Anne Frank's Tales from the Secret Annex (5 page)

W
HAT HAPPENS IN
other people’s houses during the rest of the week happens here in the Annexe on Sundays. While other people put on their best clothes and go strolling in the sun, we scrub, sweep and do the washing.

Eight o’clock
: Though the rest of us prefer to lie in, Dussel gets up at eight. He goes to the bathroom, then downstairs, then up again and then to the bathroom, where he devotes a whole hour to washing himself.

Nine-thirty
: The stoves are lit, the black-out screen is taken down and Mr van Daan heads for the bathroom. One of my Sunday morning ordeals is having to lie in bed and look at Dussel’s back when he’s praying. I know it sounds strange, but a praying Dussel is a terrible sight to behold. It’s not that he cries or gets sentimental, not at all, but he does spend a quarter of an hour – an entire fifteen minutes – rocking from his toes to his heels. Back and forth, back and forth. It goes on forever, and if I don’t shut my eyes tight, my head starts to spin.

Ten-fifteen
: The van Daans whistle; the bathroom’s free.
In the Frank family quarters, the first sleepy faces are beginning to emerge from their pillows. Then everything happens fast, fast, fast. Margot and I take turns doing the washing. Since it’s quite cold downstairs, we put on trousers and head scarves. Meanwhile, Father is busy in the bathroom. Either Margot or I have a turn in the bathroom at eleven, and then all is clean.

Eleven-thirty
: Breakfast. I won’t dwell on this, since there’s enough talk about food without my bringing the subject up as well.

Twelve-fifteen
: We each go our own separate ways. Father, clad in overalls, gets down on his hands and knees and brushes the rug so vigorously that the room is enveloped in a cloud of dust. Mr Dussel makes the beds (all wrong, of course), always whistling the same Beethoven violin concerto as he goes about his work. Mother can be heard shuffling around the attic as she hangs up the washing.

Mr van Daan puts on his hat and disappears into the lower regions, usually followed by Peter and Mouschi. Mrs van D. dons a long apron, a black woollen jacket and overshoes, winds a red woollen scarf around her head, scoops up a bundle of dirty clothes and, with a
well-rehearsed
washerwoman’s nod, heads downstairs.

Margot and I do the washing-up and tidy the room.

Twelve forty-five
: When all the dishes have been dried and only the pots and pans are left, I go downstairs to dust and, if I washed myself this morning, to clean the sink.

One
: News.

One-fifteen
: Time for one of us to wash our hair or get
a haircut. Next, all of us are busy peeling potatoes, hanging up the washing, scrubbing the landing, scouring the bathroom, etc., etc.

Two
: After the Wehrmacht news, we wait for the music programme and the coffee, so there’s a moment of peace. Can anyone tell me why the adults around here need so much sleep? By eleven a.m. several of them are already yawning, and they spend half their time moaning, ‘Oh, if only I could grab half an hour’s sleep!’

It’s no fun seeing nothing but sleepy faces wherever you go between two and four in the afternoon: Dussel in our room, Mother and Father next door and the van Daans upstairs, sharing a bed during the daytime. Still, I can’t do a blessed thing about it. Perhaps I’ll understand it one day when I’m as old as they are.

Anyway, nap time is stretched out even longer on Sundays. There’s no point in showing yourself upstairs before four-thirty or five, since they’re all still in the Land of Nod.

Late afternoons are the same as on weekdays, except for the concert hour from six to seven.

When dinner’s over and the washing-up is done, I’m beside myself with joy because another Sunday is over.

Sunday, 20 February 1944

A
FTER MUCH WAVERING
back and forth, discussion and debate, it was finally decided that I could attend the Jewish Lyceum and – after several more phone calls – that I could skip the entrance exams. I was a poor student in every subject, especially Maths, and I was inwardly quaking at the thought of Geometry.

