Wednesday, 7 July 1943
Do You Remember?
Memories of my schooldays at the Jewish Lyceum
DO YOU REMEMBER? I’ve spent many a delightful hour talking about school, teachers, adventures and boys. Back when our lives were still normal, everything was so wonderful. That one year in the Lyceum was heaven to me: the teachers, the things I learned, the jokes, the prestige, the crushes, the admirers.
Do you remember? When I came back from town that afternoon and found a package in the mailbox from ‘un ami, R’. It could only have come from Rob Cohen. Inside there was a brooch worth at least two and a half guilders. Ultra-modern. Rob’s father sold that kind of stuff. I wore it for two days, and then it broke.
Do you remember? How Lies and I told on the class. We had a French test. I wasn’t having too much trouble with it, but Lies was. She copied my answers and I went over them to make corrections (on her test, I mean). She got a C+ and I got a C-, since thanks to my help she had got some things right, but both grades had been crossed out and replaced with a big fat F. Great indignation. We went to Mr Premsela to explain what had happened, and at the end Lies said, ‘Yes, but the entire class had their books open under their desks!’ Mr Premsela promised the class that nobody would be punished if all those who had cheated would raise their hands. About ten hands went up – less than half the class, of course. A few days later Mr Premsela sprang the test on us again. Nobody would talk to Lies and me, and we were branded as snitches. I soon caved in under the pressure and wrote a long letter of apology to Class 1 L II, begging their forgiveness. Two weeks later all had been forgotten. The letter went something like this:
To the students in Class 1 L II,
Anne Frank and Lies Goslar hereby offer their sincere apologies to the students in Class 1 L II for their cowardly act of betrayal in the matter of the French test.
However, the deed was done before we had time to think, and we freely admit that we alone should have been punished. We believe that everyone is liable to let a word or sentence slip out in anger from time to time, and this can result in an unpleasant situation, even though it wasn’t meant to. We hope that Class 1 L II will see the incident in this light and will repay evil with good. There’s nothing more to be gained by it, and the two guilty parties can’t undo what’s been done.
We wouldn’t be writing this letter if we weren’t genuinely sorry for what happened. Furthermore, we ask those of you who have been ignoring us to please stop, since what we did wasn’t so bad as to justify being looked upon as criminals for all eternity.
Anyone who is unable to put this matter behind them should come to us and either give us a good scolding or ask us for a favour, which we will gladly grant, if at all possible.
We trust that everyone in Class 1 L II will now be able to forget the affair.
Anne Frank and Lies Goslar
Do you remember? How C.N.* told Rob Cohen in the tram, within earshot of Sanne Ledermann who passed it on to me, that Anne had a much prettier face than J.R., especially when she smiled. Rob’s answer was, ‘My, you’ve got big nostrils, C.!’
Do you remember? How Maurice Coster was planning to present himself to Pim to ask his permission to see his daughter.
Do you remember? How Rob Cohen and Anne Frank exchanged a flurry of letters when Rob was in hospital.
Do you remember? How Sam Solomon always followed me on his bicycle and wanted to walk arm in arm with me.
Do you remember? How A.W. kissed me on the cheek when I promised not to tell a soul about E.G. and him.
I hope that such happy, carefree schooldays will come again.
Undated
* Initials have been assigned at random to those persons wishing to remain anonymous.
The Best Little Table
YESTERDAY AFTERNOON FATHER gave me permission to ask Dussel whether he would please be so good as to allow me (see how polite I am?) to use the table in our room two afternoons a week, from four to five-thirty. I already sit there every day from two-thirty to four while Dussel takes a nap, but the rest of the time the room and table are out of bounds to me. It’s impossible to study next door in the afternoon, because there’s too much going on. Besides, Father sometimes likes to sit at the desk during the afternoon.
So it seemed like a reasonable request, and I asked Dussel very politely. What do you think the learned gentleman’s reply was? ‘No.’ Just plain ‘No!’
