THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1943
Dearest Kitty,
Mrs. van D. has a new nickname -- we've started calling her Mrs. Beaver*. Of course, that doesn't mean anything to you, so let me explain. A certain Mr. Beaver* often talks on the English radio about what he considers to be the far too lenient bombardment of Germany. Mrs. van Daan, who always contradicts everyone, including Churchill and the news reports, is in complete agreement with Mr. Beaver*. So we thought it would be a good idea for her to be married to him, and since she was flattered by the notion, we've decided to call her Mrs. Beaver* from now on.
We're getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent to Germany. That's bad for him but good for us because the new one won't be famthar with the building. We're still afraid of the men who work in the warehouse.
Gandhi is eating again.
The black market is doing a booming business. If we had enough money to pay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly. Our greengrocer buys potatoes from the "Wehrmacht" and brings them in sacks to the private office. Since he suspects we're hiding here, he makes a point of coming during lunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.
So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and cough with every breath we take. Everyone who comes upstairs greets us with an "ah-CHOO." Mrs. van D. swears she won't go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and she's going to get sick.
I don't think Father has a very nice business. Noth ing but pectin and pepper. As long as you're in the food business, why not make candy?
A veritable thunderstorm of words came crashing down on me again this morning. The air flashed with so many coarse expressions that my ears were ringing with "Anne's bad this" annd "van Daans' good that." Fire and brimstone!
Yours, Anne
