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

It's Saturday again, and that should tell you enough. This morning all was quiet.
I spent nearly an hour upstairs making meatballs, but I only spoke to "him" in
passing.
When everyone went upstairs at two-thirty to either read or take a nap, I went
downstairs, with blanket and all, to sit at the desk and read or write. Before
long I couldn't take it anymore. I put my head in my arms and sobbed my heart out.
The tears streamed down my cheeks, and I felt desperately unhappy. Oh, if only'
'he" had come to comfort me.
It was past four by the time I went upstairs again. At five o'clock I set off to
get some potatoes, hoping once again that we'd meet, but while I was still in the
bathroom fixing my hair, he went to see Boche.
I wanted to help Mrs. van D. and went upstairs with my book and everything, but
suddenly I felt the tears coming again. I raced downstairs to the bathroom,
grabbing the hand mirror on the way. I sat there on the toilet, fully dressed,
long after I was through, my tears leaving dark spots on the red of my apron, and
I felt utterly dejected.
Here's what was going through my mind: "Oh, I'll never reach Peter this way. Who
knows, maybe he doesn't even like me and he doesn't need anyone to confide in.
Maybe he only thinks of me in a casual sort of way. I'll have to go back to being
alone, without anyone to confide in and without Peter, without hope, comfort or
anything to look forward to. Oh, if only I could rest my head on his shoulder and
not feel so hopelessly alone and deserted! Who knows, maybe he doesn't care for me
at all and looks at the others in the same tender way. Maybe I only imagined it
was especially for me. Oh, Peter, if only you could hear me or see me. If the
truth is disappointing, I won't be able to bear it."
A little later I felt hopeful and full of expectation again, though my tears were
still flowing -- on the inside.
Yours, Anne M. Frank
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1944
What happens in other people's houses during the rest of the week happens here in
the Annex on Sundays. While other people put on their best clothes and go
strolling in the sun, we scrub, sweep and do the laundry.
Eight o'clock. Though the rest of us prefer to sleep in,
Dussel gets up at eight. He goes to the bathroom, then downstairs, then up again
and then to the bathroom, where he devotes a whole hour to washing himself.
Nine-thirty. The stoves are lit, the blackout screen is taken down, and Mr. van
Daan heads for the bathroom. One of my Sunday morning ordeals is having to lie in
bed and look at Dussel's back when he's praying. I know it sounds strange, but a
praying Dussel is a terrible sight to behold. It's not that he cries or gets
sentimental, not at all, but he does spend a quarter of an hour -- an entire
fifteen minutes -- rocking from his toes to his heels. Back and forth, back and
forth. It goes on forever, and if I don't shut my eyes tight, my head starts to
spin.
Ten-fifteen. The van Daans whistle; the bathroom's free. In the Frank family
quarters, the first sleepy faces are beginning to emerge from their pillows. Then