I was incensed and wasn’t about to let myself be put off like that. I asked him the reason for his ‘No’, but this didn’t get me anywhere. The gist of his reply was: ‘I have to study too, you know, and if I can’t do that in the afternoons, I won’t be able to fit it in at all. I have to finish the task I’ve set for myself; otherwise there’s no point in starting. Besides, you aren’t serious about your studies. Mythology – what kind of work is that? Reading and knitting don’t count either. I use that table and I’m not going to give it up!’
I replied, ‘Mr Dussel, I do take my work seriously. I can’t study next door in the afternoons, and I would appreciate it if you would reconsider my request!’
Having said these words, the insulted Anne turned round and pretended the learned doctor wasn’t there. I was seething with rage and felt that Dussel had been incredibly rude (which he certainly had been) and that I’d been very polite.
That evening, when I managed to get hold of Pim, I told him what had happened and we discussed what my next step should be, because I had no intention of giving up and preferred to deal with the matter myself. Pim gave me a rough idea of how to approach Dussel, but cautioned me to wait until the next day, since I was in such a flap. I ignored this last piece of advice and waited for Dussel after I’d done the washing-up. Pim was sitting next door and that had a calming effect.
I began, ‘Mr Dussel, you seem to believe further discussion of the matter is pointless, but I beg you to reconsider.’
Dussel gave me his most charming smile and said, ‘I’m always prepared to discuss the matter, even though it’s already been settled.’
I went on talking, despite Dussel’s repeated interruptions. ‘When you first came here,’ I said, ‘we agreed that the room was to be shared by the two of us. If we were to divide it fairly, you’d have the entire morning and I’d have the entire afternoon! I’m not asking for that much, but two afternoons a week does seem reasonable to me.’
Dussel leapt out of his chair as if he’d sat on a pin. ‘You have no business talking about your rights to the room. Where am I supposed to go? Maybe I should ask Mr van Daan to build me a cubbyhole in the attic. You’re not the only one who can’t find a quiet place to work. You’re always looking for a fight. If your sister Margot, who has more right to work space than you do, had come to me with the same request, I’d never even have thought of refusing, but you…’
And once again he brought up the business about the mythology and the knitting, and once again Anne was insulted. However, I showed no sign of it and let Dussel finish: ‘But no, it’s impossible to talk to you. You’re shamefully self-centred. No one else matters, as long as you get your way. I’ve never seen such a child. But after all is said and done, I’ll be obliged to let you have your way, since I don’t want people saying later on that Anne Frank failed her exams because Mr Dussel refused to relinquish his table!’
He went on…and on, until there was such a deluge of words I could hardly keep up. For one fleeting moment I thought, ‘Him and his lies. I’ll smack his ugly mug so hard he’ll go bouncing off the wall!’ But the next moment I thought, ‘Calm down, he’s not worth getting so upset about!’
At long last Mr Dussel’s fury was spent, and he left the room with an expression of triumph mixed with wrath, his coat pockets bulging with food.
I went running over to Father and recounted the entire story, or at least those parts he hadn’t been able to follow himself. Pim decided to talk to Dussel that very same evening, and they spoke for more than half an hour. They first discussed whether
Anne should be allowed to use the table, yes or no. Father said that he and Dussel had dealt with the subject once before, at which time he’d professed to agree with Dussel because he didn’t want to contradict the elder in front of the younger, but that, even then, he hadn’t thought it was fair. Dussel felt I had no right to talk as if he were an intruder laying claim to everything in sight. But Father protested strongly, since he himself had heard me say nothing of the kind. And so the conversation went back and forth, with Father defending my ‘selfishness’ and my ‘pointless activities’ and Dussel grumbling the whole time.
Dussel finally had to give in, and I was granted the opportunity to work without interruption two afternoons a week. Dussel looked very sullen, didn’t speak to me for two days and made sure he occupied the table from five to five-thirty – all very childish, of course.
