The Diary of a Young Girl (25 page)

Early this morning Peter knocked at our door to tell us that the front door was wide open and that the projector and Mr. Kugler’s new briefcase had disappeared from the closet. Peter was instructed to lock the door. Mr. van Daan told us his discoveries of the night before, and we were extremely worried.

The only explanation is that the burglar must have had a duplicate key, since there were no signs of a forced entry. He must have sneaked in early in the evening, shut the door behind him, hidden himself when he heard Mr. van Daan, fled with the loot after Mr. van Daan went upstairs and, in his hurry, not bothered to shut the door.

Who could have our key? Why didn’t the burglar go
to the warehouse? Was it one of our own warehouse employees, and will he turn us in, now that he’s heard Mr. van Daan and maybe even seen him?

It’s really scary, since we don’t know whether the burglar will take it into his head to try and get in again. Or was he so startled when he heard someone else in the building that he’ll stay away?

Yours, Anne

PS. We’d be delighted if you could hunt up a good detective for us. Obviously, there’s one condition: he must be relied upon not to inform on people in hiding.

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
2, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

Margot and I were in the attic together today. I can’t enjoy being there with her the way I imagine it’d be with Peter (or someone else). I know she feels the same about most things as I do!

While doing the dishes, Bep began talking to Mother and Mrs. van Daan about how discouraged she gets. What help did those two offer her? Our tactless mother, especially, only made things go from bad to worse. Do you know what her advice was? That she should think about all the other people in the world who are suffering! How can thinking about the misery of others help if you’re miserable yourself? I said as much. Their response, of course, was that I should stay out of conversations of this sort.

The grown-ups are such idiots! As if Peter, Margot, Bep and I didn’t all have the same feelings. The only thing that helps is a mother’s love, or that of a very, very close friend. But these two mothers don’t understand the first thing about us! Perhaps Mrs. van Daan does, a bit more than Mother. Oh, I wish I could have said something to
poor Bep, something that I know from my own experience would have helped. But Father came between us, pushing me roughly aside. They’re all so stupid!

I also talked to Margot about Father and Mother, about how nice it could be here if they weren’t so aggravating. We’d be able to organize evenings in which everyone could take turns discussing a given subject. But we’ve already been through all that. It’s impossible for me to talk here! Mr. van Daan goes on the offensive, Mother gets sarcastic and can’t say
anything
in a normal voice, Father doesn’t feel like taking part, nor does Mr. Dussel, and Mrs. van D. is attacked so often that she just sits there with a red face, hardly able to put up a fight anymore. And what about us? We aren’t allowed to have an opinion! My, my, aren’t they progressive! Not have an opinion! People can tell you to shut up, but they can’t keep you from having an opinion. You can’t forbid someone to have an opinion, no matter how young they are! The only thing that would help Bep, Margot, Peter and me would be great love and devotion, which we don’t get here. And no one, especially not the idiotic sages around here, is capable of understanding us, since we’re more sensitive and much more advanced in our thinking than any of them ever suspect!

Love, what is love? I don’t think you can really put it into words. Love is understanding someone, caring for him, sharing his joys and sorrows. This eventually includes physical love. You’ve shared something, given something away and received something in return, whether or not you’re married, whether or not you have a baby. Losing your virtue doesn’t matter, as long as you know that for as long as you live you’ll have someone at your side who understands you, and who doesn’t have to be shared with anyone else!

Yours, Anne M. Frank

At the moment, Mother’s grouching at me again; she’s clearly jealous because I talk to Mrs. van Daan more than to her. What do I care!

I managed to get hold of Peter this afternoon, and we talked for at least forty-five minutes. He wanted to tell me something about himself, but didn’t find it easy. He finally got it out, though it took a long time. I honestly didn’t know whether it was better for me to stay or to go. But I wanted so much to help him! I told him about Bep and how tactless our mothers are. He told me that his parents fight constantly, about politics and cigarettes and all kinds of things. As I’ve told you before, Peter’s very shy, but not too shy to admit that he’d be perfectly happy not to see his parents for a year or two. “My father isn’t as nice as he looks,” he said. “But in the matter of the cigarettes, Mother’s absolutely right.”

