MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1943
MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1943
Wenn Die Uhr Halb Neune Schlaat . . .* [* When the clock strikes half past eight.]
Margot and Mother are nervous. "Shh . . . Father. Be quiet, Otto. Shh . . . Pim! It's eight-thirty.
Come here, you can't run the water anymore. Walk softly!" A sample of what's said to Father in the bathroom. At the stroke of half past eight, he has to be in the living room. No running water, no flushing toilet, no walking around, no noise whatsoever. As long as the office staff hasn't arrived, sounds travel more easily to the warehouse.
The door opens upstairs at eight-twenty, and this is followed by three gentle taps on the floor. . . Anne's hot cereal. I clamber up the stairs to get my doggie dish.
Back downstairs, everything has to be done quickly, quickly: I comb my hair, put away the potty, shove the bed back in place. Quiet! The clock is striking eight-thirty! Mrs. van D. changes shoes and shuffles through the room in her slippers; Mr. van D. too -- a veritable Charlie Chaplin. All is quiet.
The ideal family scene has now reached its high 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 story.
"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 good passage, 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 I at the back of his head, and he buries himself in his book 1 again; Mother starts chatting with Margot; and I get curious and listen too. Pim is drawn into the conversation . . . Nine o'clock. Breakfast!