Renia's Diary

by Renia Spiegel

  The next girl in our row is Belka or “Belania”—fat and stocky like three hundred devils! She has an exceptional talent for academics and an even more exceptional talent for earning dislike. She has a terrible “crush” on Mrs. Skorska* and pulls stupid faces when looking at her.

  Next comes Irka (ira-ae—anger). I don’t like Irka and it’s in my blood. I inherited this hatred: my mommy didn’t like Irka’s mother much when they were in middle school. I started disliking Irka even more when she began undermining me at school—all of this plus her unfair school report and disgusting sweet-talking, lying and insincerity made me genuinely hate her. What needs to be added to this mixture is also the fact that Brühla goes to visit Irka at home, which we investigated. And Irka’s mother goes to visit Brühla at home, which we discovered peeking into the ground floor windows of Brühla’s place, where I spent many an hour with Nora waiting for her. All of that means I can’t stand the girl! But since we’re in the same class, we have to get by. So Nora and I just clench our fists and wait for an opportunity.

  When it comes to the girls sitting next to Irka, I either don’t care about them at all or I like them a little bit. On the other hand I care a bit more about the girl sitting at the very back of the classroom, namely Luna, who sits behind me and constantly bombards my back. She thinks of herself as a very talented and unearthly creature. During parties and generally all the time she “pretends” to be this or that, tries to draw attention to her beauty (which she doesn’t possess), her exceptional abilities (which are figments of her imagination) and her importance (which she’s never had). Luna is always trying to get the attention from boys, so, being short, she wears high heels, pencils her eyebrows longer and powders her face. At first she “borrowed” Irka Łozińska’s powder and did it supposedly “just for fun.” And now she doesn’t do it “for fun” at all, but entirely seriously.

  Irka Łozińska must be the most beautiful girl in our class or perhaps even the whole school. You don’t even mind her dark, almost orange skin tone (powder-related, of course) and her patronizing voice or harsh words spoken by coral-red lips revealing beautiful, snow-white teeth. But Irka has the worst of all flaws; she has tuberculosis … Yes, sometimes she bleeds from the mouth and nose. I feel sorry for Irka. She has a boyfriend who loves her, but he doesn’t know that his girlfriend’s so seriously ill.

  Irka sits at the very back of the classroom. Next to her there are two stony figures: Halina (very bad) with greatly coiffured hair and Sławka who always pulls surprised faces, never answers and hides Halina under her desk when she wants to avoid answering a teacher’s question. Then there is the third Irka, thin as a rake and very ugly. Next to her sits Elza, my former neighbor. She plays all innocent but I know very well that it’s just a game. She has decent grades, but her school report is always better than she deserves. Supposedly she always copies her Latin homework from the third Irka … but who cares.

  Then there is the president of our class, Krzyśka. Krzyśka doesn’t know anything and speaks as if she has dumplings filled with sand in her mouth, but she’s pretty and always head-over-heels in love with all her Zbyszeks, Sławeks, Leszeks, Zdzisios, etc. She’s friends with Luna.

  In front of her the first Eda (there are three of them) bends and sways. Eda is a “lady with claws,” she’s engaged, has a great figure and all. The second Eda is Belka’s former friend. She also has a crush on Mrs. Skorska, but she’s not good at history, which makes me suspicious. The third Eda was our enemy as recently as several months ago. Just imagine, my dear Diary, some stranger, some “stray” from the sticks arrives and wants to be the boss, tries to show us we are slow and thinks of herself as an “all-around talent.” Seriously?

  Luśka and Dziunka sit in front of Eda. Dziunka makes “nervously tectonic” moves. I was on bad terms with her for over a year, but I got over it on Brühla’s name day. Dziunka is considered the most boring person in the class and, indeed, she is one. Luśka is silly, stupid and backward. You can tell her whatever you want. But she’s a fun one, she always dances the “Andrusovo” dance with me at parties. Once Luśka yelled during a math lesson, “Miss, miss, I haven’t been called up for such a long time and I like math so much!” Nora’s response to that was, “Luśka, come on, don’t be stupid.” “Not at all,” Luśka answered, but then, when she realized what she’d done, she started stammering and widened her shiny eyes.