At the end of September, the long-awaited letter arrived, informing me that I was to enrol in the Jewish Lyceum on Stadstimmertuinen on such-and-such a date in October. When the appointed day came, it was pouring with rain, which made it impossible for me to cycle to school. So I took the tram, and of course I wasn’t the only one.

As we approached the school, we could see a big crowd. Groups of girls and boys were standing around talking, and lots of them were strolling up and down and calling out, ‘Are you in my class?’ ‘Hey, I know you!’ ‘What class are you in?’ Which is more or less what I did too. But except for Lies Goslar, I couldn’t find a single
friend who was going to be in my class. Hardly a comforting feeling.

School started, and we were welcomed to our classroom by a grey-haired teacher with a face like a mouse, who was wearing a long dress and flat-heeled shoes. Surveying the busy scene and wringing her hands, she gave us the necessary information. Names were called, books were listed so they could be ordered, various other announcements were made and we were dismissed for the day.

To tell you the truth, it was disappointing. At the very least I had expected a timetable and…the headmaster. I did see a short, fat, jolly man with ruddy cheeks in the hallway, nodding pleasantly to everyone as he talked to a thin man with glasses, thinning hair and a distinguished face, who wasn’t much taller. But I had no idea that the former was the caretaker and the latter the headmaster.

At home, I gave an excited account of the day’s events. But when you get right down to it, I knew no more about the school, the students or the classes than I did before.

School was scheduled to start exactly one week after Enrolment Day. It was raining cats and dogs again, but I decided to ride my bike anyway. Mother stuck a pair of sports trousers in my schoolbag (heaven forbid I should get wet), and off we went.

Margot usually cycles really fast. After two minutes, I was so out of breath that I had to ask her to please slow down. After another two minutes, there was such a downpour that, remembering those warm trousers, I got
off my bike and struggled my way into the garment – taking care not to let it drag through the puddle – then got back on my bike and set off with new determination. It didn’t take long for me to start lagging behind again, so that once more I had to ask Margot to go slower.

She was a nervous wreck, and had already exclaimed the first time that she’d rather cycle by herself from now on. No doubt scared of being late! But we got to school in plenty of time. After putting our bikes in the racks, we started chatting again as we walked through the passageway to the Amstel River.

The doors opened at eight-thirty on the dot. There was a big sign posted at the entrance, notifying everyone that about twenty students were being switched to another class. Of course I
would
have to be one of those twenty. According to the notice, I had been transferred to Class 1 L II. I knew a couple of the boys and some of the girls in this class, at least to speak to, but Lies was still back in Class 1 L I.

I felt quite forlorn, all by myself in my assigned seat in the back row, behind a group of tall girls. So, during the next period, I raised my hand and asked if I could move to another seat, since the only way I could see anything from behind those broad backs was to lean into the aisle. My request was immediately granted, so I picked up my meagre belongings for the second time and moved to another seat.

Third period was gym. The teacher turned out to be so nice that I begged her to do what she could to get Lies transferred to my class. I don’t know how she did it, but
during the next period, in walked Lies. She was seated next to me.

After that, I was reconciled with the whole school. The school – which had given me so many advantages and so much pleasure – was now smiling down on me and, my spirits soaring again, I began to pay attention to what the Geography teacher was saying.

Wednesday, 11 August 1943

W
RINGING HER HANDS
, she comes into the room, wringing her hands, she sits down. She’s forever wringing, wringing, wringing her hands.

Miss Biegel of Biology (gone are the days when it was called Natural History): a tiny woman with a big nose, blue-grey eyes and grey hair, truly the face of a mouse or some other little creature.

Following behind her, somebody carries in the chart and the skeleton. She moves over to stand behind the stove, wringing her hands again, and the lesson begins. First she goes over the homework, then starts teaching. Oh, she knows a lot, our Miss Biegel does. She tells a good story, about everything from fish to reindeer, but most of all (or so Margot says) she likes to talk and ask questions about reproduction. (Probably because she’s an ‘old maid’.)

All of a sudden her lecture is interrupted. A wad of paper flies through the room and lands on my desk.

