the surface, we seem to be gettingalong better. But there's one thing I can'tdo, and that's to love Mother with thedevotion of a child.I soothe my conscience with the thoughtthat it's better for unkind words to bedown on paper than for Mother to haveto carry them around in her heart. Yours,AnneTHURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944Today I have two things to confess. It'sgoing to take a long time, but I have totell them to someone, and you're the mostlikely candidate, since I know you'llkeep a secret, no matter what happens.The first is about Mother. As you know,

I've frequently complained about her andthen tried my best to be nice. I'vesuddenly realized what's wrong withher. Mother has said that she sees usmore as friends than as daughters. That'sall very nice, of course, except that afriend can't take the place of a mother. Ineed my mother to set a good exampleand be a person I can respect, but inmost matters she's an example of whatnot to do. I have the feeling that Margotthinks so differently about these thingsthat she'd never be able to understandwhat I've just told you. And Fatheravoids all conversations having to dowith Mother.I imagine a mother as a woman who,first and foremost, possesses a great

deal of tact, especially toward heradolescent children, and not one who,like Momsy, pokes fun at me when I cry.Not because I'm in pain, but because ofother things.This may seem trivial, but there's oneincident I've never forgiven her for. Ithappened one day when I had to go tothe dentist. Mother and Margot plannedto go with me and agreed I should takemy bicycle. When the dentist wasfinished and we were back outside,Margot and Mother very sweetlyinformed me that they were goingdowntown to buy or look at something, Idon't remember what, and of course Iwanted to go along. But they said Icouldn't come because I had my bike

with me. Tears of rage rushed to myeyes, and Margot and Mother beganlaughing at me. I was so furious that Istuck my tongue out at them, right thereon the street. A little old lady happenedto be passing by, and she looked terriblyshocked. I rode my bike home and musthave cried for hours. Strangely enough,even though Mother has wounded methousands of times, this particular woundstill stings whenever I think of howangry I was. I find it difficult to confessthe second one because it's about myself.I'm not prudish, Kitty, and yet every timethey give a blow-by-blow account oftheir trips to the bathroom, which theyoften do, my whole body rises in revolt.Yesterday I read an article on blushing

by Sis Heyster. It was as if she'daddressed it directly to me. Not that Iblush easily, but the rest of the articledid apply. What she basically says isthat during puberty girls withdraw intothemselves and begin thinking about thewondrous changes taking place in theirbodies. I feel that too, which probablyaccounts for my recent embarrassmentover Margot, Mother and Father. On theother hand, Margot is a lot shyer than Iam, and yet she's not in the leastembarrassed. I think that what'shappening to me is so wonderful, and Idon't just mean the changes taking placeon the outside of my body, but also thoseon the inside. I never discuss myself orany of these things with others, which is

why I have to talk about them to myself.Whenever I get my period (and that'sonly been three times), I have the feelingthat in spite of all the pain, discomfortand mess, I'm carrying around a sweetsecret. So even though it's a nuisance, ina certain way I'm always lookingforward to the time when I'll feel thatsecret inside me once again.Sis Heyster also writes that girls my agefeel very insecure about themselves andare just beginning to discover that they'reindividuals with their own ideas,thoughts and habits. I'd just turnedthirteen when I came here, so I startedthinking about myself and realized thatI've become an "independent person"sooner than most girls. Sometimes when

I lie in bed at night I feel a terrible urgeto touch my breasts and listen to thequiet, steady beating of my heart.Unconsciously, I had these feelings evenbefore I came here. Once when I wasspending the night at Jacque's, I could nolonger restrain my curiosity about herbody, which she'd always hidden fromme and which I'd never seen. I asked herwhether, as proof of our friendiship, wecould touch each other's breasts. Jacquerefused.I also had a terrible desire to kiss her,which I did. Every time I see a femalenude, such as the Venus in my art historybook, I go into ecstasy. Sometimes I findthem so exquisite I have to struggle tohold back my tears. If only I had a

girlfriend!THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,My longing for someone to talk to hasbecome so unbearable that I somehowtook it into my head to select Peter forthis role. On the few occasions when Ihave gone to Peter's room during theday, I've always thought it was nice andcozy. But Peter's too polite to showsomeone the door when they're botheringhim, so I've never dared to stay long.I've always been afraid he'd think I wasa pest. I've been looking for an excuse tolinger in his room and get him talkingwithout his noticing, and yesterday I gotmy chance. Peter, you see, is currentlygoing through a crossword-puzzle craze,

and he doesn't do anything else all day. Iwas helping him, and we soon wound upsitting across from each other at histable, Peter on the chair and me on thedivan.It gave me a wonderful feeling when Ilooked into his dark blue eyes and sawhow bashful my unexpected visit hadmade him. I could read his innermostthoughts, and in his face I saw a look ofhelplessness and uncertainty as to howto behave, and at the same time a flickerof awareness of his masculinity. I sawhis shyness, and I melted. I wanted tosay, "Tell me about yourself. Lookbeneath my chatty exterior." But I foundthat it was easier to think up questionsthan to ask them.

The evening came to a close, and nothinghappened, except that I told him aboutthe article on blushing. Not what I wroteyou, of course, just that he would growmore secure as he got older. "That night I lay in bed and cried my eyesout, all the i while making sure no onecould hear me. The idea that I had to begPeter for favors was simply revolting.But people will do almost anything tosatisfy their longings; take me, forexample, I've made up my mind to visitPeter more often and, somehow, get himto talk to me.You mustn't think I'm in love with Peter,because I'm not. If the van Daans hadhad a daughter instead of a son, I'd havetried to make friends with her. This

morning I woke up just before seven andimmediately remembered what I'd beendreaming about. I was sitting on a chairand across from me was Peter. . . PeterSchiff. We were looking at a book ofdrawings by Mary Bos. The dream wasso vivid I can even remember some ofthe drawings. But that wasn't all-thedream went on. Peter's eyes suddenlymet mine, and I stared for a long timeinto those velvety brown eyes. Then hesaid very softly, "If I'd only known, I'dhave come to you long ago!" I turnedabruptly away, overcome by emotion.And then I felt a soft, oh-so-cool andgentle cheek against mine, and it felt sogood, so good . . .At that point I woke up, still feeling his

cheek against mine and his brown eyesstaring deep into my heart, so deep thathe could read how much I'd loved himand how much I still do. Again my eyesfilled with tears, and I was sad becauseI'd lost him once more, and yet at thesame time glad because I knew withcertainty that Peter is still the only onefor me. 'It's funny, but I often have such vividimages in my dreams. One night I sawGrammy* [*Grammy is Anne'sgrandmother on her father's side, andGrandma her grandmother on hermother's side.] so clearly that I couldeven make out her skin of soft, crinklyvelvet. Another time Grandma appearedto me as a guardian angel. After that it

was Hanneli, who still symbolizes to methe suffering of my friends as well asthat of Jews in general, so that when I'mpraying for her, I'm also praying for allthe Jews and all those in need.And now Peter, my dearest Peter. I'venever had such a clear mental image ofhim. I don't need a photograph, I can seehim oh so well.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, ]ANUARY 7, 1944Dearest Kitty,I'm such an idiot. I forgot that I haven'tyet told you the story of my one truelove.When I was a little girl, way back inkindergarten, I took a liking to SallyKimmel. His father was gone, and he

and his mother lived with an aunt. Oneof Sally's cousins was a good-looking,slender, dark-haired boy named Appy,who later turned out to look like a movieidol and aroused more admiration thanthe short, comical, chubby Sally. For along time we went everywhere together,but aside from that, my love wasunrequited until Peter crossed my path. Ihad an out-and-out crush on him. Heliked me too, and we were inseparablefor one whole summer. I can still see uswalking hand in hand through ourneighborhood, Peter in a white cottonsuit and me in a short summer dress. Atthe end of the summer vacation he wentto the seventh grade at the middleschool, while I was in the sixth grade at

the grammar school. He'd pick me up onthe way home, or I'd pick him up. Peterwas the ideal boy: tall, good-lookingand slender, with a serious, quiet andintelligent face. He had dark hair,beautiful brown eyes, ruddy cheeks anda nicely pointed nose. I was crazy abouthis smile, which made him look soboyish and mischievous.I'd gone away to the countryside duringsummer vacation, and when I came back,Peter was no longer at his old address;he'd moved and was living with a mucholder boy, who apparently told him Iwas just a kid, because Peter stoppedseeing me. I loved him so much that Ididn't want to face the truth. I keptclinging to him until the day I finally

realized that if I continued to chase afterhim, people would say I was boy-crazy.The years went by. Peter hung aroundwith girls his own age and no longerbothered to say hello to me. I startedschool at the Jewish Lyceum, andseveral boys in my class were in lovewith me. I enjoyed it and felt honored bytheir attentions, but that was all. Lateron, Hello had a terrible crush on me, butas I've already told you, I never fell inlove again.There's a saying: "Time heals allwounds." That's how it was with me. Itold myself I'd forgotten Peter and nolonger liked him in the least. But mymemories of him were so strong that Ihad to admit to myself that the only

reason I no longer liked him was that Iwas jealous of the other girls. Thismorning I realized that nothing haschanged; on the contrary, as I've grownolder and more mature, my love hasgrown along with me. I can understandnow that Peter thought I was childish,and yet it still hurts to think he'dforgotten me completely. I saw his faceso clearly; I knew for certain that no onebut Peter could have stuck in my mindthat way.I've been in an utter state of confusiontoday. When Father kissed me thismorning, I wanted to shout, "Oh, if onlyyou were Peter!" I've been thinking ofhim constantly, and all day long I'vebeen repeating to myself, "Oh, Petel, my

darling, darling Petel . . ."Where can I find help? I simply have togo on living and praying to God that, ifwe ever get out of here, Peter's path willcross mine and he'll gaze into my eyes,read the love in them and say, "Oh,Anne, if I'd only known, I'd have come toyou long ago."Once when Father and I were talkingabout sex, he said I was too young tounderstand that kind of desire. But Ithought I did understand it, and now I'msure I do. Nothing is as dear to me nowas my darling Petel!I saw my face in the mirror, and itlooked so different. My eyes were clearand deep, my cheeks were rosy, whichthey hadn't been in weeks, my mouth was

much softer. I looked happy, and yetthere was something so sad in myexpression that the smile immediatelyfaded from my lips. I'm not happy, sinceI know Petel's not thinking of me, and yetI can still feel his beautiful eyes gazingat me and his cool, soft cheek againstmine. . . Oh, Petel, Petel, how am I evergoing to free myself from your image?Wouldn't anyone who took your place bea poor substitute? I love you, with a loveso great that it simply couldn't keepgrowing inside my heart, but had to leapout and reveal itself in all its magnitude.A week ago, even a day ago, if you'dasked me, "Which of your friends do youthink you'd be most likely to marry?" I'dhave answered, "Sally, since he makes

me feel good, peaceful and safe!" Butnow I'd cry, "Petel, because I love himwith all my heart and all my soul. Isurrender myself completely!" Exceptfor that one thing: he may touch my face,but that's as far as it goes. This morning Iimagined I was in the front attic withPetel, sitting on the floor by thewindows, and after talking for a while,we both began to cry. Moments later Ifelt his mouth and his wonderful cheek!Oh, Petel, come to me. Think of me, mydearest Petel!WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 12, 1944Dearest Kitty,Bep's been back for the last two weeks,though her sister won't be allowed backat school until next week. Bep herself

spent two days in bed with a bad cold.Miep and Jan were also out for twodays, with upset stomachs.I'm currently going through a dance andballet craze and am diligently practicingmy dance steps every evening. I've madean ultramodern dance costume out of alacy lavender slip belonging to Momsy.Bias tape is threaded through the top andtied just above the bust. A pink cordedribbon completes the ensemble. I tried toturn my tennis shoes into ballet slippers,but with no success. My stiff limbs arewell on the way to becoming as limberas they used to be. A terrific exercise isto sit on the floor, place a heel in eachhand and raise both legs in the air. I haveto sit on a cushion, because otherwise

my poor backside really takes a beating.Everyone here is reading a book calledA Cloudless Morning. Mother thought itwas extremely good because it describesa number of adolescent problems. Ithought to myself, a bit ironically, "Whydon't you take more interest in your ownadolescents first!"I think Mother believes that Margot and Ihave a better relationship with ourparents than anyone in the whole wideworld, and that no mother is moreinvolved in the lives of her children thanshe is. She must have my sister in mind,since I don't believe Margot has thesame problems and thoughts as I do. Farbe it from me to point out to Mother thatone of her daughters is not at all what

she imagines. She'd be completelybewildered, and anyway, she'd never beable to change; I'd like to spare her thatgrief, especially since I know thateverything would remain the same.Mother does sense that Margot loves hermuch more than I do, but she thinks I'mjust going through a phase. Margot'sgotten much nicer. She seems a lotdifferent than she used to be. She's notnearly as catty these days and isbecoming a real friend. She no longerthinks of me as a litde kid who doesn'tcount.It's funny, but I can sometimes see myselfas others see me. I take a leisurely lookat the person called "Anne Frank" andbrowse through the pages of her life as

though she were a stranger.Before I came here, when I didn't thinkabout things as much as I do now, Ioccasionally had the feeling that I didn'tbelong to Momsy, Pim and Margot andthat I would always be an outsider. Isometimes went around for six months ata time pretending I was an orphan. ThenI'd chastise myself for playing thevictim, when really, I'd always been sofortunate. After that I'd force myself tobe friendly for a while. Every morningwhen I heard footsteps on the stairs, Ihoped it would be Mother coming to saygood morning. I'd greet her warmly,because I honesly did look forward toher affectionate glance. But then she'dsnap at me for having made some

comment or other (and I'd go off toschool feeling completely discouraged.On the way home I'd make excuses forher, telling myself that she had so manyworries. I'd arrive home in high spirits,chatting nineteen to the dozen, until theevents of the morning would repeatthemselves and I'd leave the room withmy schoolbag in my hand and a pensivelook on my face. Sometimes I'd decideto stay angry, but then I always had somuch to talk about after school that I'dforget my resolution and want Mother tostop whatever she was doing and lend awilling ear. Then the time would comeonce more when I no longer listened forthe steps on the stairs and felt lonely andcried into my pillow every night.

Everything has gotten much worse here.But you already knew that. Now God hassent someone to help me: Peter. I fondlemy pendant, press it to my lips and think,"What do I care! Petel is mine andnobody knows it!" With this in mind, Ican rise above every nasty remark.Which of the people here would suspectthat so much is going on in the mind of ateenage girl?SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 1944My dearest Kitty,There's no reason for me to go ondescribing all our quarrels andarguments down to the last detail. It'senough to tell you that we've dividedmany things like meat and fats and oilsand are frying our own potatoes.

Recently we've been eating a little extrarye bread because by four o'clock we'reso hungry for dinner we can barelycontrol our rumbling stomachs.Mother's birthday is rapidlyapproaching. She received some extrasugar from Mr. Kugler, which sparkedoff jealousy on the part of the van Daans,because Mrs. van D. didn't receive anyon her birthday. But what's the point ofboring you with harsh words, spitefulconversations and tears when you knowthey bore us even more?Mother has expressed a wish, whichisn't likely to come true any time soon:not to have to see Mr. van Daan's facefor two whole weeks. I wonder ifeveryone who shares a house sooner or

later ends up at odds with their fellowresidents. Or have we just had a strokeof bad luck? At mealtime, when Dusselhelps himself to a quarter of the half-filled gravy boat and leaves the rest ofus to do without, I lose my appetite andfeel like jumping to my feet, knockinghim off his chair and throwing him outthe door.Are most people so stingy and selfish?I've gained some insight into humannature since I came here, which is good,but I've had enough for the present. Petersays the same.The war is going to go on despite ourquarrels and our longing for freedom andfresh air, so we should try to make thebest of our stay here.

I'm preaching, but I also believe that if Ilive here much longer, I'll turn into adried-up old beanstalk. And all I reallywant is to be an honest-to-goodnessteenager!Yours, AnneWEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY19, 1944Dearest Kitty,I (there I go again!) don't know what'shappened, but since my dream I keepnoticing how I've changed. By the way, Idreamed about Peter again last night andonce again I felt his eyes penetrate mine,but this dream was less vivid and notquite as beautiful as the last.You know that I always used to bejealous of Margot's relationship with

Father. There's not a trace of myjealousy left now; I still feel hurt whenFather's nerves cause him to beunreasonable toward me, but then I think,"I can't blame you for being the way youare. You talk so much about the minds ofchildren and adolescents, but you don'tknow the first thing about them!" I longfor more than Father's affection, morethan his hugs and kisses. Isn't it awful ofme to be so preoccupied with myself?Shouldn't I, who want to be good andkind, forgive them first? I forgiveMother too, but every time she makes asarcastic remark or laughs at me, it's allI can do to control myself.I know I'm far from being what I should;will I ever be?

Anne FrankP.S. Father asked if I told you about thecake. For Mother's birthday, shereceived a real mocha cake, prewarquality, from the office. It was a reallynice day! But at the moment there's noroom in my head for things like that.SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 1944Dearest Kitty,Can you tell me why people go to suchlengths to hide their real selves? Or whyI always behave very differently whenI'm in the company of others? Why dopeople have so little trust in oneanother? I know there must be a reason,but sometimes I think it's horrible thatyou can't ever confide in anyone, noteven those closest to you.

It seems as if I've grown up since thenight I had that dream, as if I've becomemore independent. You'll be amazedwhen I tell you that even my attitudetoward the van Daans has changed. I'vestopped looking at all the discussionsand arguments from my family's biasedpoint of view. What's brought on such aradical change? Well, you see, Isuddenly realized that if Mother hadbeen different, if she'd been a real mom,our relationship would have been very,very different. Mrs. van Daan is by nomeans a wonderful person, yet half thearguments could have been avoided ifMother hadn't been so hard to deal withevery time they got onto a tricky subject.Mrs. van Daan does have one good

point, though: you can talk to her. Shemay be selfish, stingy and underhanded,but she'll readily back down as long asyou don't provoke her and make herunreasonable. This tactic doesn't workevery time, but if you're patient, you cankeep trying and see how far you get.All the conflicts about our upbringing,about not pampering children, about thefood-about everything, absolutelyeverything-might have taken a differentturn if we'd remained open and onfriendly terms instead of always seeingthe worst side.I know exactly what you're going to say,Kitty."But, Anne, are these words reallycoming from your lips? From you, who

have had to put up with so many unkindwords from upstairs? From you, who areaware of all the injustices?"And yet they are coming from me. I wantto take a fresh look at things and form myown opinion, not just ape my parents, asin the proverb "The apple never falls farfrom the tree." I want to reexamine thevan Daans and decide for myself what'strue and what's been blown out ofproportion. If I wind up beingdisappointed in them, I can always sidewith Father and Mother. But if not, I cantry to change their attitude. And if thatdoesn't work, I'll have to stick with myown opinions and judgment. I'll takeevery opportunity to speak openly toMrs. van D. about our many differences

and not be afraid -- despite myreputation as a smart aleck-to offer myimpartial opinion. I won't say anythingnegative about my own family, thoughthat doesn't mean I won't defend them ifsomebody else does, and as of today, mygossiping is a thing of the past. Up tonow I was absolutely convinced that thevan Daans were entirely to blame for thequarrels, but now I'm sure the fault waslargely ours. We were right as far as thesubject matter was concerned, butintelligent people (such as ourselves!)should have more insight into how todeal with others. I hope I've got at leasta touch of that insight, and that I'll findan occasion to put it to good use.Yours, Anne

MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 1944Dearest Kitty,A very strange thing has happened to me.(Actually, "happened" isn't quite theright word.)Before I came here, whenever anyone athome or at school talked about sex, theywere either secretive or disgusting. Anywords having to do with sex werespoken in a low whisper, and kids whoweren't in the know were often laughedat. That struck me as odd, and I oftenwondered why people were somysterious or obnoxious when theytalked about this subject. But because Icouldn't change things, I said as little aspossible or asked my girlfriends forinformation. After I'd learned quite a lot,

Mother once said to me, "Anne, let megive you some good advice. Neverdiscuss this with boys, and if they bringit up, don't answer them."I still remember my exact reply. "No, ofcourse not," I exclaimed. "Imagine!" Andnothing more was said.When we first went into hiding, Fatheroften told me about things I'd rather haveheard from Mother, and I learned the restfrom books or things I picked up inconversations.Peter van Daan wasn't ever as obnoxiousabout this subject as the boys at school.Or maybe just once or twice, in thebeginning, though he wasn't trying to getme to talk. Mrs. van Daan once told usshe'd never discussed these matters with

Peter, and as far as she knew, neitherhad her husband. Apparently she didn'teven know how much Peter knew orwhere he got his information. Yesterday,when Margot, Peter and I were peelingpotatoes, the conversation somehowturned to Boche. "We're still not surewhether Boche is a boy or a girl, arewe?" I asked.Yes we are, he answered. "Boche is atomcat."I began to laugh. "Some tomcat if he'spregnant."Peter and Margot joined in the laughter.You see, a month or two ago Peterinformed us that Boche was sure to havekittens before long, because her stomachwas rapidly swelling. However, Boche's

fat tummy turned out to be due to a bunchof stolen bones. No kittens weregrowing inside, much less about to beborn.Peter felt called upon to defend himselfagainst my accusation. "Come with me.You can see for yourself. I was horsingaround with the cat one day, and I coulddefinitely see it was a 'he.' "Unable to restrain my curiosity, I wentwith him to the warehouse. Boche,however, wasn't receiving visitors atthat hour, and was nowhere in sight. Wewaited for a while, but when it got cold,we went back upstairs. Later thatafternoon I heard Peter go downstairsfor the second time. I mustered thecourage to walk through the silent house

by myself and reached the warehouse.Boche was on the packing table, playingwith Peter, who was getting ready to puthim on the scale and weigh him."Hi, do you want to have a look?"Without any preliminaries, he picked upthe cat, turned him over on his back,deftly held his head and paws and beganthe lesson. "This is the male sexualorgan, these are a few stray hairs, andthat's his backside."The cat flipped himself over and stoodup on his little white feet. If any otherboy had pointed out the "male sexualorgan" to me, I would never have givenhim a second glance. But Peter went ontalking in a normal voice about what isotherwise a very awkward subject. Nor

did he have any ulterior motives. By thetime he'd finished, I felt so much at easethat I started acting normally too. Weplayed with Boche, had a good time,chatted a bit and finally saunteredthrough the long warehouse to the door."Were you there when Mouschi wasfixed?""Yeah, sure. It doesn't take long. Theygive the cat an anesthetic, of course.""Do they take something out?""No, the vet just snips the tube. There'snothing to see on the outside." I had toget up my nerve to ask a question, sinceit wasn't as "normal" as I thought. "Peter,the German word Geschlechtsteil means'sexual organ,' doesn't it? But then themale and female ones have different

names.""I know that.""The female one is a vagina, that I know,but I don't know what it's called inmales.""Oh well," I said. "How are wesupposed to know these words? Most ofthe time you just come across them byaccident.""Why wait? I'll ask my parents. Theyknow more than I do and they've hadmore experience."We were already on the stairs, sonothing more was said.Yes, it really did happen. I'd never havetalked to a girl about this in such anormal tone of voice. I'm also certainthat this isn't what Mother meant when

she warned me about boys.All the same, I wasn't exactly my usualself for the rest of the day. When Ithought back to our talk, it struck me asodd. But I've learned at least one thing:there are young people, even those of theopposite sex, who can discuss thesethings naturally, without cracking jokes.Is Peter really going to ask his parents alot of questions? Is he really the way heseemed yesterday?Oh, what do I know?!!!Yours, AnneFRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944Dearest Kitty,In recent weeks I've developed a greatliking for family trees and thegenealogical tables of royal families.

I've come to the conclusion that once youbegin your search, you have to keepdigging deeper and deeper into the past,which leads you to even more interestingdiscoveries.Although I'm extremely diligent when itcomes to my schoolwork and can prettymuch follow the BBC Home Service onthe radio, I still spend many of mySundays sorting out and looking over mymovie-star collection, which has grownto a very respectable size. Mr. Kuglermakes me happy every Monday bybringing me a copy of Cinema & Theatermagazine. The less worldly members ofour household often refer to this smallindulgence as a waste of money, yet theynever fail to be surprised at how

accurately I can list the actors in anygiven movie, even after a year. Bep,who often goes to the movies with herboyfriend on her day off, tells me onSaturday the name of the show they'regoing to see, and I then proceed to rattleoff the names of the leading actors andactresses and the reviews. Momsrecently remarked ; that I wouldn't needto go to the movies later on, because !I know all the plots, the names of thestars and the reviews by heart.Whenever I come sailing in with a newhairstyle, I I can read the disapproval ontheir faces, and I can be sure someonewill ask which movie star I'm trying toimitate. My reply, that it's my owninvention, is greeted with ~ skepticism.

As for the hairdo, it doesn't hold its setfor ~ more than half an hour. By that timeI'm so sick and tired i of their remarksthat I race to the bathroom and restoremy hair to its normal mass of curls.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944Dearest Kitty,This morning I was wondering whetheryou ever felt like a cow, having to chewmy stale news over and over again untilyou're so fed up with the monotonousfare that you yawn and secretly wishAnne would dig up something new.Sorry, I know you find it dull asditchwater, but imagine how sick andtired I am of hearing the same old stuff.If the talk at mealtime isn't about politics

or good food, then Mother or Mrs. vanD. trot out stories about their childhoodthat we've heard a thousand timesbefore, or Dussel goes on and on aboutbeautiful racehorses, his Charlotte'sextensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats,boys who can swim at the age of four,aching muscles and frightened patients. Itall boils down to this: whenever one ofthe eight of us opens his mouth, the otherseven can finish the story for him. Weknow the punch line of every joke beforeit gets told, so that whoever's telling it isleft to laugh alone. The various milkmen,grocers and butchers of the two formerhousewives have been praised to theskies or run into the ground so manytimes that in our imaginations they've

grown as old as Methuselah; there'sabsolutely no chance of anything new orfresh being brought up for discussion inthe Annex.Still, all this might be bearable if onlythe grown-ups weren't in the habit ofrepeating the stories we hear from Mr.Kleiman, jan or Miep, each timeembellishing them with a few details oftheir own, so that I often have to pinchmy arm under the table to keep myselffrom setting the enthusiastic storytelleron the right track. Little children, such asAnne, must never, ever correct theirelders, no matter how many blundersthey make or how often they let theirimaginations run away with them.Jan and Mr. Kleiman love talking about

people who have gone underground orinto hiding; they know we're eager tohear about others in our situation andthat we truly sympathize with the sorrowof those who've been arrested as well asthe joy of prisoners who've been freed.Going underground or into hiding hasbecome as routine as the proverbial pipeand slippers that used to await the manof the house after a long day at work.There are many resistance groups, suchas Free Netherlands, that forge identitycards, provide financial support to thosein hiding, organize hiding places andfind work for young Christians who gounderground. It's amazing how muchthese generous and unselfish people do,risking their own lives to help and save

others.The best example of this is our ownhelpers, who have managed to pull usthrough so far and will hopefully bringus safely to shore, because otherwisethey'll find themselves sharing the fate ofthose they're trying to protect. Neverhave they uttered a single word about theburden we must be, never have theycomplained that we're too much trouble.They come upstairs every day and talk tothe men about business and politics, tothe women about food and wartimedifficulties and to the children aboutbooks and newspapers. They put on theirmost cheerful expressions, bring flowersand gifts for birthdays and holidays andare always ready to do what they can.

That's something we should never forget;while others display their heroism inbattle or against the Germans, ourhelpers prove theirs every day by theirgood spirits and affection.The most bizarre stories are making therounds, yet most of them are really true.For instance, Mr. Kleiman reported thisweek that a soccer match was held in theprovince of Gelderland; one teamconsisted entirely of men who had goneunderground, and the other of elevenMilitary Policemen. In Hilversum, newregistration cards were issued. In orderfor the many people in hiding to get theirrations (you have to show this card toobtain your ration book or else pay 60guilders a book), the registrar asked all

those hiding in that district to pick uptheir cards at a specified hour, when thedocuments could be collected at aseparate table.All the same, you have to be careful thatstunts like these don't reach the ears ofthe Germans.Yours, AnneSUNDAY, JANUARY 30, 1944My dearest Kit,Another Sunday has rolled around; Idon't mind them as much as I did in thebeginning, but they're boring enough.I still haven't gone to the warehouse yet,but maybe sometime soon. Last night Iwent downstairs in the dark, all bymyself, after having been there withFather a few nights before. I stood at the

top of the stairs while German planesflew back and forth, and I knew I was onmy own, that I couldn't count on othersfor support. My fear vanished. I lookedup at the sky and trusted in God.I have an intense need to be alone.Father has noticed I'm not my usual self,but I can't tell him what's bothering me.All I want to do is scream "Let me be,leave me alone!"Who knows, perhaps the day will comewhen I'm left alone more than I'd like!Anne FrankTHURSDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1944Dearest Kitty,Invasion fever is mounting dailythroughout the country. If you were here,I'm sure you'd be as impressed as I am at

the many preparations, though you'd nodoubt laugh at all the fuss we're making.Who knows, it may all be for nothing!The papers are full of invasion news andare driving everyone insane with suchstatements as: "In the event of a Britishlanding in Holland, the Germans will dowhat they can to defend the country, evenflooding it, if necessary." They'vepublished maps of Holland with thepotential flood areas marked. Sincelarge portions of Amsterdam wereshaded in, our first question was whatwe should do if the water in the streetsrose to above our waists. This trickyquestion elicited a variety of responses:"It'll be impossible to walk or ride abike, so we'll have to wade through the

water.""Don't be silly. We'll have to try andswim. We'll all put on our bathing suitsand caps and swim underwater as muchas we can, so nobody can see we'reJews." "Oh, baloney! I can just imaginethe ladies swimming with the rats bitingtheir legs!" (That was a man, of course;we'll see who screams loudest!) "Wewon't even be able to leave the house.The warehouse is so unstable it'llcollapse if there's a flood.""Listen, everyone, all joking aside, wereally ought to try and get a boat." "Whybother? I have a better idea. We caneach take a packing crate from the atticand row with a wooden spoon.""I'm going to walk on stilts. I used to be

a whiz at it when I was young." "JanGies won't need to. He'll let his wiferide piggyback, and then Miep will beon stilts."So now you have a rough idea of what'sgoing on, don't you, Kit? Thislighthearted banter is all very amusing,but reality will prove otherwise. Thesecond question about the invasion wasbound to arise: what should we do if theGermans evacuate Amsterdam?"Leave the city along with the others.Disguise ourselves as well as we can.""Whatever happens, don't go outside!The best thing to do is to stay put! TheGermans are capable of herding theentire population of Holland intoGermany, where they'll all die."

