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

what I said at the beginning: "Paper is more patient than people."
Whenever someone comes in from outside, with the wind in their clothes and the
cold on their cheeks, I feel like burying my head under the blankets to keep from
thinking, "When will we be allowed to breathe fresh air again?" I can't do that --
on the contrary, I have to hold my head up high and put a bold face on things, but
the thoughts keep coming anyway. Not just once, but over and over.
Believe me, if you've been shut up for a year and a half, it can get to be too
much for you sometimes. But feelings can't be ignored, no matter how unjust or
ungrateful they seem. I long to ride a bike, dance, whistle, look at the world,
feel young and know that I'm free, and yet I can't let it show. just imagine what
would happen if all eight of us were to feel sorry for ourselves or walk around
with the discontent clearly visible on our faces. Where would that get us? I
sometimes wonder if anyone will ever understand what I mean, if anyone will ever
overlook my ingratitude and not worry about whether or not I'm Jewish and merely
see me as a teenager badly in need of some good plain fun. I don't know, and I
wouldn't be able to talk about it with anyone, since I'm sure I'd start to cry.
Crying can bring relief, as long as you don't cry alone. Despite all my theories
and efforts, I miss -- every day and every hour of the day -- having a mother who
understands me. That's why with everything I do and write, I imagine the kind of
mom I'd like to be to my children later on. The kind of mom who doesn't take
everything people say too seriously, but who does take me seriously. I find it
difficult to describe what I mean, but the word' 'mom" says it all. Do you know
what I've come up with? In order to give me the feeling of calling my mother
something that sounds like "Mom," I often call her" Momsy." Sometimes I shorten it
to "Moms"; an imperfect "Mom." I wish I could honor her by removing the "s." It's
a good thing she doesn't realize this, since it would only make her unhappy.
Well, that's enough of that. My writing has raised me somewhat from "the depths of
despair."
Yours, Anne
It's the day after Christmas, and I can't help thinking about Pim and the story he
told me this time last year. I didn't understand the meaning of his words then as
well as I do now. If only he'd bring it up again, I might be able to show him I
understood what he meant!
I think Pim told me because he, who knows the "intimate secrets" of so many
others, needed to express his own feelings for once; Pim never talks about
himself, and I don't think Margot has any inkling of what he's been through. Poor
Pim, he can't fool me into thinking he's forgotten that girl. He never will. It's
made him very accommodating, since he's not blind to Mother's faults. I hope I'm
going to be a little like him, without having to go through what he has!
Anne
MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943
Friday evening, for the first time in my life, I received a Christmas present. Mr.
Kleiman, Mr. Kugler and the girls had prepared a wonderful surprise for us. Miep
made a delicious Christmas cake with "Peace 1944" written on top, and Bep provided
a batch of cookies that was up to prewar standards.
There was a jar of yogurt for Peter, Margot and me, and a bottle of beer for each
of the adults. And once again everything was wrapped so nicely, with pretty
pictures glued to the packages. For the rest, the holidays passed by quickly for