Hai să fugim amândoi la mare! Undeva în Vamă sau undeva unde plaja doarme în amintirea noastră! Hai să fim doar noi feriţi de lume, şi să mă cerţi că fumez sau că nu mai sunt eu.  Să fim doar noi doi şi marea, noi doi şi nisipul rece, să fie soarele şi sufletele nostre, să mă îmbat din nou de fericire să fim noi .. şi atât. doar noi. Uită de ea..

Spune-mi la dracu din nou adevărul, şi învaţă să mă iubeşti în dimineţile târzii când îmi săruţi umerii goi. Şi apoi învaţă-mă să te învăţ pe tine!

dacă nu, mai lasă-mă odată în pace! sau nu.. nu mă lăsa!

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asta e explicatia celor de la Tarom in privinta zborului de ieri dupa-masa care in loc sa aterizeze la 6 jumate a aterizat la unu noaptea; ma rog nu e vina lor ca traim o tara in care daca e ceata nu prea poti zbura decat daca te afli in avion cu echipa dinamo si cu siguranta ministrul Berceanu da ordin sa aterizeze. Povestea incepe la ora 16:40 ajungem in aeroportul Henri Coanda, ne luam la revedere de la finii nostri si ne pregatim de imbarcare.

Decolam, mergem mai mult de jumatate din drum si apoi ne intoarcem, moment in care pilotul ne spune ca datorita conditiile meteorologice din Timisoara si pentru ca statia radio de acolo este defecta, nu se poate ateriza asa ca au decis sa mergem inapoi la Bucuresti. Ajungem la Bucuresti in jur de 18:30 , coboram din avion si asteptam…la 20:30 ni se spune ca vom primi un raspuns. La ora 20:0 s-a schimbat tura si cei care au venit la serviciu ne-au spus un raspuns primim la ora 21, apoi 21:30 pentru ca in final pe la ora 22 sa se ia decizia zburam.

Am primit carti noi de imbarcare, lucru care a mai durat, apoi din nou control de securitate si apoi am stat inca 45 de minute in sala de asteptare. Kara era deja aproape de capatul puterilor, noi la fel…in sfarsit dupa ce o alta cursa care trebuia sa plece la 21:40 a decolat in jur de 23, am plecat si noi era 23:45 cred cand am inchis telefonul.

Dupa vreo 40 de minute am realizat ca ne invartim in cer, apoi dupa alte 10 minut pilotul ne spune sec: “vremea s-a inrautatit din pacate nu stim daca putem ateriza, statia radio a aeroportului s-a defectat din nou”. Mai stam in aer inca vreo 20 minute apoi zice ca incercam aterizarea. Prietene cum adica incercam aterizarea??:)

La ora unu si un pic in noapte am aterizat, presa gramada in aeroport, Borcea care se plimba pe acolo ca un leu, nu stiu cum ai voie ca persoana straina sa intri unde era el ca eu nu am reusit pana acum, iar fotbalistii lui dinamo imi spun noroc cu noi ca s-au facut interventii ca astfel ne intorceam…La ora 2 am ajuns acasa, ne-a asteptat tavi la aeroport..era o ceata de nu vedeai la 10 metrii, si acum ma mir cum naiba o putut ala ateriza

E aproape 6 dimineata si eu nu pot sa dorm… Ce rost are? Stiu deja ce as visa, sau, mai bine zis, pe cine. Stiu ce culoare ar avea visul, ce parfum… Stiu pentru ca acest vis il traiesc zi de zi, mi-l apropii de fiecare data cand inspir, dar el se departeaza de mine cu fiecare expiratie…
Visul meu – il vad zi de zi in jurul meu, ca si cum ar fi o ceata si dispare cand intind mana… E ca un cantec frumos ce se aude parca de nicaieri si care se opreste atunci cand incerc sa-l fredonez si eu…
Asa ca ce rost are? Imi vorbea astazi cineva de iluzii, eu i-am zis ca sunt frumoase cat tin si ca merita traite. “Da, dar te trezesti intr-o zi”, a venit replica. Si daca nu te trezesti? De fapt, daca nu te mai duci niciodata la culcare, ca sa nu mai ai din ce vis sa te trezesti?

I’m not me anymore.. Aşa cum nici tu nu mai eşti tu şi nimeni nu mai e aşa cum trebuie să fie pentru că lumea asta e plină doar de proşti ce s-au iubit. Şi mai era scena aia când cerul îmi ploua în suflet şi cuvintele de după ce ai plecat.. cu “don’t look back”. Şi de ce era ploaia de vină?

Nu mai ai nici-un sens amice, şi te-aş ruga să te duci în mami ta, pentru că da..acum  ştiu you were not trying to wreck my life, you were trying to make yours better. Şi acum încerc să use somebody dar nu someone like you and all you know and how you speak. Cineva? Mă ajută şi pe mine cineva?

Şi cu ce era mă ploaia de vină?

Sambata seara. In centru aerul e clar si nu vezi nici cea mai urma de ceata. Totul se schimba odata ce treci de sfertul strazii De Mijloc, unde incepe un nor care continua pana departe in depresiune. Prin Stupini era si mai des, abia daca se vedea drumul la 2 metri in fata. In poze pare mai putin cetos decat era in realitate. Fascinant

Si daca va intrebati cum arata “doi magari bloggeri in ceatza” Iata:

Cu paşi repezi se apropie iarna mult aşteptată. Ceaţa se aşterne dis de dimineaţă peste oraşul meu. An de an retrăiesc această plăcere de a putea vedea minunea prin care nici nu îmi dau seama că trec, atingându-L. E norul, e partea Divină care Îmi arată cât de aproape poate fii lângă mine. E bucuria ce mi-o oferă mai ales primavara-iarna. Copacii îi vezi că încep să plângă după soarele ce îi încălzeau. Apa se face tot mai rece lăsând ca aierul care  îl acoperă de napraznicul ce urmează… rămâi şi stai…. apoi iar te gândeşti… Nimic nu opreşte ca frunza-ngălbenită să stea întinsă, plutin pe apa îngheţată lăsând pentru cei din jur peisajul dragostei Divine. E firg şi totul se reduce la copacii fără frunze, ape fără pescari, oameni fără căldură şi din păcate biserici fără membrii. Dar un gând mă ţine treaz şi plin de speranţa că: dupa frig vine căldură. Mă voi trezi într-o zi din nou bucuros şi voi revedea din nou copacii plini de culori, apele pline de peşti, oamenii plini de căldură şi biserici umplute cu slujitori. E trecător…e Divin…e natura ce te încântă cu parfumul ei.

Sunt un copil cu minte de adult – aș fuma pentru Crăciun și aș iubi pentru zîmbetele voastre, pentru că cald e doar atunci cînd noi trei visăm pe un peron în apus de decembrie, iar frig… frig e mereu, fără voi în vagonul meu.

Și voi pune ceainicul la foc mic în apartamentul gol, și stînd pe vîrfuri voi îngîna privind în vizorul prafuit, așteptînd să absorb fericirea vorbei voastre. Iar apoi voi vărsa apa fierbinte pînă la extaz, și voi usca lingurele de miere pe care le-aș fi pus în ceșcuțele noastre de porțelan, ca să ne îndulcim amintirea, și voi închide ușa.

Pentru că voi nu sunțeți aici. Iar vaporul nostru pleacă, și eu stau înghețată în port – sură, m-aș desena dacă aș fi pictor – și tremur ritmat sub frecvența fețelor straine îmbrăcate în minciuni severe, ce-mi strigă prin conștient despre pierderea a trei pasageri, parametri fizici: copii în zdrențe de vis strălucitor și dezfigurat, ușor de recunoscut prin obiceiul de a zîmbi vag în insomnie.

…

Ce s-a întîmplat cu noi?

