THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL : THE DEFINITIVE EDITION ... - Fidele

"Oh, you're wrong about that," I replied. "Most of what I say comes out very
differently from the way I'd planned. Plus I talk too much and too long, and
that's just as bad."
"Maybe, but you have the advantage that no one can see you're embarrassed. You
don't blush or go to pieces."
I couldn't help being secretly amused at his words. However, since I wanted him to
go on talking quietly about himself, I hid my laughter, sat down on a cushion on
the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees and gazed at him intently.
I'm glad there's someone else in this house who flies into the same rages as I do.
Peter seemed relieved that he could criticize Dussel without being afraid I'd
tell. As for me, I was pleased too, because I sensed a strong feeling of
fellowship, which I only remember having had with my girlfriends.
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1944
The minor run-in with Dussel had several repercussions, for which he had only
himself to blame. Monday evening Dussel came in to see Mother and told her
triumphantly that Peter had asked him that morning if he'd slept well, and then
added how sorry he was about what had happened Sunday evening -- he hadn't really
meant what he'd said. Dussel assured him he hadn't taken it to heart. So
everYthing was right as rain again. Mother passed this story on to me, and I was
secretly amazed that Peter, who'd been so angry at Dussel, had humbled himself,
despite all his assurances to the contrary.
I couldn't refrain from sounding Peter out on the subject, and he instantly
replied that Dussel had been lying. You should have seen Peter's face. I wish I'd
had a camera. Indignation, rage, indecision, agitation and much more crossed his
face in rapid succession.
That evening Mr. van Daan and Peter really told Dussel off. But it couldn't have
been all that bad, since Peter had another dental appointment today.
Actually, they never wanted to speak to each other again.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944
Peter and I hadn't talked to each other all day, except for a few meaningless
words. It was too cold to go up to the attic, and anyway, it was Margot's
birthday. At twelve-thirty he came to look at the presents and hung around
chatting longer than was strictly necessary, something he'd never have done
otherwise. But I got my chance in the afternoon. Since I felt like spoiling Margot
on her birthday, I went to get the coffee, and after that the potatoes. When I
came to Peter's room, he immediately took his papers off the stairs, and I asked
if I should close the trapdoor to the attic.
"Sure," he said, "go ahead. When you're ready to come back down, just knock and
I'll open it for you."
I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching around in
the barrel for the smallest potatoes. My back started aching, and the attic was
cold. Naturally, I didn't bother to knock but opened the trap-door myself. But he
obligingly got up and took the pan out of my hands.