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

ody, which she'd always hidden from me and which I'd never seen. I asked her
whether, as proof of our friendiship, we could touch each other's breasts. Jacque
refused.
I also had a terrible desire to kiss her, which I did. Every time I see a female
nude, such as the Venus in my art history book, I go into ecstasy. Sometimes I
find them so exquisite I have to struggle to hold back my tears. If only I had a
girlfriend!
THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
My longing for someone to talk to has become so unbearable that I somehow took it
into my head to select Peter for this role. On the few occasions when I have gone
to Peter's room during the day, I've always thought it was nice and cozy. But
Peter's too polite to show someone the door when they're bothering him, so I've
never dared to stay long. I've always been afraid he'd think I was a pest. I've
been looking for an excuse to linger in his room and get him talking without his
noticing, and yesterday I got my chance. Peter, you see, is currently going
through a crossword-puzzle craze, and he doesn't do anything else all day. I was
helping him, and we soon wound up sitting across from each other at his table,
Peter on the chair and me on the divan.
It gave me a wonderful feeling when I looked into his dark blue eyes and saw how
bashful my unexpected visit had made him. I could read his innermost thoughts, and
in his face I saw a look of helplessness and uncertainty as to how to behave, and
at the same time a flicker of awareness of his masculinity. I saw his shyness, and
I melted. I wanted to say, "Tell me about yourself. Look beneath my chatty
exterior." But I found that it was easier to think up questions than to ask them.
The evening came to a close, and nothing happened, except that I told him about
the article on blushing. Not what I wrote you, of course, just that he would grow
more secure as he got older. "
That night I lay in bed and cried my eyes out, all the i while making sure no one
could hear me. The idea that I had to beg Peter for favors was simply revolting.
But people will do almost anything to satisfy their longings; take me, for
example, I've made up my mind to visit Peter more often and, somehow, get him to
talk to me.
You mustn't think I'm in love with Peter, because I'm not. If the van Daans had
had a daughter instead of a son, I'd have tried to make friends with her.
This morning I woke up just before seven and immediately remembered what I'd been
dreaming about. I was sitting on a chair and across from me was Peter. . . Peter
Schiff. We were looking at a book of drawings by Mary Bos. The dream was so vivid
I can even remember some of the drawings. But that wasn't all -- the dream went
on. Peter's eyes suddenly met mine, and I stared for a long time into those
velvety brown eyes. Then he said very softly, "If I'd only known, I'd have come to
you long ago!" I turned abruptly away, overcome by emotion. And then I felt a
soft, oh-so-cool and gentle cheek against mine, and it felt so good, so good . . .
At that point I woke up, still feeling his cheek against mine and his brown eyes
staring deep into my heart, so deep that he could read how much I'd loved him and
how much I still do. Again my eyes filled with tears, and I was sad because I'd
lost him once more, and yet at the same time glad because I knew with certainty
that Peter is still the only one for me. '