At a quarter past five (an hour later) the potatoes, which had been sitting on the floor in the meantime, finally reached their destinations.
Peter didn’t say another word about his parents, we just talked about books and about the past. The boy has such warmth in his eyes, I believe I’m pretty near to ‘being in love with him.’ He talked about that this evening. I went into his room, after peeling the potatoes, and said that I felt so hot.
“You can tell what the temperature is by Margot and me, if its cold we are white, and if it is hot we are red in the face,” I said.
“In love?” he asked.
“Why should I be in love?” My answer was rather silly.
“Why not?” he said, and then we had to go for supper.
Would he have meant anything by that question? I finally managed to ask him today whether he didn’t find my chatter a nuisance, he only said, “It’s okay, I like it!”
To what extent this answer was just shyness, I am not able to judge.
Kitty, I’m just like someone in love, who can only talk about her darling. And Peter really is a darling. When shall I be able to tell him so?
Naturally, only if he thinks I’m a darling too. But I’m quite capable of looking after myself, and he knows that very well. And he likes his tranquillity, so I have no idea how much he likes me. In any case, we are getting to know each other a bit. I wish we dared to tell each other much more already. Who knows, the time may come sooner than I think! I get an understanding look from him about twice a day, I wink back, and we both feel happy. I certainly seem quite mad to be talking about him being happy, and yet I feel pretty sure that he thinks just the same as I do.
Yours, Anne
Saturday, 4 March, 1944
