Journal 1935–1944

by Mihail Sebastian

  I carry ten such dreams around with me. I never get to the end of one but keep switching among them and picking up where I left off. It is like a drug, a sleeping pill. Meanwhile, life is closing in and crushing me. Where will I get money? What will I give Mama for the market on Monday or Tuesday, when the last two thousand left after the rent have been used up? When I don’t think of killing myself, I think of begging. (Zissu, Blank, Vişoianu—I’ll have to speak to one of them.) This is all I can do at thirty-four years of age.

  Oh! the dreaming, the dreaming, the dreaming.

  Sunday, 28 September

  Last night I dreamed I was in Uncle Zaharia’s shop. I read (or write?) two letters that have come from Poldy or which I am supposed to send to him. I quarrel with Anghel. I go out and walk up the right-hand side of Calea Victoriei. An unknown woman desperately cries out that the Legionaries are in revolt and are approaching the city center. I can’t believe it and am about to go calmly on my way when I realize that the whole of Calea Victoriei is indeed brimming with Legionaries. Fierce, dark figures full of menace stop and loiter in front of Jewish shops. What are they waiting for? Probably a signal to attack. I go into the barber’s and see that it is empty. Next to the elevator a major is setting up a ma-chine gun. Sandbags are brought from various places to serve as barricades. I take Mama, Tata, and Benu—and we run to hide. Where? To Alice’s is my first idea, but for some reason I give it up. “The best would be home at Granny’s.” That is indeed where we go (the house in Brăila on Strada Unirii), and I feel calmer. No one will come here; no one will guess where we are. In the house we find Granny and what looks like Auntie Caroline. In an adjoining room Benu is in bed with Mali (a girl who lived near us in Brăila some fifteen years ago, the niece of the Lubiş family). I get into bed beside her. She is naked, unexpectedly beautiful, warm, and with firm breasts. At which point I wake up . . .

  “The great battle of Kiev is over,” states yesterday’s German communiqué. The balance sheet: 665,000 prisoners, 884 tanks, 3,718 guns. “A victory without historical precedent has been won.” Using the same tone as the official communiqué, the DNB dispatches go even further and suggest that the whole war may now reach a resolution. “A great turning point in the campaign against the Soviets.” “It is possible that the war may now take a sensational turn.”

  Camil Petrescu claims that Odessa is resisting because of the Jews. He says there are a hundred thousand Jewish refugees from Bessarabia inside the city; they know they will be shot if they are captured by the Romanians, so they prefer to fight and resist. The Anglo-Americans— Camil continues—will undoubtedly win the war, but that too will be because of the Jews. For it is they who (especially in America) are insisting on war and making any compromise impossible.

  “Et voilà pourquoi votre fille est muette. ”6

  Monday, 29 September

  Also from yesterday’s conversation with Camil Petrescu: The Romanian government has denounced the Vienna agreement with the Hungarians. Horthy went running to Hitler, who told him that the Romanians are right, that the problem of Transylvania will have to be reviewed, and that in any case the Romanians deserve satisfaction because they have been fighting well and making great sacrifices within the framework of the Axis. Horthy then appealed to Mussolini but received the same reply.

  Vişoianu tells me that Grigorcea, the Romanian envoy in Rome who returned a few days ago to Bucharest, describes the situation in Italy as desperate, with unimaginable poverty and extreme discouragement. The only fascist in Italy is Mussolini, surrounded by a band of profiteers. The masses hold him responsible for everything: war, hunger, poor military preparation. Grigorcea thinks that if the British air force gave Italy a good drubbing for a couple of weeks, the regime would not hang on any longer. The situation is even worse than at the time of the defeats in Albania.

  I read in yesterday’s papers that the daily bread ration in Italy has been set at two hundred grams—until the next harvest. It’s a bit early in September to be looking forward to the next harvest.

  In Prague, Baron Nemeth [actually von Neurath] has been removed (sick leave), and the Czech prime minister has been arrested and put on trial for treason. The DNB dispatch hints that the anti-German agitation in the protectorate is very serious.

  I still had 130 lei in my pocket. I gave Mama 100 and now have 30. Tomorrow I’ll have to find some money from somewhere. But from whom? I’m embarrassed to ask Aristide—and I haven’t yet decided to speak to Zissu.

  Wednesday, 1 October

  Yesterday I ended up with three lei in my pocket. It’s a strange feeling to be in the street without any money at all. You feel defenseless. You can’t even get on a streetcar. I don’t know what I’ll do. Today Uncle Moritz unexpectedly gave Mama back ten thousand lei that she lent a few years ago to Poldy. This will last another ten days or so. And then?

