“Why can’t you write more ordinarily?” she said to me with sincere regret.
I can’t explain to her—nor would she believe—that Insula is a simple play without intellectual pretensions, a real comedy with just a little poetry here and there. But poetry, even in minimal doses, scares her in the theatre.
There is no news about the British offensive in Africa. All we know is that it is in full swing. The German commentaries suggest that it is of enormous proportions. We shall see.
Frances D.2 would have been another one of my women if I had permitted myself such a thing. She is frankly ugly but young, clever, humorous, and—last but not least—from Yorkshire. What would I not have done for Yorkshire!
Friday, 30 October
My love games are one of the most stupid tortures. They are humiliating, dangerous, futile, and meaningless—and yet I cannot give them up once and for all. I know they lead nowhere, can lead nowhere, and that they are doomed to end in the most grotesque way, but each time I embark on the same ridiculous farce, with some weird combination of imposture and good faith, as if I were trying it all out for the first time. It is hard to be a has-been, and seriously to accept that fact. What is unforgivable in my case is that I drag into such false situations people who have done nothing wrong except to know me: Celia, Leni, Zoe. This afternoon was so painful that I feel disgusted with myself. Et maintenant, il faut s’en tirer.3
Monday, 2 November
Here we are in November, and nothing has changed in the course of the war. October passed almost without military events. Stalingrad is still holding out, and the other fronts are not moving. Some people, of course, go on living: money, work, love—everything is for them more or less normal, at most hindered, and in any event fitted into their lives. For me, the war has suspended everything. I wait as I would for a train, meanwhile tossing around between torpor and exasperation. I have never known how to wait quietly for something. When I was an attorney, an afternoon of waiting in the courtrooms used to seem a terrible ordeal. Now my whole life is one long wait.
No news of the British offensive in Africa. Great caution in both sides’ propaganda. The fighting continues, but so far remains stationary. If the British liquidate this front (as they might logically do after all their experiences), anything is possible. It could even bring the end rushing on. But if they do not succeed (which is what we tend to think, after all they have done so far), nothing more can be expected for another year.
L. is a delightful girl. Even if age has not left her features unmarked, her body still has a delightful youth, warmth, and firmness. She also has the most charming mixture of tact and impudence. Anyone who resigns himself to having her as a capricious and welcome gift, without making any demands, is a lucky man. The error begins with the first grain of jealousy, which in her case is so out of place. When she sleeps with another man, and then again with you, she doesn’t deceive either you or him. She just likes to fuck—and puts into it all her candor and grace. But I am forbidden such pleasurable compounds of sensuality and indifference.
Thursday, 5 November
A British advance—even victory, it seems—in Egypt. They report 9,000 enemy prisoners, 600 aircraft, and some 250 tanks destroyed or captured. The German and Italian communiqués both admit retreating to a second line, but do not treat this as important. In general, yesterday’s and today’s papers have put out propaganda preparing for the announcement of a retreat. We cannot believe anything yet. Over the past two years in Africa, we have seen the most dramatic turnarounds from one day to the next.
The Ministry of Propaganda has ordered the removal of books by Jewish writers from libraries and bookshops. Today, at Hachette, I saw two printed boards with huge letters: Jewish Writers. There too, of course, I was presented as a troublemaker or criminal, with my parents’ names, my date of birth, and a list of my books. Only my distinguishing features were not mentioned. At first I laughed (especially as the whole board was full of mistakes), but then I thought that this kind of poster does us no good. I fear that it will attract attention to us, and who knows what that might lead to. For two years I have not been to the theatre or gone to restaurants; I avoid walking around the city center; I don’t see anyone or try to get in touch with anyone; I keep to myself as much as possible and let others forget about me—and now here is my name in all the bookshops!
Sunday, 8 November
The Americans and British have landed at several points in Morocco and Algeria. It seems to be a major operation, preceded by a declaration in French from Roosevelt. There is fighting in Rabat, Oran, and Algiers. Pétain’s troops are resisting. I don’t yet know what attitude the Germans will take. Rommel’s situation will become terrible if he must also face an attack from Tunisia. For the moment he has retreated to somewhere between Fouka and Mersa Matruh, roughly 120 kilometers from his original position. The retreat seems to be continuing, and the number of prisoners to be growing. The British are calling it a disaster. The DNB Agency speaks of “war of movement” and a skillful retreat.
Monday, 9 November
We still don’t know the details of what is happening in Africa. Certainly the pace of events has speeded up—events that may be absolutely decisive or may be no more than important. We shall be able to see more clearly in a few days’ time. For the moment we are at fever pitch, still dizzy from the first shock of it all.