În cursul după amiezii de vineri, 20 noiembrie, după ora 17, asupra Oradiei s-a aşternut ceaţa. Nu a fost o ceaţă neglijabilă, ci una care a pus la destul de grea încercare calităţile de şoferi ale celor care erau la volan. Nu că nu aţi fi aflat şi fără să scriu eu pe blog, dar nu am vrut să scap momentul şi să nu îi pun în gardă pe amicii internauţi cu privire la acest lucru.
Mai bine staţi acasă şi urmăriţi dezbaterea celor trei prezidenţiabili (consideraţi) principali.
Precizez că în fotografia alăturată ar trebui să se vadă bine luminile de la blocurile din Ioşia. După cum cred că e evident, acestea nu se văd. Şi credeţi-mă că nu pentru că nu am curăţat obiectivului aparatului foto…

~smells like winter – a few minutes ago outside was warm and sunny like a spring day, and now it’s misty, a thick fog, as if winter is finally ready to come:)

~~~~~

WATCH it

Glazuri, texturi, dantelarie…

Citisem pe un blog, undeva la doamna -X- cred, o idee care s-ar rezuma astfel: ceaţa e greu de pictat iar dintre pictorii care s-au încumetat să o picteze, puţini au făcut-o izbutit… De fapt anumite grade de lumina sunt greu de prins nu atât în materialitatea ei, ca substanţă însăşi a picturii, ci în inefabilul ei, în ceea ce aş numi psihologia stărilor de lumină… În fond, lumina e măcar amplificatoare, dacă nu generatoare de stări şi percepţii cu totul personale, fiecare trecem prin câte o pasă cromatică, nu îndeobşte legată de anotimp dar nici ruptă cu totul de el, gabilutza, un subtil companion din blogosferă traversând o pasă galbenă… Văzusem aburii dimineţii, ca o cufundare în prospeţimea începuturilor la Horia Paştina, e pictorul la care îmi pare a exista o relaţie specială cu diafanul. Dantelăria sa de aburi estompează câmpul picturii şi încheagă profunzimi stinse, la care numai ochiul dotat cu o foarte bine educată răbdare a privirii are acces. Peisajele lui Horia Paştina sunt încărcate de lumina începutului şi oferă astfel o secvenţă fugară de paradis.

Marea

Peisaj la Ipoteşti II

Peisaj, Valea Covurluiului

Ceaţa însă, în mişcarea ei cu “lentoarea unui şarpe”, contrastul gri al luminii de la începuturi, e cu precădere un mediu al tenebrelor, cu umezeală rece, încărcată de otrăvurile psihologiei fiecăruia dintre noi… Prin urmare, în asta constă, cred, materialitatea ei greu reproductibilă, ceaţa e o materie picturală confuză, nu e doar un fond grizonant, cum am văzut în destule reprezentări neizbutite ale unui spaţiu înceţoşat, o barcă în ceaţa unui lac, spre exemplu, ce nu e decât o banală pictură de salon. În doar câteva pânze ale lui William Degouve de Nuncques am văzut ceaţa ca mediu tanatic prin excelenţă. Într-un spaţiu de expresie suprarealistă pluteşte în trecere, surprinzător, fără a transmite nici o senzaţie de mişcare, o lebădă neagră. Regia aceasta tanatică e şi mai vizibilă în pictura, cât se poate de verosimilă, a unei dimineţi înceţoşate în care mesageri negri, grăbiţi, prea grăbiţi, luminând cărarea cu faruri cu lumină împuţinată, se îndreaptă către lumea de aici, spre a transmite mesajul lor inexorabil… Sentimentul covârşitor şi nu ceaţa e greu de pictat.

Lebăda neagră, 1896

Stadă în Magent, 1890

William Degouve de Nuncques: pictor belgian de origine franceză (1867 – 1935). Constat că istoria artei îl încadrează ca pictor simbolist. În pictura lui există o latură suprarealistă, aş îndrăzni să cred că este un precursor al suprarealismului fantast, unul mai întunecat şi poate mai profund decât la suprarealiştii de marcă şi mă gândesc la Magritte, spre exemplu, pe care l-a influenţat…  Pe un sit am găsit o exprimare izbutită despre pictor: „transfigurează realitatea, în sensul că oferă o vedere către invizibil”

Luni dimineaţă mânat de un simţământ puternic de iubire pentru partid am plecat la drum în campanie electorală prin Moldova. Pima oprire Focşani, a doua Bacău. Ajung în Bacău, găsesc cu nou’ gps din dotare hotelu’ unde trebuia a 2a zi să proslăvesc ideologia de partid şi înainte de a mă caza îs sunat de neşte unii amici că mai au un loc liber într’o pensiune şi pentru mine. Tăt în Bacău. Ş’am plecat cătri iei.

Pe drum, neştiind tainele Bacăului aşa de bine, pun gps-u’ in funcţiune şi mă iau după femeia ce vorbeşte. Ş’aud:

GPS’a: După 40m faceţi la dreapta…

Io: la-la-la-laaaa

GPS’a: După 30m faceţi la dreapta…(deja vedeam străduţa pe care trebuia să cârmesc)…faceţi la dreapta, faceţi la dreapta.

Şi fac…drum d’ăla de pământ. În curte la nişte neni ce încropeau un grătar. Ei, lasă grătaru’, se uită la mine şi i’am citit unuia dintre ei pe buze: Ăi Costel, dut’ di grabă şi ie furca şeia să videm şi’o vre omu’!

Aşa că…marşarier, ieşit din curte şi “Futu’ţi gâţii mătii cu cine ţi’a dat voce de mă bagi în belele!”

Faza 2. Ziua 2. În Piatra Neamţ, pe ceas de seară. Oraşu’ în cunosc binişor, da’ în clipa aia vorbeam la telefon şi am lăsat’o pe tanti să ma ghideze. Şi îmi zice să intru pe o stradă. Io, fiind băiet bine crescut, ştiu că nu e bine să te iei în gură cu cucoanele că nici dracu’ nu te mai scoate din gura lor. Aşa că dau din cap în semn de aprobare, zic cu juma de gură un “Da dragă!” şi mă iau după cele spuse de ea. Când să intru pe străduţă mai-mai să mă lovească unu’. Acum, el se oprise, lăsase geamu’ jos şi mă înjura. Io, eram la telefon în continuare cu şefu’ de partid. Tac, îl ocolesc şi îmi continui drumu’. Mă aşez pe banda 1, ca să merg prudent în timp ce vorbesc la telefon şi văd mirat că ăştia de pe sensu’ celălalt îmi dădeau flashuri. Mă Sângerică, ceva pute! şi când colo…intrasem pe sens unic. Din celălalt sens. Aplicat manevră de Bucureşti: întors cu tăiat calea şi iarăşi pomenii ceva de tanti aia din gps.

Faza 3. La o oră după faza 2. Pe drumu’ ce leagă Piatra de Roman. Depăşesc tot, tot. Eram primu’. Când mă loveşte. Ceaţa. La început subţirică, pe urmă densă. Nu vedeam la 2 metri în faţa maşinii. 20 la oră, singur pe drum şi o grămadă de rugăciuni în minte. Dintre care una mai puternică: Doamne, te rog io, să plouă, da’ să nu mai fie ceaţă!. După 15 minute ceaţa se termină ca prin minune şi începe o ploaie…da’ o ploaaaiiiieeee, bă da’ o ploaiiiieeeeeeeee! De ajunsesem să duc doru’ ceţii…şi mării, şi verii…

Hai că vă las…să vedem ce se mai întâmplă mâine pe drumu’ către casă! V’am pupat, uăi!

În somnul meu uşor de dimineaţă, mă necăjeşte o îndrăcită hărmălaie de copii. În cele din urmă, nemaiputând dormi, mă dau jos disperat din pat. Atunci, uitându-mă pe câmp prin fereastra deschisă, îmi dau seama că păsările fac gălăgia asta. E mic, păros şi gingaş; atât de moale la păr că l-ai crede de vată, fără oase. Doar oglinzile de abanos ale ochilor lui sunt dure ca doi scarabei de cristal negru. Îl las slobod, se duce la păşune şi mângâie nepăsător cu botul, abia păscând, floricelele roz, albastre, aurii Îl chem blând şi vine la mine într-un trăpşor vesel care parcă râde cu nu ştiu ce clinchet ideal. Are oţel într-însul. Oţel şi argint de lună în acelaşi timp. Locul e cunoscut dar clipa îl răstoarnă, îl face straniu, ruinat şi monumental. Înserarea se întinde dincolo de ea însăşi, iar ora, adiind a eternitate, este infinită, paşnică, de nepătruns. Tocmai băuse două ciuturi de apă cu stele, la fântâna din ogradă şi se întorcea la grajd, încet şi distrat, printre lujerii de floarea-soarelui. Eu îl aşteptam în poartă, răzimat de uşorii văruiţi, învăluit de mireasma caldă a heliotropilor. Un nor mare, negru, ca o găină uriaşă, care ar fi ouat un ou de aur, a dat drumul lunei peste un deal. Copiii erau la masă. S-a făcut brusc linişte şi îndată, cu zgomot de scaune trântite, au alergat toţi în spatele mamei, într-o năvală impetuoasă, uitându-se înspăimântaţi la fereastră. Cu căpăţâna lui albă în geam, mărită peste măsură de umbră, de sticlă şi de spaimă, contempla, liniştit şi trist, blânda sufragerie luminată. Mă poartă încântat, vioi, bine dispus. Deodată, ciuleşte urechile, îşi dilată nările ridicându-le până la ochi şi descoperindu-şi fasolea mare a dinţilor lui gălbui. Pe alt deal, fină şi cenuşie pe cerul albastru, iată iubita. Răgete-ndoite, sonore, prelungi, sfâşie cu trâmbiţele lor ceasul luminos. Frumoasa iubită din câmp îl vede trecând, tristă ca şi el, cu ochii lui de abanos plini de imagini. Inutilă chemare misterioasă, care pribegeşte brutal, printre margarete. E lunea Carnavalului iar copiii, care şi-au pus măşti, i-au pus şi lui şaua maură, brodată toată-n albastru, alb, roşu şi galben, cu arabescuri bogate. Când am ajuns în piaţă, nişte femei costumate-n nebune, cu cămăşi albe lungi şi ghirlande de frunze verzi în părul negru despletit, l-au luat în mijlocul lor gălăgioase şi s-au învârtit voios în jurul lui. În cele din urmă, hotârât ca un om, rupe hora şi vine la mine tropăind şi plângând, cu găteala luxoasă căzută pe jos. Ca şi mine, n-are nevoie de carnaval… Nu suntem noi buni de-aşa ceva. Ce delir în grădină! Copiii săreau bătând din palme, rumeni şi surâzători ca zorile. Căţeaua, nebună, se ţinea după ei, lătrând la propriul ei clopoţel râzător; măgăruşul, molipsit, într-o unduire de carne argintie, se zbenguia ca un ieduţ. Va fi existând oare un paradis al păsărilor? Va fi existând o livadă verde în cerul albastru, toată numai boboci de trandafiri aurii, cu suflete de păsări albe, purpurii, galbene, albastre? Căţeaua sare vioaie şi elegantă în faţa măgarului, zdrăngănind din clopoţelul ei uşor, şi se face că îl muşcă de bot. El, ciulind urechile ca două lujere de agavă, se repede blând la ea şi o dă de-a berbeleacul prin iarba în floare. Capra vine alături, frecându-se de picioarele lui, trăgând cu dinţii de vârful clopoţeilor de samar. Cu o crăiţă sau cu o margaretă în bot, se aşază în faţa lui, îl izbeşte cu coarnele