I’m doing fine， except I’ve got no appetite. I keep hearing： “Goodness， you look awful！” I must admit they’re doing their best to keep me in condition： they’re plying me with dextrose， cod-liver oil， brewer’s yeast and calcium. My nerves often get the better of me， especially on Sundays； that’s when I really feel miserable. The atmosphere is stifling， sluggish， leaden. Outside， you don’t hear a single bird， and a deathly， oppressive silence hangs over the house and clings to me as if it were going to dragme into the deepest regions of the underworld. At times like these. Father， Mother and Margot don’t matter to me in the least. I wander from room to room， climb up and down the stairs and feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and who keeps hurling itself against the bars of its dark cage. “Let me out， where there’s fresh air and laughter！” a voice within me cries. I don’t even bother to reply anymore， but lie down on the divan. Sleep makes the silence and the terrible fear go by more quickly， helps pass the time， since it’s impossible to kill it.
Yours， Anne
MONDAY EVENING， NOVEMBER 8， 1943
Dearest Kitty，
If you were to read all my letters in one sitting， you’d be struck by the fact that they were written in a variety of moods. It annoys me to be so dependent on the moods here in the Annex， but I’m not the only one： we’re all subject to them. If I’m engrossed in a book， I have to rearrange my thoughts before I can mingle with other people， because otherwise they might think I was strange. As you can see， I’m currently in the middle of a depression. I couldn’t really tell you what set it off， but I think it stems from my cowardice， which confronts me at every turn. This evening， when Bep was still here， the doorbell rang long and loud. I instantly turned white， my stomach churned， and my heart beat wildly—and all because I was aftaid.
At night in bed I see myself alone in a dungeon， without Father and Mother. Or I’m roaming the streets， or the Annex is on fire， or they come in the middle of the night to take us away and I crawl under my bed in desperation. I see everything as if it were actually taking place. And to think it might all happen soon！
Miep often says she envies us because we have such peace and quiet here. That may be true， but she’s obviously not thinking about our fear.
I simply can’t imagine the world will ever be normal again for us. I do talk about “after the war，” but it’s as if I were talking about a castle in the air， something that can Ii never come true.
I see the eight of us in the Annex as if we were a patch of blue sky surrounded by menacing black clouds. The perfectly round spot on which we’re standing is still safe， but the clouds are moving in on us， and the ring between us and the approaching danger is being pulled tighter and tighter. We’re surrounded by darkness and danger， and in our desperate search for a way out we keep bumping into each other. We look at the fighting down below and the peace and beauty up above. In the meantime， we’ve been cut off by the dark mass of clouds， so that we can go neither up nor down. It looms before us like an impenetrable wall， trying to crush us， but not yet able to. I can only cry out and implore， “Oh， ring， ring， open wide and let us out！”
Yours， Anne
WEDNESDAY， MARCH 29， 1944
Dearest Kitty，
Mr. Bolkestein， the Cabinet Minister， speaking on the Dutch broadcast from London， said that after the war a collection would be made of diaries and letters dealing with the war. Of course， everyone pounced on my diary. Just imagine how interesting it would be if I were to publish a novel about the Secret Annex. The title alone would make people think it was a detective story.
Seriously， though， ten years after the war people would find it very amusing to read how we lived， what we ate and what we talked about as Jews in hiding. Although I tell you a great deal about our lives， you still know very little about us. How frightened the women are during air raids； last Sunday， for instance， when 350 British planes dropped 550 tons of bombs on IJmuiden， so that the houses trembled like blades of grass in the wind. Or how many epidemics are raging here.
You know nothing of these matters， and it would take me all day to describe everything down to the last detail. People have to stand in line to buy vegetables and all kinds of goods： doctors can’t visit their patients， since their cars and bikes are stolen the moment they turn their backs； burglaries and thefts are so common that you ask yourself what’s suddenly gotten into the Dutch to make them so light-fingered. Little children， eight-and eleven-year-olds， smash the windows of people’s homes and steal whatever they can lay their hands on. People don’t dare leave the house for even five minutes， since they’re liable to come back and find all their belongings gone. Every day the newspapers are filled with reward notices for the return of stolen typewriters， Persian rugs electric clocks， fabrics， etc. The electric clocks on street corners are dismantled， public phones are stripped down to the last wire.
Morale among the Dutch can’t be good. Everyone’s hungry； except for the ersatz coffee， a week’s food ration doesn’t last two days. The invasion’s long in coming， the men are being shipped off to Germany， the children are sick or undernourished， everyone’s wearing worn-out clothes and run- down shoes. A new sole costs 7.50 guil-ders on the black market. Besides， few shoemakers will do repairs or if they do， you have to wait four months for your shoes， which might very well have disappeared in the meantime.
One good thing has come out of this： as the food gets worse and the decrees more severe， the acts of sabotage against the authorities are increasing. The ration board， the police， the officials-they’re all either helping their fellow citizens or denouncing them and sending them off to prison. Fortunately， only a small percentage of Dutch people are on the wrong side.
Yours， Anne
WEDNESDAY， MAY 3， 1944
Dearest Kitty，