contented, and happy, except when I think about her and her companions in distress? I am selfish and cowardly. Why do I always dream and think of the most terrible things—my fear makes me want to scream out loud sometimes. Because still in spite of everything, I have not enough faith in God. He has given me so much—which I certainly do not deserve—and I still do so much that is wrong every day. If you think of your fellow creatures, then you only want to cry, you could really cry the whole day long. The only thing to do is to pray that God will perform a miracle and save some of them. And I hope that I am doing that enough!
Yours, Anne
Sunday, 2 January, 1944
Dear Kitty, This morning when I had nothing to do I turned over some of the pages of my diary and several times I came across letters dealing with the subject ‘Mummy’ in such a hotheaded way that I was quite shocked, and asked myself: ‘Anne, is it really you who mentioned hate? Oh Anne, how could you.’ I remained sitting with the open page in my hand, and thought about it and how it came about that I should have been so brimful of rage and really so filled with such a thing as hate that I had to confide it all in you, I have been trying to understand the Anne of a year ago and to excuse her, because my conscience isn’t clear as long as I leave you with these accusations, without being able to explain, on looking back, how it happened.
I suffer now—and suffered then—from moods which kept my head under water (so to speak) and only allowed me to see things subjectively without enabling me to consider quietly the words of the other side, and to answer them as the words of one whom I, with my hotheaded temperament, had offended or made unhappy.
