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Dear Kitty, Saturday, 11 July 1942
Daddy, Mummy, and Margot can't get used to the sound of the Westertoren clock yet, which tells us the time every quarter of an hour. I can. I loved it from the start, and especially in the night it's like a faithful friend. I expect you will be interested to hear what it feels like to "disappear"; well, all I can say is that I don't know myself yet. I don't think I shall ever feel really at home in this house, but that does not mean that I loathe it here, it is more like being on vacation in a very peculiar boardinghouse, rather a mad idea, perhaps, but it is how it strikes me. The "Secret Annexe" is an ideal hiding place. Althought it leans to one side and is damp, you'd never find such a comfortable hiding placce anywhere in Amsterdam, no, perhaps not ever in the whole of Holland. Our little room looked very bare at first with nothing on the walls: but thanks to Daddy who had bround my film-star collection and picture postcards on beforehand, and with the aid of paste pot and rush, I have transformed walls into one gigantic picture. This makes it look more cheerful, and when the Van Daans come, we'll get some wood from the attic, and make a few little cupboards for
the walls for the other odds and ends to make it look more lively.
There are some large business premises on the right of us, and on the left a furniture workshop, ther is no one there after working hours but even so, sounds could travel through the walls. We have forbidden Margot to cough at night, although she has a bad cold, and make her swallow large doeses of codeine. I am looking for Tuesday when the Van Daans arrive: it will be much more fun and not so quiet. It is the silence that frightens me so in the evenings and at night. I wish like anything that one of our protectors could sleep here at night. I can't tell you how oppressive it is never to be able to go outdoors, also I'm very afriad that we shall be discovered and be shot. That is not exactly a pleasant prospect. We have to whisper and tread lightly during the day, otherwise the people in the warehouse might hear us.
Yours, Anne
Frank, Anne. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. New York: The American Reprint Co, 1959. 42-43. Print.
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