Wednesday, 3 May, 1944
Dear Kitty, First, just the news of the week. We’re having a holiday from politics; there is nothing, absolutely nothing to announce. I too am gradually beginning to believe that the invasion will come. After all, they can’t let the Russians clear up everything, for that matter, they’re not doing anything either at the moment.
Mr. Kleiman comes to the office every morning again now. He’s got a new spring for Peter’s divan, so Peter will have to do some upholstering, about which, quite understandably, he doesn’t feel a bit happy.
Have I told you that Boche has disappeared? Simply vanished—we haven’t seen a sign of her since Thursday of last week. I expect she’s already in cats’ heaven, while some animal lover is enjoying a succulent meal from her. Perhaps some little girl will be given a fur cap out of her skin. Peter is very sad about it.
Since Saturday we’ve changed over, and have lunch at half past eleven in the mornings, so we have to last out with one cupful of porridge, this saves us a meal. Vegetables are still very difficult to obtain: we had rotten boiled lettuce this afternoon. Ordinary lettuce, spinach and boiled lettuce, there’s nothing else. With these we eat rotten potatoes, so it’s a delicious combination!
As you can easily imagine we often ask ourselves here despairingly: “What, oh, what is the use of the war? Why can’t people live peacefully together? Why all this destruction?”
The question is very understandable, but no one has found a satisfactory answer to it so far. Yes, why do they make still more gigantic planes, still heavier bombs and, at the same time, prefabricated houses for reconstruction? Why should millions be spent daily on the war and yet there’s not a penny available for medical services, artists, or for poor people?
Why do some people have to starve, while there are surpluses rotting in other parts of the world? Oh, why are people so crazy?