Algiers already surrendered yesterday evening. It is more than a surrender; it is an accord worked out a long time ago between the Anglo-Americans and the insurgent French forces. The insurrection and landing have been running in parallel, both in Morocco and in Algeria. No news about Tunisia. In Egypt, Rommel is continuing to retreat. He seems to have abandoned Mersa Matruh and crossed the Libyan frontier, leaving behind a number of encircled infantry divisions. Is it a rout? Does he have a plan? Can he still have a plan? The answer depends on what Hitler decides about the whole matter; for it is no longer a local battle but affects the main lines of the war as a whole. I await that decision with some anxiety! Will he march into the unoccupied part of France? (I am thinking of Poldy.) Will he force Pétain into some kind of military collaboration? Or will he do nothing for the time being (which is hard to believe)? Yesterday he gave a traditional speech at a Nazi party festival in Munich; but it was overtaken by events and therefore appeared inconclusive, except perhaps in its confusion. Only one section was clear: that which again threatened the extermination of the Jews.
Tuesday, 10 November
Darlan is “in American hands,”4 though I don’t know whether as prisoner or ally. In any event, Pétain has taken over supreme command of the French army. In Oran and Casablanca there were brief cease-fires for a few hours, then renewed fighting, but it does not seem possible that the resistance will last long. The occupation of Algeria is proceeding apace. Nor is there much resistance in Morocco. Roosevelt has asked the Bey of Tunisia to allow Allied troops to cross Tripolitania, evidently so that they can fall on Rommel’s army from the rear. According to the Italian communiqué, he is continuing to retreat. But where is he now? Where will he stop? Berlin has given no sign of a response to the major events, but I think that something is brewing beneath the silence.
We must try to control our emotion, to look at things coolly and clearly. Frenzy is exhausting; certain joys wear you out. Of course it is hard not to rejoice, but now is the time to keep calm. Yesterday evening I read over last June’s pages from this journal, when Rommel was “at the gates of Palestine.” I remember the Axis frenzy of excitement at that time. Everything—even the most fantastic plans—seemed simple, straightforward, original. The Germans saw themselves grabbing the whole of the Middle East, on three continents, in one enormous pincer movement. And today the reality has turned right around. Triumph and collapse at a distance of four months from each other.
Where will today’s triumph lead the Allies? What will happen over the next four months? I ask these questions on the evening of a day full of such great hopes.<
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I keep thinking of the threats that Hitler made yesterday. He wants to exterminate us—and that is perhaps the only thing he is certainly capable of doing. The thought suddenly crossed my mind that one night— a night like this—we might all be butchered in our homes. And meanwhile the air would be buzzing with the news of victory.
Wednesday, 11 November
This morning (the anniversary of the armistice in 1918), German troops marched into Lyons, Vichy, and other parts of unoccupied France. In terms of the war, I don’t think this will change anything. But my mind is on Poldy, and it is hard for me to think of anything else.
Thursday, 12 November
The thought of Poldy dominates everything. What is he doing? Through what dangers is he living? How much longer will he be able to stay where he is? In what conditions? Hundreds of questions that haunt me day and night, especially as the situation in France is so confused. No one knows what the new regime will be like. Will there still be a government? Or is it an occupation pure and simple? Will there still be any distinction between the two zones? I am afraid of the German fury. There, as here, they could find in a massacre of the Jews a kind of psychological safety valve for everything they have had to swallow during the last four days. Here too, all kinds of dark rumors about us are being whispered around: that Killinger has demanded a resumption of the deportations, that the Germans want two trainloads of Jews to be deported every day to Russia, and so on. Enthusiasm, amazement, and anxiety are mixed in equal doses, perhaps dominated, however, by the “electrifying news”5 from which we have not yet awoken.
In Algeria and Morocco the fighting has come to a complete end. In Libya, Rommel is still in retreat. The Germans and Italians seem to have sent a not very sizable force of aircraft to Tunisia. The Americans, approaching from Philippeville, are a hundred kilometers or so from the Tunisian frontier. The spectacle is dramatic and on a grand scale. Tout n'est. pas encore couru.6 There is more to be seen yet.
Friday, 13 November
The British are at Bardia and Tobruk. Rommel is still retreating. Will he try to make a stand before Benghazi? Or will he prefer to use El Agheila again?
Camil Petrescu is down in the dumps. He replied with a wan smile to the news that Rosetti gave him yesterday evening. And he somehow came up with a phrase straight out of a Camil anthology: “I too will bet on a British victory, when it is absolutely certain.”
Monday, 16 November
A conversation with Paul Sterian. (Aristide, whose library is being taken away and put up for sale, had asked me to try to get the order rescinded.) Sterian received me at his office in the ministry, with two civil servants in attendance. When I entered, he wasn’t quite sure what to do: to stand up or to remain seated. He found a middle way: he stayed in his chair, but sketched out a vague half-movement of rising.
“What is it you want, Mr. Sebastian?”
The “Mr.” was a warning to me and a demonstration to his assistants. He repeated it two or three times in the course of the interview, which could not have lasted more than five minutes. I explained to him very briefly (because I swear I felt myself choking at the farce of it) what was at issue.
“Yes, why shouldn’t the library be sold? What? He’s expecting a British victory?”
