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Am I imagining shit, or does that guy have really fucking long boney fingers? He almost looks sickly, like he was drinking the Vaseline instead of his Monster energy drink as he played/cybered whilst playing WoW.
I’ll try and keep this short but I’m not making any promises. I’d like to be thorough in answering your question…but, no, Lachrymal, the instance where I was referring to what appears to me to be abnormally LONG fingers and being sickly were meant to be two separate statements that have nothing to do with each other. Maybe it’s the brightness on my monitor but the COLOUR of his long fingers appears to me that he has bad circulation in his extremities, this is what I mean by appearing to be sickly. My most humble apologies if you read that as I was assuming he was experiencing this ghostly phenomena because of his alien digits. Everything else is just me poking fun at Crusty’s version of the cute couples threesome. What do you want me to say about a picture on Lamebook of a guy obviously obsessed with taking a digital photograph of himself giving a thumbs-up to his Facebook buddies before he masturbates? “Oh, that’s incredibly sexy, show us your penis after you’re done lathering up!”? Does that work better for you? Yes? O.K. Now since Lamebook doesn’t seem to have a delete/edit function I’m going to need you go back to #6 with your permanent marker and CAREFULLY cross out my comment, open notepad, type “see #8 for Capn’s edited comment”, next hit ctrl+p, when your printer completes that task, again, CAREFULLY…I can’t stress this enough, cut out your typed message and superglue it directly under the message you crossed out with the marker. I hope this helps, and if there’s anything else you need help with, please, by all means just ask. I’ll be glad to answer any more questions you have, it’s no problem, really, I don’t mind. I’m more than happy to help. But if that’s all you needed, it’s a beautiful day out, try and make the most of it.
haha….I still have nightmares of the last time I slapped a post # down without paying enough attention, in fact, the one that didn’t even exist yet, only to try and save my dignity and fail miserably by claiming a temporary bout with dyslexia only to fuck that up too, because that would just create an even higher number..I don’t remember which order you and Beatus corrected me in, I do remember the only thing I could do was admit to myself that my brain must have short-circuited that day. No chances were taken this time, I was sure to load a new window and verify the post numbers, this time…because you’re right, that would have just totally fucked it all up and I’d have to stick my head in a hole like an ostrich for the rest of the day. To be fair, it only took like 2 minutes, but still…now if I never learned how to use a keyboard properly and I was one a them folk that hunt and peck, it probably would have taken me eons.
“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist- I really believe he is Antichrist- I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you- sit down and tell me all the news.”
It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Marya Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasili Kuragin, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.
All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:
“If you have nothing better to do, Count [or Prince], and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10- Annette Scherer.”
“Heavens! what a virulent attack!” replied the prince, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the sofa.
“First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend’s mind at rest,” said he without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned.
“Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like these if one has any feeling?” said Anna Pavlovna. “You are staying the whole evening, I hope?”
“And the fete at the English ambassador’s? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there,” said the prince. “My daughter is coming for me to take me there.”
“I thought today’s fete had been canceled. I confess all these festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome.”
“If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have been put off,” said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed.
“Don’t tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosiltsev’s dispatch? You know everything.”
“What can one say about it?” replied the prince in a cold, listless tone. “What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.”
Prince Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part. Anna Pavlovna Scherer on the contrary, despite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct.
In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pavlovna burst out:
“Oh, don’t speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don’t understand things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the blood of the just one…. Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?… England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot understand the Emperor Alexander’s loftiness of soul. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer did Novosiltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe is powerless before him…. And I don’t believe a word that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored monarch. He will save Europe!”
She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.
“I think,” said the prince with a smile, “that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of Prussia’s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup of tea?”
“In a moment. A propos,” she added, becoming calm again, “I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart, who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best French families. He is one of the genuine emigres, the good ones. And also the Abbe Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?”
“I shall be delighted to meet them,” said the prince. “But tell me,” he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive of his visit, “is it true that the Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all accounts is a poor creature.”
Prince Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were trying through the Dowager Empress Marya Fedorovna to secure it for the baron.
Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was pleased with.
“Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister,” was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.
As she named the Empress, Anna Pavlovna’s face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup d’estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness.
The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak he had done of a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she said:
“Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly beautiful.”
The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.
“I often think,” she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate conversation- “I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children? I don’t speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don’t like him,” she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. “Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don’t deserve to have them.”
And she smiled her ecstatic smile.
“I can’t help it,” said the prince. “Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity.”
“Don’t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves” (and her face assumed its melancholy expression), “he was mentioned at Her Majesty’s and you were pitied….”
The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned.
“What would you have me do?” he said at last. “You know I did all a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That is the only difference between them.” He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant.
“And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you with,” said Anna Pavlovna, looking up pensively.
“I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can’t be helped!”
He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated.
“Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?” she asked. “They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don’t feel that weakness in myself as yet,I know a little person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary Bolkonskaya.”
Prince Vasili did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the head that he was considering this information.
“Do you know,” he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current of his thoughts, “that Anatole is costing me forty thousand rubles a year? And,” he went on after a pause, “what will it be in five years, if he goes on like this?” Presently he added: “That’s what we fathers have to put up with…. Is this princess of yours rich?”
“Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed ‘the King of Prussia.’ He is very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutuzov’s and will be here tonight.”
“Listen, dear Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking Anna Pavlovna’s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. “Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave- slafe wigh an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that’s all I want.”
And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the maid of honor’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.
“Attendez,” said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, “I’ll speak to Lise, young Bolkonski’s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family’s behalf that I’ll start my apprenticeship as old maid.”
Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. Prince Vasili’s daughter, the beautiful Helene, came to take her father to the ambassador’s entertainment; she wore a ball dress and her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess Bolkonskaya, known as la femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg,* was also there. She had been married during the previous winter, and being pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Prince Vasili’s son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced. The Abbe Morio and many others had also come.
*The most fascinating woman in Petersburg.
To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, “You have not yet seen my aunt,” or “You do not know my aunt?” and very gravely conducted him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna Pavlovna mentioned each one’s name and then left them.
Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them cared about; Anna Pavlovna observed these greetings with mournful and solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her Majesty, “who, thank God, was better today.” And each visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not return to her the whole evening.
The young Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect- the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth- seemed to be her own special and peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that day.
The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around her. “I have brought my work,” said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all present. “Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me,” she added, turning to her hostess. “You wrote that it was to be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed.” And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.
“Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone else,” replied Anna Pavlovna.
“You know,” said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in French, turning to a general, “my husband is deserting me? He is going to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?” she added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.
“What a delightful woman this little princess is!” said Prince Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.
One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known grandee of Catherine’s time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his first appearance in society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But in spite of this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over her face when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room.
“It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid,” said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her.
Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance.
Anna Pavlovna’s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty’s health. Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: “Do you know the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man.”
“Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very interesting but hardly feasible.”
“You think so?” rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbe’s plan chimerical.
“We will talk of it later,” said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.
And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave, she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready to help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pavlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbe.
Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna Pavlovna’s was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined expression on the faces of those present he was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing.
Anna Pavlovna’s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt, beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round the abbe. Another, of young people, was grouped round the beautiful Princess Helene, Prince Vasili’s daughter, and the little Princess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna Pavlovna.
The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her guests. As a clever maitre d’hotel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly choice morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d’Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d’Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were particular reasons for Buonaparte’s hatred of him.
“Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,” said Anna Pavlovna, with a pleasant feeling that there was something a la Louis XV in the sound of that sentence: “Contez nous cela, Vicomte.”
The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to listen to his tale.
“The vicomte knew the duc personally,” whispered Anna Pavlovna to of the guests. “The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,” said she to another. “How evidently he belongs to the best society,” said she to a third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef on a hot dish.
The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.
“Come over here, Helene, dear,” said Anna Pavlovna to the beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of another group.
The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which she had first entered the room- the smile of a perfectly beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom- which in the fashion of those days were very much exposed- and she seemed to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect.
“How lovely!” said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her unchanging smile.
“Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,” said he, smilingly inclining his head.
The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor’s face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.
The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Helene.
“Wait a moment, I’ll get my work…. Now then, what are you thinking of?” she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. “Fetch me my workbag.”
There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat.
“Now I am all right,” she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took up her work.
Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.
Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like his sister’s, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions.
“It’s not going to be a ghost story?” said he, sitting down beside the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this instrument he could not begin to speak.
“Why no, my dear fellow,” said the astonished narrator, shrugging his shoulders.
“Because I hate ghost stories,” said Prince Hippolyte in a tone which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had uttered them.
He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.
The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current, to the effect that the Duc d’Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress’ favors, and that in his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject, and was thus at the duc’s mercy. The latter spared him, and this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death.
The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated.
“Charming!” said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance at the little princess.
“Charming!” whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story prevented her from going on with it.
The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbe, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young man’s simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved.
“The means are… the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the people,” the abbe was saying. “It is only necessary for one powerful nation like Russia- barbaric as she is said to be- to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the world!”
“But how are you to get that balance?” Pierre was beginning.
