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now, except that I usually mumble the words instead of reading them silently to myself. But that’ll pass. Father has taken the plays of Goethe and Schiller down from the big bookcase and is planning to read to me every evening. We’ve started off with Don Carlos. Encouraged by Father’s good example, Mother pressed her prayer book into my hands. I read a few prayers in German, just to be polite. They certainly sound beautiful, but they mean very little to me. Why is she making me act so religious and devout?

Tomorrow we’re going to light the stove for the first time. The chimney hasn’t been swept in ages, so the room is bound to fill with smoke. Let’s hope the thing draws!

Yours, Anne

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1942

Dear Kitty,

Bep stayed with us Friday evening. It was fun, but she didn’t sleep very well because she’d drunk some wine. For the rest, there’s nothing special to report. I had an awful headache yesterday and went to bed early. Margot’s being exasperating again.

This morning I began sorting out an index card file from the office, because it’d fallen over and gotten all mixed up. Before long I was going nuts. I asked Margot and Peter to help, but they were too lazy, so I put it away. I’m not crazy enough to do it all by myself!

Anne Frank

PS. I forgot to mention the important news that I’m probably going to get my period soon. I can tell because I keep finding a whitish smear in my panties, and Mother predicted it would start soon. I can hardly wait. It’s such a momentous event. Too bad I can’t use sanitary napkins, but you can’t get them anymore, and Mama’s tampons can be used only by women who’ve had a baby.

COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON JANUARY 22, 1944:

I wouldn’t be able to write that kind of thing anymore.

Now that I’m rereading my diary after a year and a half, I’m surprised at my childish innocence. Deep down I know I could never be that innocent again, however much I’d like to be. I can understand the mood changes and the comments about Margot, Mother and Father as if I’d written them only yesterday, but I can’t imagine writing so openly about other matters. It embarrasses me greatly to read the pages dealing with subjects that I remembered as being nicer than they actually were. My descriptions are so indelicate. But enough of that.

I can also understand my homesickness and yearning for Moortje. The whole time I’ve been here I’ve longed unconsciously —and at times consciously—-for trust, love and physical affection. This longing may change in intensity, but it’s always there.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1942

Dear Kitty,

The British have finally scored a few successes in Africa and Stalingrad hasn’t fallen yet, so the men are happy and we had coffee and tea this morning. For the rest, nothing special to report.

This week I’ve been reading a lot and doing little work. That’s the way things ought to be. That’s surely the road to success.

Mother and I are getting along better lately, but we’re never close. Father’s not very open about his feelings, but he’s the same sweetheart he’s always been. We lit the stove a few days ago and the entire room is still filled with smoke. I prefer central heating, and I’m probably not the only one. Margot’s a stinker (there’s no other word for it), a constant source of irritation, morning, noon and night.

Anne Frank

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

Yesterday was Peter’s birthday, his sixteenth. I was upstairs by eight, and Peter and I looked at his presents. He received a game of Monopoly, a razor and a cigarette lighter. Not that he smokes so much, not at all; it just looks so distinguished.

The biggest surprise came from Mr. van Daan, who reported at one that the English had landed in Tunis, Algiers, Casablanca and Oran.

“This is the beginning of the end,” everyone was saying, but Churchill, the British Prime Minister, who must have heard the same thing being repeated in England, declared, “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Do you see the difference? However, there’s reason