  In front of them, in front of the first Eda, Luśka and Dziunka, there is a strange desk reserved for “antiques.” Which means Janka. Janka is the best in the class at “playing stupid” and she only survives thanks to other people’s help. When she gets called up to the blackboard, she has all the answers written on her nails. If, by any chance, the teacher notices something suspicious, Janka quickly licks the ink off and plays the saint. Janka knows how to cry, wail and even faint on demand, quite like the first Eda, who suddenly feels woozy when Pacuła is about to ask her to recite a poem. Janka is generally very talented when it comes to making scenes. Next to her sits Wisia, a little creature who’s not even three and a half foot tall despite her fifteen years of age. The third in the row is Frejka or Salka. She gets nervous attacks every now and then, sometimes can’t say a word when too upset, walks in comical steps and skips, and often “can’t stand” sitting by her desk.

  I should also mention Ninka, this unusual girl who looks completely innocent but receives poste restante letters from various “peoples,” arranges meetings in dark streets, visits lonely men and is proud of it. She’s quite nice. There are more girls like her in our class, but, as I said before, I either don’t care about them or don’t want to hang around with them, because I am a good girl.

  We’ve been planning a party for months now. We’ve fought and disagreed, but the party is on this coming Saturday.

  FEBRUARY 2, 19391

  My dear Diary! I have always been just average in gymnastics, so I practice at home to get better. I have just managed to pull off my first somersault. None of my friends can do it. I’m triumphant, though I’ve grazed my knee.

  FEBRUARY 5, 1939

  My dear Diary, it’s after the party, finally! I’m so happy. It was a great party and everyone, especially Brühla, had a wonderful time. But some sadness awaited me after the party. And again, for the umpteenth time, I thought, “I wish Mama were here.” What happened was that Irka’s mother, Mrs. Oberhard, was all over Brühla, sweet-talking her as much as she could, which, of course, would be sure to benefit Irka and her younger sister in the near future. Oh, dear Diary, if you could only know how hard it is to want something so badly, to work so hard for it and then be denied it at the finishing line! What was it actually that I wanted? I don’t know. I was given the highest praise by Pacuła, which I don’t care about (she talked to us, me and Norka). Brühla was quite nice. But I’m still not satisfied.

  Luna performed twice and so did I. Today I saw Brühla with Mrs. Oberhard, most likely walking back from hers. I nodded politely, walked past and said to Nora, “What do you think? She was at hers again, wasn’t she?” And then I suddenly see her pulling a stupid face. I look around and see that Brühla is walking right behind us. She looks horrible, I don’t know what’s wrong with her, I would like to be of use to her, to help, perhaps to advise, but the abyss between us is so huge, so very, very huge … Perhaps even larger than the one separating me from Mama. She could help me too, she could advise. But it’s much harder, oh so much harder to bridge this gap.

  FEBRUARY 8, 1939

  Dear Diary! It’s been several days since I told you about my life, but actually nothing special has happened. Life goes on as normal, with few small exceptions. Brühla attended a Latin teachers’ conference, so Latin was taught by Mr. Skorski. Mr. Dziedzic praised Irka very much (undeservedly), Belka got a bad grade, I got away with it, but I’m worried about tomorrow, as it could be a really bad day. That’s all I needed to tell you.

  FEBRUARY 11, 1939

  It’s raining today … Such a sad, g
ray day. But I don’t feel very sad, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the idea of leaving for Canada, though it might not be so good there after all. Or perhaps it’s because I’m making a Greek vase. Anyway I’m not as sad as I usually am on rainy days when I just stand by the window and count the tears trickling down the windowpane. There are plenty of them. One small one runs, then another larger one follows it closely, then the fifth, sixth … as well as two on my cheeks. They all run down, as if they wanted to drop onto the wet, muddy street, as if they wanted to make it even dirtier, as if they wanted to make this day ugly, even uglier than it already is. But today is a mystery. Like … like a rubbish bin. Everybody thinks it’s nothing much, it’s simply nothing. But it’s not the case. I don’t know. People might laugh at me, but you’ll surely understand, my dear friend. The thing is sometimes I think inanimate objects can talk. (Actually, they are not inanimate at all. They have souls, just like people.) Sometimes I think waterworks giggle. And it’s not just me thinking this, so it must be true. Other people call this giggle different names, but it never even crosses their minds that it’s just that: a giggle. Or a rubbish bin:

  Oh, the night! Darkness came at last!

