安妮日记英语版本(部分)

Mr.

Dussel

has

told

us

much

about

the

outside

world

we've

missed

for

so

long.

He

had

sad

news.

Countless

friends

and

acquaintances have been taken off to a dreadful fate. Night after night, green and gray military

vehicles cruise the streets. They

knock on every door, asking whether any Jews live there. If so, the whole family is immediately taken away. If not, they proc

eed to

the next house. It's impossible to escape their clutches unless you go into hiding. They often go around with lists, knocking only on

those doors where they know there'

s

a big haul to be made. They frequently offer a bounty, so much per head. It's like the slave

hunts of the olden days. I don't mean to make light ofthis

j it's much too tragic for that. In the evenings when it's dark, I often see long

lines of good, innocent people, accompanied by crying children, walking on and on, ordered about by a handful of men who bull

y and

beat them until they nearly drop. No one is

spared. The sick, the elderly, children, babies and pregnant women -- all are marched to

their death.

We're so fortunate here, away from the turmoil. We wouldn't have to give a moment's thought to all this suffering if it weren

't for the

fact that we're so worried about those we hold dear, whom we can no longer help. I feel wicked sleeping in a warm bed, while

somewhere out there my dearest friends are dropping from exhaustion or being knocked to the ground.

I get frightened myself when I think of close friends who are now at the mercy of the cruelest monsters ever to stalk the all

because they're Jews.

We don't really know how to react. Up to now very little news about the Jews had reached us here, and we thought it best to s

tay as

cheerful as possible. Every now and then Miep used to mention what had happened to a friend, and Mother or Mrs. van Daan would

start to cry, so she decided it was better not to say any more. But we bombarded Mr. Dussel with questions, and the stories h

e had to

tell were so gruesome and dreadful that we can't get them out of our heads. Once we've had time to digest the news, we'll probably

go back to our usual joking and teasing. It won't do us or those outside any good if we continue to be as gloomy as we are no

w. And

what would be the point of turning the Secret Annex into a Melancholy Annex?

No matter what I'm doing, I can't help thinking about those who are gone. I catch myself laughing and remember that it's a disgrace

to be so cheerful. But am I supposed to spend the whole day crying? No, I can't do that. This gloom will pass.

Added to this misery there's another, but of a more personal nature, and it pales in comparison to the suffering I've just to

ld you

about. Still, I can't help telling you that lately I've begun to feel deserted. I'm surrounded by too great a void. I never used to give it

much thought, since my mind was filled with my friends and having a good time. Now I think either about unhappy things or abo

ut

myself. It's taken a while, but I've finally realized that Father, no matter how kind he may be, can't take the place of my former world.

When it comes to my feelings, Mother and Margot ceased to count long ago.

But why do I bother you with this foolishness? I'

m

terribly ungrateful, Kitty, I know, but whe

n I've been scolded for the umpteenth time

and have all these other woes to think about as well, my head begins to reel!

We've

been

using

too much

electricity

and

have

now exceeded our

ration.

The

result:

excessive

economy

and

the

prospect

of

having the electricity cut off. No light for fourteen days; that's a pleasant thought, isn't it? But who knows, maybe it won't be so long!

It's

too

dark

to

read

after

four

or

four-thirty,

so

we

while

away

the

time

with

all

kinds

of

crazy

activities:

telling

riddles,

doing

calisthenics in the dark, speaking English or French, reviewing books -- after a while everything gets boring. Yesterday I discovered

a new pastime: using a good pair of binoculars to peek into the lighted rooms of the neighbors. During the day our cur

tains can't be

opened, not even an inch, but there'

s

no harm when it'

s

so dark.

I received a Kewpie doll, Father got bookends, and so on. Well anyway, it was a nice idea, and since the eight of us had neve

r

celebrated St. Nicholas Day before, this was a good time to begin.

Yours, Anne

PS. We also had presents for everyone downstairs, a few things .left over from the Good Old Days; plus Miep and Bep are always

grateful for money.

Today we heard that Mr. van Daan' s ashtray, Mr. Dussel'

s

picture frame and Father'

s

bookends were made by none other than Mr.

Voskuijl. How anyone can be so clever with his hands is a mystery to me!

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

Mr. van Daan used to be in the meat, sausage and spice business. He was hired for his knowle

dge of spices, and yet, to our great

delight, it's his sausage talents that have come in handy now.

We ordered a large amount of meat (under the counter, of course) that we were planning to preserve in case there were hard times

ahead. Mr. van Daan decided to make bratwurst, sausages and mettwurst. I had fun watching him put the meat through the grinder:

once, twice, three times. Then he added the remaining ingredi ents to the ground meat and used a long pipe to force the mixtu

re into

the casings. We ate the bratwurst with sauerkraut for lunch, but the sausages, which were going to be canned, had to dry first, so we

hung

them over

a

pole suspended

from

the

cethng.

Everyone

who

came

into

the

room

burst

into

laughter

when

they

saw the

dangling was such a comical sight.

The kitchen was a shambles. Mr.

van Daan, clad in his wife'

s

apron and looking fatter than ever, was working away at the meat.

What with his bloody hands, red face and spotted apron, he looked like a real butcher. Mrs. D. was trying to do everything at once:

learning Dutch out of a book, stirring

the soup, watching the meat, sighing and moaning about her broken rib. That's what happens

when old (!) ladies do such stupid exercises to get rid of their fat behinds! Dussel had an eye infection and was sitting next to the

stove dabbing his eye with camomile tea. Pim, seated in the one ray of sunshine coming through the window, kept having to move

his chair this way and that to stay out of the way. His rheumatism must have been bothering him because he

was slightly hunched

over and was keeping an eye on Mr. van Daan with an agonized expression on his face. He reminded me of those aged invalids yo

u

see in the poor-house. Peter was romping around the room with Mouschi, the cat, while Mother, Margot and I were peeling boiled

potatoes. When you get right down to it, none of us were doing our work properly, because we were all so busy watching Mr.

va

n

Daan.

