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”
and “van Daans' good that.” Fire and brimstone! Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 10, 1943
Dearest Kitty, We had a short circuit last night, and besides that, the guns were booming away until dawn.
I still haven't gotten over my fear of planes and shooting, and I crawl into Father's bed nearly every night for comfort.
I know it sounds childish, but wait till it happens to you!
The ack-ack guns make so much noise you can't hear your own voice.
Mrs. Beaverbrook, the fatalist, practically burst into tears and said in a timid little voice,
“Oh, it's so awful. Oh, the guns are so loud!” — which is another way of saying “I'm so scared.”
It didn't seem nearly as bad by candlelight as it did in the dark.
I was shivering, as if I had a fever, and begged Father to relight the candle.
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