  I don’t like it here! I’m feeling harassed!

  It was better in the city,

  With its comfort, light and warmth. What a pity,

  A page came clean

  From a weekly film magazine.

  They only bought me yesterday

  and I’m already in the garbage today!

  You, at least something you’ve seen.

  At least in the world you have been.

  Your life was peaceful when at a newsagent’s bound

  While I had to run around

  In the streets, shouting all the time.

  It’s better to be a weekly

  Than a daily that passes quickly.

  I was prepared and I’m not bitter

  About ending up in the litter,

  Said wrapping paper without a jitter.

  I was a children’s magazine, alas,

  Beautifully illustrated en masse,

  Full of color and class,

  The trash can outlast.

  I’m of a different kind,

  Than a daily, I find

  Or a film weekly for that matter,

  Or even this … this wrapping paper.

  So let me tell you, I don’t like it here.

  Stay away from me or I’ll disappear!

  That causes a proper commotion in the bin.

  What?! What cheek! Aha! There you go, you mean!

  And all the papers together

  Flew out of the trash can like feathers.

  People were surprised in the morning,

  They took it as a warning

  That somebody threw papers to begin

  With, on the ground instead of in the bin.

  Renia. I send you kisses, but now I have to sit down and cram.

  FEBRUARY 13, 1939

  Can there be a worse day than Monday the 13th? Monday on its own is usually quite bad, and now we have the number 13 added to it. Bad luck! It was definitely not a good day for me. On top of all other little pieces of bad luck, I’m at school. It’s Latin and Brühla enters, so I think she’ll do a test. But no. OK, better still (I think), I’m safe. But she wants us to write essays on little pieces of paper torn out of our notebooks. Mine went as well as it could on Monday the 13th. On a bad day it went really badly. Why? Humph … Good question, why?

  Only a person who’s not superstitious could ask this. Exactly, so first of all: I missed school and as a result didn’t have certain forms; secondly: I was laughing my head off all the time; and thirdly: the essay was written on torn out pieces of paper which I didn’t respect much, so I made light of it, not even thinking that Brühla might collect those pages. At geography we had a sudden and turbulent fight over the chairs, which I didn’t take part in, but was still considered one of the castaways. We were supposed to move about the classroom. I said many times before that I’m not some kind of a loser. So I quietly moved with Nora to the last desk. Gruca looks for me and tells me to move. I don’t want to, I say I’m good where I am. She goes on and I go on.

  “Move!”

  “But I haven’t done anything.”

  And so on and on. Finally I realize that I won’t be able to get away with it, so I look for somewhere else to sit.

  “There is a place there, please move,” Gruca says.

  “Oh, anywhere but there. I’m so delicate, I get colds easily. I might get too hot by the stove and get pneumonia,” I reply.

  It’s time to end this.

  “Fine, here then,” Gruca says again.

  “Oh, not by the door! How can I sit by the door, being so delicate.”

  The whole class is of course in stitches, howling and roaring with laughter.

  I realize that I have no choice and I finally move, but it’s only on her fourth attempt. Nora sits under the desk all this time and I keep knocking. I then tell Gruca that I can’t see the map. And I continue knocking, pretending that a school inspector is coming. There was probably a thousand more adventures, but I’m glad that this exceptionally bad day’s over now.

  FEBRUARY 14, 1939

  Parent-teacher conference today. It didn’t go well, thanks to the dregs of yesterday. Brühla said my essay was terrible, so now I have something to worry about.

