The Diary of a Young Girl (21 page)

I saw my face in the mirror, and it looked so different. My eyes were clear and deep, my cheeks were rosy, which they hadn’t been in weeks, my mouth was much softer. I looked happy, and yet there was something so sad in my expression that the smile immediately faded from my lips. I’m not happy, since I know Petel’s not thinking of me, and yet I can still feel his beautiful eyes gazing at me and his cool, soft cheek against mine … Oh, Petel, Petel, how am I ever going to free myself from your image? Wouldn’t anyone who took your place be a poor substitute? I love you, with a love so great that it simply couldn’t keep growing inside my heart, but had to leap out and reveal itself in all its magnitude.

A week ago, even a day ago, if you’d asked me, “Which of your friends do you think you’d be most likely to marry?” I’d have answered, “Sally, since he makes me feel good, peaceful and safe!” But now I’d cry, “Petel, because I love him with all my heart and all my soul. I surrender myself completely!” Except for that one thing: he may touch my face, but that’s as far as it goes.

This morning I imagined I was in the front attic with Petel, sitting on the floor by the windows, and after talking for a while, we both began to cry. Moments later I felt his mouth and his wonderful cheek! Oh, Petel, come to me. Think of me, my dearest Petel!

W
EDNESDAY
, J
ANUARY
12, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

Bep’s been back for the last two weeks, though her sister won’t be allowed back at school until next week. Bep herself spent two days in bed with a bad cold. Miep and Jan were also out for two days, with upset stomachs.

I’m currently going through a dance and ballet craze and am diligently practicing my dance steps every evening. I’ve made an ultramodern dance costume out of a lacy lavender slip belonging to Momsy. Bias tape is threaded through the top and tied just above the bust. A pink corded ribbon completes the ensemble. I tried to turn my tennis shoes into ballet slippers, but with no success. My stiff limbs are well on the way to becoming as limber as they used to be. A terrific exercise is to sit on the floor, place a heel in each hand and raise both legs in the air. I have to sit on a cushion, because otherwise my poor backside really takes a beating.

Everyone here is reading a book called
Salute to Freedom
. Mother thought it was extremely good because it describes a number of adolescent problems. I thought to myself, a bit ironically, “Why don’t you take more interest in your own adolescents first!”

I think Mother believes that Margot and I have a better relationship with our parents than anyone in the whole wide world, and that no mother is more involved in the lives of her children than she is. She must have my sister in mind, since I don’t believe Margot has the same
problems and thoughts as I do. Far be it from me to point out to Mother that one of her daughters is not at all what she imagines. She’d be completely bewildered, and anyway, she’d never be able to change; I’d like to spare her that grief, especially since I know that everything would remain the same. Mother does sense that Margot loves her much more than I do, but she thinks I’m just going through a phase.

Margot’s gotten much nicer. She seems a lot different than she used to be. She’s not nearly as catty these days and is becoming a real friend. She no longer thinks of me as a little kid who doesn’t count.

It’s funny, but I can sometimes see myself as others see me. I take a leisurely look at the person called “Anne Frank” and browse through the pages of her life as though she were a stranger.

Before I came here, when I didn’t think about things as much as I do now, I occasionally had the feeling that I didn’t belong to Momsy, Pim and Margot and that I would always be an outsider. I sometimes went around for six months at a time pretending I was an orphan. Then I’d chastise myself for playing the victim, when really, I’d always been so fortunate. After that I’d force myself to be friendly for a while. Every morning when I heard footsteps on the stairs, I hoped it would be Mother coming to say good morning. I’d greet her warmly, because I honestly did look forward to her affectionate glance. But then she’d snap at me for having made some comment or other and I’d go off to school feeling completely discouraged. On the way home I’d make excuses for her, telling myself that she had so many worries. I’d arrive home in high spirits, chatting nineteen to the dozen, until the events of the morning would repeat themselves and I’d leave the room with my schoolbag in my hand and a pensive look
on my face. Sometimes I’d decide to stay angry, but then I always had so much to talk about after school that I’d forget my resolution and want Mother to stop whatever she was doing and lend a willing ear. Then the time would come once more when I no longer listened for the steps on the stairs and felt lonely and cried into my pillow every night.

