The Diary of a Young Girl (22 page)

“Hi, do you want to have a look?” Without any preliminaries, he picked up the cat, turned him over on his back, deftly held his head and paws and began the lesson. “This is the male sexual organ, these are a few stray hairs, and that’s his backside.”

The cat flipped himself over and stood up on his little white feet.

If any other boy had pointed out the “male sexual organ” to me, I would never have given him a second glance. But Peter went on talking in a normal voice about what is otherwise a very awkward subject. Nor did he have any ulterior motives. By the time he’d finished, I felt so much at ease that I started acting normally too. We played with Boche, had a good time, chatted a bit and finally sauntered through the long warehouse to the door.

“Were you there when Mouschi was fixed?”

“Yeah, sure. It doesn’t take long. They give the cat an anesthetic, of course.”

“Do they take something out?”

“No, the vet just snips the tube. There’s nothing to see on the outside.”

I had to get up my nerve to ask a question, since it wasn’t as “normal” as I thought. “Peter, the German word
Geschlechtsteil
means ‘sexual organ,’ doesn’t it? But then the male and female ones have different names.”

“I know that.”

“The female one is a vagina, that I know, but I don’t know what it’s called in males.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh well,” I said. “How are we supposed to know these words? Most of the time you just come across them by accident.”

“Why wait? I’ll ask my parents. They know more than I do and they’ve had more experience.”

We were already on the stairs, so nothing more was said.

Yes, it really did happen. I’d never have talked to a girl about this in such a normal tone of voice. I’m also
certain that this isn’t what Mother meant when she warned me about boys.

All the same, I wasn’t exactly my usual self for the rest of the day. When I thought back to our talk, it struck me as odd. But I’ve learned at least one thing: there are young people, even those of the opposite sex, who can discuss these things naturally, without cracking jokes.

Is Peter really going to ask his parents a lot of questions? Is he really the way he seemed yesterday?

Oh, what do I know?!!!

Yours, Anne

F
RIDAY
, J
ANUARY
28, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

In recent weeks I’ve developed a great liking for family trees and the genealogical tables of royal families. I’ve come to the conclusion that once you begin your search, you have to keep digging deeper and deeper into the past, which leads you to even more interesting discoveries.

Although I’m extremely diligent when it comes to my schoolwork and can pretty much follow the BBC Home Service on the radio, I still spend many of my Sundays sorting out and looking over my movie-star collection, which has grown to a very respectable size. Mr. Kugler makes me happy every Monday by bringing me a copy of
Cinema & Theater
magazine. The less worldly members of our household often refer to this small indulgence as a waste of money, yet they never fail to be surprised at how accurately I can list the actors in any given movie, even after a year. Bep, who often goes to the movies with her boyfriend on her day off, tells me on Saturday the name of the show they’re going to see, and I then proceed to rattle off the names of the leading actors and actresses and the
reviews. Moms recently remarked that I wouldn’t need to go to the movies later on, because I know all the plots, the names of the stars and the reviews by heart.

Whenever I come sailing in with a new hairstyle, I can read the disapproval on their faces, and I can be sure someone will ask which movie star I’m trying to imitate. My reply, that it’s my own invention, is greeted with skepticism. As for the hairdo, it doesn’t hold its set for more than half an hour. By that time I’m so sick and tired of their remarks that I race to the bathroom and restore my hair to its normal mass of curls.

Yours, Anne

F
RIDAY
, J
ANUARY
28, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

This morning I was wondering whether you ever felt like a cow, having to chew my stale news over and over again until you’re so fed up with the monotonous fare that you yawn and secretly wish Anne would dig up something new.

