Renia's Diary

by Renia Spiegel

  The first day at the club was fun (I mean I had fun), but today I felt like a fish out of water. People played this flirting game (some game it is) and I didn’t get even one card. I’m embarrassed to admit it even to you. Some boy named Julek (not Jurek) supposedly likes me, but why? Maybe because I’m so different from my friends. I’m not saying that’s a good thing—it could even be a bad thing—but I’m very different from them. I don’t even know how to laugh in a flirtatious way. When I laugh, it’s for real, openly. I don’t know how to “behave” around boys. That’s why I miss the old days, the age of pink … blue … being carefree … When Mama was still with me, when I had my own home, when there was peace in the world, when everything was blue, bright, serene; when such weather prevailed in my heart.

  I lived among some cheerful meadows

  Among fields painted with sunlight

  I smiled at the golden stars

  To pink emergence of daylight

  My life was also all in pink

  As bright as days filled with sun

  I didn’t want it to end in a blink

  Being a happy echo was fun

  Sounding with silver glee

  Reflecting merrily off the sky

  In love with all, happy as can be

  I didn’t know how much a heart could cry

  I didn’t know the weeping of a soul

  I didn’t know it could be different.

  Today I’m filled with regret

  And though I am still so young and whole

  I look back into recent past

  And cry. It’s gone … Shame, I’m aghast …

  NOVEMBER 6, 19396

  I’m ill. I have a sore throat. But I am breathing more easily now. I know that Mama’s alive, that she’s in Warsaw. She’ll come see me any day now. And I can’t wait, can’t wait … Ticio* sent a postcard; they have everything in abundance in Horodenka.† Daddy’ll get a job as a farmer. He might bring us some provisions.

  We have three days off. Anniversary of the revolution. There’ll be morning assemblies at schools, young people’s marches. Such a shame I can’t be part of it. I’m ill …

  DECEMBER 9, 1939

  Holidays are coming. Daddy got a job in a sugar refinery. I might go there. Mama’s in Warsaw, not planning to come here.

  I might get a scholarship … Let’s hope …

  I love him, he’s wonderful, just like I dream about, I love him—but I don’t know if that’s in fact love. He doesn’t know of me and I only know that he’s in Border Patrol. And one more thing, something terribly “teenagerish”—I’d love to kiss his lips, eyes, temples, just like you read in romance books.

  Irka is passionate. She goes to Marysia’s; there are plenty of beds there, with bed linen, and each couple goes to a separate room and … well, that makes you think. Belka said one mysterious sentence while we were working (Belka knows a lot), “Anyway look at Irka, at her broad walk…” Ugh … It’s so disgusting. Truth be told, I’m not passionate. I’d like to have a pretty husband, like him … I’d like to live in Crimea in a pretty villa-house, have a golden-haired little boy, a son, be happy and love everything …

  I have to write down a translation of a German poem. Oh, I’ve grown sick of school!

  Always at work, millions of hands

  For thousand centuries, many decades

  And every hand, which for an ax bends

  Is like an Atlas, each the sky aids

  Rattling and whirring, roaring and banging

  This is the sound of our land’s iron call

  Crunching and quaking, booming and clanging

  Immortal singing of work befalls

  Plenty of cylinders must go in and out

  And plenty of screw bolts must stay about

  Hammers must strike the anvil with might

  To make the world simmer, be alight

  Thousands of people must be on fire

  Brains must ignite and never tire

  To keep this flame always ablaze

  Filling the world with warm light for years

  DECEMBER 10, 1939

  “We work!” This is the title of our newspaper. “Work is power!,” “Forward with work” and many more similar slogans I’ve heard. And I spent some time thinking about what work is. Every time I thought about it, various images came to mind. Here is a gray working army, these are workmen, I can see students with their heads bowed, I can see pilots in roaring planes, seamen somewhere out at sea. They are all part of the powerful working army; work goes on out at sea, on land and in the air. Yes, but what in fact is work?

