NOVEMBER 10, 1941, MONDAY
I got a package from Buluś. My darling Buluś and lovely Jarosia! I’ll write them a thank-you card. We have reached an understanding with Zygu, it wasn’t the way I interpreted it last time, after all. It was supposed to be friendly advice. So finally we’re on the right track, although Zygu is to tell me many more things still. So now it’s all right, but before it was—God have mercy! Zygu was irritable and sweaty with the effort; I was on the verge of tears. I wanted to say everything that I’d decided on during those past two nights and … I couldn’t. The situation was so tragic that the phrase “break up” even came up. Now I’m smiling when writing this (even though I’ve got horrible menstrual cramps), but I really was worried and didn’t know how to resolve the situation. I’m glad it ended well. I’m feeling strangely light, oh, good. I’ve got a very pleasant feeling, how—and I actually owe it to Zygu. By the way, nobody has ever taught me such a lesson before. Well, but he was right, I have to give him that. When things get better, we’ll meet.
Open your hearts your souls out wide!
living is easier with less to hide
few things hurt more or bring more sorrow
than a grudge you choose to bear till tomorrow
until a thought you could nearly forget
awakes again, and brings more regret …
Maybe the bells should suddenly ring
and rouse a half-healed, half-buried sting
Open your hearts your souls out wide!
living is brighter with less to hide
Why choose the grudge, the guilt, the moping?
Open your hearts—to hearts wide open
NOVEMBER 14, 1941, FRIDAY
I should’ve written much more, really. But you know, back then … I couldn’t, then I didn’t want to, maybe I’ll write more tomorrow. Know only that much has changed in life, in friendship, and in this (I don’t know what to call it?), moods have changed, and maybe even … I did. Have I really changed? Or did I just pour out my feelings to myself and you? In any case I will write all the poems now, I’ve decided; at worst I won’t show them to anyone. I was horribly angry yesterday at again being told I’m childish, so I announced to her that by now I have definitely matured and I do not want to hear it ever again. And tomorrow I’ll tell you something interesting, something really interesting, you’ll see. I was going to tell you today, but no … tomorrow. So you will help me, Buluś and God.
NOVEMBER 16, 1941, SUNDAY
We only met the day after tomorrow, because today is the day after tomorrow. And I haven’t really wrapped up that issue. Zygu read all that I have written and … that’s that. Now thanks to everything I’ve been through myself, and to what Zygu told me, I’m closer again to this life, the real one. Speaking out was necessary. Because if all those unspoken matters had accumulated, one day a flood could happen, destroying the bridge, yes, the bridge that connects us. And we’ve just built dams and reservoirs, and pools, precisely because we’ve been open with each other.
It’s the same with Nora. Our long friendship has also had its stages. At times we would be close, cordial, and then we’d grow apart for long months even. And was that good? Was that heavy silence right? Why didn’t she or I say to the other, “Listen, I don’t like this, don’t do this, that hurts me”? And there would’ve been an explanation, and it would’ve been fine. Why did we never, ever behave openly? We were friends after all! But it always somehow worked out that we found each other again. Because we were and are (it seems to me) made for each other, because we are kindred souls and I doubt, very much doubt whether we could find a third one who’d understand us (Irka—and Irka, I do not even want to mention her, that would be a profanation of our friendship). For now there’s nobody like that in our circles. We are, in every respect, in the same situation and we can truly understand one another. And Nora is growing up now, growing through me, through my growth. And me? What do I know? And even if I do know, I can’t write it down, because there’s so, so, so much of it.
The thing with Rena K., although I was aware of it—or rather sensed it—after all I didn’t know what it really was. And it was 1 mm more than I thought, or 1 mm less. But Maciek is to tell me all about it. I was only wrong about one thing, the first one
I can’t write. My thoughts are just flying away somewhere far and I can’t focus even for a moment. It could be called laziness, yes, outstanding laziness, e.g., I take people from my environment and I transport them somewhere into the spirit world, create thousands of contradictory situations and completely new persons, all of them talking, laughing and moving, like in life. Ah, if only one of those unreal, faraway dreams came true … But tough luck, it is those more real, vital dreams, those related to life, which rather ought to come true. Although tell me—a girl with ash-blond curls, blue eyes with dark eyebrows and eyelashes, red lips just so, lovely and sweet like my dream—is she not possible? I keep writing in snatches. Again. My senses have awoken, but not as strongly as before. Still, they’ve risen and they want to rebel. But no, the world is too sad for them to take off completely—and fly. Although “everything” also has its limits, this is what it was like in May.
It all took place one May
left that spring and did not stay
before it even began …
It melted away into nothing
There was no pleading, no gloom
but there is no need to feel pain
What once was may come back again
When the lilac again is in bloom …
When (grant this, God) the world around
can resound in green glorious May
May all be drowned in a flowery flood
and heart and body will blush with blood
and it will shiver in newfound might
in May each and every night
I can’t write about it now because … Because I can’t! How can I write about it when the world is cold and sad. We don’t leave the house now, it is forbidden from 10 p.m. until 5 in the morning. At five the street looks almost funny, everyone rushes out of their houses and white armbands gleam everywhere outside.
