The Diary of a Young Girl (23 page)

Jan: “You can say what you like, I just don’t believe it.”

Annex: “It’s always the same old story. No one wants to see the danger until it’s staring them in the face.”

Jan: “But you don’t know anything for sure. You’re just making an assumption.”

Annex: “Because we’ve already been through it all ourselves. First in Germany and then here. What do you think’s happening in Russia?”

Jan: “You shouldn’t include the Jews. I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on in Russia. The British and the Russians are probably exaggerating for propaganda purposes, just like the Germans.”

Annex: “Absolutely not. The BBC has always told the truth. And even if the news is slightly exaggerated, the facts are bad enough as they are. You can’t deny that
millions of peace-loving citizens in Poland and Russia have been murdered or gassed.”

I’ll spare you the rest of our conversations. I’m very calm and take no notice of all the fuss. I’ve reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, and I can’t do anything to change events anyway. I’ll just let matters take their course and concentrate on studying and hope that everything will be all right in the end.

Yours, Anne

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
8, 1944
¹⁴

Dear Kitty
,

I can’t tell you how I feel. One minute I’m longing for peace and quiet, and the next for a little fun. We’ve forgotten how to laugh—I mean, laughing so hard you can’t stop.

This morning I had “the giggles”; you know, the kind we used to have at school. Margot and I were giggling like real teenagers.

Last night there was another scene with Mother. Margot was tucking her wool blanket around her when suddenly she leapt out of bed and carefully examined the blanket. What do you think she found? A pin! Mother had patched the blanket and forgotten to take it out. Father shook his head meaningfully and made a comment about how careless Mother is. Soon afterward Mother came in from the bathroom, and just to tease her I said,
“Du bist doch eine echte Rabenmutter
.”
¹⁵

Of course, she asked me why I’d said that, and we told her about the pin she’d overlooked. She immediately
assumed her haughtiest expression and said, “You’re a fine one to talk. When you’re sewing, the entire floor is covered with pins. And look, you’ve left the manicure set lying around again. You never put that away either!”

I said I hadn’t used it, and Margot backed me up, since she was the guilty party.

Mother went on talking about how messy I was until I got fed up and said, rather curtly, “I wasn’t even the one who said you were careless. I’m always getting blamed for other people’s mistakes!”

Mother fell silent, and less than a minute later I was obliged to kiss her good-night. This incident may not have been very important, but these days everything gets on my nerves.

As I seem to be going through a period of reflection at the moment and letting my mind range over anything and everything, my thoughts have naturally turned to Father and Mother’s marriage. It has always been presented to me as an ideal marriage. Never a quarrel, no angry faces, perfect harmony, etc., etc.

I know a few things about Father’s past, and what I don’t know, I’ve made up; I have the impression that Father married Mother because he felt she would be a suitable wife. I have to admit I admire Mother for the way she assumed the role of his wife and has never, as far as I know, complained or been jealous. It can’t be easy for a loving wife to know she’ll never be first in her husband’s affections, and Mother did know that. Father certainly admired Mother’s attitude and thought she had an excellent character. Why marry anyone else? His ideals had been shattered and his youth was over. What kind of marriage has it turned out to be? No quarrels or differences of opinion—but hardly an ideal marriage. Father respects Mother and loves her, but not with the kind of
love I envision for a marriage. Father accepts Mother as she is, is often annoyed, but says as little as possible, because he knows the sacrifices Mother has had to make.

Father doesn’t always ask her opinion—about the business, about other matters, about people, about all kinds of things. He doesn’t tell her everything, because he knows she’s far too emotional, far too critical, and often far too biased. Father’s not in love. He kisses her the way he kisses us. He never holds her up as an example, because he can’t. He looks at her teasingly, or mockingly, but never lovingly. It may be that Mother’s great sacrifice has made her harsh and disagreeable toward those around her, but it’s guaranteed to take her even farther from the path of love, to arouse even less admiration, and one day Father is bound to realize that while, on the outside, she has never demanded his total love, on the inside, she has slowly but surely been crumbling away. She loves him more than anyone, and it’s hard to see this kind of love not being returned.

So should I actually feel more sympathy for Mother? Should I help her? And Father?—I can’t, I’m always imagining another mother. I just can’t.—How could I? She hasn’t told me anything about herself, and I’ve never asked her to. What do we know of each other’s thoughts? I can’t talk to her, I can’t look lovingly into those cold eyes, I can’t. Not ever!—If she had even one quality an understanding mother is supposed to have, gentleness or friendliness or patience or something, I’d keep trying to get closer to her. But as for loving this insensitive person, this mocking creature—it’s becoming more and more impossible every day!

Yours, Anne

S
ATURDAY
, F
EBRUARY
12, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, there’s a magnificent breeze, and I’m longing—really longing—for everything: conversation, freedom, friends, being alone. I long … to cry! I feel as if I were about to explode. I know crying would help, but I can’t cry. I’m restless. I walk from one room to another, breathe through the crack in the window frame, feel my heart beating as if to say, “Fulfill my longing at last …”

I think spring is inside me. I feel spring awakening, I feel it in my entire body and soul. I have to force myself to act normally. I’m in a state of utter confusion, don’t know what to read, what to write, what to do. I only know that I’m longing for something …

Yours, Anne

M
ONDAY
, F
EBRUARY
14, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

A lot has changed for me since Saturday. What’s happened is this: I was longing for something (and still am), but … a small, a very small, part of the problem has been resolved.

On Sunday morning I noticed, to my great joy (I’ll be honest with you), that Peter kept looking at me. Not in the usual way. I don’t know, I can’t explain it, but I suddenly had the feeling he wasn’t as in love with Margot as I used to think. All day long I tried not to look at him too much, because whenever I did, I caught him looking at me and then—well, it made me feel wonderful inside, and that’s not a feeling I should have too often.

