Yours, Anne
Wednesday, 5 April, 1944
Dear Kitty, For a long time I haven’t had any idea of what I am working for, the end of the war is so terribly far away, so unreal, like a fairy tale. If the war isn’t over by September, I shan’t go to school any more, because I don’t want to be two years behind. Peter filled my days— nothing but Peter, dreams and thoughts until Saturday, when I felt so utterly miserable; oh, it was terrible.
I was holding back my tears all the while I was with Peter, then laughed with van Daan over a lemon punch, was cheerful and excited, but the moment I was alone I knew that I would have to cry my heart out. So, clad in my nightdress, I let myself go and slipped down onto the floor.
First I said my long prayer very earnestly, then I cried with my head on my arms, my knees bent up, on the bare floor, completely folded up. One large sob brought me back to earth again, and I quelled my tears because I didn’t want them to hear anything in the next room. Then I began trying to talk some courage into myself. I could only say: “I must, I must, I must...”
Completely stiff from the unnatural position, I fell against the side of the bed and fought on, until I climbed into bed, again just before half past ten.
It was over!
And now it’s all over. I must work, so as not to be a fool, to get on, to become a journalist, because that’s what I want! I know that I can write, a couple of my stories are; good, my descriptions of the ‘Secret Annexe’ are humorous, there’s a lot in my diary that speaks, but—whether I have real talent remains to be seen.
Wilma’s Dream is my best fairy tale, and the queer thing about it is that I don’t know where it comes from. Quite a lot of Cady’s Life is good too, but, on the whole, it’s nothing.