în cap, sare-n sus numaidecât şi behăie voios, alintată ca o femeie… Ceţoasă dup-amiază de aprilie. Ochii lui strălucitori şi vioi copiază întregul peisaj. Îmi dă mereu cu căpăţâna lui păroasă peste inimă, mulţumindu-mi, gata să mă învineţească. În vremea culesului, aflându-mă într-o după amiază purpurie în via de la râu, femeile mi-au spus că întreabă de mine un negrişor. Culegătorii se uitau chiorâş la el, fără să-şi ascundă dispreţul. Eu îi zâmbeam şi îi vorbeam afabil. El, neîndrăznind să mă mângâie chiar pe mine, îl mângâia pe măgăruş, care mânca struguri, şi mă privea în vremea asta cu nobleţe… Au trecut mai întâi, pe măgari, pe catâri şi pe cai cu şei arăbeşti, vesele perechi de miri, ei voioşi, ele făloase. Împodobitul şi sprintenul alai se ducea, se întorcea, într-o nebunie fără sens. Pe urmă venea corul beţivilor, gălăgios, arţăgos, cam pe-o parte, în urmă căruţele, ca nişte paturi, drapate cu alb, cu fetele oacheşe şi gătite cu flori, stând sub baldachin. Singurătatea e ca o mare cugetare de lumină. Din când în când, el se opreşte din mâncat şi se uită la mine. Din când în când, eu mă opresc din citit şi mă uit la el… Aud trecând pe strada înnoptată, ca într-un vis cu boare de stele, măgari vioi care se-ntorc de la câmp, copii care ţipă. Bănuieşti întunecate căpăţâni de măgari, căpşoare gingaşe de copii, care printre răgete, cântă cu argint şi cu cristal colinde de Crăciun. Oră intimă, rece şi călduţă totodată, plină de limpezimi nesfârşite!

texte – “Platero şi cu mine”, Juan Ramon Jimenez – citită aici!
Imagini: Trustees of the British Museum (Aaron Martinet, George Stubbs, Gerolamo Imperiale, John Wolcot, Frances Seymour Haden, Wilhelm Tischbein, Balthasar Anton Dunker, Anonim 1830, Francis Barlow, Charles George Lewis, James Bretherton, Sir William Allan, Galesso di Resina, Jean Louis Demarne, Rembrandt)

Admir oamenii capitalei
care înfrumuseţează zi de zi timpul în care trăiec
cu evenimente originale şi de mare necesitate pentru societate…

E târziu dună miez de noapte, poate e ora trei, poate după trei…
dar nu importă timpul, importantă e viaţa, şi acest
drum dintre aceste două capitale care în noaptea aceasta
a fost dominat de o ploaie măruntă şi rece,
şi în acea clipă, când trebuia să tragem o gură de aer
după o încordare de peste 400 km, intrăm într-un
tunel monstruos de ceaţa deasă, că nu vezi la un pas nimic,
ceaţă ce apasă puternic pe creierul celui de la volan,
şi acest întuneric durează peste 40 de kilometri,
pe şoseaua Poltava, dinspre frontieră pănă aproate de Condriţa,
dar această distanţă ţi se pare o veşnicie… şi
poeta Renata Verejanu povesteşte fel de fel de perepeţii
pentru a da curaj celor din limuzină
care se întorc de la Bucureşi,
unde s-a desfăşurat un frumos eveniment cultural…

Cu ocazia Zilei Internaţionale a Tineretului, Caravana Culturii Păcii şi Non-Violenţei, condusă de poeta Renata Verejanu (proiect lansat în 1993 de Organizaţia Mondială a Copiilor Talentaţi), a pornit de la Chişinău cu un grup de tineri interpreţi şi a reunit în capitala României tineri de la Iaşi, Craiova, Rîmnicu Vîlcea, Tîrgovişte, Bucureşti… unde, chiar în prima zi a săptămânii, 9 noiembrie 2009, în incinta Cercului Militar s-a desfăşurat un evenement deosebit.
Editura « Biodova » şi Asociaţia Culturală « Ideal » din Bucureşti,
conduse de poetul şi editorul Vasile Căpăţină, au lansat prima carte din
Colecţia « Ideal » – 101 poeme de Renata Verejanu.
La lansarea primei cărţi de poeme editate în România
au răsunat traduceri excelente în limba germană,
precum şi un recital de poeme din cartea proaspăt apărută,
recital dăruit de renumiţi actori din România şi R.Moldova.

Surpriza oferită de Academia Europeană a Societăţii Civile,
Cluburile Consiliului Europei şi OMCT au fost
laureaţii Festivalului-Concurs Internţional al Talentelor Lumii « Micul Prinţ »,
veniţi din cele mai îndepărtate colţuri ale României, care au prezentat
un concert de cântec, dans şi poezie de o rară frumuseţe,
prin care şi-au adus dovada talentului lor deosebit.
În aceste condiţii extrem de grele ale crizei mondiale,
fără nici un suport financiar, tineri poeţi, interpreţi, dansatori…
dar şi renumiţi artişţi, traducători, diplomaţi, academicieni, scriitori, mass-media,
lideri ai Societăţii Civile din R.Moldova şi România au produs un eveniment
clutural-artstic-educaţional important.
Poeta Renata Verejanu a primit mai multe Diplome de Excelenţă,
printre care şi o Diplomă a Comitetului Naţional Român pentru Drepturile Copilului, pentru contribuţia la promovarea drepturilor fundamentale ale copiilor
la nivel internaţional.
E de subliniat că ediţia 2009-2010 a Caravanei Culturii Păcii şi Non-Violenţei
a fost lansată la 23 septembrie 2009 la Biblioreca « Onisifor Ghibu ».
Apoi, în cadrul Cenaclului « Grai Matern », cu un grup de scriitori şi pictori de pe ambele maluri ale Prutului, Caravana Culturii Păcii a poposit la elevii de la Hruşeva, Criuleni, unde întâlnirea de cîteva ore a fost o mare sărbătoare pentru toţi elevii şi profesorii şcolii, pentru tot satul, precum a menţionat reprezentantul Administraţiei Publice Locale, primarul com Hruşeva.
A urmat Conferinţa Transfrontalieră a Tinerilor, în parteneriat cu ULIM,
(cu tema “Comunicarea transfrontalieră dintre ţările la frontera de Est a UE”),
apoi Spectacolul « Eu am ştiut să fac din viaţa mea o sărbătoare »
de la Uniunea Scriitorilor din Moldova şi iată…
Serata de Creaţie de la Bucureşti.

Ajunşi în capitala moldavă în clipa când zorii încă nu se grăbeau să spintece ceaţa densă prezentă şi în oraş, m-am oprit pe o clipă sub cerul liber
pentru a medita supra unei coincindenţe…

Nu, domnilor, nu este o simplă coincidenţă toate cîte se întâmplă…
Cele mai importante, semnificătive evenimente
sunt diriguite de puterea divină atât de iscusit
că par a fi ceva foarte natural…
Cum să crezi, că e o simplă coincidenţă
(şi atunci exclami – Ce coincidenţă !)
că lansarea cărţii de poeme a unui poet disident din Basarabia
se petrece anume în ziua căderii Zidului Berlinului…
Şi, o traducătoare excelentă să traducă în limba germană
un grupaj de poeme ale Renatei Verejanu,
şi să le recite atât de frumos
anume în clipa când la Berlin se sărbătoreşte 20 de ani
de la căderea Zidului Berlinului…
Şi în aceeaşi clipă, luptătoarea pentru democraţie şi drepturile omului,
Renata Verejanu, sărbătoreşte 20 de ani de activitate în Societatea Civilă…
E evident, că toate acestea sunt un răspuns dat de puterea divină
celora care încearcă să ciupească din destinul unui poet…
Deşi, nu pot face altceva, decât să-şi frângă dinţii…

Îmi pare rău să trezesc fiul la o oră atât de devreme,
dar dau un telefon, şi sunt uimită
că glasul lui pare a fi treaz…
-Cum a fost la Bucureşti, mă întrebă, deschizindu-mi uşa?
-Minunat, surâd foarte obosită,
dar foarte, foarte fericită
graţie vouă, dragi prieteni din Moldova, din România
şi de pretutindeni…

Tot rostogolesc de ceva vreme o idee: nici inainte, nici inapoi… de parca timpul a adormit  si ma tine captiva intre ieri si maine.

N-am chef de vorba… Nu pot… De ce naiba nu pot vorbi deschis? Cat rau ar putea face cuvintele?  Dispar repetat din lumea cuvintelor. M-ascund in mijlocul celor mari si zambesc tamp la conversatiile lor, iar cand mi se cere sa-mi traduc zambetul in cuvinte, imi ingheata cuvantul pe drum.  Ce-o insemna sa fii mare?

Daca as fi vorbit, as fi spus adevarul. Zambetul mi-a ascuns lasitatea.  Cum sa-ti spun ca nu simt nimic? Ultimul incendiu mi-a ars simturile din temelii. Nu cred sa mai ramas ceva, sau poate nu a plouat destul cat sa rasara altele. Ce pacat ca  nu ai ochi sa vezi ce nu pot sa-ti arat! Tot rostogolesc o idee: cum sa dispar pe nesimtite? Cum sa ma sterg din gandul tau?

Cine preda arta de a spune „nu”?  As fi vrut sa-nvat!

De prea multe umbre, m-am ascuns in prea multe cercuri!

Ma dor gandurile,  de-atata destramare… tu nu stii sa prinzi firul care scapa! Cu cat ma strigi mai tare, cu-atat ma departez! Visul tau e pur, mintea mea e-n ceata. Si tot rostogolesc:  ”ascunde-ma de mine, sa nu ma mai gasesc!” Cata lasitate!

Si totusi, dincolo de tunete se rasfata curcubeie… le zaresc… mi le-ai aratat chiar tu! Imi mai lipseste un ciot de aripa, sa-mi inalte zborul!

Ma mai pasuieste timpul  cat sa-ti soptesc discret „noapte buna”… macar acum sa m-auzi!

P.S.: Ma striga zarea sa ma-ntorc acasa!… Nu ma mai leg in noduri, ma prind doar in arici!

   Când ceaţa se ridică peste râu …

Ar fi trebuit sa fac mai multe? Sa fi invatat mai mult? Sa fi facut bani? Sa fi desenat mai mult? Sa fi fost mai atent la oamenii din jurul meu? Sa imi fi pasat mai mult de unele chestii si de altele mai putin? Vorba aia…plm. Asta a fost. Acum e cum e. E si rau…e si bine..depinde la ce te referi. Pentru moment as fi vrut niste chestii…(imateriale)..dar cum am eu o bafta de marimea cacatului de gandac…nu se intampla. Asa ca scriu ca sa imi aduc aminte mai incolo. Partea buna e ca nu imi mai bat prea tare capul cu asta. Injur o data…ma simt aiurea cateva zile…da’ imi trece. Si nu e mare rahat. Asa.
A fost ziua mea. Au fost aproape toti prietenii mei langa mine, a fost foarte bine. Poate am baut prea mult…sau poate nu.
Am baut banii de acuarele.
Postul cu mesajele va intarzia. Nu sunt in starea necesara.
Mi-e dor tare de munte. Mishale, daca nu mergem pe munte, pe tine te fac responsabila!
Sa merg cu rucsacul in spate, imbracat pana la refuz, cu limonada in termos, saint george, castile pe urechi cu pink floyd, cu mirosul de padure uda, bocancii grei, murdari de noroi, aer rece, curat, taios. Liniste.
Multumesc Ion si Mihai.
(daca n-ati observat pana acum dar in general un rand pe care-l scriu n-are legatura cu urmatorul)
As bea iar.