"Of course we'll stay here. This is thesafest place.We'll try to talk Kleiman and his familyinto coming here to live with us. We'llsomehow get hold of a bag of woodshavings, so we can sleep on the floor.Let's ask Miep and Kleiman to bringsome blankets, just in case. And we'llorder some extra cereal grains tosupplement the sixty-five pounds wealready have. Jan can try to find somemore beans. At the moment we've gotabout sixty-five pounds of beans and tenpounds of split peas. And don't forget thefifty cans of vegetables.""What about the rest, Mother? Give usthe latest figures.' ,"Ten cans of fish, forty cans of milk,

twenty pounds of powdered milk, threebottles of oil, four crocks of butter, fourjars of meat, two big jars ofstrawberries, two jars of raspberries,twenty jars of tomatoes, ten pounds ofoatmeal, nine pounds of rice. That's it."Our provisions are holding out fairlywell. All the same, we have to feed theoffice staff, which means dipping intoour stock every week, so it's not as muchas it seems. We have enough coal andfirewood, candles too. "Let's all makelittle moneybags to hide in our clothes sowe can take our money with us if weneed to leave here.""We can make lists of what to take firstin case we have to run for it, and packour knapsacks in advance."

"When the time comes, we'll put twopeople on the lookout, one in the loft atthe front of the house and one in theback.""Hey, what's the use of so much food ifthere isn't any water, gas or electricity?""We'll have to cook on the wood stove.Filter the water and boil it. We shouldclean some big jugs and fill them withwater. We can also store water in thethree kettles we use for canning, and inthe washtub.""Besides, we still have about twohundred and thirty pounds of winterpotatoes in the spice storeroom."All day long that's all I hear. Invasion,invasion, nothing but invasion.Arguments about going hungry, dying,

bombs, fire extinguishers, sleeping bags,identity cards, poison gas, etc., etc. Notexactly cheerful.A good example of the explicit warningsof the male contingent is the followingconversation with Jan:Annex: "We're afraid that when theGermans retreat, they'll take the entirepopulation with them."Jan: "That's impossible. They haven't gotenough trains."Annex: "Trains? Do you really thinkthey'd put civilians on trains? Absolutelynot. Everyone would have to hoof it."(Or, as Dussel always says, per pedesapostolorum.)Jan: "I can't believe that. You're alwayslooking on the dark side. What reason

would they have to round up all thecivilians and take them along?" Annex:"Don't you remember Goebbels sayingthat if the Germans have to go, they'llslam the doors to all the occupiedterritories behind them?" Jan: "They'vesaid a lot of things."Annex: "Do you think the Germans aretoo noble or humane to do it? Theirreasoning is: if we go under, we'll drageveryone else down with us." Jan: "Youcan say what you like, I just don'tbelieveAnnex: "It's always the same old story.No one wants to see the danger until it'sstaring them in the face."Jan: "But you don't know anything forsure. You're just making an assumption."

Annex: "Because we've already beenthrough it all ourselves, First inGermany and then here. What do youthink's happening in Russia?"Jan: "You shouldn't include the Jews. Idon't think anyone knows what's goingon in Russia. The British and theRussians are probably exaggerating forpropaganda purposes, just like theGermans."Annex: "Absolutely not. The BBC hasalways told the truth. And even if thenews is slightly exaggerated, the factsare bad enough as they are. You can'tdeny that millions of peace-lovingcitizens in Poland and Russia have beenmurdered or gassed."I'll spare you the rest of our

conversations. I'm very calm and take nonotice of all the fuss. I've reached thepoint where I hardly care whether I liveor die. The world will keep on turningwithout me, and I can't do anything tochange events anyway. I'll just letmatters take their course and concentrateon studying and hope that everything willbe all right in the end. Yours, AnneTUESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1944Dear Kitty,I can't tell you how I feel. One minuteI'm longing for peace and quiet, and thenext for a little fun. We've forgotten howto laugh-I mean, laughing so hard youcan t stop.This morning I had "the giggles"; youknow, the kind we used to have at

school. Margot and I were giggling likereal teenagers.Last night there was another scene withMother. Margot was tucking her woolblanket around her when suddenly sheleapt out of bed and carefully examinedthe blanket. What do you think shefound? A pin! Mother had patched theblanket and forgotten to take it out.Father shook his head meaningfully andmade a comment about how carelessMother is. Soon afterward Mother camein from the bathroom, and just to teaseher I said, "Du bist doch eine echteRabenmutter." [Oh, you are cruel.]Of course, she asked me why I'd saidthat, and we told her about the pin she'doverlooked. She immediately assumed

her haughtiest expression and said,"You're a fine one to talk. When you'resewing, the entire floor is covered withpins. And look, you've left the manicureset lying around again. You never putthat away either!"I said I hadn't used it, and Margotbacked me up, since she was the guiltyparty.Mother went on talking about how messyI was until I got fed up and said, rathercurtly, "I wasn't even the one who saidyou were careless. I'm always gettingblamed for other people's mistakes!"Mother fell silent, and less than a minutelater I was obliged to kiss her good-night. This incident may not have beenvery important, but these days everything

gets on my nerves.Anne Mary FrankSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944Dearest Kitty,The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue,there's a magnificent breeze, and I'mlonging-really longing-for everything:conversation, freedom, friends, beingalone. I long. . . to cry! I feel as if I wereabout to explode. I know crying wouldhelp, but I can't cry. I'm restless. I walkfrom one room to another, breathethrough the crack in the window frame,feel my heart beating as if to say, "Fulfillmy longing at last. . ."I think spring is inside me. I feel springawakening, I feel it in my entire bodyand soul. I have to force myself to act

normally. I'm in a state of utterconfusion, don't know what to read, whatto write, what to do. I only know that I'mlonging for something. . .Yours, AnneMONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1944Dearest Kitty,A lot has changed for me since Saturday.What's happened is this: I was longingfor something (and still am), but. . . asmall, a very small, part of the problemhas been resolved.On Sunday morning I noticed, to mygreat joy (I'll be honest with you), thatPeter kept looking at me. Not in the usualway. I don't know, I can't explain it, but Isuddenly had the feeling he wasn't as inlove with Margot as I used to think. All

day long I tried not to look at him toomuch, because whenever I did, I caughthim looking at me and then-well, it mademe feel wonderful inside, and that's not afeeling I should have too often.Sunday evening everyone, except Pimand me, was clustered around the radio,listening to the "Immortal Music of theGerman Masters." Dussel kept twistingand turning the knobs, which annoyedPeter, and the others too. Afterrestraining himself for half an hour,Peter asked somewhat irritably if hewould stop fiddling with the radio.Dussel replied in his haughtiest tone,"Ich mach' das schon!" [I'll decide that.]Peter got angry and made an insolentremark. Mr. van Daan sided with him,

and Dussel had to back down. That wasit. The reason for the disagreementwasn't particularly interesting in and ofitself, but Peter has apparently taken thematter very much to heart, because thismorning, when I was rummaging aroundin the crate of books in the attic, Petercame up and began telling me what hadhappened. I didn't know anything aboutit, but Peter soon realized he'd found anattentive listener and started warming upto his subject."Well, it's like this," he said. "I don'tusually talk much, since I knowbeforehand I'll just be tongue-tied. I startstuttering and blushing and I twist mywords around so much I finally have tostop, because I can't find the right words.

That's what happened yesterday. I meantto say something entirely different, butonce I started, I got all mixed up. It'sawful. I used to have a bad habit, andsometimes I wish I still did: whenever Iwas mad at someone, I'd beat them upinstead of arguing with them. I know thismethod won't get me anywhere, andthat's why I admire you. You're never ata loss for words: you say exactly whatyou want to say and aren't in the least bitshy." "Oh, you're wrong about that," Ireplied. "Most of what I say comes outvery differently from the way I'dplanned. Plus I talk too much and toolong, and that's just as bad.""Maybe, but you have the advantage thatno one can see you're embarrassed. You

don't blush or go to pieces."I couldn't help being secretly amused athis words. However, since I wanted himto go on talking quietly about himself, Ihid my laughter, sat down on a cushionon the floor, wrapped my arms aroundmy knees and gazed at him intently.I'm glad there's someone else in thishouse who flies into the same rages as Ido. Peter seemed relieved that he couldcriticize Dussel without being afraid I'dtell. As for me, I was pleased too,because I sensed a strong feeling offellowship, which I only rememberhaving had with my girlfriends. Yours,AnneTUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1944The minor run-in with Dussel had

several repercussions, for which he hadonly himself to blame. Monday eveningDussel came in to see Mother and toldher triumphantly that Peter had askedhim that morning if he'd slept well, andthen added how sorry he was about whathad happened Sunday evening-he hadn'treally meant what he'd said. Dusselassured him he hadn't taken it to heart.So everYthing was right as rain again.Mother passed this story on to me, and Iwas secretly amazed that Peter, who'dbeen so angry at Dussel, had humbledhimself, despite all his assurances to thecontrary.I couldn't refrain from sounding Peter outon the subject, and he instantly repliedthat Dussel had been lying. You should

have seen Peter's face. I wish I'd had acamera. Indignation, rage, indecision,agitation and much more crossed hisface in rapid succession.That evening Mr. van Daan and Peterreally told Dussel off. But it couldn'thave been all that bad, since Peter hadanother dental appointment today.Actually, they never wanted to speak toeach other again.WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944Peter and I hadn't talked to each other allday, except for a few meaninglesswords. It was too cold to go up to theattic, and anyway, it was Margot'sbirthday. At twelve-thirty he came tolook at the presents and hung aroundchatting longer than was strictly

necessary, something he'd never havedone otherwise. But I got my chance inthe afternoon. Since I felt like spoilingMargot on her birthday, I went to get thecoffee, and after that the potatoes. WhenI came to Peter's room, he immediatelytook his papers off the stairs, and I askedif I should close the trapdoor to the attic."Sure," he said, "go ahead. When you'reready to come back down, just knockand I'll open it for you."I thanked him, went upstairs and spent atleast ten minutes searching around in thebarrel for the smallest potatoes. My backstarted aching, and the attic was cold.Naturally, I didn't bother to knock butopened the trap-door myself. But heobligingly got up and took the pan out of

my hands."I did my best, but I couldn't find anysmaller ones.""Did you look in the big barrel?""Yes, I've been through them all."By this time I was at the bottom of thestairs, and he examined the pan ofpotatoes he was still holding. "Oh, butthese are fine," he said, and added, as Itook the pan from him, "Mycompliments!"As he said this, he gave me such a warm,tender look that I started glowing inside.I could tell he wanted to please me, butsince he couldn't make a longcomplimentary speech, he saideverything with his eyes. I understoodhim so well and was very grateful. It

still makes me happy to think back tothose words and that look!When I went downstairs, Mother saidshe needed more potatoes, this time fordinner, so I volunteered to go back up.When I entered Peter's room, Iapologized for disturbing him again. As Iwas going up the stairs, he stood up,went over to stand between the stairsand the wall, grabbed my arm and triedto stop me."I'll go," he said. "I have to go upstairsanyway."I replied that it wasn't really necessary,that I didn't have to get only the smallones this time. Convinced, he let go ofmy arm. On my way back, he opened thetrapdoor and once again took the pan

from me. Standing by the door, I asked,"What are you working on?""French," he replied.I asked if I could take a look at hislessons. Then I went to wash my handsand sat down across from him on thedivan.After I'd explained some French to him,we began to talk. He told me that afterthe war he wanted to go to the DutchEast Indies and live on a rubberplantation. He talked about his life athome, the black market and how he feltlike a worthless bum. I told him he had abig inferiority complex. He talked aboutthe war, saying that Russia and Englandwere bound to go to war against eachother, and about the Jews. He said life

would have been much easier if he'dbeen a Christian or could become oneafter the war. I asked if he wanted to bebaptized, but that wasn't what he meanteither. He said he'd never be able to feellike a Christian, but that after the warhe'd make sure nobody would know hewas Jewish. I felt a momentary pang. It'ssuch a shame he still has a touch ofdishonesty in him.Peter added, "The Jews have been andalways will be the chosen people!" Ianswered, "Just this once, I hope they'llbe chosen for something good!" But wewent on chatting very pleasantly, aboutFather, about judging human characterand all sorts of things, so many that Ican't even remember them all. I left at a

quarter past five, because Bep hadarrived.That evening he said something else Ithought was nice. We were talking aboutthe picture of a movie star I'd once givenhim, which has been hanging in his roomfor at least a year and a half. He liked itso much that I offered to give him a fewmore."No," he replied, "I'd rather keep the oneI've got. I look at it every day, and thepeople in it have become my friends."I now have a better understanding ofwhy he always hugs Mouschi so tightly.He obviously needs affection too. Iforgot to mention something else he wastalking about. He said, "No, I'm notafraid, except when it comes to things

about myself, but I'm working on that."Peter has a huge inferiority complex. Forexample, he always thinks he's so stupidand we're so smart. When I help himwith French, he thanks me a thousandtimes. One of these days I'm going tosay, "Oh, cut it out! You're much betterat English and geography!"Anne FrankTHURSDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1944Dear Kitty,I was upstairs this morning, since Ipromised Mrs. van D. I'd read her someof my stories. I began with "Eva'sDream," which she liked a lot, and then Iread a few passages from "The SecretAnnex," which had her in stitches. Peteralso listened for a while (just the last

part) and asked if I'd come to his roomsometime to read more.I decided I had to take a chance rightthen and there, so I got my notebook andlet him read that bit where Cady andHans talk about God. I can't really tellwhat kind of impression it made on him.He said something I don't quiteremember, not about whether it wasgood, but about the idea behind it. I toldhim I just wanted him to see that I didn'twrite only amusing things. He nodded,and I left the room. We'll see if I hearanything more!Yours, Anne FrankFRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1944My dearest Kitty,Whenever I go upstairs, it's always so I

can see "him." Now that I havesomething to look forward to, my lifehere has improved greatly. At least theobject of my friendship is always here,and I don't have to be afraid of rivals(except for Margot). Don't think I'm inlove, because I'm not, but I do have thefeeling that something beautiful is goingto develop between Peter and me, a kindof friendship and a feeling of trust. I gosee him whenever I get the chance, andit's not the way it used to be, when hedidn't know what to make of me. On thecontrary, he's still talking away as I'mheading out the door. Mother doesn't likeme going upstairs. She always says I'mbothering Peter and that I should leavehim alone. Honestly, can't she credit me

with some intuition? She always looks atme so oddly when I go to Peter's room.When I come down again, she asks mewhere I've been. It's terrible, but I'mbeginning to hate her!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1944Dearest Kitty, It's Saturday again, andthat should tell you enough. This morningall was quiet. I spent nearly an hourupstairs making meatballs, but I onlyspoke to "him" in passing.When everyone went upstairs at two-thirty to either read or take a nap, I wentdownstairs, with blanket and all, to sit atthe desk and read or write. Before long Icouldn't take it anymore. I put my head inmy arms and sobbed my heart out. The

tears streamed down my cheeks, and Ifelt desperately unhappy. Oh, if only''he" had come to comfort me.It was past four by the time I wentupstairs again. At five o'clock I set off toget some potatoes, hoping once againthat we'd meet, but while I was still inthe bathroom fixing my hair, he went tosee Boche.I wanted to help Mrs. van D. and wentupstairs with my book and everything,but suddenly I felt the tears comingagain. I raced downstairs to thebathroom, grabbing the hand mirror onthe way. I sat there on the toilet, fullydressed, long after I was through, mytears leaving dark spots on the red of myapron, and I felt utterly dejected.

Here's what was going through my mind:"Oh, I'll never reach Peter this way.Who knows, maybe he doesn't even likeme and he doesn't need anyone toconfide in. Maybe he only thinks of mein a casual sort of way. I'll have to goback to being alone, without anyone toconfide in and without Peter, withouthope, comfort or anything to lookforward to. Oh, if only I could rest myhead on his shoulder and not feel sohopelessly alone and deserted! Whoknows, maybe he doesn't care for me atall and looks at the others in the sametender way. Maybe I only imagined itwas especially for me. Oh, Peter, if onlyyou could hear me or see me. If the truthis disappointing, I won't be able to bear

it." A little later I felt hopeful and full ofexpectation again, though my tears werestill flowing-on the inside.Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1944What happens in other people's housesduring the rest of the week happens herein the Annex on Sundays. While otherpeople put on their best clothes and gostrolling in the sun, we scrub, sweep anddo the laundry.Eight o'clock. Though the rest of usprefer to sleep in,Dussel gets up at eight. He goes to thebathroom, then downstairs, then up againand then to the bathroom, where hedevotes a whole hour to washinghimself.

Nine-thirty. The stoves are lit, theblackout screen is taken down, and Mr.van Daan heads for the bathroom. One ofmy Sunday morning ordeals is having tolie in bed and look at Dussel's backwhen he's praying. I know it soundsstrange, but a praying Dussel is aterrible sight to behold. It's not that hecries or gets sentimental, not at all, buthe does spend a quarter of an hour-anentire fifteen minutes-rocking from histoes to his heels. Back and forth, backand forth. It goes on forever, and if Idon't shut my eyes tight, my head starts tospin.Ten-fifteen. The van Daans whistle; thebathroom's free. In the Frank familyquarters, the first sleepy faces are

beginning to emerge from their pillows.Then everything happens fast, fast, fast.Margot and I take turns doing thelaundry. Since it's quite cold downstairs,we put on pants and head scarves.Meanwhile, Father is busy in thebathroom. Either Margot or I have a turnin the bathroom at eleven, and then we'reall clean.Eleven-thirty. Breakfast. I won't dwellon this, since there's enough talk aboutfood without my bringing the subject upas well.Twelve-fifteen. We each go our separateways. Father, clad in overalls, getsdown on his hands and knees andbrushes the rug so vigorously that theroom is enveloped in a cloud of dust.

Mr. Dussel makes the beds (all wrong,of course), always whistling the sameBeethoven violin concerto as he goesabout his work. Mother can be heardshuffling around the attic as she hangs upthe washing. Mr. van Daan puts on hishat and disappears into the lowerregions, usually followed by Peter andMouschi. Mrs. van D. dons a long apron,a black wool jacket and overshoes,winds a red wool scarf around her head,scoops up a bundle of dirty laundry and,with a well-rehearsed washerwoman'snod, heads downstairs. Margot and I dothe dishes and straighten up the room.WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23,1944My dearest Kitty,The weather's been wonderful since

yesterday, and I've perked up quite a bit.My writing, the best thing I have, iscoming along well. I go to the atticalmost every morning to get the stale airout of my lungs. This morning when Iwent there, Peter was busy cleaning up.He finished quickly and came over towhere I was sitting on my favorite spoton the floor. The two of us looked out atthe blue sky, the bare chestnut treeglistening with dew, the seagulls andother birds glinting with silver as theyswooped through the air, and we wereso moved and entranced that we couldn'tspeak. He stood with his head against athick beam, while I sat. We breathed inthe air, looked outside and both felt thatthe spell shouldn't be broken with

words. We remained like this for a longwhile, and by the time he had to go to theloft to chop wood, I knew he was agood, decent boy. He climbed the ladderto the loft, and I followed; during thefifteen minutes he was chopping wood,we didn't say a word either. I watchedhim from where I was standing, andcould see he was obviously doing hisbest to chop the right way and show offhis strength. But I also looked out theopen window, letting my eyes roam overa large part of Amsterdam, over therooftops and on to the horizon, a strip ofblue so pale it was almost invisible. "Aslong as this exists," I thought, "thissunshine and this cloudless sky, and aslong as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?"

The best remedy for those who arefrightened, lonely or unhappy is to gooutside, somewhere they can be alone,alone with the sky, nature and God. Forthen and only then can you feel thateverything is as it should be and thatGod wants people to be happy amidnature's beauty and simplicity.As long as this exists, and that should beforever, I know that there will be solacefor every sorrow, whatever thecircumstances. I firmly believe thatnature can bring comfort to all whosuffer.Oh, who knows, perhaps it won't be longbefore I can share this overwhelmingfeeling of happiness with someone whofeels the same as I do.

Yours, AnneP.S. Thoughts: To Peter.We've been missing out on so much here,so very much, and for such a long time. Imiss it just as much as you do. I'm nottalking about external things, since we'rewell provided for in that sense; I meanthe internal things. Like you, I long forfreedom and fresh air, but I think we'vebeen amply compensated for their loss.On the inside, I mean.This morning, when I was sitting in frontof the window and taking a long, deeplook outside at God and nature, I washappy, just plain happy. Peter, as long aspeople feel that kind of happiness withinthemselves, the joy of nature, health andmuch more besides, they'll always be

able to recapture that happiness.Riches, prestige, everything can be lost.But the happiness in your own heart canonly be dimmed; it will always be there,as long as you live, to make you happyagain.Whenever you're feeling lonely or sad,try going to the loft on a beautiful dayand looking outside. Not at the housesand the rooftops, but at the sky. As longas you can look fearlessly at the sky,you'll know that you're pure within andwill find happiness once more.SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1944My dearest Kitty,From early in the morning to late atnight, all I do is think about Peter. I fallasleep with his image before my eyes,

dream about him and wake up with himstill looking at me.I have the strong feeling that Peter and Iaren't really as different as we may seemon the surface, and I'll explain why:neither Peter nor I have a mother. His istoo superficial, likes to flirt and doesn'tconcern herself much with what goes onin his head. Mine takes an active interestin my life, but has no tact, sensitivity ormotherly understanding.Both Peter and I are struggling with ourinnermost feelings. We're still unsure ofourselves and are too vulnerable,emotionally, to be dealt with so roughly.Whenever that happens, I want to runoutside or hide my feelings. Instead, Ibang the pots and pans, splash the water

and am generally noisy, so that everyonewishes I were miles away. Peter'sreaction is to shut himself up, say little,sit quietly and daydream, all the whilecarefully hiding his true self. But howand when will we finally reach eachother?I don't know how much longer I cancontinue to keep this yearning undercontrol.Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1944My dearest Kitty,It's like a nightmare, one that goes onlong after I'm awake. I see him nearlyevery hour of the day and yet I can't bewith him, I can't let the others notice, andI have to pretend to be cheerful, though

my heart is aching. Peter Schiff andPeter van Daan have melted into onePeter, who's good and kind and whom Ilong for desperately. Mother's horrible,Father's nice, which makes him evenmore exasperating, and Margot's theworst, since she takes advantage of mysmiling face to claim me for herself,when all I want is to be left alone.Peter didn't join me in the attic, but wentup to the loft to do some carpentry work.At every rasp and bang, another chunk ofmy courage broke off and I was evenmore unhappy. In the distance a clockwas tolling' 'Be pure in heart, be pure inmind!"I'm sentimental, I know. I'm despondentand foolish, I know that too. Oh, help

me!Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, MARCH 1, 1944Dearest Kitty,My own affairs have been pushed to thebackground by . . . a break-in. I'm boringyou with all my break-ins, but what can Ido when burglars take such pleasure inhonoring Gies & Go. with theirpresence? This incident is much morecomplicated than the last one, in July1943.Last night at seven-thirty Mr. van Daanwas heading, as usual, for Mr. Kugler'soffice when he saw that both the glassdoor and the office door were open. Hewas surprised, but he went on throughand was even more astonished to see

that the alcove doors were open as welland that there was a terrible mess in thefront office."There's been a burglary" flashedthrough his mind. But just to make sure,he went downstairs to the front door,checked the lock and found everythingclosed. "Bep andPeter must just have been very carelessthis evening," Mr. van. D. concluded. Heremained for a while in Mr. Kugler'soffice, switched off the lamp and wentupstairs without worrying much aboutthe open doors or the messy office. Earlythis morning Peter knocked at our doorto tell us that the front door was wideopen and that the projector and Mr.Kugler's new briefcase had disappeared

from the closet. Peter was instructed tolock the door. Mr. van Daan told us hisdiscoveries of the night before, and wewere extremely worried. The onlyexplanation is that the burglar must havehad a duplicate key, since there were nosigns of a forced entry. He must havesneaked in early in the evening, shut thedoor behind him, hidden himself whenhe heard Mr. van Daan, fled with theloot after Mr. van Daan went upstairsand, in his hurry, not bothered to shut thedoor.Who could have our key? Why didn't theburglar go to the warehouse? Was it oneof our own warehouse employees, andwill he turn us in, now that he's heardMr. van Daan and maybe even seen him?

It's really scary, since we don't knowwhether the burglar will take it into hishead to try and get in again. Or was heso startled when he heard someone elsein the building that he'll stay away?Yours, AnneP.S. We'd be delighted if you could huntup a good detective for us. Obviously,there's one condotion: he must be reliedupon not to mform on people in hiding.THURSDAY, MARCH 2, 1944Dearest Kitty,Margot and I were in the attic togethertoday. I can't enjoy being there with herthe way I imagine it'd be with Peter (orsomeone else). I know she feels thesame about most things as I do!While doing the dishes, Bep began

talking to Mother and Mrs. van Daanabout how discouraged she gets. Whathelp did those two offer her? Ourtactless mother, especially, only madethings go from bad to worse. Do youknow what her advice was? That sheshould think about all the other people inthe world who are suffering! How canthinking about the misery of others helpif you're miserable yourself? I said asmuch. Their response, of course, wasthat I should stay out of conversations ofthis sort.The grown-ups are such idiots! As ifPeter, Margot, Bep and I didn't all havethe same feelings. The only thing thathelps is a mother's love, or that of avery, very close friend. But these two

mothers don't understand the first thingabout us! Perhaps Mrs. van Daan does, abit more than Mother. Oh, I wish I couldhave said something to poor Bep,something that I know from my ownexperience would have helped. ButFather came between us, pushing meroughly aside. They're all so stupid!I also talked to Margot about Father andMother, about how nice it could be hereif they weren't so aggravating. We'd beable to organize evenings in whicheveryone could take turns discussing agiven subject. But we've already beenthrough all that. It's impossible for me totalk here! Mr. van Daan goes on theoffensive, Mother i gets sarcastic andcan't say anythina in a normal voice,

Father doesn't feel like taking part, nordoes Mr. Dussel, and Mrs. van D. isattacked so often that she just sits therewith a red face, hardly able to put up afight anymore. And what about us? Wearen't allowed to have an opinion! My,my, aren't they progressive! Not have anopinion! People can tell you to shut up,but they can't keep you from having anopinion. You can't forbid someone tohave an opinion, no matter how youngthey are! The only thing that would helpBep, Margot, Peter and me would begreat love and devotion, which we don'tget here. And no one, especially not theidiotic sages around here, is capable ofunderstanding us, since we're moresensitive and much more advanced in

our thinking than any of them eversuspect!Love, what is love? I don't think you canreally put it into words. Love isunderstanding someone, caring for him,sharing his joys and sorrows. Thiseventually includes physical love.You've shared something, givensomething away and received somethingin return, whether or not you're married,whether or not you have a baby. Losingyour virtue doesn't matter, as long as youknow that for as long as you live you'llhave someone at your side whounderstands you, and who doesn't haveto be shared with anyone else!Yours, Anne M. FrankAt the moment, Mother's grouching at me

again; she's clearly jealous because Italk to Mrs. van Daan more than to her.What do I care!I managed to get hold of Peter thisafternoon, and we talked for at leastforty-five minutes. He wanted to tell mesomething about himself, but didn't findit easy. He finally got it out, though ittook a long time. I honestly didn't knowwhether it was better for me to stay or togo. But I wanted so much to help him! Itold him about Bep and how tactless ourmothers are. He told me that his parentsfight constantly, about politics andcigarettes and all kinds of things. As I'vetold you before, Peter's very shy, but nottoo shy to admit that he'd be perfectlyhappy not to see his parents for a year or

two. "My father isn't as nice as helooks," he said. "But in the matter of thecigarettes, Mother's absolutely right."I also told him about my mother. But hecame to Father's defense. He thought hewas a "terrific guy."Tonight when I was hanging up my apronafter doing the dishes, he called me overand asked me not to say anythingdownstairs about his parents' having hadanother argument and not being onspeaking terms. I promised, though I'dalready told Margot. But I'm sure Margotwon't pass it on."Oh no, Peter," I said, you don't have toworry about me. I've learned not to blabeverything I hear. I never repeat whatyou tell me."

He was glad to hear that. I also told himwhat terrible gossips we are, and said,"Margot's quite right, of course, whenshe says I'm not being honest, because asmuch as I want to stop gossiping, there'snothing I like better than discussing Mr.Dussel.""It's good that you admit it," he said. Heblushed, and his sincere complimentalmost embarrassed me too.Then we talked about "upstairs" and"downstairs" some more. Peter wasreally rather surprised to hear that don'tlike his parents. "Peter," I said, "youknow I'm always honest, so whyshouldn't I tell you this as well? We cansee their faults too."I added, "Peter, I'd really like to help

you. Will you let me? You're caught inan awkward position, and I know, eventhough you don't say anything, that itupsets you.""Oh, your help is always welcome!""Maybe it'd be better for you to talk toFather. You can tell him anything, hewon't pass it on.""I know, he's a real pal.""You like him a lot, don't you?"Peter nodded, and I continued, "Well, helikes you too, you know!" He looked upquickly and blushed. It was reallytouching to see how happy these fewwords made him."You think so?" he asked."Yes," I said. "You can tell from thelittle things he lets slip now and then."

Then Mr. van Daan came in to do somedictating.Peter's a "terrific guy," just like Father!Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, MARCH 3,1944My dearest Kitty,When I looked into the candle tonight, Ifelt calm and happy again. It seemsGrandma is in that candle, and it'sGrandma who watches over and protectsme and makes me feel happy again. But.. . there's someone else who governs allmy moods and that's. . . Peter. I went toget the potatoes today, and while I wasstanding on the stairway with my panfull, he asked, "What did you do duringthe lunch break?"I sat down on the stairs, and we began to

talk. The potatoes didn't make it to thekitchen until five-fifteen (an hour afterI'd gone to get them). Peter didn't sayanything more about his parents; we justtalked about books and about the past.Oh, he gazes at me with such warmth inhis eyes; I don't think it will take muchfor me to fall in love with him.He brought the subject up this evening. Iwent to his room after peeling potatoesand remarked on how hot it was. "Youcan tell the temperature by looking atMargot and me, because we turn whitewhen it's cold and red when it's hot." Isaid."In love?" he asked."Why should I be in love?" It was apretty silly answer (or, rather, question).

