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

Poor Mouschi! How were you to know it's impossible to get peat for your box?
Anne
THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
A new sketch to make you laugh:
Peter's hair had to be cut, and as usual his mother was to be the hairdresser. At
seven twenty-five Peter vanished into his room, and reappeared at the stroke of
seven-thirty, stripped down to his blue swimming trunks and a pair of tennis
shoes.
"Are you coming?" he asked his mother.
"Yes, I'll be up in a minute, but I can't find the scissors!"
Peter helped her look, rummaging around in her cosmetics drawer. "Don't make such
a mess, Peter," she grumbled.
I didn't catch Peter's reply, but it must have been insolent, because she cuffed
him on the arm. He cuffed her back, she punched him with all her might, and Peter
pulled his arm away with a look of mock horror on his face. "Come on, old girl!"
Mrs. van D. stayed put. Peter grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her all around
the room. She laughed, cried, scolded and kicked, but nothing helped. Peter led
his prisoner as far as the attic stairs, where he was obliged to let go of her.
Mrs. van D. came back to the room and collapsed into a chair with a loud sigh.
"Die Enifu"hruna der Mutter,". I joked. [* The Abduction of Mother, a possible
reference to Mozart's opera The Abduction from the Seraglio.]
"Yes, but he hurt me."
I went to have a look and cooled her hot, red wrists with water. Peter, still by
the stairs and growing impa- tient again, strode into the room with his belt in
his hand, like a lion tamer. Mrs. van D. didn't move, but stayed by her writing
desk, looking for a handkerchief. "You've got to apologize first."
"All right, I hereby offer my apologies, but only because if I don't, we'll be
here till midnight."
Mrs. van D. had to laugh in spite of herself. She got up and went toward the door,
where she felt obliged to give us an explanation. (By us I mean Father, Mother and
me; we were busy doing the dishes.) "He wasn't like this at home," she said. "I'd
have belted him so hard he'd have gone flying down the stairs [!]. He's never been
so insolent. This isn't the first time he's deserved a good hiding. That's what
you get with a modern upbringing, modern children. I'd never have grabbed my
mother like that. Did you treat your mother that way, Mr. Frank?" She was very
upset, pacing back and forth, saying whatever came into her head, and she still
hadn't gone upstairs. Finally, at long last, she made her exit.
Less than five minutes later she stormed back down the stairs, with her cheeks all
puffed out, and flung her apron on a chair. When I asked if she was through, she
replied that she was going downstairs. She tore down the stairs like a tornado,
probably straight into the arms of her Putti.