Dussel has opened his dental practice. Just for fun, I'll describe the session with his very first patient.

Mother was ironing, and Mrs. van D., the first victim, sat down on a chair

in the middle of the room. Dussel, unpacking his case with

an air of

importance, asked for some eau de cologne, which could be used as a disinfectant, and vas

eline, which would have to do

for wax. He looked in Mrs. van D.'s mouth and found two teeth that made her wince with pain and utter incoherent cries every

time

he touched them. After a lengthy examination (lengthy as far as Mrs. van D. was concerned, since

it actually took no longer than two

minutes), Dussel began to scrape out a cavity. But

Mrs. van D. had no intention of letting him. She flailed her arms and legs

until

Dussel finally 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 much as you can with an instrument like that in your mouth), tried to remove it, but only managed to push it in

even farther. Mr. Dussel calmly observed the scene, his hands on his hips, while the rest of the audience roared with laughter. Of

course, that was very mean of us. If it'd been me, I'm sure I would have yelled even louder. After a great deal of squirming,

kicking,

screaming and shouting, Mrs. van D. finally managed to yank the thing out, and Mr. Dussel went on with his work as if nothing had

happened. He was so quick that Mrs. van D. didn't have time to pull any more shenanigans. But then, he had more help than he'

s

ever had before: no fewer than two assis tants; Mr. van D. and I performed our job well. The whole scene resembled one of those

engravings from the Middle Ages entitled

she

had to keep an eye on

appointment!

Yours, Anne

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

I'm sitting here nice and cozy in the front office, peering out through a chink in the heavy curtains. It's dusky, but there's just enough

light to write by.

It's really strange watching people walk past. They all seem to be in such a hurry that they nearly trip over their own feet. Those on

bicycles whiz by so fast I can't even tell who'

s

on the bike. The people in this neighborhood aren't particularly attractive to look at.

The children especially are so dirty you wouldn't want to touch them with a ten

-foot pole. Real slum kids with runny noses. I

can

hardly understand a word they say.

Yesterday afternoon, when Margot and I were taking a bath, I said,

kids

one by one as they walked by, stuck them in the tub, washed and mended their clothes and then. . .

But I'm babbling. There are also other things to look at cars, boats and the rain. I can hear the streetcar and the children

and I'm

enjoying myself.

Our thoughts are subject to as little change as we are. They're like a merry-go-round, turning from the Jews to food, from food to

politics. By the way, speaking of Jews, I saw two yesterday when I was peeking through the curtains. I felt as though I wer

e gazing

at one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It gave me such a funny feeling, as if I'd denounced them to the authorities and was now

spying on their misfortune.

Across from us is a houseboat. The captain lives there with his wife and children. He has a small yapping dog. We know the

little dog

only by its bark and by its tail, which we can see whenever it runs around the deck. Oh, what a shame, it's just started rain

ing and

most of the people are hidden under their umbrellas. All I can see are raincoats, and now and again the back of a stocking-capped

head. Actually, I don't even need to look. By now I can recognize the women at a glance: gone to fat from eating potatoes, dressed in

a red or green coat and worn-out shoes, a shopping bag dangling from their arms, with faces that are either grim or good-humored,

depending on the mood of their husbands.

Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

The

Annex

was

delighted

to

hear

that

we'll

all

be

receiving

an

extra

quarter

pound

of

butter

for

Christmas.

According

to

the

newspaper, everyone is entitled to half a pound, but they mean those lucky souls who get their ration books from the government,

not Jews in hiding like us who can only afford to buy four rather than eight ration books on the black market. Each of us is

going to

bake something with the butter. This morning I made two cakes and a batch of cookies. It's very busy upstairs, and Mother

has

informed me that I'm not to do any studying or reading until all the household chores have been finished.

Mrs.

van

Daan

is

lying

in

bed

nursing

her

bruised

rib.

She

complains

all

day

long,

constantly

demands

that

the

bandages

be

changed and is generally dissatisfied with everything. I'll be glad when she gets back on her feet and can clean up after herself

because, I must admit, she's extraordinarily hardworking and neat, and as long as she'

s

in good physical and mental condition, she's

quite cheerful.

As if I don't hear

with the idea of saying

,

and the next time he shushes me, I'm going to shush him right back.

He gets more exasperating and egotistical as the days go by. Except for the first week, I haven't seen even one of the cookies he so

generously promised me. He'

s

partic ularly infuriating on Sundays, when he switches on the light at the crack of dawn to exer

cise for

ten minutes.

To me, the torment seems to last for hours, since the chairs I use to make my bed longer are constantly being jiggled under my

sleepy

head.

After

rounding

off

his

limbering-up

exercises

with

a

few

vigorous

arm

swings,

His

Lordship

begins

dressing.

His

underwear is hanging on a hook, so first he lumbers over to get it and then lumbers back, past my bed. But his tie is on the table, so

once again he pushes and bumps his way past the chairs.

But I mustn't waste any more of your time griping about disgusting old men. It won't help matters anyway.

My plans for revenge, such

as unscrewing the lightbulb, locking the door and hiding his clothes, have unfortu nately had to be abandoned in the interest

s of

peace.