At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian’s face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women.
“I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of the climate,” said he.
Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger circle.
The Pavlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served as a cadet was quartered in the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were assigned to cavalry-captain Denisov, the squadron commander, known throughout the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov. Cadet Rostov, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the squadron commander.
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news of Mack’s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was proceeding as usual. Denisov, who had been losing at cards all night, had not yet come home when Rostov rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly.
“Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!” said he to the hussar who rushed up headlong to the horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young people show to everyone when they are happy.
“Yes, your excellency,” answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his head.
“Mind, walk him up and down well!”
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse’s head. It was evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to serve him. Rostov patted the horse’s neck and then his flank, and lingered for a moment.
“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” he thought with a smile, and holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately brightened on seeing Rostov. “Schon gut Morgen! Schon gut Morgen!”* he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to greet the young man.
*”A very good morning! A very good morning!”
“Schon fleissig?”* said Rostov with the same gay brotherly smile which did not leave his eager face. “Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen! Kaiser Alexander hoch!”* said he, quoting words often repeated by the German landlord.
* “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!”
The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and waving it above his head cried:
“Und die ganze Welt hoch!”*
*”And hurrah for the whole world!”
Rostov waved his cap above his head like the German and ctied laughing, “Und vivat die ganze Welt!” Though neither the German cleaning his cowshed nor Rostov back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection, and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and Rostov going to the cottage he occupied with Denisov.
“What about your master?” he asked Lavrushka, Denisov’s orderly, whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.
“Hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,” answered Lavrushka. “I know by now, if he wins he comes back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?”
“Yes, bring some.”
Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought the coffee. “He’s coming!” said he. “Now for trouble!” Rostov looked out of the window and saw Denisov coming home. Denisov was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head.
“Lavwuska!” he shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off, blockhead!”
“Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrushka’s voice.
“Ah, you’re up already,” said Denisov, entering the room.
“Long ago,” answered Rostov, “I have already been for the hay, and have seen Fraulein Mathilde.”
“Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a damned fool!” cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r’s. “Such ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo there! Tea!”
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair.
“And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed “the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one cahd.”
He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he continued to shout.
“He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!”
He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at Rostov.
“If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful cough.
“The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrushka.
Denisov’s face puckered still more.
“Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. “Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow,” he said, and went out to the quartermaster.
Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them.
“Ah! Telyanin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came Denisov’s voice from the next room.
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s… I knew it,” replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer of the same squadron, entered the room.
Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not liked; Rostov especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.
“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?” he asked. (Rook was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)
The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.
“I saw you riding this morning…” he added.
“Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,” answered Rostov, though the horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg,” he added.
“The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do and show you what kind of rivet to use.”
“Yes, please do,” said Rostov.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a horse you’ll thank me for.”
“Then I’ll have it brought round,” said Rostov wishing to avoid Telyanin, and he went out to give the order.
In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust.
“Ugh! I don’t like that fellow”‘ he said, regardless of the quartermaster’s presence.
Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to Telyanin.
Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands.
“Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostov as he entered.
“Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Telyanin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.
“Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denisov about yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denisov?”
“Not yet. But where are you off to?”
“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin.
They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.
When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostov’s face and said: “I am witing to her.”
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Rostov the contents of his letter.
“You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We are childwen of the dust… but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pua’ as on the first day of cweation… Who’s that now? Send him to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrushka, who went up to him not in the least abashed.
“Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the quartermaster for the money.”
Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.
“Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in the puhse?” he asked, turning to Rostov.
“Seven new and three old imperials.”
“Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,” he shouted to Lavrushka.
“Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know,” said Rostov, blushing.
“Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled Denisov.
“But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me. Really I have some,” Rostov repeated.
“No, I tell you.”
And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.
“Where have you put it, Wostov?”
“Under the lower pillow.”
“It’s not there.”
Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there.
“That’s a miwacle.”
“Wait, haven’t you dropped it?” said Rostov, picking up the pillows one at a time and shaking them.
He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.
“Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you kept it under your head like a treasure,” said Rostov. “I put it just here. Where is it?” he asked, turning to Lavrushka.
“I haven’t been in the room. It must be where you put it.”
“But it isn’t?…”
“You’re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget it. Feel in your pockets.”
“No, if I hadn’t thought of it being a treasure,” said Rostov, “but I remember putting it there.”
Lavrushka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the room. Denisov silently watched Lavrushka’s movements, and when the latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found Denisov glanced at Rostov.
“Wostov, you’ve not been playing schoolboy twicks…”
Rostov felt Denisov’s gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not draw breath.
“And there hasn’t been anyone in the room except the lieutenant and yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrushka.
“Now then, you devil’s puppet, look alive and hunt for it!” shouted Denisov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man with a threatening gesture. “If the purse isn’t found I’ll flog you, I’ll flog you all.”
Rostov, his eyes avoiding Denisov, began buttoning his coat, buckled on his saber, and put on his cap.
“I must have that purse, I tell you,” shouted Denisov, shaking his orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall.
“Denisov, let him alone, I know who has taken it,” said Rostov, going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denisov paused, thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostov hinted at, seized his arm.
“Nonsense!” he cried, and the veins on his forehead and neck stood out like cords. “You are mad, I tell you. I won’t allow it. The purse is here! I’ll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be found.”
“I know who has taken it,” repeated Rostov in an unsteady voice, and went to the door.
“And I tell you, don’t you dahe to do it!” shouted Denisov, rushing at the cadet to restrain him.
But Rostov pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though Denisov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his face.
“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said in a trembling voice. “There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it is not so, then…”
He could not finish, and ran out of the room.
“Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody,” were the last words Rostov heard.
Rostov went to Telyanin’s quarters.
“The master is not in, he’s gone to headquarters,” said Telyanin’s orderly. “Has something happened?” he added, surprised at the cadet’s troubled face.
“You’ve only just missed him,” said the orderly.
The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and Rostov, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was an inn in the village which the officers frequented. Rostov rode up to it and saw Telyanin’s horse at the porch.
In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of sausages and a bottle of wine.
“Ah, you’ve come here too, young man!” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows.
“Yes,” said Rostov as if it cost him a great deal to utter the word; and he sat down at the nearest table.
Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives and the munching of the lieutenant.
When Telyanin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a double purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to the waiter.
“Please be quick,” he said.
The coin was a new one. Rostov rose and went up to Telyanin.
“Allow me to look at your purse,” he said in a low, almost inaudible, voice.
With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyanin handed him the purse.
“Yes, it’s a nice purse. Yes, yes,” he said, growing suddenly pale, and added, “Look at it, young man.”
Rostov took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in it, and looked at Telyanin. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way and suddenly seemed to grow very merry.
“If we get to Vienna I’ll get rid of it there but in these wretched little towns there’s nowhere to spend it,” said he. “Well, let me have it, young man, I’m going.”
Rostov did not speak.
“And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite decently here,” continued Telyanin. “Now then, let me have it.”
He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostov let go of it. Telyanin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth slightly open, as if to say, “Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my pocket and that’s quite simple and is no else’s business.”
“Well, young man?” he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted brows he glanced into Rostov’s eyes.
Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyanin’s eyes to Rostov’s and back, and back again and again in an instant.
“Come here,” said Rostov, catching hold of Telyanin’s arm and almost dragging him to the window. “That money is Denisov’s; you took it…” he whispered just above Telyanin’s ear.
“What? What? How dare you? What?” said Telyanin.
But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for pardon. As soon as Rostov heard them, an enormous load of doubt fell from him. He was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be completed.
“Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine,” muttered Telyanin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room. “We must have an explanation…”
“I know it and shall prove it,” said Rostov.
Every muscle of Telyanin’s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising to Rostov’s face, and his sobs were audible.
“Count!… Don’t ruin a young fellow… here is this wretched money, take it…” He threw it on the table. “I have an old father and mother!…”
Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin’s eyes, and went out of the room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced his steps. “O God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?”
“Count…” said Telyanin drawing nearer to him.
“Don’t touch me,” said Rostov, drawing back. “If you need it, take the money,” and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.
I’m feeling way too lazy atm, I managed to find a stash of benzos, tranqs, and sleeping pills to keep my post lengths limited. I think all the info you seek is over onto the furry penis thread that I’m not posting link to, but I’m just postive delorean will just it just post that b/s at the bottom of THAT page too. Fucks like you can’t resist to the call.
THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL : THE DEFINITIVE EDITION
Edited by Otto H. Frank and Mirjam Pressler
Translated by Susan Massotty
– : –
Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl is among the most enduring documents of the
twentieth century. Since its publication in 1947, it has been read by tens of millions
of people all over the world. It remains a beloved and deeply admired testament to the
indestructable nature of the human spirit.
