My First Article

February 22, 1.944

Imagine that the subject of my first article knew that he was going to be used as "material"-- wouldn't he turn red and ask, "Why me? What's so interesting about me?" Let me put the cards on the table: Peter is my subject, and now I'll tell how that occurred to me.

I wanted to write about somebody, and as I already had described most of the other people in the house, I thought of Peter. The boy always keeps himself in the background and, like Margot, never causes dissention.

If, toward evening, you knock on the door of his room and hear him call a soft "Come in!" you may be sure that, on opening the door, you'll find him looking at you through two of the steps of the ladder to the attic and saying, "So!" in a gentle, inviting tone.

His little room is -- what is it really? I think it is a pa.s.sage to the attic, very narrow, very drafty, but he has turned it into a room. When he sits at the left of the ladder, there's surely no more than a yard's s.p.a.ce between him and the wall. There stand his little table, laden, like ours, with books (a few steps of the ladder also hold some of his possessions) and a chair.

On the other side of the ladder, his bike hangs from the ceiling. Useless at present, it is carefully wrapped in brown paper, but a small chain, dangling from one of the pedals, is still visible. This corner is completed by a lamp with an ultramodern shade, made from a piece of card- board covered with strips of paper.

I am still standing in the open door, and now 1 look in the other direction. Against the wall-that is, opposite Peter and behind the table -- stands an old divan, covered with blue flowered stuff; the bedclothes have been hidden (but not quite successfully) behind it. Above the daybed hangs a lamp, the mate of the other one, and similarly decorated. A bit further on, there is a small bookcase filled, from top to bottom, with paper-covered books that could belong only to a boy. A hand mirror is fastened to the wall beside it. Probably because the owner didn't know where else to put it, a small tool chest stands on the floor. (I know from experience that anything in the way of a hammer, a knife, or a screw driver one may need, can be found in its depths.)

Near the bookcase, a shelf, covered with paper that once was white, was originally meant for such things as milk bottles, but has been converted into an annex of the library; it all but groans under the weight of books. The milk bottles have become neighbors of the tool chest, on the floor.

On the third wall hangs a wooden case that may have contained oranges or cherries, but that now serves as a cabinet for such articles as a shaving brush, a safety razor, a roll of plaster, a small bottle of laxative, etc. Beside the cabinet stands the prize exhibit of the Van Daan family's ingenuity-a closet made of cardboard, held together by two or three uprights of some st.u.r.dier material. In front of the closet there hangs a really handsome drape, which Peter, after much coaxing, got from his mother. The closet itself is filled with suits, overcoats, socks, shoes, and the like. The stuff ma.s.sed on the top of the closet is so mixed up that I've never been able to recognize one single item.

The floor coverings of Mr. Van Daan, Jr., also are worth seeing. He has one small and two large genuine Per- sian rugs of such striking colors that everyone who enters the little room remarks on them. These pieces, which at one time must have cost a great deal, lie on a floor so shaky and irregular that one can't walk on it without the utmost caution.

Two of the walls are covered with green jute, and the other two are generously plastered with pictures of more or less beautiful movie stars and advertising posters.

Grease and scorch spots should cause no surprise, for it is to be expected that, with so much stuff in a small s.p.a.ce, something or other is bound to get dirty in a year and a half. The beamed ceiling, also, is no longer in good con- dition and, since there are leaks in the roof and Peter's room is in the attic, he has spread some sheets of card- board to catch the drip. Innumerable water spots and rings show that this protection is far from adequate.

Now, I believe, I've gone all around the room; I have forgotten only the chairs. One of them is an old wooden armchair of Viennese design with perforated seat; number two is a white kitchen chair which Peter appropriated last year. He started to sc.r.a.pe off the paint, probably with the idea of giving it a fresh color, but he didn't have much luck and stopped. And so, half sc.r.a.ped off, part white, part black, and with only one rung (we used the other for a poker), the chair isn't very pretty. But, as has been said, the place is dark, and the poor wreck doesn't attract much attention.

The door to the kitchen steps is festooned with ap.r.o.ns; there are also a few hooks with dustcloths and a brush.

After all this, everyone should know each nook and cranny of Peter's room, but not, of course, the inhabitant himself. And now it's the turn of the owner of all these glorious possessions.

There's a sharp difference in Peter's appearance on weekdays and Sundays. Weekdays he wears cover-alls, from which he rarely separates himself, as he objects to having the things washed too often. I can't imagine the reason for this att.i.tude, except that he fears his favorite piece of apparel might wear out that way. At any rate, it just has been laundered, and its color-blue--is once more recognizable. Round his neck Peter wears a blue scarf, which apparently is just as dear to him as the cover-alls. A heavy, brown leather belt and white woolen socks complete his weekday attire. But on Sundays Peter's clothing may be said to undergo a rebirth. Then he wears a handsome suit, a fine pair of shoes, a shirt, a necktie -- everything that belongs to a young man's nice wardrobe.