~~~~~

Continuing

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Father has a friend, a man in his mid-seventies named Mr. Dreher, who’s sick, poor
and deaf as a post. At his side, like a useless appendage, is his wife, twenty-seven
years younger and equally poor, whose arms and legs are loaded with real and fake
bracelets and rings left over from more prosperous days. This Mr. Dreher has already
been a great nuisance to Father, and I’ve always admired the saintly patience with
which he handled this pathetic old man on the phone. When we were still living at
home, Mother used to advise him to put a gramophone in front of the receiver, one
that would repeat every three minutes, “Yes, Mr. Dreher” and “No, Mr. Dreher,” since
the old man never understood a word of Father’s lengthy replies anyway.
Today Mr. Dreher phoned the office and asked Mr. Kugler to come and see him. Mr.
Kugler wasn’t in the mood and said he would send Miep, but Miep canceled the
appointment. Mrs. Dreher called the office three times, but since Miep was reportedly
out the entire afternoon, she had to imitate Bep’s voice. Downstairs in the office as
well as upstairs in the Annex, there was great hilarity. Now each time the phone
rings, Bep says’ ‘That’s Mrs. Dreher!” and Miep has to laugh, so that the people on
the other end of the line are greeted with an impolite giggle. Can’t you just picture it?
This has got to be the greatest office in the whole wide world. The bosses and the
office girls have such fun together!
Some evenings I go to the van Daans for a little chat. We eat “mothball cookies”
(molasses cookies that were stored in a closet that was mothproofed) and have a good
time. Recently the conversation was about Peter. I said that he often pats me on the
cheek, which I don’t like. They asked me in a typically grown-up way whether I
could ever learn to love Peter like a brother, since he loves me like a sister. “Oh,
no!” I said, but what I was thinking was, “Oh, ugh!” Just imagine! I added that Peter’s
a bit stiff, perhaps because he’s shy. Boys who aren’t used to being around girls are
like that.
I must say that the Annex Committee (the men’s section) is very creative. Listen to
the scheme they’ve come up with to get a message to Mr. Broks, an Opekta Co. sales
representative and friend who’s surreptitiously hidden some of our things for us!
They’re going to type a letter to a store owner in southern Zealand who is, indirectly,
one of Opekta’ s customers and ask him to fill out a form and send it back in the
enclosed self-addressed envelope. Father will write the address on the envelope
himself. Once the letter is returned from Zealand, the form can be removed and a
handwritten message confirming that Father is alive can be inserted in the envelope.
This way Mr. Broks can read the letter without suspecting a ruse. They chose the
province of Zealand because it’s close to Belgium (a letter can easily be smuggled
across the border) and because no one is allowed to travel there without a special
permit. An ordinary salesman like Mr. Broks would never be granted a permit.
Yesterday Father put on another act. Groggy with sleep, he stumbled off to bed. His
feet were cold, so I lent him my bed socks. Five minutes later he flung them to the
floor. Then he pulled the blankets over his head because the light bothered him. The
lamp was switched off, and he gingerly poked his head out from under the covers. It
was all very amusing. We started talking about the fact that Peter says Margot is a
“buttinsky.” Suddenly Daddy’s voice was heard from the depths: “Sits on her butt, you
mean.
Mouschi, the cat, is becoming nicer to me as time goes by, but I’m still somewhat
afraid of her.
Yours, Anne

