FRIDAY, MARCH 12, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
May I introduce: Mama Frank, the children's advocate! Extra butter for the youngsters, the problems facing today's youth -- you name it, and Mother defends the younger generation. After a skirmish or two, she always gets her way.
One of the jars of pickled tongue is spoiled. A feast for Mouschi and Boche.
You haven't met Boche yet, despite the fact that she was here before we went into hiding. She's the warehouse and office cat, who keeps the rats at bay in the storeroom.
Her odd, political name can easily be explained. For a while the firm Gies & Co. had two cats: one for the warehouse and one for the attic. Their paths crossed from time to time, which invariably resulted in a fight. The warehouse cat was always the aggressor, while the attic cat was ultimately the victor, just as in politics. So the warehouse cat was named the German, or "Boche," and the attic cat the Englishman, or "Tommy." Sometime after that they got rid of Tommy, but Boche is always there to amuse us when we go downstairs.
We've eaten so many brown beans and navy beans that I can't stand to look at them. Just thinking about them makes me sick.
Our evening serving of bread has been canceled.
Daddy just said that he's not in a very cheerful mood. His eyes look so sad again, the poor man!
I can't tear myself away from the book A Knock at the Door by Ina Bakker Boudier. This family saga is extremely well written, but the parts dealing with war, writers and the emancipation of women aren't very good. To be honest, these subjects don't interest me much.
Terrible bombing raids on Germany. Mr. van Daan is grouchy. The reason: the cigarette shortage.
The debate about whether or not to start eating the canned food ended in our favor.
I can't wear any of my shoes, except my ski boots, which are not very practical around the house. A pair of straw thongs that were purchased for 6.50 guilders were worn down to the soles within a week. Maybe Miep will be able to scrounge up something on the black market.
It's time to cut Father's hair. pim swears that I do such a good job he'll never go to another barber after the war. If only I didn't nick his ear so often!
Yours, Anne