"Why not?" he said, and then it was timefor dinner.What did he mean? Today I finallymanaged to ask him whether my chatterbothered him. All he said was,"Oh, it's fine with me!" I can't tell howmuch of his reply was due to shyness.Kitty, I sound like someone who's inlove and can talk about nothing but herdearest darling. And Peter is a darling.Will I ever be able to tell him that? Onlyif he thinks the same of me, but I'm thekind of person you have to treat with kidgloves, I know that all too well.And he likes to be left alone, so I don'tknow how much he likes me. In anycase, we're getting to know each other alittle better. I wish we dared to say

more. But who knows, maybe that timewill come sooner than I think! Once ortwice a day he gives me a knowingglance, I wink back, and we're bothhappy. It seems crazy to talk about hisbeing happy, and yet I have theoverwhelming feeling he thinks the sameway I do.Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MARCH 4, 1944Dear Kitty,This is the first Saturday in months thathasn't been tiresome, dreary and boring.The reason is Peter. This morning as Iwas on my way to the attic to hang up myapron, Father asked whether I wanted tostay and practice my French, and I saidyes. We spoke French together for a

while and I explained something toPeter, and then we worked on ourEnglish. Father read aloud fromDickens, and I was in seventh heaven,since I was sitting on Father's 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 thestairs. We talked until quarter to one.Whenever I leave the room, for exampleafter a meal, and Peter has a chance andno one else can hear, he says, "Bye,Anne, see you later."Oh, I'm so happy! I wonder if he's goingto fall in love with me after all? In anycase, he's a nice boy, and you have noidea how good it is to talk to him! Mrs.

van D. thinks it's all right for me to talktoPeter, but today she asked me teasingly,"Can I trust you two up there?" "Ofcourse," I protested. "I take that as aninsult!"Morning, noon and night, I look forwardto seeing Peter.Yours, Anne M. FrankPS. Before I forget, last night everythingwas blanketed in snow. Now it's thawedand there's almost nothing left.MONDAY, MARCH 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,Ever since Peter told me about hisparents, I've felt a certain sense ofresponsibthty toward him-don't you thinkthat's strange? It's as though their

quarrels were just as much my businessas his, and yet I don't dare bring it upanymore, because I'm afraid it makeshim uncomfortable. I wouldn't want tointrude, not for all the money in theworld.I can tell by Peter's face that he pondersthings just as deeply as I do. Last night Iwas annoyed when Mrs. van D. scoffed,"The thinker!" Peter flushed and lookedembarrassed, and I nearly blew my top.Why don't these people keep theirmouths shut?You can't imagine what it's like to haveto stand on the sidelines and see howlonely he is, without being able to doanything. I can imagine, as if I were inhis place, how despondent he must

sometimes feel at the quarrels. Andabout love. Poor Peter, he needs to beloved so much!It sounded so cold when he said hedidn't need any friends. Oh, he's sowrong! I don't think he means it. Heclings to his masculinity, his solitudeand his feigned indif- ference so he canmaintain his role, so he'll never, everhave to show his feelings. Poor Peter,how long can he keep it up? Won't heexplode from this superhuman effort?Oh, Peter, if only I could help you, ifonly you would let me! Together wecould banish our loneliness, yours andmine!I've been doing a great deal of thinking,but not saying much. I'm happy when I

see him, and happier still if the sunshines when we're together. I washed myhair yesterday, and because I knew hewas next door, I was very rambunctious.I couldn't help it; the more quiet andserious I am on the inside, the noisier Iget on the outside!Who will be the first to discover thechink in my armor?It's just as well that the van Daans don'thave a daughter. My conquest couldnever be so challenging, so beautiful andso nice with someone of the same sex!Yours, Anne M. FrankPS. You know I'm always honest withyou, so I think I should tell you that I livefrom one encounter to the next. I keephoping to discover that he's dying to see

me, and I'm in raptures when I notice hisbashful attempts. I think he'd like to beable to express himself as easily as I do;little does he know it's his awkwardnessthat I find so touching.TUESDAY, MARCH 7,1944Dearest Kitty,When I think back to my life in 1942, itall seems so unreal. The Anne Frankwho enjoyed that heavenly existencewas completely different from the onewho has grown wise within these walls.Yes, it was heavenly. Five admirers onevery 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?

You're probably wondering how I couldhave charmed all those people. Petersays It s ecause I m "attractive," but thatisn't it entirely. The teachers wereamused and entertained by my cleveranswers, my witty remarks, my smthngface and my critical mind. That's all Iwas: a terrible flirt, coquettish andamusing. I had a few plus points, whichkept me in everybody's good graces: Iwas hardworking, honest and generous. Iwould never have refused anyone whowanted to peek at my answers, I wasmagnanimous with my candy, and Iwasn't stuck-up.Would all that admiration eventuallyhave made me overconfident? It's a goodthing that, at the height of my glory, I was

suddenly plunged into reality. It took memore than a year to get used to doingwithout admiration. How did they seeme at school? As the class comedian, theeternal ringleader, never in a bad mood,never a crybaby. Was it any wonder thateveryone wanted to bicycle to schoolwith me or do me little favors?I look back at that Anne Frank as apleasant, amusing, but superficial girl,who has nothing to do with me. What didPeter say about me? "Whenever I sawyou, you were surrounded by a flock ofgirls and at least two boys, you werealways laughing, and you were alwaysthe center of attention!" He was right.What's remained of that Anne Frank? Oh,I haven't forgotten how to laugh or toss

off a remark, I'm just as good, if notbetter, at raking people over the coals,and I can still flirt and be amusing, if Iwant to be . . . But there's the catch. I'dlike to live that seemingly carefree andhappy life for an evening, a few days, aweek. At the end of that week I'd beexhausted, and would be grateful to thefirst person to talk to me aboutsomething meaningful. I want friends, notadmirers. Peo- ple who respect me formy character and my deeds, not myflattering smile. The circle around mewould be much smaller, but what doesthat matter, as long as they're sincere? Inspite of everything, I wasn't altogetherhappy in 1942; I often felt I'd beendeserted, but because I was on the go all

day long, I didn't think about it. I enjoyedmyself as much as I could, tryingconsciously or unconsciously to fill thevoid with jokes.Looking back, I realize that this periodof my life has irrevocably come to aclose; my happy-go-lucky, carefreeschooldays are gone forever. I don'teven miss them. I've outgrown them. Ican no longer just kid around, since myserious side is always there.I see my life up to New Year's 1944 asif I were looking through a powerfulmagnifying glass. When I was at home,my life was filled with sunshine. Then,in the middle of 1942, everythingchanged overnight. The quarrels, theaccusations-I couldn't take it all in. I was

caught off guard, and the only way Iknew to keep my bearings was to talkback.The first half of 1943 brought cryingspells, loneliness and the gradualrealization of my faults and short-comings, which were numerous andseemed even more so. I filled the daywith chatter, tried to draw Pim closer tome and failed. This left me on my own toface the difficult task of improvingmyself so I wouldn't have to hear theirreproaches, because they made me sodespondent.The second half of the year was slightlybetter. I became a teenager, and wastreated more like a grown-up. I began tothink about things and to write stories,

finally coming to the conclusion that theothers no longer had anything to do withme. They had no right to swing me backand forth like a pendulum on a clock. Iwanted to change myself in my own way.I realized I could man- age without mymother, completely and totally, and thathurt. But what affected me even morewas the realization that I was nevergoing to be able to confide in Father. Ididn't trust anyone but myself.After New Year's the second big changeoccurred: my dream, through which Idiscovered my longing for . . . a boy; notfor a girlfriend, but for a boyfriend. Ialso discovered an inner happinessunderneath my superficial and cheerfulexterior. From time to time I was quiet.

Now I live only for Peter, since whathappens to me in the future dependslargely on him!I lie in bed at night, after ending myprayers with the words "Ich Janke air furall das Cute una Liebe una Schone,"* [*Thank you, God, for all that is good anddear and beautiful.] and I'm filled withjoy. I think of going into hiding, myhealth and my whole being as das Cute;Peter's love (which is still so new andfragile and which neither of us dares tosay aloud), the future, happiness andlove as das Liebe; the world, nature andthe tremendous beauty of everything, allthat splendor, as das Schone.At such moments I don't think about allthe misery, but about the beauty that still

remains. This is where Mother and Idiffer greatly. Her advice in the face ofmelancholy is: "Think about all thesuffering in the world and be thankfulyou're not part of it." My advice is: "Gooutside, to the country, enjoy the sun andall nature has to offer. Go outside and tryto recapture the happiness withinyourself; think of all the beauty inyourself and in everything around youand be happy."I don't think Mother's advice can beright, because what are you supposed todo if you become part of the suffering?You'd be completely lost. On thecontrary, beauty remains, even inmisfortune. If you just look for it, youdiscover more and more happiness and

regain your balance. A person who'shappy will make others happy; a personwho has courage and faith will never diein misery! Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 1944Margot and I have been writing eachother notes, just for fun, of course. Anne:It's strange, but I can only remember theday after what has happened the nightbefore. For example, I suddenlyremembered that Mr. Dussel wassnoring loudly last night. (It's nowquarter 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, Ideliberately made more noise to get thesnoring to stop.

Margot: Which is better, the snoring orthe gasping for air?Anne: The snoring's better, because itstops when I make noise, without wakingthe person in question.What I didn't write to Margot, but whatI'll confess to you, dear Kitty, is that I'vebeen dreaming of Peter a great deal. Thenight before last I dreamed I was skatingright here in our living room with thatlittle boy from the Apollo ice-skatingrink; he was with his sister, the girl withthe spindly legs who always wore thesame blue dress. I introduced myself,overdoing it a bit, and asked him hisname. It was Peter. In my dream Iwondered just how many Peters Iactually knew!

Then I dreamed we were standing inPeter's room, facing each other besidethe stairs. I said something to him; hegave me a kiss, but replied that he didn'tlove me all that much and that I shouldn'tflirt. In a desperate and pleading voice Isaid, "I'm not flirting, Peter!"When I woke up, I was glad Peter hasn'tsaid it after all.Last night I dreamed we were kissingeach other, butPeter's cheeks were very disappointing:they weren't as soft as they looked. Theywere more like Father's cheeks-thecheeks of a man who already shaves.FRIDAY, MARCH 10, 1944My dearest Kitty,The proverb "Misfortunes never come

singly" defi- nitely applies to today.Peter just got through saying it. Let metell you all the awful things that havehappened and that are still hanging overour heads.First, Miep is sick, as a result of Henkand Aagje's wedding yesterday. Shecaught cold in the Westerkerk, where theservice was held. Second, Mr. Kleimanhasn't returned to work since the lasttime his stomach started bleeding, soBep's been left to hold down the fortalone. Third, the police have arrested aman (whose name I won't put in writing).It's terrible not only for him, but for us aswell, since he's been supplying us withpotatoes, butter and jam. Mr. M., as I'llcall 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 whensuddenly someone knocked on the wallnext door. For the rest of the evening wewere nervous and gloomy.Lately I haven't been at all in the moodto write down what's been going onhere. I've been more wrapped up inmyself. Don't get me wrong, I'm terriblyupset about what's happened to poor,good-hearted Mr. M., but there's notmuch room for him in my diary.Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday Iwas in Peter's room from four-thirty tofive-fifteen. We worked on our Frenchand chatted about one thing and another.I really look forward to that hour or so

in the afternoon, but best of all is that Ithink Peter's just as pleased to see me.Yours, Anne M. FrankTHE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL 213SATURDAY, MARCH 11, 1944Dearest Kitty,I haven't been able to sit still lately. Iwander up- stairs and down and thenback again. I like talking to Peter, but I'malways afraid of being a nuisance. He'stold me a bit about the past, about hisparents and about himself, but it's notenough, and every five minutes I wonderwhy I find myself longing for more. Heused to think I was a real pain in theneck, and the feeling was mutual. I'vechanged my mind, but how do I knowhe's changed his? I think he has, but that

doesn't necessarily mean we have tobecome the best of friends, although asfar as I'm concerned, it would make ourtime here more bearable. But I won't letthis drive me crazy. I spend enough timethinking about him and don't have to getyou all worked up as well, simplybecause I'm so miserable! SUNDAY,MARCH 12, 1944Dearest Kitty,Things are getting crazier here as thedays go by.Peter hasn't looked at me sinceyesterday. He's been acting as if he'smad at me. I'm doing my best not tochase after him and to talk to him aslittle as possible, but it's not easy!What's going on, what makes him keep

me at arm's length one minute and rushback to my side the next? Perhaps I'mimagining that it's worse than it really is.Perhaps he's just moody like me, andtomorrow everything will be all rightagain!I have the hardest time trying to maintaina normal facade when I'm feeling sowretched and sad. I have to talk, helparound the house, sit with the others and,above all, act cheerful! Most of all Imiss the outdoors and having a placewhere I can be alone for as long as Iwant! I think I'm getting everything allmixed up, Kitty, but then, I'm in a state ofutter confusion: on the one hand, I'm halfcrazy with desire for him, can hardly bein the same room without looking at him;

and on the other hand, I wonder why heshould matter to me so much and why Ican't be calm again!Day and night, during every wakinghour, I do nothing but ask myself, "Haveyou given him enough chance to bealone? Have you been spending toomuch time upstairs? Do you talk toomuch about serious subjects he's not yetready to talk about? Maybe he doesn'teven like you? Has it all been yourimagination? But then why has he toldyou so much about himself? Is he sorryhe did?" And a whole lot more.Yesterday afternoon I was so worn outby the sad news from the outside that Ilay down on my divan for a nap. All Iwanted was to sleep and not have to

think. I slept until four, but then I had togo next door. It wasn't easy, answeringall Mother's questions and inventing anexcuse to explain my nap to Father. Ipleaded a headache, which wasn't a lie,since I did have one. . . on the inside!Ordinary people, ordinary girls,teenagers like myself, would think I'm alittle nuts with all my self-pity. But that'sjust it. I pour my heart out to you, and therest of the time I'm as impudent, cheerfuland self-confident as possible to avoidquestions and keep from getting on myown nerves. Margot is very kind andwould like me to confide in her, but Ican't tell her everything. She takes metoo seriously, far too seriously, andspends a lot of time thinking about her

loony sister, looking at me closelywhenever I open my mouth andwondering, "Is she acting, or does shereally mean it?" It's because we'realways together. I don't want the person Iconfide in to be around me all the time.When will I untangle my jumbledthoughts? When will I find inner peaceagain?Yours, AnneTUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1944Dearest Kitty,It might be amusing for you (though notfor me) to hear what we're going to eattoday. The cleaning lady is workingdownstairs, so at the moment I'm seatedat the van Daans' oilcloth-covered tablewith a handkerchief sprinkled with

fragrant prewar perfume pressed to mynose and mouth. You probably don'thave the faintest idea what I'm talkingabout, so let me "begin at the begin-ning." The people who supply us withfood coupons have been arrested, so wehave just our five black-market ra- -,tion books-no coupons, no fats and oils.Since Miep and Mr. Kleiman are sickagain, Bep can't manage the shop- ping.The food is wretched, and so are we. Asof tomor- row, we won't have a scrap offat, butter or margarine. We can't eatfried potatoes for breakfast (whichwe've been doing to save on bread), sowe're having hot cereal instead, andbecause Mrs. van D. thinks we'restarving, we bought some half-and-half.

Lunch today consists of mashed potatoesand pickled kale. This explains theprecautionary measure with thehandkerchief. You wouldn't believe howmuch kale can stink when it's a fewyears old! The kitchen smells like amixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggsand brine. Ugh, just the thought of havingto eat that muck makes me want to throwup! Besides that, our potatoes havecontracted such strange diseases that oneout of every two buckets of pommes deterre winds up in the garbage. Weentertain ourselves by trying to figure outwhich disease they've got, and we'vereached the conclusion that they sufferfrom cancer, smallpox and measles.Honestly, being in hiding during the

fourth year of the war is no picnic. Ifonly the whole stinking mess were over!To tell you the truth, the food wouldn'tmatter so much to me if life here weremore pleasant in other ways. But that'sjust it: this tedious existence is startingto make us all disagreeable. Here are theopinions of the five grown-ups on thepresent situation (children aren'tallowed to have opinions, and for onceI'm sticking to the rules):Mrs. van Daan: "I'd stopped wanting tobe queen of the kitchen long ago. Butsitting around doing nothing was boring,so I went back to cooking. Still, I can'thelp complaining: it's impossible tocook without oil, and all those disgustingsmells make me sick to my stomach.

Besides, what do I get in return for myefforts? Ingratitude and rude remarks.I'm always the black sheep; I get blamedfor everything. What's more, it's myopinion that the war is making very littleprogress. The Germans will win in theend. I'm terrified that we're going tostarve, and when I'm in a bad mood, Isnap at everyone who comes near."Mr. van Daan: "I just smoke and smokeand smoke. Then the food, the politicalsituation and Kerli's moods don't seemso bad. Kerli's a sweetheart. If I don'thave anything to smoke, I get sick, then Ineed to eat meat, life becomesunbearable, nothing's good enough, andthere's bound to be a flaming row. MyKerli's an idiot."

Mrs. Frank: "Food's not very important,but I'd love a slice of rye bread rightnow, because I'm so hungry. If I wereMrs. van Daan, I'd have put a stop to Mr.van Daan's smoking long ago. But Idesperately need a cigarette now,because my head's in such a whirl. Thevan Daans are horrible people; theEnglish may make a lot of mistakes, butthe war is progressing. I should keep mymouth shut and be grateful I'm not inPoland."Mr. Frank: "Everything's fine, I don'tneed a thing. Stay calm, we've got plentyof time. Just give me my potatoes, andI'll be quiet. Better set aside some of myrations for Bep. The political situation isimproving, I'm extremely optimistic."

Mr. Dussel: "I must complete the taskI've set for myself, everything must befinished on time. The political situationis looking 'gut,' it's 'eempossible' for usto get caught. Me, me, me . . . ."Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944Dearest Kitty,Whew! Released from the gloom anddoom for a few moments! All I've beenhearing today is: "If this and thathappens, we're in trouble, and if so-and-so gets sick, we'll be left to fend forourselves, and if . . ."Well, you know the rest, or at any rate Iassume you're famthar enough with theresidents of the Annex to guess whatthey'd be talking about.

The reason for all the "ifs" is that Mr.Kugler has been called up for a six-daywork detail, Bep is down with a badcold and will probably have to stayhome tomorrow, Miep hasn't gotten overher flu, and Mr. Kleiman's stom- achbled so much he lost consciousness.What a tale of woe!We think Mr. Kugler should go directlyto a reliable doctor for a medicalcertificate of ill health, which he canpresent to the City Hall in Hilversum.The warehouse-employees have beengiven a day off tomorrow, so Bep willbe alone in the office. If (there's another"if') Bep has to stay home, the door willremain locked and we'll have to be asquiet as mice so the Keg Company won't

hear us. At one o'clock Jan will comefor half an hour to check on us poorforsaken souls, like a zookeeper.This afternoon, for the first time in ages,Jan gave us some news of the outsideworld. You should have seen usgathered around him; it looked exactlylike a print: "At Grandmother's Knee."He regaled his grateful audience withtalk of-what else?-food. Mrs. P., a friendof Miep's, has been cooking his meals.The day before yesterday Jan ate carrotswith green peas, yesterday he had theleftovers, today she's cooking marrowfatpeas, and tomorrow she's plan- ning tomash the remaining carrots withpotatoes.We asked about Miep's doctor.

"Doctor?" said Jan. "What doctor? Icalled him this morning and got hissecretary on the line. I asked for a fluprescription and was told I could comepick it up tomor- row morning betweeneight and nine. If you've got aparticularly bad case of flu, the doctorhimself comes to the phone and says,'Stick out your tongue and say "Aah."Oh, I can hear it, your throat's infected.I'll write out a prescription and you canbring it to the phar- macy. Good day.'And that's that. Easy job he's got,diagnosis by phone. But I shouldn'tblame the doctors." After all, a personhas only two hands, and these daysthere're too many patients and too fewdoctors."

Still, we all had a good laugh at Jan'sphone call. I can just imagine what adoctor's waiting room looks like thesedays. Doctors no longer turn up theirnoses at the poorer patients, but at thosewith minor illnesses. "Hey, what are youdoing here?" they think. "Go to the endof the line; real patients have priority!"Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 16, 1944Dearest Kitty,The weather is gorgeous, indescribablybeautiful; I'll be going up to the attic in amoment.I now know why I'm so much morerestless than Peter. He has his ownroom, where he can work, dream, thinkand sleep. I'm constantly being chased

from one corner to another. I'm neveralone in the room I share with Dussel,though I long to be so much. That'sanother reason I take refuge in the attic.When I'm there, or with you, I can bemyself, at least for a little while. Still, Idon't want to moan and groan. On thecontrary, I want to be brave! Thankgoodness the others notice nothing of myinnermost feelings, except that every dayI'm growing cooler and morecontemptuous of Mother, lessaffectionate to Father and less willing toshare a single thought with Margot; I'mclosed up tighter than a drum. Above all,I have to maintain my air of confidence.No one must know that my heart andmind are constantly at war with each

other. Up to now reason has always wonthe battle, but will my emotions get theupper hand? Sometimes I fear they will,but more often I actually hope they do!Oh, it's so terribly hard not to talk toPeter about these things, but I know Ihave to let him begin; it's so hard to actduring the daytime as if everything I'vesaid and done in my dreams had nevertaken place! Kitty, Anne is crazy, butthen these are crazy times and evencrazier circumstances.The nicest part is being able to writedown all my thoughts and feelings;otherwise, I'd absolutely suffocate. Iwonder what Peter thinks about all thesethings? I keep thinking I'll be able to talkto him about them one day. He must have

guessed something about the inner me,since he couldn't possibly love the outerAnne he's known so far! How couldsomeone like Peter, who loves peaceand quiet, possibly stand my bustle andnoise? Will he be the first and onlyperson to see what's beneath my granitemask? Will it take him long? Isn't theresome old saying about love being akin topity? Isn't that what's happening here aswell? Because I often pity him as muchas I do myself!I honestly don't know how to begin, Ireally don't, so how can I expect Peter towhen talking is so much harder for him?If only I could write to him, then at leasthe'd know what I was trying to say, sinceit's so hard to say it out loud!

Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, MARCH 17, 1944My dearest darling,Everything turned out all right after all;Bep just had a sore throat, not the flu,and Mr. Kugler got a medical certificateto excuse him from the work detail. Theentire Annex breathed a huge sigh ofrelief. Everything's fine here! Except thatMargot and I are rather tired of ourparents.Don't get me wrong. I still love Father asmuch as ever and Margot loves bothFather and Mother, but when you're asold as we are, you want to make a fewdecisions for yourself, get out fromunder their thumb. Whenever I goupstairs, they ask what I'm going to do,

they won't let me salt my food, Motherasks me every evening at eight-fifteen ifit isn't time for me to change into mynighty, I and they have to approve everybook I read. I must admit, they're not atall strict about that and let me readnearly everything, but Margot and I aresick and tired of having to listen to theircomments and questions all day long.There's something else that displeasesthem: I no longer feel like giving themlittle kisses morning, noon and night. Allthose cute nicknames seem so affected,and Father's fondness for talking aboutfarting and going to the bathroom isdisgusting. In short, I'd like nothingbetter than to do without their companyfor a while, and they don't understand

that. Not that Margot and I have eversaid any of this to them. What would bethe point? They wouldn't understandanyway.Margot said last night, "What reallybothers me is that if you happen to putyour head in your hands and sigh once ortwice, they immediately ask whether youhave a headache or don't feel well."For both of us, it's been quite a blow tosuddenly realize that very little remainsof the close and harmoni- ous family weused to have at home! This is mostlybecause everything's out of kilter here.By that I mean that we're treated likechildren when it comes to externalmatters, while, inwardly, we're mucholder than other girls our age. Even

though I'm only fourteen, I know what Iwant, I know who's right and who'swrong, I have my own opinions, ideasand principles, and though it may soundodd coming from a teenager, I feel I'mmore of a person than a child-I feel I'mcompletely independent of others. Iknow I'm better at debating or carryingon a discussion than Mother, I know I'mmore objective, I don't exaggerate asmuch, I'm much tidier and better with myhands, and because of that I feel (thismay make you laugh) that I'm superior toher in many ways. To love someone, Ihave to admire and respect the person,but I feel neither respect nor admirationfor Mother!Everything would be all right if only I

had Peter, since I admire him in manyways. He's so decent and clever!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MARCH 18, 1944Dearest Kitty,I've told you more about myself and myfeelings than I've ever told a living soul,so why shouldn't that include sex?Parents, and people in general, are verypeculiar when it comes to sex. Instead oftelling their sons and daughterseverything at the age of twelve, theysend the children out of the room themoment the subject arises and leavethem to find out everything on their own.Later on, when parents notice that theirchildren have, somehow, come by theirinformation, they assume they know

more (or less) than they actually do. Sowhy don't they try to make amends byasking them what's what?A major stumbling block for the adults-though in my opinion it's no more than apebble-is that they're afraid theirchildren will no longer look uponmarriage as sacred and pure once theyrealize that, in most cases, this purity isa lot of nonsense. As far as I'mconcerned, it's not wrong for a man tobring a little experience to a marriage.After all, it has nothing to do with themarriage itself, does it?Soon after I turned eleven, they told meabout menstruation. But even then, I hadno idea where the blood came from orwhat it was for. When I was twelve and

a half, I learned some more from Jacque,who wasn't as ignorant as I was. Myown intuition told me what a man and awoman do when they're together; itseemed like a crazy idea at first, butwhen Jacque confirmed it, I was proudof myself for having figured it out!It was also Jacque who told me thatchildren didn't come out of their mother'stummies. As she put it, "Where theingredients go in is where the finishedproduct comes out!" Jacque and I foundout about the hymen, and quite a fewother details, from a book on sexeducation. I also knew that you couldkeep from having children, but how thatworked inside your body remained amystery. When I came here, Father told

me about prostitutes, etc., but all in allthere are still unanswered questions.If mothers don't tell their childreneverything, they hear it in bits andpieces, and that can't be right.Even though it's Saturday, I'm not bored!That's because I've been up in the atticwith Peter. I sat there dreaming with myeyes closed, and it was wonderful.Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY, MARCH 19, 1944Dearest Kitty,Yesterday was a very important day forme. After lunch everything was as usual.At five I put on the potatoes, and Mothergave me some blood sausage to take toPeter. I didn't want to at first, but Ifinally went. He wouldn't accept the

sausage, and I had the dreadful feel- ingit was still because of that argumentwe'd had about distrust. Suddenly Icouldn't bear it a moment longer and myeyes filled with tears. Without anotherword, I re- turned the platter to Motherand went to the bathroom to have a goodcry. Afterward I decided to talk thingsout with Peter. Before dinner the four ofus were helping him with a crosswordpuzzle, so I couldn't say anything. But aswe were sitting down to eat, I whisperedto him, "Are you going to practice yourshorthand tonight, Peter?""No," was his reply."I'd like to talk to you later on."He agreed.After the dishes were done, I went to his

room and asked if he'd refused thesausage because of our last quar- rel.Luckily, that wasn't the reason; he justthought it was bad manners to seem soeager. It had been very hot downstairsand my face was as red as a lobster. Soafter taking down some water forMargot, I went back up to get a littlefresh air. For the sake of appearances, Ifirst went and stood beside the vanDaans' window before going to Peter'sroom. He was standing on the left side ofthe open window, so I went over to theright side. It's much easier to talk next toan open window in semidarkness than inbroad daylight, and I think Peter felt thesame way. We told each other so much,so very much, that I can't repeat it all.

But it felt good; it was the most won-derful evening I've ever had in theAnnex. I'll give you a brief descriptionof the various subjects we touched on.First we talked about the quarrels andhow I see them in a very different lightthese days, and then about how we'vebecome alienated from our parents. Itold Peter about Mother and Father andMargot and myself. At one point heasked, "You always give each other agood-night kiss, don't you?""One? Dozens of them. You don't, doyou?""No, I've 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 parentslove each other a great deal and wishhe'd confide in them, but that he doesn'twant to. How I cry my heart out in bedand he goes up to the loft and swears.How Margot and I have only recentlygotten to know each other and yet stilltell each other very little, since we'realways together. We talked about everyimaginable thing, about trust, feelingsand ourselves. Oh, Kitty, he was just as Ithought he would be.Then we talked about the year 1942, andhow different we were back then; wedon't even recognize ourselves from thatperiod. How we couldn't stand eachother at first. He'd thought I was a noisypest, and I'd quickly concluded that he

was nothing special. I didn't understandwhy he didn't flirt with me, but now I'mglad. He also mentioned how he oftenused to retreat to his room. I said that mynoise and exuberance and his silencewere two sides of the same coin, andthat I also liked peace and quiet but don'thave anything for myself alone, exceptmy diary, and that everyone would rathersee the back of me, starting with Mr.Dussel, and that I don't always want tosit with my parents. We discussed howglad he is that my parents have childrenand how glad I am that he's here.How I now understand his need towithdraw and his relationship to hisparents, and how much I'd like to helphim when they argue.

