Dear Hecate,

Peter and Anne are in the attic once again, and I cannot help but feel at least a bit jealous of both of them; not in the conventional sense, that I don’t want Anne to have Peter, but in that they have each other and I have no-one. Their dismal existences here can at least be brightened by one another; mine is as gloomy as it ought to be, what with the situation outside these oppressive walls. Daddy never seems worried about Anne and Peter; he trusts Anne to do the right thing. It is impossible to tell what Mummy is thinking as she seems to ignore it all, but it is affecting her, although I can’t yet tell how. The Van Daans always act as if something scandalous is going on, but I am sure they don’t believe anything really is. Perhaps they are jealous too.

I almost wish Mummy and Daddy would get angry with me, just so something interesting would happen, but as I can do no wrong in their eyes anyway and cannot bring myself to try, my little piece of the Secret Annexe world is dull grey and, far from being formless and disjointed, is defined with such distinct shape and volume that it could hardly be any more obtrusively unsatisfying.  

Naturally, I have studies to keep me occupied, and at least I have my own quarters. Of course, these allowances only serve to make the walls of my prsion that much more tangible. It is hard not to fall into hopelessness. Sometimes I doubt we will ever escape alive; we cannot hide here like shivering cave-fish forever, and it seems as though the war will never end. I am certain that sooner or later, we are bound to be discovered. How can Anne be always so hopeful when there is no hope left? She has told me some of her feelings on humanity, and in those few words her soul was laid bare. She has such faith in mankind, and I suppose it is this shining beacon which she follows as her guide through the black world. But, try as I might, I can never follow that same light. Anne is my sister and I love her dearly, but in my opinion, her faith is woefully unfounded. It keeps her going, though, and so I hope she will never be forced to lose it. As for me, I can handle no more than one day at a time. It is always Today-- just one more heartbreaking Today. There is no Tomorrow for me, not yet, and perhaps never. I am locked in a cage of despair and the Führer has swallowed the key.