Oh, I'm becoming so sensible! We've got to be reasonable about everything we do here: studyi

ng, listen ing, holding our tongues,

helping others, being kind, making compromises and I don't know what else! I'm afraid my common sense, which was in short supply

to begin with, will be used up too quickly and I won't have any left by the time the war is over.

Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

This morning I was constantly interrupted, and as a result I haven't been able to finish a single thing I've begun.

We have a new pastime, namely, filling packages with powdered gravy. The gravy is one of Gies & Co.'s products. Mr. Kugler hasn't

been able to find anyone else to fill the packages, and besides, it's cheaper if we do the job. It's the kind of work they do

in prisons.

It's incredibly boring and makes us dizzy and giggly.

Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes.

They're allowed to take only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, they're robbed of these possessions on th

e way.

Families are torn apart; men, women and children are separated. Children come home from school to find that their parents have

disap peared. Women return from shopping to find their houses sealed, their famthes gone. The Christians in Holland are also living

in fear because their sons are being sent to Germany. Everyone is scared. Every night hundreds of planes pass over Holland on

their way to German cities, to sow their bombs on German soil. Every hour hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of people are being

killed in Russia and Africa. No one can keep out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though the

Allies are doing better, the end is nowhere in sight.

As for us, we're quite fortunate. Luckier than millions of people. It's quiet and safe here,

and we're using our money to buy

food.

We're so selfish that we talk about

every penny to help others when the war is over, to salvage whatever we can.

The children in this neighborhood run around in thin shirts and wooden shoes. They have no coats, no caps, no stockings and no

one to help them. Gnawing on a carrot to still their hunger pangs, they walk from their cold houses through cold streets to a

n even

colder classroom. Things have gotten so bad in Holland that hordes of children stop passersby in the streets to beg for a piece of

bread.

I could spend hours telling you about the suffering the war has brought, but I'd only make myself more miserable. All we can

do is

wait, as calmly as possible, for it to end. Jews and Christians alike are waiting, the whole world is waiting, and many are w

aiting for

death.

Yours, Anne

SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

I'm seething with rage, yet I can't show it. I'd like to scream, stamp my foot, give Mother a good shaking, cry and I don't know what

else because of the nasty words, mocking looks and accusations that she hurls at me day after day, piercing me like arrows fr

om a

tightly strung bow, which are nearly impossible to pull from my body. I'd like to scream at Mother, Margot, the van Daans, Dussel and

Father too:

pounding. Let me get away, away from everything, away from this world!

wounds they've inflicted on me. I couldn't bear their sympathy or their good-humored derision. It would only make me want to scream

even more.

Everyone thinks I'm showing off when I talk, ridiculous when I'm silent, insolent when I answer, cunning when I have a good idea,

lazy when I'm tired, selfish when I eat one bite more than I should, stupid, cowardly, calculating, etc., etc. All day long I hear nothing

but what an exasperating child I am, and although I laugh it off and pretend not to mind, I do mind. I wish I could ask God to give me

another personality, one that doesn't antagonize everyone.

But that's impossible. I'm stuck with the character I was born with,

and yet I'm sure I'm not a bad person. I do my best to please

everyone, more than they'd ever suspect in a million years. When I'm upstairs, I try to laugh it off because I don't want the

m to see

my troubles.

More than once, after a series of absurd reproaches, I've snapped at Mother:

your

hands of

me

--

I'm

a

hopeless

case.

Of

course,

she'd

tell me

not

to

talk

back and

virtually

ignore me

for

two

days.

Then

suddenly all would be forgotten and she'd treat me like everyone else.

It's impossible for me to be all smiles one day and venomous the next. I'd rather choose the golden mean, which isn't so gold

en, and

keep my thoughts to myself. Perhaps sometime I'll treat the others with the same contempt as they treat me. Oh, if only I could.

Yours, Anne

FRIDAY

, FEBRUARY 5, 1943

Dearest Kitty

,

Though it's been ages since I've written to you about the squabbles, there'

s

still no change. In the begin ning Mr. Dussel to

ok our

soon-forgotten clashes very seriously

, but now he's grown used to them and no longer tries to mediate.

Margot and Peter aren't exactly what you'd call

ore thumb,

and I'm always being told,

. Why don't you follow your sister'

s

example!

I confess that I have absolutely no desire to be like Margot. She's too weak-willed and passive to suit me; she lets herself be swayed

by others and always backs down under pressure. I want to have more spunk! But I keep ideas like these to myself. They'd only

laugh at me if I offered this in my defense.

During meals the air is filled with tension. Fortunately

, the outbursts are sometimes held in check by the

people

from the office who come up to have a cup of soup for lunch.

This afternoon Mr. van Daan again brought up the fact that Margot eats so little.

a mocking tone.

Mother, who always comes to Margot's defense, said in a loud voice,

Mrs. van D. turned red as a beet. Mr. van D. stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Still, we often have a good laugh. Not long ago Mrs. van D. was entertaining us with some bi

t of nonsense or another. She was

talking about the past, about how well she got along with her father and what a flirt she was.

father told me that if a gentleman ever got fresh, I was to say

, 'Remem ber, sir, that I'm a

lady

,' and he'd know what I meant.

our sides laughing, as if she'd told us a good joke.

Even Peter,

though he'

s

usually quiet, occasionally gives rise to hilarity

. He has the misfortune of adoring foreign words wi

thout

knowing what they mean. One afternoon we couldn't use the toilet because there were visitors in the office. Unable to wait, he went

to the bathroom but didn't flush the toilet. To warn us of the unpleasant odor, he tacked a sign to the bathroom door:

Of course, he meant

.