  The headline in today’s Universul: “Germany Is Prepared for Winter Campaign.” The psychological effect of the victory in Kiev has come to an end. Now there is another pause in the war with the Russians. The balance of hopes and disappointments is again slightly tilting toward London—until, that is, a new German blow causes the propaganda to take off in the other direction. Be this as it may, we are now in October.

  Numerous executions in Prague: three Czech generals, several university professors, as well as engineers and architects. A Karl Čapek was on the list of those condemned to death. But I don’t think this was the writer, who died—I think—in 1939.

  Yom Kippur. I fasted and in the evening went to hear the shofar at the Temple. I felt a certain indifference. How much more moving it all used to be in Brăila!

  Benu arrived yesterday evening and went back this evening.

  Friday, 3 October

  The German communiqués have returned to the old vague formulations: “operations are proceeding according to plan”; “the offensive is continuing successfully”; “our actions are developing methodically,” and so on. In town, people say that the Russians have reported successes in the Leningrad region, regaining fifty kilometers of territory and freeing the rail link with Moscow. I haven’t listened to London for a long time and have no direct information about this.

  In Prague the prime minister and, two days later, the mayor have been executed. The death sentences continue.

  Hitler spoke this afternoon. I was with Eugen7 and Rodica in Cişmigiu around six o’clock, just when the speech was being broadcast. We went to the Buturugă (where there is a radio) and sat down at a table. I wanted to listen—but after a few seconds Eugen turned pale and stood up.

  “I can’t take it! I can’t!”

  He said this with a kind of physical desperation. Then he ran off, and of course we went after him. I felt I could have hugged him.

  For some time I have been dreaming of all kinds of things, nearly all of them in Brăila, in the house at Strada Unirii 119. I don’t know where they are coming from, what they mean, what they are trying to say.

  I went out this morning with a complete schedule. It can’t go on like this! I thought to myself yesterday. I must do something. I must find some money. I must find some work. Anything, anyhow—but I must get out of this dire poverty. So I made up my mind: 1) to see Rosetti and ask him to speak with Rebreanu about a translation, and with Byck8 about a few hours of Romanian teaching at his school; 2) to see Ocneanu and ask him for a translation; 3) to make contact again with Roger, also for a translation; and 4) to see Zissu and ask his help for a job, or some kind of business. I went to see Rosetti, but I didn’t manage to say anything. I called in on Ocneanu, but he was busy and I was too shy to wait. I didn’t have the courage to see Roger, because I feel guilty toward him. So nothing in my schedule actually happened. A day wasted. And then, feeling ashamed of my faintheartedness, I rang Zissu.

  “Come at once. I’ll be waiting.”

  On the way, I already regretted my haste. It would have been better to postpone it, to wait for a suitable occasion. Still, I did speak
to him. I don’t know what I was like; I can’t even remember it too clearly. He offered to give me some money. I refused. I asked him to think of a solution, and he promised to do so. I left feeling relieved, without too much hope in what might come out of it, but pleased that I had done one thing on my “schedule.”

  Saturday, 4 October

  Hitler’s speech yesterday contains one interesting point: “A new operation on a huge scale began forty-eight hours ago. It will help to destroy the enemy in the east.” In which sector is this operation taking place? What are its objectives? How will it unfold? A mystery, for the time being. The German dispatches say nothing, and I haven’t had an opportunity to listen to London. In any event, it must be something serious and it is probably expected to bring results soon, for Hitler would not risk anything that looked uncertain.

  Rosetti (I saw him last night at Camil’s) thought the speech was masterful. It struck me, rather, as insignificant, as what is called a “moderate” speech. It did not touch on any of the problems of the hour. Not a word about America, nothing about Turkey, nothing about Prague or Paris, nothing much about war policy. Unexpectedly circumspect toward Britain, so that one had a sense of vague peace overtures.

  Forty-four lei for a hundred grams of butter. From one day to the next, prices increase, sometimes even double. It is not speculation; it is rout, panic, the desperation of those with money “set aside” who see it melting before their eyes, turning into pulp or ashes!

  “Inflation is mass murder,” said Camil, fearful that his thirty or forty thousand lei a month would lose its value.

  “It doesn’t affect me, Camil, old boy. I don’t have any money.”

  “Ah!” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  Indeed, was there any more to be said?

  Sunday, 5 October

  The German communiqué reports “large-scale operations,” thereby underlining what Hitler said the day before yesterday. Yet neither the Russian communiqués nor the British commentaries seem to register anything special at the front. We’ll have to wait a few days to see what is going on.

  An official Romanian communiqué reports that Soviet attacks have been repulsed in Ukraine, east of the Dnieper, in the region of the Sea of Azov, and on the Odessa front. The last part of the communiqué puts Romanian losses so far at 15,000 missing (half dead, half captured by the Russians), 20,000 dead, 78,000 wounded.