Sorry, I know you find it dull as ditch water, but imagine how sick and tired I am of hearing the same old stuff. If the talk at mealtime isn’t about politics or good food, then Mother or Mrs. van D. trot out stories about their childhood that we’ve heard a thousand times before, or Dussel goes on and on about beautiful racehorses, his Charlotte’s extensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats, boys who can swim at the age of four, aching muscles and frightened patients. It all boils down to this: whenever one of the eight of us opens his mouth, the other seven can finish the story for him. We know the punch line of every joke before it gets told, so that whoever’s telling it is left to laugh alone. The various milkmen, grocers and butchers of the two former housewives have been praised
to the skies or run into the ground so many times that in our imaginations they’ve grown as old as Methuselah; there’s absolutely no chance of anything new or fresh being brought up for discussion in the Annex.

Still, all this might be bearable if only the grown-ups weren’t in the habit of repeating the stories we hear from Mr. Kleiman, Jan or Miep, each time embellishing them with a few details of their own, so that I often have to pinch my arm under the table to keep myself from setting the enthusiastic storyteller on the right track. Little children, such as Anne, must never, ever correct their elders, no matter how many blunders they make or how often they let their imaginations run away with them.

Jan and Mr. Kleiman love talking about people who have gone underground or into hiding; they know we’re eager to hear about others in our situation and that we truly sympathize with the sorrow of those who’ve been arrested as well as the joy of prisoners who’ve been freed.

Going underground or into hiding has become as routine as the proverbial pipe and slippers that used to await the man of the house after a long day at work. There are many resistance groups, such as Free Netherlands, that forge identity cards, provide financial support to those in hiding, organize hiding places and find work for young Christians who go underground. It’s amazing how much these generous and unselfish people do, risking their own lives to help and save others.

The best example of this is our own helpers, who have managed to pull us through so far and will hopefully bring us safely to shore, because otherwise they’ll find themselves sharing the fate of those they’re trying to protect. Never have they uttered a single word about the burden we must be, never have they complained that we’re too much trouble. They come upstairs every day
and talk to the men about business and politics, to the women about food and wartime difficulties and to the children about books and newspapers. They put on their most cheerful expressions, bring flowers and gifts for birthdays and holidays and are always ready to do what they can. That’s something we should never forget; while others display their heroism in battle or against the Germans, our helpers prove theirs every day by their good spirits and affection.

The most bizarre stories are making the rounds, yet most of them are really true. For instance, Mr. Kleiman reported this week that a soccer match was held in the province of Gelderland; one team consisted entirely of men who had gone underground, and the other of eleven Military Policemen. In Hilversum, new registration cards were issued. In order for the many people in hiding to get their rations (you have to show this card to obtain your ration book or else pay 60 guilders a book), the registrar asked all those hiding in that district to pick up their cards at a specified hour, when the documents could be collected at a separate table.

All the same, you have to be careful that stunts like these don’t reach the ears of the Germans.

Yours, Anne

S
UNDAY
, J
ANUARY
30, 1944

My dearest Kit
,

Another Sunday has rolled around; I don’t mind them as much as I did in the beginning, but they’re boring enough.

I still haven’t gone to the warehouse yet, but maybe sometime soon. Last night I went downstairs in the dark, all by myself, after having been there with Father a few
nights before. I stood at the top of the stairs while German planes flew back and forth, and I knew I was on my own, that I couldn’t count on others for support. My fear vanished. I looked up at the sky and trusted in God.

I have an intense need to be alone. Father has noticed I’m not my usual self, but I can’t tell him what’s bothering me. All I want to do is scream “Let me be, leave me alone!”

Who knows, perhaps the day will come when I’m left alone more than I’d like!

Anne Frank

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY
3, 1944

Dearest Kitty
,

Invasion fever is mounting daily throughout the country. If you were here, I’m sure you’d be as impressed as I am at the many preparations, though you’d no doubt laugh at all the fuss we’re making. Who knows, it may all be for nothing!

The papers are full of invasion news and are driving everyone insane with such statements as: “In the event of a British landing in Holland, the Germans will do what they can to defend the country, even flooding it, if necessary.” They’ve published maps of Holland with the potential flood areas marked. Since large portions of Amsterdam were shaded in, our first question was what we should do if the water in the streets rose to above our waists. This tricky question elicited a variety of responses:

“It’ll be impossible to walk or ride a bike, so we’ll have to wade through the water.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll have to try and swim. We’ll all put on our bathing suits and caps and swim underwater as much as we can, so nobody can see we’re Jews.”

