if it is hard, then at least we shall know whether we are finally going to win through or go under.
Yours, Anne
Wednesday, 31 May, 1944
Dear Kitty, It was so frightfully hot on Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday that I simply couldn’t hold a fountain pen in my hand. That’s why it was impossible to write to you. The drains got clogged again on Friday, were mended again on Saturday, Mr. Kleiman came to see us in the afternoon and told us lots about Corry and her being in the same hockey club as Jacqueline.
On Sunday Bep came to make sure no one had broken in and stayed for breakfast, on Whit Monday Mr. Gies acted as the hideout watchman, and finally, on Tuesday the windows could be opened again.
There’s seldom been such a beautiful, warm, one can even say hot, Whitsun. The heat here in the ‘Secret Annexe’ is terrible; I will briefly describe these warm days by giving you a sample of the sort of complaints that arise: Saturday: “Lovely, what perfect weather,” we all said in the morning.
“If only it wasn’t quite so warm,” in the afternoon when the windows had to be closed.
Sunday: “It’s positively unbearable, this heat. The butter is melting, there’s not a cool spot anywhere in the house, the breads getting so dry, the milk’s going sour, the windows can’t be opened, and we, wretched outcasts, sit here suffocating while other people enjoy “their Whitsun holiday.”
Monday: “My feet hurt me, I haven’t got any thin clothes. I can’t wash the dishes in this heat!” (Mrs. van D) It was extremely unpleasant.