Y

ours, Anne

SA

TURDAY

, FEBRUARY 27, 1943

Dearest Kitty

,

Pim is expecting the invasion any day now. Churchill has had pneumonia, bu

t is gradually getting better. Gandhi, the champion of

Indian freedom, is on one of his umpteenth hunger strikes.

Mrs. van D. claims she's fatalistic. But who's the most afraid when the guns go off? None other than Petronella van Daan.

Jan brought along the episcopal letter that the bishops addressed to their parishioners. It was beautiful and inspiring.

Netherlands, stand up and take action. Each of us must choose our own weapons to fight for the freedom of our country

, our pe

ople

and our reli gion! Give

your help and support. Act now!

This is what they're preaching from the pulpit. Will it do any good? It's

definitely too late to help our fellow Jews.

Guess what's happened to us now? The owner of the building sold it without informing Mr. Kugler and Mr. Kleiman. One morning the

new

landlord

arrived

with

an

architect

to

look

the

place

over.

Thank

goodness

Mr.

Kleiman

was

in

the

office.

He

showed the

gentlemen all there was to see, with the exception of the Secret Annex. He claimed he'd left the key at home and the new owner

asked no further questions. If only he doesn't come back demanding to see the Annex. In that case, we'll be in big trouble!

Father emptied a card file for Margot and me and filled it with index cards that are blank on one s

ide. This is to become our reading

file, in which Margot and I are supposed to note down the books we've read, the author and the date. I've learned two new words:

There's a new division of butter and margarine. Each person is to get their portion on their own plate. The distribution is very unfair.

The van Daans, who always make breakfast for everyone, give themselves one and a half times more than they do us. My parents

are much too afraid of an argument to say anything, which is a shame, because I think people like that should always be given a

taste of their own medicine.

Y

ours, Anne

2009-07-30 21:28

THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

Mrs. van D. has a new nickname -- we've started calling her Mrs. Beaverbrook. Of course, that doesn't mean anything to you, so let

me

explain.

A

certain

Mr.

Beaverbrook

often

talks

on

the

English

radio

about

what

he

considers

to

be

the

far

too

lenient

bombardment

of

Germany.

Mrs.

van

Daan,

who

always

contradicts

everyone,

including

Churchill

and

the

news

reports,

is

in

complete agreement with Mr. Beaverbrook. So we thought it would be a good idea for her to be married to him, and since she was

flattered by the notion, we've decided to call her Mrs. Beaverbrook from now on.

We're getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent to Germany. That's bad for him but good for us becaus

e

the new one won't be famthar with the building. We're still afraid of the men who work in the warehouse.

Gandhi is eating again.

The black market is doing a booming business. If we had enough money to pay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves s

illy.

Our greengrocer buys potatoes from the

here, he makes a point of coming during lunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.

So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and cough with every breath we take. Everyone who comes upstairs

greets us with an

s

going to get sick.

I don't think Father has a very nice business. Noth ing but pectin and pepper. As long as you're in the food business, why no

t make

candy?

A veritable thunderstorm of words came crashing down on me again this morning. The air flashed with so many coarse expressions

that my ears were ringing with

Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

We had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were booming away until dawn. I still haven't gotten over my fe

ar of

planes and shooting, and I crawl into Father'

s

bed nearly every night for comfort. I know it sounds ch

ildish, but wait till it happens to

you! The ack-ack guns make so much noise you can't hear your own voice. Mrs. Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears

and said in a timid little voice,

It didn't seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark. I was shivering, as if I had a fever, and begged

Father to relight the candle. He was adamant: there was to be no light. Suddenly we heard a burst of machine-gun fire, and that'

s

ten

times worse than antiaircraft guns. Mother jumped out of bed and, to Pim's great annoyance, lit the candle. Her resolute answer to

his grumbling was,

Have I

told you any of

Mrs.

van D.'s other fears? I don't think so. To keep you up to date on the latest adventures in the Se

cret

Annex,

I should tell you this as well. One night Mrs. van D. thought she heard loud footsteps in the attic, and she was so

afraid of

burglars, she woke her husband. At that very same moment, the thieves disappeared, and the only sound Mr. van D. could hear w

as

the frightened pounding of his fatalistic wife's heart.

er husband.)

must have taken all our sausages and dried beans. And what about Peter? Oh, do you think Peter's still safe and sound in his bed?

Impossible. Mrs. van D. was too scared to sleep.

A few nights later the entire van Daan family was awakened by ghostly noises. Peter went to the attic with a flashlight and -- scurry,

scurry -- what do you think he saw running away? A whole slew of enormous rats!

Once we knew who the thieves were, we let Mouschi sleep in the attic and never saw our uninvited guests again. . . at least not at

night.

A few evenings ago (it was seven-thirty and still light), Peter went up to the loft to get some old newspapers. He had to h

old on tightly

to the trapdoor to climb down the ladder. He put down his hand without looking, and nearly fell off the ladder from shock and

pain.

Without realizing it, he'd put his hand on a large rat, which had bitten him in the arm. By the time he reached us, white as a sheet and

with his knees knocking, the blood had soaked through his pajamas. No wonder he was so shaken, since petting a rat isn't much

fun,

especially when it takes a chunk out of your arm.

Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

May

I introduce:

Mama Frank, the children'

s

advocate! Extra butter for

the

youngsters, the problems facing today's youth

--

you

name it, and Mother defends the younger generation. After a skirmish or two, she always gets her way.

One of the jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. A feast for Mouschi and Boche.

You haven't met Boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we went into hiding. She'

s

the warehouse and office cat,

who

keeps the rats at bay in the storeroom.

