سه شنبه بیستم ژوئن 1942

دوره: آن فرانک: خاطرات یک دختر جوان / درس 4

آن فرانک: خاطرات یک دختر جوان

86 درس

سه شنبه بیستم ژوئن 1942

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متن انگلیسی درس

SUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

Our entire class is quaking in its boots. The reason, of course, is the upcoming meeting in which the teachers decide who’ll be promoted to the next grade and who’ll be kept back. Half the class is making bets. G.Z. and I laugh ourselves sick at the two boys behind us, C.N. and Jacques Kocernoot, who have staked their entire vacation savings on their bet. From morning to night, it’s “You’re going to pass, No, I’m not,” “Yes, you are,” “No, I’m not.” Even G.’s pleading glances and my angry outbursts can’t calm them down. If you ask me, there are so many dummies that about a quarter of the class should be kept back, but teachers are the most unpredictable creatures on earth. Maybe this time they’ll be unpredictable in the right direction for a change. I’m not so worried about my girlfriends and myself.

We’ll make it. The only subject I’m not sure about is math. Anyway, all we can do is wait. Until then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart. I get along pretty well with all my teachers. There are nine of them, seven men and two women. Mr. Keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was mad at me for the longest time because I talked so much. After several warnings, he assigned me extra homework. An essay on the subject “A Chatterbox.” A chatterbox, what can you write about that? I’d wbrry about that later, I decided. I jotted down the assignment in my notebook, tucked it in my bag and tried to keep quiet. That evening, after I’d finished the rest of my homework, the note about the essay caught my eye. I began thinking about the subject while chewing the tip of my fountain pen. Anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words, but the trick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity of talking. I thought and thought, and suddenly I had an idea. I wrote the three pages Mr. Keesing had assigned me and was satisfied. I argued that talking is a female trait and that I would do my best to keep it under control, but that I would never be able to break myself of the habit, since my mother talked as much as I did, if not more, and that there’s not much you can do about inherited traits.

Mr. Keesing had a good laugh at my arguments, but when I proceeded to talk my way through the next class, he assigned me a second essay. This time it was supposed to be on “An Incorrigible Chatterbox.” I handed it in, and Mr. Keesing had nothing to complain about for two whole classes. However, during the third class he’d finally had enough. “Anne Frank, as punishment for talking in class, write an essay entitled ‘Quack, Quack, Quack,’ said Mistress Chatterback.’” The class roared. I had to laugh too, though I’d ) nearly exhausted my ingenuity on the topic of chatterboxes. It was time to come up with something else, j something original. My friend Sanne, who’s good at poetry, offered to help me write the essay from beginning to end in verse. I jumped for joy. Keesing was trying to play a joke on me with this ridiculous subject, but I’d make sure the joke was on him. I finished my poem, and it was beautiful! It was about a mother duck and a father swan with three baby ducklings who were bitten to death by the father because they quacked too much. Luckily, Keesing took the joke the right way. He read the poem to the class, adding his own comments, and to several other classes as well. Since then I’ve been allowed to talk and haven’t been assigned any extra homework. On the contrary, Keesing’s always i making jokes these days.

Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 24, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

It’s sweltering. Everyone is huffing and puffing, and in this heat I have to walk everywhere. Only now do I realize how pleasant a streetcar is, but we Jews are no longer allowed to make use of this luxury; our own two feet are good enough for us. Yesterday at lunchtime I had an appointment with the dentist on Jan Luykenstraat. It’s a long way from our school on Stadstimmertuinen. That afternoon I nearly fell asleep at my desk. Fortunately, people automatically offer you something to drink. The dental assistant is really kind. The only mode of transportation left to us is the ferry. The ferryman at Josef Israelkade took us across when we asked him to. It’s not the fault of the Dutch that we Jews are having such a bad time.

I wish I didn’t have to go to school. My bike was stolen during Easter vacation, and Father gave Mother’s bike to some Christian friends for safekeeping. Thank goodness summer vacation is almost here; one more week and our torment will be over.

Something unexpected happened yesterday morning. As I was passing the bicycle racks, I heard my name being called. I turned around and there was the nice boy I’d met the evening before at my friend Wilma’s. He’s Wilma’s second cousin. I used to think Wilma was nice, which she is, but all she ever talks about is boys, and that gets to be a bore. He came toward me, somewhat shyly, and introduced himself as Hello Silberberg. I was a little surprised and wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it didn’t take me long to find out. He asked if I would allow him to accompany me to school. “As long as you’re headed that way, I’ll go with you,” I said. And so we walked together. Hello is sixteen and good at telling all kinds of funny stories.

He was waiting for me again this morning, and I expect he will be from now on Anne.

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