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

Here in the Annex the mood never varies. The end- less debates over the invasion,
air raids, speeches, etc., etc., are accompanied by countless exclamations such as
"Eempossible!, Urn Gottes Willen* [* Oh, for heaven's sake]. If they're just
getting started now, how long is it going to last!, It's going splendidly, But,
great!"
Optimists and pessimists -- not to mention the realists -- air their opinions with
unflagging energy, and as with everything else, they're all certain that they have
a monopoly on the truth. It annoys a certain lady that her spouse has such supreme
faith in the British, and a certain husband attacks his wife because of her
teasing and dispar- aging remarks about his beloved nation!
And so it goes from early in the morning to late at night; the funny part is that
they never get tired of it. I've discovered a trick, and the effect is
overwhelming, just like pricking someone with a pin and watching them jump. Here's
how it works: I start talking about politics.
All it takes is a single question, a word or a sentence, and before you know it,
the entire family is involved!
As if the German "Wehrmacht News" and the English BBC weren't enough, they've now
added special air-raid announcements. In a word, splendid. But the other side of
the coin is that the British Air Force is operating around the clock. Not unlike
the German propaganda machine, which is cranking out lies twenty-four hours a day!
So the radio is switched on every morning at eight (if not earlier) and is
listened to every hour until nine, ten or even eleven at night. This is the best
evidence yet that the adults have infinite patience, but also that their brains
have turned to mush (some of them, I mean, since I wouldn't want to insult
anyone). One broadcast, two at the most, should be enough to last the entire day.
But no, those old nincompoops. . . never mind, I've already said it all! "Music
While You Work," the Dutch broadcast from England, Frank Phillips or Queen
Wilhelmina, they each get a turn and fInd a willing listener. If the adults aren't
eating or sleeping, they're clustered around the radio talking about eating,
sleeping and politics. Whew! It's getting to be a bore, and it's all I can do to
keep from turning into a dreary old crone myself! Though with all the old folks
around me, that might not be such a bad idea!
Here's a shining example, a speech made by our beloved Winston Churchill.
Nine o'clock, Sunday evening. The teapot, under its cozy, is on the table, and the
guests enter the room.
Dussel sits to the left of the radio, Mr. van D. in front of it and Peter to the
side. Mother is next to Mr. van D., willi Mrs. van D. behind them. Margot and I
are sitting in the last row and Pim at the table. I realize this isn't a very
clear description of our seating arrangements, but it doesn't matter. The men
smoke, Peter's eyes close from the strain of listening, Mama is dressed in her
long, dark negligee, Mrs. van D. is trembling because of the planes, which take no
notice of the speech but fly blithely on toward Essen, Father is slurping his tea,
and Margot and I are united in a sisterly way by the sleeping Mouschi, who has
taken possession of both our knees. Margot's hair is in curlers and my nightgown
is too small, too tight and too short. It all looks so intimate, cozy and
peaceful, and for once it really is. Yet I await the end of the speech willi
dread. They're impatient, straining at the leash to start another argument! Pst,
pst, like a cat luring a mouse from its hole, they goad each other into quarrels
and dissent.