All was quiet again. The Latin students had left, and I sat down at the table to pick up where I'd left off.
But no matter where I looked, my fountain pen was nowhere in sight. I took another look.
Margot looked, Mother looked, Father looked, Dussel looked. But it had vanished.
“Maybe it fell in the stove, along with the beans!” Margot suggested.
“No, it couldn't have!” I replied. But that evening, when my fountain pen still hadn't turned up,
we all assumed it had been burned, especially because celluloid is highly inflammable.
Our darkest fears were confirmed the next day when Father went to empty the stove
and discovered the clip, used to fasten it to a pocket, among the ashes.
Not a trace of the gold nib was left. “It must have melted into stone,” Father conjectured.
I'm left with one consolation, small though it may be: my fountain pen was cremated, just as I would like to be someday! Yours, Anne
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1943
Dearest Kitty, Recent events have the house rocking on its foundations.
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