"But you're always a help to me!" hesaid."How?" I asked, greatly surprised."By being cheerful."That was the nicest thing he said allevening. He also told me that he didn'tmind my coming to his room the way heused to; in fact, he liked it. I also toldhim that all of Father's and Mother's petnames were meaningless, that a kiss hereand there didn't automatically lead totrust. We also talked about doing thingsyour own way, the diary, loneliness, thedifference between everyone's inner andouter selves, my mask, etc.It was wonderful. He must have come tolove me as a friend, and, for the timebeing, that's enough. I'm so grateful and

happy, I can't find the words. I mustapolo- gize, Kitty, since my style is notup to my usual standard today. I've justwritten whatever came into my head!I have the feeling that Peter and I share asecret. Whenever he looks at me withthose eyes, with that smile and that wink,it's as if a light goes on inside me. I hopethings will stay like this and that we'llhave many, many more happy hourstogether.Your grateful and happy AnneMONDAY, MARCH 20, 1944Dearest Kitty,This morning Peter asked me if I'd comeagain one evening. He swore I wouldn'tbe disturbing him, and said that wherethere was room for one, there was room

for two. I said I couldn't see him everyevening, since my parents didn't think itwas a good idea, but he thought Ishouldn't let that bother me. So I told himI'd like to come some Saturday eveningand also asked him if he'd let me knowwhen you could see the moon."Sure," he said, "maybe we can godownstairs and look at the moon fromthere." I agreed; I'm not really so scaredof burglars.In the meantime, a shadow has fallen onmy happiness. For a long time I've hadthe feeling that Margot likes Peter. Justhow much I don't know, but the wholesituation is very unpleasant. Now everytime I go see Peter I'm hurting her,without meaning to. The funny thing is

that she hardly lets it show. I know I'd beinsanely jealous, but Margot just says Ishouldn't feel sorry for her. "I think it'sso awful that you've become the odd oneout," I added. "I'm used to that," shereplied, somewhat bitterly.I don't dare tell Peter. Maybe later on,but he and I need to discuss so manyother things first.Mother slapped me last night, which Ideserved. I mustn't carry my indifferenceand contempt for her too far. In spite ofeverything, I should try once again to befriendly and keep my remarks to myself!Even Pim isn't as nice as he used to be.He's been trying not to treat me like achild, but now he's much too cold. We'lljust have to see what comes of it! He's

warned me that if I don't do my algebra,I won't get any tutoring after the war. Icould simply wait and see what happens,but I'd like to start again, provided I geta new book.That's enough for now. I do nothing butgaze at Peter, and I'm filled tooverflowing!Yours, Anne M. FrankEvidence of Margot's goodness. Ireceived this today, March 20, 1944:Anne, yesterday when I said I wasn'tjeal- ous of you, I wasn't being entirelyhonest. The situation is this: I'm notjealous of either you or Peter. I'm justsorry I haven't found anyone willi whomto share my thoughts and feelings, andI'm not likely to in the near future. But

that's why I wish, from the bottom of myheart, that you will both be able to placeyour trust in each other. You're alreadymissing out on so much here, things otherpeople take for granted. On the otherhand, I'm certain I'd never have gotten asfar with Peter, because I think I'd need tofeel very close to a person before Icould share my thoughts. I'd want to havethe feeling that he understood me throughand through, even if I didn't say much.For this reason it would have to besomeone I felt was intellectuallysuperior to me, and that isn't the casewith Peter. But I can imagine yourfeeling close to him.So there's no need for you to reproachyourself because you think you' te taking

something I was entitled to; nothingcould be further from the truth. You andPeter have everything to gain by yourfriendship.My answer:Dearest Margot,Your letter was extremely kind, but Istill don't feel completely happy aboutthe situation, and I don't think I everwill.At the moment, Peter and I don't trusteach other as much as you seem to think.It's just that when you're standing besidean open window at twthght, you can saymore to each other than in brightsunshine. It's also easier to whisper yourfeelings than to shout them from therooftops. I think you've begun to feel a

kind of sisterly affection for Peter andwould like to help him, just as much as Iwould. Perhaps you'll be able to do thatsomeday, though that's not the kind oftrust we have in mind. I believe that trusthas to corne from both sides; I also thinkthat's the reason why Father and I havenever really grown so close. But let's nottalk about it anymore. If there's anythingyou still want to discuss, please write,because it's easier for me to say what Imean as on paper than face-to-face. Youknow how le much I admire you, andonly hope that some of your goodnessand Father's goodness will rub off onme, because, in that sense, you two are alot alike.Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22,1944Dearest Kitty,I received this letter last night fromMargot:Dear Anne,After your letter of yesterday I have theunpleasant feeling that your consciencebothers you whenever you go to Peter'sto work or talk; there's really no reasonfor that. In my heart, I know there'ssomeone who deserves t my trust (as Ido his), and I wouldn't be able totolerate Peter in his place. However, asyou wrote, I do think of Peter as a kindof brother. . . a younger brother; we'vebeen sending out feelers, and a brotherlyand sisterly affection mayor may notdevelop at some later date, but it's

certainly not reached that stage yet. Sothere's no need for you to feel sorry forme. Now that you've foundcompanionship, enjoy it as much as youcan.In the meantime, things are getting moreand more wonderful here. I think, Kitty,that true love may be developing in theAnnex. All those jokes about marryingPeter if we stayed here long enoughweren't so silly after all. Not that I'mthinking of marrying him, mind you. Idon't even know what he'll be like whenhe grows up. Or if we'll even love eachother enough to get married. I'm surenow that Peter loves me too; I just don'tknow in what way. I can't figure out if hewants only a good friend, or if he's

attracted to me as a girl or as a sister.When he said I always helped him whenhis parents were arguing, I wastremendously happy; it was one steptoward making me believe in hisfriendship. I asked him yesterday whathe'd do if there were a dozen Annes whokept popping in to see him. His answerwas: "If they were all like you, itwouldn't be so bad." He's extremelyhospitable, and I think he really likes tosee me. Mean- while, he's been workinghard at learning French, even studying inbed until ten-fifteen.Oh, when I think back to Saturday night,to our words, our voices, I feel satisfiedwith myself for the very first time; what Imean is, I'd still say the same and

wouldn't want to change a thing, the wayI usually do. He's so handsome, whetherhe's smthng or just sitting still. He's sosweet and good and beautiful. I thinkwhat surprised him most about me waswhen he discovered that I'm not at all thesuperficial, worldly Anne I appear to be,but a dreamer, like he is, with just asmany troubles!Last night after the dinner dishes, Iwaited for him to ask me to stay upstairs.But nothing happened; I went away. Hecame downstairs to tell Dussel it wastime to listen to the radio and hungaround the bathroom for a while, butwhen Dussel took too long, he went backupstairs. He paced up and down hisroom and went to bed early.

The entire evening I was so restless Ikept going to the bathroom to splash coldwater on my face. I read a bit,daydreamed some more, looked at theclock and waited, waited, waited, all thewhile listening to his foot- steps. I wentto bed early, exhausted.Tonight I have to take a bath, andtomorrow?Tomorrow's so far away!Yours, Anne M. FrankMy answer:Dearest Margot,I think the best thing is simply to waitand see what happens. It can't be muchlonger before Peter and I will have todecide whether to go back to the way wewere or do some- thing else. I don't

know how it'll turn out; I can't see anyfarther than the end of my nose.But I'm certain of one thing: if Peter andI do become friends, I'm going to tellhim you're also very fond of him and areprepared to help him if he needs you.You wouldn't want me to, I'm sure, but Idon't care; I don't know what Peterthinks of you, but I'll ask him when thetime comes. It's certainly nothing bad-onthe contrary! You're welcome to join usin the attic, or wherever we are. Youwon't be disturbing us, because we havean unspoken agreement to talk only in theevenings when it's dark.Keep your spirits up! I'm doing my best,though it's not always easy. Your timemay come sooner than you think.

Yours, AnneTHURSDAY, MARCH 23, 1944Dearest Kitty,Things are more or less back to normalhere. Our coupon men have beenreleased from prison, thank goodness!Miep's been back since yesterday, buttoday it was her husband's turn to take tohis bed-chills and fever, the usual flusymptoms. Bep is better, though she stillhas a cough, and Mr. Kleiman will haveto stay home for a long time. Yesterday aplane crashed nearby. The crew wasable to parachute out in time. It crashedon top of a school, but luckily there wereno children inside. There was a smallfire and a couple of people were killed.As the airmen made their descent, the

Germans sprayed them with bullets. TheAmsterdammers who saw it seethedwith rage at such a dastardly deed. We-by which I mean the ladies-were alsoscared out of our wits. Brrr, I hate thesound of gunfire.Now about myself.I was with Peter yesterday and,somehow, I honestly don't know how,we wound up talking about sex. I'd madeup my mind a long time ago to ask him afew things. He knows everything; when Isaid that Margot and I weren't very wellinformed, he was amazed. I told him alot about Margot and me and Mother andFather and said that lately I didn't dareask them anything. He offered toenlighten me, and I gratefully accepted:

he described how contraceptives work,and I asked him very boldly how boyscould tell they were grown up. He had tothink about that one; he said he'd tell metonight. I told him what had happened toJacque, and said that girls aredefenseless against strong boys. "Well,you don't have to be afraid of me," hesaid.When I came back that evening, he toldme how it is with boys. Slightlyembarrassing, but still awfully nice to beable to discuss it with him. Neither henor I had ever imagined we'd be able totalk so openly to a girl or a boy,respectively, about such intimatematters. I think I know everything now.He told me a lot about what he called

Prasentivmitteln* [* Should bePraservativmitteln: prophylactics] inGerman.That night in the bathroom Margot and Iwere talking about Bram and Trees, twofriends of hers.This morning I was in for a nastysurprise: after breakfast Peter beckonedme upstairs. "That was a dirty trick youplayed on me," he said. "I heard whatyou and Margot were saying in thebathroom last night. I think you justwanted to find out how much Peter knewand then have a good laugh!"I was stunned! I did everything I could totalk him out of that outrageous idea; Icould understand how he must have felt,but it just wasn't true! "Oh no, Peter," I

said. "I'd never be so mean. I told you Iwouldn't pass on anything you said to meand I won't. To put on an act like thatand then deliberately be so mean. . .No,Peter, that's not my idea ofa joke. Itwouldn't be fair. I didn't say anything,honest. Won't you believe me?" Heassured me he did, but I think we'll haveto talk about it again sometime. I've donenothing all day but worry about it. Thankgoodness he came right out and saidwhat was on his mind. Imagine if he'dgone around thinking I could be thatmean. He's so sweet!Now I'll have to tell him everything!Yours, AnneFRIDAY, MARCH 24, 1944Dear Kitty,

I often go up to Peter's room after dinnernowadays to breathe in the fresh eveningair. You can get around to meaningfulconversations more quickly in the darkthan with the sun tickling your face. It'scozy and snug sitting beside him on achair and looking outside. The vanDaans and Dussel make the silliestremarks when I disappear into his room."Annes zweite Heimat,"* [* Anne'ssecond home] they say, or "Is it properfor a gentleman to receive young girls inhis room at night with the lights out?"Peter has amazing presence of mind inthe face of these so-called witticisms.My mother, incidentally, is also burstingwith curiosity and simply dying to askwhat we talk about, only she's secretly

afraid I'd refuse to answer. Peter saysthe grown-ups are just jealous becausewe're young and that we shouldn't taketheir obnoxious comments to heart.Sometimes he comes downstairs to getme, but that's awkward too, because inspite of all his precautions his face turnsbright red and he can hardly get thewords out of his mouth. I'm glad I don'tblush; it must be extremely unpleasant.Besides, it bothers me that Margot has tosit downstairs all by herself, while I'mupstairs enjoying Peter's company. Butwhat can I do about it? I wouldn't mind itif she came, but she'd just be the odd oneout, sitting there like a lump on a log.I've had to listen to countless remarksabout our sudden friendship. I can't tell

you how often the conversation at mealshas been about an Annex wedding,should the war last another five years.Do we take any notice of this parentalchitchat? Hardly, since it's all so silly.Have my parents forgotten that they wereyoung once? Apparently they have. Atany rate, they laugh at us when we'reserious, and they're serious when we'rejoking.I don't know what's going to happen next,or whether we'll run out of things to say.But if it goes on like this, we'lleventually be able to be together withouttalking. If only his parents would stopacting so strangely. It's probably becausethey don't like seeing me so often; Peterand I certainly never tell them what we

talk about. Imagine if they knew wewere discussing such intimate things.I'd like to ask Peter whether he knowswhat girls look like down there. I don'tthink boys are as complicated as girls.You can easily see what boys look likein photographs or pictures of malenudes, but with women it's different. Inwomen, the genitals, or whatever they'recalled, are hidden between their legs.Peter has probably never seen a girl upclose. To tell you the truth, neither haveI. Boys are a lot easier. How on earthwould I go about describing a girl'sparts? I can tell from what he said thathe doesn't know exactly how it all fitstogether. He was talking about the"Muttermund," [* cervix], but that's on

the inside, where you can't see it.Everything's pretty well arranged in uswomen. Until I was eleven or twelve, Ididn't realize there was a second set oflabia on the inside, since you couldn'tsee them. What's even funnier is that Ithought urine came out of the clitoris. Iasked Mother one time what that littlebump was, and she said she didn't know.She can really play dumb when shewants to!But to get back to the subject. How onearth can you explain what it all lookslike without any models?Shall I try anyway? Okay, here goes!When you're standing up, all you seefrom the front is hair. Between your legsthere are two soft, cushiony things, also

covered with hair, which press togetherwhen you're standing, so you can't seewhat's inside. They separate when yousit down, and they're very red and quitefleshy on the inside. In the upper part,between the outer labia, there's a fold ofskin that, on second thought, looks like akind of blister. That's the clitoris. Thencome the inner labia, which are alsopressed together in a kind of crease.When they open up, you can see a fleshylittle mound, no bigger than the top of mythumb. The upper part has a couple ofsmall holes in it, which is where theurine comes out. The lower part looks asif it were just skin, and yet that's wherethe vagina is. You can barely find it,because the folds of skin hide the

opening. The hole's so small I can hardlyimagine how a man could get in there,much less how a baby could come out.It's hard enough trying to get your indexfinger inside. That's all there is, and yetit plays such an important role! Yours,Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MARCH 25, 1944Dearest Kitty,You never realize how much you'vechanged until after it's happened. I'vechanged quite drastically, everythingabout me is different: my opinions,ideas, critical outlook. Inwardly,outwardly, nothing's the same. And, Imight safely add, since it's true, I'vechanged for the better. I once told youthat, after years of being adored, it was

hard for me to adjust to the harsh realityof grown-ups and rebukes. But Fatherand Mother are largely to blame for myhaving to put up with so much. At homethey wanted me to enjoy life, which wasfine, but here they shouldn't haveencouraged me to agree with them andonly shown me "their" side of all thequarrels and gossip. It was a long timebefore I discovered the score was fifty-fifty. I now know that many blundershave been committed here, by young andold alike. Father and Mother's biggestmistake in dealing with the van Daans isthat they're never candid and friendly(admittedly, the friendliness might haveto be feigned). Above all, I want to keepthe peace, and to neither quarrel nor

gossip. With Father and Margot that's notdifficult, but it is with Mother, which iswhy I'm glad she gives me an occasionalrap on the knuckles. You can win Mr.van Daan to your side by agreeing withhim, listening quietly, not saying muchand most of all . . . responding to histeasing and his corny jokes with a jokeof your own. Mrs. van D. can be wonover by talking openly to her andadmitting when you're wrong. She alsofrankly admits her faults, of which shehas many. I know all too well that shedoesn't think as badly of me as she did inthe beginning. And that's simply becauseI'm honest and tell people right to theirfaces what I think, even when it's notvery flattering. I want to be honest; I

think it gets you further and also makesyou feel better about yourself.Yesterday Mrs. van D. was talking aboutthe rice we gave Mr. Kleiman. "All wedo is give, give, give. But at a certainpoint I think that enough is enough. Ifhe'd only take the trouble, Mr. Kleimancould scrounge up his own rice. Whyshould we give away all our supplies?We need them just as badly." "No, Mrs.van Daan," I replied. "I don't agree withyou. Mr. Kleiman may very well be ableto get hold of a little rice, but he doesn'tlike having to worry about it. It's not ourplace to criticize the people who arehelping us. We should give themwhatever they need if we can possiblyspare it. One less plate of rice a week

won't make that much difference; we canalways eat beans." Mrs. van D. didn'tsee it my way, but she added that, eventhough she disagreed, she was willing toback down, and that was an entirelydifferent matter.Well, I've said enough. Sometimes Iknow what my place is and sometimes Ihave my doubts, but I'll eventually getwhere I want to be! I know I will!Especially now that I have help, sincePeter helps me through many a roughpatch and rainy day!I honestly don't know how much he lovesme and whether we'll ever get as far as akiss; in any case, I don't want to forcethe issue! I told Father I often go seePeter and asked if he approved, and of

course he did!It's much easier now to tell Peter thingsI'd nor- mally keep to myself; forexample, I told him I want to write lateron, and if I can't be a writer, to write inaddition to my work.I don't have much in the way of money orworldly possessions, I'm not beautiful,intelligent or clever, but I'm happy, and Iintend to stay that way! I was bornhappy, I love people, I have a trustingnature, and I'd like everyone else to behappy too.Your devoted friend, Anne M. FrankAn empty day, though clear and bright,Is just as dark as any night.(I wrote this a few weeks ago and it nolonger holds true, but I included it

because my poems are so few and farbetween.)MONDAY, MARCH 27, 1944Dearest Kitty,At least one long chapter on our life inhiding should be about politics, but I'vebeen avoiding the subject, since itinterests me so little. Today, however,I'll devote an entire letter to politics.Of course, there are many differentopinions on this topic, and it's notsurprising to hear it frequently discussedin times of war, but. . . arguing so muchabout politics is just plain stupid! Letthem laugh, swear, make bets, grumbleand do whatever they want as long asthey stew in their own juice. But don't letthem argue, since that only makes things

worse. The people who come fromoutside bring us a lot of news that laterproves to be untrue; however, up to nowour radio has never lied. Jan, Miep, Mr.Kleiman, Bep and Mr. Kugler go up anddown in their political moods, thoughJan least of all.Here in the Annex the mood nevervaries. The end- less debates over theinvasion, air raids, speeches, etc., etc.,are accompanied by countlessexclamations such as "Eempossible!,Urn Gottes Willen* [* Oh, for heaven'ssake]. If they're just getting started now,how long is it going to last!, It's goingsplendidly, But, great!"Optimists and pessimists-not to mentionthe realists-air their opinions with

unflagging energy, and as witheverything else, they're all certain thatthey have a monopoly on the truth. Itannoys a certain lady that her spouse hassuch supreme faith in the British, and acertain husband attacks his wife becauseof her teasing and dispar- aging remarksabout his beloved nation!And so it goes from early in the morningto late at night; the funny part is that theynever get tired of it. I've discovered atrick, and the effect is overwhelming,just like pricking someone with a pinand watching them jump. Here's how itworks: I start talking about politics.All it takes is a single question, a wordor a sentence, and before you know it,the entire family is involved!

As if the German "Wehrmacht News"and the English BBC weren't enough,they've now added special air-raidannouncements. In a word, splendid. Butthe other side of the coin is that theBritish Air Force is operating around theclock. Not unlike the Germanpropaganda machine, which is crankingout lies twenty-four hours a day!So the radio is switched on everymorning at eight (if not earlier) and islistened to every hour until nine, ten oreven eleven at night. This is the bestevidence yet that the adults have infinitepatience, but also that their brains haveturned to mush (some of them, I mean,since I wouldn't want to insult anyone).One broadcast, two at the most, should

be enough to last the entire day. But no,those old nincompoops. . . never mind,I've already said it all! "Music WhileYou Work," the Dutch broadcast fromEngland, Frank Phillips or QueenWilhelmina, they each get a turn and fInda willing listener. If the adults aren'teating or sleeping, they're clusteredaround the radio talking about eating,sleeping and politics. Whew! It's gettingto be a bore, and it's all I can do to keepfrom turning into a dreary old cronemyself! Though with all the old folksaround me, that might not be such a badidea!Here's a shining example, a speech madeby our beloved Winston Churchill. Nineo'clock, Sunday evening. The teapot,

under its cozy, is on the table, and theguests enter the room.Dussel sits to the left of the radio, Mr.van D. in front of it and Peter to the side.Mother is next to Mr. van D., willi Mrs.van D. behind them. Margot and I aresitting in the last row and Pim at thetable. I realize this isn't a very cleardescription of our seating arrangements,but it doesn't matter. The men smoke,Peter's eyes close from the strain oflistening, Mama is dressed in her long,dark negligee, Mrs. van D. is tremblingbecause of the planes, which take nonotice of the speech but fly blithely ontoward Essen, Father is slurping his tea,and Margot and I are united in a sisterlyway by the sleeping Mouschi, who has

taken possession of both our knees.Margot's hair is in curlers and mynightgown is too small, too tight and tooshort. It all looks so intimate, cozy andpeaceful, and for once it really is. Yet Iawait the end of the speech willi dread.They're impatient, straining at the leashto start another argument! Pst, pst, like acat luring a mouse from its hole, theygoad each other into quarrels anddissent.Yours, AnneTUESDAY, MARCH 28, 1944My dearest Kitty,As much as I'd like to write more onpolitics, I have lots of other news toreport today. First, Mother has virtuallyforbidden me to go up to Peter's, since,

according to her, Mrs. van Daan isjealous. Second, Peter's invited Margotto join us upstairs. Whether he reallymeans it or is just saying it out ofpoliteness, I don't know. Third, I askedFather if he thought I should take anynotice of Mrs. van Daan's jealousy andhe said I didn't have to. What should I donow? Mother's angry, doesn't want megoing upstairs, wants me to go back todoing my homework in the room I sharewilli Dussel. She may be jealousherself. Father doesn't begrudge us thosefew hours and thinks it's nice we getalong so well. Margot likes Peter too,but feels that three people can't talkabout the same things as two.Furthermore, Mother thinks Peter's in

love with me. To tell you the truth, Iwish he were. Then we'd be even, andit'd be a lot easier to get to know eachother. She also claims he's alwayslooking at me. Well, I suppose we dogive each other the occasional wink. ButI can't help it if he keeps admiring mydimples, can I?I'm in a very difficult position. Mother'sagainst me and I'm against her. Fatherturns a blind eye to the silent strugglebetween Mother and me. Mother is sad,because she still loves me, but I'm not atall unhappy, because she no longermeans anything to me.As for Peter. . . I don't want to give himup. He's so sweet and I admire him somuch. He and I could have a really

beautiful relationship, so why are the oldfolks poking their noses into ourbusiness again? Fortu- nately, I'm usedto hiding my feelings, so I manage not toshow how crazy I am about him. Is heever going to say anything? Am I evergoing to feel his cheek against mine, theway I felt Petel's cheek in my dream?Oh, Peter andPetel, you're one and the same! Theydon't understand us; they'd neverunderstand that we're content just to sitbeside each other and not say a word.They have no idea of what draws ustogether! Oh, when will we overcomeall these difficulties? And yet it's goodthat we have to surmount them, since itmakes the end that much more beautiful.

When he lays his head on his arms andcloses his eyes, he's still a child; whenhe plays with Mouschi or talks abouther, he's loving; when he carries thepotatoes or other heavy loads, he'sstrong; when he goes to watch thegunfire or walks through the dark houseto look for burglars, he's brave; andwhen he's so awkward and clumsy, he'shopelessly endearing. It's much nicerwhen he explains something to me thanwhen I have to teach him. I wish he weresuperior to me in nearly every way!What do we care about our twomothers? Oh, if only he'd say something.Father always says I'm conceited, but I'mnot, I'm merely vain! I haven't had manypeople tell me I was pretty, except for a

boy at school who said I looked so cutewhen I smiled. Yesterday Peter paid mea true com- pliment, and just for fun I'llgive you a rough idea of ourconversation.Peter often says, "Smile!" I thought itwas strange, so yesterday I asked him,"Why do you always want me to smile?""Because you get dimples in yourcheeks. How do you do that?""I was born with them. There's also onein my chin. It's the only mark of beauty Ipossess.""No, no, that's not true!""Yes it is. I know I'm not beautiful. Inever have been and I never will be!" "Idon't agree. I think you're pretty.""I am not."

"I say you are, and you'll have to take myword for it." So of course I then said thesame about him.Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, MARCH 29, 1944Dearest Kitty,Mr. Bolkestein, the Cabinet Minister,speaking on the Dutch broadcast fromLondon, said that after the war acollection would be made of diaries andletters dealing with the war. Of course,everyone pounced on my diary. Justimagine how interesting it would be if Iwere to publish a novel about the SecretAnnex. The title alone would makepeople think it was a detective story.Seriously, though, ten years after the warpeople would find it very amusing to

read how we lived, what we ate andwhat we talked about as Jews in hiding.Although I tell you a great deal about ourlives, you still know very little about us.How frightened the women are duringair raids; last Sunday, for instance, when350 British planes dropped 550 tons ofbombs on IJmuiden, so that the housestrembled like blades of grass in thewind. Or how many epidemics areraging here.You know nothing of these matters, andit would take me all day to describeeverything down to the last detail.People have to stand in line to buyvegetables and all kinds of goods;doctors can't visit their patients, sincetheir cars and bikes are stolen the

moment they turn their backs; burglariesand thefts are so common that you askyourself what's suddenly gotten into theDutch to make them so light-fingered.Little children, eight- and elevenyear-olds, smash the windows of people'shomes and steal whatever they can laytheir hands on. People don't dare leavethe house for even five minutes, sincethey're liable to come back and find alltheir belongings gone. Every day thenewspapers are filled with rewardnotices for the return of stolentypewriters, Persian rugs, electricclocks, fabrics, etc. The electric clockson street corners are dismantled, publicphones are stripped down to the lastwire. Morale among the Dutch can't be

good. Everyone's hungry; except for theersatz coffee, a week's food rationdoesn't last two days. The invasion'slong in coming, the men are beingshipped off to Germany, the children aresick or undernourished, everyone'swearing worn-out clothes and run-downshoes. A new sole costs 7.50 guil- derson the black market. Besides, fewshoemakers will do repairs, or if theydo, you have to wait four months foryour shoes, which might very well havedisappeared in the meantime.One good thing has come out of this: asthe food gets worse and the decreesmore severe, the acts of sabo- tageagainst the authorities are increasing.The ration board, the police, the

officials-they're all either helping theirfellow citizens or denouncing them andsending them off to prison. Fortunately,only a small percentage of Dutch peopleare on the wrong side.Yours, AnneFRIDAY, MARCH 31, 1944Dearest Kitty,Just imagine, it's still fairly cold, and yetmost people have been without coal fornearly a month. Sounds awful, doesn't it?There's a general mood of optimismabout the Russian front, because that'sgoing great guns! I don't often writeabout the political situation, but I musttell you where the Russians are at themoment. They've reached the Polishborder and the Prut River in Romania.

They're close to Odessa, and they'vesurrounded Ternopol. Every night we'reexpecting an extra communique fromStalin.They're firing off so many salutes inMoscow, the city must be rumbling andshaking all day long. Whether they liketo pretend the fighting's nearby or theysimply don't have any other way toexpress their joy, I don't know! Hungaryhas been occupied by German troops.There are still a million Jews livingthere; they too are doomed. Nothingspecial is happening here. Today is Mr.van Daan's birthday. He received twopackets of tobacco, one serving ofcoffee, which his wife had managed tosave, lemon punch from Mr. Kugler,

sardines from Miep, eau de colognefrom us, lilacs, tulips and, last but notleast, a cake with raspberry filling,slightly gluey because of the poor qualityof the flour and the lack of butter, butdeli- cious anyway.All that talk about Peter and me has dieddown a bit. He's coming to pick me uptonight. Pretty nice of him, don't youthink, since he hates doing it! We're verygood friends. We spend a lot of timetogether and talk about every imaginablesubject. It's so nice not having to holdback when we come to a delicate topic,the way I would with other boys. Forexample, we were talking about bloodand somehow the conversation turned tomenstruation, etc. He thinks we women

are quite tough to be able to withstandthe loss of blood, and that I am too. Iwonder why?My life here has gotten better, muchbetter. God has not forsaken me, and Henever will.Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, APRIL 1, 1944My dearest Kitty,And yet everything is still so difficult.You do know what I mean, don't you? Ilong so much for him to kiss me, but thatkiss is taking its own sweet time. Doeshe still think of me as a friend? Don't Imean anything more? You and I bothknow that I'm strong, that I can carrymost burdens alone. I've never been usedto sharing my worries with anyone, and

I've never clung to a mother, but I'd loveto lay my head on his shoulder and justsit there quietly. I can't, I simply can'tforget that dream of Peter's cheek, wheneverything was so good! Does he havethe same longing? Is he just too shy tosay he loves me? Why does he want menear him so much? Oh, why doesn't hesay something? I've got to stop, I've gotto be calm. I'll try to be strong again, andif I'm patient, the rest will follow. But-and this is the worst part-I seem to bechasing him. I'm always the one who hasto go upstairs; he never comes to me. Butthat's because of the rooms, and heunderstands why I object. Oh, I'm surehe understands more than I think .Yours, Anne M. Frank

MONDAY, APRIL 3, 1944My dearest Kitty,Contrary to my usual practice, I'm goingto write you a detailed description of thefood situation, since it's become a matterof some difficulty and importance, notonly here in the Annex, but in all ofHolland, all of Europe and even beyond.In the twenty-one months we've livedhere, we've been through a good many"food cycles"-you'll understand whatthat means in a moment. A "food cycle"is a period in which we have only oneparticular dish or type of vegetable toeat. For a long time we ate nothing butendive. Endive with sand, endivewithout sand, endive with mashedpotatoes, endive-and-mashed potato

casserole. Then it was spinach,followed by kohlrabi, salsify,cucumbers, tomatoes, sauerkraut, etc.,etc.It's not much fun when you have to eat,say, sauer- kraut every day for lunch anddinner, but when you're hungry enough,you do a lot of things. Now, however,we're going through the most delightfulperiod so far, because there are novegetables at all.Our weekly lunch menu consists ofbrown beans, split-pea soup, potatoeswith dumplings, potato kugel and, by thegrace of God, turnip greens or rottencarrots, and then it's back to brownbeans. Because of the bread shortage,we eat potatoes at every meal, starting

with breakfast, but then we fry them alittle. To make soup we use brownbeans, navy beans, potatoes, packages ofvege- table soup, packages of chickensoup and packages of bean soup. Thereare brown beans in everything, includingthe bread. For dinner we always havepotatoes with imitation gravy and-thankgoodness we've still got it-beet salad. Imust tell you about the dumplings. Wemake them with government-issue flour,water and yeast. They're so gluey andtough that it feels as if you had rocks inyour stomach, but oh well!The high point is our weekly slice ofliverwurst, and the jam on ourunbuttered bread. But we're still alive,and much of the time it still tastes good

too! Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, APRIL 5, 1944My dearest Kitty,For a long time now I didn't know why Iwas bothering to do any schoolwork.The end of the war still seemed so faraway, so unreal, like a fairy tale. If thewar isn't over by September, I won't goback to school, since I don't want to betwo years behind.Peter filled my days, nothing but Peter,dreams and thoughts until Saturday night,when I felt so utterly miserable; oh, itwas awful. I held back my tears when Iwas with Peter, laughed uproariouslywith the van Daans as we drank lemonpunch and was cheerful and excited, butthe minute I was alone I knew I was

going to cry my eyes out. I slid to thefloor in my nightgown and began bysaying my prayers, very fervently. Then Idrew my knees to my chest, lay my headon my arms and cried, all huddled up onthe bare floor. A loud sob brought meback down to earth, and I choked backmy tears, since I didn't want anyone nextdoor to hear me. Then I tried to pullmyself together, saying over and over, "Imust, I must, I must. . . " Stiff from sittingin such an unusual position, I fell backagainst the side of the bed and kept upmy struggle until just before ten-thirty,when I climbed back into bed. It wasover! And now it's really over. I finallyrealized that I must do my schoolwork tokeep from being ignorant, to get on in

life, to become a journalist, becausethat's what I want! I know I can write. Afew of my stories are good, mydescriptions of the Secret Annex arehumorous, much of my diary is vivid andalive, but. . . it remains to be seenwhether I really have talent. "Eva'sDream" is my best fairy tale, and the oddthing is that I don't have the faintest ideawhere it came from. Parts of "Cady'sLife" are also good, but as a whole it'snothing special. I'm my best and harshestcritic. I know what's good and what isn't.Unless you write yourself, you can'tknow how wonderful it is; I always usedto bemoan the fact that I couldn't draw,but now I'm overjoyed that at least I canwrite. And if I don't have the talent to

write books or newspaper articles, I canalways write for myself. But I want toachieve more than that. I can't imaginehaving to live like Mother, Mrs. vanDaan and all the women who go abouttheir work and are then forgotten. I needto have something besides a husband andchildren to devote myself to! I don't wantto have lived in vain like most people. Iwant to be useful or bring enjoyment toall people, even those I've never met. Iwant to go on living even after my death!And that's why I'm so grateful to God forhaving given me this gift, which I canuse to develop myself and to express allthat's inside me! When I write I canshake off all my cares. My sor- rowdisappears, my spirits are revived! But,

and that's a big question, will I ever beable to write something great, will I everbecome a journalist or a writer?I hope so, oh, I hope so very much,because writing allows me to recordeverything, all my thoughts, ideals andfantasies.I haven't worked on "Cady's Life" forages. In my mind I've worked out exactlywhat happens next, but the story doesn'tseem to be coming along very well. Imight never finish it, and it'll wind up inthe wastepaper basket or the stove.That's a horrible thought, but then I sayto myself, "At the age of fourteen andwith so little experience, you can't writeabout philosophy." So onward andupward, with renewed spirits. It'll all

work out, because I'm determined towrite!Yours, Anne M. FrankTHURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,You asked me what my hobbies andinterests are and I'd like to answer, butI'd better warn you, I have lots of them,so don't be surprised.First of all: writing, but I don't reallythink of that as a hobby. Number two:genealogical charts. I'm looking in everynewspaper, book and document I canfind for the family trees of the French,German, Spanish, English, Austrian,Russian, Norwegian and Dutch royalfamthes. I've made great progress withmany of them, because for ! a long time

I've been taking notes while readingbiogra- I, phies or history books. I evencopy out many of the passages onhistory.So my third hobby is history, andFather's already bought me numerousbooks. I can hardly wait for the daywhen I'll be able to go to the publiclibrary and ferret out Iii the information Ineed.Number four is Greek and Romanmythology. I have various books on thissubject too. I can name the nine Musesand the seven loves of Zeus. I have thewives of Hercules, etc., etc., down pat.My other hobbies are movie stars andfamily photographs. I'm crazy aboutreading and books. I adore the history of

the arts, especially when it concernswriters, poets and painters; musiciansmay come later. I loathe algebra,geometry and arithmetic. I enjoy all myother school subjects, but history's myfavorite!Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1944My dearest Kitty,My head's in a whirl, I really don't knowwhere to begin. Thursday (the last time Iwrote you) everything was as usual.Friday afternoon (Good Friday) weplayed Monopoly; Saturday afternoontoo. The days passed very quickly.Around two o'clock on Saturday, heavyfiring ii began-machine guns, accordingto the men. For the rest, everything was

quiet.Sunday afternoon Peter came to see meat four-thirty, at my invitation. At five-fifteen we went to the Ii front attic,where we stayed until six. There was abeautil ful Mozart concert on the radiofrom six to seven-fifteen; I especiallyenjoyed the Kleine Nachtmusik. I canhardly bear to listen in the kitchen, sincebeautiful music stirs me to the verydepths of my soul. Sunday evening Petercouldn't take his balli, because thewashtub was down in the office kitchen,filled with laundry. The two of us wentto the front attic together, and in order tobe able to sit comfortably, I took alongthe only cushion I could find in my room.We seated ourselves on a packing crate.

