and fresh air, so we should try to make the best of our stay here.
I'm preaching, but I also believe that if I live here much longer, I'll turn into a dried-up old beanstalk. And all I really want is to be an honest-to-goodness teenager!
Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 19, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
I (there I go again!) don't know what's happened, but since my dream I keep noticing how I've changed. By the way, I dreamed about Peter again last night and once again I felt his eyes penetrate mine, but this dream was less vivid and not quite as beautiful as the last.
You know that I always used to be jealous of Margot's relationship with Father. There's not a trace of my jealousy left now; I still feel hurt when Father's nerves cause him to be unreasonable toward me, but then I think, 'I can't blame you for being the way you are. You talk so much about the minds of children and adolescents, but you don't know the first thing about them!' I long for more than Father's affection, more than his hugs and kisses. Isn't it awful of me to be so preoccupied with myself? Shouldn't I, who want to be good and kind, forgive them first? I forgive Mother too, but every time she makes a sarcastic remark or laughs at me, it's all I can do to control myself.
I know I'm far from being what I should; will I ever be?
Anne Frank
P.S. Father asked if I told you about the cake. For Mother's birthday, she received a real mocha cake, prewar quality, from the office. It was a really nice day! But at the moment there's no room in my head for things like that. SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
Can you tell me why people go to such lengths to hide their real selves? Or why I always behave very differently when I'm in the company of others? Why do people have so little trust in one another? I know there must be a reason, but sometimes I think it's horrible that you can't ever confide in anyone, not even those closest to you.
It seems as if I've grown up since the night I had that dream, as if I've become more independent. You'll be amazed when I tell you that even my attitude toward the van Daans has changed. I've stopped looking at all the discussions and arguments from my family's biased point of view. What's brought on such a radical change? Well, you see, I suddenly realized that if Mother had been different, if she'd been a real mom, our relationship would have been very, very different. Mrs. van Daan is by no means a wonderful person, yet half the arguments could have been avoided if Mother hadn't been so hard to deal with every time they got onto a tricky subject. Mrs. van Daan does have one good point, though: you can talk to her. She may be selfish, stingy and underhanded, but she'll readily back down as long as you don't provoke her and make her unreasonable. This tactic doesn't work every time, but if you're patient, you can keep trying and see how far you get.
All the conflicts about our upbringing, about not pampering children, about the food- about everything, absolutely everything-might have taken a different turn if we'd remained open and on friendly terms instead of always seeing the worst side.
I know exactly what you're going to say, Kitty.
'But, Anne, are these words really coming from your lips? From you, who have had to put up with so many unkind words from upstairs? From you, who are aware of all the injustices?'
And yet they are coming from me. I want to take a fresh look at things and form my own opinion, not just ape my parents, as in the proverb 'The apple never falls far from the tree.' I want to reexamine the van Daans and decide for myself what's true and what's been blown out of proportion. If I wind up being disappointed in them, I can always side with Father and Mother. But if not, I can try to change their attitude. And if that doesn't work, I'll have to stick with my own opinions and judgment. I'll take every opportunity to speak openly to Mrs. van D. about our many differences and not be afraid -- despite my reputation as a smart aleck-to offer my impartial opinion. I won't say anything negative about my own family, though that doesn't mean I won't defend them if somebody else does, and as of today, my gossiping is a thing of the past. Up to now I was absolutely convinced that the van Daans were entirely to blame for the quarrels, but now I'm sure the fault was largely ours. We were right as far as the subject matter was concerned, but intelligent people (such as ourselves!) should have more insight into how to deal with others. I hope I've got at least a touch of that insight, and that I'll find an occasion to put it to good use.
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, JANUARY 24, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
A very strange thing has happened to me. (Actually, 'happened' isn't quite the right word.)