So much for Peter's appearance. As for the man himself, I have changed my opinion radically of late. I used to think him dumb and slow, but nowadays he is neither the one nor the other. Everybody agrees that he has grown into a fine young fellow. I know in my heart that he is honest and generous. He has always been modest and helpful, and I think that he is much more sensitive than people give him credit for. He has one preference that I shall never forget -- the cats. Nothing is too much trouble where Mouschi or Moffi are concerned, and I do believe that those two sense that there isn't much love in his life and try to make up for it.

He's not afraid-on the contrary-and not as smart-alecky as other boys of his age. He isn't stupid, either, and has a remarkably good memory. That he is handsome

I needn't say, for everyone who sees him knows that. His hair is wonderful-a wealth of fine brown curls. He has gray-blue eyes, and-describing faces has always been my weak point. After the war I'll paste his photo, together with those of the other people who were in hiding with us, in this book by way of ill.u.s.tration. That will save me the trouble of describing them.

The Sink of Iniquity

Tuesday, February 22, 1944

Don't worry, I'm not going to give you a list of exam- ples to ill.u.s.trate my t.i.tle. My reason for picking this t.i.tle is that I saw those words in a magazine yesterday (C & T, No.8).

In what connection, you're sure to ask, and I'll answer you right away. The Sink of Iniquity was in a magazine in connection with some naked pictures in a movie, which the critic evidently thought indecent. I won't go so far as to say he wasn't right, but in the main I believe that people here in Holland tend to find fault with anybody who hasn't got quite enough clothes on.

This att.i.tude is known as prudishness, and on the one hand there may be something good about it but on the other hand, if all children were taught that everything connected with nakedness is indecent, the upshot would be that the young people would start wondering: "My goodness, are they all completely cracked?"

And I can't help agreeing with them. Modesty and prudishness can go too far, and that is certainly the case in the Netherlands, if you consider how ridiculous it is that if you merely p.r.o.nounce the word "naked" people stare at you from all sides as if you were the most im proper person in the world.

You mustn't suppose that I'm one of those who want us to live like the cavemen or go running around in animal skins; not at all, I just want our lives to be a little freer, a little more natural, a little more informal. And now let me ask you a question. "Do you put clothes on flowers when you pick them? And do you never say anything about the way they look?"

I don't think we're so very different from nature. And since we people are a part of nature, why should we be ashamed of the way nature has dressed us?

Happiness

March 12, 1944

Before I begin my story, I'll tell quickly what has hap- pened in my life so far.

I have lost my mother (I've really never known her), and my father hasn't much time for me. When my mother died, I was two years old; my father gave me into the care of a charming couple, with whom I remained five years.

So I was seven when I was sent to boarding school. I stayed there until I was fourteen; then I was, happily, allowed to join my father. Now he and I live in a pension, and I go to the Lyceum. Nothing out of the ordinary hap- pened to me until -- until I met Jacques.

We became acquainted because he moved into our pension with his parents. First we saw each other a few times on the stairway; then, by chance, in the park, and after that we went several times for a walk in the woods.

From the first, Jacques impressed me as a splendid boy, perhaps a little shy and withdrawn, though that may have been the very quality that attracted me. Gradually, we had more dates together, and now we often visit one another in each other's rooms.

I had never had a close acquaintance with a boy before, and I was surprised to find him entirely different from the boys in my cla.s.s, who were boisterous and boastful.

I began to think about Jacques, after thinking a good deal about myself. I knew that his parents didn't get along together and quarreled often, and I felt that this must dis- turb him very much, for a love of peace and quiet was one of his characteristics.

I am alone most of the time and often feel sad and lonely; it's probably because I miss my mother and be- cause I've never had a real friend in whom I could confide.

Jacques is in the same situation; he also had only superfi- cial friends, and it seemed to me that he, too, needed someone to take into his confidence. But I couldn't get closer to him and we continued to talk about unimportant things.

But, one day, he came with an obviously made-up ex- cuse, as I was sitting on a cushion on the floor, looking at the sky.

"Do I interrupt?" he asked.

"Certainly not," I said, turning toward him. "Sit down beside me, or don't you believe in dreaming?"

He stood by the window, leaning his forehead against the pane.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I dream a lot like this. Do you know what I call it? Taking a look at the history of the world. "

"That's a fine way of putting it; I must remember it."

"Yes," he said, with the peculiar smile that always con- fused me a little, because I never knew exactly what it meant.

We talked again of trivial things, and after a while he left.

The next time he called on me, I happened to sit in the same spot, and he once more took up his place by the window. That day, the weather was magnificent; the sky was a deep blue (we were up so high that we couldn't see the houses, at least not I, from my spot on the floor); dewdrops clung to the bare branches of the chestnut tree in front of the house, and the sun turned each drop into a sparkling diamond as the branches slowly moved. Seagulls and other birds flew, chattering, past our window.

I don't know why it was, but neither of us could utter a word. Here we were, in the same room, not far from each other, but we scarcely saw one another anymore. We looked only at the sky, and talked to ourselves. I say "we," for I am sure that he felt as I did, and that he was making no more effort to break the silence than I.