Anne Frank's Tales from the Secret Annex Read Online Free PDF Page A

point. I want to read or study and Margot does too. Father and Mother ditto. Father is sitting (with Dickens and the dictionary, of course) on the edge of the sagging, squeaky bed, which doesn’t even have a decent mattress. Two bolsters can be piled on top of each other. ‘I don’t need these,’ he thinks. ‘I can manage without them!’
    Once he starts reading, he doesn’t look up. He laughs now and then and tries to get Mother to read a passage.
    â€˜I don’t have the time right now!’
    He looks disappointed, but then continues to read. A little while later, when he comes across another interesting bit, he tries again. ‘You have to read this, Mother!’
    Mother sits on the folding bed, either reading, sewing, knitting or studying, whichever is next on her list. An idea suddenly occurs to her, and she quickly says, so as not to forget: ‘Anne, remember to… Margot, jot this down…’
    After a while it’s quiet again. Margot slams her book shut; Father knits his forehead, his eyebrows forming a funny curve and his wrinkle of concentration reappearing at the back of his head, and he buries himself in his book again; Mother starts chatting with Margot; and I get curious and listen too. Pim is drawn into the conversation…
    Nine o’clock. Breakfast!
    Â 
    Friday, 6 August 1943
    * ‘When the Clock Strikes Half Past Eight’. Anne Frank wrote the title in German.

Villains!
    W HO ARE THE VILLAINS in this house? Real villains!
    The van Daans!
    What is it this time? Let me tell you.
    The truth of the matter is that thanks to the indifference of the van Daans this house is crawling with fleas. For months we’ve been warning them, ‘Send your cat out to be sprayed!’ Their answer was always, ‘Our cat doesn’t have fleas!’
    When the fleas had all too clearly been shown to exist and we all itched so much we couldn’t sleep, Peter – who simply felt sorry for the cat – went and had a look, and the fleas actually leapt up on to his face. He went to work, combing the cat with Mrs van D.’s fine-toothed comb, and brushing it with our one and only scrubbing brush. What was the result?
    No fewer than a hundred fleas!
    Mr Kleiman was consulted, and the next day the downstairs rooms of the Annexe were covered with a disgusting green powder. It didn’t do a whit of good. Sothen we tried a spray gun with a kind of flea Flit. Father, Dussel, Margot and I spent ages cleaning, mopping, scrubbing and spraying. The fleas had got into everything. We flitted everything in sight: clothes, blankets, floors, divans, every last nook and cranny.
    Except upstairs and in Peter’s room. The van Daans didn’t think it was necessary. We insisted that they at least spray the clothing, bedding and chairs. They said they would. Everything was taken up to the attic and sprayed, or so they said. In reality, they did nothing of the kind! They apparently think it’s easy to fool the Franks. Not one bit of spray; not one cloud of Flit.
    Their latest excuse: The Flit would get into the food supplies!
     
    Conclusion: It’s their fault we have fleas. We’re the ones that have to put up with the smell, the itch, the discomfort.
    Mrs van D. can’t bear the stench at night. Mr van D. pretends to Flit, but brings the chairs, blankets, etc., back un-Flit. Let the Franks be bitten to death!
     
    Friday, 6 August 1943

A Daily Chore in Our Little Community: Peeling Potatoes!
    O NE PERSON GOES to get some newspapers; another, the knives (keeping the best for himself, of course); the third, the potatoes; and the fourth, the water.
    Mr Dussel begins. He may not always peel them very well, but he does peel non-stop, glancing left and right to see if everyone is doing it the way he does. No, they’re not.
    ‘Look, Anne, I am taking peeler in my hand like so and going from top to bottom! Nein , not so…but so!’
    ‘I think my way is easier, Mr Dussel,’ I say tentatively.
    ‘But