Restore in this Definitive Edition are diary entries that had been omitted from the
original edition. These passages, which constitute 30 percent more material, reinforce
the fact that Anne was first and foremost a teenage girl, not a remote and flawless
symbol. She fretted about, and tried to copie with, her own emerging sexuality. Like
many young girls, she often found herself in disagreement with her mother. And like
any teenager, she veered between the carefree nature of a child and the full-fledged
sorrow of an adult. Anne emerges more human, more vulnerable, and more vital than
Anne Frank and her family, fleeing the horrors of Nazi occupation, hid in the back of
an Amsterdam warehouse for two years. She was thirteen when the family went into
the Secret Annex, and in these pages she grows to be a young woman and a wise
observer of human nature as well. With unusual insight, she reveals the relations
between eight people living under extraordinary conditions, facing hunger, the
ever-present threat of discovery and death, complete estrangement from the outside
world, and above all, the boredom, the petty misunderstandings, and the frustrations of
living under such unbearable strain, in such confined quarters.
A timely story rediscovered by each new generation, The Diary of a Young Girl stands
without peer. For both young readers and adults it continues to bring to life this
young woman, who for a time survived the worst horror of the modern world had seen
– and who remained triumphantly and heartbreakingly human throughout her ordeal.
For those who know and love Anne Frank, The Definitive Edition is a chance to
discover her anew. For readers who have not yet encountered her, this is the edition
ANNE FRANK was born on June 12, 1929. She died while imprisoned at
Bergen-Belsen, three months short of her sixteenth birthday. OTTO H. FRANK was
the only member of his immediate framily to survive the Holocaust. He died in 1980.
MIRJAM PRESSLER is a popular writer of books for young adults. She lives in
Translated by Susan Massotty.
– : –
Anne Frank kept a diary from June 12, 1942, to August 1, 1944. Initially, she wrote
it strictly for herself. Then, one day in 1944, Gerrit Bolkestein, a member of the
Dutch government in exile, announced in a radio broadcast from London that after the
war he hoped to collect eyewitness accounts of the suffering of the Dutch people
under the German occupation, which could be made available to the public. As an
example, he specifically mentioned letters and diaries.
Impressed by this speech, Anne Frank decided that when the war was over she would
publish a book based on her diary. She began rewriting and editing her diary,
improving on the text, omitting passages she didn’t think were interesting enough and
adding others from memory. At the same time, she kept up her original diary. In the
scholarly work The Diary of Anne Frank: The Critical Edition (1989), Anne’s first,
unedited diary is referred to as version a, to distinguish it from her second, edited
diary, which is known as version b.
The last entry in Anne’s diary is dated August 1, 1944. On August 4, 1944, the eight
people hiding in the Secret Annex were arrested. Miep Gies and Bep Voskuijl, the two
secretaries working in the building, found Anne’s diaries strewn allover the floor. ,Miep
Gies tucked them away in a desk drawer for safekeeping. After the war, when it
became clear that Anne was dead, she gave the diaries, unread, to Anne’s father, Otto
After long deliberation, Otto Frank decided to fulfill his daughter’s wish and publish
her diary. He selected material from versions a and b, editing them into a shorter
version later referred to as version c. Readers all over the world know this as The
Diary of a fauna Girl.
In making his choice, Otto Frank had to bear several points in mind. To begin with,
the book had to be kept short so that it would fit in with a series put out by the
Dutch publisher. In addition, several passages dealing with Anne’s sexuality were
omitted; at the time of the diary’s initial publication, in 1947, it was not customary to
write openly about sex, and certainly not in books for young adults. Out of respect for
the dead, Otto Frank also omitted a number of unflattering passages about his wife and
the other residents of the Secret Annex. Anne Frank, who was thirteen when she
began her diary and fifteen when she was forced to stop, wrote without reserve about
her likes and dislikes.
When Otto Frank died in 1980, he willed his daughter’s manuscripts to the Netherlands
State Institute for War Documentation in Amsterdam. Because the authenticity of the
diary had been challenged ever since its publication, the Institute for War
Documentation ordered a thorough investigation. Once the diary was proved, beyond a
shadow of a doubt, to be genuine, it was published in its entirety, along with the
results of an exhaustive study. The Critical Edition contains not only versions a, band
c, but also articles on the background of the Frank family, the circumstances
surrounding their arrest and deportation, and the examination into Anne’s handwriting,
the document and the materials used.
The Anne Frank-Fonds (Anne Frank Foundation) in Basel (Switzerland),. which as
Otto Frank’s sole heir had also inherited his daughter’s copyrights, then decided to
have anew, expanded edition of the diary published for general readers. This new
edition in no way affects the integrity of the old one originally edited by Otto Frank,
which brought the diary and its message to millions of people. The task of compthng
the expanded edition was given to the writer and translator Mirjam Pressler. Otto
Frank’s original selection has now been supplemented with passages from Anne’s a and
b versions. Mirjam Pressler’s definitive edition, approved by the Anne Frank-Fonds,
contains approximately 30 percent more material and is intended to give the reader
more insight into the world of Anne Frank.
In writing her second version (b), Anne invented pseudonyms for the people who
would appear in her book. She initially wanted to call herself Anne Aulis, and later
Anne Robin. Otto Frank opted to call his family by their own names and to follow
Anne’s wishes with regard to the others. Over the years, the identity of the people
who helped the family in the Secret Annex has become common knowledge. In this
edition, the helpers are now referred to by their real names, as they so justly deserve
to be. All other persons are named in accordance with the pseudonyms in The Critical
Edition. The Institute for War Documentation has arbitrarily assigned initials to those
persons wishing to remain anonymous.
The real names of the other people hiding in the Secret Annex are:
THE VAN PELS FAMILY
(from Osnabriick, Germany):
Auguste van Pels (born September 9, 1890)
Hermann van Pels (born March 31, 1889)
Peter van Pels (born November 8, 1926)
Called by Anne, in her manuscript: Petronella, Hans and Alfred van Daan; and in the
book: Petronella, Hermann and Peter van Daan.
(born April 30, 1889, in Giessen, Germany):
Called by Anne, in her manuscript and in the book: Alfred Dussel.
The reader may wish to bear in mind that much of this edition is based on the b
version of Anne’s diary, which she wrote when she was around fifteen years old.
Occasionally, Anne went back and commented on a passage she had written earlier.
These comments are clearly marked in this edition. Naturally, Anne’s spelling and
linguistic errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the text has basically been left as
she wrote it, since any attempts at editing and clarification would be inappropriate in a
– : –
I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to
confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.
– : –
June 12, 1942
I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to
confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 28, 1942: So far you truly have been
a areat source of comfort to me, and so has Kitty, whom I now write to regularly.
This way of keeping a diary is much nicer, and now I can hardly wait for those
moments when I’m able to write in you. Oh, I’m so alad I brought you along!
SUNDAY, JUNE 14, 1942
I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the table among
my other birthday presents. (I went along when you were bought, but that doesn’t
On Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o’clock, which isn’t surprising, since it was
my birthday. But I’m not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my
curiosity until quarter to seven. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I went to the dining
room, where Moortje (the cat) welcomed me by rubbing against my legs.
A little after seven I went to Daddy and Mama and then to the living room to open
my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicest presents.
Then a bouquet of roses, some peonies and a potted plant. From Daddy and Mama I
got a blue blouse, a game, a bottle of grape juice, which to my mind tastes a bit like
wine (after all, wine is made from grapes), a puzzle, a jar of cold cream, 2.50 guilders
and a gift certificate for two books. I got another book as well, Camera Obscura (but
Margot already has it, so I exchanged mine for something else), a platter of
homemade cookies (which I made myself, of course, since I’ve become quite an expert
at baking cookies), lots of candy and a strawberry tart from Mother. And a letter from
Grammy, right on time, but of course that was just a coincidence.
Then Hanneli came to pick me up, and we went to school. During recess I passed out
cookies to my teachers and my class, and then it was time to get back to work. I
didn’t arrive home until five, since I went to gym with the rest of the class. (I’m not
allowed to take part because my shoulders and hips tend to get dislocated.) As it was
my birthday, I got to decide which game my classmates would play, and I chose
volleyball. Afterward they all danced around me in a circle and sang “Happy Birthday.”
When I got home, Sanne Ledermann was already there. Ilse Wagner, Hanneli Goslar
and Jacqueline van Maarsen came home with me after gym, since we’re in the same
class. Hanneli and Sanne used to be my two best friends. People who saw us together
used to say, “There goes Anne, Hanne and Sanne.” I only met Jacqueline van Maarsen
when I started at the Jewish Lyceum, and now she’s my best friend. Ilse is Hanneli’s
best friend, and Sanne goes to another school and has friends there.
They gave me a beautiful book, Dutch Sasas and Lesends, but they gave me Volume II
by mistake, so I exchanged two other books for Volume I. Aunt Helene brought me a
puzzle, Aunt Stephanie a darling brooch and Aunt Leny a terrific book: Daisy Goes to
This morning I lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it would be if I had a dog
like Rin Tin Tin. I’d call him Rin Tin Tin too, and I’d take him to school with me,
where he could stay in the janitor’s room or by the bicycle racks when the weather
MONDAY, JUNE 15, 1942
I had my birthday party on Sunday afternoon. The Rin Tin Tin movie was a big hit
with my classmates. I got two brooches, a bookmark and two books. I’ll start by
saying a few things about my school and my class, beginning with the students.
