cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Bep and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kugler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck.
There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas.
Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like many men, not to know what fear is— makes me envious!
It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret spot how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps that would put some sense into their woolly brains.
I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer.
Yours, Anne
Wednesday, 14 June, 1944
Dear Kitty, My head is haunted by so many wishes and thoughts, accusations and reproaches. I’m really not as conceited as so many people seem to think, I
know my own faults and shortcomings better than anyone, but the difference is that I also know that I want to improve, shall improve and have already improved a great deal.
Why is it then, I so often ask myself, that everyone still thinks I’m so terribly snooty and aggressive? Does it really seem I know so much? Is it that I am vain, or is it the others? That sounds queer, I realise now, but I shan’t cross out the last sentence, because it really isn’t so crazy. Everyone knows that Mrs. van Daan, one of my chief accusers, is unintelligent. I might as well put it plainly and say ‘stupid.’ Stupid people usually can’t take it if others do better than they do.
Mrs. van Daan thinks I’m stupid because I’m not quite so lacking in intelligence as she is, she thinks I’m aggressive because she’s even more so; she thinks my dresses are too short, because hers are even shorter. And that’s also the reason that she thinks I think I’m too smart, because she’s twice as keen on speaking of subjects she knows absolutely nothing about.
But one of my favourite sayings is ‘There’s no smoke without fire,’ and I readily admit that I’m knowing.
Now the trying part about me is that I criticise and scold myself far more than anyone else does. To this if Mummy adds her bit of advice, the pile of sermons becomes so insurmountable that in my despair I become rude and start contradicting everyone and then, of course, the old well- known Anne watchword comes back: ‘No one understands me!’ This phrase sticks to my mind; I know it sounds silly, yet there is some truth in it. I often accuse myself to such an extent that I simply long for a word of comfort, for someone who could give me sound advice and also draw me out of my self-criticism, but, alas, I keep on looking, but I haven’t found anyone yet.
I know that you’ll immediately think of Peter, won’t you. Kit? It’s like this: Peter loves me not as a lover but as a friend and grows more affectionate every day. But what is the mysterious something that holds us both back? I don’t understand it myself. Sometimes I think that my terrible longing for him was exaggerated, yet that’s really not it, because if I don’t go up to see him for two days, then I long for him more desperately than
