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

to have to part with her fur coat. In her opinion, the firm should pay for our
upkeep, but that's ridiculous. They just had a flaming row about it and have
entered the "oh, my sweet Putti" and "darling Kerli" stage of reconciliation.
My mind boggles at the profanity this honorable house has had to endure in the
past month. Father walks around with his lips pressed together, and whenever he
hears his name, he looks up in alarm, as ifhe's afraid he'll be called upon to
resolve another delicate problem. Mother's so wrought up her cheeks are blotched
with red, Margot complains of headaches, Dussel can't sleep, Mrs. van D. frets and
fumes all day long, and I've gone completely round the bend. To tell you the
truth, I sometimes forget who we're at odds with and who we're not. The only way
to take my mind off it is to study, and I've been doing a lot of that lately.
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29,1943
My dearest Kitty,
Mr. Kleiman is out again; his stomach won't give him a moment's peace. He doesn't
even know whether it's stopped bleeding. He came to tell us he wasn't feeling well
and was going home, and for the first time he seemed really down.
Mr. and Mrs. van D. have had more raging battles. The reason is simple: they're
broke. They wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of Mr. van D. 's, but were
unable to find any buyers. His prices were way too high.
Some time ago Mr. Kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. This gave Mr. van
D. the idea of selling his wife's fur coat. It's made of rabbit skin, and she's
had it for seventeen years. Mrs. van D. got 325 guilders for it, an enormous
amount. She wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothes after the war, and
it took some doing before Mr. van D. could make her understand that it was
desperately needed to cover household expenses.
You can't imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearing that went
on. It was terrifying. My family stood holding its breath at the bottom of the
stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. All the bickering, tears
and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain that I fall into my bed
at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that I have half an hour to myself.
I'm doing fine, except I've got no appetite. I keep hearing: "Goodness, you look
awful!" I must admit they're doing their best to keep me in condition: they're
plying me with dextrose, cod-liver oil, brewer's yeast and calcium. My nerves
often get the better of me, especially on Sundays; that's when I really feel
miserable. The atmosphere is stifling, sluggish, leaden. Outside, you don't hear a
single bird, and a deathly, oppressive silence hangs over the house and clings to
me as if it were going to drag me into the deepest regions of the underworld. At
times like these, Father, Mother and Margot don't matter to me in the least. I
wander from room to room, climb up and down the stairs and feel like a songbird
whose wings have been ripped off and who keeps hurling itself against the bars of
its dark cage. "Let me out, where there's fresh air and laughter!" a voice within
me cries. I don't even bother to reply anymore, but lie down on the divan. Sleep
makes the silence and the terrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time,
since it's impossible to kill it.
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1943