friday, october 29, 1943

my dearest kitty,

mr. kleiman is out again; his stomach won't give him a moment's peace. he doesn't even know whether it's stopped bleeding. he came to tell us he wasn't feeling well and was going home, and for the first time he seemed really down.

mr. and mrs. van d. have had more raging battles. the reason is simple: they're broke. they wanted to sell an overcoat and a suit of mr. van d. 's, but were unable to find any buyers. his prices were way too high.

some time ago mr. kleiman was talking about a furrier he knows. this gave mr. van d. the idea of selling his wife's fur coat. it's made of rabbit skin, and she's had it for seventeen years. mrs. van d. got 325 guilders for it, an enormous amount. she wanted to keep the money herself to buy new clothes after the war, and it took some doing before mr. van d. could make her understand that it was desperately needed to cover household expenses.

you can't imagine the screaming, shouting, stamping of feet and swearing that went on. it was terrifying. my family stood holding its breath at the bottom of the stairs, in case it might be necessary to drag them apart. all the bickering, tears and nervous tension have become such a stress and strain that i fall into my bed at night crying and thanking my lucky stars that i have half an hour to myself.

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 drag me 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