Before I came here, whenever anyone at home or at school talked about sex, they were either secretive or disgusting. Any words having to do with sex were spoken in a low whisper, and kids who weren't in the know were often laughed at. That struck me as odd, and I often wondered why people were so mysterious or obnoxious when they talked about this subject. But because I couldn't change things, I said as little as possible or asked my girlfriends for information. After I'd learned quite a lot, Mother once said to me, 'Anne, let me give you some good advice. Never discuss this with boys, and if they bring it up, don't answer them.'
I still remember my exact reply. 'No, of course not,' I exclaimed. 'Imagine!' And nothing more was said.
When we first went into hiding, Father often told me about things I'd rather have heard from Mother, and I learned the rest from books or things I picked up in conversations.
Peter van Daan wasn't ever as obnoxious about this subject as the boys at school. Or maybe just once or twice, in the beginning, though he wasn't trying to get me to talk. Mrs. van Daan once told us she'd never discussed these matters with Peter, and as far as she knew, neither had her husband. Apparently she didn't even know how much Peter knew or where he got his information. Yesterday, when Margot, Peter and I were peeling potatoes, the conversation somehow turned to Boche. 'We're still not sure whether Boche is a boy or a girl, are we?' I asked.
Yes we are, he answered. 'Boche is a tomcat.'
I began to laugh. 'Some tomcat if he's pregnant.'
Peter and Margot joined in the laughter. You see, a month or two ago Peter informed us that Boche was sure to have kittens before long, because her stomach was rapidly swelling. However, Boche's fat tummy turned out to be due to a bunch of stolen bones. No kittens were growing inside, much less about to be born.
Peter felt called upon to defend himself against my accusation. 'Come with me. You can see for yourself. I was horsing around with the cat one day, and I could definitely see it was a 'he.' '
Unable to restrain my curiosity, I went with him to the warehouse. Boche, however, wasn't receiving visitors at that hour, and was nowhere in sight. We waited for a while, but when it got cold, we went back upstairs. Later that afternoon I heard Peter go downstairs for the second time. I mustered the courage to walk through the silent house by myself and reached the warehouse. Boche was on the packing table, playing with Peter, who was getting ready to put him on the scale and weigh him.
'Hi, do you want to have a look?' Without any preliminaries, he picked up the cat, turned him over on his back, deftly held his head and paws and began the lesson. 'This is the male sexual organ, these are a few stray hairs, and that's his backside.'
The cat flipped himself over and stood up on his little white feet. If any other boy had pointed out the 'male sexual organ' to me, I would never have given him a second glance. But Peter went on talking in a normal voice about what is otherwise a very awkward subject. Nor did he have any ulterior motives. By the time he'd finished, I felt so much at ease that I started acting normally too. We played with Boche, had a good time, chatted a bit and finally sauntered through the long warehouse to the door. 'Were you there when Mouschi was fixed?'
'Yeah, sure. It doesn't take long. They give the cat an anesthetic, of course.' 'Do they take something out?'
'No, the vet just snips the tube. There's nothing to see on the outside.' I had to get up my nerve to ask a question, since it wasn't as 'normal' as I thought. 'Peter, the German word Geschlechtsteil means 'sexual organ,' doesn't it? But then the male and female ones have different names.'
'I know that.'
'The female one is a vagina, that I know, but I don't know what it's called in males.'
'Oh well,' I said. 'How are we supposed to know these words? Most of the time you just come across them by accident.'
'Why wait? I'll ask my parents. They know more than I do and they've had more experience.'
We were already on the stairs, so nothing more was said.
Yes, it really did happen. I'd never have talked to a girl about this in such a normal tone of voice. I'm also certain that this isn't what Mother meant when she warned me about boys.
All the same, I wasn't exactly my usual self for the rest of the day. When I thought back to our talk, it struck me as odd. But I've learned at least one thing: there are young people, even those of the opposite sex, who can discuss these things naturally, without cracking jokes.
Is Peter really going to ask his parents a lot of questions? Is he really the way he seemed yesterday?
Oh, what do I know?!!!
Yours, Anne
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944
Dearest Kitty,
In recent weeks I've developed a great liking for family trees and the