Everything has gotten much worse here. But you already knew that. Now God has sent someone to help me: Peter. I fondle my pendant, press it to my lips and think, “What do I care! Petel is mine and nobody knows it!” With this in mind, I can rise above every nasty remark. Which of the people here would suspect that so much is going on in the mind of a teenage girl?

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
15, 1944

My dearest Kitty
,

There’s no reason for me to go on describing all our quarrels and arguments down to the last detail. It’s enough to tell you that we’ve divided many things like meat and fats and oils and are frying our own potatoes. Recently we’ve been eating a little extra rye bread because by four o’clock we’re so hungry for dinner we can barely control our rumbling stomachs.

Mother’s birthday is rapidly approaching. She received some extra sugar from Mr. Kugler, which sparked off jealousy on the part of the van Daans, because Mrs. van D. didn’t receive any on her birthday. But what’s the point of boring you with harsh words, spiteful conversations and tears when you know they bore us even more?

Mother has expressed a wish, which isn’t likely to come true any time soon: not to have to see Mr. van Daan’s face for two whole weeks. I wonder if everyone who shares a house sooner or later ends up at odds with
their fellow residents. Or have we just had a stroke of bad luck? At mealtime, when Dussel helps himself to a quarter of the half-filled gravy boat and leaves the rest of us to do without, I lose my appetite and feel like jumping to my feet, knocking him off his chair and throwing him out the door.

Are most people so stingy and selfish? I’ve gained some insight into human nature since I came here, which is good, but I’ve had enough for the present. Peter says the same.

The war is going to go on despite our quarrels and our longing for freedom and fresh air, so we should try to make the best of our stay here.

I’m preaching, but I also believe that if I live here much longer, I’ll turn into a dried-up old beanstalk. And all I really want is to be an honest-to-goodness teenager!

Yours, Anne

W
EDNESDAY EVENING
, J
ANUARY
19, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

I (there I go again!) don’t know what’s happened, but since my dream I keep noticing how I’ve changed. By the way, I dreamed about Peter again last night and once again I felt his eyes penetrate mine, but this dream was less vivid and not quite as beautiful as the last.

You know that I always used to be jealous of Margot’s relationship with Father. There’s not a trace of my jealousy left now; I still feel hurt when Father’s nerves cause him to be unreasonable toward me, but then I think, “I can’t blame you for being the way you are. You talk so much about the minds of children and adolescents, but you don’t know the first thing about them!” I long for more than Father’s affection, more than his hugs and kisses. Isn’t it awful of me to be so preoccupied with
myself? Shouldn’t I, who want to be good and kind, forgive them first? I forgive Mother too, but every time she makes a sarcastic remark or laughs at me, it’s all I can do to control myself.

I know I’m far from being what I should; will I ever be?

Anne Frank

PS. Father asked if I told you about the cake. For Mother’s birthday, she received a real mocha cake, prewar quality, from the office. It was a really nice day! But at the moment there’s no room in my head for things like that.

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
22, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

Can you tell me why people go to such lengths to hide their real selves? Or why I always behave very differently when I’m in the company of others? Why do people have so little trust in one another? I know there must be a reason, but sometimes I think it’s horrible that you can’t ever confide in anyone, not even those closest to you.

It seems as if I’ve grown up since the night I had that dream, as if I’ve become more independent. You’ll be amazed when I tell you that even my attitude toward the van Daans has changed. I’ve stopped looking at all the discussions and arguments from my family’s biased point of view. What’s brought on such a radical change? Well, you see, I suddenly realized that if Mother had been different, if she’d been a real mom, our relationship would have been very, very different. Mrs. van Daan is by no means a wonderful person, yet half the arguments could have been avoided if Mother hadn’t been so hard to deal with every time they got onto a tricky subject. Mrs. van Daan does have one good point, though: you can talk to
her. She may be selfish, stingy and underhanded, but she’ll readily back down as long as you don’t provoke her and make her unreasonable. This tactic doesn’t work every time, but if you’re patient, you can keep trying and see how far you get.

