Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me.
It seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.
After May 1940, the good times were few and far between.
Hiding... where would you hide? In the city? In the Country? In a house? In a shack? When, where, how...?
Moortje, my cat, was the only living creature I said goodbye to.
The hiding place was located in the Father's office building.
At eight o'clock the doorbell suddenly rang. All I could think of was that someone was coming to get us, you know who I mean.
Our many Jewish friends and acquaintances are being taken away in droves.
I feel wicked sleeping in a warm bed, while somewhere out there my dearest friends are dropping from exhaustion or being knocked to the ground.
I feel like a songbird whose wings have been ripped off and who keeps hurting itself against the bars of its dark cage.
Saturday, 15 July, 1944 Yet, I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.
On 4 August 1944, the SS stormed the secret annex and deported all occupants. Anne died in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp at the age of 15.