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mother and I had a so-called “discussion” today, but the annoying part is that I burst
into tears. I can’t help it. Daddy is always nice to me, and he also understands me
much better. At moments like these I can’t stand Mother. It’s obvious that I’m a
stranger to her; she doesn’t even know what I think about the most ordinary things.
We were talking about maids and the fact that you’re supposed to refer to them as
“domestic help” these days. She claimed that when the war is over, that’s what they’ll
want to be called. I didn’t quite see it that way. Then she added that I talk about’
‘later” so often and that I act as if I were such a lady, even though I’m not, but I
don’t think building sand castles in the air is such a terrible thing to do, as long as
you don’t take it too seriously. At any rate, Daddy usually comes to my defense.
Without him I wouldn’t be able to stick it out here.
I don’t get along with Margot very well either. Even though our family never has the
same kind of outbursts they have upstairs, I find it far from pleasant. Margot’s and
Mother’s personalities are so alien to me. I understand my girlfriends better than my
own mother. Isn’t that a shame?
For the umpteenth time, Mrs. van Daan is sulking. She’s very moody and has been
removing more and more of her belongings and locking them up. It’s too bad Mother
doesn’t repay every van Daan “disappearing act” with a Frank “disappearing act.”
Some people, like the van Daans, seem to take special delight not only in raising their
own children but in helping others raise theirs. Margot doesn’t need it, since she’s
naturally good, kind and clever, perfection itself, but I seem to have enough mischief
for the two of us. More than once the air has been filled with the van Daans’
admonitions and my saucy replies. Father and Mother always defend me fiercely.
Without them I wouldn’t be able to jump back into the fray with my usual composure.
They keep telling me I should talk less, mind my own business and be more modest,
but I seem doomed to failure. If Father weren’t so patient, I’d have long ago given up
hope of ever meeting my parents’ quite moderate expectations.
If I take a small helping of a vegetable I loathe and eat potatoes instead, the van
Daans, especially Mrs. van Daan, can’t get over how spoiled I am. “Come on, Anne,
eat some more vegetables,” she says.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” I reply. “The potatoes are more than enough.”
“Vegetables are good for you; your mother says so too. Have some more,” she insists,
until Father intervenes and upholds my right to refuse a dish I don’t like.
Then Mrs. van D. really flies off the handle: “You should have been at our house,
where children were brought up the way they should be. I don’t call this a proper
upbringing. Anne is terribly spoiled. I’d never allow that. If Anne were my daughter. .
.”
This is always how her tirades begin and end: “If Anne were my daughter. . .” Thank
goodness I’m not.
But to get back to the subject of raising children, yesterday a silence fell after Mrs.
van D. finished her little speech. Father then replied, “I think Anne is very well
brought up. At least she’s learned not to respond to your interminable sermons. As far
as the vegetables are concerned, all I have to say is look who’s calling the kettle
black.”
Mrs. van D. was soundly defeated. The pot calling the ketde black refers of course to
Madame herself, since she can’t tolerate beans or any kind of cabbage in the evening
because they give her “gas.” But I could say the same. What a dope, don’t you think?
In any case, let’s hope she stops talking about me.
It’s so funny to see how quickly Mrs. van Daan flushes. I don’t, and it secredy annoys
her no end.
Yours, Anne

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28,1942
Dearest Kitty,
I had to stop yesterday, though I was nowhere near finished. I’m dying to tell you
about another one of our clashes, but before I do I’d like to say this: I think it’s odd
that grown-ups quarrel so easily and so often and about such petty matters. Up to
now I always thought bickering was just something children did and that they outgrew
it. Often, of course, there’s sometimes a reason to have a real quarrel, but the verbal
exchanges that take place here are just plain bickering. I should be used to the fact
that these squabbles are daily occurrences, but I’m not and never will be as long as
I’m the subject of nearly every discussion. (They refer to these as “discussions”
instead of “quarrels,” but Germans don’t know the difference!) They criticize
everything, and I mean everything, about me: my behavior, my personality, my
manners; every inch of me, from head to toe and back again, is the subject of gossip
and debate. Harsh words and shouts are constantly being flung at my head, though I’m
absolutely not used to it. According to the powers that be, I’m supposed to grin and
bear it. But I can’t! I have no intention of taking their insults lying down. I’ll show
them that Anne Frank wasn’t born yesterday. They’ll sit up and take notice and keep
their big mouths shut when I make them see they ought to attend to their own
manners instead of mine. How dare they act that way! It’s simply barbaric. I’ve been
astonished, time and again, at such rudeness and most of all. . . at such stupidity
(Mrs. van Daan). But as soon as I’ve gotten used to the idea, and that shouldn’t take
long, I’ll give them a taste of their own medicine, and then they’ll change their tune!
Am I really as bad-mannered, headstrong, stubborn, pushy, stupid, lazy, etc., etc., as
the van Daans say I am? No, of course not. I know I have my faults and
shortcomings, but they blow them all out of proportion! If you only knew, Kitty, how I
seethe when they scold and mock me. It won’t take long before I explode with
pent-up rage.
But enough of that. I’ve bored you long enough with my quarrels, and yet I can’t
resist adding a highly interesting dinner conversation.
Somehow we landed on the subject of Pim’s extreme diffidence. His modesty is a
well-known fact, which even the stupidest person wouldn’t dream of questioning. All
of a sudden Mrs. van Daan, who feels the need to bring herself into every
conversation, remarked, “I’m very modest and retiring too, much more so than my
husband!”
Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? This sentence clearly illustrates that she’s
not exactly what you’d call modest!
Mr. van Daan, who felt obliged to explain the “much more so than my husband,”
answered calmly, “I have no desire to be modest and retiring. In my experience, you
get a lot further by being pushy!” And turning to me, he added, “Don’t be modest and
retiring, Anne. It will get you nowhere.”
Mother agreed completely with this viewpoint. But, as usual, Mrs. van Daan had to add
her two cents. This time, however, instead of addressing me directly, she turned to
my parents and said, “You must have a strange outlook on life to be able to say that
to Anne. Things were different when I was growing up. Though they probably haven’t
changed much since then, except in your modern household!”
This was a direct hit at Mother’s modern child-rearing methods, which she’s defended
on many occasions. Mrs. van Daan was so upset her face turned bright red. People
who flush easily become even more agitated when they feel themselves getting hot
under the collar, and they quickly lose to their opponents.
The nonflushed mother, who now wanted to have the matter over and done with as
quickly as possible, paused for a moment to think before she replied. “Well, Mrs. van
Daan, I agree that it’s much better if a person isn’t overmodest. My husband, Margot
and Peter are all exceptionally modest. Your husband, Anne and I, though not exactly
the opposite, don’t let ourselves be pushed around.”
Mrs. van Daan: “Oh, but Mrs. Frank, I don’t understand what you mean! Honestly, I’m
extremely modest and retiring. How can you say that I’m pushy?”
Mother: “I didn’t say you were pushy, but no one would describe you as having a
retiring disposition.”
Mrs. van D.: “I’d like to know in what way I’m pushy! If I didn’t look out for myself
here, no one else would, and I’d soon starve, but that doesn’t mean I’m not as modest
and retiring as your husband.”
Mother had no choice but to laugh at this ridiculous self-defense, which irritated Mrs.
van Daan. Not exactly a born debater, she continued her magnificent account in a
mixture of German and Dutch, until she got so tangled up in her own words that she
finally rose from her chair and was just about to leave the room when her eye fell on
me. You should have seen her! As luck would have it, the moment Mrs. van D. turned
around I was shaking my head in a combination of compassion and irony. I wasn’t
doing it on purpose, but I’d followed her tirade so intently that my reaction was
completely involuntary. Mrs. van D. wheeled around and gave me a tongue-lashing:
hard, Germanic, mean and vulgar, exactly like some fat, red-faced fishwife. It was a
joy to behold. If I could draw, I’d like to have sketched her as she was then. She
struck me as so comical, that silly little scatterbrain! I’ve learned one thing: you only
really get to know a person after a fight. Only then can you judge their true
character!
Yours, Anne