Nora’s house was searched.
I don’t know when I’ll see Buluś, maybe at least Jarosia will come. O God! Let us somehow survive this war. But it is true I’m awakening again, although it’s not a torment to me anymore—a pleasure. Goodbye … how? You will help me, Buluś and God. As usual. It’s actually not that I’ve been thinking for a long, long time about writing a poem, I’m just haunted by the thought of it, it’s to be a description of one of my dreams, my “little beauty.” “You’re like a golden royal whim,” I can’t again, I know I can’t now.
I was always shy and meek
never cheeky, always weak
as if always trying to seek
safe places from the hurtful world …
Goodbye … how? Here’s to feelings. You will help me, my only Buluś and God.
NOVEMBER 24, 1941, MONDAY19
Buluś came on Friday and left today! Jarusia went with her (but will come back tomorrow) to take something. She was here for three days and this feeling is left:
with a flutter and a squeak
rubbed soft down on sharp small beak
left the whole bush rocking
She came and moved the whole house, and left, and I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Whenever Buluś comes, she talks to me and I feel then that she’s the only person in the world who is truly most sympathetic to me. Buluś is actually against it. She doesn’t like Zygu, maybe because she’d rather he were Aryan. She warned me not to take this relationship too seriously and says I won’t be happy, because … etc. It’s strange but after those lectures, I feel that I’m growing apart from him, that I just don’t like him and am afraid of him. And then some other hazy figure appears, that old one, indistinct.
Sometimes Buluś is wrong, and she doesn’t know him. But sometimes she’s right! Because, listen, won’t his asser
tive nature—which I find so attractive now—torment me one day? Won’t he do whatever he pleases with me and with himself? Won’t some Rena, Halina, Lidka poison my life? It would be all over then. Hope would be impossible. I’d only have one more home to look forward to: the grave.
And I, how would I behave? I think I would either be completely indifferent to everything, or horribly jealous, so much so it’d cause me physical pain, and then—no, I wouldn’t argue or make jealous scenes, but I’d systematically, with full satisfaction and calculation, repay him in kind. This feeling has gripped me at times, precisely that. In fact, no, I still owe him. And when I’m able to do it with pleasure!
Why am I so angry, really? Is it because of what Buluś said? No, I do still want him to be my husband. And I said, “Maybe it’s not the husband I want, but the children, yes, definitely, ‘you’re like a golden royal whim.’” Mama says you mustn’t want anything that much, because you might not get it. I think perhaps God will listen to this heartfelt, girlish request. Yes, may it happen!
Jerschina might give me lessons. I’m nervous about it. Ticiu and Lila are living in the ghetto.
God, may my dreams keep coming true like that. I’ll be so appreciative of it and I’ll give thanks … You will help me, Buluś and God.
NOVEMBER 26, 1941, WEDNESDAY
After Buluś left, I dreamed I had an all-night argument with Zygu, I really did. I don’t even know what I was angry about and why I felt hurt. It would seem it’s because of those old issues and thanks to suggestion. Only due to that, only because of that. Jara, she hates him and keeps teasing me by wanting to provoke suspicion and jealousy, and only provokes anger directed at her. Because I am really not jealous. I mean I am, but only about the things I see, and if I don’t see, then I’m not, I’m not angry or jealous at all. Close your eyes; that’s all, that’s all.
Z was very sweet and tender today and I was annoyed with myself for those unpleasant reproaches. Or maybe it’s like Mama says, maybe I will be unhappy? That would be bad, it would mean not making the most of life. But am I ready to give up on my dream, even for such a price? Maybe … I don’t know … I’ll see … You will help me, Buluś and God!
NOVEMBER 29, 1941, SATURDAY
I wanted to write yesterday and this morning, but I couldn’t get round to it somehow. I wanted, i.e., I planned two poems (about girls and school). But now we’ve seen each other and as always I won’t start where I wanted.
