The Diary of a Young Girl (3 page)

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, 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 making jokes these days.

Yours, Anne

W
EDNESDAY
, J
UNE
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 Israëlkade 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

W
EDNESDAY
, J
ULY
1, 1942

Dearest Kitty
,

Until today I honestly couldn’t find the time to write you. I was with friends all day Thursday, we had company on Friday, and that’s how it went until today.

Hello and I have gotten to know each other very well this past week, and he’s told me a lot about his life. He comes from Gelsenkirchen and is living with his
grandparents. His parents are in Belgium, but there’s no way he can get there. Hello used to have a girlfriend named Ursula. I know her too. She’s perfectly sweet and perfectly boring. Ever since he met me, Hello has realized that he’s been falling asleep at Ursul’s side. So I’m kind of a pep tonic. You never know what you’re good for!

Jacque spent Saturday night here. Sunday afternoon she was at Hanneli’s, and I was bored stiff.

Hello was supposed to come over that evening, but he called around six. I answered the phone, and he said, “This is Helmuth Silberberg. May I please speak to Anne?”

“Oh, Hello. This is Anne.”

“Oh, hi, Anne. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry but I can’t come tonight, though I would like to have a word with you. Is it all right if I come by and pick you up in about ten minutes?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Bye-bye!”

“Okay, I’ll be right over. Bye-bye!”

I hung up, quickly changed my clothes and fixed my hair. I was so nervous I leaned out the window to watch for him. He finally showed up. Miracle of miracles, I didn’t rush down the stairs, but waited quietly until he rang the bell. I went down to open the door, and he got right to the point.

“Anne, my grandmother thinks you’re too young for me to be seeing you on a regular basis. She says I should be going to the Lowenbachs’, but you probably know that I’m not going out with Ursul anymore.”

“No, I didn’t know. What happened? Did you two have a fight?”

“No, nothing like that. I told Ursul that we weren’t
suited to each other and so it was better for us not to go together anymore, but that she was welcome at my house and I hoped I would be welcome at hers. Actually, I thought Ursul was hanging around with another boy, and I treated her as if she were. But that wasn’t true. And then my uncle said I should apologize to her, but of course I didn’t feel like it, and that’s why I broke up with her. But that was just one of the reasons.

“Now my grandmother wants me to see Ursul and not you, but I don’t agree and I’m not going to. Sometimes old people have really old-fashioned ideas, but that doesn’t mean I have to go along with them. I need my grandparents, but in a certain sense they need me too. From now on I’ll be free on Wednesday evenings. You see, my grandparents made me sign up for a wood-carving class, but actually I go to a club organized by the Zionists. My grandparents don’t want me to go, because they’re anti-Zionists. I’m not a fanatic Zionist, but it interests me. Anyway, it’s been such a mess lately that I’m planning to quit. So next Wednesday will be my last meeting. That means I can see you Wednesday evening, Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening, Sunday afternoon and maybe even more.”

“But if your grandparents don’t want you to, you shouldn’t go behind their backs.”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

Just then we passed Blankevoort’s Bookstore and there was Peter Schiff with two other boys; it was the first time he’d said hello to me in ages, and it really made me feel good.

Monday evening Hello came over to meet Father and Mother. I had bought a cake and some candy, and we had tea and cookies, the works, but neither Hello nor I felt like sitting stiffly on our chairs. So we went out for a
walk, and he didn’t deliver me to my door until ten past eight. Father was furious. He said it was very wrong of me not to get home on time. I had to promise to be home by ten to eight in the future. I’ve been asked to Hello’s on Saturday.

Wilma told me that one night when Hello was at her house, she asked him, “Who do you like best, Ursul or Anne?”

He said, “It’s none of your business.”

But as he was leaving (they hadn’t talked to each other the rest of the evening), he said, “Well, I like Anne better, but don’t tell anyone. Bye!” And whoosh … he was out the door.

In everything he says or does, I can see that Hello is in love with me, and it’s kind of nice for a change. Margot would say that Hello is a decent sort. I think so too, but he’s more than that. Mother is also full of praise: “A good-looking boy. Nice and polite.” I’m glad he’s so popular with everyone. Except with my girlfriends. He thinks they’re very childish, and he’s right about that. Jacque still teases me about him, but I’m not in love with him. Not really. It’s all right for me to have boys as friends. Nobody minds.

Mother is always asking me who I’m going to marry when I grow up, but I bet she’ll never guess it’s Peter, because I talked her out of that idea myself, without batting an eyelash. I love Peter as I’ve never loved anyone, and I tell myself he’s only going around with all those other girls to hide his feelings for me. Maybe he thinks Hello and I are in love with each other, which we’re not. He’s just a friend, or as Mother puts it, a beau.

Yours, Anne

S
UNDAY
, J
ULY
5, 1942

Dear Kitty
,

The graduation ceremony in the Jewish Theater on Friday went as expected. My report card wasn’t too bad. I got one D, a C—in algebra and all the rest B’s, except for two B+’s and two B—’s. My parents are pleased, but they’re not like other parents when it comes to grades. They never worry about report cards, good or bad. As long as I’m healthy and happy and don’t talk back too much, they’re satisfied. If these three things are all right, everything else will take care of itself.