Betty Bloemendaal looks kind of poor, and I think she probably is. She lives on some
obscure street in West Amsterdam, and none of us know where it is. She does very
well at school, but that’s because she works so hard, not because she’s so smart.
She’s pretty quiet.
Jacqueline van Maarsen is supposedly my best friend, but I’ve never had a real friend.
At first I thought Jacque would be one, but I was badly mistaken.
D.Q.* [* Initials have been assigned at random to those persons who prefer to remain
anonymous.] is a very nervous girl who’s always forgetting things, so the teachers
keep assigning her extra homework as punishment. She’s very kind, especially to G.Z.
E.S. talks so much it isn’t funny. She’s always touching your hair or fiddling with your
buttons when she asks you something. They say she can’t stand me, but I don’t care,
since I don’t like her much either.
Henny Mets is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, except that she talks in a loud
voice and is really childish when we’re playing outdoors. Unfortunately, Henny has a
girlfriend named Beppy who’s a bad influence on her because she’s dirty and vulgar.
J.R. – I could write a whole book about her. J. is a detestable, sneaky, stuck-up,
two-faced gossip who thinks she’s so grown-up. She’s really got Jacque under her
spell, and that’s a shame. J. is easily offended, bursts into tears at the slightest thing
and, to top it all off, is a terrible show-off. Miss J. always has to be right. She’s
very rich, and has a closet full of the most adorable dresses that are way too old for
her. She thinks she’s gorgeous, but she’s not. J. and I can’t stand each other.
Ilse Wagner is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, but she’s extremely fInicky and
can spend hours moaning and groaning about something. Ilse likes me a lot. She’s very
smart, but lazy.
Hanneli Goslar, or Lies as she’s called at school, is a bit on the strange side. She’s
usually shy — outspoken at horne, but reserved around other people. She blabs
whatever you tell her to her mother. But she says what she thinks, and lately I’ve
corne to appreciate her a great deal.
Nannie van Praag-Sigaar is small, funny and sensible. I think she’s nice. She’s pretty
smart. There isn’t much else you can say about Nannie. Eefje de Jong is, in my
opinion, terrific. Though she’s only twelve, she’s quite the lady. She acts as if I were
a baby. She’s also very helpful, and I like her.
G.Z. is the prettiest girl in our class. She has a nice face, but is kind of dumb. I think
they’re going to hold her back a year, but of course I haven’t told her that.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE AT A LATER DATE: To my areat surprise, G.Z.
wasn’t held back a year after all.
And sitting next to G.Z. is the last of us twelve girls, me.
There’s a lot to be said about the boys, or maybe not so much after all.
Maurice Coster is one of my many admirers, but pretty much of a pest. Sallie
Springer has a filthy mind, and rumor has it that he’s gone all the way. Still, I think
he’s terrific, because he’s very funny.
Emiel Bonewit is G.Z.’s admirer, but she doesn’t care. He’s pretty boring. Rob Cohen
used to be in love with me too, but I can’t stand him anymore. He’s an obnoxious,
two-faced, lying, sniveling little goof who has an awfully high opinion of himself.
Max van de Velde is a farm boy from Medemblik, but eminently suitable, as Margot
Herman Koopman also has a filthy mind, just like Jopie de Beer, who’s a terrible flirt
and absolutely girl-crazy.
Leo Blom is Jopie de Beer’s best friend, but has been ruined by his dirty mind.
Albert de Mesquita came from the Montessori School and skipped a grade. He’s really
Leo Slager came from the same school, but isn’t as smart.
Ru Stoppelmon is a short, goofy boy from Almelo who transferred to this school in
the middle of the year.
C.N. does whatever he’s not supposed to.
Jacques Kocernoot sits behind us, next to C., and we (G. and I) laugh ourselves silly.
Harry Schaap is the most decent boy in our class. He’s nice.
Werner Joseph is nice too, but all the changes taking place lately have made him too
quiet, so he seems boring. Sam Salomon is one of those tough guys from across the
tracks. A real brat. (Admirer!)
Appie Riem is pretty Orthodox, but a brat too.
SATURDAY, JUNE 20,1942
Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only
because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later
on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old
schoolgirl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like writing, and I have an even greater
need to get all kinds of things off my chest.
“Paper has more patience than people.” I thought of this saying on one of those days
when I was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home with my chin in my
hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out. I finally stayed
where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have more patience, and since I’m not planning
to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a “diary,”
unless I should ever find a real friend, it probably won’t make a bit of difference.
Now I’m back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place: I don’t
have a friend.
Let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen year-old girl is
completely alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents and a
sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people I can call friends. I have a
throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have
to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the
classroom. I have a family, loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I seem
to have everything, except my one true friend. All I think about when I’m with friends
is having a good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary
everyday things. We don’t seem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem.
Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other. In any case, that’s just how
things are, and unfortunately they’re not liable to change. This is why I’ve started the
To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination, I don’t want to
jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but I want the diary
to be my friend, and I’m going to call this friend Kitty.
Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right
in, I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike doing so.
My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen, didn’t marry my mother until he
was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born in Frankfurt am
Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12, 1929. I lived in Frankfurt until I
was four. Because we’re Jewish, my father immigrated to Holland in 1933, when he
became the Managing Director of the Dutch Opekta Company, which manufactures
products used in making jam. My mother, Edith Hollander Frank, went with him to
Holland in September, while Margot and I were sent to Aachen to stay with our
grandmother. Margot went to Holland in December, and I followed in February, when I
was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot.
I started right away at the Montessori nursery school. I stayed there until I was six,
at which time I started first grade. In sixth grade my teacher was Mrs. Kuperus, the
principal. At the end of the year we were both in tears as we said a heartbreaking
farewell, because I’d been accepted at the Jewish Lyceum, where Margot also went to
Our lives were not without anxiety, since our relatives in Germany were suffering
under Hitler’s anti-Jewish laws. After the pogroms in 1938 my two uncles (my
mother’s brothers) fled Germany, finding safe refuge in North America. My elderly
grandmother came to live with us. She was seventy-three years old at the time.
After May 1940 the good times were few and far between: first there was the war,
then the capitulation and then the arrival of the Germans, which is when the trouble
started for the Jews. Our freedom was severely restricted by a series of anti-Jewish
decrees: Jews were required to wear a yellow star; Jews were required to turn in
their bicycles; Jews were forbidden to use street-cars; Jews were forbidden to ride in
cars, even their own; Jews were required to do their shopping between 3 and 5 P.M.;
Jews were required to frequent only Jewish-owned barbershops and beauty parlors;
Jews were forbidden to be out on the streets between 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.; Jews were
forbidden to attend theaters, movies or any other forms of entertainment; Jews were
forbidden to use swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic
fields; Jews were forbidden to go rowing; Jews were forbidden to take part in any
athletic activity in public; Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their
friends after 8 P.M.; Jews were forbidden to visit Christians in their homes; Jews
were required to attend Jewish schools, etc. You couldn’t do this and you couldn’t do
that, but life went on. Jacque always said to me, “I don’t dare do anything anymore,
’cause I’m afraid it’s not allowed.”
In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so my
birthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940 we didn’t do much for
my birthday either, since the fighting had just ended in Holland. Grandma died in
January 1942. No one knows how often I think of her and still love her. This birthday
celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others, and Grandma’s candle was
lit along with the rest.
The four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date of June 20,
1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary.
SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1942
Dearest Kitty! Let me get started right away; it’s nice and quiet now. Father and
Mother are out and Margot has gone to play Ping-Pong with some other young people
at her friend Trees’s. I’ve been playing a lot of Ping-Pong myself lately. So much
that five of us girls have formed a club. It’s called “The Little Dipper Minus Two.” A
really silly name, but it’s based on a mistake. We wanted to give our club a special
name; and because there were five of us, we came up with the idea of the Little
Dipper. We thought it consisted of five stars, but we turned out to be wrong. It has
seven, like the Big Dipper, which explains the “Minus Two.” Ilse Wagner has a
Ping-Pong set, and the Wagners let us play in their big dining room whenever we
want. Since we five Ping-Pong players like ice cream, especially in the summer, and
since you get hot playing Ping-Pong, our games usually end with a visit to the
nearest ice-cream parlor that allows Jews: either Oasis or Delphi. We’ve long since
stopped hunting around for our purses or money — most of the time it’s so busy in
Oasis that we manage to find a few generous young men of our acquaintance or an
admirer to offer us more ice cream than we could eat in a week.