“Oh, baloney! I can just imagine the ladies swimming
with the rats biting their legs!” (That was a man, of course; we’ll see who screams loudest!)

“We won’t even be able to leave the house. The warehouse is so unstable it’ll collapse if there’s a flood.”

“Listen, everyone, all joking aside, we really ought to try and get a boat.”

“Why bother? I have a better idea. We can each take a packing crate from the attic and row with a wooden spoon.”

“I’m going to walk on stilts. I used to be a whiz at it when I was young.”

“Jan Gies won’t need to. He’ll let his wife ride piggyback, and then Miep will be on stilts.”

So now you have a rough idea of what’s going on, don’t you, Kit? This lighthearted banter is all very amusing, but reality will prove otherwise. The second question about the invasion was bound to arise: what should we do if the Germans evacuate Amsterdam?

“Leave the city along with the others. Disguise ourselves as well as we can.”

“Whatever happens, don’t go outside! The best thing to do is to stay put! The Germans are capable of herding the entire population of Holland into Germany, where they’ll all die.”

“Of course we’ll stay here. This is the safest place. We’ll try to talk Kleiman and his family into coming here to live with us. We’ll somehow get hold of a bag of wood shavings, so we can sleep on the floor. Let’s ask Miep and Kleiman to bring some blankets, just in case. And we’ll order some extra cereal grains to supplement the sixty-five pounds we already have. Jan can try to find some more beans. At the moment we’ve got about sixty-five pounds of beans and ten pounds of split peas. And don’t forget the fifty cans of vegetables.”

“What about the rest, Mother? Give us the latest figures.”

“Ten cans of fish, forty cans of milk, twenty pounds of powdered milk, three bottles of oil, four crocks of butter, four jars of meat, two big jars of strawberries, two jars of raspberries, twenty jars of tomatoes, ten pounds of oatmeal, nine pounds of rice. That’s it.”

Our provisions are holding out fairly well. All the same, we have to feed the office staff, which means dipping into our stock every week, so it’s not as much as it seems. We have enough coal and firewood, candles too.

“Let’s all make little moneybags to hide in our clothes so we can take our money with us if we need to leave here.”

“We can make lists of what to take first in case we have to run for it, and pack our knapsacks in advance.”

“When the time comes, we’ll put two people on the lookout, one in the loft at the front of the house and one in the back.”

“Hey, what’s the use of so much food if there isn’t any water, gas or electricity?”

“We’ll have to cook on the wood stove. Filter the water and boil it. We should clean some big jugs and fill them with water. We can also store water in the three kettles we use for canning, and in the washtub.”

“Besides, we still have about two hundred and thirty pounds of winter potatoes in the spice storeroom.”

All day long that’s all I hear. Invasion, invasion, nothing but invasion. Arguments about going hungry, dying, bombs, fire extinguishers, sleeping bags, identity cards, poison gas, etc., etc. Not exactly cheerful.

A good example of the explicit warnings of the male contingent is the following conversation with Jan:

Annex: “We’re afraid that when the Germans retreat, they’ll take the entire population with them.”

Jan: “That’s impossible. They haven’t got enough trains.”

Annex: “Trains? Do you really think they’d put civilians on trains? Absolutely not. Everyone would have to hoof it.” (Or, as Dussel always says,
per pedes apostolorum.)

Jan: “I can’t believe that. You’re always looking on the dark side. What reason would they have to round up all the civilians and take them along?”

Annex: “Don’t you remember Goebbels saying that if the Germans have to go, they’ll slam the doors to all the occupied territories behind them?”

Jan: “They’ve said a lot of things.”

Annex: “Do you think the Germans are too noble or humane to do it? Their reasoning is: if we go under, we’ll drag everyone else down with us.”