annele, dear, a short interlude over a crush
Annele. Just thinking of the way my name rolls off of his tongue makes me giddy. It's the only thing holding me together, at times, just thinking of him. I wonder how he is doing.
I've decided the best place to keep a diary is in my mind.
September 7th, 1944. I am sick and tired of hauling around this acid. Sometimes, the Green Police give us gloves so we don't wear holes in our hands, but other times, I can barely stand to think of it. My bunk mate has seared a hole straight through her foot. Susie, she's always been a good sport. I think we could have been friends if we weren't forced to be and we could have met on the playground. Susie likes it when I play with my small rubber ball. It used to irk her when I jokingly bounced it in the hole in her foot after she stopped wrapping it with filthy clothes. Now it's quite funny although she needs cane assistance. She worries that soon she won't be of any use. I tell her she makes a perfect ball hoop.
Thoughts of Peter are what keep me anchored. I wonder about Pim and Peter and Mr. Van Pels and Mr. Kraler, too. I can never forget our time in the Secret Annex—Margot insists that all I do is talk about the Secret Annex—unless I'm talking about Peter. I miss him dearly, I really do. I try not to think about Peter while I switch acid because I can get caught up in thinking of what fun we'd have if he was here and how he passes his time at the camps. It's not very wise to think about Peter when I switch acid because thinking of him distracts me. Distraction is how Susie ended up with a ball hoop for a foot.
I wonder if he thinks of me. I'll feel mighty foolish if I don't at least cross his mind once. When we leave, if we leave, and I tell him I've thought about him every day, I hope that he can at least tell me that he's thought of things other than working or dying. I hope that he can at least tell me that he's thought of me. I miss him and I wish he was here. It's only acceptable to keep thinking this in my head because I've told Mrs. Van Pels herself and my mother and Margot a dozen times each. I wish I wouldn't have to wish.
But I do wish. I wish in a world where we sit on his bed in the Secret Annex, waiting by the side of the radio or just waiting for the Brits and Yankees to storm in. They'll let us onto the streets of Amsterdam and we can hold hands and I can gaze into his handsome face. But I've longed for this and wished for this too long. I wish I could turn back time because I would stop it all. I would stop everything that has happened in the past few years, except for my meeting Peter, of course.
I remember his hug. I think of the way he used to whisper to me and my voice would turn into a mousy squeak because I don't know how someone could be so handsome and kind and sweet and laugh at the silly way my voice squeaked. Pim had been the only one to call me Annele. I never let mother say it. But Peter, Peter could call me anything and I'd answer. He could call me an annoying brat like he had when I was young and I would still hug and kiss him.
I must sleep. I think I can sleep better if I imagine Peter is with me, but I might never wake up from that idyllic fantasy. I scared him when I said I wanted to be his wife once. He was terrified in the way that boys often were when they were too young to think of marriage but too old to take it as a joke. In my imagination, though, I could be his wife. He could call me Annele Van Pels. He could stay with me and I'd never wake up just to be with him. He'd hold me in his arms and whisper so I squeak and kiss me softly on both of my cheeks. And if I got scared in my imaginary world, he could hold me and stroke my hair like Pim did at night and he could say, "Oh, Annele, dear," until I fell asleep.
Yes, mind diary. He very well could.