You’re probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such a tender
age. Unfortunately, or not, as the case may be, this vice seems to be rampant at our
school. As soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with me and we get to talking,
nine times out of ten I can be sure he’ll become enamored on the spot and won’t let
me out of his sight for a second. His ardor eventually cools, especially since I ignore
his passionate glances and pedal blithely on my way. If it gets so bad that they start
rambling on about “asking Father’s permission,” I swerve slightly on my bike, my
schoolbag falls, and the young man feels obliged to get off his bike and hand me the
bag, by which time I’ve switched the conversation to another topic. These are the
most innocent types. Of course, there are those who blow you kisses or try to take
hold of your arm, but they’re definitely knocking on the wrong door. I get off my bike
and either refuse to make further use of their company or act as if I’m insulted and
tell them in no uncertain terms to go on home without me. There you are. We’ve now
laid the basis for our friendship. Until tomorrow.
SUNDAY, JUNE 21, 1942
Our entire class is quaking in its boots. The reason, of course, is the upcoming
meeting in which the teachers decide who’ll be promoted to the next grade and who’ll
be kept back. Half the class is making bets. G.Z. and I laugh ourselves sick at the two
boys behind us, C.N. and Jacques Kocernoot, who have staked their entire vacation
savings on their bet. From morning to night, it’s “You’re going to pass, No, I’m not,”
“Yes, you are,” “No, I’m not.” Even G.’s pleading glances and my angry outbursts can’t
calm them down. If you ask me, there are so many dummies that about a quarter of
the class should be kept back, but teachers are the most unpredictable creatures on
earth. Maybe this time they’ll be unpredictable in the right direction for a change. I’m
not so worried about my girlfriends and myself.
We’ll make it. The only subject I’m not sure about is math. Anyway, all we can do is
wait. Until then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart.
I get along pretty well with all my teachers. There are nine of them, seven men and
two women. Mr. Keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was mad at me for the
longest time because I talked so much. After several warnings, he assigned me extra
homework. An essay on the subject “A Chatterbox.” A chatterbox, what can you write
about that? I’d wbrry about that later, I decided. I jotted down the assignment in my
notebook, tucked it in my bag and tried to keep quiet.
That evening, after I’d finished the rest of my homework, the note about the essay
caught my eye. I began thinking about the subject while chewing the tip of my
fountain pen. Anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words, but the
trick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity of talking. I
thought and thought, and suddenly I had an idea. I wrote the three pages Mr. Keesing
had assigned me and was satisfied. I argued that talking is a female trait and that I
would do my best to keep it under control, but that I would never be able to break
myself of the habit, since my mother talked as much as I did, if not more, and that
there’s not much you can do about inherited traits.
Mr. Keesing had a good laugh at my arguments, but when I proceeded to talk my way
through the next class, he assigned me a second essay. This time it was supposed to
be on “An Incorrigible Chatterbox.” I handed it in, and Mr. Keesing had nothing to
complain about for two whole classes. However, during the third class he’d finally had
enough. “Anne Frank, as punishment for talking in class, write an essay entitled
‘Quack, Quack, Quack,’ said Mistress Chatterback.’”
The class roared. I had to laugh too, though I’d ) nearly exhausted my ingenuity on
the topic of chatterboxes. It was time to come up with something else, j something
original. My friend Sanne, who’s good at poetry, offered to help me write the essay
from beginning to end in verse. I jumped for joy. Keesing was trying to play a joke on
me with this ridiculous subject, but I’d make sure the joke was on him. I finished my
poem, and it was beautiful! It was about a mother duck and a father swan with three
baby ducklings who were bitten to death by the father because they quacked too
much. Luckily, Keesing took the joke the right way. He read the poem to the class,
adding his own comments, and to several other classes as well. Since then I’ve been
allowed to talk and haven’t been assigned any extra homework. On the contrary,
Keesing’s always i making jokes these days.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 24, 1942
It’s sweltering. Everyone is huffing and puffing, and in this heat I have to walk
everywhere. Only now do I realize how pleasant a streetcar is, but we Jews are no
longer allowed to make use of this luxury; our own two feet are good enough for us.
Yesterday at lunchtime I had an appointment with the dentist on Jan Luykenstraat. It’s
a long way from our school on Stadstimmertuinen. That afternoon I nearly fell asleep
at my desk. Fortunately, people automatically offer you something to drink. The dental
assistant is really kind.
The only mode of transportation left to us is the ferry. The ferryman at Josef
Israelkade took us across when we asked him to. It’s not the fault of the Dutch that
we Jews are having such a bad time.
I wish I didn’t have to go to school. My bike was stolen during Easter vacation, and
Father gave Mother’s bike to some Christian friends for safekeeping. Thank goodness
summer vacation is almost here; one more week and our torment will be over.
Something unexpected happened yesterday morning. As I was passing the bicycle
racks, I heard my name being called. I turned around and there was the nice boy I’d
met the evening before at my friend Wilma’s. He’s Wilma’s second cousin. I used to
think Wilma was nice, which she is, but all she ever talks about is boys, and that gets
to be a bore. He came toward me, somewhat shyly, and introduced himself as Hello
Silberberg. I was a little surprised and wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it didn’t take
me long to find out. He asked if I would allow him to accompany me to school. “As
long as you’re headed that way, I’ll go with you,” I said. And so we walked together.
Hello is sixteen and good at telling all kinds of funny stories.
He was waiting for me again this morning, and I expect he will be from now on.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 1, 1942
Until today I honestly couldn’t find the time to write you. I was with friends all day
Thursday, we had company on Friday, and that’s how it went until today.
Hello and I have gotten to know each other very well this past week, and he’s told
me a lot about his life. He comes from Gelsenkirchen and is living with his
grandparents. His parents are in Belgium, but there’s no way he can get there. Hello
used to have a girlfriend named Ursula. I know her too. She’s perfectly sweet and
perfectly boring. Ever since he met me, Hello has realized that he’s been falling asleep
at Ursul’s side. So I’m kind of a pep tonic. You never know what you’re good for!
Jacque spent Saturday night here. Sunday afternoon she was at Hanneli’s, and I was
Hello was supposed to come over that evening, but he called around six. I answered
the phone, and he said, “This is Helmuth Silberberg. May I please speak to Anne?”
“Oh, Hello. This is Anne.”
“Oh, hi, Anne. How are you?” ”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry but I can’t come tonight, though I would like to have a
word with you. Is it all right if I come by and pick you up in about ten minutes
“Yes, that’s fine. Bye-bye!”
“Okay, I’ll be right over. Bye-bye!”
I hung up, quickly changed my clothes and fixed my hair. I was so nervous I leaned
out the window to watch for him. He finally showed up. Miracle of miracles, I didn’t
rush down the stairs, but waited quietly until he rang the bell. I went down to open
the door, and he got right to the point.
“Anne, my grandmother thinks you’re too young for me to be seeing you on a regular
basis. She says I should be going to the Lowenbachs’, but you probably know that I’m
not going out with Ursul anymore.”
“No, I didn’t know. What happened? Did you two have a fight?”
“No, nothing like that. I told Ursul that we weren’t suited to each other and so it was
better for us not to go together anymore, but that she was welcome at my house and
I hoped I would be welcome at hers. Actually, I thought Ursul was hanging around
with another boy, and I treated her as if she were. But that wasn’t true. And then my
uncle said I should apologize to her, but of course I didn’t feel like it, and that’s why
I broke up with her. But that was just one of the reasons.
“Now my grandmother wants me to see Ursul and not you, but I don’t agree and I’m
not going to. Sometimes old people have really old-fashioned ideas, but that doesn’t
mean I have to go along with them. I need my grandparents, but in a certain sense
they need me too. From now on I’ll be free on Wednesday evenings. You see, my
grandparents made me sign up for a wood-carving class, but actually I go to a club
organized by the Zionists. My grandparents don’t want me to go, because they’re
anti-Zionists. I’m not a fanatic Zionist, but it interests me. Anyway, it’s been such a
mess lately that I’m planning to quit. So next Wednesday will be my last meeting.
That means I can see you Wednesday evening, Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening,
Sunday afternoon and maybe even more.”
“But if your grandparents don’t want you to, you? shouldn’t go behind their backs.”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
Just then we passed Blankevoort’s Bookstore and there was Peter Schiff with two
other boys; it was the first time he’d said hello to me in ages, and it really made me
Monday evening Hello came over to meet Father and Mother. I had bought a cake and
some candy, and we had tea and cookies, the works, but neither Hello nor I felt like
sitting stiffly on our chairs. So we went out for a walk, and he didn’t deliver me to
my door until ten past eight. Father was furious. He said it was very wrong of me not
to get home on time. I had to promise to be home by ten to eight in the future. I’ve
been asked to Hello’s on Saturday.
Wilma told me that one night when Hello was at her house, she asked him, “Who do
you like best, Ursul or Anne?”
He said, “It’s none of your business.”
But as he was leaving (they hadn’t talked to each other the rest of the evening), he
said, “Well, I like Anne better, but don’t tell anyone. Bye!” And whoosh. . . he was
out the door.
In everything he says or does, I can see that Hello is in love with me, and it’s kind
of nice for a change. Margot would say that Hello is eminently suitable. I think so too,
but he’s more than that. Mother is also full of praise: “A good-looking boy. Nice and
polite.” I’m glad he’s so popular with everyone. Except with my girlfriends. He thinks
they’re very childish, and he’s right about that. Jacque still teases me about him, but
I’m not in love with him. Not really. It’s all right for me to have boys as friends.
