Tuesday, 7 March, 1944
Dear Kitty, If I think now of my life in 1942, it all seems so unreal. It was quite a different Anne who enjoyed that heavenly existence from the Anne who has grown wise within these walls. Yes, it was a heavenly life. Boy friends at every turn, about twenty friends and acquaintances of my own age, the darling of nearly all the teachers, spoiled from top to toe by Mummy and Daddy, lots of sweets, enough pocket money, what more could one want?
You will certainly wonder by what means I got around all these people.
Peter’s word ‘attractiveness’ is not altogether true. All the teachers were entertained by my cute answers, my amusing remarks, my smiling face, and my questioning looks. That is all I was—a terrible flirt, coquettish and amusing. I had one or two advantages, which kept me rather in favour. I was industrious, honest, and frank. I would never have stopped anyone from copying from me. I shared my sweets generously, and I wasn’t conceited.
Wouldn’t I have become rather snooty with so much admiration? It was a good thing that in the midst of, at the height of all, this gaiety, I suddenly had to face reality, and it took me at least a year to get used to the fact that there was no more admiration forthcoming.
How did I appear at school? The one who thought of new jokes and pranks, always ‘king of the castle,’ never in a bad mood, never a crybaby.
No wonder everyone liked to cycle with me, and I got their attentions.
Now I look back at that Anne as an amusing, but very superficial girl, who has nothing to do with the Anne of today. Peter said quite rightly about me, “If ever I saw you, you were always surrounded by two or more boys and a whole troupe of girls. You were always laughing and always the centre of everything!”
What is left of this girl? Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten how to laugh or to answer back readily. I’m just as good, if not better, at criticising people, and I can still flirt if I wish. That’s not it though, I’d like that sort of life again for an evening, a few days, or even a week; the life which seems
so carefree and gay. But at the end of that week, I should be dead beat and would be only too thankful to listen to anyone who began to talk about something sensible. I don’t want followers, but friends, admirers who fall not for a flattering smile but for what one does and for one’s character.
I know quite well that the circle around me would be much smaller. But what does that matter, as long as one still keeps a few sincere friends?
Yet I wasn’t entirely happy in 1942. In spite of everything, I often felt deserted, but because I was on the go the whole day long, I didn’t think about it and enjoyed myself as much as I could. Consciously or unconsciously, I tried to drive away the emptiness I felt with jokes and pranks. Now I think seriously about life and what I have to do. One period of my life is over forever. The carefree schooldays are gone, never to return.
I don’t even long for them any more, I have outgrown them, I can’t just only enjoy myself as my serious side is always there.
I look upon my life up till the New Year, as it were, through a powerful magnifying glass. The sunny life at home, then coming here in 1942, the sudden change, the quarrels, the bickerings. I couldn’t understand it, I was taken by surprise, and the only way I could keep up some bearing was by being impertinent.
The first half of 1943: my fits of crying, the loneliness, how I slowly began to see all my faults and shortcomings, which are so great and which seemed much greater then. During the day I deliberately talked about anything and everything that was farthest from my thoughts, tried to draw Pim to me but couldn’t. I had to face alone the difficult task of changing myself, to stop the everlasting reproaches, which were so oppressive and which reduced me to such terrible despondency. Things improved slightly in the second half of the year, I became a young woman and was treated more like a grown-up. I started to think, and write stories, and come to the conclusion that the others no longer had the right to throw me about like an India-rubber ball. I wanted to change in accordance with my own desires.
But one thing that struck me even more was when I realised that even Daddy would never become my confidant in everything. I didn’t want to trust anyone but myself any more.
At the beginning of the New Year lay the second great change: my dream... And with it I discovered my longing, not for a girl friend, but for a boy friend. I also discovered my inward happiness and my defensive armour of superficiality and gaiety. In due time I quietened down and discovered my boundless desire for all that is beautiful and good.
And in the evening, when I lie in bed and end my prayers with the words, “I thank you, God, for all that is good and dear and beautiful,” I am filled with joy. Then I think about ‘the good’ of going into hiding, of my health and with my whole being of the ‘dearness’ of Peter, of that which is still embryonic and impressionable and which neither of us dare to name or touch, of that which will come in sometime; love, future, happiness and of the beauty which exists in the world, and all, all that is exquisite and fine in nature.
I don’t think then misery, but of all the beauty that still remains. This is one of the things in which Mummy and I are so entirely different. Her counsel when one feels melancholy is: “Think of all the misery in the world and be thankful that you are not sharing in it!” My advice is: “Go outside, to the fields, enjoy nature and the sunshine, go out and try to recapture happiness in yourself and in God. Think of all the beauty that’s still left in and around you and be happy!”
I don’t see how Mummy’s idea can be right, because then how are you supposed to behave if you go through the misery yourself? Then you are lost. On the contrary, I’ve found that there is always some beauty left in nature, in sunshine, in freedom, in yourself; these can all help you. Look at these things, then you find yourself again, and God as well, and then you regain your balance.
And whoever is happy will make others happy too. He who has courage and faith will never perish in misery!
Yours, Anne
