Let me put it more clearly， since no one will believe that a thirteen year-old girl is completely alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister， and there are about thirty people I can call friends. I have a throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the classroom. I have afamily， loving aunts and a good home. No， on the surface I seem to have everything， except my one true friend. All I think about when I’m with friends is having a good time I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary everyday things. We don’t seem to be able to get any closer， and that’s the problem. Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide hi each other. In any case， that’s just how things are， and unfortunately they’re not liable to change. This is why I’ve started the diary.
To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination， I don’t want to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do， but I want the diary to be my friend， and I’m going to call this friend Kitty.
Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right in. I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life， much as I dislike doing so.
My father， the most adorable father I’ve ever seen， didn’t marry my mother until he was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born in Frankfurt am Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12， 1929. I lived in Hankfurt until I was four. Because we’re Jewish， my father immigrated to Holland in 1933， when he became the Managing Director of the Dutch Opekta Company， which manufactures products used in making jam. My mother， Edith Hollander Frank， went with him to Holland in September， while Margot and I were sent to Aachen to stay with our grandmother. Margot went to Holland in December， and I followed in February， when I was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot.
I started right away at the Montessori nursery school. I stayed there until I was six， at which time I started first grade. In sixth grade my teacher was Mrs. Kuperus， the principal. At the end of the year we were both in tears as we said a heartbreaking farewell， because I’d been accepted at the Jewish Lyceum， where Margot also went to school.
Our lives were not without anxiety， since our relatives in Germany were suffering under Hitler’s anti-Jewish laws. After the pogroms in 1938my two uncles （my mother’s brothers） fled Germany， finding safe refuge in North America. My elderly grandmother came to live with us. She was seventy-three years old at the time.
After May 1940 the good times were few and far between： first there was the war， then the capitulation and then the arrival of the Germans， which is when the trouble started for the Jews. Our freedom was severely restricted by a series of anti-Jewish decrees： Jews were required to wear a yellow star； Jews were required to turn in their bicycles； Jews were forbidden to use street-cars； Jews were forbidden to ride in cars， even their own； Jews were required to do their shopping between 3 and 5 P.M.； Jews were required to frequent only Jewish-owned barbershops and beauty parlors； Jews were forbidden to be out on the streets between 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.； Jews were forbidden to attend theaters， movies or any other forms of entertainment： Jews were forbidden to use swimming pools， tennis courts， hockey fields or any other athletic fields： Jews were forbidden to go rowing， Jews were forbidden to take part in any athletic activity in public； Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their friends after 8 P.M.； Jews were forbidden to visit Christians in their homes； Jews were required to attend Jewish schools，etc. You couldn’t do this and you couldn’t do that， but life went on. Jacque always said to me， “I don’t dare do anything anymore， cause I’m afraid it’s not allowed.”
In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sick and had to have an operation， so my birthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940 we didn’t do much for my birthday either， since the fighting had just ended in Holland. Grandma died in January 1942. No one knows how often I think of her and still love her. This birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others and Grandma’s candle was lit along with the rest.
The four of us are still doing well， and that brings me to the present date of June 20， 1942， and the solemn dedication of my diary.
SATURDAY， JUNE 20， 1942
Dearest Kitty！ Let me get started right away； it’s nice and quiet now. Father and Mother are out and Margot has gone to play Ping-Pong with some other young people at her friend Trees’s. I’ve been playing a lot of Ping-Pong myself lately. So much that five of us girls have formed a club. It’s called “The Little Dipper Minus Two.” A really silly name， but it’s based on a mistake. We wanted to give our club a special name； and because there were five of us. we came up with the idea of the Little Dipper. We thought it consisted of five stars， but we turned out to be wrong. It has seven， like the Big Dipper， which explains the “Minus Two.” Ilse Wagner has a Ping-Pong set， and the Wagners let us play in their big dining room whenever we want. Since we five Ping-Pong players like ice-cream， especially in the summer， and since you get hot playing Ping- Pong， our games usually end with a visit to the nearest ice-cream parlor that allows Jews： either Oasis or Delphi. We’ve long since stopped hunting around for our purses or money—most of the time it’s so busy in Oasis that we manage to find a few generous young men of our acquaintance or an admirer to offer us more ice-cream than we could eat in a week.