  FEBRUARY 15, 1939

  Nothing special today. Przemyśl is getting ready for a gas attack and I’m getting ready for a nervous attack. All because of last Monday! I was called up to the board at chemistry. I was prepared! Damn it, Dziedzic was trying to trick me.

  FEBRUARY 26, 19392

  I’ve been busy for the last few days. Arianka is here. We have a gathering tomorrow and I need to write my report.

  MARCH 28, 19393

  God, I’m so sad, so very sad … I’d just like to cry, wail and sob. How can I express how terrible I’m feeling? No … That’s not possible. Mama just left and who knows when I’ll see her again. I fell out with Nora several days ago so I need to hang out with Irka, which is not helping.

  And then there are memories … They’re always there and even though they make me cry, even though they break my heart, they’re the sweetest. They’re memories of the best time in my life. It’s springtime already! Spring used to be so good there. Birds were singing, flowers were in bloom; it was all sky, heart and happiness! People there would be thinking of the holidays now. It was so different to everything here. So tranquil, warm and friendly; I loved it so much.

  On the evening of the Passover Seder, I waited for Elijah. Maybe there was a time when this holy old man came to see happy children. But if he only came to see poor people, if he never stood in our wide-open doors, if he never let me see him, then he has to come now, when I have nothing. Nothing apart from memories. Grandpa’s unwell. Mama’s very worried about me. Oh! I’m so unhappy! Sometimes I don’t eat on purpose to avoid …

  It waits for me everywhere

  It lurks, as I’m aware

  Its ghastly, bony hands

  Want to get me in their commands

  It whispers into my ear

  In every mouthful, all I hear

  It waits for me, it calls me loudly

  It shakes its hands so proudly

  It wags its finger

  It watches and lingers …

  APRIL 2, 19394

  The religious retreat’s over. I didn’t enjoy those days. I’m still angry with Nora. And Irka didn’t want to leave me alone, so I hung out with her a bit. Toward the end I didn’t even have a good book to read. The holidays are coming. I’m learning French now and if there’s no war I might go to France. I was supposed to go before, but Hitler took over Austria, then Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia, Klaipeda,* and who knows what he’ll do next. He’s affecting my life, too. I want to write a poem for Arianka. I’ll be very happy if it comes out well.

  A little hen was feeling sickly.
>
  She went to see a doctor quickly.

  She told him in no uncertain terms:

  “Help me, doctor, I have concerns.

  When I’m angry, something’s tingling,

  Something’s jabbing, something’s stinging

  (So badly do I suffer, it keeps me busy!)

  All the time I’m feeling dizzy,

  I’m not hungry, my stomach’s churning,

  I can’t sleep at all till the morning.

  Then I’m tired in the daytime.

  Migraines mean I’m not in my prime.

  My face is a shade of prawn.

  And when my husband crows at dawn

  I go purple and black,

  I have a nervous attack.

  And let me also add, doctor dear

  That I get very sweaty, I fear.”

  So many serious ailments

  Make the doctor head for derailment.

  He thought and thought about it hard,

  He pored over many a book’s card,

  And finally he said to the hen:

  “Go back to your pen.

  I can’t help you, it’s time to die.”

  “Die? What say you? You surely lie!

  My dear doctor, don’t be a beast,

  I’m not ill, not in the least!”

  APRIL 7, 1939

  Yes … Oh yes … A bird’s song

  It’s been oh so long

  So many hours did go by

  It’s all the same as time does fly

  It’s equally sad … tearful … heavy-hearted. I don’t have a new coat and this one’s old and worn down. I don’t have new shoes, like all my friends. And even though I console myself that I have sweet thoughts and good dreams for the future, I’m still sad. The whole of Przemyśl is spruced up, every person shimmers from afar with their new, special shoes (you can tell by looking at the underside of a shoe and by listening to voices saying here and there, “Ooh, blisters!”). And everybody has a solemn face, as you should on festive days. I just don’t know why this festive mood reminds me of the time when the air-raid training was taking place.