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
The strangest things happen to you when you’re in hiding! Try to picture this.
Because we don’t have a bathtub, we wash ourselves in a washtub, and because
there’s only hot water in the office (by which I mean the entire lower floor), the
seven of us take turns making the most of this great opportunity. But since none of
us are alike and are all plagued by varying degrees of modesty, each member of the
family has selected a different place to wash. Peter takes a bath in the office kitchen,
even though it has a glass door. When it’s time for his bath, he goes around to each
of us in turn and announces that we shouldn’t walk past the kitchen for the next half
hour. He considers this measure to be sufficient. Mr. van D. takes his bath upstairs,
figuring that the safety of his own room outweighs the difficulty of having to carry
the hot water up all those stairs. Mrs. van D. has yet to take a bath; she’s waiting to
see which is the best place. Father bathes in the private office and Mother in the
kitchen behind a fire screen, while Margot and I have declared the front office to be
our bathing grounds. Since the curtains are drawn on Saturday afternoon, we scrub
ourselves in the dark, while the one who isn’t in the bath looks out the window
through a chink in the curtains and gazes in wonder at the endlessly amusing people.
A week ago I decided I didn’t like this spot and have been on the lookout for more
comfortable bathing quarters. It was Peter who gave me the idea of setting my
washtub in the spacious office bathroom. I can sit down, turn on the light, lock the
door, pour out the water without anyone’s help, and all without the fear of being seen.
I used my lovely bathroom for the first time on Sunday and, strange as it may seem,
I like it better than any other place.
The plumber was at work downstairs on Wednesday, moving the water pipes and
drains from the office bathroom to the hallway so the pipes won’t freeze during a cold
winter. The plumber’s visit was far from pleasant. Not only were we not allowed to
run water during the day, but the bathroom was also off-limits. I’ll tell you how we
handled this problem; you may find it unseemly of me to bring it up, but I’m not so
prudish about matters of this kind. On the day of our arrival, Father and I improvised
a chamber pot, sacrificing a canning jar for this purpose. For the duration of the
plumber’s visit, canning jars were put into service during the daytime to hold our calls
of nature. As far as I was concerned, this wasn’t half as difficult as having to sit still
all day and not say a word. You can imagine how hard that was for Miss Quack,
Quack, Quack. On ordinary days we have to speak in a whisper; not being able to talk
or move at all is ten times worse.
After three days of constant sitting, my backside was stiff and sore. Nightly
calisthenics helped.
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Yesterday I had a horrible fright. 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. But I
calmed down when everybody swore it must have been either pranksters or the
mailman.
The days here are very quiet. Mr. Levinsohn, a little Jewish pharmacist and chemist,
is working for Mr. Kugler in the kitchen. Since he’s familiar with the entire building,
we’re in constant dread that he’ll take it into his head to go have a look at what used
to be the laboratory. We’re as still as baby mice. Who would have guessed three
months ago that quicksilver Anne would have to sit so quietly for hours on end, and
what’s more, that she could?
Mrs. van Daan’s birthday was the twenty-ninth. Though we didn’t have a large
celebration, she was showered with flowers, simple gifts and good food. Apparently
the red carnations from her spouse are a family tradition.
Let me pause a moment on the subject of Mrs. van Daan and tell you that her
attempts to flirt with Father are a constant source of irritation to me. She pats him on
the cheek and head, hikes up her skirt and makes so-called witty remarks in an effort
to get’s Pim’s attention. Fortunately, he finds her neither pretty nor charming, so he
doesn’t respond to her flirtations. As you know, I’m quite the jealous type, and I can’t
abide her behavior. After all, Mother doesn’t act that way toward Mr. van D., which is
what I told Mrs. van D. right to her face.
From time to time Peter can be very amusing. He and I have one thing in common:
we like to dress up, which makes everyone laugh. One evening we made our
appearance, with Peter in one of his mother’s skin-tight dresses and me in his suit.
He wore a hat; I had a cap on. The grown-ups split their sides laughing, and we
enjoyed ourselves every bit as much.
Bep bought new skirts for Margot and me at The Bijenkorf. The fabric is hideous, like
the burlap bag potatoes come in. Just the kind of thing the department stores wouldn’t
dare sell in the olden days, now costing 24.00 guilders (Margot’s) and 7.75 guilders
(mine).
We have a nice treat in store: Bep’s ordered a correspondence course in shorthand for
Margot, Peter and me. Just you wait, by this time next year we’ll be able to take
perfect shorthand. In any case, learning to write a secret code like that is really
interesting.
I have a terrible pain in my index finger (on my left hand), so I can’t do any ironing.
What luck!
Mr. van Daan wants me to sit next to him at the table, since Margot doesn’t eat
enough to suit him. Fine with me, I like changes. There’s always a tiny black cat
roaming around the yard, and it reminds me of my dear sweet Moortje. Another
reason I welcome the change is that Mama’s always carping at me, especially at the
table. Now Margot will have to bear the brunt of it. Or rather, won’t, since Mother
doesn’t make such sarcastic remarks to her. Not to that paragon of virtue! I’m always
teasing Margot about being a paragon of virtue these days, and she hates it. Maybe
it’ll teach her not to be such a goody-goody. High time she learned.
To end this hodgepodge of news, a particularly amusing joke told by Mr. van Daan:
What goes click ninety-nine times and clack once?
A centipede with a clubfoot.
Bye-bye, Anne

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Everybody teased me quite a bit yesterday because I lay down on the bed next to Mr.
van Daan. “At your age! Shocking! ” and other remarks along those lines. Silly, of
course. I’d never want to sleep with Mr. van Daan the way they mean.
Yesterday Mother and I had another run-in and she really kicked up a fuss. She told
Daddy all my sins and I started to cry, which made me cry too, and I already had
such an awful headache. I finally told Daddy that I love “him” more than I do Mother,
to which he replied that it was just a passing phase, but I don’t think so. I simply
can’t stand Mother, and I have to force myself not to snap at her all the time, and to
stay calm, when I’d rather slap her across the face. I don’t know why I’ve taken such
a terrible dislike to her. Daddy says that if Mother isn’t feeling well or has a
headache, I should volunteer to help her, but I’m not going to because I don’t love her
and don’t enjoy doing it. I can imagine Mother dying someday, but Daddy’s death
seems inconceivable. It’s very mean of me, but that’s how I feel. I hope Mother will
never read this or anything else I’ve written.
I’ve been allowed to read more grown-up books lately. Eva’s Youth by Nico van
Suchtelen is currently keeping me busy. I don’t think there’s much of a difference
between this and books for teenage girls. Eva thought that children grew on trees, like
apples, and that the stork plucked them off the tree when they were ripe and brought
them to the mothers. But her girlfriend’s cat had kittens and Eva saw them coming out
of the cat, so she thought cats laid eggs and hatched them like chickens, and that
mothers who wanted a child also went upstairs a few days before their time to lay an
egg and brood on it. After the babies arrived, the mothers were pretty weak from all
that squatting. At some point, Eva wanted a baby too. She took a wool scarf and
spread it on the ground so the egg could fall into it, and then she squatted down and
began to push. She clucked as she waited, but no egg came out. Finally, after she’d
been sitting for a long time, something did come, but it was a sausage instead of an
egg. Eva was embarrassed. She thought she was sick. Funny, isn’t it? There are also
parts of Eva’s Youth that talk about women selling their bodies on the street and
asking loads of money. I’d be mortified in front of a man like that. In addition, it
mentions Eva’s menstruation. Oh, I long to get my period — then I’ll really be grown
up. Daddy is grumbling again and threatening to take away my diary. Oh, horror of
horrors! From now on, I’m going to hide it.
Anne Frank

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1942
I imagine that. . .
I’ve gone to Switzerland. Daddy and I sleep in one room, while the boys’. study is
turned into a sitting room, where I can receive visitors. As a surprise, they’ve bought
new furniture for me, including a tea table, a desk, armchairs and a divan. Everything’s
simply wonderful. After a few days Daddy gives me 150 guilders — converted into
Swiss money, of course, but I’ll call them guilders — and tells me to buy everything
I think I’ll need, all for myself. (Later on, I get a guilder a week, which I can also
use to buy whatever I want.) I set off with Bernd and buy:
3 cotton undershirts @ 0.50 = 1.50
3 cotton underpants @ 0.50 = 1.50
3 wool undershirts @ O. 75 = 2.25
3 wool underpants @ O. 75 = 2.25
2 petticoats @ 0.50 = 1.00
2 bras (smallest size) @ 0.50 = 1.00
5 pajamas @ 1.00 = 5.00
1 summer robe @ 2.50 = 2.50
1 winter robe @ 3.00 = 3.00
2 bed jackets @ O. 75 = 1.50
1 small pillow @ 1.00 = 1.00
1 pair of lightweight slippers @ 1.00 = 1.00
1 pair of warm slippers @ 1.50 = 1.50
1 pair of summer shoes (school) @ 1.50 = 1.50
1 pair of summer shoes (dressy) @ 2.00 = 2.00
1 pair of winter shoes (school) @ 2.50 = 2.50
1 pair of winter shoes (dressy) @ 3.00 = 3.00
2 aprons @ 0.50 = 1.00
25 handkerchiefs @ 0.05 = 1.00
4 pairs of silk stockings @ 0.75 = 3.00
4 pairs of kneesocks @ 0.50 = 2.00
4 pairs of socks @ 0.25 = 1.00
2 pairs of thick stockings @ 1.00 = 2.00
3 skeins of white yarn (underwear, cap) = 1.50
3 skeins of blue yarn (sweater, skirt) = 1.50
3 skeins of variegated yarn (cap, scarf) = 1.50
Scarves, belts, collars, buttons = 1.25
Plus 2 school dresses (summer), 2 school dresses (winter), 2 good dresses
(sumr.ner), 2 good dresses (winter), 1 summer skirt, 1 good winter skirt, 1 school
winter skirt, 1 raincoat, 1 summer coat, 1 winter coat, 2 hats, 2 caps. For a total of
10g.00 guilders.
2 purses, 1 ice-skating outfit, 1 pair of skates, 1 case (containing powder, skin
cream, foundation cream, cleansing cream, suntan lotion, cotton, first-aid kit, rouge,
lipstick, eyebrow pencil, bath salts, bath powder, eau de cologne, soap, powder puff).
Plus 4 sweaters @ 1.50,4 blouses @ 1.00, miscellaneous items @ 10.00 and books,
presents @ 4.50.