‘What have you got there?’ Miss Biegel asked me in the unmistakable accent of someone from The Hague.

‘I don’t know, Miss Biegel!’

‘Bring it here!’

Reluctantly, I got up from my desk and took the note up to the front.

‘Who threw it?’

‘I don’t know, Miss Biegel. I haven’t read it yet.’

‘Oh. Then we’ll start by finding out what it says.’

She unfolded the note and let me read what was written on it. There was only one word: ‘snitch’. I turned red. She looked at me.

‘So now do you know who threw it?’

‘No, Miss Biegel.’

‘That’s a lie!’

I turned bright red and glared at her, my eyes flashing, but I didn’t say a word.

‘I want to know who wrote it. Whoever it was, raise your hand!’

A hand went up at the back of the room. Just as I suspected – Rob Cohen.

‘Rob, come here!’ Rob came. ‘Why did you write that?’ Silence.

‘Do you know what it refers to, Anne?’

‘Yes, Miss Biegel.’

‘Tell me!’

‘Can’t we discuss it another time, Miss Biegel? It’s a long story.’

‘No, I want to hear it now!’

So I told her about the F I’d got for cheating in the French test and about telling on the rest of the class.

‘That’s a delightful tale! Rob, couldn’t you wait until
after the lesson to give Anne the benefit of your opinion? As for you, Anne, I find it difficult to believe that you didn’t know who threw the note. Go back to your seats!’

I was furious. When I got home I recounted the entire incident, and later, when an opportunity to get back at Miss Biegel presented itself, I sent Father to deal with her.

He came home with the news that he had called her Miss Biggel the whole time. According to her, Anne Frank was a very nice girl, and she had no recollection of having said I’d lied!

Wednesday, 11 August 1943

S
TANDING BEFORE THE CLASS
, he’s an impressive figure: tall, old, always in the same grey suit with a wing collar, a bald head with a wreath of grey hair. Speaks a strange dialect, grumbles a lot, laughs a lot. Patient when you try, short-tempered when you’re lazy.

Nine out of the ten children he calls on don’t know the answer. Over and over again, he explains, describes and demonstrates how to arrive at a number below zero. He loves asking riddles, is fun to talk to after the lesson and used to be chairman of a large football club.

Mr Keesing and I were often at loggerheads when it came to…talking during the lesson. In the space of three days, I had six warnings. He was so fed up that he assigned me the usual two-page essay. I handed it in during the next Maths lesson, and Mr Keesing, who can take a joke, laughed heartily at my essay, which had a paragraph in it that went something like this: ‘I should indeed try hard to break myself of the habit of talking, but I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do about it, since it’s a hereditary disease.
Because my mother also loves to talk, I assume I must have picked it up from her. So far, she hasn’t been cured of the habit either.’The topic of the assigned essay was ‘A Chatterbox’.

During the next lesson, however, another opportunity for a cosy chat presented itself…Mr Keesing went over to his book and wrote, ‘Miss Anne Frank: an essay entitled “An Incorrigible Chatterbox”. Due tomorrow.’

As behoves a good student, I duly handed in this essay too, but the malady struck again during the next lesson, whereupon Mr Keesing wrote in his book, ‘Miss Anne Frank: a two-page essay entitled “Quack, Quack, Quack”, Said Mistress Chatterback.’

What could I come up with now? I realized all too well that it was meant in fun, as otherwise he would have assigned me extra arithmetic problems, so for that reason I took the bull by the horns and answered his joke with a joke of my own, i.e. by writing my essay (with Sanne Ledermann’s help) in verse. The first part went like this:

Keesing read it, then read it out loud to the class, and again to a couple of other classes, and finally called it quits. From that moment on, I was given a lot of leeway. He overlooked my chatter and never punished me again.

P.S. This shows what a good-humoured man he was. Thanks to Mr Keesing, everybody calls me Mistress Chatterback.

Thursday, 12 August 1943