wind and the clouds swap poses
and there’s a sea down below
of orange flowers and roses
and dusks and dawns are pale green
and the dreams are just like mists
colored … and nothing’s felt or seen
but ethereal and full of shimmer
ever so light and unreal
fragrant and dreamy in feel
slow, dizzy, and lazy
careless and hazy
dreams
fragrant, bright and ever sweet
loveliest, when senses never meet …
SEPTEMBER 11, 1941, THURSDAY
4 in the afternoon. I need to leave the house. I am simply escaping Zygu. If this had happened, let’s say, a month or two ago, I’d have cried my eyes out and screamed that he’s foul! Not today—nothing at all, as if nothing’s happened. It’s strange … and yet I can’t even say myself whether I’m at least a little sorry. I don’t know if it’s over, but this is exactly what I’ve been suspecting on the “subject.” A woman senses it, oh, yes, she has a well-developed warning system. You know, I don’t even hate “the other one,” I will admit I find her somewhat attractive, like Natasha does Katya. But this whole thing is a little different, although I’ve also been hurt—but never humiliated! I’ll see you again today, I’m going to Norka’s. To my only Nora I’ve got left. I’ve also got you, Mama, and you, dear Diary, and it’s almost like it used to be. Only there is no yearning left for something close … unknown … To be clearheaded about what I feel, I’d say this: I very much want to impress them with something, I very much want to take my revenge in the same way, but for the sake of revenge itself, for—pleasure. I used to despise this attitude and today I admit it’s awful and when I perhaps become such an easy girl, it will only be your fault, Z, and my jealousy’s, that sacred feelings, sacred rules and sacred love have been desecrated … You will help me, Buluś and God.
SEPTEMBER 14, 1941
But still—it’s sad, so very sad, so utterly, so horribly … I didn’t tell you that evening about him coming—what for, anyway? I didn’t want to tell you anything because I felt that I loved him the most then. And now—I do not. I’m waiting. Waiting’s tired me out. And I’m afraid of tomorrow and I want it to come already, and I feel aversion, and doubt. And sometimes I don’t want to say anything, only think and be silent. And sometimes I want to be evil and hated, I want to spite everyone, I want to torment and hurt everyone—no, not everyone, not him, and not her either. But really I’m only sad, utterly, horribly sad … Sad, but I can’t cry, I simply do not have the strength. So I look at the wild ivy, how raindrops stream down its leaves, and somehow it feels like I’m crying.
Springtime—fresh and green
a wild vine climbs
rises full of life
onto the balcony glass.
It reddens in the summer,
pales with the autumn winds
and hangs its head, in sorrow,
sad for what now must pass.
I like sun and the flowers in spring
When I also feel a joyful thing
when the laughter’s in me and nearby
When around me life can abound
When the earth is all joyful all round
like me!
And when I am both angry and sad
then I like a gray day, wet and bad,
and a cloudy and tearful dark sky
crying just like my heart, full of rain,
quiet, full of tiresome pain
like me …
That’s when I like a mist on a hill
and a sadness that wants yearning still
and the voids you can’t calmly pass by
Polish verses, of autumn, of tears,
that are filled with the sadness and fears
like me.
No, I didn’t mean to write that, but I’m very, very sad. Ah! What a rainy, nice day. You will help me, Buluś and God.
SEPTEMBER 18, 1941, THURSDAY
How good that I didn’t write throughout this week. I didn’t write or I would have blasphemed. I suffered, that’s true, and a lot too—but now it’s fine again, perhaps even better than it had been. Because every time there’s a bit of a worry and some crying, and hours spent thinking, I am more convinced that I love my wonderful boy very, very much. And an apology—although one can’t really talk of apologies if one were not angry—confirms this conviction too. So it will be even better than it had been, because Arianka is at Mama’s and she’s to bring her here, and maybe I’ll finally see her. Ah, I’ve let it slip; it was supposed to be a surprise. Everything at once, oh God—really, how can I thank You? Now I believe in happy endings … I believe and trust You, for You have given me what I asked for. I love You. You will help me, Buluś and God.