OCTOBER 9, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Today I have nothing but dismal and depressing news to report. Our many Jewish
friends and acquaintances are being taken away in droves. The Gestapo is treating
them very roughly and transporting them in cattle cars to Westerbork, the big camp in
Drenthe to which they’re sending all the Jews. Miep told us about someone who’d
managed to escape from there. It must be terrible in Westerbork. The people get
almost nothing to eat, much less to drink, as water is available only one hour a day,
and there’s only one toilet and sink for several thousand people. Men and women sleep
in the same room, and women and children often have their heads shaved. Escape is
almost impossible; many people look Jewish, and they’re branded by their shorn heads.
If it’s that bad in Holland, what must it be like in those faraway and uncivilized places
where the Germans are sending them? We assume that most of them are being
murdered. The English radio says they’re being gassed. Perhaps that’s the quickest
way to die.
I feel terrible. Miep’s accounts of these horrors are so heartrending, and Miep is also
very distraught. The other day, for instance, the Gestapo deposited an elderly, crippled
Jewish woman on Miep’s doorstep while they set off to find a car. The old woman
was terrified of the glaring searchlights and the guns firing at the English planes
overhead. Yet Miep didn’t dare let her in. Nobody would. The Germans are generous
enough when it comes to punishment.
Bep is also very subdued. Her boyfriend is being sent to Germany. Every time the
planes fly over, she’s afraid they’re going to drop their entire bomb load on Bertus’s
head. Jokes like “Oh, don’t worry, they can’t all fall on him” or “One bomb is all it
takes” are hardly appropriate in this situation. Bertus is not the only one being forced
to work in Germany. Trainloads of young men depart daily. Some of them try to sneak
off the train when it stops at a small station, but only a few manage to escape
unnoticed and find a place to hide.
But that’s not the end of my lamentations. Have you ever heard the term “hostages”?
That’s the latest punishment for saboteurs. It’s the most horrible thing you can
imagine. Leading citizens — innocent people — are taken prisoner to await their
execution. If the Gestapo can’t find the saboteur, they simply grab five hostages and
line them up against the wall. You read the announcements of their death in the paper,
where they’re referred to as “fatal accidents.’
Fine specimens of humanity, those Germans, and to think I’m actually one of them!
No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago. And besides, there are
no greater enemies on earth than the Germans and the Jews.
Yours, Anne

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1942
Dear Kitty,
I’m terribly busy. Yesterday I began by translating a chapter from La Belle Nivemaise
and writing down vocabulary words. Then I worked on an awful math problem and
translated three pages of French grammar besides. Today, French grammar and history.
I simply refuse to do that wretched math every day. Daddy thinks it’s awful too.
I’m almost better at it than he is, though in fact neither of us is any good, so we
always have to call on Margot’s help. I’m also working away at my shorthand, which I
enjoy. Of the three of us, I’ve made the most progress.
I’ve read The Storm Family. It’s quite good, but doesn’t compare to Joop ter Heul.
Anyway, the same words can be found in both books, which makes sense because
they’re written by the same author. Cissy van Marxveldt is a terrific writer. I’m
definitely going to let my own children read her books too.
Moreover, I’ve read a lot of Korner plays. I like the way he writes. For example,
Hedwig, The Cousin from Bremen, The Governess, The Green Domino, etc.
Mother, Margot and I are once again the best of buddies. It’s actually a lot nicer that
way. Last night Margot and I were lying side by side in my bed. It was incredibly
cramped, but that’s what made it fun. She asked if she could read my diary once in a
while.
“Parts of it,” I said, and asked about hers. She gave me permission to read her diary
as well.
The conversation turned to the future, and I asked what she wanted to be when she
was older. But she wouldn’t say and was quite mysterious about it. I gathered it had
something to do with teaching; of course, I’m not absolutely sure, but I suspect it’s
something along those lines. I really shouldn’t be so nosy.
This morning I’lay on Peter’s bed, after first having chased him off it. He was furious,
but I didn’t care. He might consider being a little more friendly to me from time to
time. After all, I did give him an apple last night.
I once asked Margot if she thought I was ugly. She said that I was cute and had nice
eyes. A little vague, don’t you think?
Well, until next time!
Anne Frank
PS. This morning we all took turns on the scale. Margot now weighs 132 pounds,
Mother 136, Father 155, Anne 96, Peter 14g, Mrs. van Daan 117, Mr. van Daan 165.
In the three months since I’ve been here, I’ve gained 19 pounds. A lot, huh?

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
My hand’s still shaking, though it’s been two hours since we had the scare. I should
explain that there are five fire extinguishers in the building. The office staff stupidly
forgot to warn us that the carpenter, or whatever he’s called, was coming to fill the
extinguishers. As a result, we didn’t bother to be quiet until I heard the sound of
hammering on the landing (across from the bookcase). I immediately assumed it was
the carpenter and went to warn Bep, who was eating lunch, that she couldn’t go back
downstairs. Father and I stationed ourselves at the door so we could hear when the
man had left. After working for about fifteen minutes, he laid his hammer and some
other tools on our bookcase (or so we thought!) and banged on our door. We turned
white with fear. Had he heard something after all and now wanted to check out this
mysterious-looking bookcase? It seemed so, since he kept knocking, pulling, pushing
and jerking on it.
I was so scared I nearly fainted at the thought of this total stranger managing to
discover our wonderful hiding place. Just when I thought my days were numbered, we
heard Mr. Kleiman’s voice saying, “Open up, it’s me.” We opened the door at once.
What had happened?
The hook fastening the bookcase had gotten stuck, which is why no one had been able
to warn us about the carpenter. After the man had left, Mr. Kleiman came to get Bep,
but couldn’t open the bookcase. I can’t tell you how relieved I was. In my imagination,
the man I thought was trying to get inside the Secret Annex had kept growing and
growing until he’d become not only a giant but also the cruelest Fascist in the world.
Whew. Fortunately, everything worked out all right, at least this time.
We had lots of fun on Monday. Miep and Jan spent the night with us. Margot and I
slept in Father and Mother’s room for the night so the Gieses could have our beds.
The menu was drawn up in their honor, and the meal was delicious. The festivities
were briefly interrupted when Father’s lamp caused a short circuit and we were
suddenly plunged into darkness. What were we to do? We did have fuses, but the fuse
box was at the rear of the dark warehouse, which made this a particularly unpleasant
job at night. Still, the men ventured forth, and ten minutes later we were able to put
away the candles.
I was up early this morning. Jan was already dressed. Since he had to leave at
eight-thirty, he was upstairs eating breakfast by eight. Miep was busy getting
dressed, and I found her in her undershirt when I came in. She wears the same kind
of long underwear I do when she bicycles. Margot and I threw on our clothes as well
and were upstairs earlier than usual. After a pleasant breakfast, Miep headed
downstairs. It was pouring outside and she was glad she didn’t have to bicycle to
work. Daddy and I made the beds, and afterward I learned five irregular French verbs.
Quite industrious, don’t you think?
Margot and Peter were reading in our room, with Mouschi curled up beside Margot on
the divan. After my irregular French verbs, I joined them and read The Woods Are
Singingfor All Eternity. It’s quite a beautiful book, but very unusual. I’m almost
finished.
Next week it’s Bep’s turn to spend the night.
Yours, Anne

