lover, after all! For that matter, he wouldn’t hear whether its healthy or unhealthy inside me anyway, his ears need syringing first, as he’s becoming alarmingly hard of hearing.
But that is enough about illness. I’m as fit as a fiddle again, half an inch taller, two pounds heavier, pale and with a real appetite for learning.
There is not much news to tell you. We are all getting on well together for a change! There’s no quarrelling—we haven’t had such peace in the home for at least half a year. Bep is still parted from us.
For Christmas we’re getting extra oil, sweets and syrup. For Hanukkah, Margot and I get a brooch, made out of a penny shining beautifully, lovely, but indescribable. Mr. Dussel gave Mummy and Mrs. van Daan a lovely cake which he had asked Miep to bake for him. With all her work, she has to do that as well! I have also something for Miep and Elli. For at least two months I have saved the sugar from my porridge, you see, and with Mr.
Kleimans help I will have it made into fondants.
It is drizzly weather, the stove smells, the food lies heavily on everybody’s tummy, causing thunderous noises on all sides! The war at a standstill, morale rotten.
Yours, Anne
Friday, 24 December, 1943
Dear Kitty, I have previously written about how much we are- affected by atmospheres here, and I think that in my own case this trouble is getting much worse lately. ‘Himmelhoch jauchzend Tode betrubt’ certainly fits here. I am ‘on top of the world’ if I only think how lucky we are here compared with other Jewish children, and ‘in the depths of despair’ comes over me when, as
happened today, for example, Mrs. Kleiman comes and tells us about her daughter Cony’s hockey club, canoe trips, theatrical performances, and friends. I don’t think I’m jealous of Cony, but I couldn’t help feeling a great longing to have lots of fun myself for once, and to laugh until my tummy ached. Especially at this time of the year with all the holidays for Christmas and the New Year, and we are stuck here like outcasts. Still, I really ought not to write this, because it seems ungrateful and I’ve certainly been exaggerating. But still, whatever you think of me, I can’t keep everything to myself, so I’ll remind you of my opening words, Paper is patient.
When someone comes in from outside, with the wind in their clothes and the cold on their faces, I could bury my head in the blankets to stop myself thinking: “When will we be granted the privilege of smelling fresh air?” And because I must not bury my head in the blankets, but the reverse —I must keep my head high and be brave, the thoughts will come, not once, but oh, countless times. Believe me, if you have been shut up for a year and a half, it can get too much for you some days. In spite of all justice and thankfulness, you can’t crush your feelings. Cycling, dancing, whistling, looking out into the world, feeling young, to know that I’m free—that’s what I long for, still, I mustn’t show it, because I sometimes think if all eight of us began to pity ourselves, or went about with discontented faces, where would it lead us? I sometimes ask myself, “Would anyone, either Jew or non-Jew, understand this about me, that I am simply a young girl badly in need of some rollicking fun?” I don’t know, and I couldn’t talk about it to anyone, because then I know I should cry. Crying can bring such relief.
In spite of all my theories, and however much trouble I take, each day I miss having a real mother who understands me. That is why with everything I do and write I think of the ‘Mumsie’ that I want to be for my children later on. The ‘Mumsie’ who doesn’t take everything that is said in general conversation so seriously, but who does take what I say seriously. I have noticed, though I can’t explain how, that the word ‘Mumsie’ tells you everything. Do you know what I’ve found? To give me the feeling of calling Mummy something which sounds like ‘Mumsie’ I often call her ‘Mum’, then from that comes ‘Mums’: the incomplete ‘Mumsie,’ as it were,