Her odd, political name can easily be explained. For a while the firm Gies & Co. had two cats: one for the warehouse and one for the

attic. Their paths crossed from time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. The warehouse cat was always the aggresso

r, while

the attic cat was ultimately the victor, just as in politics. So the warehouse cat was named the German, or

the

Englishman,

or

Sometime

after

that

they

got

rid of

Tommy,

but

Boche is

always

there

to

amuse

us when

we

go

downstairs.

VVe've eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I can't stand to look at them. Just thinking about them makes me sick.

Our evening serving of bread has been canceled.

Daddy just said that he'

s

not in a very cheerful mood. His eyes look so sad again, the poor man!

I can't tear myself away from the book A Knock at the Door by Ina Bakker Boudier. This family saga is extremely well written, but the

parts dealing with war, writers and the emancipation of women aren't very good. To be honest, these subjects don't i

nterest me

much.

Terrible bombing raids on Germany. Mr. van Daan is grouchy. The reason: the cigarette shortage.

The debate about whether or not to start eating the canned food ended in our favor.

I can't wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not very practical around the house. A pair of straw thongs that were

purchased for 6.50 guilders were worn down to the soles within a week. Maybe Miep will be able to scrounge up something on th

e

black market.

It's time to cut Father's hair. Pim swears that I do such a good job he'll never go to another barber after the war. If only I didn't nick his

ear so often!

Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943

My dearest Kitty,

Turkey's entered the war. Great excitement. Anxiously awaiting radio reports.

FRIDAY, MARCH 19, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

In less than an hour, joy was followed by disappoint ment. Turkey hasn't entered the war yet. It was only a cabinet minister

talking

about Turkey giving up its neu trality sometime soon. The newspaper vendor in Dam Square was s

houting

side!

Thousand-guilder notes are being declared invalid. That'll be a blow to the black marketeers and others like them, but e

ven more to

pe Ie in hiding and anyone else with money that can't be accounted for. To turn in a thousand

-guilder bill, you have to be able to

state how you came by it and provide proof. They can still be used to pay taxes, but only until next week. The fi

ve-hundred notes will

lapse at the same time. Gies & Co. still had some unaccounted-for thousand-guilder bills, which they used to pay their estimated

taxes for the coming years, so everything seems to be aboveboard.

Dussel has received an old-fashioned, foot-operated dentist'

s

drill. That means I'll probably be getting a thorough checkup soon.

Dussel is terribly lax when it comes to obeying the rules of the house. Not only does he write letters to his Charlotte, he's

also

carrying on a chatty correspondence with various other people. Margot, the Annex's Dutch teacher, has been correcting these letters

for him. Father has forbidden him to keep up the practice and Margot has stopped correcting the letters, but I think it won't

be long

before he starts up again.

The Fuhrer has been talking to wounded soldiers. We listened on the radio, and it was pathetic. The questions and answers wen

t

something like this:

This is an exact report of the hideous puppet show aired on the radio. The wounded seemed proud of their wounds -- the more the

better. One was so beside himself at the thought of shaking hands (I pres

ume he still had one) with the Fuhrer that he could barely

say a word.

I

happened

to

drop

Dussel'

s

soap

on

the

floor

and step on

it.

Now

there'

s

a

whole piece missing.

I've

already

asked

Father

to

compensate him for the damages, especially since Dussel only gets one bar of inferior wartime soap a month.

Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

Mother, Father, Margot and I were sitting quite pleasantly together last night when Peter suddenly came in and whispered in Father's

ear. I caught the words

Margot heard it too, but was trying to calm me down, since I'd turned white as chalk and was extremely nervous. The three of

us

waited while Father and Peter went downstairs. A minute or two later Mrs. van Daan came up from where she'd been listening to the

radio and told us that Pim had asked her to turn it off and tiptoe upstairs. But you know what happens when you're trying to be quiet

-- the old stairs creaked twice as loud. Five minutes later Peter and Pim, the color drained from their faces, appeared again to relate

their experiences.

They had positioned themselves under the staircase and waited. Nothing happened. Then all of a sudden they heard a couple of

bangs, as if two doors had been slammed shut inside the house. Pim bounded up the stairs, while Peter went to warn Dussel, who

finally

pre

sented

himself

upstairs,

though

not

without

kicking

up

a

fuss

and making

a

lot

of

noise.

Then

we

all

tiptoed

in

o

ur

stockinged feet to the van Daans on the next floor. Mr. van D. had a bad cold and had already gone to bed, so we gathered around

his

bedside

and

discussed

our suspicions in

a

whisper.

Every

time

Mr.

van

D.

coughed loudly,

Mrs.

van

D.

and

I

nearly

had

a

nervous fit. He kept coughing until someone came up with the bright idea of giving him codeine. His cough subsided immediately.

Once again we waited and waited, but heard nothing. Finally we came to the conclusion that the burglars had taken to their heels

when they heard footsteps in an otherwise quiet building. The problem now was that the chairs in the private office were neatly

grouped around the radio, which was tuned to England. If the burglars had forced the door and the air

-raid wardens were to notice it

and call the police, there could be very serious repercus sions. So Mr. van Daan got up, pulled on his coat and pants, put on his hat

and cautiously followed Father down the stairs, with Peter (armed with a heavy hammer, to be on the safe side) right behind him.

The ladies (including Margot and me) waited in suspense until the men returned five minutes later and reported that there was n

o

sign of any activity in the building. We agreed not to run any water or flush the toilet; but since everyone's stomach was churning

from all the tension, you can imagine the stench after we'd each had a turn in the bathroom.

