to sleep again for a little while. It can also happen that we get a bit of shooting in the night, varying between 1 o’clock and four. I never really realise it, until from habit I am already standing at my bedside. Sometimes I’m so busy dreaming that I’m thinking about French irregular verbs or a quarrel upstairs. It is some time before I begin to realise that guns are firing and that I am still in the room. But it usually happens as described above. I quickly grab a pillow and handkerchief, put on my dressing gown and slippers, and scamper to Daddy, like Margot wrote in this birthday poem:
The first shot sounds in the dead of the night
Hush, look! A door creaks open wide,
A little girl glides into sight, Clasping a pillow by her side.
Once I’ve landed in the big bed, the worst is over, except if the firing gets very bad.
Quarter to seven. Trrrrr—the alarm clock that raises its voice at any hour of the day (if one asks for it and sometimes when one doesn’t). Crack —ping—Mrs. van Daan has turned it off. Creak—Mr. van Daan gets up, puts on the water and then full speed to the bathroom.
Quarter past seven. The door creaks again. Mr. Dussel can go to the bathroom. Once alone, I take down the blackout— and a new day in the ‘Secret Annexe’ has begun.
Yours, Anne
Thursday, 5 August, 1943
Dear Kitty, Today I am going to speak of lunchtime.
It is half past twelve. The whole mixed crowd breathes again. The warehouse boys have gone home now. Above, one can hear the noise of Mrs. van Daan’s vacuum cleaner on her beautiful, and only, carpet. Margot goes with a few books under her arm for her Dutch lesson ‘for children who make no progress,’ because that’s Mr. Dussel’s attitude. Pim goes into a corner with his inseparable Dickens to try and find peace somewhere.
Mummy hurries upstairs to help the industrious housewife, and I go to the bathroom to tidy it up a bit, and myself at the same time.
Quarter to one. The place is filling up. First Mr. Gies, then Kleiman or Kugler, Bep and sometimes Miep as well.
One o ’clock. We’ re all sitting listening to the B.B.C., seated around the baby wireless, these are the only times when the members of the “Secret Annexe” do not interrupt each other, because now someone is speaking with whom even Mr. van Daan can’t debate.
Quarter past one. The great shareout. Everyone from below gets a cup of soup and if there is ever a pudding, some of that as well. Mr. Gies is happy and goes to sit on the divan or lean against the writing table.
Newspaper, cup, and usually the cat, beside him. If one of the three is missing he’s sure to protest. Kleiman tells us the latest news from town, he is certainly an excellent source of information. Kugler comes helter-skelter upstairs—a short, firm knock on the door and in he comes rubbing his hands, according to his mood, in a good temper and talkative, or bad tempered and quiet.
Quarter to two. Everyone rises from the table and goes about his own business. Margot and Mummy do the dishes. Mr. and Mrs. van Daan to their divan. Peter up to the attic. Daddy to the divan downstairs. Mr. Dussel to his bed and Anne to her work. Then follows the most peaceful hour, everyone is asleep, no one is disturbed. Mr. Dussel dreams of lovely food— the expression on his face gives this away, but I don’t look long because the time goes so fast and at 4 o’clock the pedantic doctor is standing, clock in hand, because I’m one minute late in clearing the table for him.
Yours, Anne
