Journal 1935–1944

by Mihail Sebastian

  Titu Devechi says that neither any information I might have, nor any use of my imagination, could help me form even the most approximate idea of what the carnage was like in Bukovina and Bessarabia. As to the war, he surprised me by saying that he no longer believed in a German victory. In his view, the Germans are on the way down; they will try to secure peace at any price, and it is possible that the British (fearing the Russians) will grant it.

  Bad weather, the onset of winter, the halting of the offensive against Moscow and Leningrad, the Italian losses, Goebbels’s article, Hitler’s speech—all together have led to an ever more widespread conviction that the denouement is approaching. Anglophile optimism is going through a period of special intensity. I don’t allow myself to be carried away. I am well aware that another bout of depression will follow soon, according to that automatic swing of the pendulum to which I have grown accustomed. The end is still a long way off. A long way.7

  It snowed this morning, but it was not a wintry snow. November: gloomy, wet, and mucky.

  Thursday, 13 November

  Snow, blizzard, a wintry day.

  At Dorohoi, dozens of families wait in wagons at the station to leave. Exactly the same system is in operation in Gura Humorului: drums beating in the middle of the night, people herded toward the station, houses locked and sealed. Here in Bucharest their relatives are at their wit’s end as they run around seeking compassion—but from whom? At the president’s office, at the Interior Ministry, at army headquarters, they are received with a shrug of the shoulders: “We know nothing about it.”

  Benu, in Fierbinţi, lives in a cold house without a stove, without wood. On top of everything, he is tormented by his old attacks of sciatica. Of course he doesn’t write to us about all that, but I have spoken to someone who has come from there. From Poldy there has been no news for such a long time. It is with aching hearts that we live and wait. And we even find the strength to laugh, to read, to talk!

  I have returned to Balzac: Une fille d’Eve, an excellent little novel set in the Paris of politics, literature, and theatre, in 1832.

  Friday, 14 November

  A heavy November day. Thick snowfall.

  Nothing new at the front. On the Atlantic, on the other hand, the British have lost the Ark Royal to a submarine torpedo. In Washington the neutrality law has been repealed after a long hard battle in Congress.

  “The Jews Are to Blame” is the title of Goebbels’s latest article in Das Reich.

  A few hours of music at Lena’s. A lot of Bach, a lot of Vivaldi, the Goldberg Variations, the first Brandenburg concerto, a concerto for four pianos and orchestra, a concerto for string instruments.

  Monday, 17 November

  A bad day with the blues. I have no money and don’t know where to turn. There are only four days left until I have to deliver the shorts, underwear, socks, and so on. We should buy the missing things, but with what? Sometimes a feeling of powerlessness leaves me paralyzed. I no longer see anything ahead; all paths are closed, everything is pointless— and suicide seems the only escape.

  Kerch in the Crimea has fallen. Sebastopol is still holding out. Nothing new on the other fronts. Winter seems to have snowed in the war.

  Pippidi’s room (I called by to take him some books) is the kind of island in which I wouldn’t have minded living myself. A desk, a library, solitude, light, quietness. He is working on a study about the date of Tiberius’s enthronement.

  Tuesday, 18 November

  I met Corin Grossu.8 He is recently back from Odessa, which he entered on the very day after it was captured. Intelligent, measured, and well informed, he told me a number of interesting things. (How hysterical by comparison appears Camil, who shouts and thunders and blindly rushes into the most stupid enormities!) Grossu does not think the end of the war is in sight; rather, everything will sooner or later come crashing down in a catastrophe whose nature is hard to predict. He too is sure that the Germans cannot win, but nor does he believe in a swift British victory.

  Lunch with Ghita Ionescu at Gina’s. I had the feeling that he is making more than a career for himself—a fortune. He told me that he was at the Melody one evening, and that everyone there was “a grafter from the Economics Ministry.” Does he say that to show off?

