November 20th. It's really impossible to write every day. Mother is ill
in bed and the doctor comes every day, but I don't really know what's
the matter with her. I'm not sure whether the doctor knows exactly.
When Mother is ill everything at home is so uncomfortable and she always
says: Whatever you do don't get ill, for it's such a nuisance. But
I don't mind being ill; indeed I rather like being ill, for then
everyone's so nice, when Father comes home he comes and sits by my bed
and even _Dora_ is rather nice and does things for me; that is she _has_
to. Besides, when she had diptheria two years ago I did everything
I could for her, she nearly died, her temperature went up to 107 and
Mother was sick with crying. Father never cries. It must look funny when
a man cries. When there was all that row about Oswald he cried, I think
Father had given him a box on the ear. He said he hadn't but I think
he had; certainly he cried, though he said he didn't. After all, why
shouldn't he for he's not really grown up yet. I cry myself when I get
frightfully annoyed. Still I shouldn't cry for a box on the ear.
November 21st. In the religion lesson to-day Lisel Schrotter who is the
Herr Catechist's favourite, no we've got to call him Herr Professor,
as she is the Herr Professor's favourite, well she went to him with the
Bible and asked him what _with child_ meant.
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