جمعه بیست و نهم اکتبر 1943

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943

My dearest Kitty,

Mr. Kleiman is out again; his stomach won’t give him a moment’s peace. He doesn’t even know whether it’s stopped bleeding. He came to tell us he wasn’t feeling well and was going home, and for the first time he seemed really down. Mr. and Mrs. van D. have had more raging battles. The reason is simple: they’re broke. They wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of Mr. van D. ‘s, but were unable to find any buyers. His prices were way too high.

Some time ago Mr. Kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. This gave Mr. van D. the idea of selling his wife’s fur coat. It’s made of rabbit skin, and she’s had it for seventeen years. Mrs. van D. got 325 guilders for it, an enormous amount. She wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothes after the war, and it took some doing before Mr. van D. could make her understand that it was desperately needed to cover household expenses.

You can’t imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearing that went on. It was terrifying. My family stood holding its breath at the bottom of the stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. All the bickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain that I fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that I have half an hour to myself.

I’m doing fine, except I’ve got no appetite. I keep hearing: “Goodness, you look awful!” I must admit they’re doing their best to keep me in condition: they’re plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewer’s yeast and calcium. My nerves often get the better of me, especially on Sundays; that’s when I really feel miserable.

The atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, you don’t hear a single bird, and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over the house and clings to me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regions of the underworld. At times like these, Father, Mother and Margot don’t matter to me in the least.

I wander from room to room, climb up and down the stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and who keeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage. “Let me out, where there’s fresh air and laughter!” a voice within me cries. I don’t even bother to reply anymore, but lie down on the divan. Sleep makes the silence and the terrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time, since it’s impossible to kill it.

Yours, Anne

Saturday, October 30, 1943.

Dearest Kitty mother’s nerves are very much on edge and that doesn’t bode well for me. Is it just a coincidence that father and mother never schooled Margo and always blame me for everything? last night, For example, Margo is reading a book with beautiful illustrations. She got up and put the book aside for later. I wasn’t doing anything so I picked it up and began looking at the pictures, Margo came back saw her book in my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back.

I wanted to look through It’s more, Margo got madder by the minute and mother butted in. Margo was reading that book and give it back to her, father came in and without even knowing what was going on saw that Margo was being wronged and lashed out at me. I’d like to see what you do, if Margo was looking at one of your books.

I promptly gave and put the book down and according to them, left the room in a huff. It was neither huffy nor cross, but merely sad. It wasn’t right of father to pass judgment without knowing what the issue was. I would’ve given the book to Margo, myself and a lot sooner, if father and mother hadn’t intervened and rushed to take Margo’s part as if she was suffering some great injustice.

Of course Mother took Margo side they always take each other sides. I’m so used to it that I become completely indifferent to mothers rebukes and Margo’s moodiness, I love them but only because they’re mother and Margo. I don’t give a darn about them as people. As far as I’m concerned, they can go jump in a lake. It’s different with father when I see him being partial to Margo approving Margo’s every action praising her hugging her. I feel annoying ackee inside because I’m crazy about him. I model myself after father and there’s no one in the world I love more.

He doesn’t realize that he treats Margo differently than he does me. Margo just happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best but I have a right to be taken seriously too. I’ve always been the clown and mischief maker of the family. I’ve always had to pay double for my sins once was scolding’s and then again with my own sense of despair and no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks and long for something from father that he is incapable of giving I’m not jealous of Margo, I never have been. I’m not envious of her brains or her beauty. It’s just that I’d like to feel that father really loves me not because I’m his child, but because I’m me Anne I cling to father because my contempt of mother is growing daily and it’s only through him that I’m able to retain the last ounce of family feeling I have left. He doesn’t understand that I sometimes need to vent my feelings from other.

He doesn’t want to talk about it and he avoids any discussion involving mother’s failings and yet mother with all her shortcomings is tougher for me to deal with. I don’t know how I should act. I can’t very well confront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm in her heart heartedness, yet I can’t continue to take the blame for everything. I’m the opposite of mother. So of course we clash I don’t mean to judge her. I don’t have that right. I’m simply looking at her as a mother. She’s not a mother to me. I have to mother myself, I’ve cut myself adrift from them. I’m charting my own course and will see where it leads me, I have no choice because I can picture what a mother and a wife should be and can’t seem to find anything of the sort and the woman I’m supposed to call mother.

I tell myself time and again to overlook mother’s bad example. I only want to see her good points and to look inside myself for what’s lacking in her, but it doesn’t work and the worst part is that father and mother don’t realize their own inadequacies, and how much I blame them for letting me down. Are there any parents who can make their children completely happy?

Sometimes I think God is trying to test me, both now and in the future. I’ll have to become a good person on my own without anyone to serve as a model or advise me but it’ll make me stronger in the end.

Who else but me is ever going to read these letters? Who else but me can I turn to for comfort? I’m frequently in need of consolation, I often feel weak, and more often than not. I fail to meet expectations. I know this and every day I resolve to do better. They aren’t consistent in their treatment of me.

One day they say that Ann’s a sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that Anne is silly goose who doesn’t know a thing and yet imagine, she’s learned all she needs to know from books I’m no longer the baby and spoiled little darling. His every deed can be laughed at. I have my own ideas, plans and ideals, but am unable to articulate them yet.

Oh well. So much comes into my head at night when I’m alone or during the day when I’m obliged to put up with people I can abide or who invariably misinterpret my intentions. That’s why I always wind up coming back to my diary. I start there and then there because kiddies always patient. I promise her that despite everything, I’ll keep going that I’ll find my own way and took back my tears. I only wish I could see some results are just wants receive encouragement from someone who loves me. Don’t condemn me but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches the bursting point yours Anne.