Incidents like these are always accompanied by other disasters, and this was no exception. Number one: the Westertoren bells

stopped chiming, and I'd always found them so comforting. Number two: Mr. Voskuijlleft early last night, and we weren't sure if he'd

given Bep the key and she'

d

forgotten to lock the door.

But

that

was

of

little

importance

now.

The

night

had just

begun,

and

we still

weren't

sure

what

to

exp

ect.

We

were somewhat

reassured by the fact that between eight-fifteen -- when the burglar had first entered the building and put our lives in jeopardy, and

ten-thirty, we hadn't heard a sound. The more we thought about it, the less likely it seemed that a

burglar would have forced a door

so early in the evening, when there were still people out on the streets. Besides that, it occurred to us that the warehouse manager at

the Keg Company next door might still have been at work. What with the excitement and

the thin walls, it's easy to mistake the

sounds. Besides, your imagination often plays tricks on you in moments of danger.

So we went to bed, though not to sleep. Father and Mother and Mr. Dussel were awake most of the night, and I'm not exaggerati

ng

when I say that I hardly got a wink of sleep. This morning the men went downstairs to see if the outside door was still locked, bu

t all

was well!

Of course, we gave the entire office staff a blow-by-blow account of the incident, which had been far from pleasant. It's much easier

to laugh at these kinds of things after they've happened, and Bep was the only one who took us seriously.

Yours, Anne

PS. This morning the toilet was clogged, and Father had to stick in a long wooden pole and fish out several pounds of e

xcrement

and strawberry recipes (which is what we use for toilet paper these days). Afterward we burned the pole.

SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

We've finished our shorthand course and are now working on improving our speed. Aren't we smart! Let m

e tell you more about my

o we are

that much closer to the end of our time here). I adore mythology, espe cially the Greek and Roman

gods. Everyone here thinks my

interest is just a passing fancy, since they've never heard of a teenager with an appreciation of mythology. Well then, I gue

ss I'm the

first!

Mr. van Daan has a cold. Or rather, he has a scratchy throat, but he's making an e

normous to-do over it. He gargles with camomile

tea, coats the roof of his mouth with a tincture of myrrh and rubs Mentholatum over his chest, nose, gums and tongue. And to top it

off, he's in a foul mood!

Rauter, some German bigwig, recently gave a speech.

province of Utrecht will be cleansed of Jews [as if they were cockroaches] between April 1 and May 1, and the provinces of No

rth

and South Holland between May 1 and June 1.

e poor people are being shipped off to filthiy slaughterhouses like a herd of sick

and neglected cattle. But I'll say no more on the subject. My own thoughts give me nightmares!

One good piece of news is that the Labor Exchange was set on fire in an act of sabotage. A few days later the County Clerk's Office

also

went

up

in

flames.

Men

posing as

German

police bound

and gagged

the

guards

and managed

to destroy

some

important

documents.

Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

I'm not really in the mood for pranks (see the date).

On the contrary, today I can safely quote the saying

Mr. Kleiman, our merry sunshine,

had

another bout of gastrointestinal hemorrhaging yesterday and will have to stay in bed for at le

ast three weeks. I should tell you that his

stomach has been bothering him quite a bit, and there'

s

no cure. Second, Bep has the flu. Third, Mr. Voskuijl has to go to th

e hospital

next week. He probably has an ulcer and will have to undergo surgery. Fourth

, the managers of Pomosin Industries came from

Frankfurt to discuss the new Opekta deliveries. Father had gone yer the important points with Mr. Kleiman, and there wasn't e

nough

time to give Mr. Kugler a thor ough briefing.

The gentlemen arrived from Frankfurt, and Father was already shaking at the thought of how the talks would go.

there, if only I were downstairs,

r everything.'

Father's face cleared, and yesterday morning at ten-thirty Margot and Pim (two ears are better than one) took up their posts on the

floor. By noon the talks weren't finished, but Father was in no shape to continue his listen ing campaign. He

was in agony from

having to lie for hours in such an unusual and uncomfortable position. At two

-thirty we heard voices in the hall, and I took his place;

Margot kept me company. The conversation was so long-winded and boring that I suddenly fell asleep on the cold, hard linoleum.

Margot didn't dare touch me for fear they'd hear us, and of course she couldn't shout. I slept for a good half hour and then

awoke

with a start, having forgotten every word of the important discussion. Luckily, Margot had paid more attention.

Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

Oh my, another item has been added to my list of sins. Last night~ was lying in bed, waiting for Father to tuck me in an say

my

prayers with me, when Mother came into the room, sat on my bed and asked very gently,

listen to your prayers tonight?

Mother got up, stood beside my bed for a moment and then slowly walked toward the door. Suddenly she turned, her face contort

ed

with pain, and said,

the door.

I lay still, thinking how mean it was of me to reject her so cruelly, but I also knew that I was incapable of answering her

any other way.

I can't be a hypocrite and pray with her when I don't feel like it. It just doesn't work that way. I felt sorry for Mother -- very, very sorry --

because for the first time in my life I noticed she wasn't indifferent to my coldness. I saw the sorrow in her face when she talked

about not being able to make me love her. It's hard to tell the truth, and yet the truth is that she's the one who's rejected

me. She's

the one whose tactless comments and cruel jokes about matters I don't think are funny have made me insensitive to any sign of love

on her part. Just as my heart sinks every time I hear her harsh words, that's how her heart sank when she realized there was

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:

Everyone expects me to apologize, but this is not something I can apologize for, because I told the truth, and sooner or later Mothjr

was bound to find out anyway. I seem to be indifferent to Mother's tears and Father's glances, and I am, because both of them

are

now feeling what I've always felt. I can only feel sorry for Mother, who will have to figure out what her attitude should be all by herself.