SEPTEMBER 22, 1941, MONDAY
Now the dream has practically come true. It’s the New Year* today and the dream has come true? Actually not completely, but in 99% it did. And I wish all dreams came true like this. It feels so strange. To think that Mama is so close, that she’s in the same city, that she’s thinking about me now, that she’d like to embrace me as much as I her … to think there’s a horrible river, a river people have made horrible. A river which has been separating us for two years—and now again. Why, it’s unthinkable that I can’t see Mother when she’s here so close, so close. Arianka, I’m so jealous, she is with her. And now she will leave again and I won’t even kiss her. I won’t say anything and again—but for how long—and again this question, when? But still, there’s a weight off my heart that it’s not so far, that You have brought her closer to me, Good Lord God. How good would it be if I could tell her everything, tell her about today and those past two years? You know, Mama, I am who I have always been, your reticent one, all “yours,” but maybe I feel somehow more, well, I don’t feel that good. All because of Z. I don’t know why, I’m abashed by this thing I’ve dreamed of? Why do all those kisses only burn me up after he leaves? I start to feel everything, I writhe on the sofa, I don’t sleep, my senses are stimulated to their limit. And when “this” happens, when it lasts two hours, then Z. doesn’t have to threaten me with bromide injections etc. Why? I don’t know … but I know, that is, I feel instinctively, that much has changed about Zygu, I can’t say whether for better or for worse, because I “generally have no firm opinion about anything, damn it,” but the changes are surely there. It even seems that, er, well, I don’t know … In any case there is a distinct influence of that “freethinking and free-doing” woman. And I have a stupid, odious, irritating feeling, aah! I am an idiot of the highest order that I can even say something against the prettiest boy and besides, I know that I love him very, very much anyway—but still, I am horribly upset, and I think I already know why, namely! Because I am stupider and uglier than he is, and I stand lower in every respect. “What can I do apart from writing poems?” Well, but do not try to persuade me that you have to teach me everything, because you don’t know everything yourself, you have no idea. Blind leading the blind. But I feel much better now, I love you so much now, dear Diary! Phew, what a relief. I’m not telling you the silly details; it’s better this way. Although they’re not so silly, they’re sweet, but always, well … the secretiveness. It’s much better now, oh, almost good. So good night, Mama mine, I can say this to you for the first time in two years. You won’t hear me, but I know that you’re thinking about me too and wishing me a good night. Mama, come to me. Come, my only Bunia. You’re the only one who always loves me steadily and you don’t laugh at me. Bye, Mama, sleep well; may you dream that everything I prayed for yesterday comes true. Today I wish for a favorable end of the war, for my parents to reconcile, Zyguś for me only and good things for everyone. You will help me, Buluś and God.
SEPTEMBER 29, 1941, MONDAY16
I’m on this side. You know, I’m here with Mama. Just think, I have finally found myself beyond the river and met with Mama. How did I get here? It’s a secret. Know onl
y that I’ve been through a lot and was very scared. I am still afraid of Wednesday. The dream has practically come true, I’m seeing Mom and I’ve got a letter from Zygu. I’m still waiting for something in politics and I know it will happen, like that other thing did. You will help me, Buluś and God.
OCTOBER 5, 1941
For Buluś (letter to Mother). I love you so, so much, and “I love the eyes that are green.” Yours, Renia.
A ship sails for a haven after a gale
A bird that’s scared away returns to hide in its nest
A child, in trust, chooses its mother’s arms …
to cry its grief away, and soothe the pain as it knows best.
For Buluś:
When pain starts burning
Or you feel the hearts’ frosty chill
When you feel ground to dust
By the turning wheels of life
Shelter under her wings
She’ll hear you out and understand she will
You will feel good again and free from strife.
