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

Yesterday afternoon I was so worn out by the sad news from the outside that I lay
down on my divan for a nap. All I wanted was to sleep and not have to think. I
slept until four, but then I had to go next door. It wasn't easy, answering all
Mother's questions and inventing an excuse to explain my nap to Father. I pleaded
a headache, which wasn't a lie, since I did have one. . . on the inside!
Ordinary people, ordinary girls, teenagers like myself, would think I'm a little
nuts with all my self-pity. But that's just it. I pour my heart out to you, and
the rest of the time I'm as impudent, cheerful and self-confident as possible to
avoid questions and keep from getting on my own nerves.
Margot is very kind and would like me to confide in her, but I can't tell her
everything. She takes me too seriously, far too seriously, and spends a lot of
time thinking about her loony sister, looking at me closely whenever I open my
mouth and wondering, "Is she acting, or does she really mean it?"
It's because we're always together. I don't want the person I confide in to be
around me all the time. When will I untangle my jumbled thoughts? When will I find
inner peace again?
Yours, Anne
TUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
It might be amusing for you (though not for me) to hear what we're going to eat
today. The cleaning lady is working downstairs, so at the moment I'm seated at the
van Daans' oilcloth-covered table with a handkerchief sprinkled with fragrant
prewar perfume pressed to my nose and mouth. You probably don't have the faintest
idea what I'm talking about, so let me "begin at the begin- ning." The people who
supply us with food coupons have been arrested, so we have just our five blackmarket
ra- -, tion books-no coupons, no fats and oils. Since Miep and Mr. Kleiman
are sick again, Bep can't manage the shop- ping. The food is wretched, and so are
we. As of tomor- row, we won't have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine. We can't
eat fried potatoes for breakfast (which we've been doing to save on bread), so
we're having hot cereal instead, and because Mrs. van D. thinks we're starving, we
bought some half-and-half. Lunch today consists of mashed potatoes and pickled
kale. This explains the precautionary measure with the handkerchief. You wouldn't
believe how much kale can stink when it's a few years old! The kitchen smells like
a mixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggs and brine. Ugh, just the thought of having
to eat that muck makes me want to throw up! Besides that, our potatoes have
contracted such strange diseases that one out of every two buckets of pommes de
terre winds up in the garbage. We entertain ourselves by trying to figure out
which disease they've got, and we've reached the conclusion that they suffer from
cancer, smallpox and measles. Honestly, being in hiding during the fourth year of
the war is no picnic. If only the whole stinking mess were over!
To tell you the truth, the food wouldn't matter so much to me if life here were
more pleasant in other ways. But that's just it: this tedious existence is
starting to make us all disagreeable. Here are the opinions of the five grown-ups
on the present situation (children aren't allowed to have opinions, and for once
I'm sticking to the rules):
Mrs. van Daan: "I'd stopped wanting to be queen of the kitchen long ago. But
sitting around doing nothing was boring, so I went back to cooking. Still, I can't
help complaining: it's impossible to cook without oil, and all those disgusting
smells make me sick to my stomach. Besides, what do I get in return for my