reminding writers, diarists, and bloggers everywhere, that you never know how important your writings may be. so write. write all the time. and write about everything.
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3 Oct. 1942.
Dearest Marianne,
It’s been a few days again since I last wrote, but a lot of really bad things have happened in the meantime. Yesterday they went on at me because I lay on the bed beside Mr. v. Pels. At your age, for shame!, and suchlike expressions. Silly of course. I would never want to sleep with Mr. v. Pels in the general sense of the word I mean of course. This morning Miep told us that last night they were dragging Jews from house after house again in South Amsterdam. Horrible. God knows which of our acquaintances are left. A crippled old woman was sitting on Miep’s doorstep because she couldn’t walk and so the scoundrels went to fetch a car, meanwhile the poor person had to wait out in the cold (she wasn’t allowed to go indoors) and there was terrible shooting. You just can’t imagine how awful it all is, I am only so glad that we are here. There was another dust-up yesterday and Mummy kicked up a frightful row, she told Daddy just what she thought of me and had an awful fit of tears so, of course, off I went too, and I’d got such a frightful headache anyway. Finally I told Daddy that I’m much more fond of “him” than Mummy, to which he replied that I’d get over that. But I don’t believe it. I simply can’t stand Mummy, and I have to force myself not to snap at her all the time and to stay calm with her, I could easily slap her face, I don’t know how it is that I have taken such a terrible dislike to her. Daddy said that I should sometimes volunteer to help Mummy, when she doesn’t feel well or has a headache; but I shan’t since I don’t like her and I don’t feel like it. I would certainly do it for Daddy, I noticed that when he was ill. Also it’s easy for me to picture Mummy dying one day, but Daddy dying one day seems inconceivable to me. It may be very mean of me, but that’s how I feel. I hope that Mummy won’t ever read “this” or any of the other things.
Peter has something wrong with his foot again, that softy, and it’s easy to see that he is in love. Yesterday I cut out the coupons, that’s quite a nice little job. Peeling potatoes is something else I often do these days, but I dread shelling peas. Today I have to read things in the prayer book, I have no idea why Mummy wants to force me to do that, but I’ll do it to oblige her and above all for Pim.
Mummy has just said that if we ever get back home and are allowed to stay, we shall probably take in the Goslar baby, I think that’s terrific; but I don’t think we would ever let go of her again in that case. I have such a lovely book, it’s called “Eva’s youth.” The Eva in it thought that children grow like apples on a tree and that the stork plucks them off when they are ripe and carries them to their mothers. But her girl friend’s cat had kittens and they came out of the cat, then she thought that the cat lays eggs like a chicken, and then goes and sits on the brood, and that mothers who are having a baby go upstairs a few days earlier, lay an egg and sit on it, when the baby comes the mothers are still a bit weak from all the squatting. Eva wanted to have a baby too and so she took a woolen shawl, laid it on the ground so that the egg could drop into it and then squatted down and began to push. She tried clucking but no egg came out. In the end after all that long squatting something did come out of her but not an egg, a little sausage. Oh, Eva was so ashamed. And the maid thought she was sick. Funny isn’t it. I take my leave with this dear Marianne, next time more from
P.S. Regards to Jaap. I like you. You get my meaning don’t you?