Anne Frank's Tales from the Secret Annex (2 page)

T
HE NICEST SPECTACLE
I’ve ever seen here took place today: Mother was ironing and Mrs van Daan was scheduled for a dental appointment. Dussel began unpacking his case with an air of importance (it was the first time he’d worked on anyone here), and he needed some eau-de-Cologne, which could be used as a disinfectant, and Vaseline, which would have to do for wax. Mrs van D. sat down, and he started looking in her mouth, but every time he touched a tooth, the poor woman flinched and uttered incoherent cries. 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 further. 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, she finally managed to yank the thing out, and Mr Dussel calmly 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 assistants; Mr van D. and I performed our job well. The whole scene resembled one of those engravings from the Middle Ages, the kind showing a quack at work. In the meantime, however, the patient was getting restless, since she had to keep an eye on ‘her’ soup and ‘her’ food. One thing is certain: Mrs van D. will never make another dental appointment!

Wednesday, 8 December 1942

M
R
VAN
D
AAN
had a large amount of meat. Today he wanted to make bratwurst and sausages, and tomorrow mettwurst. It’s fun watching him put the meat through the mincer: once, twice, three times. Then he adds all kinds of ingredients to the meat and uses a long pipe, which he attaches to the mincer, to force it into the casings. We ate the bratwurst with sauerkraut (served with onions and potatoes) for lunch, but the sausages were hung to dry over a pole suspended from the ceiling. Everyone who came into the room burst into laughter when they saw those dangling sausages. It was such a comical sight.

The place was a shambles. Mr van Daan, clad in his wife’s apron and looking fatter than ever, was
concentrating
his hefty form on the meat. What with his bloody hands, red face and apron, he really looked like a butcher. Mrs van D. was trying to do everything at once: learn Dutch, cook, watch, sigh, moan – she claims to have broken a rib. That’s what happens when you do such
stupid physical exercises. Dussel had an eye infection and was sitting next to the stove dabbing his eye with chamomile tea. Pim, seated in the sunshine, kept having to move his chair this way and that to stay out of the way. His back must have been bothering him, because he was sitting slightly hunched over with an agonized expression on his face. He reminded me of those aged invalids you see in the poorhouse. Peter was romping around the room with the cat, holding out a piece of meat and then running off with the meat still in his hands. Mother, Margot and I were peeling potatoes. When you get right down to it, none of us was doing our work properly, because we were all so busy watching Mr van Daan.

Friday, 10 December 1942

W
E’RE
BEING PLAGUED
with yet another problem: Mouschi’s fleas. We didn’t know that people could be bitten by cat fleas, but they can.

Yesterday when I was upstairs I found a flea on my leg, ten minutes later when I was downstairs I nabbed another one, and last night when I was sitting on Dussel’s bed, I felt another one crawling down my leg, but the little pest slipped through my fingers – they’re incredibly fast. This morning I was getting dressed over by the cupboard when I saw another one of those wondrous creatures, walking along without a care in the world. A flea that walks as well as jumps is a new experience for me. I picked it up and squeezed as hard as I could, but Mr Flea hopped away again. Sighing, I got undressed and subjected my naked body and my clothes to a thorough examination until I finally found the flea in my knickers. A second later, it was off with his head.

Wednesday, 7 July 1943

D
O YOU REMEMBER
?
I’ve spent many a delightful hour talking about school, teachers, adventures and boys. Back when our lives were still normal, everything was so wonderful. That one year in the Lyceum was heaven to me: the teachers, the things I learned, the jokes, the prestige, the crushes, the admirers.

Do you remember?
When I came back from town that afternoon and found a package in the mailbox from ‘
un ami, R
’. It could only have come from Rob Cohen. Inside there was a brooch worth at least two and a half guilders. Ultra-modern. Rob’s father sold that kind of stuff. I wore it for two days, and then it broke.

Do you remember?
How Lies and I told on the class. We had a French test. I wasn’t having too much trouble with it, but Lies was. She copied my answers and I went over them to make corrections (on her test, I mean). She got a C+ and I got a C-, since thanks to my help she had got
some
things right, but both grades had been crossed out and replaced with a big fat F. Great indignation. We went
to Mr Premsela to explain what had happened, and at the end Lies said, ‘Yes, but the entire class had their books open under their desks!’ Mr Premsela promised the class that nobody would be punished if all those who had cheated would raise their hands. About ten hands went up – less than half the class, of course. A few days later Mr Premsela sprang the test on us again. Nobody would talk to Lies and me, and we were branded as snitches. I soon caved in under the pressure and wrote a long letter of apology to Class 1 L II, begging their forgiveness. Two weeks later all had been forgotten. The letter went something like this:

Do you remember?
How C.N.
*
told Rob Cohen in the tram, within earshot of Sanne Ledermann who passed it on to me, that Anne had a much prettier face than J.R., especially when she smiled. Rob’s answer was, ‘My, you’ve got big nostrils, C.!’