Since both the crate and the cushionwere very narrow, we were sitting quiteclose, leaning against two other crates;Mouschi kept us company, so we weren'twithout a chaperon. Suddenly, at aquarter to nine, Mr. van Daan whistledand asked if we had Mr. Dussel'scushion. We jumped up and wentdownstairs willi the cushion, the cat andMr. van Daan. This cushion was thesource of much misery. Dussel wasangry because I'd taken the one he usesas a pillow, and he was afraid it mightbe covered with fleas; he had the entirehouse in an uproar because of this onecushion. In revenge, Peter and I stucktwo hard brushes in his bed, but had totake them out again when Dussel

unexpectedly decided to go sit in hisroom. We had a really good laugh at thislittle intermezzo. But our fun was short-lived. At nine-thirty Peter knockedgently on the door and asked Father tocome upstairs and help him with adifficult English sentence."That sounds fishy," I said to Margot."It's obviously a pretext. You can tell bythe way the men are talking that there'sbeen a break-in!" I was right. Thewarehouse was being broken into at thatvery moment. Father, Mr. van Daan andPeter were downstairs in a flash.Margot, Mother, Mrs. van D. and Iwaited. Four frightened women need totalk, so that's what we did until we hearda bang downstairs. After that all was

quiet. The clock struck quarter to ten.The color had drained from our faces,but we remained calm, even though wewere afraid. Where were the men? Whatwas that bang? Were they fighting withthe burglars? We were too scared tothink; all we could do was wait. Teno'clock, footsteps on the stairs. Father,pale and nervous, came inside, followedby Mr. van Daan. "Lights out, tiptoeupstairs, we're expecting the police!"There wasn't time to be scared. Thelights were switched off, I grabbed ajacket, and we sat down upstairs."What happened? Tell us quickly!"There was no one to tell us; the men hadgone back downstairs. The four of themdidn't come back up until ten past ten.

Two of them kept watch at Peter's openwindow. The door to the landing waslocked, the book- case shut. We drapeda sweater over our night-light, and thenthey told us what had happened: Peterwas on the landing when he heard twoloud bangs. He went downstairs and sawthat a large panel was missing from theleft half of the warehouse door. Hedashed upstairs, alerted the "HomeGuard," and the four of them wentdownstairs. When they entered thewarehouse, the burglars were goingabout their business. Without thinking,Mr. van Daan yelled "Police!" Hur- riedfootsteps outside; the burglars had fled.The board was put back in the door sothe police wouldn't notice the gap, but

then a swift kick from outside sent itflying to the floor. The men were amazedat the burglars' audacity. Both Peter andMr. van Daan felt a murderous ragecome over them. Mr. van Daan slammedan ax against the floor, and all was quietagain. Once more the panel wasreplaced, and once more the attempt wasfoiled. Outside, a man and a womanshone a glaring flashlight through theopening, lighting up the entirewarehouse. "What the . . ." mumbled oneof the men, but now their roles had beenreversed. Instead of policemen, theywere now burglars. All four of themraced upstairs. Dussel and Mr. van Daansnatched up Dussel's books, Peteropened the doors and windows in the

kitchen and private office, hurled thephone to the ground, and the four of themfinally ended up behind the bookcase.END OF PART ONEIn all probability the man and womanwith the flashlight had alerted the police.It was Sunday night, Easter Sunday. Thenext day, Easter Monday, the office wasgoing to be closed, which meant wewouldn't be able to move around untilTuesday morning. Think of it, having tosit in such terror for a day and twonights! We thought of nothing, but simplysat there in pitch darkness-in her fear,Mrs. van D. had switched off the lamp.We whispered, and every time we hearda creak, someone said, "Shh, shh."It was ten-thirty, then eleven. Not a

sound. Father and Mr. van Daan tookturns coming upstairs to us. Then, ateleven-fifteen, a noise below. Up aboveyou could hear the whole familybreathing. For the rest, no one moved amuscle. Footsteps in the house, theprivate office, the kitchen, then. . . on thestaircase. All sounds of breathingstopped, eight hearts pounded. Foot-steps on the stairs, then a rattling at thebookcase. This moment is indescribable."Now we're done for," I said, and I hadvisions of all fifteen of us being draggedaway by the Gestapo that very night.More rattling at the bookcase, twice.Then we heard a can fall, and thefootsteps receded. We were out ofdanger, so far! A shiver went though

everyone's body, I heard several sets ofteeth chattering, no one said a word. Westayed like this until eleven-thirty.There were no more sounds in the house,but a light was shining on our landing,right in front of the bookcase. Was thatbecause the police thought it looked sosuspicious or because they simplyforgot? Was anyone going to come backand turn it off? We found our tonguesagain.There were no longer any people insidethe building, but perhaps someone wasstanding guard outside. We then didthree things: tried to guess what wasgoing on, trembled with fear and went tothe bathroom. Since the buckets were inthe attic, all we had was Peter's metal

wastepaper basket. Mr. van Daan wentfirst, then Father, but Mother was tooembarrassed. Father brought the waste-basket to the next room, where Margot,Mrs. van Daan and I gratefully made useof it. Mother finally gave in. There wasa great demand for paper, and luckily Ihad some in my pocket.The wastebasket stank, everything wenton in a whisper, and we were exhausted.It was midnight."Lie down on the floor and go to sleep!"Margot and I were each given a pillowand a blanket. Margot lay down near thefood cupboard, and I made my bedbetween the table legs. The smell wasn'tquite so bad when you were lying on thefloor, but Mrs. van Daan quietly went

and got some powdered bleach anddraped a dish towel over the potty as afurther precaution.Talk, whispers, fear, stench, farting andpeople continually going to thebathroom; try sleeping through that! Bytwo-thirty, however, I was so tired Idozed off and didn't hear a thing untilthree-thirty. I woke up when Mrs. van D.lay her head on my feet."For heaven's sake, give me somethingto put on!" I said. I was handed someclothes, but don't ask what: a pair ofwool slacks over my pajamas, a redsweater and a black skirt, whiteunderstockings and tattered kneesocks.Mrs. van D. sat back down on the chair,and Mr. van D. lay down with his head

on my feet. From three- thirty onward Iwas engrossed in thought, and stillshiver- ing so much that Mr. van Daancouldn't sleep. I was preparing myselffor the return of the police. We'd tellthem we were in hiding; if they weregood people, we'd be safe, and if theywere Nazi sympathizers, we could try tobribe them!"We should hide the radio!" moanedMrs. van D."Sure, in the stove," answered Mr. vanD. "If they find us, they might as wellfind the radio!""Then they'll also find Anne's diary,"added Father."So burn it," suggested the most terrifiedof the group.

This and the police rattling on thebookcase were the moments when I wasmost afraid. Oh, not my diary; if mydiary goes, I go too! Thank goodnessFather didn't say anything more.There's no point in recounting all theconversations; so much was said. Icomforted Mrs. van Daan, who was veryfrightened. We talked about escaping,being interrogated by the Gestapo,phoning Mr. Kleiman and beingcourageous. "We must behave likesoldiers, Mrs. van Daan. If our time hascome, well then, it'll be for Queen andCountry, for freedom, truth and justice,as they're always telling us on the radio.The only bad thing is that we'll drag theothers down with us!"

After an hour Mr. van Daan switchedplaces with his wife again, and Fathercame and sat beside me. The mensmoked one cigarette after another, anoccasional sigh was heard, somebodymade another trip to the potty, and theneverything began allover again.Four o'clock, five, five-thirty. I went andsat with Peter by his window andlistened, so close we could feel eachother's bodies trembling; we spoke aword or two from time to time andlistened intently. Next door they tookdown the blackout screen. They made alist of everything they were planning totell Mr. Kleiman over the phone,because they intended to call him atseven and ask him to send someone

over. They were taking a big chance,since the police guard at the door or inthe warehouse might hear them calling,but there was an even greater risk thatthe police would return.I'm enclosing their list, but for the sakeof clarity, I'll copy it here. Buralary:Police in building, up to bookcase, butno farther. Burglars apparentlyinterrupted, forced warehouse door, fledthrough garden. Main entrance bolted;Kugler must have left through seconddoor.Typewriter and adding machine safe inblack chest in private office. Miep's orBep's laundry in washtub in kitchen.Only Bep or Kugler have key to seconddoor; lock may be broken.

Try to warn jan and get key, look aroundoffice; also feed cat.For the rest, everything went accordingto plan. Mr. Kleiman was phoned, thepoles were removed from the doors, thetypewriter was put back in the chest.Then we all sat around the table againand waited for either jan or the police.Peter had dropped off to sleep and Mr.van Daan ANNE FRANK and I werelying on the floor when we heard loudfootsteps below. I got up quietly. "It'sJan!" "No, no, it's the police!" they allsaid.There was a knocking at our bookcase.Miep whis- tled. This was too much forMrs. van Daan, who sank limply in herchair, white as a sheet. If the tension had

lasted another minute, she would havefainted.Jan and Miep came in and were met witha delightful scene. The table alonewould have been worth a photograph: acopy of Cinema &.. Theater, opened to apage of dancing girls and smeared withjam and pectin, which we'd been takingto combat the diarrhea, two jam jars,half a bread roll, a quarter of a breadroll, pectin, a mirror, a comb, matches,ashes, cigarettes, tobacco, an ashtray,books, a pair of underpants, a flashlight,Mrs. van Daan's comb, toilet paper, etc.Jan and Miep were of course greetedwith shouts and tears. Jan nailed apinewood board over the gap in the doorand went off again with Miep to inform

the police of the break-in. Miep had alsofound a note under the ware- house doorfrom Sleegers, the night watchman, whohad noticed the hole and alerted thepolice. Jan was also planning to seeSleegers.So we had half an hour in which to putthe house and ourselves to rights. I'venever seen such a transformation as inthose thirty minutes. Margot and I got thebeds ready downstairs, went to thebathroom, brushed our teeth, washed ourhands and combed our hair. Then Istraightened up the room a bit and wentback upstairs. The table had alreadybeen cleared, so we got some water,made coffee and tea, boiled the milk andset the table. Father and Peter emptied

our improvised potties and rinsed themwith warm water and powdered bleach.The largest one was filled to the brimand was so heavy they had a hard timelifting it. To make things worse, it wasleaking, so they had to put it in a bucket.At eleven o'clock Jan was back andjoined us at the table, and graduallyeveryone began to relax. Jan had thefollowing story to tell:Mr. Sleegers was asleep, but his wifetold Jan that her husband had discoveredthe hole in the door while making hisrounds. He called in a policeman, andthe two of them searched the building.Mr. Sleegers, in his capacity as nightwatchman, patrols the area every nighton his bike, accompanied by his two

dogs. His wife said he would come onTuesday and tell Mr. Kugler the rest. Noone at the police station seemed to knowanything about the break-in, but theymade a note to come first thing Tuesdaymorning to have a look.On the way back Jan happened to runinto Mr. van Hoeven, the man whosupplies us with potatoes, and told himof the break-in. "I know," Mr. vanHoeven calmly replied. "Last night whenmy wife and I were walking past yourbuilding, I saw a gap in the door. Mywife wanted to walk on, but I peekedinside with a flashlight, and that's whenthe burglars must have run off. To be onthe safe side, I didn't call the police. Ithought it wouldn't be wise in your case.

I don't know anything, but I have mysuspicions." Jan thanked him and wenton. Mr. van Hoeven obviously suspectswe're here, because he always deliversthe potatoes at lunchtime. A decent man!It was one o'clock by the time Jan leftand we'd done the dishes. All eight of uswent to bed. I woke up at quarter tothree and saw that Mr. Dussel wasalready up. My face rumpled with sleep,I happened to run into Peter in thebathroom, just after he'd comedownstairs. We agreed to meet in theoffice. I freshened up a bit and wentdown."After all this, do you still dare go to thefront attic?" he asked. I nodded, grabbedmy pillow, with a cloth wrapped around

it, and we went up together. The weatherwas gorgeous, and even though the air-raid sirens soon began to wail, westayed where we were. Peter put his armaround my shoulder, I put mine aroundhis, and we sat quietly like this until fouro'clock, when Margot came to get us forcoffee.We ate our bread, drank our lemonadeand joked (we were finally able toagain), and for the rest everything wasback to normal. That evening I thankedPeter because he'd been the bravest of usall.None of us have ever been in suchdanger as we were that night. God wastruly watching over us. Just think-thepolice were right at the bookcase, the

light was on, and still no one haddiscovered our hiding place! "Nowwe're done for!" I'd whispered at thatmoment, but once again we were spared.When the invasion comes and the bombsstart falling, it'll be every man forhimself, but this time we feared for thosegood, innocent Christians who arehelping us. "We've been saved, keep onsaving us!" That's all we can say.This incident has brought about a wholelot of changes. As of now, Dussel willbe doing his work in the bathroom, andPeter will be patrolling the housebetween eight-thirty and nine-thirty.Peter isn't allowed to open his windowanymore, since one of the Keg peoplenoticed it was open. We can no longer

flush the toilet after nine-thirty at night.Mr. Sleegers has been hired as nightwatchman, and tonight a carpenter fromthe underground is coming to make abarricade out of our white Frankfurtbedsteads. Debates are going on left andright in the Annex. Mr. Kugler hasreproached us for our carelessness. Janalso said we should never godownstairs. What we have to do now isfind out whether Sleegers can be trusted,whether the dogs will bark if they hearsomeone behind the door, how to makethe barricade, all sorts of things.We've been strongly reminded of the factthat we're Jews in chains, chained to onespot, without any rights, but with athousand obligations. We must put our

feelings aside; we must be brave andstrong, bear discomfort with- outcomplaint, do whatever is in our powerand trust in God. One day this terriblewar will be over. The time will comewhen we'll be people again and not justJews!Who has inflicted this on us? Who hasset us apart from all the rest? Who hasput us through such suffering? It's Godwho has made us the way we are, but it'salso God who will lift us up again. In theeyes of the world, we're doomed, but if,after all this suffering, there are stillJews left, the Jewish people will beheld up as an example. Who knows,maybe our religion will teach the worldand all the people in it about goodness,

and that's the reason, the only reason, wehave to suffer. We can never be justDutch, or just English, or whatever, wewill always be Jews as well. And we'llhave to keep on being Jews, but then,we'll want to be.Be brave! Let's remember our duty andperform it without complaint. There willbe a way out. God has never desertedour people. Through the ages Jews havehad to suffer, but through the ages they'vegone on living, and the centuries ofsuffering have only made them stronger.The weak shall fall and the strong shallsurvive and not be defeated!That night I really thought I was going todie. I waited for the police and I wasready for death, like a soldier on a

battlefield. I'd gladly have given my lifefor my country. But now, now that I'vebeen spared, my first wish after the waris to become a Dutch citizen. I love theDutch, I love this country, I love thelanguage, and I want to work here. Andeven if I have to write to the Queenherself, I won't give up until I've reachedmy goal!I'm becoming more and moreindependent of my parents. Young as Iam, I face life with more courage andhave a better and truer sense of justicethan Mother. I know what I want, I havea goal, I have opinions, a religion andlove. If only I can be myself, I'll besatisfied. I know that I'm a woman, awoman with inner strength and a great

deal of courage!If God lets me live, I'll achieve morethan Mother ever did, I'll make my voiceheard, I'll go out into the world andwork for mankind!I now know that courage and happinessare needed first!Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1944Dear Kitty,Everyone here is still very tense. Pimhas nearly reached the bothng point;Mrs. van D. is lying in bed with a cold,grumbling; Mr. van D. is growing palewithout his cigarettes; Dussel, who'shaving to give up many of his comforts,is carping at everyone; etc., etc. Weseem to have run out of luck lately. The

toilet's leaking, and the faucet's stuck.Thanks to our many connections, we'llsoon be able to get these repaired.I'm occasionally sentimental, as youknow, but from time to time I havereason to be: when Peter and I are sittingclose together on a hard wooden crateamong the junk and dust, our armsaround each other's shoulders, Petertoying with a lock of my hair; when thebirds outside are trilling their songs,when the trees are in bud, when the sunbeckons and the sky is so blue-oh, that'swhen I wish for so much!All I see around me are dissatisfied andgrumpy faces, all I hear are sighs andstifled complaints. You'd think our liveshad taken a sudden turn for the worse.

Honestly, things are only as bad as youmake them. Here in the Annex no oneeven bothers to set a good example. Weeach have to figure out how to get thebetter of our own moods!Every day you hear, "If only it were allover!"Work, love, courage and hope,Make me good and help me cope!I really believe, Kit, that I'm a little nuttytoday, and I don't know why. Mywriting's all mixed up, I'm jump- ingfrom one thing to another, and sometimesI seriously doubt whether anyone willever be interested in this drivel. They'llprobably call it "The Musings of an UglyDuckling." My diaries certainly won't beof much use to Mr. Bolkestein or Mr.

Gerbrandy.* [* Gerrit Bolkestein wasthe Minister of Education and PieterGerbrandy was the Prime Minister of theDutch government in exile in London.See Anne's letter of March 29, 1944.]Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1944Dearest Kitty,"There's just one bad thing after another.When will it all end?" You can sure saythat again. Guess what's happened now?Peter forgot to unbolt the front door. Asa result, Mr. Kugler and the warehouseemployees couldn't get in. He went toKeg's, smashed in our office kitchenwindow and got in that way. Thewindows in the Annex were open, andthe Keg people saw that too. What must

they be thinking? And van Maaren? Mr.Kugler's furious. We accuse him of notdoing anything to reinforce the doors,and then we do a stupid thing like this!Peter's extremely upset. At the table,Mother said she felt more sorry for Peterthan for anyone else, and he nearly beganto cry. We're equally to blame, since weusually ask him every day if he'sunbolted the door, and so does Mr. vanDaan. Maybe I can go comfort him lateron. I want to help him so much! Here arethe latest news bulletins about life in theSecret Annex over the last few weeks:A week ago Saturday, Boche suddenlygot sick. He sat quite still and starteddrooling. Miep immediately picked himup, rolled him in a towel, tucked him in

her shopping bag and brought him to thedog-and-cat clinic. Boche had some kindof intestinal problem, so the vet gavehim medicine. Peter gave it to him a fewtimes, but Boche soon made himselfscarce. I'll bet he was out courting hissweetheart. But now his nose is swollenand he meows whenever you pick himup-he was probably trying to steal foodand somebody smacked him. Mouschilost her voice for a few days. Just whenwe decided she had to be taken to the vettoo, she started getting better.We now leave the attic window open acrack every night. Peter and I often sit upthere in the evening.Thanks to rubber cement and oil paint,our toilet ; could quickly be repaired.

The broken faucet has been replaced.Luckily, Mr. Kleiman is feeling better.He's going to see a specialist soon. Wecan only hope he won't need anoperation.This month we received eight Tationbooks. Unfortunately, for the next twoweeks beans have been substituted foroatmeal or groats. Our latest delicacy ispiccalilli. If you're out of luck, all youget is a jar full of cucumber and mustardsauce.Vegetables are hard to come by. There'sonly lettuce, lettuce and more lettuce.Our meals consist entirely of potatoesand imitation gravy.The Russians are in possession of morethan half the Crimea. The British aren't

advancing beyond Cassino. We'll haveto count on the Western Wall. Therehave been a lot of unbelievably heavyair raids. The Registry of Births, Deathsand Marriages in The Hague wasbombed. All Dutch people will beissued new ration registration cards.Enough for today.Yours, Anne M. FrankSUNDAY, APRIL 16, 1944My dearest Kitty,Remember yesterday's date, since it wasa red-letter day for me. Isn't it animportant day for every girl when shegets her first kiss? Well then, it's no lessimportant to me. The time Bram kissedme on my right cheek or Mr. Woudstraon my right hand doesn't count. How did

I suddenly come by this kiss? I'll tellyou.Last night at eight I was sitting withPeter on his divan and it wasn't longbefore he put an arm around me. (Sinceit was Saturday, he wasn't wearing hisoveralls.)"Why don t we move over alittle," I said, "so won t keep bumpingmy head against the cupboard."He moved so far over he was practicallyin the corner. I slipped my arm under hisand across his back, and he put his armaround my shoulder, so that I was nearlyengulfed by him. We've sat like this onother occasions, but never so close aswe were last night. He held me firmlyagainst him, my left side against hischest; my heart had already begun to beat

faster, but there was more to come. Hewasn't satisfied until my head lay on hisshoulder, with his on top of mine. I satup again after about five minutes, butbefore long he took my head in his handsand put it back next to his. Oh, it was sowonderful. I could hardly talk, mypleasure was too intense; he caressedmy cheek and arm, a bit clumsily, andplayed with my hair. Most of the timeour heads were touching.I can't tell you, Kitty, the feeling that ranthrough me. I was too happy for words,and I think he was too.At nine-thirty we stood up. Peter put onhis tennis shoes so he wouldn't makemuch noise on his nightly round of thebuilding, and I was standing next to him.

How I suddenly made the rightmovement, I don't know, but before wewent downstairs, he gave me a. kiss,through my hair, half on my left cheekand half on my ear. I tore downstairswithout looking back, and I long so muchfor today.Sunday morning, just before eleven.Yours, Anne M. Frank MONDAY,APRIL 17, 1944Dearest Kitty,Do you think Father and Mother wouldapprove of a girl my age sitting on adivan and kissing a seventeen-and- a-half-year-old boy? I doubt they would,but I have to trust my own judgment inthis matter. It's so peaceful and safe,lying in his arms and dreaming, it's so

thrilling to feel his cheek against mine,it's so wonderful to know there'ssomeone waiting for me. But, and thereis a but, will Peter want to leave it atthat? I haven't forgotten his promise, but.. . he is a boy!I know I'm starting at a very young age.Not even fifteen and already soindependent-that's a little hard for otherpeople to understand. I'm pretty sureMargot would never kiss a boy unlessthere was some talk of an engagement ormarriage. Neither Peter nor I has anysuch plans. I'm also sure that Mothernever touched a man before she metFather. What would my girlfriends orJacque say if they knew I'd lain inPeter's arms with my heart against his

chest, my head on his shoulder and hishead and face against mine!Oh, Anne, how terribly shocking! Butseriously, I don't think it's at allshocking; we're cooped up here, cut offfrom the world, anxious and fearful,especially lately. Why should we stayapart when we love each other? Whyshouldn't we kiss each other in times likethese? Why should we wait until we'vereached a suitable age? Why should weask anybody's permission? I've decidedto look out for my own interests. He'dnever want to hurt me or make meunhappy. Why shouldn't I do what myheart tells me and makes both of ushappy?Yet I have a feeling, Kitty, that you can

sense my doubt. It must be my honestyrising in revolt against all this sneakingaround. Do you think it's my duty to tellFather what I'm up to? Do you think oursecret should be shared with a thirdperson? Much of the beauty would belost, but would it make me feel betterinside? I'll bring it up with him.Oh, yes, I still have so much I want todiscuss with him, since I don't see thepoint of just cuddling. Sharing ourthoughts with each other requires a greatdeal of trust, but we'll both be strongerbecause of it!Yours, Anne M. FrankP.S. We were up at six yesterdaymorning, because the whole family heardthe sounds of a break-in again. It must

have been one of our neighbors who wasthe victim this time. When we checked atseven o'clock, our doors were still shuttight, thank goodness!TUESDAY, APRIL 18,1944Dearest Kitty,Everything's fine here. Last night thecarpenter came again to put some sheetsof iron over the door panels. Father justgot through saying he definitely expectslarge-scale operations in Russia andItaly, as well as in the West, before May20; the longer the war lasts, the harder itis to imagine being liberated from thisplace.Yesterday Peter and I finally got aroundto having the talk we've been postponingfor the last ten days. I told him all about

girls, without hesitating to discuss themost intimate matters. I found it ratheramusing that he thought the opening in awoman's body was simply left out ofillustrations. He couldn't imagine that itwas actually located between a woman'slegs. The evening ended with a mutualkiss, near the mouth. It's really a lovelyfeeling! I might take my "favorite quotesnotebook" up with me sometime so Peterand I can go more deeply into matters. Idon't think lying in each other's arms dayin and day out is very satisfying, and Ihope he feels the same. After our mildwinter we've been having a beautifulspring. April is glorious, not too hot andnot too cold, with occasional lightshowers. Our chestnut tree is in leaf, and

here and there you can already see a fewsmall blossoms. Bep presented usSaturday with four bouquets of flowers:three bouquets of daffodils, and onebouquet of grape hyacinths for me. Mr.Kugler is supplying us with more andmore newspapers.It's time to do my algebra, Kitty. Bye.Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, APRIL 19, 1944Dearest Darling,(That's the title of a movie with DoritKreysler, Ida Wust and Harald Paulsen!)What could be nicer than sitting beforean open window, enjoying nature,listening to the birds sing, feeling the sunon your cheeks and holding a darling boyin your arms? I feel so peaceful and safe

with his arm around me, knowing he'snear and yet not having to speak; howcan this be bad when it does me so muchgood? Oh, if only we were neverdisturbed again, not even by Mouschi.Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, APRIL 21,1944My dearest Kitty,I stayed in bed yesterday with a sorethroat, but since I was already bored thevery first afternoon and didn't have afever, I got up today. My sore throat hasnearly "verschwunden"* [*disappeared].Yesterday, as you've probably alreadydiscovered, was our Fiihrer's fifty-fifthbirthday. Today is the eighteenthbirthday of Her Royal Highness Princess

Elizabeth of York. The BBC reportedthat she hasn't yet been declared of age,though royal children usually are. We'vebeen wondering which prince they'llmarry this beauty off to, but can't think ofa suitable candidate; perhaps her sister,Princess Margaret Rose, can haveCrown Prince Baudouin of Belgium!Here we've been going from one disasterto the next. No sooner have the outsidedoors been reinforced than van Maarenrears his head again. In all likelihoodhe's the one who stole the potato flour,and now he's trying to pin the blame onBep. Not surprisingly, the Annex is onceagain in an uproar. Bep is beside herselfwith rage. Perhaps Mr. Kugler willfinally have this shady character tailed.