  Oprescu saw G. Nothing doing. Vague expressions of pity, sighs and regrets-—but that was all. Anyway, I have rather gone off the idea of leaving.

  Thursday, 20 November

  The British have launched an offensive in Libya! It began on the night of the 18th, and Churchill announced it today as a major event in the general course of the war. It seems to be on a large scale and to have got off to a successful start, though it is too early to tell what will happen.

  On the Russian front, the Germans are again attacking Moscow after relative quiet for the last two to three weeks. Will they capture it? Anyway, they will certainly do everything possible, make every necessary effort. At Tula and Kalinin they seem to have broken through the Russian lines. The relief from winter (we are back in November) has given them a fresh opportunity for action. Powerful attacks have also been unleashed at Sebastopol and Rostov.

  A dispatch from Berlin that appeared in today’s Universul: “As regards the cold, the thermometer records a slight drop in temperatures, established over several months.”

  I am broke and feel more helpless than ever. What can I do? To whom can I turn?

  Saturday, 22 November

  Too little news about the British offensive in Libya. Things seem to be going well, if not with lightning speed.

  In Russia the Germans report that they have taken Rostov. Major battles in Moscow, launched from the directions of Kalinin and Tula.

  Vivi thinks that my planned departure is not unrealistic, after all. He has also spoken to Mrs. G. He too is thinking of leaving. But I don’t dare take these ideas any further.

  Last night I finished a splendid novel by Balzac—Béatrix—one of his finest.

  Benu has at last returned again from Fierbinţi.

  Sunday, 23 November

  In Libya the British have occupied Port Capuzzo. There is not much information about how the offensive has been going. Major German attacks on Moscow, especially from the north, where they have occupied Kalinin.

  I am penniless, completely penniless—and I don't know what to do. I thought of speaking today with Aristide, but I couldn't pluck up the courage. Besides, it is a long time since I saw him alone. He seems to be somehow avoiding this.

  Monday, 24 November

  A night fall of intricate, confused dreams. I remembered them quite well when I woke up in the morning, but then I almost entirely lost the thread. All I can still reconstruct is the first part of one dream. I am in Paris. The city is full of red and black loaves of bread, which no one is allowed to touch. The red is bright and powerful, the black burnt like charcoal.

  I am told that the British have reported taking Bardia.

  The Council of Ministers decided yesterday that Jews should pay certain taxes instead of performing work for the state. Those who don’t pay will be sent off to work, while those who don’t pay and are too ill to work will be expelled.

  Tuesday, 25 November

  A lot of music yesterday evening at Gina’s and Ghita’s. A Beethoven quartet (played by the Calvets), the third Brandenburg concerto, the Vivaldi-Bach Concerto for Four Pianos and Orchestra, a Bach chorale and fugue on the organ, the Death of Isolde, Ravel’s La valse, two Chopin nocturnes. I returned home after one in the morning—the first time for so many months. It was snowing gently; the whole city white and calm.

  At Ghita’s yesterday, Ceausescu—the general secretary at the Economics Ministry—listened avidly to the French-language bulletin from London at 11:15, happy that fifteen thousand Germans and Italians had been taken prisoner in Libya. He too is expecting a British victory. But in the interim he sees nothing odd in holding public office under the present regime. Incompatibility is not a problem that occurs to people here on th
e Danube.

  A number of funny things in the Gina-Ghiţă family. Gina is as ever la folk du logis.9 But Ghiţă is indescribable. We drank a good (and “not too expensive”) wine, as we all agreed. “Ghiţă brought it from the Romanianization Board,” Gina said. Just like that.

  I heard people shouting in the street at one in the morning: Unity! Unity! A new decree on the Romanianization of Jews.

  Yesterday I read Le colonel Chabert and found it surprising. A little Daumier engraving: powerful, cold, and precise. I finished the third volume of the Pléiade Balzac.