For my part, I will continue to remain silent and aloof, and I don't intend to shrink from the truth, because the longer it's

postponed,

the harder it will be for them to accept it when they do hear it!

Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, APRIL 27, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

The house is still trembling from the aftereffects of the quarrels. Everyone is mad at everyone else: Mother and I, Mr. van D

aan and

Father,

Mother

and

Mrs.

van

D.

Terrific

atmosphere,

don't

you

think?

Once

again

Anne's

usual

list

of

shortcomings

has

been

extensively aired.

Our German visitors were back last Saturday. They stayed until six. We all sat upstairs, not daring to move an inch. If there

's no one

else working in the building or in the neighborhood, you can hear every single step in the private office. I've got ants in my pants

again from having to sit still so long.

Mr. Voskuijl has been hospitalized, but Mr. Kleiman'

s

back at the office. His stomach stopped bleeding sooner than it normall

y does.

He told us that the County Clerk's Office took an extra beating because the firemen flooded the entire building instead of just putting

out the fire. That does my heart good!

The Carlton Hotel has been destroyed. Two British planes loaded with firebom

bs landed right on top of the

German Officers' Club. The entire corner of Vijzelstraat and Singel has gone up in flames. The number of air strikes on German

cities is increasing daily. We haven't had a good night's rest in ages, and I have bags under my eyes from lack of sleep.

Our food is terrible. Breakfast consists of plain, unbuttered brea and ersatz coffee. For the last two weeks lunch has been e. spinach

or cooked lettuce with huge potatoes that have a rotten, sweetish taste. If you're trying to diet, the Annex is the place to be! Upstairs

they complain bitterly, but we don't think it's such a tragedy.

All the Dutch men who either fought or were mobilized in 1940 have been called up to work in prisoner

-of-war camps. I bet they're

taking this precaution because of the invasion!

Yours, Anne

SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

Yesterday was Dussel'

s

birthday. At first he acted as if he didn't want to celebrate it, but when Miep arrived with a large s

hopping bag

overflowing with gifts, he was as excited as

a little kid. His darling' 'Lotje

cognac, spice cake, flowers, oranges, chocolate, books and writing paper. He piled his presents on a table and displayed them

for

no fewer than three days, the silly old goat!

You mustn't get the idea that he's starving. We found bread, cheese, jam and eggs in his cupboard. It's absolutely disgraceful that

Dussel, whom we've treated with such kindness and whom we took in to save

from destruction, should stuff himself be

hind our

backs and not give us anything. After all, we've shared all we had with him! But what's worse, in our opinion, is that he'

s

s

o stingy

with respect to Mr. Kleiman, Mr. Voskuijl and Bep. He doesn't give them a thing. In Dussel's view the oranges tha

t Kleiman so badly

needs for his sick stomach will benefit his own stomach even more.

Tonight the guns have been banging away so much that I've already had to gather up my belongings four times. Today I packed a

suitcase Wl f;the stuff I'd need in case we had to flee, but as M ther correctly noted,

All of Holland is being punishe or the workers' strikes. Martial law has been declared, and everyone is going to get one less

butter

coupon. What naughty children.

I washed Mother's hair this evening, which is no easy task these days. We have to use a very sticky liquid cleanser because there's

no more shampoo. Besides that, Moms had a hard time combing her hair because the family comb has only ten teeth left.

Yours, Anne

SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943

When I think about our lives here, I usually come to the conclusion that we live in a paradise compared to the Jews who aren't in

hiding.

All

the

same,

later on,

when

everything

has

returned

to

normal,

I'll

probably

wonder how

we,

who always

lived

in

such

comfortable circumstances, could have

red

the dining table ever since we've been here. After so much use, it's hardly what you'd call spotless. I do my best to clean it, but since

the dishcloth was also purchased before we went into hiding and consists of more holes than cloth, it's a thankless task. The

van

Daans have been sleeping all winter long on the same flannel sheet, which can't be washed because detergent is

rationed and in

short supply. Besides, it's of such poor quality that it's practically useless. Father is walking around in frayed trousers, and his tie is

also showing signs of wear and tear. Mama'

s

corset snapped today and is beyond repair, while Margot is wearing a bra that's two

sizes too small, Mother and Margot have shared the same three undershorts the entire winter, and mine are so small they don't even

cover my stomach. These are all things that can be overcome, but I sometimes wonder: how can we, whose every possession, from

my underpants to Father's shaving brush, is so old and worn, ever hope to regain the position we had before the war?

SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1943

The Attitude of the Annex Residents Toward the War

Mr. van Daan. In the opinion of us all, this revered gentleman has great insight into politics. Nevertheless, he predicts we'll have to

stay here until the end of '43. That's a very long time, and yet it's possible to hold out until then. But who can assure us that this war,

which has caused nothing but pain and sorrow, will then be over? And that nothing will have happened to us and our helpers long

before that time? No one! That's why each and every day is filled with tension. Expectation and hope generate tension, as does fear

-- for example, when we hear a noise inside or outside the house, when the guns go off or when we read new

paper, since we're afraid our helpers might be forced to go into hiding themselves sometime. These days everyone is talking a

bout

having to hide. We don't know how many people are actually in hiding; of course, the number is relatively small compared to the

general population, but later on we'll no doubt be astonished at how many good people in Holland were willing to take Jews an

d

Christians, with or without money, into their homes. There're also an unbelievable number of people with false identity papers.

Mrs. van Daan. When this beautiful damsel (by her own account) heard that it was getting easier these days to obtain false IDs, she

immediately proposed that we 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 most ridiculous things, and her Putti is often exasperated. But that's not surprising, because one

day

Kerli

announces,

this

is allover,

I'm

going

to have

myself

baptized

and

the

next,

long

as

I

can

remember, I've

wanted to go to Jerusalem. I only feel at home with other jews!