There’s sadness for those who are in grief and pain
Pity for those whose hearts were broken again
Shame on those who face both contempt and fear
But you’re really unhappy without your mother dear
I suffocate in small rooms
And feel crowded in vast halls
They won’t bring down the sadness
Even if it tumbles and falls
In life’s vast, great expanse
The winds of life blow wild
They’ll blow away all sorrows
For one sweet moment mild!
6 duvet covers
8 pillow slips
2 small pillows
3 sheets
2 tablecloths
OCTOBER 9, 1941, THURSDAY
I haven’t seen you for such a long, long time. I’ve missed you. I was unable to talk, to write. So many thoughts have gathered in my head, they have made it heavy, although this little head of mine is usually light and empty. And now I don’t know where to start? So much has happened … So maybe I’ll tell you briefly. I’ve dreamed through the dream. I was with Mama and it seemed so wonderful, so extraordinary, this thing which for others is so wonderful and natural. But then also my mother is different. She is a friend, a peer. And now I’m back on the other side, yearning and wanting again. But listen, my dearest Diary, listen and listen, because it seems to me that you’re praying for me, that your prayers are being answered, you sweet little notebook that contains the depths of my soul. Mama writes me letters, so long, heartfelt and loving that I must cry. But that is nothing, I still believe! I believe in God, in you and in Mother. I believe it will be like Zyguś says. We’ll survive this war somehow, and later … ah, will it really be like he says? Anyway, we’ll both see, you and I, and either we’ll be disappointed, or perhaps we will be happy after all, you and I. Because if I laugh, how could you be sad, you “little looking glass” of mine (this is what Buluś called you)?
My own diary can be just as cheerful
Or nasty and mean as me
After all, we went to school
Together, and to dates, and a game
to see …
So it has just the same wild ideas
the same laughter and yells and tears
there’s more bad and less good there to see
because just like me, it’s hard to bear
sometimes shy, sometimes with a lewd stare
sometimes trusty and the one faithful friend
or a grump on whom you cannot depend
my own diary is really just me
But on days when I’m really in trouble
it becomes my own soul’s little double
there inside—both in dreams and in verse
in the yearning and each moment that hurts
every word is as sad as can be
where it’s poor, and afraid, and it’s shy,
where it’s sad with no tears left to cry,
there my diary really is me.
Yes, yes, this is what I’m like. I’m just one of millions of girls walking through this world—uglier than some, prettier than others, but still, different from all of them. Zyguś, he’s also different from everyone, he’s so good and wonderful, and subtle, and sensitive …
They came over with Maciek once, Zyguś got angry with me, because I behaved as if I didn’t know him. I didn’t do it on purpose; I didn’t want to distress him. Poor Zyguś couldn’t sleep. But he’s no longer angry. Mama, why do you say I shouldn’t drown in those green, deceptive eyes? Can you not see, I have already drowned, but those eyes are not deceptive?
I really like it when Z talks seriously about medicine, the future and so on. It makes me want to laugh a little, but it feels very good and blissful, as if Buluś was wishing me a good night. You know, I told him about that whole affair with RK, that I was distraught, that I went through hell. What for? Although I might tell him as much as possible, for now I’ve packed it into a separate suitcase and left in the “lumber room of the soul.” In fact, it doesn’t even hurt anymore, and I don’t think about it.
Z became my guardian, he said he would take care of me. As a matter of fact Buluś asked them to, all three of them. But Z must tell Maciek that he doesn’t need to do it. All in all, Zygmunt and Maciek are friends, real friends, but … but. It’s good that I can write it all out. I feel the load in my heart and my head lightening. I can’t describe “it all” with Zygu, and you know why, because now it’s much more than when it could still be described. No descriptions, but it sinks deep into the heart and surrounds his image there with a beautifully warm, golden halo.
Mama, forgive me that I can’t heed your words. You see, I can’t, I can’t do it any other way, it is always like this—whole heart, whole adoration, whole being. I really can’t, not even from the outside. Maybe, maybe I will love somebody else in my life, but if so—it will be the same. It’s this or nothing.