  The Struma was due to leave Constanta today. But last night the people were turned away from the station at the last moment. The Struma won’t be sailing [for Palestine]. The government’s permission has been withdrawn. I feel a little as if my own escape attempt has failed.

  A confused situation in Libya. A grave situation in Moscow.

  Friday, 28 November

  I saw Balcic for a moment last night in a dream—but a wonderful Balcic full of light and color. I was on the crest of the plateau, and suddenly the green gulf (it was April or May) and the deep blue sea opened before me. It was stunningly beautiful—but I immediately woke up and everything vanished.

  The headlines in the afternoon papers: “Moscow’s Fate Is Sealed!”; “Moscow’s Fate Is Finally Sealed!”

  Sunday, 30 November

  The Germans have evacuated Rostov, a week after their reported occupation of it. A powerful Russian offensive from the Sea of Azov. I cannot work out the scale of the operation. The German advance at Moscow appears to have been slowed or checked—though the situation remains no less serious. In Libya everything is confused. A junction has been partly accomplished at Tobruk. The British have superiority, but it is not completely clear-cut. In Washington, negotiations with the Japanese are on the point of collapsing. Will war break out in the Pacific?

  In the past two days I have seen nearly all the few people I am in the habit of seeing: Aristide, Alice, Branişte, Belu, Eugen, Camil, Rosetti, Gulian, Lena, Harry. I spoke with all of them about the war—and the whole thing seemed more distressing, more absurd, more futile than ever. Camil thinks the Germans are unbeatable. Branişte thinks they are lost. Aristide is disgusted at the British lack of seriousness in Libya. Belu is excited about the Russian offensive. But in essence, all say the same things over and over again. Days, weeks, months pass—and all we do is talk, talk, talk. It is driving me up the wall. I can’t stand this stupid game of working ourselves up over all manner of ridiculous opinions, which never change anything.

  A colorful visit to the Bibescus. Antoine is the same as ever. His wife is suffering from a serious case of general amnesia, but she remains incredibly intelligent. We chatted for a long time in Antoine’s room (at the Athénée Palace) until he arrived. There was an amusing episode with Speranţa (I regret not recording it here, but I don’t feel up to writing a longer note).

  Recently I have been thinking of the major novel that I once planned. The initial episode at least (the theatrical tour in the provinces) is clear in my mind; I could start to write it now. Then there are numerous ramifications which it would be interesting to follow through. It could all grow into something even larger than I bargained for. There is enough material not for one but for five books. From 1927 to the present, a long series of situations framed by the history proper of these fourteen years. But will I write it? Will I ever write again? I am vegetating, dragging myself from one day to the next, becoming old and worn out, losing myself. Is there still anything to be done with me? Do I still have any demands? Any expectations? Can I still get anything out of life? Can life still get anything out of me? Physical decrepitude and moral disgust— that’s about all there is. Otherwise, poverty, penury, lack of a solution, a sense of being abandoned and helpless.

  Monday, 1 December

  Skis have been confiscated from Jews. An order has been passed obliging us to hand them over at once to the Community.

  Things are developing slowly but satisfactorily in Libya. Resistance in Moscow. A Russian offensive on the Sea of Azov. That is more or less a summary of the war today. But people are more restless, more impressionable, more hasty, more enthusiastic than the facts themselves. Everyone you meet tells you that in Libya the British are already south of Benghazi, that Rommel’s headquarters have been surrounded, that von Kleist’s army in southern Russia has been destroyed, that Taganrog has been recaptured, that the Germans are running to Mariupol and starting to withdraw from the Crimea. You wonder where all these stupidities and exaggerations are dreamed up. It’s a kind of need to feel intoxicated at any price—even at the price of lies.

  I have finished (after an interruption of several weeks) the Confessions of an English Opium Eater. It is less interesting than Quincey’s fame would lead you to expect, but it is nonetheless worth reading. The right tone for confessions—direct, virile, precise.