  Everything hums and roars around

  Work’s going on, never breaks down

  It blares, it rattles and flutters in spades

  Asking for soldiers for its work brigades!

  Calls everybody on land and at sea

  Those in the mines and those who fly free

  To grab their axes, their chisels, their trowels

  To join the workforces and not throw in the towel

  To conquer the world as it is wide

  To build a new one with work and to do it with pride

  DECEMBER 15, 1939

  The radio didn’t mention an explosion in a middle school in Przemyśl, the papers didn’t write about it, paperboys out in the streets didn’t shout, “The Konopnicka School has been blown up with steam!” Nobody knew about anything, but “something” did happen. This “something” took place at a chemistry or physics lesson. It was, of course, before the war. Here’s what happened: we had a guest at physics; we all shook like jelly, practiced all possible emergency measures, like “a wireless telephone line,” nudging, kicking, clearing one’s throat and other such methods, known only to us. Finally the new lesson started. And it was going well! But something was ticking! On the table there were plenty of little bottles, flasks, bowls, test tubes, stands, burners and other devices. It all looked rather impressive, powerful and very “scientific.” Even more so, when it was all lined, connected—it was pretty. I can still hear this voice saying clearly, “But please remember to leave an opening for steam, this is very important.” Of course! Certainly! Absolutely! All was going well, exceptionally well, the reactions were just like in the textbook, until … oh, what horror! In comparison to what happened next, Zeus sending a thunderbolt down was a quiet whisper and the clash of swords at Troy was a delicate rustle. Bottles, flasks, bowls, test tubes—first they all jumped up into the air and then landed on our poor tables, books and notebooks. The esteemed guest was of course outraged, etc. etc.… But let me keep that a secret, since the papers and the radio didn’t talk about it. And I’ve already spilled the beans, so now I ask for your discretion. Let’s keep this between us.

  DECEMBER 26, 1939

  Half of the school year is gone already. The time has passed in a flash. First I was elected to the committee as the head of the drama club, then we were supposed to have a party with boys, there were many searches in the city, there were four sexual murders. And now, tomorrow night, I can go to see Daddy at Horodenka. But before I have a meeting tomorrow and I’ll go for a rehearsal at Słowacy.* There might even be a party. Shame I won’t be there, since recently I’m feeling kind of … I’m going through silly, salad days and thoughts, which are quite pleasant. Just silly thoughts: life, buying powder compacts, taking photos, everything, everything is silly.

  The meeting’s tomorrow. I need to prepare a cabaret song about our class 4A based on “Suffer, my soul.”†

  I

  Suffer, my soul and you will be redeemed

  Don’t suffer enough and you’ll be condemned

  In our fourth grade

  Young girls in droves

  Dreaming, the whole brigade

  Sitting by a cold stove

  Suffer, my soul …

  II

  As soon as by the stove

  Rogues gather and hove

  Immediately the voices boom

  “Please leave the classroom!”
/>
  Suffer, my soul …

  Even though our breaks

  Loudly reverberate with sound

  But during the hour

  Everybody quietly cowers

  Suffer, my soul …

  III

  Our class will compete

  With such other suite

  That our behavior pales

  By comparison, it fails

  Suffer, my soul …

  DECEMBER 27, 1939

  I

  Round the corner

  At Dworski Street

  Not far from the Słowacki seat

  A guy and a girl walk free

  Just by the Christmas tree

  II

  I tell you, Rena,† just listen to me

  Don’t be as soft with yourself as can be

  Grab some cash and go to school

  Don’t miss a party, don’t be a fool

  III

  Józek Ciuchraj, listen to me in advance

  Grab your accordion, play some Styrian dance

  One, two, three, four, not a beat he misses

  What a great party this is

  IV

  Stop sending us glances

  Go find somebody to dance with

  Then run quickly home

  Go to sleep, don’t roam

  JANUARY 9, 1940

  The party’s over. At the Christmas party I got an award for the best student, a chess set. Then we were preparing for a contest, and this contest is as early as tomorrow. I’m to recite a poem called “The Locomotive.”* Let’s hope it goes well.

