Yours, Anne
Wednesday, 4 August, 1943
Dear Kitty, Now that we have been in the ‘Secret Annexe’ for over a year, you know something of our lives, but some of it is quite indescribable. There is so much to tell, everything is so different from ordinary times and from ordinary people’s lives. But still, to give you a closer look into our lives, now and again I intend to give you a description of an ordinary day. Today I’m beginning with the evening and night.
9 o’clock in the evening. The bustle of going to bed in the ‘Secret Annexe’ begins and it is always really quite a business. Chairs are shoved about, beds are pulled down, blankets unfolded, nothing remains where it is during the day. I sleep on the little divan, which is not more than one and a half metres long. So chairs have to be used to lengthen it. A quilt, sheets, pillows, blankets, are all fetched from Mr. Dussel’s bed where they remain during the day. One hears terrible creaking in the next room; Margot’s concertina-bed being pulled out. Again, divan, blankets and pillows, whatever can be done to make the wooden slats a bit more comfortable. It sounds like thunder above, but it is only Mrs. van Daan’s bed. This is shifted to the window, you see, in order to give Her Majesty in the pink red jacket fresh air to tickle her dainty nostrils!
After Peter’s finished, I step into the washing cubicle, where I give myself a thorough wash and general toilet; it occasionally happens (only in the hot weeks or months) that there is a tiny flea floating in the water. Then teeth cleaning, hair curling, manicure, and my cottonwool pads with hydrogen peroxide (to bleach black moustache hairs)—all this in under half an hour.
Half past nine. Quickly into dressing gown, soap in one hand, pottie, hairpins, pants, curlers, and cotton wool in the other, I hurry out of the bathroom, but usually I’m called back once for the various hairs which decorate the washbasin in graceful curves, but which are not approved of by the next person.
10 o’ clock. Put up the blackout. Good night! For at least a quarter of an hour there is creaking of beds and a sighing and of broken springs, then all is quiet, at least that is if our neighbours upstairs don’t quarrel in bed.
Half past eleven. The bathroom door creaks. A narrow strip of light falls into the room. A squeak of shoes, a large coat, even larger than the man inside it—Mr. Dussel returns from his night work in Kugler’s office.
Shuffling on the floor for ten minutes, crackle of paper (that is the food which has to be stowed away), and a bed is made. Then the form disappears again and one only hears suspicious noises from the lavatory from time to time.
3 o’clock. I have to get up for a little job in the metal pot under my bed, which is on a rubber mat for safety’s sake in case of leakage. When this has to take place, I always hold my breath, as it clatters into the tin like a brook from a mountain. Then the pot is returned to its place and the figure in the white nightgown, which evokes the same cry from Margot every evening, “Oh, that indecent nightdress!” steps back into bed.
Then a certain person lies awake for about a quarter of an hour, listening to the sounds of the night. Firstly, to whether there might not be a burglar downstairs, then to the various beds, above, next door, and in my room, from which one is usually able to make out how the various members of the household are sleeping, or how they pass the night in wakefulness.
The latter is certainly not pleasant, especially when it concerns a member of the family by the name of Mr. Dussel. First, I hear a sound like a fish gasping for breath, this is repeated nine or ten times, then with much ado and interchanged with little smacking sounds, the lips are moistened, followed by a lengthy twisting and turning in bed and rearranging of pillows. Five minutes’ perfect peace and then the same sequence of events unfolds itself at least three times more, after the doctor has soothed himself