  Monday, 6 October

  Neither yesterday evening’s German communiqué nor this evening’s gives any new indication about the front. Vague phrases: “operations are continuing successfully”; “we are chalking up fresh successes.” The major action announced in Hitler’s speech has not yet shown itself.

  A day of rushing around. I am determined to do something to get some money. This morning I drew up a long list of telephone numbers—but I rang everywhere without results. I went to Hachette’s (taking my heart in my mouth), but I couldn’t find Roger. I’ll try again tomorrow. I spoke to Ocneanu about translations, but he didn’t give me many grounds for hope. Finally, on Mrs. Zissu’s suggestion, I decided to try the art trade. I’ll see Oprescu tomorrow, and Devechi also tomorrow. I must try everything.

  I am still reading Taine’s history. It’s hard going, because I keep alternating it with Sterne, Shakespeare, and Shaw. Taine strikes me as opaque and often obtuse. What he says about Tristram Shandy is plain stupid. I am at the chapter on Byron, from which I have retained two sentences pro domo meo. On the personal need to write: “To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all. . . .” And on the impossibility of reworking texts after the first draft: “I can never recast anything. I am like the tiger. If I miss the first spring, I go grumbling to my jungle again. But if I do it, it is crushing.” The last point does not fit me: “Never crushing.”

  Tuesday, 7 October

  I have heard from two different sources (Rosetti, Jianu) that, according to Radio London, the new German offensive is directed at Moscow from three directions: from Lake Ilmen, from Smolensk in the center, and from Bryansk in the south. The Russian lines are said to have been “deeply penetrated” in the center.

  I have been to see Devechi. I asked him to speak to Antoine about a possible job in one of his firms. I have no illusions, but, par acquit de conscience,9 I want to do everything possible to find some money. I hadn’t seen Devechi since July, when he told me that the whole war in Russia would be over by the first of September. I thought he might now be forced slightly to modify his political line of argument. But I found him cool as a cucumber. No, no—nothing exceptional has happened in Russia. Hitler will win without difficulty; everything is simple and inevitable.

  I also visited Oprescu, at the museum. The Şosea was empty, with many dead leaves. A pale yellow that made everything look beautiful. I could have been in a different country, a different city—maybe Lisbon or Geneva. Oprescu has arranged an appointment for me with Petrascu for Thursday afternoon. We’ll see what comes of it. It is hard for me, but I just have to shut my eyes and press on.

  Wednesday, 8 October

  Yesterday evening’s German communiqué reports a major battle in the northern sector of the Sea of Azov. This evening’s communiqué, graver in tone, speaks of an encircling operation around Vyazma, where several Russian armies are awaiting the “inevitable end.” So the great blow is being delivered at what has so far been the stablest point: the center. The main objective is undoubtedly Moscow.

  Thursday, 9 October

  “The whole Soviet front has collapsed,” declared Dr. Dietrich today to the foreign press. And he added: “The operations under way have only a secondary importance. The ground is being methodically occupied.” This evening’s German communiqué says that, apart from the troops surrounded in Vyazma, “three army corps will soon be destroyed in the Bryansk sector.” In London the Russian defeat is being described as a disaster. The greatest battle in history! The greatest victory in history! The breakthrough in the central sector is taking place at two different points, over an area—according to the British communiqué—of one hundred miles. The town of Orel has been occupied.

  I walked with Branişte toward Alice’s, where we had lunch together. He confided in me that a year ago he started and almost completed preparations for us to leave the country. Why didn’t he succeed? Because he didn’t take enough trouble, because he didn’t hurry enough. I felt dazed as I listened to him. So everything could have been different—absolutely everything. We depend on chance, on coincidence, on a little luck and some persistent effort.

  I visited the painter Petraçcu. He opened the door himself. An old dodderer, hardly able to stand up. He took me into his studio, where he sat down in a corner without saying a word, huddled as if from cold beside an imaginary fire. He let me look around and take notes; he didn’t ask any questions or point me toward anything in particular. He introduced me to his wife, who came and went without a word.

  “What’s the price of those flowers over on the left?”

  “We’re not selling those.”

  “Do you have any other flowers?”

  He searched in a corner and found an old painting in a frame with broken glass.

  “Forty thousand,” he said as he showed it to me. Then immediately, with a frightened haste:

  “No, fifty. That’s right, fifty thousand. What with the money changing like this, we ourselves don’t know how much to ask.”

  But this did not stop him saying a few minutes later:

  “You know, they are fixed prices.”

  I lingered over some canvases that I shall mention to Mrs. Zissu. But I don’t think there will be much doing.

  I saw Zissu this morning. He offered to lend me some money "until you find work." I didn't say either yes or no, but I stressed that I wanted to find a longer-term solution. I want to work, to do something—anything other titan literature. Administrative work, brokerage, commerce—anything that brings in enough for the rent and house
keeping.