friday, january 28, 1944

dearest kitty,

this morning i was wondering whether you ever felt like a cow, having to chew my stale news over and over again until you're so fed up with the monotonous fare that you yawn and secretly wish anne would dig up something new.

sorry, i know you find it dull as ditchwater, but imagine how sick and tired i am of hearing the same old stuff. if the talk at mealtime isn't about politics or good food, then mother or mrs. van d. trot out stories about their childhood that we've heard a thousand times before, or dussel goes on and on about beautiful racehorses, his charlotte's extensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats, boys who can swim at the age of four, aching muscles and frightened patients. it all boils down to this: whenever one of the eight of us opens his mouth, the other seven can finish the story for him. we know the punch line of every joke before it gets told, so that whoever's telling it is left to laugh alone. the various milkmen, grocers and butchers of the two former housewives have been praised to the skies or run into the ground so many times that in our imaginations they've grown as old as methuselah; there's absolutely no chance of anything new or fresh being brought up for discussion in the annex.

still, all this might be bearable if only the grown-ups weren't in the habit of repeating the stories we hear from mr. kleiman, jan or miep, each time embellishing them with a few details of their own, so that i often have to pinch my arm under the table to keep myself from setting the enthusiastic storyteller on the right track. little children, such as anne, must never, ever correct their elders, no matter how many blunders they make or how often they let their imaginations run away with them.

jan and mr. kleiman love talking about people who have gone underground or into hiding; they know we're eager to hear about others in our situation and that we truly sympathize with the sorrow of those who've been arrested as well as the joy of prisoners who've been freed.

going underground or into hiding has become as routine as the proverbial pipe and slippers that used to await the man of the house after a long day at work. there are many resistance groups, such as free netherlands, that forge identity cards, provide financial support to those in hiding, organize hiding places and find work for young christians who go underground. it's amazing how much these generous and unselfish

people do, risking their own lives to help and save others.

the best example of this is our own helpers, who have managed to pull us through so far and will hopefully bring us safely to shore, because otherwise they'll find themselves sharing the fate of those they're trying to protect. never have they uttered a single word about the burden we must be, never have they complained that we're too much trouble. they come upstairs every day and talk to the men about business and politics, to the women about food and wartime difficulties and to the children about books and newspapers. they put on their most cheerful expressions, bring flowers and gifts for birthdays and holidays and are always ready to do what they can. that's something we should never forget; while others display their heroism in battle or against the germans, our helpers prove theirs every day by their good spirits and affection.

the most bizarre stories are making the rounds, yet most of them are really true. for instance, mr. kleiman reported this week that a soccer match was held in the province of gelderland; one team consisted entirely of men who had gone underground, and the other of eleven military policemen. in hilversum, new registration cards were issued. in order for the many people in hiding to get their rations (you have to show this card to obtain your ration book or else pay 60 guilders a book), the registrar asked all those hiding in that district to pick up their cards at a specified hour, when the documents could be collected at a separate table.

all the same, you have to be careful that stunts like these don't reach the ears of the germans.

yours, anne