I also told him about my mother. But he came to Father’s defense. He thought he was a “terrific guy.”

Tonight when I was hanging up my apron after doing the dishes, he called me over and asked me not to say anything downstairs about his parents’ having had another argument and not being on speaking terms. I promised, though I’d already told Margot. But I’m sure Margot won’t pass it on.

“Oh no, Peter,” I said, “you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve learned not to blab everything I hear. I never repeat what you tell me.”

He was glad to hear that. I also told him what terrible gossips we are, and said, “Margot’s quite right, of course, when she says I’m not being honest, because as much as I want to stop gossiping, there’s nothing I like better than discussing Mr. Dussel.”

“It’s good that you admit it,” he said. He blushed, and his sincere compliment almost embarrassed me too.

Then we talked about “upstairs” and “downstairs” some more. Peter was really rather surprised to hear that we don’t like his parents. “Peter,” I said, “you know I’m always honest, so why shouldn’t I tell you this as well? We can see their faults too.”

I added, “Peter, I’d really like to help you. Will you let me? You’re caught in an awkward position, and I know, even though you don’t say anything, that it upsets you.”

“Oh, your help is always welcome!”

“Maybe it’d be better for you to talk to Father. You can tell him anything, he won’t pass it on.”

“I know, he’s a real pal.”

“You like him a lot, don’t you?”

Peter nodded, and I continued, “Well, he likes you too, you know!”

He looked up quickly and blushed. It was really touching to see how happy these few words made him. “You think so?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “You can tell from the little things he lets slip now and then.”

Then Mr. van Daan came in to do some dictating. Peter’s a “terrific guy,” just like Father!

Yours, Anne M. Frank

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
3, 1944

My dearest Kitty
,

When I looked into the candle tonight, I felt calm and happy again. It seems Grandma is in that candle, and it’s Grandma who watches over and protects me and makes me feel happy again. But … there’s someone else who governs all my moods and that’s … Peter. I went to get the potatoes today, and while I was standing
on the stairway with my pan full, he asked, “What did you do during the lunch break?”

I sat down on the stairs, and we began to talk. The potatoes didn’t make it to the kitchen until five-fifteen (an hour after I’d gone to get them). Peter didn’t say anything more about his parents; we just talked about books and about the past. Oh, he gazes at me with such warmth in his eyes; I don’t think it will take much for me to fall in love with him.

He brought the subject up this evening. I went to his room after peeling potatoes and remarked on how hot it was. “You can tell the temperature by looking at Margot and me, because we turn white when it’s cold and red when it’s hot,” I said.

“In love?” he asked.

“Why should I be in love?” It was a pretty silly answer (or, rather, question).

“Why not?” he said, and then it was time for dinner.

What did he mean? Today I finally managed to ask him whether my chatter bothered him. All he said was, “Oh, it’s fine with me!” I can’t tell how much of his reply was due to shyness.

Kitty, I sound like someone who’s in love and can talk about nothing but her dearest darling. And Peter is a darling. Will I ever be able to tell him that? Only if he thinks the same of me, but I’m the kind of person you have to treat with kid gloves, I know that all too well. And he likes to be left alone, so I don’t know how much he likes me. In any case, we’re getting to know each other a little better. I wish we dared to say more. But who knows, maybe that time will come sooner than I think! Once or twice a day he gives me a knowing glance, I wink
back, and we’re both happy. It seems crazy to talk about his being happy, and yet I have the overwhelming feeling he thinks the same way I do.

Yours, Anne M. Frank

S
ATURDAY
, M
ARCH
4, 1944

Dear Kitty
,

This is the first Saturday in months that hasn’t been tiresome, dreary and boring. The reason is Peter. This morning as I was on my way to the attic to hang up my apron, Father asked whether I wanted to stay and practice my French, and I said yes. We spoke French together for a while and I explained something to Peter, and then we worked on our English. Father read aloud from Dickens, and I was in seventh heaven, since I was sitting on Father’s chair, close to Peter.

