پنجشنبه 4 مارس 1943

دوره: آن فرانک: خاطرات یک دختر جوان / درس 22

آن فرانک: خاطرات یک دختر جوان

86 درس

پنجشنبه 4 مارس 1943

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متن انگلیسی درس

THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

Mrs. van D. has a new nickname-we’ve started calling her Mrs. Beaverbrook. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything to you, so let me explain. A certain Mr. Beaverbrook often talks on the English radio about what he considers to be the far too lenient bombardment of Germany. Mrs. van Daan, who always contradicts everyone, including Churchill and the news reports, is in complete agreement with Mr. Beaverbrook. So we thought it would be a good idea for her to be married to him, and since she was flattered by the notion, we’ve decided to call her Mrs. Beaverbrook from now on.

We’re getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent to Germany. That’s bad for him but good for us because the new one won’t be famthar with the building. We’re still afraid of the men who work in the warehouse.

Gandhi is eating again.

The black market is doing a booming business. If we had enough money to pay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly. Our greengrocer buys potatoes from the “Wehrmacht” and brings them in sacks to the private office. Since he suspects we’re hiding here, he makes a point of coming during lunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.

So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and cough with every breath we take. Everyone who comes upstairs greets us with an “ah-CHOO.” Mrs. van D. swears she won’t go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and she’s going to get sick.

I don’t think Father has a very nice business. Noth ing but pectin and pepper. As long as you’re in the food business, why not make candy?

A veritable thunderstorm of words came crashing down on me again this morning. The air flashed with so many coarse expressions that my ears were ringing with “Anne’s bad this” annd “van Daans’ good that.” Fire and brimstone! Yours, Anne WEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

We had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were booming away until dawn. I still haven’t gotten over my fear of planes and shooting, and I crawl into Father’s bed nearly every night for comfort. I know it sounds childish, but wait till it happens to you! The ack-ack guns make so much noise you can’t hear your own voice. Mrs. Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid little voice, “Oh, it’s so awful. Oh, the guns are so loud!”-which is another way of saying “I’m so scared.” It didn’t seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark. I was shivering, as if I had a fever, and begged Father to relight the candle. He was adamant: there was to be no light. Suddenly we heard a burst of machine-gun fire, and that’s ten times worse than antiaircraft guns. Mother jumped out of bed and, to Pim’s great annoyance, lit the candle. Her resolute answer to his grumbling was, “After all, Anne is not an ex-soldier!” And that was the end of that!

Have I told you any of Mrs. van D.’s other fears? I don’t think so. To keep you up to date on the latest adventures in the Secret Annex, I should tell you this as well. One night Mrs. van D. thought she heard loud footsteps in the attic, and she was so afraid of burglars, she woke her husband. At that very same moment, the thieves disappeared, and the only sound Mr. van D. could hear was the frightened pounding of his fatalistic wife’s heart. “Oh, Putti!” she cried. (Putti is Mrs. van D.’s pet name for her husband.) “They must have taken all our sausages and dried beans. And what about Peter? Oh, do you think Peter’s still safe and sound in his bed?”

“I’m sure they haven’t stolen Peter. Stop being such a ninny, and let me get back to sleep!”

Impossible. Mrs. van D. was too scared to sleep.

A few nights later the entire van Daan family was awakened by ghostly noises. Peter went to the attic with a flashlight and-scurry, scurry-what do you think he saw running away? A whole slew of enormous rats!

Once we knew who the thieves were, we let Mouschi sleep in the attic and never saw our uninvited guests again. . . at least not at night.

A few evenings ago (it was seven-thirty and still light), Peter went up to the loft to get some old newspapers. He had to hold on tightly to the trapdoor to climb down the ladder. He put down his hand without looking, and nearly fell off the ladder from shock and pain. Without realizing it, he’d put his hand on a large rat, which had bitten him in the arm. By the time he reached us, white as a sheet and with his knees knocking, the blood had soaked through his pajamas. No wonder he was so shaken, since petting a rat isn’t much fun, especially when it takes a chunk out of your arm.

Yours, Anne

FRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943

Dearest Kitty,

May I introduce: Mama Frank, the children’s advocate! Extra butter for the youngsters, the problems facing today’s youth-you name it, and Mother defends the younger generation. After a skirmish or two, she always gets her way. One of the jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. A feast for Mouschi and Boche. You haven’t met Boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we went into hiding. She’s the warehouse and office cat, who keeps the rats at bay in the storeroom.

Her odd, political name can easily be explained. For a while the firm Gies & Co. had two cats: one for the warehouse and one for the attic. Their paths crossed from time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. The warehouse cat was always the aggressor, while the attic cat was ultimately the victor, just as in politics. So the warehouse cat was named the German, or “Boche,” and the attic cat the Englishman, or “Tommy.” Sometime after that they got rid of Tommy, but Boche is always there to amuse us when we go downstairs.

VVe’ve eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I can’t stand to look at them. Just thinking about them makes me sick.

Our evening serving of bread has been canceled.

Daddy just said that he’s not in a very cheerful mood. His eyes look so sad again, the poor man!

I can’t tear myself away from the book A Knock at the Door by Ina Bakker Boudier. This family saga is extremely well written, but the parts dealing with war, writers and the emancipation of women aren’t very good. To be honest, these subjects don’t interest me much.

Terrible bombing raids on Germany. Mr. van Daan is grouchy. The reason: the cigarette shortage.

The debate about whether or not to start eating the canned food ended in our favor.

I can’t wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not very practical around the house. A pair of straw thongs that were purchased for 6.50 guilders were worn down to the soles within a week. Maybe Miep will be able to scrounge up something on the black market.

It’s time to cut Father’s hair. Pim swears that I do such a good job he’ll never go to another barber after the war. If only I didn’t nick his ear so often!

Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1943

My dearest Kitty,

Turkey’s entered the war. Great excitement. Anxiously awaiting radio reports.

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