The question was a kind of denunciation—for the witnesses present in the room. He said it to me with a mocking smile, which testified to his confidence in a German victory.
I left feeling sad and humiliated, furious at myself for having gone, depressed at the whole encounter after eight years with a Paul Sterian grown rich and prosperous, powerful and full of himself. How distant our lives seemed from each other as I entered his sumptuous office for a moment, I a kind of humble petitioner, poor, weary, and helpless, my clothes worn thin. To compare us at all is somehow distressing, though there is also a funny side to it. I am now trying to view the whole thing as an episode out of Balzac.
Wednesday, 18 November
I gave the opening lecture in my Shakespeare course, for which nine students have enrolled. Another ten or eleven people, friends of mine, came along as an amicable gesture. The situation could be embarrassing—but it seems to me that I came out of it unworthily. I shall give up the course and hand the money back; it was a failure, though I don’t think I made a fool of myself. I spoke for an hour, with warmth and pleasure, as I do when I find the right tone. But I hadn’t come there to score a success. I thought I would find a solution to my money shortage. I was mistaken. That’s all.
Yesterday evening and today I read Julius Caesar. I am returning to Shakespeare and plan to finish my reading of him.
In Africa the pace of events seems to have slackened, though there is still activity everywhere. But since we have grown used to major blows every day, to lightning changes, our suddenly aroused thirst for the sensational is somehow disappointed. Rommel is continuing to retreat. The British are at Derna and will probably reach Benghazi in a few more days. It remains to be seen whether the battlefront will not be, as it was last year, at El Agheila. In Tunisia the British report advances but do not give any geographical details. The Germans and Italians are at Bizerta and Tunis, probably to cover the back of Rommel’s army. A battle is likely somewhere, either in Tunisia or in Tripolitania. In Russia it is winter: torpor and confusion. No large-scale events.
Thursday, 19 November
This evening I read Insula. (I have been so busy the last two to three weeks with the translation of Bichou and the preparation of my course that I have put Insula to one side, though anyway there is no more I can do on it for the moment.) Everything looks clearer after three weeks. Act One is excellent. Act Two is botched: not bad, botched. It will have to be rewritten, with the same material. The biggest problem is that Act One is pure comedy whereas Act Two verges on drama. The change in tone is too marked, almost as if they were not two acts of the same play. The initial situation is too comical to allow such a serious tone later on. If I continue writing the play (and I don’t feel I can continue without an assurance that it will be performed), I shall have to shed all the ballast from Act Two.
Sunday, 22 November
Since Friday morning, Benghazi has been back in British hands. Clashes between patrols are taking place at Ajdabiya. We shall see whether Rommel, who has quickly retreated all the way from El Alamein, will make a stand at El Agheila. In Tunisia the fighting has the character of skirmishes; a battle is expected for Tunis and Bizerta. In Russia the German communiqué reports Soviet attacks in the Caucasus, at the bend in the Don, and at Stalingrad.
Monday, 23 November
As yesterday and the day before, this evening’s German communiqué speaks of “heavy defensive fighting” to the south of Stalingrad and at the bend in the Don, as well as of (repelled) Soviet tank attacks at Lake Ilmen. I don’t know what the Soviet communiqué says, and there is no way of telling how large the battle has been. In Africa I am told that the British First Army has occupied Gabès—which would open the gates to Tripolitania from the rear, before the battle for Bizerta takes place. But who really knows?
Monday, 30 November
I have been ill since last Tuesday, when I came home at lunch with a temperature of 39 degrees [102 F.]. A few days of fever (38 to 39) have exhausted me. Today I no longer have any, but I am so weak I can hardly stand.
There were major events all last week, but I couldn’t record them here or follow them personally. The occupation of Toulon by the Germans and the scuttling of the French navy mark a serious turn. In Russia the Soviet offensive is continuing south of Stalingrad, at the bend in the Don, and at Kalinin.
Wednesday, 2 December
Nothing new at the fronts. Waiting. In Tunisia the British and Americans are approaching Tunis and Bizerta, where they will meet German-Italian resistance of unpredictable strength. In Russia, Timoshenko’s offensive appears to be fading without major operational results. This would repeat what happened last September at Rzhev and last May at Kharkov. But no one can know w
hether major events are in store in December, similar to the ones we saw in November.
I went out this morning for a short walk, after eight days at home. I feel extremely weak and tired.
I read with pleasure (but also with some sense of monotony) Jane Austen’s Emma. Graceful, simple, full of humor, but rather slow and too detailed— like a Dutch painting.
Depression, gloom, disgust, revulsion. I haven’t properly regained my health, and now Mama has fallen ill. The lack of a maid is more oppressive than ever. Autumnal weather, dark and damp. I have no money. Just a thousand lei left—and then? How will I pay the rent at Christmas? How will I meet the household expenses until then? No prospects, no expectations, no hopes. I’d like to sleep, to die, to forget.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 64