  Wednesday, 3 December

  German successes both in Libya and in Russia. At Tobruk they have broken into the corridor that the British established last week between the fort and the armies outside. The situation again seems grave. As to Rostov, the Russian success seems to be more a local incident than part of a large-scale action.

  Last night—after so many years!—I leafed through Spengler’s Années décisives, which I read for the first time in 1935, I think. There are stunning predictions, some of them miraculous, but also an unexpected page (suddenly of burning topicality) about the impossibility of a war against Russia. “The population of this vast plain, the largest in the world, cannot be attacked from outside. The spatial expanse is a political and military strength that no one has ever been able to overcome. Napoleon himself had to learn this through experience. Even if the enemy were to occupy the vastest regions, it would still be of no avail. [. . . ] The whole region to the west of Moscow—Byelorussia, the Ukraine, the whole region between Riga and Odessa that was once the most flourishing in the Empire—is today no more than a huge ‘buffer’ against Europe that could be abandoned without a collapse of the system. This being so, however, the idea of an offensive by the West makes no sense. It would run up against a void.” Written in 1929, published in 1932.

  Friday, 5 December

  A dream the night before last. I am in a huge hall, seated at an endless rectangular table with a large number of guests. It appears to be a banquet. A door opens right behind me, and Hitler walks in. He approaches the table and asks: “Who is Radu Apotecker?” Radu Apotecker is seated to the left across the table from me. He stands up. Hitler comes beside him, grabs his tie, and violently shakes him. A beautiful young brunette slaps Hitler a couple of times—but at the same moment realizes the enormity of her gesture and bursts into tears. She is lost! we all feel it, as if a shudder has passed through us. I don’t know how that incident ends (as if there is a break in the dream), but Hider walks along the table behind me and stops at the end on the right. He orders the first six diners to get to their feet. Among these six are myself and Benu. He asks us all for our names. The first four are Romanians. Then comes our turn. We are petrified with fear, but just then Mihai Antonescu comes up and whispers to me: “I’ve got to leave, but I’ll be back. Don’t be afraid: nothing is going to happen.”

  I don’t know what I’ll do in the end because of my lack of money. I have borrowed two thousand lei from Lereanu, and one thousand from Comşa. I was supposed to pay my teacher yesterday, but I postponed it until tomorrow. Even assuming I find the several thousand I need at once, what will I do then? There are terrible nightmares from which you awake with a start, ready to scream with fear—but you do awake from them. When will I awake from this nightmare?

  The street lamps are out—a general blackout. There seems to have been a British ultimatum. But even if it comes to a formal declaration of war, would this have more than a purely demonstrative significance? My only fear is that there might then be another anti-Semitic outburst and a general worsening of the climate.

&nbs
p; A pause in Libya. In southern Russia there is fighting to the west of Taganrog (which has not been recaptured, though). A grave situation in Moscow.

  Everything passes slowly and with exasperating difficulty, endless and seemingly hopeless. To escape from here seems more and more an impossible adventure.

  Sunday, 7 December

  The British ultimatum has finally been made known. From midnight tonight we are at war with Britain. I am writing these lines a quarter of an hour after midnight. I am very worried about the consequences inside the country. After a few days of relative calm, I fear there will be another outbreak of anti-Semitism.

  Monday, 8 December

  Japan has entered the war. Landings in Malaysia and Borneo. Invasion of Thailand. Aerial attacks on Singapore, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Honolulu. Once again I was mistaken in thinking that it would not come to war. I knew that the regime in Tokyo could not accept the American conditions, but I was convinced that the negotiations would drag on indefinitely. The war is spreading to the whole planet. The old reasoning that held until yesterday has become redundant. Everything is more serious, more complex, and more obscure.

  It would appear that Moscow’s position is less acute. In fact the whole Russian front has more or less frozen up. This evening’s German communiqué opens on an unexpected note: “The continuation of operations and the form of battle in the east hinge upon the arrival of the Russian winter. Over great stretches of the eastern front, only local operations are now being reported.”