something that gives confidence and friendship. If I get half a chance, I go up to him now. It’s not like it used to be when he didn’t know how to begin.
Its just the opposite—he’s still talking when I’m half out of the room.
Mummy doesn’t like it much, and always says I’ll be a nuisance and that I must leave him in peace. Honestly, doesn’t she realise that I’ve got some intuition? She looks at me so queerly every time I go into Peter’s little room. If I come downstairs from there, she asks me where I’ve been. I simply can’t bear it, and think it’s horrible.
Yours, Anne
Saturday, 19 February, 1944
Dear Kitty, It is Saturday again and that really speaks for itself. The morning was quiet. I helped a bit upstairs, but I didn’t have more than a few fleeting words with ‘him.’ At half past two, when everyone had gone to their own rooms, either to sleep or to read, I went to the private office, with my blanket and everything, to sit at the desk and read or write. It was not long before it all became too much for me, my head drooped on to my arm, and I sobbed my heart out. The tears streamed down my cheeks and I felt desperately unhappy: Oh, if only ‘he’ had come to comfort me. It was 4 o’clock by the time I went upstairs again. I went for some potatoes, with fresh hope in my heart of a meeting, but while I was still smartening up my hair in the bathroom, he went down to see Boche in the warehouse.
Suddenly I felt the tears coming back and I hurried to the lavatory, quickly grabbing a pocket mirror as I passed. There I sat then, fully dressed, while the tears made dark spots on the red of my apron, and I felt very wretched.