JANUARY, 1943

     
     
     
     Dearest Kitty,
     
     This morning I was constantly interrupted, and as a result I havent been able to finish a single thing Ive begun.
     
     We have a new pastime, namely, filling packages with powdered gravy. The gravy is one of Gies & Co.s products. Mr. Kugler hasnt been able to find anyone else to fill the packages, and besides, its cheaper if we do the job. Its the kind of work they
     
     do in prisons. Its incredibly boring and makes us dizzy and giggly.
     
     Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. Theyre allowed to take only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, theyre robbed of these possessions on the way. Families are torn apart; men, women and children are separated. Children come home from school to find that their parents have disap peared. Women return from shopping to find their houses sealed, their famthes gone. The Christians in Holland are also living in fear because their sons are being sent to Germany. Everyone is scared. Every night hundreds of planes pass over Holland on their way to German cities, to sow their bombs on German soil. Every hour hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of people are being killed in Russia and Africa. No one can keep out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though the Allies are doing better, the end is nowhere in sight.
     
     As for us, were quite fortunate. Luckier than millions of people. Its quiet and safe here, and were using our money to buy food. Were so selfish that we talk about "after the war" and look forward to new clothes and shoes, when actually we should be saving every penny to help others when the war is over, to salvage whatever we can.
     
     The children in this neighborhood run around in thin shirts and wooden shoes. They have no coats, no caps, no stockings and no one to help them. Gnawing on a carrot to still their hunger pangs, they walk from their cold houses through cold streets to an even colder classroom. Things have gotten so bad in Holland that hordes of children stop passersby in the streets to beg for a piece of bread.
     
     I could spend hours telling you about the suffering the war has brought, but Id only make myself more miserable. All we can do is wait, as calmly as possible, for it to end. Jews and Christians alike are waiting, the whole world is waiting, and many are waiting for death.
     
     Yours, Anne
     
     SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1943
     
     Dearest Kitty,
     
     Im seething with rage, yet I cant show it. Id like to scream, stamp my foot, give Mother a good shaking, cry and I dont know what else because of the nasty words,
     
     mocking looks and accusations that she hurls at me day after day, piercing me like arrows from a tightly strung bow, which are nearly impossible to pull from my body.
     
     Id like to scream at Mother, Margot, the van Daans, Dussel and Father too: "Leave me alone, let me have at least one night when I dont cry myself to sleep with my eyes burning and my head pounding. Let me get away, away from everything, away from this world!" But I cant do that. I cant let them see my doubts, or the wounds theyve inflicted on me. I couldnt bear their sympathy or their good-humored derision. It would only make me want to scream even more.
     
     Everyone thinks Im showing off when I talk, ridicu lous when Im silent, insolent when I answer, cunning when I have a good idea, lazy when Im tired, selfish when I eat one bite more than I should, stupid, cowardly, calculating, etc., etc. All day long I hear nothing but what an exasperating child I am, and although I laugh it off and pretend not to mind, I do mind. I wish I could ask God to give me another personality, one that doesnt antagonize everyone.
     
     But thats impossible. Im stuck with the character I was born with, and yet Im sure Im not a bad person. I do my best to please everyone, more than theyd ever suspect in a million years. When Im upstairs, I try to laugh it off because I dont want them to see my troubles.
     
     More than once, after a series of absurd reproaches, Ive snapped at Mother: "I dont care what you say. Why dont you just wash your hands of me -- Im a hopeless case." Of course, shed tell me not to talk back and virtually ignore me for two days.
     
     Then suddenly all would be forgotten and shed treat me like everyone else.
     
     Its impossible for me to be all smiles one day and venomous the next. Id rather choose the golden mean, which isnt so golden, and keep my thoughts to myself.
     
     Perhaps sometime Ill treat the others with the same contempt as they treat me. Oh, if only I could.
     
     Yours, Anne