Anyone who’s so petty and pedantic at the age of fifty-four was born that way and is never going to change.
Tuesday, 13 July 1943
Anne in Theory
MRS VAN DAAN, DUSSEL and I were doing the washing-up, and I was extremely quiet. This is very unusual for me, and they were sure to notice. So, in order to avoid any questions, I quickly racked my brains for a neutral topic. I thought the book Henry from Across the Street might fit the bill, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. If Mrs van D. doesn’t jump down my throat, Mr Dussel does. It all boiled down to this: Mr Dussel had recommended the book to Margot and me as an example of excellent writing. We thought it was anything but that. The little boy had been portrayed well, but as for the rest…the less said the better. I mentioned something to that effect while we were washing-up, but my goodness…Dussel launched into a tirade.
‘How can you possibly understand the inner life of a man? Of course you can follow that of a child [!]. But you’re far too young to read a book like that. Even a twenty-year-old man would be unable to comprehend it.’ (So why did he go out of his way to recommend it to Margot and me?)
Mrs van D. and Dussel continued their harangue: ‘You know far too much about things you’re not supposed to. You’ve been brought up all wrong. Later on, when you’re older, you won’t be able to enjoy anything any more. You’ll say, “Oh, I read that twenty years ago in some book.” You’d better hurry if you want to catch a husband or fall in love, since everything is bound to be a disappointment to you. [Get ready – here comes the best part.] You already know all there is to know in theory. But in practice? That’s another story!’
Can you imagine how I felt? I astonished myself by calmly replying, ‘You may think I haven’t been raised properly, but many people would disagree!’
They apparently believe that good child-rearing includes trying to pit me against my parents, since that’s all they ever do. And not telling a girl my age about grown-up subjects is fine. We can all see what happens when people are raised that way.
At that moment I could have killed them both for poking fun at me. I was beside myself with rage, and counting the days until we no longer have to put up with each other’s company.
Mrs van D.’s a fine one to talk! She sets an example all right – a bad one. She’s known to be exceedingly pushy, empty-headed and perpetually dissatisfied. Add to that vanity and coquettishness and there’s no question about it: she has a thoroughly despicable character. I could write an entire book about Madame van Daan, and who knows, maybe some time I will. Deep down inside, she doesn’t seem to have even one good trait. Anyone can put on a charming exterior when they want to. Mrs van D. is friendly to men, so it’s easy to make a mistake until you get to know her true nature. A good person can’t imagine at first that she could be so cunning, so calculating and so selfish. It’s impossible, you think, for anyone who looks reasonably well-bred on the outside to be so empty and bare on the inside.
Mother thinks that Mrs van D. is too stupid for words, Margot that she’s too unimportant, Pim that she’s too ugly (literally and figuratively!), and after long observation (I’m not so distrustful at the beginning), I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s all three of the above, and lots more besides. She has so many bad traits that I can’t single out just one of them.
Will the reader please take into consideration that this story was written before the writer’s fury had cooled?
Monday, 2 August 1943
The Battle of the Potatoes
AFTER NEARLY THREE months of peace and quiet, interrupted by only a few quibbles, a fierce discussion broke out again today. It happened early in the morning, when we were peeling potatoes, and caught everyone off guard. I’ll give a rundown of the conversation, though it was impossible to follow it all since everyone was talking at once.
Mrs van D. started it off (naturally!) by remarking that anyone who doesn’t help peel potatoes in the morning should be required to do so in the evening. There was no reply, which apparently didn’t suit the van Daans, since shortly after that Mr van D. suggested that we all peel our own potatoes, with the exception of Peter, since peeling potatoes isn’t a suitable job for a boy. (Note the crystal-clear logic!)
Mr van D. went on: ‘What I can’t understand is why the men always have to help with the peeling. It means that the work isn’t divided equally. Why should one person have to do more communal chores than another?’