I told Zygu that I always defer to him, that he’s tyrannical. Why did I even tell him that? I think because of Mom’s suggestion and that dream (the row about the swimsuit). Anyway, I’ve told you and Nora about this. No, not in a negative sense, on the contrary. You do remember, “Let them even be imperious, even commanding…” Yes, and I’ve told myself that, although I’ve given it a lot of thought. And Z, as usual, immediately started arguing and saying that he actually enjoyed the role of the “listener.” It’s ridiculous, no, it’s even impossible. Either he doesn’t realize or doesn’t want to admit that he is the kind of person who exerts influence, imposes his will on others. But he doesn’t think he’s a tyrant because this word is completely negative. So a tyrant is someone who imposes his will on others regardless of whether he is right or not. So there, I’m changing my opinion about the word tyrant. It is negative. All right … I reject it. But what, then, do you call it when someone unknowingly exerts influence on others, who—also subconsciously—submit to it? Someone may not like this influence. There are people who would in fact break away from it, but it actually appeals to me and it’s precisely what I like, maybe only that! It is not because, as he says, “I like it because it can’t be changed”; it’s not true. I liked it before I met him, and I remember that since I was about 14, heroes from books, movies and dreams had exactly this imperious quality, I won’t say tyrannical, because I now consider this word to be negative! And we signed a contract, that is Z wrote it, so that I didn’t change even a sentence later, it says, “I used to like and still like conduct which I used to call tyrannical, but do not call tyrannical anymore (due to the change in the definition of the word ‘tyranny’).” And? And nothing. That is Z all over, made demands of me, I’ll try to satisfy and have already done so in part, while what I demand—actually, I demand nothing … I only said it. So Z remains as he was by mutual agreement. So why the whole discussion, when I feel good in this role and he wouldn’t change his even if I wanted him to, and it seems this is what I’m looking for in the excess of words, what hurts me? Anyway, he’d like even me to impose my will. Or maybe what hurts me is this and I won’t say anything else. I don’t know, but there is something that hurts. There is some discontent—I don’t know. Maybe the reason is that I can’t accept him, that something is always in the way. Or maybe I lack interests. Yes, if I had other goals, it would be different. As it is, I think about it too much, I deliberate, I contemplate, it’s the whole content of my life, and it’s too early for that! Today, for example, I felt such a yearning for the school that adults talk about. And I’m due one more year of school, of learning. I would really, really like to go to a Russian school like that. I felt so free there and it felt good, and strangely I’d already realized this during the school year. I would like another year, yes, and then to go far away, to acquire life, learning, pleasures—but to return. To return and to make the dream come true. To return to him and for him! Yes, those are my most secret subconscious dreams. In anger or in spite, whether I love him or hate him I always think that and believe it will happen.
I think it could be really great
To go to school again
Come back to any previous grade
I can’t write now, I can’t, all of me is preoccupied with that issue. If all men are selfish tyrants, he’s also a selfish tyrant—because he is, after all, a man. Oh, life, life, stupid life.
Like a bird sprung free from a cage
like a colt that was bridled too hard
I would fly away from my nest
and jump over fences and start
crossing valley, river, and ditch
I would run free and mad like the wind
somewhere far where no eye can reach
I would dance in a crazy whirlwind
and sway as if in a haze
I would drink down my bliss
and thunder down my ways
I would rumble and shake
with laughter and freedom and joy
and move from bloom to bloom
flashing like a star, like a blast
of dawn
and at night
I would fly back to my nest
In any case, let Renuśka stop crying now. Because, really, Renuśka is a very poor girl, so poor and wronged. Rena is a teacher, there’s a loving Rena, there’s also such and such … but the one from the dreams, the loving one is the poorest and the saddest … Really? No! Not from the dreams at all, but the wretched Z’s one. What is going on with me? And what will happen to me? You will help me, Buluś and God.
NOVEMBER 31, 1941, MONDAY*
A letter from Mom. She arrived safely, no adventures. The letter again mentioned “it.” But it’s lost all its power now: firstly, she’s not with me; secondly, it feels good. It, and he, feels good. So apparently this is how it must be, that for this (some caresses and warmth), I’m committed and ready to sacrifice myself, that when it’s cold and dark outside, there’s goodness and light in my soul, and … I cannot renounce the dream. In the morning I thought I’ll be unhappy in the evening and thought this:
I started to build
A building tall and proud
Wings and floors built from sighs aloud
In my dreams, I was so skilled …
In the dream-light, all looked bright
Dark ebony, marble white
Claws of columns there to hold
A head of domes and towers bold
Raised so high and held so strong
Lasting solid, lasting long.
&nbs
p; If it came down quick! It wouldn’t
Cause me so much pain
But look, the walls now crack with strain,
Crumble, begin to fall,
every fragment of my soul
Melts and slips, goes slowly bad
that’s what’s weary, that’s what’s sad.
I started to build
A building tall and proud
Wings and floors built from sighs aloud
it melted, with my tears filled …
One must forgive the spring
all rains and storms and gales
the pranks one forgives and forgets
the clouds will be chased by sunshine
and roses and nightingales
and a bright day awaits as a gray dusk sets
You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 8, 1941, TUESDAY* 20
8th or whatever of December, 1941, Tuesday. Actually nothing happened today that was happy, or sad, or worthy of description. Just a normal December day. But I’ve decided to finally tell you what’s going on in the world. Cannon shots are going on, muffled detonations from the south and the east. The Germans are fighting Russia at the long, huge Eastern front, a fight goes on along Italy with England in Africa, in Libya outside Tobruk, where a new front has been created. Hungarians from the Eastern front are riding toward the Heimat. Nobody really knows why. America is fighting Japan. And … so we’ve lived to see the second world war in this century. For me it’s the first, but for others it’s also more horrific than the previous one. Blood is flowing, cities are ruined, people are dying. There is horrible poverty among people, cases of typhus (Ticiu and Lila in the ghetto). God, make this terrible war end! Make it so that we survive and keep our health until a peace treaty! Everyone is praying now, everyone believes that only some higher power can protect us from evil—it’s God!
In rowdy dancing,
in a wedding, a feast,
where the crowds make the floorboards creak
they don’t ask for him, they don’t call his name
Renia's Diary Page 19