Hannah's diary,

diary, November 19, 1940.

It feels so cold and uninviting and damp

when the rain soaks through the walls all the way to my bed.

But on Saturday, when I washed the doorstep,

mop the floor, and tidy everything up, I think that not even a king has such a beautiful bedroom.

Next to the window on the left is my bed and trunk. The table has one compartment with books, newspapers, my journal, and a comb.

Then a suitcase covered with an old blanket on which I sit no matter what I am doing.

Next to the trunk is a little table with a framed family photograph

and a chair, then a cupboard on which there's a sewing kit, ointments, a flashlight, and various knickknacks.

On the wall hangs my McGendiveed, the star of David.

This is my room, my world, where I rule, the world I trust and confide in.

The window? That's the most beautiful part.

Leaning out of it or sitting on the floor watching the stars.

I can't see the moon, but the stars, those I can see.

Is it true that people's destiny is written in the stars?

What do they say about me? I don't know, but I'm not afraid, even if it's no good, I have to face it.

Sometimes I don't think this way and there are no stars outside.

Then I turn back to the light of my room, my cozy room that contains me and comforts me.

I know that you won't disclose anything about me, my dear world, my impossible desires, my hot tears, my strange thoughts, my

writings and letters torn into pieces. I know I can trust you. I can be

safe with you.

...