February 6, 1935

I think this must be the right day to begin this extra-special diary. I've now reached the happy age of 23. No, happy is not really the word. Right now I'm far from happy.

The truth is that I had pretty big ideas about the significance of this day: If I owned a dog I would not feel so lonely, but I suppose that is asking too much.

Frau Schaub came as an ambassador, bringing flowers and telegrams. The result is that my office looks like a florist's and smells like a funeral chapel.

I suppose I'm ungrateful, but I did want to be given a dachshund. And I don't have one. Perhaps I'll get one next year, or much later, when it'll be more appropriate for a budding old maid.

What's important is not to give up hope. I should have learned to be patient by now.

Today I bought two lottery tickets, because I had a feeling that it would be now or never - they were both duds. So I am not going to be rich after all. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Today I was going to Zugspitze with Herta, Gretl, Ilse, and Mutti, and I would have had a wonderful time, for it's always best when other people are enjoying themselves, too. But nothing came of it. This evening I'm going to have dinner with Herta. What else can you do, when you are a little single woman of 23? So I shall end my birthday "with gluttony and drunkenness." I think this is what he would want me to do.

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