All the conflicts about our upbringing, about not pampering children, about the food—about everything, absolutely everything—might have taken a different turn if we’d remained open and on friendly terms instead of always seeing the worst side.

I know exactly what you’re going to say, Kitty. “But, Anne, are these words really coming from your lips? From you, who have had to put up with so many unkind words from upstairs? From you, who are aware of all the injustices?”

And yet they are coming from me. I want to take a fresh look at things and form my own opinion, not just ape my parents, as in the proverb “The apple never falls far from the tree.” I want to reexamine the van Daans and decide for myself what’s true and what’s been blown out of proportion. If I wind up being disappointed in them, I can always side with Father and Mother. But if not, I can try to change their attitude. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to stick with my own opinions and judgment. I’ll take every opportunity to speak openly to Mrs. van D. about our many differences and not be afraid—despite my reputation as a smart aleck—to offer my impartial opinion. I won’t say anything negative about my own family, though that doesn’t mean I won’t defend them if somebody else does, and as of today, my gossiping is a thing of the past.

Up to now I was absolutely convinced that the van Daans were entirely to blame for the quarrels, but now I’m sure the fault was largely ours. We were right as far as
the issues were concerned, but intelligent people (such as ourselves!) should have more insight into how to deal with others.

I hope I’ve got at least a touch of that insight, and that I’ll find an occasion to put it to good use.

Yours, Anne

M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
24, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

A very strange thing has happened to me. (Actually, “happened” isn’t quite the right word.)

Before I came here, whenever anyone at home or at school talked about sex, they were either secretive or disgusting. Any words having to do with sex were spoken in a low whisper, and kids who weren’t in the know were often laughed at. That struck me as odd, and I often wondered why people were so mysterious or obnoxious when they talked about this subject. But because I couldn’t change things, I said as little as possible or asked my girlfriends for information.

After I’d learned quite a lot, Mother once said to me, “Anne, let me give you some good advice. Never discuss this with boys, and if they bring it up, don’t answer them.”

I still remember my exact reply. “No, of course not,” I exclaimed. “Imagine!” And nothing more was said.

When we first went into hiding, Father often told me about things I’d rather have heard from Mother, and I learned the rest from books or things I picked up in conversations.

Peter van Daan wasn’t ever as obnoxious about this subject as the boys at school. Or maybe just once or twice, in the beginning, though he wasn’t trying to get me to talk. Mrs. van Daan once told us she’d never
discussed these matters with Peter, and as far as she knew, neither had her husband. Apparently she didn’t even know how much Peter knew or where he got his information.

Yesterday, when Margot, Peter and I were peeling potatoes, the conversation somehow turned to Boche. “We’re still not sure whether Boche is a boy or a girl, are we?” I asked.

“Yes we are,” he answered. “Boche is a tomcat.”

I began to laugh. “Some tomcat if he’s pregnant.”

Peter and Margot joined in the laughter. You see, a month or two ago Peter informed us that Boche was sure to have kittens before long, because her stomach was rapidly swelling. However, Boche’s fat tummy turned out to be due to a bunch of stolen bones. No kittens were growing inside, much less about to be born.

Peter felt called upon to defend himself against my accusation. “Come with me. You can see for yourself. I was horsing around with the cat one day, and I could definitely see it was a ‘he.’”

Unable to restrain my curiosity, I went with him to the warehouse. Boche, however, wasn’t receiving visitors at that hour, and was nowhere in sight. We waited for a while, but when it got cold, we went back upstairs.

Later that afternoon I heard Peter go downstairs for the second time. I mustered the courage to walk through the silent house by myself and reached the warehouse. Boche was on the packing table, playing with Peter, who was getting ready to put him on the scale and weigh him.