Sunday evening everyone, except Pim and me, was clustered around the radio, listening to the “Immortal Music of the German Masters.” Dussel kept twisting and
turning the knobs, which annoyed Peter, and the others too. After restraining himself for half an hour, Peter asked somewhat irritably if he would stop fiddling with the radio. Dussel replied in his haughtiest tone,
“Ich mach’ das schon!”
¹⁶
Peter got angry and made an insolent remark. Mr. van Daan sided with him, and Dussel had to back down. That was it.

The reason for the disagreement wasn’t particularly interesting in and of itself, but Peter has apparently taken the matter very much to heart, because this morning, when I was rummaging around in the crate of books in the attic, Peter came up and began telling me what had happened. I didn’t know anything about it, but Peter soon realized he’d found an attentive listener and started warming up to his subject.

“Well, it’s like this,” he said. “I don’t usually talk much, since I know beforehand I’ll just be tongue-tied. I start stuttering and blushing and I twist my words around so much I finally have to stop, because I can’t find the right words. That’s what happened yesterday. I meant to say something entirely different, but once I started, I got all mixed up. It’s awful. I used to have a bad habit, and sometimes I wish I still did: whenever I was mad at someone, I’d beat them up instead of arguing with them. I know this method won’t get me anywhere, and that’s why I admire you. You’re never at a loss for words: you say exactly what you want to say and aren’t in the least bit shy.”

“Oh, you’re wrong about that,” I replied. “Most of what I say comes out very differently from the way I’d planned. Plus I talk too much and too long, and that’s just as bad.”

“Maybe, but you have the advantage that no one can see you’re embarrassed. You don’t blush or go to pieces.”

I couldn’t help being secretly amused at his words. However, since I wanted him to go on talking quietly about himself, I hid my laughter, sat down on a cushion on the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees and gazed at him intently.

I’m glad there’s someone else in this house who flies into the same rages as I do. Peter seemed relieved that he could criticize Dussel without being afraid I’d tell. As for me, I was pleased too, because I sensed a strong feeling of fellowship, which I only remember having had with my girlfriends.

Yours, Anne

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
15, 1944

The minor run-in with Dussel had several repercussions, for which he had only himself to blame. Monday evening Dussel came in to see Mother and told her triumphantly that Peter had asked him that morning if he’d slept well, and then added how sorry he was about what had happened Sunday evening—he hadn’t really meant what he’d said. Dussel assured him he hadn’t taken it to heart. So everything was right as rain again. Mother passed this story on to me, and I was secretly amazed that Peter, who’d been so angry at Dussel, had humbled himself, despite all his assurances to the contrary.

I couldn’t refrain from sounding Peter out on the subject, and he instantly replied that Dussel had been lying. You should have seen Peter’s face. I wish I’d had a camera. Indignation, rage, indecision, agitation and much more crossed his face in rapid succession.

That evening Mr. van Daan and Peter really told
Dussel off. But it couldn’t have been all that bad, since Peter had another dental appointment today.

Actually, they never wanted to speak to each other again.

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
16, 1944

Peter and I hadn’t talked to each other all day, except for a few meaningless words. It was too cold to go up to the attic, and anyway, it was Margot’s birthday. At twelve-thirty he came to look at the presents and hung around chatting longer than was strictly necessary, something he’d never have done otherwise. But I got my chance in the afternoon. Since I felt like spoiling Margot on her birthday, I went to get the coffee, and after that the potatoes. When I came to Peter’s room, he immediately took his papers off the stairs, and I asked if I should close the trapdoor to the attic.

“Sure,” he said, “go ahead. When you’re ready to come back down, just knock and I’ll open it for you.”

I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching around in the barrel for the smallest potatoes. My back started aching, and the attic was cold. Naturally, I didn’t bother to knock but opened the trapdoor myself. But he obligingly got up and took the pan out of my hands.

“I did my best, but I couldn’t find any smaller ones.”

“Did you look in the big barrel?”

“Yes, I’ve been through them all.”

By this time I was at the bottom of the stairs, and he examined the pan of potatoes he was still holding. “Oh, but these are fine,” he said, and added, as I took the pan from him, “My compliments!”

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, but since he couldn’t make a long complimentary speech, he said everything with his eyes. I understood him so well and was very grateful. It still makes me happy to think back to those words and that look!

When I went downstairs, Mother said she needed more potatoes, this time for dinner, so I volunteered to go back up. When I entered Peter’s room, I apologized for disturbing him again. As I was going up the stairs, he stood up, went over to stand between the stairs and the wall, grabbed my arm and tried to stop me.

“I’ll go,” he said. “I have to go upstairs anyway.”

I replied that it wasn’t really necessary, that I didn’t have to get only the small ones this time. Convinced, he let go of my arm. On my way back, he opened the trapdoor 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 his lessons. Then I went to wash my hands and sat down across from him on the divan.

After I’d explained some French to him, we began to talk. He told me that after the war he wanted to go to the Dutch East Indies and live on a rubber plantation. He talked about his life at home, the black market and how he felt like a worthless bum. I told him he had a big inferiority complex. He talked about the war, saying that Russia and England were bound to go to war against each other, and about the Jews. He said life would have been much easier if he’d been a Christian or could become one after the war. I asked if he wanted to be baptized, but that wasn’t what he meant either. He said he’d never be able to feel like a Christian, but that after the war he’d make sure nobody would know he was Jewish. I felt a momentary pang. It’s such a shame he still has a touch of dishonesty in him.

Peter added, “The Jews have been and always will be the chosen people!”

I answered, “Just this once, I hope they’ll be chosen for something good!”