Free Anne Frank's Tales from the Secret Annex by Anne Frank Page B

good.
     
    Undated

Who Is Interesting?
    A WEEK AGO I was sitting in a train, chugging along to my aunt’s in Bussum. I was hoping to be able to amuse myself in the train at least, since having to put up with a week of Aunt Josephine’s company was not my idea of fun.
    So there I sat, with the highest of hopes, but I was out of luck, because at first sight my fellow passengers looked neither interesting nor amusing. The little old lady across from me was indeed concerned for my welfare, but wasn’t the least bit amusing; neither was the distinguished gentleman beside her, who kept his eyes glued to his newspaper; nor did the farmer’s wife on his other side look like she was dying to talk. Still, I was determined to amuse myself, and wasn’t about to give up my plan. If I had to make a pest of myself, so be it. Aunt Josephine and her scrawny neck would just have to take the blame.
    After fifteen minutes with nothing to show for it, I didn’t look a bit more amusing than the other passengersin my compartment. However, the train made its first stop and, to my great delight, a man of about thirty got in. He didn’t look amusing, but he did look interesting.
    The general consensus among women is that men with youthful faces and greying temples are interesting, and I had never doubted the truth of this. Now I could put one of these gentlemen to the test, or at any rate not let his interesting looks go to waste.
    The big question now was how was I to get Mr Interesting to show me how interesting he was? Another fifteen minutes must have gone by before I suddenly hit upon the simple but time-honoured trick of dropping my handkerchief. The results were spectacular. Not only because the interesting gentleman very gallantly (what else would you expect?) scooped up my handkerchief from the filthy floor, but also because he took advantage of the opportunity to strike up a conversation with me.
    ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he began quite openly, though of course he kept his voice down, since there was no need for the other passengers to hear us. ‘I believe this belongs to you. But in exchange for your handkerchief, I’d like to know your name!’
    To be honest, I thought he was rather bold, but since I was determined to have a good time, I replied in a similar vein, ‘Well, of course, sir. It’s Miss van Bergen.’
    He gave me a reproachful look, then suavely said, ‘Oh, but I’d like to know your first name!’
    ‘Well, all right then,’ I replied. ‘It’s Hetty.’
    ‘Ah, Hetty,’ he repeated, and we chatted for a while about this and that. But for the life of me I couldn’t turnit into an interesting conversation. That, I felt, was up to the gentleman, who, in the eyes of the world, was supposed to be interesting.
    He got out at the next station, and I was greatly disappointed. However, the little old lady across from me suddenly unwound and started talking to me. She was so funny and interesting that the time simply flew by, and before I knew it, I’d reached my destination. I thanked the interesting old lady, and I now know that so-called interesting men owe their reputation to their looks alone.
    So, if you’re hoping to amuse yourself during a trip or whatever, do as I do and look around for people who are old or ugly. They’re sure to entertain you more than the men whose faces are all but glowing with conceit.
     
    Undated

Kaatje
    K AATJE IS THE GIRL next door. When I look out of my window during nice weather, I can see her playing in the garden. Kaatje has a velvet burgundy-coloured dress for Sundays and a cotton one for weekdays. She has flaxen hair done up in tiny little pigtails, and bright-blue eyes.
    Kaatje has a loving mother, but her father has died. Kaatje’s mother is a washerwoman. Sometimes she’s gone during the day, cleaning other people’s houses, and when she comes home at night she does the laundry for ‘her’ people. At eleven o’clock she is still beating the rugs and hanging row after