The appraiser from Beethovenstraat washere this morning. He offered us 400guilders for our chest; in our opinion, theother estimates are also too low. I wantto ask the magazine The Prince if they'lltake one of my fairy tales, under apseudonym, of course. But up to now allmy fairy tales have been too long, so Idon't think I have much of a chance.Until the next time, darling.Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, APRIL 25, 1944Dearest Kitty,For the last ten days Dussel hasn't beenon speaking terms with Mr. van Daan,and all because of the new securitymeasures since the break-in. One ofthese was that he's no longer allowed to

go downstairs in the evenings. Peter andMr. van Daan make the last round everynight at nine-thirty, and after that no onemay go downstairs. We can't flush thetoilet anymore after eight at night or aftereight in the morning. The windows maybe opened only in the morning when thelights go on in Mr. Kugler's office, andthey can no longer be propped open witha stick at night. This last measure is thereason for Dussel's sulking. He claimsthat Mr. van Daan bawled him out, buthe has only himself to blame. He sayshe'd rather live without food thanwithout air, and that they simply mustfigure out a way to keep the windowsopen."I'll have to speak to Mr. Kugler about

this," he said to me.I replied that we never discussed mattersof this sort with Mr. Kugler, only withinthe group."Everything's always happening behindmy back. I'll have to talk to your fatherabout that."He's also not allowed to sit in Mr.Kugler's office anymore on Saturdayafternoons or Sundays, because themanager of Keg's might hear him if hehappens to be next door. Dusselpromptly went and sat there anyway. Mr.van Daan was furious, and Father wentdownstairs to talk to Dussel, who cameup with some flimsy excuse, but evenFather didn't fall for it this time. NowFather's keep- ing his dealings with

Dussel to a minimum because Dusselinsulted him. Not one of us knows whathe said, but it must have been prettyawful.And to think that that miserable man hashis birthday next week. How can youcelebrate your birthday when you've gotthe sulks, how can you accept gifts frompeople you won't even talk to?Mr. Voskuijl is going downhill rapidly.For more than ten days he's had atemperature of almost a hundred andfour. The doctor said his condition ishopeless; they think the cancer hasspread to his lungs. The poor man, we'dso like to help him, but only God canhelp him now!I've written an amusing story called

"Blurry the Explorer," which was a bighit with my three listeners.I still have a bad cold and have passed iton to Margot, as well as Mother andFather. If only Peter doesn't get it. Heinsisted on a kiss, and called me his ElDorado. You can't call a person that,silly boy! But he's sweet anyway! Yours,Anne M. FrankTHURSDAY, APRIL 27, 1944Dearest Kitty,Mrs. van D. was in a bad mood thismorning. All she did was complain, firstabout her cold, not being able to getcough drops and the agony of having toblow her nose all the time. Next shegrumbled that the sun wasn't shining, theinvasion hadn't started, we weren't

allowed to look out the windows, etc.,etc. We couldn't help but laugh at her,and it couldn't have been that bad, sinceshe soon joined in.Our recipe for potato kugel, modifieddue to lack of onions:Put peeled potatoes through a food milland add a little dry government-issueflour and salt. Grease a mold orovenproof dish with paraffin or stearinand bake for 21/2 hours. Serve withrotten strawberry compote. (Onions notavailable. Nor oil for mold or dough!)At the moment I'm reading EmperorCharles V, written by a professor at theUniversity of Gottingen; he's spent fortyyears working on this book. It took mefive days to read fifty pages. I can't do

any more than that. Since the book has598 pages, you can figure out just howlong it's going to take me. And that's noteven counting the second volume. But. . .very interesting! The things a schoolgirlhas to do in the course of a single day!Take me, for example. First, I translateda passage on Nelson's last battle fromDutch into English. Then, I read moreabout the Northern War (1700-21)involving Peter the Great, Charles XII,Augustus the Strong, StanislausLeczinsky, Mazeppa, von Gorz, Bran-denburg, Western Pomerania, EasternPomerania and Denmark, plus the usualdates. Next, I wound up in Brazil, whereI read about Bahia tobacco, theabundance of coffee, the one and a half

million inhabitants of Rio de Janeiro,Pernambuco and Sao Paulo and, last butnot least, the Amazon River. Then aboutNegroes, mulattoes, mestizos, whites,the illiteracy rate-over 50 percent-andmalaria. Since I had some time left, Iglanced through a genealogical chart:John the Old, William Louis, ErnestCasimir I, Henry Casimir I, right up tolittle Margriet Franciska (born in 1943in Ottawa).Twelve o'clock: I resumed my studies inthe attic, reading about deans, priests,ministers, popes and . . . whew, it wasone o'clock!At two the poor child (ho hum) was backat work. Old World and New Worldmonkeys were next. Kitty, tell me

quickly, how many toes does ahippopotamus have?Then came the Bible, Noah's Ark, Shem,Ham and Japheth. After that, Charles V.Then, with Peter, Thack- eray's bookabout the colonel, in English. A Frenchtest, and then a comparison between theMississippi and the Missouri! Enoughfor today. Adieu!Yours, Anne M. Frank FRIDAY, APRIL28, 1944Dearest Kitty,I've never forgotten my dream of PeterSchiff (see the beginning of January).Even now I can still feel his cheekagainst mine, and that wonderful glowthat made up for all the rest. Once in awhile I'd had the same feeling with this

Peter, but never so intensely. . . until lastnight. We were sitting on the divan, asusual, in each other's arms. Suddenly theeveryday Anne slipped away and thesecond Anne took her place. The secondAnne, who's never overconfident oramusing, but wants only to love and begentle.I sat pressed against him and felt a waveof emotion come over me. Tears rushedto my eyes; those from the left fell on hisoveralls, while those from the righttrickled down my nose and into the airand landed beside the first. Did henotice? He made no movement to showthat he had. Did he feel the same way Idid? He hardly said a word. Did herealize he had two Annes at his side?

My questions went unanswered.At eight-thirty I stood up and went to thewindow, where we always say good-bye. I was still trembling, I was stillAnne number two. He came over to me,and I threw my arms around his neck andkissed him on his left cheek. I was aboutto kiss the other cheek when my mouthmet his, and we pressed our lipstogether. In a daze, we embraced, overand over again, never to stop, oh! Peterneeds tenderness. For the first time in hislife he's discovered a girl; for the firsttime he's seen that even the biggest pestsalso have an inner self and a heart, andare transformed as soon as they're alonewith you. For the first time in his lifehe's given himself and his friendship to

another person. He's never had a friendbefore, boy or girl. Now we've foundeach other. I, for that matter, didn't knowhim either, had never had someone Icould confide in, and it's led to this . . .The same question keeps nagging me: "Isit right?" Is it right for me to yield sosoon, for me to be so passionate, to befilled with as much passion and desireas Peter? Can I, a girl, allow myself togo that far?There's only one possible answer: "I'mlonging so much. . . and have for such along time. I'm so lonely and now I'vefound comfort!"In the mornings we act normally, in theafternoons too, except now and then. Butin the evenings the suppressed longing of

the entire day, the happiness and thebliss of all the times before comerushing to the surface, and all we canthink about is each other. Every night,after our last kiss, I feel like runningaway and never looking him in the eyesagain. Away, far away into the darknessand alone!And what awaits me at the bottom ofthose fourteen stairs? Bright lights,questions and laughter. I have to actnormally and hope they don't noticeanything.My heart is still too tender to be able torecover so quickly from a shock like theone I had last night. The gentle Annemakes infrequent appearances, and she'snot about to let herself be shoved out the

door so soon after she's arrived. Peter'sreached a part of me that no one has everreached before, except in my dream!He's taken hold of me and turned meinside out. Doesn't everyone need a littlequiet time to put themselves to rightsagain? Oh, Peter, what have you done tome? What do you want from me?Where will this lead? Oh, now Iunderstand Bep. Now, now that I'mgoing through it myself, I understand herdoubts; if I were older and he wanted tomarry me, what would my answer be?Anne, be honest! You wouldn't be ableto marry him. But it's so hard to let go.Peter still has too little character, toolittle willpower, too little courage andstrength. He's still a child, emotionally

no older than I am; all he wants ishappiness and peace of mind. Am Ireally only fourteen? Am I really just asilly schoolgirl? Am I really soinexperienced in everything? I havemore experience than most; I'veexperienced something almost no one myage ever has.I'm afraid of myself, afraid my longing ismaking me yield too soon. How can itever go right with other boys later on?Oh, it's so hard, the eternal strugglebetween heart and mind. There's a timeand a place for both, but how can I besure that I've chosen the right time?Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, MAY 2, 1944Dearest Kitty,

Saturday night I asked Peter whether hethinks I should tell Father about us. Afterwe'd discussed it, he said he thought Ishould. I was glad; it shows he'ssensible, and sensitive. As soon as Icame downstairs, I went with Father toget some water. While we were on thestairs, I said, "Father, I'm sure you'vegathered that when Peter and I aretogether, we don't exactly sit at oppositeends of the room. Do you think that'swrong?"Father paused before answering: "No, Idon't think it's wrong. But Anne, whenyou're living so close together, as we do,you have to be careful." He said someother words to that effect, and then wewent upstairs.

Sunday morning he called me to him andsaid, "Anne, I've been thinking aboutwhat you said." (Oh, oh, I knew whatwas coming!) "Here in the Annex it's notsuch a good idea. I thought you were justfriends. Is Peter in love with you?" "Ofcourse not," I answered."Well, you know I understand both ofyou. But you must be the one to showrestraint; don't go upstairs so often, don'tencourage him more than you can help.In matters like these, it's always the manwho takes the active role, and it's up tothe woman to set the limits. Outside,where you're free, things are quitedifferent. You see other boys and girls,you can go outdoors, take part in sportsand all kinds of activities. But here, if

you're together too much and want to getaway, you can't. You see each otherevery hour of the day-all the time, infact. Be careful, Anne, and don't take ittoo seriously! "I don't, Father, but Peter'sa decent boy, a nice boy.""Yes, but he doesn't have much strengthof character. He can easily be influencedto do good, but also to do bad. I hope forhis sake that he stays good, because he'sbasically a good person."We talked some more and agreed thatFather would speak to him too. Sundayafternoon when we were in the frontattic, Peter asked, "Have you talked toyour Father yet, Anne?""Yes," I replied, "I'll tell you all aboutit. He doesn't think it's wrong, but he

says that here, where we're in such closequarters, it could lead to conflicts.""We've already agreed not to quarrel,and I plan to keep my promise." "Metoo, Peter. But Father didn't think wewere serious, he thought we were justfriends. Do you think we still can be?""Yes, I do. How about you?""Me too. I also told Father that I trustyou. I do trust you, Peter, just as much asI do Father. And I think you're worthy ofmy trust. You are, aren't you?""I hope so." (He was very shy, andblushing.)"I believe in you, Peter," I continued. "Ibelieve you have a good character andthat you'll get ahead in this world."After that we talked about other things.

Later I said, "If we ever get out of here, Iknow you won't give me anotherthought."He got all fired up. "That's not true,Anne. Oh no, I won't let you even thinkthat about me!"Just then somebody called us.Father did talk to him, he told meMonday. "Your Father thought ourfriendship might turn into love," he said."But I told him we'd keep ourselvesunder control."Father wants me to stop going upstairsso often, but I don't want to. Not justbecause I like being with Peter, butbecause I've said I trust him. I do trusthim, and I want to prove it to him, but I'llnever be able to if I stay downstairs out

of distrust.No, I'm going!In the meantime, the Dussel drama hasbeen resolved. Saturday evening atdinner he apologized in beautiful Dutch.Mr. van Daan was immediatelyreconciled. Dussel must have spent allday practicing his speech.Sunday, his birthday, passed withoutincident. We gave him a bottle of goodwine from 1919, the van Daans (whocan now give their gift after all)presented him with a jar of piccalilli anda package of razor blades, and Mr.Kugler gave him a jar of lemon syrup (tomake lemonade), Miep a book, LittleMartin, and Bep a plant. He treatedeveryone to an egg.

Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 1944Dearest Kitty,First the weekly news! We're having avacation from politics. There's nothing,and I mean absolutely nothing, to report.I'm also gradually starting to believe thatthe invasion will come. After all, theycan't let the Russians do all the dirtywork; actually, the Russians aren't doinganything at the moment either.Mr. Kleiman comes to the office everymorning now. He got a new set ofsprings for Peter's divan, so Peter willhave to get to work reupholstering it;Not surprisingly, he isn't at all in themood. Mr. Kleiman also brought someflea powder for the cats.

Have I told you that our Boche hasdisappeared? We haven't seen hide norhair of her since last Thursday. She'sprobably already in cat heaven, whilesome animal lover has turned her into atasty dish. Perhaps some girl who canafford it will be wearing a cap made ofBoche's fur. Peter is heartbroken. For thelast two weeks we've been eating lunchat eleven-thirty on Saturdays; in themornings we have to make do with a cupof hot cereal. Starting tomorrow it'll belike this every day; that saves us a meal.Vegetables are still very hard to comeby. This afternoon we had rotten boiledlettuce. Ordinary lettuce, spinach andboiled let- tuce, that's all there is. Add tothat rotten potatoes, and you have a meal

fit for a king!I hadn't had my period for more than twomonths, but it finally started last Sunday.Despite the mess and bother, I'm glad ithasn't deserted me. As you can no doubtimagine, we often say in despair,"What's the point of the war? Why, oh,why can't people live togetherpeacefully? Why all this destruction?"The question is understandable, but up tonow no one has come up with asatisfactory answer. Why is Englandmanufacturing bigger and betterairplanes and bombs and at the sametime churning out new houses forreconstruction? Why are millions spenton the war each day, while not a pennyis available for medical science, artists

or the poor? Why do people have tostarve when mountains of food arerotting away in other parts of the world?Oh, why are people so crazy?I don't believe the war is simply thework of politicians and capitalists. Ohno, the common man is every bit asguilty; otherwise, people and nationswould have re- belled long ago! There'sa destructive urge in people, the urge torage, murder and kill. And until all ofhumanity, without exception, undergoesa metamorphosis, wars will continue tobe waged, and everything that has beencarefully built up, cultivated and grownwill be cut down and destroyed, only tostart allover again!I've often been down in the dumps, but

never desperate. I look upon our life inhiding as an interesting adventure, full ofdanger and romance, and every privationas an amusing addition to my diary. I'vemade up my mind to lead a different lifefrom other girls, and not to become anordinary housewife later on. What I'mexperiencing here is a good beginning toan interesting life, and that's the reason-the only reason-why I have to laugh atthe humorous side of the most dangerousmoments.I'm young and have many hiddenqualities; I'm young and strong and livingthrough a big adventure; I'm right in themiddle of it and can't spend all daycomplaining because it's impossible tohave any fun! I'm blessed with many

things: happiness, a cheerful dispositionand strength. Every day I feel myselfmaturing, I feel liberation drawing near,I feel the beauty of nature and thegoodness of the people around me.Every day I think what a fascinating andamusing adventure this is! With all that,why should I despair?Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, MAY 5, 1944Dear Kitty,Father's unhappy with me. After our talkon Sunday he thought I'd stop goingupstairs every evening. He won't haveany of that "Knutscherej"* [* Necking]going on. I can't stand that word. Talkingabout it was bad enough-why does hehave to make me feel bad too! I'll have a

word with him today. Margot gave mesome good advice.Here's more or less what I'd like to say:I think you expect an explanation fromme, Father, so I'll give you one. You'redisap- pointed in me, you expected morerestraint from me, you no doubt want meto act the way a fourteen-year-old issupposed to. But that's where you'rewrong!Since we've been here, from July 1942until a few weeks ago, I haven't had aneasy time. If only you knew how much Iused to cry at night, how unhappy anddespondent I was, how lonely I felt,you'd understand my wanting to goupstairs! I've now reached the pointwhere I don't need the support of Mother

or anyone else. It didn't happenovernight. I've struggled long and hardand shed many tears to become asindependent as I am now. You can laughand refuse to believe me, but I don'tcare. I know I'm an independent person,and I don't feel I need to account to youfor my actions. I'm only telling you thisbecause I don't want you to think I'mdoing things behind your back. Butthere's only one person I'm accountableto, and that's me.When I was having problems, everyone-and that includes you-closed their eyesand ears and didn't help me. On thecontrary, all I ever got were admonitionsnot to be so noisy. I was noisy only tokeep myself from being miserable all the

time. I was overconfident to keep fromhaving to listen to the voice inside me.I've been putting on an act for the lastyear and a half, day in, day out. I'venever complained or dropped my mask,nothing of the kind, and now. . . now thebattle is over. I've won! I'm independent,in both body and mind. I don't need amother anymore, and I've emerged fromthe struggle a stronger person. Now thatit's over, now that I know the battle hasbeen won, I want to go my own way, tofollow the path that seems right to me.Don't think of me as a fourteen-year-old,since all these troubles have made meolder; I won't regret my actions, I'llbehave the way I think I should!Gentle persuasion won't keep me from

going upstairs. You'll either have toforbid it, or trust me through thick andthin. Whatever you do, just leave mealone!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MAY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,Last night before dinner I tucked theletter I'd written into Father's pocket.According to Margot, he read it and wasupset for the rest of the evening. (I wasupstairs doing the dishes!) Poor Pim, Imight have known what the effect of suchan epistle would be. He's so sensitive! Iimmediately told Peter not to ask anyquestions or say anything more. Pim'ssaid nothing else to me about the matter.Is he going to?

Everything here is more or less back tonormal. We can hardly believe what Jan,Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman tell usabout the prices and the people on theoutside; half a pound of tea costs 350.00guilders, half a pound of coffee 80.00guilders, a pound of butter 35.00guilders, one egg 1.45 guilders. Peopleare paying 14.00 guilders an ounce forBulgarian tobacco! Everyone's tradingon the black market; every errand boyhas something to offer. The delivery boyfrom the bakery has supplied us withdarning thread-90 cents for one measlyskein-the milkman can get hold of rationbooks, an undertaker delivers cheese.Break-ins, murders and thefts are dailyoccurrences. Even the police and night

watchmen are getting in on the act.Everyone wants to put food in theirstomachs, and since salaries have beenfrozen, people have had to resort toswindling. The police have their handsfull trying to track down the many girlsof fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and olderwho are reported missing every day. Iwant to try to finish my story aboutEllen, the fairy. Just for fun, I can give itto Father on his birthday, together withall the copyrights. See you later!(Actually, that's not the right phrase. Inthe German program broadcast fromEngland they always close with"Aufwiederhoren." So I guess I shouldsay, "Until we write again.")Yours, Anne M. Frank

SUNDAY MORNING, MAY 7,1944Dearest Kitty,Father and I had a long talk yesterdayafternoon. I cried my eyes out, and hecried too. Do you know what he said tome, Kitty?"I've received many letters in mylifetime, but none as hurtful as this. You,who have had so much love from yourparents. You, whose parents havealways been ready to help you, whohave always defended you, no matterwhat. You talk of not having to accountto us for your actions! You feel you'vebeen wronged and left to your owndevices. No, Anne, you've done us agreat injustice! "Perhaps you didn't meanit that way, but that's what you wrote.

No, Anne, we have done nothing todeserve such a reproach!"Oh, I've failed miserably. This is theworst thing I've ever done in my entirelife. I used my tears to show off, to makemyself seem important so he'd respectme. I've certainly had my share ofunhappiness, and everything I said aboutMother is true. But to accuse Pim, who'sso good and who's done everything forme-no, that was too cruel for words.It's good that somebody has finally cutme down to size, has broken my pride,because I've been far too smug. Noteverything Mistress Anne does is good!Anyone who deliberately causes suchpain to someone they say they love isdespicable, the lowest of the low!

What I'm most ashamed of is the wayFather has forgiven me; he said he'sgoing to throw the letter in the stove, andhe's being so nice to me now, as if hewere the one who'd done somethingwrong. Well, Anne, you still have a lotto learn. It's time you made a beginning,in- stead of looking down at others andalways giving them the blame!I've known a lot of sorrow, but whohasn't at my age? I've been putting on anact, but was hardly even aware of it. I'vefelt lonely, but never desperate! Not likeFather, who once ran out into the streetwith a knife so he could put an end to itall. I've never gone that far.I should be deeply ashamed of myself,and I am. What's done can't be undone,

but at least you can keep it fromhappening again. I'd like to start all over,and that shouldn't be difficult, now that Ihave Peter. With him supporting me, Iknow I can do it! I'm not alone anymore.He loves me, I love him, I have mybooks, my writing and my diary. I'm notall that ugly, or that stupid, I have asunny disposition, and I want to developa good character!Yes, Anne, you knew full well that yourletter was unkind and untrue, but youwere actually proud of it! I'll take Fatheras my example once again, and I willimprove myself.Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, MAY 8, 1944Dearest Kitty,

Have I ever told you anything about ourfamily? I don't think I have, so let mebegin. Father was born in Frankfurt amMain to very wealthy parents: MichaelFrank owned a bank and became amillionaire, and Alice Stern's parentswere prominent and well-to-do. MichaelFrank didn't start out rich; he was a self-made man. In his youth Father led thelife of a rich man's son. Parties everyweek, balls, banquets, beautiful girls,waltzing, dinners, a huge house, etc.After Grandpa died, most of the moneywas lost, and after the Great War andinflation there was nothing left at all. Upuntil the war there were still quite a fewrich relatives. So Father was extremelywell-bred, and he had to laugh yesterday

because for the first time in his fifty-fiveyears, he scraped out the frying pan atthe table.Mother's family wasn't as wealthy, butstill fairly well-off, and we've listenedopenmouthed to stories of private balls,dinners and engagement parties with 250guests.We're far from rich now, but I've pinnedall my hopes on after the war. I canassure you, I'm not so set on a bourgeoislife as Mother and Margot. I'd like tospend a year in Paris and Londonlearning the languages and studying arthistory. Compare that with Margot, whowants to nurse newborns in Palestine. Istill have visions of gorgeous dressesand fascinating people. As I've told you

many times before, I want to see theworld and do all kinds of exciting things,and a little money won't hurt!This morning Miep told us about hercousin's engagement party, which shewent to on Saturday. The cousin'sparents are rich, and the groom's areeven richer. Miep made our mouthswater telling us about the food that wasserved: vegetable soup with meatballs,cheese, rolls with sliced meat, horsd'oeuvres made with eggs and roastbeef, rolls with cheese, genoise, wineand cigarettes, and you could eat asmuch as you wanted.Miep drank ten schnapps and smokedthree cigarettes-could this be ourtemperance advocate? If Miep drank all

those, I wonder how many her spousemanaged to toss down? Everyone at theparty was a little tipsy, of course. Therewere also two officers from theHomicide Squad, who took photographsof the wedding couple. You can seewe're never far from Miep's thoughts,since she promptly noted their namesand addresses in case anything shouldhappen and we needed contacts withgood Dutch people.Our mouths were watering so much. We,who'd had nothing but two spoonfuls ofhot cereal for breakfast and wereabsolutely famished; we, who getnothing but half-cooked spinach (for thevitamins!) and rotten pota- toes day afterday; we, who fill our empty stomachs

with nothing but boiled lettuce, rawlettuce, spinach, spinach and morespinach. Maybe we'll end up being asstrong as Popeye, though up to now I'veseen no sign of it!If Miep had taken us along to the party,there wouldn't have been any rolls leftover for the other guests. If we'd beenthere, we'd have snatched up everythingin sight, including the furniture. I tellyou, we were practically pulling thewords right out of her mouth. We weregathered around her as if we'd never inall our lives heard of" delicious food orelegant people! And these are thegranddaughters of the distinguishedmillionaire. The world is a crazy place!Yours, Anne M. Frank

TUESDAY, MAY 9, 1944Dearest Kitty,I've finished my story about Ellen, thefairy. I've copied it out on nicenotepaper, decorated it with red ink andsewn the pages together. The wholething looks quite pretty, but I don't knowif it's enough of a birthday present.Margot and Mother have both writtenpoems.Mr. Kugler came upstairs this afternoonwith the news that starting Monday, Mrs.Broks would like to spend two hours inthe office every afternoon. Just imagine!The office staff won't be able to comeupstairs, the potatoes can't be delivered,Bep won't get her dinner, we can't go tothe bathroom, we won't be able to move

and all sorts of other inconveniences!We proposed a variety of ways to get ridof her. Mr. van Daan thought a goodlaxative in her coffee might do the trick."No," Mr. Kleiman answered, "pleasedon't, or we'll never get her off the can.A roar of laughter. "The can?" Mrs. vanD. asked. "What does that mean?" Anexplanation was given. "Is it all right touse that word?" she asked in perfectinnocence. "Just imagine," Bep giggled,"there you are shopping at The Bijenkorfand you ask the way to the can. Theywouldn't even know what you weretalking about!"Dussel now sits on the "can," to borrowthe expression, every day at twelve-thirty on the dot. This afternoon I boldly

took a piece of pink paper and wrote:Mr. Dussel's Toilet TimetableMornings from 7: 15 to 7:30 A.M.Afternoons after 1 P.M.Otherwise, only as needed!I tacked this to the green bathroom doorwhile he was still inside. I might wellhave added' 'Transgressors will besubject to confinement!" Because ourbathroom can be locked from both theinside and the outside.Mr. van Daan's latest joke:After a Bible lesson about Adam andEve, a thirteen-year-old boy asked hisfather, "Tell me, Father, how did I getborn?""Well," the father replied, "the storkplucked you out of the ocean, set you

down in Mother's bed and bit her in theleg, hard. It bled so much she had to stayin bed for a week."Not fully satisfied, the boy went to hismother. "Tell me, Mother," he asked,"how did you get born and how did I getborn?"His mother told him the very same story.Finally, hoping to hear the fine points, hewent to his grandfather. "Tell me,Grandfather," he said, "how did you getborn and how did your daughter getborn?" And for the third time he wastold exactly the same story.That night he wrote in his diary: "Aftercareful inquiry, I must conclude thatthere has been no sexual intercourse inour family for the last three generations!"

I still have work to do; it's already threeo'clock.Yours, Anne M. FrankPS. Since I think I've mentioned the newcleaning lady, I just want to note thatshe's married, sixty years old and hardof hearing! Very convenient, in view ofall the noise that eight people in hidingare capable of mak- ing. Oh, Kit, it'ssuch lovely weather. If only I could gooutside!WEDNESDAY, MAY 10, 1944Dearest Kitty,We were sitting in the attic yesterdayafternoon working on our French whensuddenly I heard the splatter of waterbehind me. I asked Peter what it mightbe. Without pausing to reply, he dashed

up to the loft-the scene of the disaster-and shoved Mouschi, who was squattingbeside her soggy litter box, back to theright place. This was followed by shoutsand squeals, and then Mouschi, who bythat time had finished peeing, took offdownstairs. In search of somethingsimilar to her box, Mouschi had foundherself a pile of wood shavings, rightover a crack in the floor. The puddleimmediately trickled down to the atticand, as luck would have it, landed in andnext to the potato barrel. The cethng wasdripping, and since the attic floor hasalso got its share of cracks, little yellowdrops were leaking through the ceilingand onto the dining table, between a pileof stockings and books.

I was doubled up with laughter, it wassuch a funny sight. There was Mouschicrouched under a chair, Peter armedwith water, powdered bleach and acloth, and Mr. van Daan trying to calmeveryone down. The room was soon setto rights, but it's a well-known fact thatcat puddles stink to high heaven. Thepotatoes proved that all too well, as didthe wood shavings, which Fathercollected in a bucket and broughtdownstairs to burn.Poor Mouschi! How were you to knowit's impossible to get peat for your box?AnneA new sketch to make you laugh:Peter's hair had to be cut, and as usualhis mother was to be the hairdresser. At

seven twenty-five Peter vanished intohis room, and reappeared at the stroke ofseven-thirty, stripped down to his blueswimming trunks and a pair of tennisshoes."Are you coming?" he asked his mother."Yes, I'll be up in a minute, but I can'tfind the scissors!"Peter helped her look, rummagingaround in her cosmetics drawer. "Don'tmake such a mess, Peter," she grumbled.I didn't catch Peter's reply, but it musthave been insolent, because she cuffedhim on the arm. He cuffed her back, shepunched him with all her might, andPeter pulled his arm away with a look ofmock horror on his face. "Come on, oldgirl!"

Mrs. van D. stayed put. Peter grabbedher by the wrists and pulled her allaround the room. She laughed, cried,scolded and kicked, but nothing helped.Peter led his prisoner as far as the atticstairs, where he was obliged to let go ofher. Mrs. van D. came back to the roomand collapsed into a chair with a loudsigh."Die Enifu"hruna der Mutter,". I joked.[* The Abduction of Mother, a possiblereference to Mozart's opera TheAbduction from the Seraglio.]"Yes, but he hurt me."I went to have a look and cooled her hot,red wrists with water. Peter, still by thestairs and growing impa- tient again,strode into the room with his belt in his

hand, like a lion tamer. Mrs. van D.didn't move, but stayed by her writingdesk, looking for a handkerchief."You've got to apologize first." "Allright, I hereby offer my apologies, butonly because if I don't, we'll be here tillmidnight."Mrs. van D. had to laugh in spite ofherself. She got up and went toward thedoor, where she felt obliged to give usan explanation. (By us I mean Father,Mother and me; we were busy doing thedishes.) "He wasn't like this at home,"she said. "I'd have belted him so hardhe'd have gone flying down the stairs [!].He's never been so insolent. This isn'tthe first time he's deserved a goodhiding. That's what you get with a

modern upbringing, modern children. I'dnever have grabbed my mother like that.Did you treat your mother that way, Mr.Frank?" She was very upset, pacing backand forth, saying whatever came into herhead, and she still hadn't gone upstairs.Finally, at long last, she made her exit.Less than five minutes later she stormedback down the stairs, with her cheeks allpuffed out, and flung her apron on achair. When I asked if she was through,she replied that she was goingdownstairs. She tore down the stairs likea tornado, probably straight into thearms of her Putti.She didn't come up again until eight, thistime with her husband. Peter wasdragged from the attic, given a merciless

scolding and showered with abuse: ill-mannered brat, no-good bum, badexample, Anne this, Margot that, Icouldn't hear the rest.Everything seems to have calmed downagain today!Yours, Anne M. FrankP.S. Tuesday and Wednesday eveningour beloved Queen addressed thecountry. She's taking a vacation so she'llbe in good health for her return to theNetherlands.She used words like "soon, when I'mback in Holland," "a swift liberation,""heroism" and "heavy burdens."This was followed by a speech by PrimeMinister Gerbrandy. He has such asqueaky little child's voice that Mother

instinctively said, "Oooh." A clergyman,who must have borrowed his voice fromMr. Edel, concluded by asking God totake care of the Jews, all those inconcentration camps and prisons andeveryone working in Germany.Since I've left my entire "junk box"-including my fountain pen-upstairs andI'm not allowed to disturb the grown-upsduring their nap time (until two-thirty),you'll have to make do with a letter inpencil.I'm terribly busy at the moment, andstrange as it may sound, I don't haveenough time to get through my pile ofwork. Shall I tell you briefly what I'vegot to do? Well then, before tomorrow Ihave to finish reading the first volume of

a biography of Galileo Galilei, since ithas to be returned to the library. I startedreading it yesterday and have gotten upto page 220 out of 320 pages, so I'llmanage it. Next week I have to readPalestine at the Cross- roads and thesecond volume of Galilei. Besides that, Ifinished the first volume of a biographyof Emperor Charles V yesterday, and Istill have to work out the manygenealogical charts I've collected andthe notes I've taken. Next I have threepages of foreign words from my variousbooks, all of which have to be writtendown, memorized and read aloud.Number four: my movie stars are in aterrible disarray and are dying to bestraightened out, but since it'll take

several days to do that and ProfessorAnne is, as she's already said, up to herears in work, they'll have to put up withthe chaos a while longer. Then there'reTheseus, Oedipus, Peleus, Orpheus,Jason and Hercules all waiting to beuntangled, since their various deeds arerunning crisscross through my mind likemul- ticolored threads in a dress. Myronand Phidias are also urgently in need ofattention, or else I'll forget entirely howthey fit into the picture. The sameapplies, for example, to the SevenYears' War and the Nine Years' War.Now I'm getting everything all mixed up.Well, what can you do with a memorylike mine! Just imagine how forgetful I'llbe when I'm eighty!