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1942
My dearest Kitty,
I’m very worried. Father’s sick. He’s covered with spots and has a high temperature.
It looks like measles. Just think, we can’t even call a doctor! Mother is making him
perspire in hopes of sweating out the fever.
This morning Miep told us that the furniture has been removed from the van Daans’
apartment on Zuider-Amstellaan. We haven’t told Mrs. van D. yet. She’s been so
“nervenmassig”* [*nervous] lately, and we don’t feel like hearing her moan and groan
again about all the beautiful china and lovely chairs she had to leave behind. We had
to abandon most of our nice things too. What’s the good of grumbling about it now?
Father wants me to start reading books by Hebbel and other well-known German
writers. I can read German fairly well by now, except that I usually mumble the
words instead of reading them silently to myself. But that’ll pass. Father has taken the
plays of Goethe and Schiller down from the big bookcase and is planning to read to
me every evening. We’ve started off with Don Carlos. Encouraged by Father’s good
example, Mother pressed her prayer book into my hands. I read a few prayers in
German, just to be polite. They certainly sound beautiful, but they mean very little to
me. Why is she making me act so religious and devout?
Tomorrow we’re going to light the stove for the first time. The chimney hasn’t been
swept in ages, so the room is bound to fill with smoke. Let’s hope the thing draws!
Yours, Anne
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1942
Dear Kitty,
Bep stayed with us Friday evening. It was fun, but she didn’t sleep very well because
she’d drunk some wine. For the rest, there’s nothing special to report. I had an awful
headache yesterday and went to bed early. Margot’s being exasperating again.
This morning I began sorting out an index card file from the office, because it’d fallen
over and gotten all mixed up. Before long I was going nuts. I asked Margot and Peter
to help, but they were too lazy, so I put it away.
I’m not crazy enough to do it all by myself!
Anne Frank
PS. I forgot to mention the important news that I’m probably going to get my period
soon. I can tell because I keep finding a whitish smear in my panties, and Mother
predicted it would start soon. I can hardly wait. It’s such a momentous event. Too bad
I can’t use sanitary napkins, but you can’t get them anymore, and Mama’s tampons can
be used only by women who’ve had a baby. i

COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON JANUARY 22, 1944: I wouldn’t be able to write
that kind of thing anymore.
Now that I’m rereading my diary after a year and a half, I’m surprised at my childish
innocence. Deep down I know I could never be that innocent again, however much I’d
like to be. I can understand the mood chanaes and the comments about Margot,
Mother and Father as if I’d written them only yesterday, but I can’t imagine writina so
openly about other matters. It embarrasses me areatly to read the panes dealina with
subjects that I remembered as beina nicer than they actually were. My descriptions
are so indelicate. But enouah of that.
I can also understand my homesickness and yearning for Moortje. The whole time I’ve
been here I’ve longed unconsciously and at times consciously for trust, love and

physical affection. This longing may change in intensity, but it’s always there.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1942
Dear Kitty,
The British have finally scored a few successes in Africa and Stalingrad hasn’t fallen
yet, so the men are happy and we had coffee and tea this morning. For the rest,
nothing special to report.
This week I’ve been reading a lot and doing little work. That’s the way things ought
to be. That’s surely the road to success.
Mother and I are getting along better lately, but we’re never close. Father’s not very
open about his feelings, but he’s the same sweetheart he’s always been. We lit the
stove a few days ago and the entire room is still filled with smoke. I prefer central
heating, and I’m probably not the only one. Margot’s a stinker (there’s no other word
for it), a constant source of irritation, morning, noon and night.
Anne Frank
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1942
Dearest Kitty,
Mother’s nerves are very much on edge, and that doesn’t bode well for me. Is it just
a coincidence that Father and Mother never scold Margot and always blame me for
everything? Last night, for example, Margot was reading a book with beautiful
illustrations; she got up and put the book aside for later. I wasn’t doing anything, so I
picked it up and began looking at the pictures. Margot carne back, saw’ “her” book in
my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back. I wanted to look
through it some more. Margot got madder by the minute, and Mother butted in:
“Margot was reading that book; give it back to her.”
Father came in, and without even knowing what was going on, saw that Margot was
being wronged and lashed out at me: “I’d like to see what you’d do if Margot was
looking at one of your books!”
I promptly gave in, put the book down and, according to them, left the room’ ‘in a
huff.” I was neither huffy nor cross, but merely sad.
It wasn’t right of Father to pass judgment without knowing what the issue was. I
would have given the book to Margot myself, and a lot sooner, if Father and Mother
hadn’t intervened and rushed to take Margot’s part, as if she were suffering some
great injustice.
Of course, Mother took Margot’s side; they always take each other’s sides. I’m so
used to it that I’ve become completely indifferent to Mother’s rebukes and Margot’s
moodiness. I love them, but only because they’re Mother and Margot. I don’t give a
darn about them as people. As far as I’m concerned, they can go jump in a lake. It’s
different with Father. When I see him being partial to Margot, approving Margot’s
every action, praising her, hugging her, I feel a gnawing ache inside, because I’m crazy
about him. I model myself after Father, and there’s no one in the world I love more.
He doesn’t realize that he treats Margot differently than he does me: Margot just
happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. But I have a right
to be taken seriously too. I’ve always been the clown and mischief maker of the
family; I’ve always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again
with my own sense of despair. I’m no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection
or the supposedly serious talks. I long for something from Father that he’s incapable
of giving. I’m not jealous of Margot; I never have been. I’m not envious of her brains
or her beauty. It’s just that I’d like to feel that Father really loves me, not because
I’m his child, but because I’m me, Anne.
I cling to Father because my contempt of Mother is growing daily and it’s only
through him that I’m able to retain the last ounce of family feeling I have left. He
doesn’t understand that I sometimes need to vent my feelings for Mother. He doesn’t
want to talk about it, and he avoids any discussion involving Mother’s failings. And yet
Mother, with all her shortcomings, is tougher for me to deal with. I don’t know how I
should act. I can’t very well confront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm and her
hard-heartedness, yet I can’t continue to take the blame for everything.
I’m the opposite of Mother, so of course we clash. I don’t mean to judge her; I don’t
have that right. I’m simply looking at her as a mother. She’s not a mother to me –
I have to mother myself. I’ve cut myself adrift from them. I’m charting my own
course, and we’ll see where it leads me. I have no choice, because I can picture what
a mother and a wife should be and can’t seem to find anything of the sort in the
woman I’m supposed to call “Mother.”
I tell myself time and again to overlook Mother’s bad example. I only want to see her
good points, and to look inside myself for what’s lacking in her. But it doesn’t work,
and the worst part is that Father and Mother don’t realize their own inadequacies and
how much I blame them for letting me down. Are there any parents who can make
their children completely happy?
Sometimes I think God is trying to test me, both now and in the future. I’ll have to
become a good person on my own, without anyone to serve as a model or advise me,
but it’ll make me stronger in the end.
Who else but me is ever going to read these letters? Who else but me can I turn to
for comfort? I’m frequently in need of consolation, I often feel weak, and more often
than not, I fail to meet expectations. I know this, and every day I resolve to do
better.
They aren’t consistent in their treatment of me. One day they say that Anne’s a
sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that Anne’s a silly goose
who doesn’t know a thing and yet imagines she’s learned all she needs to know from
books! I’m no longer the baby and spoiled little darling whose every deed can be
laughed at. I have my own ideas, plans and ideals, but am unable to articulate them
yet.
Oh well. So much comes into my head at night when I’m alone, or during the day
when I’m obliged to put up with people I can’t abide or who invariably misinterpret my
intentions. That’s why I always wind up coming back to my diary — I start there
and end there because Kitty’s always patient. I promise her that, despite everything,
I’ll keep going, that I’ll find my own way and choke back my tears. I only wish I
could see some results or, just once, receive encouragement from someone who loves
me.
Don’t condemn me, but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches the bursting
point!
Yours, Anne

inca o zi care a trecut ….imi e sila sa ma privesc in oglinda…m-am saturat de zambetul care il afisez in fiecare zi ..zambetul acela sincer care ascunde mii si mii de suspine…viata mea a luat o intorsatura foarte mare..dar poate ca asa a fost sa fie..candva sa ma indragostesc  dar tot candva am aflat si ce e despartirea…a doua oara cand sunt ranita…pe dan l-am iubit dar mi-a gresit,m-a inselat,m-a mintit,si-a batut joc pur si simplu…si a aparut el “persoana perfecta” cika;)) dar neah nu vreau sa vorbesc despre el in postul asta…mergeam azi cu masina…moama doamnee ce ceata:)) sa o tai cu cutitul si mai multe nu…azi nu am ras…dar poate rad maine…;))aseara am fost fericita dar o seara atat de frumoasa s-a terminat urat….de ce oare zic ca nu vreau sa vorbesc despre el cand as vrea sa vorbesc despre el la infinit…da si as vrea sa vorbesc si cu el..dar el nu mai vrea:)acum se vede care si cat a iubit;))

vine ziua mea..yupiii ce n-as da sa fiu fericita..[.pentru cei care nu stiu ziua mea de SF Mihail si Gavril ...nu cea de nastere;)).]as vrea sa am lacrimi de fericire…as vrea sa ma trezesc de dimineata cu un mesaj frumos pe tel nu unul trist care sa imi ofere lacrimi…as vrea sa nu fim asa amandoi..dar tu ai ales asta

 

am impresia ca postul asta nu este prea reusit dar neah …nu sunt prea bine acum…poate mai tarziu o sa revin

A si parca ziceai ca o sa postezi si tu intro zi;))