Mother is always asking me who I’m going to marry when I grow up, but I bet she’ll
never guess it’s Peter, because I talked her out of that idea myself, without batting an
eyelash. I love Peter as I’ve never loved anyone, and I tell myself he’s only going
around with all those other girls to hide his feelings for me. Maybe he thinks Hello
and I are in love with each other, which we’re not. He’s just a friend, or as Mother
puts it, a beau.
SUNDAY, JULY 5, 1942
The graduation ceremony in the Jewish Theater on Friday went as expected. My
report card wasn’t too bad. I got one D, a C- in algebra and all the rest B’s, except
for two B+’s and two B-’s. My parents are pleased, but they’re not like other parents
when it comes to grades. They never worry about report cards, good or bad. As long
as I’m healthy and happy and don’t talk back too much, they’re satisfied. If these three
things are all right, everything else will take care of itself.
I’m just the opposite. I don’t want to be a poor student. I was accepted to the Jewish
Lyceum on a conditional basis. I was supposed to stay in the seventh grade at the
Montessori School, but when Jewish children were required to go to Jewish schools,
Mr. Elte finally agreed, after a great deal of persuasion, to accept Lies Goslar and me.
Lies also passed this year, though she has to repeat her geometry exam.
Poor Lies. It isn’t easy for her to study at home; her baby sister, a spoiled little
two-year-old, plays in her room all day. If Gabi doesn’t get her way, she starts
screaming, and if Lies doesn’t look after her, Mrs. Goslar starts screaming. So Lies
has a hard time doing her homework, and as long as that’s the case, the tutoring she’s
been getting won’t help much. The Goslar household is really a sight. Mrs. Goslar’s
parents live next door, but eat with the family. The there’s a hired girl, the baby, the
always absentminded and absent Mr. Goslar and the always nervous and irrita Ie Mrs.
Goslar, who’s expecting another baby. Lies, who’s all thumbs, gets lost in the mayhem.
My sister Margot has also gotten her report card.
Brilliant, as usual. If we had such a thing as “cum laude,” she would have passed with
honors, she’s so smart.
Father has been home a lot lately. There’s nothing for him to do at the office; it must
be awful to feel you’re not needed. Mr. Kleiman has taken over Opekta, and Mr.
Kugler, Gies & Co., the company dealing in spices and spice substitutes that was set
up in 1941.
A few days ago, as we were taking a stroll around our neighborhood square, Father
began to talk about going into hiding. He said it would be very hard for us to live cut
off from the rest of the world. I asked him why he was bringing this up now.
“Well, Anne,” he replied, “you know that for more than a year we’ve been bringing
clothes, food and furniture to other people. We don’t want our belongings to be seized
by the Germans. Nor do we want to fall into their clutches ourselves. So we’ll leave
of our own accord and not wait to be hauled away.”
“But when, Father?” He sounded so serious that I felt scared.
“Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of everything. just enjoy your carefree life while
That was it. Oh, may these somber words not come true for as long as possible.
The doorbell’s ringing, Hello’s here, time to stop.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 8, 1942
It seems like years since Sunday morning. So much has happened it’s as if the whole
world had suddenly turned upside down. But as you can see, Kitty, I’m still alive, and
that’s the main thing, Father says. I’m alive all right, but don’t ask where or how. You
probably don’t understand a word I’m saying today, so I’ll begin by telling you what
happened Sunday afternoon.
At three o’clock (Hello had left but was supposed to come back later), the doorbell
rang. I didn’t hear it, since I was out on the balcony, lazily reading in the sun. A little
while later Margot appeared in the kitchen doorway looking very agitated. “Father has
received a call-up notice from the SS,” she whispered. “Mother has gone to see Mr.
van Daan” (Mr. van Daan is Father’s business partner and a good friend.)
I was stunned. A call-up: everyone knows what that means. Visions of concentration
camps and lonely cells raced through my head. How could we let Father go to such a
fate? “Of course he’s not going,” declared Margot as we waited for Mother in the
living room. “Mother’s gone to Mr. van Daan to ask whether we can move to our
hiding place tomorrow. The van Daans are going with us. There will be seven of us
altogether.” Silence. We couldn’t speak. The thought of Father off visiting someone in
the Jewish Hospital and completely unaware of what was happening, the long wait for
Mother, the heat, the suspense — all this reduced us to silence.
Suddenly the doorbell rang again. “That’s Hello,” I said.
“Don’t open the door!” exclaimed Margot to stop me. But it wasn’t necessary, since
we heard Mother and Mr. van Daan downstairs talking to Hello, and then the two of
them came inside and shut the door behind them. Every time the bell rang, either
Margot or I had to tiptoe downstairs to see if it was Father, and we didn’t let anyone
else in. Margot and I were sent from the room, as Mr. van Daan wanted to talk to
When she and I were sitting in our bedroom, Margot told me that the call-up was not
for Father, but for her. At this second shock, I began to cry. Margot is sixteen –
apparently they want to send girls her age away on their own. But thank goodness she
won’t be going; Mother had said so herself, which must be what Father had meant
when he talked to me about our going into hiding. Hiding. . . where would we hide? In
the city? In the country? In a house? In a shack? When, where, how. . . ? These
were questions I wasn’t allowed to ask, but they still kept running through my mind.
Margot and I started packing our most important belongings into a schoolbag. The first
thing I stuck in was this diary, and then curlers, handkerchiefs, schoolbooks, a comb
and some old letters. Preoccupied by the thought of going into hiding, I stuck the
craziest things in the bag, but I’m not sorry. Memories mean more to me than
Father finally came hQme around five o’clock, and we called Mr. Kleiman to ask if he
could come by that evening. Mr. van Daan left and went to get Miep. Miep arrived and
promised to return later that night, taking with her a bag full of shoes, dresses,
jackets, underwear and stockings. After that it was quiet in our apartment; none of us
felt like eating. It was still hot, and everything was very strange.
We had rented our big upstairs room to a Mr. Goldschmidt, a divorced man in his
thirties, who apparently had nothing to do that evening, since despite all our polite
hints he hung around until ten o’clock.
Miep and Jan Gies came at eleven. Miep, who’s worked for Father’s company since
1933, has become a close friend, and so has her husband Jan. Once again, shoes,
stockings, books and underwear disappeared into Miep’s bag and Jan’s deep pockets. At
eleven-thirty they too disappeared.
I was exhausted, and even though I knew it’d be my last night in my own bed, I fell
asleep right away and didn’t wake up until Mother called me at five-thirty the next
morning. Fortunately, it wasn’t as hot as Sunday; a warm rain fell throughout the day.
The four of us were wrapped in so many layers of clothes it looked as if we were
going off to spend the night in a refrigerator, and all that just so we could take more
clothes with us. No Jew in our situation would dare leave the house with a suitcase
full of clothes. I was wearing two undershirts, three pairs of underpants, a dress, and
over that a skirt, a jacket, a raincoat, two pairs of stockings, heavy shoes, a cap, a
scarf and lots more. I was suffocating even before we left the house, but no one
bothered to ask me how I felt.
Margot stuffed her schoolbag with schoolbooks, went to get her bicycle and, with Miep
leading the way, rode off into the great unknown. At any rate, that’s how I thought of
it, since I still didn’t know where our hiding place was.
At seven-thirty we too closed the door behind us; Moortje, my cat, was the only
living creature I said good-bye to. According to a note we left for Mr. Goldschmidt,
she was to be taken to the neighbors, who would give her a good home.
The stripped beds, the breakfast things on the table, the pound of meat for the cat in
the kitchen — all of these created the impression that we’d left in a hurry. But we
weren’t interested in impressions. We just wanted to get out of there, to get away and
reach our destination in safety. Nothing else mattered.
THURSDAY, JULY 9, 1942
So there we were, Father, Mother and I, walking in the pouring rain, each of us with
a schoolbag and a shopping bag filled to the brim with the most varied assortment of
items. The people on their way to work at that early hour gave us sympathetic looks;
you could tell by their faces that they were sorry they couldn’t offer us some kind of
transportation; the conspicuous yellow star spoke for itself.
Only when we were walking down the street did Father and Mother reveal, little by
little, what the plan was. For months we’d been moving as much of our furniture and
apparel out of the apartment as we could. It was agreed that we’d go into hiding on
July 16. Because of Margot’s call-up notice, the plan had to be moved up ten days,
which meant we’d have to make do with less orderly rooms.