Oh, one more thing. The Bible. Howlong is it going to take before I come tothe story of the bathing Susanna? Andwhat do they mean by Sodom andGomorrah? Oh, there's still so much tofind out and learn. And in the meantime,I've left Charlotte of the Palatine in thelurch.You can see, can't you, Kitty, that I'm fullto bursting?And now something else. You've knownfor a long time that my greatest wish isto be a journalist, and later on, a famouswriter. We'll have to wait and see ifthese grand illusions (or delusions!) willever come true, but up to now I've hadno lack of topics. In any case, after thewar I'd like to publish a book called The

Secret Annex. It remains to be seenwhether I'll succeed, but my diary canserve as the basis.I also need to finish "Cady's Life." I'vethought up the rest of the plot. Afterbeing cured in the sanatorium, Cady goesback home and continues writing toHans. It's 1941, and it doesn't take herlong to discover Hans's Nazisympathies, and since Cady is deeplyconcerned with the plight of the Jewsand of her friend Marianne, they begindrifting apart. They meet and get backtogether, but break up when Hans takesup with another girl. Cady is shattered,and because she wants to have a goodjob, she studies nursing. After graduationshe accepts a position, at the urging of

her father's friends, as a nurse in a TBsanatorium in Switzerland. During herfirst vacation she goes to Lake Como,where she runs into Hans. He tells herthat two years earlier he'd marriedCady's successor, but that his wife tookher life in a fit of depression. Now thathe's seen his little Cady again, herealizes how much he loves her, andonce more asks for her hand in marriage.Cady refuses, even though, in spite ofherself, she loves him as much as ever.But her pride holds her back. Hans goesaway, and years later Cady learns thathe's wound up in England, where he'sstruggling with ill health.When she's twenty-seven, Cady marriesa well-to-do man from the country,

named Simon. She grows to love him,but not as much as Hans. She has twodaughters and a son, Lthan, Judith andNico. She and Simon are happy together,but Hans is always in the back of hermind until one night she dreams of himand says farewell.. . . It's not sentimental nonsense: it'sbased on the story of Father's life.Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MAY 13, 1944My dearest Kitty,Yesterday was Father's birthday, Fatherand Mother's nineteenth weddinganniversary, a day without the cleaninglady. . . and the sun was shining as it'snever shone before in 1944. Our chestnuttree is in full bloom. It's covered with

leaves and is even more beautiful thanlast year.Father received a biography of Linnaeusfrom Mr. Kleiman, a book on naturefrom Mr. Kugler, The Canals ofAmsterdam from Dussel, a huge boxfrom the van Daans (wrapped sobeautifully it might have been done by aprofessional), containing three eggs, abottle of beer, a jar of yogurt and a greentie. It made our jar of molasses seemrather paltry. My roses smelledwonderful compared to Miep and Bep'sred carnations. He was thoroughlyspoiled. Fifty petits fours arrived fromSiemons'Bakery, delicious! Father also treated usto spice cake, the men to beer and the

ladies to yogurt. Everything wasscrumptious!Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, MAY 16, 1944My dearest Kitty, just for a change(since we haven't had one of these in solong) I'll recount a little discussionbetween Mr. and Mrs. van D. last night:Mrs. van D.: "The Germans have hadplenty of time to fortify the AtlanticWall, and they'll certainly do everythingwithin their power to hold back theBritish. It's amazing how strong theGermans are!"Mr. van D.: "Oh, yes, amazing.Mrs. van D.: "It is!"Mr. van D.: "They are so strong they'rebound to win the war in the end, is that

what you mean?"Mrs. van D.: "They might. I'm notconvinced that they won't."Mr. van D.: "I won't even answer that."Mrs. van D.: "You always wind upanswering. You let yourself get carriedaway, every single time."Mr. van D.: "No, I don't. I always keepmy answers to the bare minimum." Mrs.van D.: "But you always do have ananswer and you always have to be right!Your predictions hardly ever come true,you know!"Mr. van D.: "So far they have."Mrs. van D.: "No they haven't. You saidthe invasion was going to start last year,the Finns were supposed to have beenout of the war by now, the Italian

campaign ought to have been over bylast winter, and the Russians shouldalready have captured Lemberg. Oh no, Idon't set much store by yourpredictions."Mr. van D. (leaping to his feet): "Whydon't you shut your trap for a change? I'llshow you who's right; someday you'll gettired of needling me. I can't stand yourbellyaching a minute longer. just wait,one day I'll make you eat your words!"(End of Act One.)Actually, I couldn't help giggling.Mother couldn't either, and even Peterwas biting his lips to keep fromlaughing. Oh, those stupid grown-ups.They need to learn a few things firstbefore they start making so many

remarks about the younger generation!Since Friday we've been keeping thewindows open again at night. Yours,Anne M. FrankWhat Our Annex Family Is Interested In(A Systematic Survey of Courses andReadina Matter)Mr. van Daan. No courses; looks upmany things in Knaur's Encyclopedia andLexicon; likes to read detective stories,medical books and love stories, excitingor trivial.Mrs. van Daan. A correspondencecourse in English; likes to readbiographical novels and occasionallyother kinds of novels.Mr. Frank. Is learning English(Dickens!) and a bit of Latin; never

reads novels, but likes serious, ratherdry descriptions of people and places.Mrs. Frank. A correspondence course inEnglish; reads everything exceptdetective stories.Mr. Dussel. Is learning English, Spanishand Dutch with no noticeable results;reads everything; goes along with theopinion of the majority.Peter van Daan. Is learning English,French (correspondence course),shorthand in Dutch, English and German,commercial correspondence in English,woodworking, economics andsometimes math; seldom reads,sometimes geography. Margot Frank.Correspondence courses in English,French and Latin, shorthand in English,

German and Dutch, trigonometry, solidgeometry, mechanics, phys- ics,chemistry, algebra, geometry, Englishliterature, French literature, Germanliterature, Dutch literature, bookkeeping,geography, modern history, biology,economics; reads everything, preferablyon religion and medicine. Anne Frank.Shorthand in French, English, Germanand Dutch, geometry, algebra, history,geography, art history, mythology,biology, Bible history, Dutch literature;likes to read biographies, dull orexciting, and history books (sometimesnovels and light reading).FRIDAY, MAY 19, 1944Dearest Kitty,I felt rotten yesterday. Vomiting (and that

from Anne!), headache, stomachache andanything else you can imagine. I'mfeeling better today. I'm famished, but Ithink I'll skip the brown beans we'rehaving for dinner.Everything's going fine between Peterand me. The poor boy has an evengreater need for tenderness than I do. Hestill blushes every evening when he getshis good-night kiss, and then begs foranother one. Am I merely a bettersubstitute for Boche? I don't mind. He'sso happy just knowing somebody loveshim. After my laborious conquest, I'vedistanced myself a little from thesituation, but you mustn't think my lovehas cooled. Peter's a sweetheart, but I'veslammed the door to my inner self; if he

ever wants to force the lock again, he'llhave to use a harder crowbar!Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, MAY 20, 1944Dearest Kitty,Last night when I came down from theattic, I noticed, the moment I entered theroom, that the lovely vase of carnationshad fallen over. Mother was down onher hands and knees mopping up thewater and Margot was fishing my papersoff the floor. "What happened?" I askedwith anxious foreboding, and before theycould reply, I assessed the damage fromacross the room. My entire genealogyfile, my notebooks, my books, everythingwas afloat. I nearly cried, and I was soupset I started speaking German. I can't

remember a word, but according toMargot I babbled something about"unlioersehbarer Schaden, schrecklich,entsetzlich, nie zu ersetzen"* [*Incalculable loss, terrible, awful,irreplaceable.] and much more. Fadierburst out laughing and Modier andMargot joined in, but I felt like cryingbecause all my work and elaborate noteswere lost.I took a closer look and, luckily, die"incalculable loss" wasn't as bad as I'dexpected. Up in die attic I carefullypeeled apart die sheets of paper diatwere stuck togedier and dien hung diemon die clodiesline to dry. It was such afunny sight, even I had to laugh. Mariade' Medici alongside Charles V,

William of Orange and MarieAntoinette."It's Rassenschande,"* Mr. van Daanjoked. [An affront to racial purity.] Afterentrusting my papers to Peter's care, Iwent back downstairs. "Which books areruined?" I asked Margot, who was goingdirough them. "Algebra," Margot said.But as luck would have it, my algebrabook wasn't entirely ruined. I wish it hadfallen right in the vase. I've neverloathed any book as much as that one.Inside the front cover are the names of atleast twenty girls who had it before Idid. It's old, yellowed, full of scribbles,crossed-out words and revisions. Thenext time I'm in a wicked mood, I'mgoing to tear the darned thing to pieces!

Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, MAY 22,1944Dearest Kitty,On May 20, Father lost his bet and hadto give five jars of yogurt to Mrs. vanDaan: the invasion still hasn't begun. Ican safely say that all of Amsterdam, allof Holland, in fact the entire westerncoast of Europe, all the way down toSpain, are talking about the invasion dayand night, debating, making bets and . . .hoping.The suspense is rising to fever pitch; byno means has everyone we think of as"good" Dutch people kept their faith inthe English, not everyone thinks theEnglish bluff is a masterful strategicalmove. Oh no, people want deeds-great,

heroic deeds.No one can see farther than the end oftheir nose, no one gives a thought to thefact that the British are fighting for theirown country and their own people;everyone thinks it's England's duty tosave Holland, as quickly as possible.What obligations do the English havetoward us? What have the Dutch done todeserve the generous help they soclearly expect? Oh no, the Dutch arevery much mistaken. The English,despite their bluff, are certainly no moreto blame for the war than all the othercountries, large and small, that are nowoccupied by the Germans. The Britishare not about to offer their excuses; true,they were sleeping during the years

Germany was rearming itself, but all theother countries, especially thosebordering on Germany, were asleep too.England and the rest of the world havediscovered that burying your head in thesand doesn't work, and now each ofthem, especially England, is having topay a heavy price for its ostrich policy.No country sacrifices its men withoutreason, and certainly not in the interestsof another, and England is no exception.The invasion, liberation and freedomwill come someday; yet England, not theoccupied territories, will choose themoment.To our great sorrow and dismay, we'veheard that many people have changedtheir attitude toward us Jews. We've

been told that anti-Semitism has croppedup in circles where once it would havebeen unthinkable. This fact has affectedus all very, very deeply. The reason forthe hatred is understandable, maybe evenhuman, but that doesn't make it right.According to the Christians, the Jewsare blabbing their secrets to theGermans, denouncing their helpers andcausing them to suffer the dreadful fateand punishments that have already beenmeted out to so many. All of this is true.But as with everything, they should lookat the matter from both sides: wouldChristians act any differently if theywere in our place? Could anyone,regardless of whether they're Jews orChristians, remain silent in the face of

German pressure? Everyone knows it'spractically impossible, so why do theyask the impossible of the Jews? It'sbeing said in underground circles thatthe German Jews who immigrated toHolland before the war and have nowbeen sent to Poland shouldn't be allowedto return here. They were granted theright to asylum in Holland, but onceHitler is gone, they should go back toGermany.When you hear that, you begin to wonderwhy we're fighting this long and difficultwar. We're always being told that we'refighting for freedom, truth and justice!The war isn't even over, and alreadythere's dissension and Jews are regardedas lesser beings. Oh, it's sad, very sad

that the old adage has been confirmedfor the umpteenth time: "What oneChristian does is his own responsibthty,what one Jew does reflects on all Jews."To be honest, I can't understand how theDutch, a nation of good, honest, uprightpeople, can sit in judgment on us the waythey do. On us-the most oppressed,unfortunate and pitiable people in all theworld.I have only one hope: that this anti-Semitism is just a passing thing, that theDutch will show their true colors, thatthey'll never waver from what they knowin their hearts to be just, for this isunjust!And if they ever carry out this terriblethreat, the meager handful of Jews still

left in Holland will have to go. We toowill have to shoulder our bundles andmove on, away from this beautifulcountry, which once so kindly took us inand now turns its back on us.I love Holland. Once I hoped it wouldbecome a fatherland to me, since I hadlost my own. And I hope so still!Yours, Anne M. FrankTHURSDAY, MAY 25, 1944Dearest Kitty,Bep's engaged! The news isn't much of asurprise, though none of us areparticularly pleased. Bertus may be anice, steady, athletic young man, but Bepdoesn't love him, and to me that's enoughreason to advise her against marryinghim.

Bep's trying to get ahead in the world,and Bertus is pulling her back; he's alaborer, without any interests or anydesire to make something of himself, andI don't think that'll make Bep happy. Ican understand Bep's wanting to put anend to her indecision; four weeks agoshe decided to write him off, but thenshe felt even worse. So she wrote him aletter, and now she's engaged. There areseveral factors involved in thisengagement. First, Bep's sick father, wholikes Bertus very much. Second, she'sthe oldest of the Voskuijl girls and hermother teases her about being an oldmaid. Third, she's just turned twenty-four, and that matters a great deal toBep.

Mother said it would have been better ifBep had simply had an affair withBertus. I don't know, I feel sorry for Bepand can understand her loneliness. In anycase, they can get married only after thewar, since Bertus is in hiding, or at anyrate has gone underground. Besides, theydon't have a penny to their name andnothing in the way of a hope chest. Whata sorry prospect for Bep, for whom weall wish the best. I only hope Bertusimproves under her influence, or thatBep finds another man, one who knowshow to appreciate her! Yours, Anne M.FrankTHE SAME DAYThere's something happening every day.This morning Mr. van Hoeven was

arrested. He was hiding two Jews in hishouse. It's a heavy blow for us, not onlybecause those poor Jews are once againbalancing on the edge of an abyss, butalso because it's terrible for Mr. vanHoeven.The world's been turned upside down.The most decent people are being sent toconcentration camps, prisons and lonelycells, while the lowest of the low ruleover young and old, rich and poor. Onegets caught for black marketeering,another for hiding Jews or other un-fortunate souls. Unless you're a Nazi,you don't know what's going to happen toyou from one day to the next. Mr. vanHoeven is a great loss to us too. Bepcan't possibly lug such huge amounts of

potatoes all the way here, nor should shehave to, so our only choice is to eatfewer of them. I'll tell you what we havein mind, but it's certainly not going tomake life here any more agreeable.Mother says we'll skip breakfast, eat hotcereal and bread for lunch and friedpotatoes for dinner and, if possible,vegetables or lettuce once or twice aweek. That's all there is. We're going tobe hungry, but nothing's worse than beingcaught. Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, MAY 26, 1944My dearest Kitty,At long, long last, I can sit quietly at mytable before the crack in the windowframe and write you everything,everything I want to say. I feel more

miserable than I have in months. Evenafter the break-in I didn't feel so utterlybroken, inside and out. On the one hand,there's the news about Mr. van Hoeven,the Jewish question (which is discussedin detail by everyone in the house), theinvasion (which is so long in coming),the awful food, the tension, the misera-ble atmosphere, my disappointment inPeter. On the other hand, there's Bep'sengagement, the Pentecost reception, theflowers, Mr. Kugler's birthday, cakesand stories about cabarets, movies andconcerts. That gap, that enormous gap, isalways there. One day we're laugh- ingat the comical side of life in hiding, andthe next day (and there are many suchdays), we're frightened, and the fear,

tension and despair can be read on ourfaces.Miep and Mr. Kugler bear the greatestburden for us, and for all those in hiding-Miep in everything she does and Mr.Kugler through his enormousresponsibthty for the eight of us, whichis sometimes so overwhelming that hecan hardly speak from the pent-uptension and strain. Mr. Kleiman and Bepalso take very good care of us, butthey're able to put the Annex out of theirminds, even if it's only for a few hoursor a few days. They have their ownworries, Mr. Kleiman with his healthand Bep with her engagement, whichisn't looking very promising lat themoment. But they also have their outings,

their visits with friends, their everydaylives as ordinary people, so that thetension is sometimes relieved, if only fora short while, while ours never is, neverhas been, not once in the two yearswe've been here. How much longer willthis increasingly oppressive, unbearableweight press I down on us? The drainsare clogged again. We can't run the wa-ter, or if we do, only a trickle; we can'tflush the toilet, so we have to use a toiletbrush; and we've been putting our dirtywater into a big earthenware jar. We canman- age for today, but what will happenif the plumber can't fix it on his own?The Sanitation Department can't comeuntil Tuesday.Miep sent us a raisin bread with "Happy

Pentecost" written on top. It's almost asif she were mocking us, since our moodsand cares are far from "happy." We'veall become more frightened since the vanHoeven business. Once again you hear"shh" from all I sides, and we're doingeverything more quietly. The policeforced the door there; they could just aseasily do that here too! What will we doif we're ever. . . no, I mustn't write thatdown. But the question won't let itself bepushed to the back of my mind today; onthe contrary, all the fear I've ever felt islooming before me in all its horror.I had to go downstairs alone at eight thisevening to use the bathroom. There wasno one down there, since they were alllistening to the radio. I wanted to be

brave, but it was hard. I always feelsafer upstairs than in that huge, silenthouse; when I'm alone with thosemysterious muffied sounds from upstairsand the honking of horns in the street, Ihave to hurry and remind myself where Iam to keep from getting the shivers.Miep has been acting much nicer towardus since her talk with Father. But Ihaven't told you about that yet. Miepcame up one afternoon all flushed andasked Father straight out if we thoughtthey too were infected with the currentanti-Semitism. Father was stunned andquickly talked her out of the idea, butsome of Miep's suspicion has lingeredon. They're doing more errands for usnow and showing more of an interest in

our troubles, though we certainlyshouldn't bother them with our woes. Oh,they're such good, noble people!I've asked myself again and againwhether it wouldn't have been better ifwe hadn't gone into hiding, if we weredead now and didn't have to go throughthis misery, especially so that the otherscould be spared the burden. But we allshrink from this thought. We still lovelife, we haven't yet forgotten the voice ofnature, and we keep hoping, hoping for. .. everything. Let something happen soon,even an air raid. Nothing can be morecrushing than this anxiety. Let the endcome, however cruel; at least then we'llknow whether we are to be the victorsor the vanquished.

Yours, Anne M. FrankWEDNESDAY, MAY 31, 1944Dearest Kitty,Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesdayit was too hot to hold my fountain pen,which is why I couldn't write to you.Friday the drains were clogged,Saturday they were fixed. Mrs. Kleimancame for a visit in the afternoon and toldus a lot about Jopiej she and Jacque vanMaarsen are in the same hockey club.Sunday Bep dropped by to make surethere hadn't been a break-in and stayedfor breakfast. Monday (a holidaybecause of Pentecost), Mr. Gies servedas the Annex watchman, and Tuesday wewere finally allowed to open thewindows. We've seldom had a Pentecost

weekend that was so beautiful andwarm. Or maybe "hot" is a better word.Hot weather is horrible in the Annex. Togive you an idea of the numerouscomplaints, I'll briefly describe thesesweltering days. Saturday: "Wonderful,what fantastic weather," we all said inthe morning. "If only it weren't quite sohot," we said in the afternoon, when thewindows had to be shut.Sunday: "The heat's unbearable, thebutter's melt- ing, there's not a cool spotanywhere in the house, the bread'sdrying out, the milk's going sour, thewindows can't be opened. We pooroutcasts are suffocating while everyoneelse is enjoying their Pentecost."(According to Mrs. van D.)

Monday: "My feet hurt, I have nothingcool to wear, I can't do the dishes in thisheat!" Grumbling from early in themorning to late at night. It was awful. Ican't stand the heat. I'm glad the wind'scome up today, but that the sun's stillshining.Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1944 JDear Kitty,"If you're going to the attic, take anumbrella with you, preferably a largeone!" This is to protect you from"household showers." There's a Dutchproverb: "High and dry, safe and sound,"but it obviously doesn't apply to wartime(guns!) and to people in hiding (catbox!). Mouschi's gotten into the habit of

relieving herself on some newspapers orbetween the cracks in the floor boards,so we have good reason to fear thesplatters and, even worse, the stench.The new Moortje in the warehouse hasthe same problem. Anyone who's everhad a cat that's not housebroken canimagine the smells, other than pepperand thyme, that permeate this house.I also have a brand-new prescription forgunfire jitters: When the shooting getsloud, proceed to the nearest woodenstaircase. Run up and down a few times,making sure to stumble at least once.What with the scratches and the noise ofrunning and falling, you won't even beable to hear the shooting, much lessworry about it. Yours truly has put this

magic formula to use, with greatsuccess!Yours, Anne M. FrankMONDAY, JUNE 5, 1944Dearest Kitty,New problems in the Annex. A quarrelbetween Dussel and the Franks over thedivision of butter. Capitulation on thepart of Dussel. Close friendship betweenthe latter and Mrs. van Daan, flirtations,kisses and friendly little smiles. Dusselis beginning to long for femalecompanionship.The van Daans don't see why we shouldbake a spice cake for Mr. Kugler'sbirthday when we can't have oneourselves. All very petty. Moodupstairs: bad. Mrs. van D. has a cold.

Dussel caught with brewer's yeasttablets, while we've got none.The Fifth Army has taken Rome. The cityneither destroyed nor bombed. Greatpropaganda for Hitler.Very few potatoes and vegetables. Oneloaf of bread was moldy.Scharminkeltje (name of new warehousecat) can't stand pepper. She sleeps in thecat box and does her business in thewood shavings. Impossible to keep her.Bad weather. Continuous bombing ofPas de Calais and the west coast ofFrance. No one buying dollars. Goldeven less interesting.The bottom of our black moneybox is insight. What are we going to live on nextmonth?

Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, JUNE 6, 1944My dearest Kitty,"This is D Day," the BBC announced attwelve."This is the day." The invasion hasbegun!This morning at eight the Britishreported heavy bombing of Calais,Boulogne, Le Havre and Cherbourg, aswell as Pas de Calais (as usual).Further, as a precautionary measure forthose in the occupied territories,everyone living within a zone of twentymiles from the coast was warned toprepare for bombardments. Wherepossible, the British will droppamphlets an hour ahead of time.

According to the German news, Britishparatroopers have landed on the coast ofFrance. "British landing craft areengaged in combat with German navalunits," according to the BBC.Conclusion reached by the Annex whilebreakfasting at nine: this is a triallanding, like the one two years ago inDieppe.BBC broadcast in German, Dutch,French and other languages at ten: Theinvasion has begun! So this is the "real"invasion. BBC broadcast in German ateleven: speech by Supreme CommanderGeneral Dwight Eisenhower.BBC broadcast in English: "This is 0Day." General Eisenhower said to theFrench people: "Stiff fighting will come

now, but after this the victory. The year1944 is the year of complete victory.Good luck!"BBC broadcast in English at one: 11,000planes are shuttling back and forth orstanding by to land troops and bombbehind enemy lines; 4,000 landing craftand small boats are continually arrivingin the area between Cher- bourg and LeHavre. English and American troops arealready engaged in heavy combat.Speeches by Gerbrandy, the PrimeMinister of Belgium, King Haakon ofNorway, de Gaulle of France, the Kingof England and, last but not least,Churchill. A huge commotion in theAnnex! Is this really the beginning of thelong-awaited liberation? The liberation

we've all talked so much about, whichstill seems too good, too much of a fairytale ever to come true? Will this year,1944, bring us victory? We don't knowyet. But where there's hope, there's life.It fills us with fresh courage and makesus strong again. We'll need to be braveto endure the many fears and hardshipsand the suffering yet to come. It's now amatter of remaining calm and steadfast,of gritting our teeth and keeping a stiffupper lip! France, Russia, Italy, andeven Germany, can cry out in agony, butwe don't yet have that right!Oh, Kitty, the best part about theinvasion is that I have the feeling thatfriends are on the way. Those terribleGermans have oppressed and threatened

us for so long that the thought of friendsand salvation means everything to us!Now it's not just the Jews, but Hollandand all of occupied Europe. Maybe,Margot says, I can even go back toschool in October or September. Yours,Anne M. FrankP.S. I'll keep you informed of the latestnews!This morning and last night, dummiesmade of straw and rubber were droppedfrom the air behind German lines, andthey exploded the minute they hit theground. Many paratroopers, their facesblackened so they couldn't be seen in thedark, landed as well. The French coastwas bombarded with 5,500 tons ofbombs during the night, and then, at six

in the morning, the first landing craftcame ashore. Today there were 20,000airplanes in action. The German coastalbatteries were destroyed even before thelanding; a small bridgehead has alreadybeen formed. Everything's going well,despite the bad weather. The army andthe people are "one will and one hope."FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1944Dearest Kitty,Great news of the invasion! The Allieshave taken Bayeux, a village on the coastof France, and are now fighting forCaen. They're clearly intending to cut offthe peninsula where Cherbourg islocated. Every evening the warcorrespondents report on the difficulties,the courage and the fighting spirit of the

army. To get their stories, they pull offthe most amazing feats. A few of thewounded who are already back inEngland also spoke on the radio. Despitethe miserable weather, the planes areflying dthgently back and forth. Weheard over the BBC that Churchillwanted to land along with the troops onD Day, but Eisenhower and the othergenerals managed to talk him out of it.Just imagine, so much courage for suchan old man he must be at least seventy!The excitement here has died downsomewhat; still, we're all hoping that thewar will finally be over by the end ofthe year. It's about time! Mrs. van Daan'sconstant griping is unbearable; now thatshe can no longer drive us crazy with the

invasion, she moans and groans all dayabout the bad weather. If only we couldplunk her down in the loft in a bucket ofcold water! Everyone in the Annexexcept Mr. van Daan and Peter has readthe Hunaarian Rhapsody trilogy, abiography of the composer, pianovirtuoso and child prodigy Franz Liszt.It's very interesting, though in myopinion there's a bit too much emphasison women; Liszt was not only thegreatest and most famous pianist of histime, he was also the biggest womanizer,even at the age of seventy. He had anaffair with Countess Marie d' Agoult,Princess Carolyne Sayn- Wittgenstein,the dancer Lola Montez, the pianistAgnes Kingworth, the pianist Sophie

Menter, the Circassian princess OlgaJanina, Baroness Olga Meyen- dorff,actress Lilla what's-her-name, etc., etc.,and there's no end to it. Those parts ofthe book dealing with music and theother arts are much more interesting.Some of the people mentioned areSchumann, Clara Wieck, Hector Berlioz,Johannes Brahms, Beethoven, Joachim,Richard Wagner, Hans von Bulow,Anton Rubinstein, Frederic Chopin,Victor Hugo, Honore de Balzac, Hiller,Hummel, Czerny, Rossini, Cherubini,Paganini, Mendels- sohn, etc., etc.Liszt appears to have been a decent man,very generous and modest, thoughexceptionally vain. He helped others, putart above all else, was extremely fond of

cognac and women, couldn't bear thesight of tears, was a gentleman, couldn'trefuse anyone a favor, wasn't interestedin money and cared about religiousfreedom and the world.Yours, Anne M. Frank314 ANNE FRANKTUESDAY, JUNE 13, 1944Dearest Kit,Another birthday has gone by, so I'mnow fifteen. I received quite a few gifts:Springer's five-volume art history book,a set of underwear, two belts, ahandkerchief, two jars of yogurt, a jar ofjam, two honey cookies (small), abotany book from Father and Mother, agold bracelet from Margot, a stickeralbum from the van Daans, Biomalt and

sweet peas from Dussel, candy fromMiep, candy and notebooks from Bep,and the high point: the book MariaTheresa and three slices of full-creamcheese from Mr. Kugler. Peter gave me alovely bouquet of peonies; the poor boyhad put a lot of effort into finding apresent, but nothing quite worked out.The invasion is still going splendidly, inspite of the miserable weather-pouringrains, gale winds and high seas.Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhowerand Arnold visited the French villagesthat the British have captured andliberated. Churchill was on a torpedoboat that shelled the coast. Uke manymen, he doesn't seem to know what fearis-an enviable trait!

From our position here in Fort Annex,it's difficult to gauge the mood of theDutch. No doubt many people are gladthe idle (!) British have finally rolled uptheir sleeves and gotten down to work.Those who keep claim- ing they don'twant to be occupied by the British don'trealize how unfair they're being. Theirline of reasoning boils down to this:England must fight, struggle and sacri-fice its sons to liberate Holland and theother occupied countries. After that theBritish shouldn't remain in Hol- land:they should offer their most abjectapologies to all the occupied countries,restore the Dutch East Indies to itsrightful owner and then return, weakenedand impoverished, to England. What a

bunch of idiots. And yet, as I've alreadysaid, many Dutch people can be countedamong their ranks. What would havebecome of Holland and its neighbors ifEngland had signed a peace treaty withGermany, as it's had ample opportunityto do? Holland would have becomeGerman, and that would have been theend of that!All those Dutch people who still lookdown on the British, scoff at Englandand its government of old fogies, call theEnglish cowards, yet hate the Germans,should be given a good shaking, the wayyou'd plump up a pillow. Maybe thatwould straighten out their jumbledbrains!Wishes, thoughts, accusations and

reproaches are swirling around in myhead. I'm not really as conceited as manypeople think; I know my various faultsand shortcomings better than anyoneelse, but there's one difference: I alsoknow that I want to change, will changeand already have changed greatly! Whyis it, I often ask myself, that everyonestill thinks I'm so pushy and such aknow-it-all? Am I really so arrogant?Am I the one who's so arrogant, or arethey? It sounds crazy, I know, but I'm notgoing to cross out that last sentence,because it's not as crazy as it seems.Mrs. van Daan and Dussel, my two chiefaccusers, are known to be totallyunintelligent and, not to put too fine apoint on it, just plain "stupid"! Stupid

people usually can't bear it when othersdo something better than they do; the bestexamples of this are those two dummies,Mrs. van Daan and Dussel. Mrs. van D.thinks I'm stupid because I don't suffer somuch from this ailment as she does, shethinks I'm pushy because she's evenpushier, she thinks my dresses are tooshort because hers are even shorter, andshe thinks I'm such a know-it-all becauseshe talks twice as much as I do abouttopics she knows nothing about. Thesame goes for Dussel. But one of myfavorite sayings is "Where there's smokethere's fire," and I readily admit I'm aknow-it-all.What's so difficult about my personalityis that I scold and curse myself much

more than anyone else does; if Motheradds her advice, the pile of sermonsbecomes so thick that I despair of evergetting through them. Then I talk backand start contradicting everyone until theold famthar Anne refrain inevitablycrops up again: "No one understandsme!"This phrase is part of me, and asunlikely as it may seem, there's a kernelof truth in it. Sometimes I'm so deeplyburied under self-reproaches that I longfor a word of comfort to help me digmyself out again. If only I had someonewho took my feelings seriously. Alas, Ihaven't yet found that person, so thesearch must go on.I know you're wondering about Peter,

aren't you, Kit? It's true, Peter loves me,not as a girlfriend, but as a friend. Hisaffection grows day by day, but somemysterious force is holding us back, andI don't know what it is. Sometimes Ithink my terrible longing for him wasoverexaggerated. But that's not true,because if I'm unable to go to his roomfor a day or two, I long for him asdesperately as I ever did. Peter is kindand good, and yet I can't deny that he'sdisappointed me in many ways. Iespecially don't care for his dislike ofreligion, his table conversations andvarious things of that nature. Still, I'mfirmly convinced that we'll stick to ouragreement never to quarrel. Peter ispeace-loving, tolerant and extremely

easygoing. He lets me say a lot of thingsto him that he'd never accept from hismother. He's making a determined effortto remove the blots from his copybookand keep his affairs in order. Yet whydoes he hide his innermost self andnever allow me access? Of course, he'smuch more closed than I am, but I knowfrom experience (even though I'mconstantly being accused of knowing allthere is to know in theory, but not inpractice) that in time, even the mostuncommunicative types will long asmuch, or even more, for someone toconfide in.Peter and I have both spent ourcontemplative years in the Annex. Weoften discuss the future, the past and the

present, but as I've already told you, Imiss the real thing, and yet I know itexists!Is it because I haven't been outdoors forso long that I've become so smitten withnature? I remember a time when amagnificent blue sky, chirping birds,moonlight and budding blossomswouldn't have captivated me. Thingshave changed since I came here. Onenight during the Pentecost holiday, forinstance, when it was so hot, I struggledto keep my eyes open until eleven-thirtyso I could get a good look at the moon,all on my own for once. Alas, mysacrifice was in vain, since there wastoo much glare and I couldn't riskopening a window. Another time,

several months ago, I happened to beupstairs one night when the window wasopen. I didn't go back down until it hadto be closed again. The dark, rainyevening, the wind, the racing clouds, hadme spellbound; it was the first time in ayear and a half that I'd seen the nightface-to-face. After that evening mylonging to see it again was even greaterthan my fear of burglars, a dark rat-infested house or robberies. I wentdownstairs all by myself and looked outthe windows in the kitchen and privateoffice. Many people think nature isbeautiful, many people sleep from timeto time under the starry sky, and manypeople in hospitals and prisons long forthe day when they'll be free to enjoy

what nature has to offer. But few are asisolated and cut off as we are from dlejoys of nature, which can be shared byrich and poor alike.It's not just my imagination-looking atdle sky, dle clouds, dle moon and dlestars really does make me feel calm andhopeful. It's much better medicine thanvalerian or bromide. Nature makes mefeel humble and ready to face everyblow with courage!As luck would have it, I'm only able-except for a few rare occasions-to viewnature through dusty curtains tacked overdirt-caked windows; it takes dlepleasure out of looking. Nature is dleone thing for which dlere is nosubstitute!

