“Where were you wounded?” “Near Stalingrad.” “What kind of wound is it?” “Two frostbitten feet and a fracture of the left arm.”
This is an exact report of the hideous puppet show aired on the radio.
The wounded seemed proud of their wounds -- the more the better.
One was so beside himself at the thought of shaking hands (I presume he still had one) with the Führer that he could barely say a word.
I happened to drop Dussel's soap on the floor and step on it. Now there's a whole piece missing.
I've already asked Father to compensate him for the damages, especially since Dussel only gets one bar of inferior wartime soap a month. Yours, Anne
THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1943
Dearest Kitty, Mother, Father, Margot and I were sitting quite pleasantly together last night
when Peter suddenly came in and whispered in Father's ear.
I caught the words “a barrel falling over in the warehouse” and “someone fiddling with the door.”
Margot heard it too, but was trying to calm me down, since I'd turned white as chalk and was extremely nervous.
The three of us waited while Father and Peter went downstairs.
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