The hiding place was located in Father’s office building. That’s a little hard for
outsiders to understand, so I’ll explain. Father didn’t have a lot of people working in
his office, just Mr. Kugler, Mr. Kleiman, Miep and a twenty-three-year-old typist
named Bep Voskuijl, all of whom were informed of our coming. Mr. Voskuijl, Bep’s
father, works in the warehouse, along with two assistants, none of whom were told
Here’s a description of the building. The large warehouse on the ground floor is used
as a workroom and storeroom and is divided into several different sections, such as
the stockroom and the milling room, where cinnamon, cloves and a pepper substitute
Next to the warehouse doors is another outside’ door, a separate entrance to the
office. Just inside the office door is a second door, and beyond that a stairway. At the
top of the stairs is another door, with a frosted window on which the word “Office” is
written in black letters. This is the big front office — very large, very light and
very full. Bep, Miep and Mr. Kleiman work there during the day. After passing through
an alcove containing a safe, a wardrobe and a big supply cupboard, you come to the
small, dark, stuffy back office. This used to be shared by Mr. Kugler and Mr. van
Daan, but now Mr. Kugler is its only occupant. Mr. Kugler’s office can also be reached
from the hallway, but only through a glass door that can be opened from the inside
but not easily from the outside. If you leave Mr. Kugler’s office and proceed through
the long, narrow hallway past the coal bin and go up four steps, you find yourself in
the private office, the showpiece of the entire building. Elegant mahogany furniture, a
linoleum floor covered with throw rugs, a radio, a fancy lamp, everything first class.
Next door is a spacious kitchen with a hot-water heater and two gas burners, and
beside that a bathroom. That’s the second floor.
A wooden staircase leads from the downstairs hallway to the third floor. At the top of
the stairs is a landing, with doors on either side. The door on the left takes you up to
the spice storage area, attic and loft in the front part of the house. A typically Dutch,
very steep, ankle-twisting flight of stairs also runs from the front part of the house
to another door opening onto the street.
The door to the right of the landing leads to the “Secret Annex” at the back ofthe
house. No one would ever suspect there were so many rooms behind that plain gray
door. There’s just one small step in front of the door, and then you’re inside. Straight
ahead of you is a steep flight of stairs. To the left is a narrow hallway opening onto
a room that serves as the Frank family’s living
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room and bedroom. Next door is a smaller room, the )edroom and study of the two
young ladies of the family. ro the right of the stairs is a windowless washroom. with
a link. The door in the corner leads to the toilet and another one to Margot’s and my
room. If you go up the itairs and open the door at the top, you’re surprised to see
such a large, light and spacious room in an old canalside house like this. It contains a
stove (thanks to the fact hat it used to be Mr. Kugler’s laboratory) and a sink.
This will be the kitchen and bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. van Daan, as well as the
general living room, dining room and study for us all. A tiny side room is to be Peter
van Daan’s bedroom. Then, just as in the front part of the building, there’s an attic
and a loft. So there you are. Now I’ve introduced you to the whole of our lovely
FRIDAY, JULY 10, 1942
Dearest Kitty, I’ve probably bored you with my long description of our house, but I
still think you should know where I’ve ended up; how I ended up here is something
you’ll figure out from my next letters.
But first, let me continue my story, because, as you know, I wasn’t finished. After we
arrived at 263 Prinsengracht, Miep quickly led us through the long hallway and up the
wooden staircase to the next floor and into the Annex. She shut the door behind us,
leaving us alone. Margot had arrived much earlier on her bike and was waiting for us.
Our living room and all the other rooms were so full of stuff that I can’t find the
words to describe it. All the cardboard boxes that had been sent to the office in the
last few months were piled on the floors and beds. The small room was filled from
floor to cethng with linens. If we wanted to sleep in properly made beds that night,
we had to get going and straighten up the mess. Mother and Margot were unable to
move a muscle. They lay down on their bare mattresses, tired, miserable and I don’t
know what else. But Father and I, the two cleaner-uppers in the family, started in
All day long we unpacked boxes, filled cupboards, hammered nails and straightened up
the mess, until we fell exhausted into our clean beds at night. We hadn’t eaten a hot
meal all day, but we didn’t care; Mother and Margot were too tired and keyed up to
eat, and Father and I were too busy.
Tuesday morning we started where we left off the night before. Bep and Miep went
grocery shopping with our ration coupons, Father worked on our blackout screens, we
scrubbed the kitchen floor, and were once again busy from sunup to sundown. Until
Wednesday, I didn’t have a chance to think about the enormous change in my life.
Then for the first time since our arrival in the Secret Annex, I found a moment to tell
you all about it and to realize what had happened to me and what was yet to happen.
SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1942
Father, Mother and Margot still can’t get used to the chiming of the Westertoren
clock, which tells us the time every quarter of an hour. Not me, I liked it from the
start; it sounds so reassuring, especially at night. You no doubt want to hear what I
think of being in hiding. Well, all I can say is that I don’t really know yet. I don’t
think I’ll ever feel at home in this house, but that doesn’t mean I hate it. It’s more
like being on vacation in some strange pension. Kind of an odd way to look at life in
hiding, but that’s how things are. The Annex is an ideal place to hide in. It may be
damp and lopsided, but there’s probably not a more comfortable hiding place in all of
Amsterdam. No, in all of Holland.
Up to now our bedroom, with its blank walls, was very bare. Thanks to Father –
who brought my entire postcard and movie-star collection here beforehand — and to
a brush and a pot of glue, I was able to plaster the walls with pictures. It looks much
more cheerful. When the van Daans arrive, we’ll be able to build cupboards and other
odds and ends out of the wood piled in the attic.
Margot and Mother have recovered somewhat. Yesterday Mother felt well enough to
cook split-pea soup for the first time, but then she was downstairstalking and forgot
all about it. The beans were scorched black, and no amount of scraping could get them
out of the pan.
Last night the four of us went down to the private office and listened to England on
the radio. I was so scared someone might hear it that I literally begged Father to take
me back upstairs. Mother understood my anxiety and went with me. Whatever we do,
we’re very afraid the neighbors might hear or see us. We started off immediately the
first day sewing curtains. Actually, you can hardly call them that, since they’re nothing
but scraps of fabric, varying greatly in shape, quality and pattern, which Father and I
stitched crookedly together with unskilled fingers. These works of art were tacked to
the windows, where they’ll stay until we come out of hiding.
The building on our right is a branch of the Keg Company, a firm from Zaandam, and
on the left is a furniture workshop. Though the people who work there are not on the
premises after hours, any sound we make might travel through the walls. We’ve
forbidden Margot to cough at night, even though she has a bad cold, and are giving her
large doses of codeine.
I’m looking forward to the arrival of the van Daans, which is set for Tuesday. It will
be much more fun and also not as quiet. You see, it’s the silence that makes me so
nervous during the evenings and nights, and I’d give anything to have one of our
helpers sleep here.
It’s really not that bad here, since we can do our own cooking and can listen to the
radio in Daddy’s office.
Mr. Kleiman and Miep, and Bep Voskuijl too, have helped us so much. We’ve already
canned loads of rhubarb, strawberries and cherries, so for the time being I doubt we’ll
be bored. We also have a supply of reading material, and we’re going to buy lots of
games. Of course, we can’t ever look out the window or go outside. And we have to
be quiet so the people downstairs can’t hear us.
Yesterday we had our hands full. We had to pit two crates of cherries for Mr. Kugler
to can. We’re going to use the empty crates to make bookshelves.
Someone’s calling me.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 2g, 1942: Not beina able to ao
outside upsets me more than I can say, and I’m terrified our hidina place will be
discovered and that we’ll be shot. That, of course, is a fairly dismal prospect.
SUNDAY, JULY 12, 1942
They’ve all been so nice to me this last month because of my birthday, and yet every
day I feel myself drifting further away from Mother and Margot. I worked hard today
and they praised me, only to start picking on me again five minutes later.
You can easily see the difference between the way they deal with Margot and the way
they deal with me. For example, Margot broke the vacuum cleaner, and because of
that we’ve been without light for the rest of the day. Mother said, “Well, Margot, it’s
easy to see you’re not used to working; otherwise, you’d have known better than to
yank the plug out by the cord.” Margot made some reply, and that was the end of the
But this afternoon, when I wanted to rewrite something on Mother’s shopping list
because her handwriting is so hard to read, she wouldn’t let me. She bawled me out
again, and the whole family wound up getting involved.
I don’t fit in with them, and I’ve felt that clearly in the last few weeks. They’re so
sentimental together, but I’d rather be sentimental on my own. They’re always saying
how nice it is with the four of us, and that we get along so well, without giving a
moment’s thought to the fact that I don’t feel that way.
Daddy’s the only one who understands me, now and again, though he usually sides
with Mother and Margot. Another thing I can’t stand is having them talk about me in
front of outsiders, telling them how I cried or how sensibly I’m behaving. It’s horrible.
And sometimes they talk about Moortje and I can’t take that at all. Moortje is my
weak spot. I miss her every minute of the day, and no one knows how often I think
of her; whenever I do, my eyes fill with tears. Moortje is so sweet, and I love her so
much that I keep dreaming she’ll come back to us.
I have plenty of dreams, but the reality is that we’ll have to stay here until the war
is over. We can’t ever go outside, and the only visitors we can have are Miep, her
husband Jan, Bep Voskuijl, Mr. Voskuijl, Mr. Kugler, Mr. Kleiman and Mrs. Kleiman,
though she hasn’t come because she thinks it’s too dangerous.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE IN SEPTEMBER 1942: Daddy’s always so nice. He
understands me perfectly, and I wish we could have a heart-to-heart talk sometime
without my bursting instantly into tears. But apparently that has to do with my age.