Do you remember?
How Maurice Coster was planning to present himself to Pim to ask his permission to see his daughter.

Do you remember?
How Rob Cohen and Anne Frank exchanged a flurry of letters when Rob was in hospital.

Do you remember?
How Sam Solomon always followed me on his bicycle and wanted to walk arm in arm with me.

Do you remember?
How A.W. kissed me on the cheek when I promised not to tell a soul about E.G. and him.

I hope that such happy, carefree schooldays will come again.

Undated

Y
ESTERDAY AFTERNOON
F
ATHER
gave me permission to ask Dussel whether he would please be so good as to allow me (see how polite I am?) to use the table in our room two afternoons a week, from four to five-thirty. I already sit there every day from two-thirty to four while Dussel takes a nap, but the rest of the time the room and table are out of bounds to me. It’s impossible to study next door in the afternoon, because there’s too much going on. Besides, Father sometimes likes to sit at the desk during the afternoon.

So it seemed like a reasonable request, and I asked Dussel very politely. What do you think the learned gentleman’s reply was? ‘No.’ Just plain ‘No!’

I was incensed and wasn’t about to let myself be put off like that. I asked him the reason for his ‘No’, but this didn’t get me anywhere. The gist of his reply was: ‘I have to study too, you know, and if I can’t do that in the afternoons, I won’t be able to fit it in at all. I have to finish the task I’ve set for myself; otherwise there’s no point in
starting. Besides, you aren’t serious about your studies. Mythology – what kind of work is that? Reading and knitting don’t count either. I use that table and I’m not going to give it up!’

I replied, ‘Mr Dussel, I do take my work seriously. I can’t study next door in the afternoons, and I would appreciate it if you would reconsider my request!’

Having said these words, the insulted Anne turned round and pretended the learned doctor wasn’t there. I was seething with rage and felt that Dussel had been incredibly rude (which he certainly had been) and that I’d been very polite.

That evening, when I managed to get hold of Pim, I told him what had happened and we discussed what my next step should be, because I had no intention of giving up and preferred to deal with the matter myself. Pim gave me a rough idea of how to approach Dussel, but cautioned me to wait until the next day, since I was in such a flap. I ignored this last piece of advice and waited for Dussel after I’d done the washing-up. Pim was sitting next door and that had a calming effect.

I began, ‘Mr Dussel, you seem to believe further discussion of the matter is pointless, but I beg you to reconsider.’

Dussel gave me his most charming smile and said, ‘I’m always prepared to discuss the matter, even though it’s already been settled.’

I went on talking, despite Dussel’s repeated interruptions. ‘When you first came here,’ I said, ‘we agreed that the room was to be shared by the two of us. If we were to
divide it fairly, you’d have the entire morning and I’d have the entire afternoon! I’m not asking for that much, but two afternoons a week does seem reasonable to me.’

Dussel leapt out of his chair as if he’d sat on a pin. ‘You have no business talking about your rights to the room. Where am I supposed to go? Maybe I should ask Mr van Daan to build me a cubbyhole in the attic. You’re not the only one who can’t find a quiet place to work. You’re always looking for a fight. If your sister Margot, who has more right to work space than you do, had come to me with the same request, I’d never even have thought of refusing, but you…’

And once again he brought up the business about the mythology and the knitting, and once again Anne was insulted. However, I showed no sign of it and let Dussel finish: ‘But no, it’s impossible to talk to you. You’re shamefully self-centred. No one else matters, as long as you get your way. I’ve never seen such a child. But after all is said and done, I’ll be obliged to let you have your way, since I don’t want people saying later on that Anne Frank failed her exams because Mr Dussel refused to relinquish 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, ‘Him and his lies. I’ll smack his ugly mug so hard he’ll go bouncing off the wall!’ But the next moment I thought, ‘Calm down, he’s not worth getting so upset about!’

At long last Mr Dussel’s fury was spent, and he left the room with an expression of triumph mixed with wrath, his coat pockets bulging with food.

I went running over to Father and recounted the entire story, or at least those parts he hadn’t been able to follow himself. Pim decided to talk to Dussel that very same evening, and they spoke for more than half an hour. They first discussed whether Anne should be allowed to use the table, yes or no. Father said that he and Dussel had dealt with the subject once before, at which time he’d professed to agree with Dussel because he didn’t want to contradict the elder in front of the younger, but that, even then, he hadn’t thought it was fair. Dussel felt I had no right to talk as if he were an intruder laying claim to everything in sight. But Father protested strongly, since he himself had heard me say nothing of the kind. And so the conversation went back and forth, with Father defending my ‘selfishness’ and my ‘pointless activities’ and Dussel grumbling the whole time.

Dussel finally had to give in, and I was granted the opportunity to work without interruption two afternoons a week. Dussel looked very sullen, didn’t speak to me for two days and made sure he occupied the table from five to five-thirty – all very childish, of course.

Anyone who’s so petty and pedantic at the age of
fifty-four
was born that way and is never going to change.

Tuesday, 13 July 1943