  Apart from that we are moving out of our school. Now we’re going to be at a school with boys. Today we took everything from our classroom, our decorations, our inkpots, everything. This is supposed to be a seven-year school. Ugh, horrible. I hate everything, at first it promised to be something completely different, but I changed my mind a long time ago. I still live in fear of searches, of violence. And this whole thing of going to school with boys! Well, let’s wait and see how that works out. The torture starts on the 11th, I’ll tell you how that goes. Bye-bye, my dear Diary. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Let’s hope it goes well!!!

  I’m so incredibly stupid, what has happened to me? I’ve never been like that, people used to think me quite smart. How idiotic is it to fall in love with a komandir, to want to kiss him? Am I crazy? How can you dream of love in the form of some komandir? I don’t go out with boys; that’s the fact. I’ve never been in love either, but there is still time for it, I think. Although when I was at the party, I felt sorry that I didn’t know anybody and I left with Nora, while Belka and the other girls stayed behind. Belka, she stayed, I was furious. But then Belka was jealous of me, jealous that I left. And she didn’t party at all, she was angry and sad, I barely managed to lift her spirits a bit. And then I was angry that one scaredy cat turned around, the same one that I had a little bit of interest in. It’s all so disgusting and stupid … I thought I was smarter than that …

  JANUARY 12, 1940

  It’s all passed now. I mean everything that I’ve been pondering over here. I did perform at the contest. “The Locomotive” went so-so, but the contest went very well. So well, in fact, that when I came to school, boys called me “Four steps at a time.”

  But I’ve completely forgotten to tell you about the boys. The devil isn’t as black as he’s painted. At least that’s what I think, for now. We have new teachers, but all our girls are together (I’m in 8C).

  The boys are such innocent young things; they don’t know much and they’re very polite, they are rather swell. Other girls, our former colleagues, are even jealous of our set. The 8C boys aren’t particularly attractive, with the exception of one very cute Ludwik P. and sweet Majorko S. They want us to mix up how we sit, i.e., a boy, a girl, another boy, but for now it isn’t so.

  On the day of the contest I got a letter from some komandir (of the Krasnaya Armya), summoning me on a rendezvous. I’ve decided to hide this letter, play a prank and write a reply.

  Dear Diary, I do understand how important you are. I like browsing through your pages more and more often, looking for this feeling I felt then.

  You know, I go through these different phases where I choose different husbands from among the young boys around me. I must have had around 60 of those phases in my life already. Or maybe even 100. And of course I keep finding new husbands (I mark people). Bye, kisses, Renia

  JANUARY 19, 1940

  Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen,

  Die hat einen Andern erwählt;

  Der Andre liebt eine Andre,

  Und hat sich mit dieser vermählt.

  Es ist eine alte Geschichte,

  Doch bleibt sie immer neu;

  Und wem sie just passieret,

  Dem bricht das Herz entzwei.*

  You might not understand it, so I’ll try to translate it into Polish for you. (Oh, Granny’s been pestering me since midday. What does she want from me? I’m going crazy!)

  A boy chose a girl as his dove

  But she took somebody else as her true love

  She cherishes the other one like her pearl

  But the other one looks at yet another girl

  He gave her his heart

  And married her for a start

  A story as old as time

  Always a new mountain to climb

  Whoever loved like this

  Knows what a broken heart is

  So in my case it’s like this:

  Łaba fell in love with Renia

  But Renia is fond of Ludwik

  Renia thinks Ludwik is a prize

  While Ludwik to Krzysia turns his gorgeous eyes

  He follows her everywhere, for her he is spoken

  While Renia is deeply heartbroken

  While Renia is furiously angry

  But soon she’ll leave that behind

  A new love will capture her mind

  Yes, that’s the truest truth. What do I care about this Łaba, sitting there and staring at me for five hours until it makes me sick? What do I care about this or someone else who gawps at me? I like Ludwik. I turn around and look probably a bit too often, when I meet his gaze and sometimes a little smile on his face. Is it possibly a joke? Possible, likely. Why haven’t I said a word to him yet? Why do I flee when he’s near? Why am I glad when he fools around? He in turn never recommends me when it comes to anything, a trip to the movies, a committee; and generally he treats me kind of badly. So why, when I turn back and look at him, why does he stare at me? A mystery. And anyway nowadays I am somewhat flighty; I like a different person all the time, that’s natural. I told Nora that I need excitement and that I need to check our biology textbook to read about the mental state of 16-year-old girls. And she says to that, “Oh, if you need excitement, stop staring at books and find yourself a boyfriend.” She is crazy! She’s been terrible recently! Admittedly I too have a “dirty imagination” now, according to Auntie Lusia.

  Majorko is a nice, swell boy, a friend. I’m impressed with Władek; I like him too. How do I know what to do?

  They say spring will be hot and then they say it won’t. I’m bored with those “liberators.” It’s the time for titmice now. As Tońko and Szczepko* said from France, “Release sparrows, keep canary birds, spring will bring titmice!”

  JANUARY 26, 1940

  Brrr … Brrr … Brrr … I can’t even try to explain how terrible I’m feeling. I have troubles, like every normal human being. What on earth?! I’m no princess to feel bored, but I’m clearly bored. I’ve been struggling with a cold for several days. I haven’t left home, I’ve been reading a bit and nobody, literally nobody, visited me but Eda. Nora hasn’t been for a long while since the bombardments (Granny told her off once). In fact everything with Nora seems to be done and dusted. A friendship like this is good if it doesn’t last too long. After all I only hang out with her because I don’t have any other company, but I’ll try to see her as little as possible outside of school. We don’t
share thoughts anymore; we don’t share opinions. There is nothing that connects us. And our liking for each other, as I realized, seems to be fizzling out, on her side too.

  Now people seem to be only interested in material things. Which is not surprising at all, since a goose costs 100 złoty, and used to cost 4 złoty; a liter of milk costs 3.50 złoty, and used to cost 15 groszy; a pair of shoes—300 złoty, and it used to be 12 złoty.* So it doesn’t surprise me at all. People pay (whoever can) and wait for the spring to come. It will! It’ll come, I promise you.

  I have decided to have a photo taken, as there isn’t much one can do with money anyway. You peep out into the street and all you see is lines, lines everywhere, people waiting in lines to buy bread, butter, sugar, eggs, thread, shoes—everything. And if you think that after five hours of waiting you might get anything else on top of bread, you are very, so very wrong. And if you, by any chance, would like to buy two loaves of bread, better be careful, you profiteer.

  So listen, workmen

  celebrate, do

  never betray your treasure

  let smiles brighten your faces

  the red banner safe in your embraces

  Celebrate, do!

  No masters in workplaces

  You can do whatever you wish

  all made equal by the word tovarishch

  the red banner safe in your embraces

  Those who used to reside in grand manors

  now live in poor plain huts

  resigned to life in rags

  and what do you have? You have your wish

  you have the word tovarishch

  and the red banner in your embraces

  FEBRUARY 4, 1940

  I’m so very sad! I’m singing, but that means nothing, I’m laughing, but that means nothing either. If I only could, I’d cry my eyes out. Granny took all her anger out on me. I know that they like Arianka better, they prefer her to me. I’m just a doormat. Mama loved us equally, there are others who prefer me, but she knows how to get on in life, she’s like those people who know how to steal the show. And I was so happy today, wanted to write a poem, wanted to tell you something. But don’t worry, all will be well again.