I’d like to spend all my time writing, but that would probably get boring.
Up to now I’ve only confided my thoughts to my diary. I still haven’t gotten around to
writing amusing sketches that I could read aloud at a later date. In the future I’m
going to devote less time to sentimentality and more time to reality.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 1942
I’ve deserted you for an entire month, but so little has happened that I can’t find a
newsworthy item to relate every single day. The van Daans arrived on July 13. We
thought they were coming on the fourteenth, but from the thirteenth to sixteenth the
Germans were sending out call-up notices right and left and causing a lot of unrest,
so they decided it would be safer to leave a day too early than a day too late.
Peter van Daan arrived at nine-thirty in the morning (while we were still at
breakfast). Peter’s going on sixteen, a shy, awkward boy whose company won’t amount
to much. Mr. and Mrs. van Daan came half an hour later.
Much to our amusement, Mrs. van Daan was carrying a hatbox with a large chamber
pot inside. “I just don’t feel at home without my chamber pot,” she exclaimed, and it
was the first item to find a permanent place under the divan. Instead of a chamber
pot, Mr. van D. was lugging a collapsible tea table under his arm.
From the first, we ate our meals together, and after three days it felt as if the seven
of us had become one big family. Naturally, the van Daans had much to tell about the
week we’d been away from civilization. We were especially interested in what had
happened to our apartment and to Mr. Goldschmidt.
Mr. van Daan filled us in: “Monday morning at nine, Mr. Goldschmidt phoned and
asked if I could come over. I went straightaway and found a very distraught Mr.
Goldschmidt. He showed me a note that the Frank family had left behind. As
instructed, he was planning to bring the cat to the neighbors, which I agreed was a
good idea. He was afraid the house was going to be searched, so we w=nt through all
the rooms, straightening up here and there and clearing the breakfast things off the
table. Suddenly I saw a notepad on Mrs. Frank’s desk, with an address in Maastricht
written on it. Even though I knew Mrs. Frank had left it on purpose, I pretended to
be surprised and horrified and begged Mr. Goldschmidt to burn this incriminating piece
of paper. I swore up and down that I knew nothing about your disappearance, but that
the note had given me an idea. ‘Mr. Goldschmidt,’ I said, ‘I bet I know what this
address refers to. About six months ago a high-ranking officer came to the office. It
seems he and Mr. Frank grew up together. He promised to help Mr. Frank if it was
ever necessary. As I recall, he was stationed in Maastricht. I think this officer has
kept his word and is somehow planning to help them cross over to Belgium and then
to Switzerland. There’s no harm in telling this to any friends of the Franks who come
asking about them. Of course, you don’t need to mention the part about Maastricht.’
And after that I left. This is the story most of your friends have been told, because I
heard it later from several other people.”
We thought it was extremely funny, but we laughed even harder when Mr. van Daan
told us that certain people have vivid imaginations. For example, one family living on
our square claimed they sawall four of us riding by on our bikes early in the morning,
and another woman was absolutely positive we’d been loaded into some kind of
military vehicle in the middle of the night.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 21, 1942
Now our Secret Annex has truly become secret.
Because so many houses are being searched for hidden bicycles, Mr. Kugler thought it
would be better to have a bookcase built in front of the entrance to our hiding place.
It swings out on its hinges and opens like a door. Mr. Voskuijl did the carpentry work.
(Mr. Voskuijl has been told that the seven of us are in hiding, and he’s been most
Now whenever we want to go downstairs we have to duck and then jump. After the
first three days we were all walking around with bumps on our foreheads from banging
our heads against the low doorway. Then Peter cushioned it by nailing a towel stuffed
with wood shavings to the doorframe. Let’s see if it helps!
I’m not doing much schoolwork. I’ve given myself a vacation until September. Father
wants to start tutoring me then, but we have to buy all the books first.
There’s little change in our lives here. Peter’s hair was washed today, but that’s
nothing special. Mr. van Daan and I are always at loggerheads with each other. Mama
always treats me like a baby, which I can’t stand. For the rest, things are going
better. I don’t think Peter’s gotten any nicer. He’s an obnoxious boy who lies around
on his bed all day, only rousing himself to do a little carpentry work before returning
to his nap. What a dope!
Mama gave me another one of her dreadful sermons this morning. We take the
opposite view of everything. Daddy’s a sweetheart; he may get mad at me, but it
never lasts longer than five minutes.
It’s a beautiful day outside, nice and hot, and in spite of everything, we make the
most of the weather by lounging on the folding bed in the attic.
COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 21, 1942: Mr. van Daan has been as
nice as pie to me recently. I’ve said nothina, but have been enjoyina it while it lasts.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1942
Mr. and Mrs. van Daan have had a terrible fight. I’ve never seen anything like it, since
Mother and Father wouldn’t dream of shouting at each other like that. The argument
was based on something so trivial it didn’t seem worth wasting a single word on it.
Oh well, to each his own.
Of course, it’s very difficult for Peter, who gets caught in the middle, but no one
takes Peter seriously anymore, since he’s hypersensitive and lazy. Yesterday he was
beside himself with worry because his tongue was blue instead of pink. This rare
phenomenon disappeared as quickly as it came. Today he’s walking around with a
heavy scarf on because he’s got a stiff neck. His Highness has been complaining of
lumbago too. Aches and pains in his heart, kidneys and lungs are also par for the
course. He’s an absolute hypochondriac! (That’s the right word, isn’t it?)
Mother and Mrs. van Daan aren’t getting along very well. There are enough reasons
for the friction. To give you one small example, Mrs. van D. has removed all but
three of her sheets from our communal linen closet. She’s assuming that Mother’s can
be used for both families. She’ll be in for a nasty surprise when she discovers that
Mother has followed her lead.
Furthermore, Mrs. van D. is ticked off because we’re using her china instead of ours.
She’s still trying to find out what we’ve done with our plates; they’re a lot closer than
she thinks, since they’re packed in cardboard boxes in the attic, behind a load of
Opekta advertising material. As long as we’re in hiding, the plates will remain out of
her reach. Since I’m always having accidents, it’s just as well! Yesterday I broke one
of Mrs. van D.’s soup bowls.
“Oh!” she angrily exclaimed. “Can’t you be more careful? That was my last one.”
Please bear in mind, Kitty, that the two ladies speak abominable Dutch (I don’t dare
comment on the gentlemen: they’d be highly insulted). If you were to hear their
bungled attempts, you’d laugh your head off. We’ve given up pointing out their errors,
since correcting them doesn’t help anyway. Whenever I quote Mother or Mrs. van
Daan, I’ll write proper Dutch instead of trying to duplicate their speech.
Last week there was a brief interruption in our monotonous routine. This was provided
by Peter — and a book about women. I should explain that Margot and Peter are
allowed to read nearly all the books Mr. Kleiman lends us. But the adults preferred to
keep this special book to themselves. This immediately piqued Peter’s curiosity. What
forbidden fruit did it contain? He snuck off with it when his mother was downstairs
talking, and took himself and his booty to the loft. For two days all was well. Mrs.
van Daan knew what he was up to, but kept mum until Mr. van Daan found out about
it. He threw a fit, took the book away and assumed that would be the end of the
business. However, he’d neglected to take his son’s curiosity into account. Peter, not
in the least fazed by his father’s swift action, began thinking up ways to read the rest
of this vastly interesting book.
In the meantime, Mrs. van D. asked Mother for her opinion. Mother didn’t think this
particular book was suitable for Margot, but she saw no harm in letting her read most
You see, Mrs. van Daan, Mother Said, there’s a big difference between Margot and
Peter. To begin with, Margot’s a girl, and girls are always more mature than boys.
Second, she’s already read many serious books and doesn’t go looking for those which
are no longer forbidden. Third, Margot’s much more sensible and intellectually
advanced, as a result of her four years at an excellent school.”
Mrs. van Daan agreed with her, but felt it was wrong as a matter of principle to let
youngsters read books written for adults.
Meanwhile, Peter had thought of a suitable time when no one would be interest
No, I guess not, at some point I guess it’s left at the discretion of a moderator. Anne Frank only made it to SEPTEMBER 2, 1942, rather than the anticipated AUGUST 1, 1944…that’s roughy a 220 something pages lost…eh…doesn’t really matter..
Maybe so, but her dads a fucking champ…I loved the unofficial movie where her friend tosses food through a hole in the fence and some hag steals it. Then the scrawny ass little bagel whines “shee stolllee my foooood” in some feel sorry for me cracky bitch voice…funniest thing ever…how many jews got away? She’s just famous cuz she had diary daddy ‘n friends published. Nonetheless, a worthy read in my opinion.
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas is infinitely more depressing (and anger-generating, if you happen to be me). And I just realised that I’ve only watched the film, not read the book… gotta get onto that.