Pim is a big optimist, but he always has his reasons.

Mr. Dussel makes up everything as he goes along, and anyone wishing to contradict His Majesty had better think twice. In Alfred

Dussel'

s

home his word is law, but that doesn't suit Anne Frank in the least.

What the other members of the Annex family think about the war doesn't matter. When it comes to politics, these four are the only

ones who count. Actually, only two of them do, but Madame van Daan and Dussel include themselves as well.

TUESDAY, MAY 18, 1943

Dearest Kit,

I recently witnessed a fierce dogfight between German and English pilots. Unfortunately, a couple of Allied airmen had to jump out of

their burning plane. Our milkman, who lives in Halfweg, saw four Canadians sitting along the side of the road, and one of them spoke

fluent Dutch. He asked the milkman if he had a light for his cigarette, and then told him the crew had consisted of six men. The pilot

had been burned to death, and the fifth crew member had hidden himself somewhere. The German Security Police came to pick up

the four remaining men, none of whom were injured. After parachuting out of a flaming plane, how can anyone have such presence

of mind?

Although it's undeniably hot, we have to light a fire every other day

to burn our vegetable peelings and garbage. We can't th

row

anything into trash cans, because the warehouse employees might see it. One small act of carelessness and we're done for!

All college students are being asked to sign an official statement to the effect that they

pprove

of the New Order.

refusing to sign will be sent to a German labor camp. What's to become of the youth of our country if they've all got to do h

ard labor

in Germany?

Last night the guns were making so much noise that Mother shut the window; I was in Pim's bed. Suddenly, right above our head

s,

we heard Mrs. van D. leap up, as if she'd been bitten by Mouschi. This was followed by a loud boom, which sounded as if a fir

ebomb

had landed beside my bed.

Pim switched on the lamp. I expected the room to burst into flames any minute. Nothing happened. We all rushed upstairs to see

what was going on. Mr. and Mrs.

van D. had seen a red glow through

the open window, and he thought there was a fire nearby,

while she was certain our house was ablaze. Mrs. van D. was already standing beside her bed with her knees knocking when the

boom came. Dussel stayed upstairs to smoke a cigarette, and we crawled back into bed. Less than fifteen minutes later the shooting

started again. Mrs. van D. sprang out of bed and went downstairs to Dussel' s room to seek the comfort she was unable to find

with

her spouse. Dussel welcomed her with the words

We burst into peals of laughter, and the roar of the guns bothered us no more; our fears had all been swept away.

Yours, Anne

SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

The poem Father composed for my birthday is too nice to keep to myself.

Since Pim writes his verses only in German, Margot volunteered to translate it into Dutch. See for yourself whether Margot hasn't

done herself proud. It begins with the usual summary of the year's events and then continues:

As youngest among us, but small no more,

Your life can be trying, for we have the chore

Of becoming your teachers, a terrible bore.

We know the ropes, we know the same.

Since time immemorial, always the same.

One's own shortcomings are nothing but fluff,

But everyone else'

s

are heavier stuff:

Faultfinding comes easy when this is our plight,

But it's hard for your parents, try as they might,

To treat you with fairness, and kindness as well;

Nitpicking'

s

a habit that's hard to dispel.

Men you're living with old folks, all you can do

Is put up with their nagging -- it's hard but it'

s

true.

The pill may be bitter, but down it must go,

For it's meant to keep the peace, you know.

The many months here have not been in vain,

Since wasting time noes against your Brain.

You read and study nearly all the day,

Determined to chase the boredom away.

The more difficult question, much harder to bear,

Is

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 many woes!

Margot had trouble getting the part about food to rhyme, so I'm leaving it out. But aside from that, don't you think it's a g

ood poem?

For the rest, I've been thoroughly spoiled and have received a number of lovely presents, including a big book on my favorite

subject,

Greek and Roman mythology. Nor can

I complain about the lack of candy; everyone had dipped into their last reserves. As the

Benjamin of the Annex, I got more than I deserve.

Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, JUNE 15, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

Heaps of things have happened, but I often think I'm boring you with my dreary chitchat and that

you'd just as soon have fewe

r

letters. So I'll keep the news brief.

Mr. Voskuijl wasn't operated on for his ulcer after all. Once the doctors had him on the operating table and opened him up, they saw

that he had cancer. It was in such an advanced stage that an operation was pointless. So they stitched him up again, kept him in the

hospital for three weeks, fed him well and sent him back home. But they made an unforgivable error: they told the poor man exactly

what 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. I feel very sorry for him and hate not being able to go out; otherwise, I'd visit him as often as I could and help take

his mind off matters. Now the good man can no longer let us know what's being said and done in the warehouse, which is a disaster

for us. Mr. Voskuijl was our greatest source of help and suppor when it came to safety measures. We miss him very much.

Next month it's our turn to hand over our radio to the authorities. Mr. Kleiman has a small set hidden in his home that he's giving us

to replace our beautiful cabinet radio. 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 authorities down on your heads. Of course, we'll put the

clandestine Jews and clandestine money?

All over the country people are trying to get hold of an old radio that they can hand over instead of their

It's true: as

the reports from outside grow worse and worse, the radio, with its wondrous voice, helps us not to lose heart and to keep telling

ourselves,

Yours, Anne

SUNDAY, JULY 11, 1943

Dear Kitty,

To get back to the subject of child-rearing (for the umpteenth time), let me tell you that I'm doing my best to be helpful, friendly and