One of dle many questions that haveoften bodlered me is why women havebeen, and still are, thought to be soinferior to men. It's easy to say it'sunfair, but that's not enough for me; I'dreally like to know the reason for thisgreat injustice!Men presumably dominated women fromthe very beginning because of theirgreater physical strength; it's men whoearn a living, beget children and do asthey please. . . Until recently, womensilently went along willi this, which wasstupid, since the longer it's kept up, themore deeply entrenched it becomes.Fortunately, education, work andprogress have opened women's eyes. Inmany countries they've been granted

equal rights; many people, mainlywomen, but also men, now realize howwrong it was to tolerate this state ofaffairs for so long. Modern women wantthe right to be completely independent!But that's not all. Women should berespected as well! Generally speaking,men are held in great esteem in all partsofthe world, so why shouldn't womenhave their share? Soldiers and warheroes are honored and commemorated,explorers are granted immortal fame,martyrs are revered, but how manypeople look upon women too assoldiers?In the book Soldiers on the Home Front Iwas greatly struck by the fact that inchildbirth alone, women commonly

suffer more pain, illness and misery thanany war hero ever does. And what's herreward for enduring all that pain? Shegets pushed aside when she's disfiguredby birth, her children soon leave, herbeauty is gone. Women, who struggleand suffer pain to ensure the continuationof the human race, make much tougherand more courageous soldiers than allthose big-mouthed freedom-fightingheroes put together! I don't mean toimply that women should stop havingchildren; on the contrary, nature intendedthem to, and that's the way it should be.What I condemn are our system of valuesand the men who don't acknowledge howgreat, difficult, but ultimately beautifulwomen's share in society is.

I agree completely with Paul de Kruif,the author of this book, when he says thatmen must learn that birth is no longerthought of as inevitable and unavoidablein those parts of the world we considercivthzed. It's easy for men to talk-theydon't and never will have to bear thewoes that women do! I believe that inthe course of the next century the notionthat it's a woman's duty to have childrenwill change and make way for therespect and admiration of all women,who bear their burdens withoutcomplaint or a lot of pompous words!Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JUNE 16, 1944Dearest Kitty,New problems: Mrs. van D. is at her

wit's end. She's talking about gettingshot, being thrown in prison, beinghanged and suicide. She's jealous thatPeter confides in me and not in her,offended that Dussel doesn't re- spondsufficiently to her flirtations and afraidher husband's going to squander all thefur-coat money on to- bacco. Shequarrels, curses, cries, feels sorry forherself, laughs and starts allover again.What on earth can you do with such asilly, sniveling specimen of humanity?Nobody takes her seriously, she has nostrength of character, she complains toone and all, and you should see how shewalks around: von hinten Lyzeum, yonvorne Museum.* [Acts like a schoolgirl,looks like a frump.] Even worse, Peter's

becoming insolent, Mr. van Daanirritable and Mother cynical. Yes,everyone's in quite a state! There's onlyone rule you need to remember: laugh ateverything and forget everybody else! Itsounds egotistical, but it's actually theonly cure for those suffering from self-pity.Mr. Kugler's supposed to spend fourweeks in Alkmaar on a work detail. He'strying to get out of it with a doctor'scertificate and a letter from Opekta. Mr.Kleiman's hoping his stomach will beoperated on soon. Starting at eleven lastnight, all private phones were cut off.Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JUNE 23, 1944Dearest Kitty,

Nothing special going on here. TheBritish have begun their all-out attack onCherbourg. According to Pim and Mr.van Oaan, we're sure to be liberatedbefore October 10. The Russians aretaking part in the cam- paign; yesterdaythey started their offensive near Vitebsk,exactly three years to the day that theGermans invaded Russia.Bep's spirits have sunk lower than ever.We're nearly out of potatoes; from nowon, we're going to count them out foreach person, then everyone can do whatthey want with them. Starting Monday,Miep's taking a week of vacation. Mr.Kleiman's doctors haven't found anythingon the X rays. He's torn between havingan operation and letting matters take

their course.Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, JUNE 27, 1944My dearest Kitty,The mood has changed, everything'sgoing enormously well. Cherbourg,Vitebsk and Zhlobin fell today. They'resure to have captured lots of men andequipment. Five German generals werekilled near Cherbourg and two takencaptive. Now that they've got a harbor,the British can bring whatever they wanton shore. The whole Cotentin Peninsulahas been captured just three weeks afterthe invasion! What a feat!In the three weeks since D Day therehasn't been a day without rain andstorms, neither here nor in France, but

this bad luck hasn't kept the British andthe Americans from displaying theirmight. And how! Of course, the Germanshave launched their wonder weapon, buta little firecracker like that won't hardlymake a dent, except maybe minordamage in England and screamingheadlines in the Kraut newspapers.Anyway, when they realize in"Krautland" that the Bolsheviks reallyare getting closer, they'll be shaking intheir boots. All German women whoaren't working for the military are beingevacuated, together with their children,from the coastal regions to the provincesof Groningen, Friesland and Gelderland.Mussert* [* The leader of the DutchNational Socialist (Nazi) Party] has

announced that if the invasion reachesHolland, he'll enlist. Is that fat pigplanning to fight? He could have donethat in Russia long before now. Finlandturned down a peace offer some timeago, and now the negotiations have beenbroken off again. Those numbskulls,they'll be sorry!How far do you think we'll be on July27?Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JUNE 30, 1944Dearest Kitty,Bad weather from one at a stretch to thethirty June* [Anne's English.] Don't I saythat well? Oh yes, I already know a littleEnglish; just to prove it I'm reading AnIdeal Husband with the help of a

dictionary! War's going wonderfully:Bobruysk, Mogilev and Orsha havefallen, lots of prisoners. Everything's allright here. Spirits are improving, oursuperoptimists are triumphant, the vanDaans are doing disappearing acts withthe sugar, Bep' s changed her hair, andMiep has a week off. That's the latestnews! I've been having really ghastlyroot-canal work done on one of my frontteeth. It's been terribly painful. It was sobad Dussel thought I was going to faint,and I nearly did. Mrs. van D. promptlygot a toothache as well!Yours, Anne M. FrankP.S. We've heard from Basel that Bernd*[Cousin Bernhard (Buddy) Elias].played the part of the innkeeper in Minna

von Barnhelm. He has "artisticleanings," says Mother.THURSDAY, JULY 6, 1944Dearest Kitty,My blood runs cold when Peter talksabout becoming a criminal or aspeculator; of course, he's joking, but Istill have the feeling he's afraid of hisown weakness.Margot and Peter are always saying tome, "If I had your spunk and yourstrength, if I had your drive andunflagging energy, could. . .Is it really such an admirable trait not tolet myself be influenced by others? Am Iright in following my own conscience?To be honest, I can't imagine howanyone could say "I'm weak" and then

stay that way. If you know that aboutyourself, why not fight it, why notdevelop your character? Their answerhas always been: "Because it's mucheasier not to!" This reply leaves mefeeling rather discouraged. Easy? Doesthat mean a life of deceit and laziness iseasy too? Oh no, that can't be true. Itcan't be true that people are so readilytempted by ease. . . and money. I'vegiven a lot of thought to what my answershould be, to how I should get Peter tobelieve in himself and, most of all, tochange himself for the better. I don'tknow whether I'm on the right track.I've often imagined how nice it would beif someone were to confide everything tome. But now that it's reached that point, I

realize how difficult it is to put yourselfin someope else's shoes and find theright answer. Especially since "easy"and "money" are new and com- pletelyalien concepts to me. Peter's beginningto lean on me and I don't want that, notunder any circumstances. It's hardenough standing on your own two feet,but when you also have to remain true toyour character and soul, it's harder still.I've been drifting around at sea, havespent days searching for an effectiveantidote to that terrible word "easy."How can I make it clear to him that,while it may seem easy and wonderful, itwill drag him down to the depths, to aplace where he'll no longer find friends,support or beauty, so far down that he

may never rise to the surface again?We're all alive, but we don't know whyor what for; we're all searching forhappiness; we're all leading lives thatare different and yet the same. We threehave been raised in good famthes, wehave the opportunity to get an educationand make something of ourselves. Wehave many reasons to hope for greathappiness, but. . . we have to earn it.And that's something you can't achieveby taking the easy way out. Earninghappiness means doing good andworking, not speculating and being lazy.Laziness may look inviting, but onlywork gives you true satisfaction.I can't understand people who don't liketo work, but that isn't Peter's problem

either. He just doesn't have a goal, plushe thinks he's too stupid and inferior toever achieve anything. Poor boy, he'snever known how it feels to makesomeone else happy, and I'm afraid Ican't teach him. He isn't religious, scoffsat Jesus Christ and takes the Lord's namein vain, and though I'm not Orthodoxeither, it hurts me every time to see himso lonely, so scornful, so wretched.People who are religious should beglad, since not everyone is blessed withthe ability to believe in a higher order.You don't even have to live in fear ofeternal punishment; the concepts ofpurgatory, heaven and hell are difficultfor many people to accept, yet religionitself, any religion, keeps a person on the

right path. Not the fear of God, butupholding your own sense of honor andobeying your own conscience. Hownoble and good everyone could be if, atthe end of each day, they were to reviewtheir own behavior and weigh up therights and wrongs. They wouldautomatically try to do better at the startof each new day and, after a while,would certainly accomplish a great deal.Everyone is welcome to thisprescription; it costs nothing and isdefinitely useful. Those who don't knowwill have to find out by experience that"a quiet conscience gives you strength!"Yours, Anne M. FrankSATURDAY, JULY 8, 1944Dearest Kitty,

Mr. Broks was in Beverwijk andmanaged to get hold of strawberries atthe produce auction. They arrived heredusty and full of sand, but in largequantities. No less than twenty-fourcrates for the office and us. That verysame evening we canned the first six jarsand made eight jars of jam. The nextmorning Miep started making jam for theoffice.At twelve-thirty the outside door waslocked, crates were lugged into thekitchen, with Peter, Father and Mr. vanDaan stumbling up the stairs. Anne gothot water from the water heater,Margot"",went for a bucket, all hands ondeck! With a funny feeling in mystomach, I entered the overcrowded

office kitchen. Miep, Bep, Mr. Kleiman,Jan, Father, Peter: the Annex contingentand the Supply Corps all mixed uptogether, and that in the middle of theday! Curtains and windows open, loudvoices, banging doors-I was tremblingwith excitement. I kept thinking, "Are wereally in hiding?" This must be how itfeels when you can finally go out into theworld again. The pan was full, so Idashed upstairs, where the rest of thefamily was hulling strawberries aroundthe kitchen table. At least that's whatthey were supposed to be doing, butmore was going into their mouths thaninto the buckets. They were bound toneed another bucket soon. Peter wentback downstairs, but then the doorbell

rang twice. Leaving the bucket where itwas, Peter raced upstairs and shut thebookcase behind him. We sat kicking ourheels impatiently; the strawberries werewaiting to be rinsed, but we stuck to thehouse rule: "No running water whenstrangers are downstairs-they might hearthe drains."Jan came up at one to tell us it had beenthe mail- man. Peter hurried downstairsagain. Ding-dong. . . the doorbell, about-face. I listened to hear if anyone wascoming, standing first at the bookcase,then at the top of the stairs. Finally Peterand I leaned over the banister, strainingour ears like a couple of burglars to hearthe sounds from downstairs. Nounfamthar voices. Peter tip- toed

halfway down the stairs and called out,"Bep!"Once more: "Bep!" His voice wasdrowned out by the racket in the kitchen.So he ran down to the kitchen while Inervously kept watch from above. "Goupstairs at once, Peter, the accountant'shere, you've got to leave!" It was Mr.Kugler's voice. Sighing, Peter cameupstairs and closed the bookcase. Mr.Kugler finally came up at one-thirty."My gosh, the whole world's turned tostrawberries. I had strawber- ries forbreakfast, Jan's having diem for lunch,Kleiman's eating them as a snack, Miep'sbothng them, Bep's hulling them, and Ican smell them everywhere I go. I comeupstairs to get away from all that red and

what do I see? People washingstrawberries!"The rest of the strawberries werecanned. That evening: two jars cameunsealed. Father quickly turned them intojam. The next morning: two more lidspopped up; and that afternoon: four lids.Mr. van Daan hadn't gotten the jars hotenough when he was sterthzing them, soFather ended up making jam everyevening. We ate hot cereal withstrawberries, buttermilk withstrawberries, bread with strawberries,strawberries for dessert, straw- berrieswith sugar, strawberries with sand. Fortwo days there was nothing butstrawberries, strawberries,strawberries, and then our supply was

either exhausted or in jars, safely underlock and key."Hey, Anne," Margot called out one day,"Mrs. van Hoeven has let us have somepeas, twenty pounds!""That's nice of her," I replied. And itcertainly was, but it's so much work. . .ugh!"On Saturday, you've aJI got to shellpeas," Mother announced at the table.And sure enough, this morning afterbreakfast our biggest enamel panappeared on the table, filled to the brimwith peas. If you think shelling peas isboring work, you ought to try removingthe inner linings. I don't think manypeople realize that once you've pulledout the linings, the pods are soft,

delicious and rich in vitamins. But aneven greater advantage is that you getnearly three times as much as when youeat just the peas.Stripping pods is a precise andmeticulous job that might be suited topedantic dentists or finicky spiceexperts, but it's a horror for an impatientteenager like me. We started work atnine-thirty; I sat down at ten-thirty, gotUp again at eleven, sat down again ateleven-thirty. My ears were hummingwith the following refrain: snap the end,strip the pod, pull the string, pod in thepan, snap the end, strip the pod, pull thestring, pod in the pan, etc., etc. My eyeswere swimming: green, green, worm,string, rotten pod, green, green. To fight

the boredom and have something to do, Ichattered all morn- ing, saying whatevercame into my head and making everyonelaugh. The monotony was killing me.Every string I pulled made me morecertain that I never, ever, want to be justa housewife!At twelve we finally ate breakfast, butfrom twelve-thirty to one-fifteen we hadto strip pods again. When I stopped, Ifelt a bit seasick, and so did the others. Inapped until four, still in a daze becauseof those wretched peas. Yours, Anne M.FrankSATURDAY, JULY 15,1944Dearest Kitty,We've received a book from the librarywith the challenging title What Do You

Think of the Modern Young Girl? I'dlike to discuss this subject today. Thewriter criticizes "today's youth" fromhead to toe, though without dismissingthem all as "hopeless cases." On thecontrary, she believes they have it withintheir power to build a bigger, better andmore beautiful world, but that theyoccupy themselves with superficialthings, without giving a thought to truebeauty. In some passages I had the strongfeeling that the writer was directing herdisapproval at me, which is why Ifinally want to bare my soul to you anddefend myself against this attack.I have one outstanding character trait thatmust be obvious to anyone who's knownme for any length of time: I have a great

deal of self-knowledge. In everything Ido, I can watch myself as if I were astranger. I can stand c across from theeveryday Anne and, without beingbiased or making excuses, watch whatshe's 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 "That's fine the way it is." I condemnmyself in so many ways that I'mbeginning to realize the truth of Father'sadage: "Every child has to raise itself."Parents can only advise their children orpoint them in the right direction.Ultimately, people shape their owncharacters. In addition, I face life withan extraordinary amount of courage. I

feel so strong and capable of bearingburdens, so young and free! When I firstrealized this, I was glad, because itmeans I can more easily withstand theblows life has in store. But I've talkedabout these things so often. Now I'd liketo turn to the chapter "Father and MotherDon't Understand Me." My parents havealways spoiled me rotten, treated mekindly, defended me against the vanDaans and done all that parents can. Andyet for the longest time I've feltextremely lonely, left out, neglected andmisunderstood. Father did everything hecould to curb my rebellious spirit, but itwas no use. I've cured myself by holdingmy behavior up to the light and lookingat what I was doing wrong.

Why didn't Father support me in mystruggle? Why did he fall short when hetried to offer me a helping hand? Theanswer is: he used the wrong methods.He always talked to me as if I were achild going through a difficult phase. Itsounds crazy, since Father's the only onewho's given me a sense of confidenceand made me feel as if I'm a sensibleperson. But he overlooked one thing: hefailed to see that this struggle to triumphover my difficulties was more importantto me than anything else. I didn't want tohear about "typical adolescentproblems," or "other girls," or "you'llgrow out of it." I didn't want to betreated the same as all-the-other-girls,but as

Anne-in-her-own-right, and rim didn'tunderstand that. Besides, I can't confidein anyone unless they tell me a lot aboutthemselves, and because I know verylittle about him, I can't get on a moreintimate footing. rim always acts like theelderly father who once had the samefleeting im- pulses, but who can nolonger relate to me as a friend, no matterhow hard he tries. As a result, I've nevershared my outlook on life or my long-pondered theories with anyone but mydiary and, once in a while, Margot. I'vehid any- thing having to do with me fromFather, never shared my ideals with him,deliberately alienated myself from him.I couldn't have done it any other way.I've let myself be guided entirely by my

feelings. It was egotistical, but I've donewhat was best for my own peace ofmind. I would lose that, plus the self-confidence I've worked so hard toachieve, if I were to be subjected tocriticism halfway through the job. It maysound hard-hearted, but I can't takecriticism from rim either, because notonly do I never share my innermostthoughts with him, but I've pushed himeven further away by being irritable.This is a point I think about quite often:why is it that rim annoys me so muchsometimes? I can hardly bear to havehim tutor me, and his affection seemsforced. I want to be left alone, and I'drather he ignored me for a while until I'mmore sure of myself when I'm talking to

him! I'm still torn with guilt about themean letter I wrote him when I was soupset. Oh, it's hard to be strong andbrave in every way!. . .Still, this hasn't been my greatestdisappointment. No, I think about Petermuch more than I do Father. I know verywell that he was my conquest, and notthe other way around. I created an imageof him in my mind, pictured him as aquiet, sweet, sensitive boy badly in needof friendship and love! I needed to pourout my heart to a living person. I wanteda friend who would help me find myway again. I accomplished what I set outto do and drew him, slowly but surely,toward me. When I finally got him to be

my friend, it automatically developedinto an intimacy that, when I think aboutit now, seems outrageous. We talkedabout the most private things, but wehaven't yet touched upon the thingsclosest to my heart. I still can't makehead or tail of Peter. Is he superficial, oris it shyness that holds him back, evenwith me? But putting all that aside, Imade one mistake: I used intimacy to getcloser to him, and in doing so, I ruledout other forms of friendship. He longsto be loved, and I can see he's beginningto like me more with each passing day.Our time together leaves him feelingsatisfied, but just makes me want to startall over again. I never broach thesubjects I long to bring out into the open.

I forced Peter, more than he realizes, toget close to me, and now he's holding onfor dear life. I honestly don't see anyeffective way of shaking him off andgetting him back on his own two feet. Isoon realized he could never be akindred spirit, but still tried to help himbreak out of his narrow world andexpand his youthful horizons."Deep down, the young are lonelier thanthe old." I read this in a booksomewhere and it's stuck in my mind. Asfar as I can tell, it's true. So if you'rewondering whether it's harder for theadults here than for the children, theanswer is no, it's certainly not. Olderpeople have an opinion about everythingand are sure of themselves and their

actions. It's twice as hard for us youngpeople to hold on to our opinions at atime when ideals are being shattered anddestroyed, when the worst side of humannature predominates, when everyone hascome to doubt truth, justice and God.Anyone who claims that the older folkshave a more difficult time in the Annexdoesn't realize that the problems have afar greater impact on us. We're much tooyoung to deal with these problems, butthey keep thrusting themselves on usuntil, finally, we're forced to think up asolution, though most of the time oursolutions crumble when faced with thefacts. It's difficult in times like these:ideals, dreams and cherished hopes risewithin us, only to be crushed by grim

reality. It's a wonder I haven'tabandoned all my ideals, they seem soabsurd and impractical. Yet I cling tothem because I still believe, in spite ofeverything, that people are truly good atheart.It's utterly impossible for me to build mylife on a foundation of chaos, sufferingand death. I see the world being slowlytransformed into a wilderness, I hear theapproaching thunder that, one day, willdestroy us too, I feel the suffering ofmillions. And yet, when I look up at thesky, I somehow feel that everything willchange for the better, that this cruelty tooshall end, that peace and tranquthty willreturn once more. In the meantime, I musthold on to my ideals. Perhaps the day

will come when I'll be able to realizethem!Yours, Anne M. FrankFRIDAY, JULY 21, 1944Dearest Kitty,I'm finally getting optimistic. Now, atlast, things are going well! They reallyare! Great news! An assassinationattempt has been made on Hitler's life,and for once not by Jewish Communistsor English capitalists, but by a Germangeneral who's not only a count, but youngas well. The Fuhrer owes his life to"Divine Providence": he escaped,unfortunately, with only a few minorburns and scratches. A number of theofficers and generals who were nearbywere killed or wounded. The head of the

conspiracy has been shot.This is the best proof we've had so farthat many officers and generals are fedup with the war and would like to seeHitler sink into a bottomless pit, so theycan establish a mthtary dictatorship,make peace with the Allies, rearmthemselves and, after a few decades,start a new war. Perhaps Providence isdeliberately biding its time getting rid ofHider, since it's much easier, andcheaper, for the Allies to let theimpeccable Germans kill each other off.It's less work for the Russians and theBritish, and it allows them to startrebuilding their own cities all that muchsooner. But we haven't reached thatpoint yet, and I'd hate to anticipate the

glorious event. Still, you've probablynoticed that I'm telling the truth, thewhole truth and nothing but the truth. Foronce, I'm not rattling on about highideals.Furthermore, Hitler has been so kind asto announce to his loyal, devoted peoplethat as of today all mthtary personnel areunder orders of the Gestapo, and that anysoldier who knows that one of hissuperiors was involved in this cowardlyattempt on the Fuhrer's life may shoothim on sight!A fine kettle of fish that will be. LittleJohnny's feet are sore after a long marchand his commanding officer bawls himout. Johnny grabs his rifle, shouts, "You,you tried to kill the Fuhrer. Take that!"

One shot, and the snooty officer whodared to reprimand him passes intoeternal life (or is it eternal death?).Eventually, every time an officer sees asoldier or gives an order, he'll bepractically wetting his pants, because thesoldiers have more say-so than he does.Were you able to follow that, or have Ibeen skipping from one subject toanother again? I can't help it, theprospect of going back to school inOctober is making me too happy to belogical! Oh dear, didn't I just get throughtelling you I didn't want to anticipateevents? Forgive me, Kitty, they don't callme a bundle of contradictions fornothing! Yours, Anne M. FrankTUESDAY, AUGUST 1, 1944

Dearest Kitty,"A bundle of contradictions" was theend of my previous letter and is thebeginning of this one. Can you pleasetell me exactly what "a bundle ofcontradictions" is? What does"contradiction" mean? Like so manywords, it can be interpreted in twoways: a contradiction imposed fromwithout and one imposed from within.The former means not accepting otherpeople's opinions, always knowing best,having the last word; in short, all thoseunpleasant traits for which I'm known.The latter, for which I'm not known, ismy own secret.As I've told you many times, I'm split intwo. One side contains my exuberant

cheerfulness, my flippancy, my joy inlife and, above all, my abthty toappreciate the lighter side of things. Bythat I mean not finding anything wrongwith flirtations, a kiss, an embrace, anoff-color joke. This side of me is usuallylying in wait to ambush the other one,which is much purer, deeper and finer.No one knows Anne's better side, andthat's why most people can't stand me.Oh, I can be an amusing clown for anafternoon, but after that everyone's hadenough of me to last a month. Actually,I'm what a romantic movie is to aprofound thinker-a mere diversion, acomic interlude, something that is soonforgotten: not bad, but not particularlygood either. I hate haVing to tell you

this, but why shouldn't I admit it when Iknow it's true? My lighter, moresuperficial side will always steal amarch on the deeper side and thereforealways win. You can't imagine howoften I've tried to p:ush away this Anne,which is only half of what is known asAnne-to beat her down, hide her. But itdoesn't work, and I know why.I'm afraid that people who know me as Iusually am will discover I have anotherside, a better and finer side. I'm afraidthey'll mock me, think I'm ridiculous andsentimental and not take me seriously.I'm used to not being taken seriously, butonly the "lighthearted" Anne is used to itand can put up with it; the "deeper" Anneis too weak. If I force the good Anne into

the spotlight for even fifteen minutes, sheshuts up like a clam the moment she'scalled upon to speak, and lets Annenumber one do the talking. Before Irealize it, she's disappeared.So the nice Anne is never seen incompany. She's never made a singleappearance, though she almost alwaystakes the stage when I'm alone. I knowexactly how I'd like to be, how I am . . .on the inside. But unfortunately I'm onlylike that with myself. And perhaps that'swhy-no, I'm sure that's the reason why-Ithink of myself as happy on the insideand other people think I'm happy on theoutside. I'm guided by the pure Annewithin, but on the outside I'm nothing buta frolicsome little goat tugging at its

tether.As I've told you, what I say is not what Ifeel, which is why I have a reputationfor being boy-crazy as well as a flirt, asmart aleck and a reader of romances.The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, givesa flippant reply, shrugs her shouldersand pretends she doesn't give a darn.The quiet Anne reacts in just theopposite way. If I'm being completelyhonest, I'll have to admit that it doesmatter to me, that I'm trying very hard tochange myself, but that I I'm always upagainst a more powerful enemy.A voice within me is sobbing, "You see,that's what's become of you. You'resurrounded by negative opinions,dismayed looks and mocking faces,

people, who dislike you, and all becauseyou don't listen to the ; advice of yourown better half." Believe me, I'd like ;'to listen, but it doesn't work, because ifI'm quiet and serious, everyone thinksI'm putting on a new act and I have tosave myself with a joke, and then I'm noteven talking about my own family, whoassume I must be sick, stuff me withaspirins and sedatives, feel my neck andforehead to see if I have a temperature,ask about my bowel movements andberate me for being in a bad mood, untilI just can't keep it up anymore, becausejj when everybody starts hovering overme, I get cross, then sad, and finally endup turning my heart inside g out, the badpart on the outside and the good part on

the inside, and keep trying to find a wayto become what I'd like to be and what Icould be if . . . if only there were noother people in the world.Yours, Anne M. Frank----------------------ANNE'S DIARYENDS HERE.AFTERWORDOn the morning of August 4, 1944,sometime between ten and ten-thirty, acar pulled up at 263 Prinsengracht.Several figures emerged: an SS sergeant,Karl Josef Silberbauer, in full uniform,and at least three Dutch members of theSecurity Police, armed but in civilianclothes. Someone must have tipped themoff.They arrested the eight people hiding in

the Annex, as well as two of theirhelpers, Victor Kugler and JohannesKleiman-though not Miep Gies andElisabeth (Bep) Voskuijl-and took allthe valuables and cash they could find inthe Annex.After the arrest, Kugler and Kleimanwere taken to a prison in Amsterdam. OnSeptember 11, 1944, they weretransferred, without benefit of a trial, toa camp in Amersfoort (Holland).Kleiman, because of his poor health,was released on September 18, 1944.He remained in Amsterdam until hisdeath in 1959. Kugler managed toescape his imprisonment on March 28,1945, when he and his fellow prisonerswere being sent to Germany as forced

laborers. He immigrated to Canada in1955 and died in Toronto in 1989.Elisabeth (Bep) Voskuijl Wijk died inAmsterdam in 1983.Miep Santrouschitz Gies is still living inAmsterdam; her husband Jan died in1993.Upon their arrest, the eight residents ofthe Annex were first brought to a prisonin Amsterdam and then transferred toWesterbork, the transit camp for Jews inthe north of Holland. They weredeported on September 3, 1944, in thelast transport to leave Westerbork, andarrived three days later in Auschwitz(Poland).Hermann van Pels (van Daan) was,according to the testimony of Otto Frank,

gassed to death in Auschwitz in Octoberor November 1944, shortly before thegas chambers were dismantled.Auguste van Pels (Petronella van Daan)was transported from Auschwitz toBergen-Belsen, from there toBuchenwald, then to Theresienstadt onApril 9, 1945, and apparently to anotherconcentration camp after that. It iscertain that she did not survive, thoughthe date of her death is unknown. Petervan Pels (van Daan) was forced to takepart in the January 16, 1945 "deathmarch" from Auschwitz to Mauthausen(Austria), where he died on May 5,1945, three days before the camp wasliberated.Fritz Pfeffer (Albert Dussel) died on

December 20, 1944, in the Neuengammeconcentration camp, where he had beentransferred from either Buchenwald orSachsenhausen.Edith Frank died in Auschwitz-Birkenauon January 6, 1945, from hunger andexhaustion.Margot and Anne Frank weretransported from Auschwitz at the end ofOctober and brought to Bergen Belsen, aconcentration camp near Hannover(Germany). The typhus epidemic thatbroke out in the winter of 1944-1945, asa result of the horrendous hygenicconditions, killed thousands ofprisoners, including Margot and, a fewdays later, Anne. She must have died inlate February or early March. The

bodies of both girls were probablydumped in Bergen-Belsen's mass graves.The camp was liberated by Britishtroops on April 12, 1945. Otto Frankwas the only one of the eight to survivethe concentration camps. AfterAuschwitz was liberated by Russiantroops, he was repatriated to Amsterdamby way of Odessa and Marseille. Hearrived in Amsterdam on June 3, 1945,and stayed there until 1953, when hemoved to Basel (Switzerland), wherehis sister and her family, and later hisbrother, lived. He married ElfriedeMarkovits Geiringer, originally fromVienna, who had survived Auschwitzand lost a husband and son inMauthausen. Until his death on August

19, 1980, Otto Frank continued to live inBirsfelden, outside Basel, where hedevoted himself to sharing the messageof his daughter's diary with people allover the world.