Zygu wants to read you and he said, “You’ll see, we’ll be reading it together when I’m a doctor and I will laugh and you will laugh.” I hope he said it at an auspicious hour. I thought about how I’ve put in new pages which may last until the time when, when … well, anyway, it can be later or much earlier, and you will be my friend no matter what, even if you’re scandalized and red with anger, so what of it?
Zygu wants me to remain what I am, Buluś would like that too—and me? I am very curious … anyway, let them be happy! But “everything in the world passes slowly.” I love all three of you, each one differently, and you too. I think it will be like in my dreams, grant me that, Lord, and you, Buluś, give me your blessings. You will help me, Buluś and God.
OCTOBER 10, 1941, FRIDAY17
It’s so sad at home. Today the piano was taken away, so the flat is empty; today Arianka went to Mama, so the soul is empty. It’s cold and dark, and lonely, and somehow … aah, I’m left all alone and all I have is a letter from Buluś, or rather letters. I’ll write a poem here. Actually I’ve put everything I feel and experience in the letter to Mama. And now I’m cold and my eyelids are drooping, and my fingers are numb. I’ll go to bed, but not to sleep, no! I’ll daydream a little, maybe I’ll feel lighter. I’ll think about being with Buluś, that the world is so good and warm and sunny, we open the windows and the lovely scent of the full carnations from Stawki enters the house. Or that it’s a cloudy, rainy autumn and I’ve got a cozy room with a fireplace. It is this little house that Zyguś and I live in, working there in the evenings in the glow of the fire. And I write, write a lot and my legs aren’t cold like now. And then I go to another room and our children are sleeping there, the wonderful angels, none sweeter. But it must be warm, must absolutely be warm, because my fingers are awfully cold.
It’s stupid what I think about when I’m so alone and they leave, when the cold days will be full of yearning again. Buluś, but you’ll come back soon. I’m off to daydream, after all God remembers about me,
perhaps He will really make those dreams come true … Renia. You will help me, Buluś and God.
OCTOBER 17, 1941, FRIDAY
I’m alone again. I have already had a letter from Buluś, from Warsaw. Jarosia is away too. Bimba* is ill, Dido nervous and tormenting me especially—and I am alone. But am I really alone, no! I’ve got a whole guard of dreams, lovely, delicate, shy, and I’ve got you, and Zygu, and Nora.
Meetings with Zygu are so pleasant, ever more pleasant. He’s even more wonderful than I thought, this “guardian” of mine.
Norka is teaching me English now. I’m learning eagerly, but I would learn French even more eagerly, and I will! Learn with all my might to speak French. After all, nobody can take knowledge away from me. I must learn, I promise myself that. All that I can. Maybe one day I will really go to the faraway France of my dreams—no, not I—we will go. Yes. “Z will be driving a Buick, and I’ll be sleeping with my head on his shoulder. And then he’ll enroll me in Collège de France. And he’ll buy me the sort of bedroom I frequently travel to in my thoughts.” Zyguś can dream aloud so beautifully, like a big child. And in the meantime Z. is preparing bloody revenge against me for those Sanok influences. I have some regrets perhaps, but he’ll have his revenge. I can’t help it that he’s so tyrannical and firm, tough luck. His character is absolute. But I’d rather agree to everything than finish this, and that’s that! Maybe we’ll see each other tomorrow. You will help me, Buluś and God.
OCTOBER 25, 1941, SATURDAY
You’re pretty now, handsome, bound … I’ve started missing you, being able to write. I want to write a lot, a lot, so many confused thoughts linger in my head. Zygu says he absolutely must read you, and I don’t want to think about it, because then I’d write dishonestly (as it is, there are places where I’m not delighted with my honesty), I’d write for him then, and at the same time not for him, because this diary would not be genuine. Still, your sad pages are the sweetest, at least they’re not so banal—he said, she said. But so it goes, when one’s pleased, delighted with something, one’s words get all confused in the enthusiasm and there are only cries of oh, ah, this and that!
Renia's Diary Page 17