None supposing that this year
We would welcome Santa here.
Still, we’ll make his spirit live.
And since we’ve nothing left to give,
We’ve thought of something else to do Each please look inside his shoe.”
As each owner took his shoe from the basket there was a resounding peal of laughter. A little paper package lay in each shoe meant for the shoe’s owner.
Yours, Anne
Wednesday, 22 December, 1943
Dear Kitty, A bad attack of flu has prevented me from writing to you until today.
It’s wretched to be ill here. When I wanted to cough—one, two, three—I crawled under the blankets and tried to stifle the noise. Usually the only result was that the tickle wouldn’t go away at all, and milk and honey, sugar or lozenges had to be brought into operation. It makes me dizzy to think of all the cures that were tried on me. Sweating, compresses, wet cloths on my chest, dry cloths on my chest, hot drinks, gargling, throat painting, lying still, cushion for extra warmth, hot water bottles, lemon squashes, and, in addition, the thermometre every two hours!
Can anyone really get better like this? The worst moment of all was certainly when Mr. Dussel thought he’d play doctor, and came and lay on my naked chest with his greasy head, in order to listen to the sounds within.
Not only did his hair tickle unbearably, but I was embarrassed, in spite of the fact that he once, thirty years ago, studied medicine and has the title of Doctor. Why should the fellow come and lie on my heart? He’s not my
