Mr Dussel makes the beds (all wrong, of course), always whistling the same Beethoven violin concerto as he goes about his work. Mother can be heard shuffling around the attic as she hangs up the washing.
Mr van Daan puts on his hat and disappears into the lower regions, usually followed by Peter and Mouschi. Mrs van D. dons a long apron, a black woollen jacket and overshoes, winds a red woollen scarf around her head, scoops up a bundle of dirty clothes and, with a well-rehearsed washerwoman’s nod, heads downstairs.
Margot and I do the washing-up and tidy the room.
Twelve forty-five: When all the dishes have been dried and only the pots and pans are left, I go downstairs to dust and, if I washed myself this morning, to clean the sink.
One: News.
One-fifteen: Time for one of us to wash our hair or get a haircut. Next, all of us are busy peeling potatoes, hanging up the washing, scrubbing the landing, scouring the bathroom, etc., etc.
Two: After the Wehrmacht news, we wait for the music programme and the coffee, so there’s a moment of peace. Can anyone tell me why the adults around here need so much sleep? By eleven a.m. several of them are already yawning, and they spend half their time moaning, ‘Oh, if only I could grab half an hour’s sleep!’
It’s no fun seeing nothing but sleepy faces wherever you go between two and four in the afternoon: Dussel in our room, Mother and Father next door and the van Daans upstairs, sharing a bed during the daytime. Still, I can’t do a blessed thing about it. Perhaps I’ll understand it one day when I’m as old as they are.
Anyway, nap time is stretched out even longer on Sundays. There’s no point in showing yourself upstairs before four-thirty or five, since they’re all still in the Land of Nod.
Late afternoons are the same as on weekdays, except for the concert hour from six to seven.
When dinner’s over and the washing-up is done, I’m beside myself with joy because another Sunday is over.
Sunday, 20 February 1944
AFTER MUCH WAVERING back and forth, discussion and debate, it was finally decided that I could attend the Jewish Lyceum and – after several more phone calls – that I could skip the entrance exams. I was a poor student in every subject, especially Maths, and I was inwardly quaking at the thought of Geometry.
At the end of September, the long-awaited letter arrived, informing me that I was to enrol in the Jewish Lyceum on Stadstimmertuinen on such-and-such a date in October. When the appointed day came, it was pouring with rain, which made it impossible for me to cycle to school. So I took the tram, and of course I wasn’t the only one.
As we approached the school, we could see a big crowd. Groups of girls and boys were standing around talking, and lots of them were strolling up and down and calling out, ‘Are you in my class?’ ‘Hey, I know you!’ ‘What class are you in?’ Which is more or less what I did too. But except for Lies Goslar, I couldn’t find a single friend who was going to be in my class. Hardly a comforting feeling.
School started, and we were welcomed to our classroom by a grey-haired teacher with a face like a mouse, who was wearing a long dress and flat-heeled shoes. Surveying the busy scene and wringing her hands, she gave us the necessary information. Names were called, books were listed so they could be ordered, various other announcements were made and we were dismissed for the day.
To tell you the truth, it was disappointing. At the very least I had expected a timetable and…the headmaster. I did see a short, fat, jolly man with ruddy cheeks in the hallway, nodding pleasantly to everyone as he talked to a thin man with glasses, thinning hair and a distinguished face, who wasn’t much taller. But I had no idea that the former was the caretaker and the latter the headmaster.
At home, I gave an excited account of the day’s events. But when you get right down to it, I knew no more about the school, the students or the classes than I did before.
School was scheduled to start exactly one week after Enrolment Day. It was raining cats and dogs again, but I decided to ride my bike anyway. Mother stuck a pair of sports trousers in my schoolbag (heaven forbid I should get wet), and off we went.
Margot usually cycles really fast. After two minutes, I was so out of breath that I had to ask her to please slow down. After another two minutes, there was such a downpour that, remembering those warm trousers, I got off my bike and struggled my way into the garment – taking care not to let it drag through the puddle – then got back on my bike and set off with new determination. It didn’t take long for me to start lagging behind again, so that once more I had to ask Margot to go slower.
She was a nervous wreck, and had already exclaimed the first time that she’d rather cycle by herself from now on. No doubt scared of being late! But we got to school in plenty of time. After putting our bikes in the racks, we started chatting again as we walked through the passageway to the Amstel River.
The doors opened at eight-thirty on the dot. There was a big sign posted at the entrance, notifying everyone that about twenty students were being switched to another class.
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