Father, clad in overalls, gets down on his hands and knees and brushes the rug so vigorously that the room is enveloped in a cloud of dust.
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 wool jacket and overshoes, winds a red wool scarf around her head,
scoops up a bundle of dirty laundry and, with a well-rehearsed washerwoman's nod, heads downstairs.
Margot and I do the dishes and straighten up the room.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1944
My dearest Kitty, The weather's been wonderful since yesterday, and I've perked up quite a bit.
My writing, the best thing I have, is coming along well.
I go to the attic almost every morning to get the stale air out of my lungs.
This morning when I went there, Peter was busy cleaning up.
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