Mother interrupted at this point, since she could see where the conversation was heading. ‘Aha, Mr van Daan, I know what comes next. You’re going to tell us for the umpteenth time that the children aren’t doing enough. But you know perfectly well that when Margot doesn’t help out, Anne does, and vice versa. Peter never helps out as it is. You don’t think it’s necessary. Well, then, I don’t think it’s necessary for the girls to help either!’
Mr van D. yelped, Mrs van D. yipped, Dussel shushed and Mother shouted. It was a hellish scene, and there was poor little me watching as our supposedly wise ‘elders and betters’ literally fought it out.
The words flew thick and fast. Mrs van D. accused Dussel of playing one off against the other (I quite agree), Mr van D. spouted off at Mother, about the communal chores, about how much work he did and how we should actually feel sorry for him. Then he suddenly yelled, ‘It’d be better for the children if they helped out here a little more, instead of sitting around all day with their noses in a book. Girls don’t need that much education anyway!’ (Enlightened, eh?) Mother, having calmed down a little, declared that she didn’t feel sorry for Mr van Daan in the slightest.
Then he started in again. ‘Why don’t the girls ever carry potatoes upstairs, why don’t they ever haul hot water? They aren’t that weak, are they?’
‘You’re crazy!’ Mother suddenly exclaimed. I was actually pretty startled. I didn’t think she’d dare.
The rest is relatively unimportant. It all boiled down to the same thing: Margot and I were supposed to become housemaids in Villa Annexe. In this case we might as well use the not-so-polite expression ‘stuff it’, since it’s never going to happen anyway.
Mr van Daan also had the nerve to say that the washing up, which Margot’s done every morning and every evening for the last year, doesn’t count.
When Father heard what had happened, he wanted to rush upstairs and give Mr van D. a piece of his mind, but Mother thought it better to inform Mr van D. that if everyone had to fend for themselves, they’d also have to live on their own money.
My conclusion is this: The whole business is typical of the van Daans. Always rubbing salt into old wounds. If Father weren’t much too nice to people like them, he could remind them in no uncertain terms that without us and the others they’d literally be facing death. In a labour camp you have to do a whole lot more than peel potatoes…or look for cat fleas!
Wednesday, 4 August 1943
Evenings and Nights in the Annexe
JUST BEFORE NINE in the evening: Bedtime always begins in the Annexe with an enormous hustle and bustle. Chairs are shifted, beds pulled out, blankets unfolded – nothing stays where it is during the daytime. I sleep on a small
divan, which is only five feet long, so we have to add a few chairs to make it longer. Eiderdown, sheets, pillow, blankets: everything has to be removed from Dussel’s bed, where it’s kept during the day.
In the next room there’s a terrible creaking: that’s Margot’s folding bed being set up. More blankets and pillows, anything to make the wooden slats a bit more comfortable. Upstairs it sounds like bombs are falling, but it’s only Mrs van D.’s bed being shoved against the window so that Her Majesty, arrayed in her pink bed jacket, can sniff the night air through her delicate little nostrils.
Nine o’clock: After Peter’s finished, it’s my turn for the bathroom. I wash myself from head to toe, and more often than not I find a tiny flea floating in the sink (only during the hot months, weeks or days). I brush my teeth, curl my hair, manicure my nails and dab peroxide on my upper lip – all this in less than half an hour.
Nine-thirty: I throw on my dressing-gown. With soap in one hand, and potty, hairpins, knickers, curlers and cotton wool in the other, I hurry out of the bathroom. The next in line invariably calls me back to remove the gracefully curved but unsightly hairs that I’ve left in the sink.
Ten o’clock: Time to put up the black-out screen and say good-night. For the next fifteen minutes, at least, the house is filled with the creaking of beds and the sigh of broken springs, and then, provided our upstairs neighbours aren’t having a marital tiff in bed, all is quiet.