I went downstairs at quarter to eleven. When I went back up at eleven-thirty, Peter was already waiting for me on the stairs. We talked until quarter to one. Whenever I leave the room, for example after a meal, and Peter has a chance and no one else can hear, he says, “Bye, Anne, see you later.”

Oh, I’m so happy! I wonder if he’s going to fall in love with me after all? In any case, he’s a nice boy, and you have no idea how good it is to talk to him!

Mrs. van D. thinks it’s all right for me to talk to Peter, but today she asked me teasingly, “Can I trust you two up there?”

“Of course,” I protested. “I take that as an insult!” Morning, noon and night, I look forward to seeing Peter.

Yours, Anne M. Frank

PS. Before I forget, last night everything was blanketed in snow. Now it’s thawed and there’s almost nothing left.

M
ONDAY
, M
ARCH
6, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

Ever since Peter told me about his parents, I’ve felt a certain sense of responsibility toward him—don’t you think that’s strange? It’s as though their quarrels were just as much my business as his, and yet I don’t dare bring it up anymore, because I’m afraid it makes him uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to intrude, not for all the money in the world.

I can tell by Peter’s face that he ponders things just as deeply as I do. Last night I was annoyed when Mrs. van D. scoffed, “The thinker!” Peter flushed and looked embarrassed, and I nearly blew my top.

Why don’t these people keep their mouths shut? You can’t imagine what it’s like to have to stand on the sidelines and see how lonely he is, without being able to do anything. I can imagine, as if I were in his place, how despondent he must sometimes feel at the quarrels. And about love. Poor Peter, he needs to be loved so much!

It sounded so cold when he said he didn’t need any friends. Oh, he’s so wrong! I don’t think he means it. He clings to his masculinity, his solitude and his feigned indifference so he can maintain his role, so he’ll never, ever have to show his feelings. Poor Peter, how long can he keep it up? Won’t he explode from this superhuman effort?

Oh, Peter, if only I could help you, if only you would let me! Together we could banish our loneliness, yours and mine!

I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, but not saying much. I’m happy when I see him, and happier still if the sun shines when we’re together. I washed my hair yesterday, and because I knew he was next door, I was very rambunctious. I couldn’t help it; the more quiet and serious
I am on the inside, the noisier I get on the outside! Who will be the first to discover the chink in my armor?

It’s just as well that the van Daans don’t have a daughter. My conquest could never be so challenging, so beautiful and so nice with someone of the same sex!

Yours, Anne M. Frank

PS. You know I’m always honest with you, so I think I should tell you that I live from one encounter to the next. I keep hoping to discover that he’s dying to see me, and I’m in raptures when I notice his bashful attempts. I think he’d like to be able to express himself as easily as I do; little does he know it’s his awkwardness that I find so touching.

T
UESDAY
, M
ARCH
7, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

When I think back to my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. The Anne Frank who enjoyed that heavenly existence was completely different from the one who has grown wise within these walls. Yes, it was heavenly. Five admirers on every street corner, twenty or so friends, the favorite of most of my teachers, spoiled rotten by Father and Mother, bags full of candy and a big allowance. What more could anyone ask for?

You’re probably wondering how I could have charmed all those people. Peter says it’s because I’m “attractive,” but that isn’t it entirely. The teachers were amused and entertained by my clever answers, my witty remarks, my smiling face and my critical mind. That’s all I was: a terrible flirt, coquettish and amusing. I had a few plus points, which kept me in everybody’s good graces: I was hardworking, honest and generous. I would never have refused anyone who wanted to peek at my answers, I was magnanimous with my candy, and I wasn’t stuck-up.

Would all that admiration eventually have made me overconfident? It’s a good thing that, at the height of my glory, I was suddenly plunged into reality. It took me more than a year to get used to doing without admiration.

How did they see me at school? As the class comedian, the eternal ringleader, never in a bad mood, never a crybaby. Was it any wonder that everyone wanted to bicycle to school with me or do me little favors?