I’m just the opposite. I don’t want to be a poor student. I was accepted to the Jewish Lyceum on a conditional basis. I was supposed to stay in the seventh grade at the Montessori School, but when Jewish children were required to go to Jewish schools, Mr. Elte finally agreed, after a great deal of persuasion, to accept Lies Goslar and me. Lies also passed this year, though she has to repeat her geometry exam.

Poor Lies. It isn’t easy for her to study at home; her baby sister, a spoiled little two-year-old, plays in her room all day. If Gabi doesn’t get her way, she starts screaming, and if Lies doesn’t look after her, Mrs. Goslar starts screaming. So Lies has a hard time doing her homework, and as long as that’s the case, the tutoring she’s been getting won’t help much. The Goslar household is really a sight. Mrs. Goslar’s parents live next door, but eat with the family. Then there’s a hired girl, the baby, the always absentminded and absent Mr. Goslar and the always nervous and irritable Mrs. Goslar, who’s expecting another baby. Lies, who’s all thumbs, gets lost in the mayhem.

My sister Margot has also gotten her report card.
Brilliant, as usual. If we had such a thing as “cum laude,” she would have passed with honors, she’s so smart.

Father has been home a lot lately. There’s nothing for him to do at the office; it must be awful to feel you’re not needed. Mr. Kleiman has taken over Opekta, and Mr. Kugler, Gies & Co., the company dealing in spices and spice substitutes that was set up in 1941.

A few days ago, as we were taking a stroll around our neighborhood square, Father began to talk about going into hiding. He said it would be very hard for us to live cut off from the rest of the world. I asked him why he was bringing this up now.

“Well, Anne,” he replied, “you know that for more than a year we’ve been bringing clothes, food and furniture to other people. We don’t want our belongings to be seized by the Germans. Nor do we want to fall into their clutches ourselves. So we’ll leave of our own accord and not wait to be hauled away.”

“But when, Father?” He sounded so serious that I felt scared.

“Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of everything. Just enjoy your carefree life while you can.”

That was it. Oh, may these somber words not come true for as long as possible.

The doorbell’s ringing, Hello’s here, time to stop.

Yours, Anne

W
EDNESDAY
, J
ULY
8, 1942

Dearest Kitty
,

It seems like years since Sunday morning. So much has happened it’s as if the whole world had suddenly turned upside down. But as you can see, Kitty, I’m still alive, and that’s the main thing, Father says. I’m alive all right, but don’t ask where or how. You probably don’t
understand a word I’m saying today, so I’ll begin by telling you what happened Sunday afternoon.

At three o’clock (Hello had left but was supposed to come back later), the doorbell rang. I didn’t hear it, since I was out on the balcony, lazily reading in the sun. A little while later Margot appeared in the kitchen doorway looking very agitated. “Father has received a call-up notice from the SS,” she whispered. “Mother has gone to see Mr. van Daan.” (Mr. van Daan is Father’s business partner and a good friend.)

I was stunned. A call-up: everyone knows what that means. Visions of concentration camps and lonely cells raced through my head. How could we let Father go to such a fate? “Of course he’s not going,” declared Margot as we waited for Mother in the living room. “Mother’s gone to Mr. van Daan to ask whether we can move to our hiding place tomorrow. The van Daans are going with us. There will be seven of us altogether.” Silence. We couldn’t speak. The thought of Father off visiting someone in the Jewish Hospital and completely unaware of what was happening, the long wait for Mother, the heat, the suspense—all this reduced us to silence.

Suddenly the doorbell rang again. “That’s Hello,” I said.

“Don’t open the door!” exclaimed Margot to stop me. But it wasn’t necessary, since we heard Mother and Mr. van Daan downstairs talking to Hello, and then the two of them came inside and shut the door behind them. Every time the bell rang, either Margot or I had to tiptoe downstairs to see if it was Father, and we didn’t let anyone else in. Margot and I were sent from the room, as Mr. van Daan wanted to talk to Mother alone.

When she and I were sitting in our bedroom, Margot told me that the call-up was not for Father, but
for her. At this second shock, I began to cry. Margot is sixteen—apparently they want to send girls her age away on their own. But thank goodness she won’t be going; Mother had said so herself, which must be what Father had meant when he talked to me about our going into hiding. Hiding … where would we hide? In the city? In the country? In a house? In a shack? When, where, how …? These were questions I wasn’t allowed to ask, but they still kept running through my mind.

Margot and I started packing our most important belongings into a schoolbag. The first thing I stuck in was this diary, and then curlers, handkerchiefs, schoolbooks, a comb and some old letters. Preoccupied by the thought of going into hiding, I stuck the craziest things in the bag, but I’m not sorry. Memories mean more to me than dresses.

Father finally came home around five o’clock, and we called Mr. Kleiman to ask if he could come by that evening. Mr. van Daan left and went to get Miep. Miep arrived and promised to return later that night, taking with her a bag full of shoes, dresses, jackets, underwear and stockings. After that it was quiet in our apartment; none of us felt like eating. It was still hot, and everything was very strange.