wine coloured suede leather with fairly high wedge heels. I feel as if I’m on stilts and look much taller than I am. Mr. Dussel has indirectly endangered our lives. He actually let Miep bring a forbidden book for him, one which abuses Mussolini and Hitler. On the way she was almost run down by an S.S. car. She lost her temper, shouted, “Miserable wretches,” and rode on. It is better not to think of what might have happened if she had had to go to their headquarters.
Yours, Anne
Wednesday, 18 August, 1943
Dear Kitty, The title for this piece is, ‘The community task of the day: potato peeling’!
One person fetches the newspapers, another the knives (keeping the best for himself, of course), a third potatoes, and the fourth a pan of water.
Mr. Dussel begins, does not always scrape well, but scrapes incessantly, glancing right and left. Does everyone do it the way he does? No! “Anne, look here, I take the knife in my hand like this, scrape from the top downwards! No, not like that—like this!”
“I get on better like this, Mr. Dussel,” I remark timidly.
“But still this is the best way. You can take this from me. Naturally I don’t care a bit, aber du must know for yourself.”
We scrape on. I look slyly once in my neighbour’s direction. He shakes his head thoughtfully once more (over me, I suppose) but is silent.
I scrape on again. Now I look to the other side, where Daddy is sitting; for him scraping potatoes is not just a little odd job, but a piece of precision work. When he reads, he has a deep wrinkle at the back of his head, but if he helps prepare potatoes, beans, or any other vegetables, then it seems as if
nothing else penetrates. Then he has on his ‘potato face,’ and he would never hand over an imperfectly scraped potato; it’s out of the question when he makes that face!
I work on again and then just look up for a second; I know it already.
Mrs. van Daan is trying to attract Mr. Dussel’s attention. First she looks in his direction and Mr. Dussel appears not to notice anything. Then she winks an eye; Mr. Dussel works on. Then she laughs, Mr. Dussel doesn’t look up.
Then Mummy laughs too; Mr. Dussel takes no notice. Mrs. van Daan has not achieved anything, so she has to think of something else. A pause, and then, “Putti, do put on an apron! Tomorrow I shall have to get all the spots
out of your suit!”
“I’m not getting myself dirty!”
Another moment’s silence.
“Putti, why don’t you sit down?”
“I’m comfortable standing up and prefer it!” Pause. “Putti, look, du spritzt schon! (“You are making a mess!”) “Yes, Mummy, I’m being careful.”
Mrs. van Daan searches for another subject. “I say, Putti, why aren’t there any English air raids now?” “Because the weather is bad, Kerli.”
“But it was lovely yesterday, and they didn’t fly then either.”
“Let’s not talk, about it.”
“Why, surely one can talk about it, or give one’s opinion?”
“No.”
“Why ever not?”
“Do be quiet, Mammichen.” (Mummy) “Mr. Frank always answers his wife, doesn’t he?”
Mr. van Daan wrestles with himself. This is his tender spot, it’s something he can’t take and Mrs. van Daan begins again, “The invasion seems as if it will never come!”
Mr van Daan goes white; when Mrs. van Daan sees this, she turns red, but goes on again, “The British do nothing!” The bomb explodes!
“And now hold your tongue, donnerwetter noch mal!” (for crying out loud)
