God’s name is silent and weak.
Drunken, they spout more vodka forth
They drink and shout, then the blood will spurt
“Come on, come on!” let the world all tumble
here’s to you, if you drink too!
In drunken fun—pick anyone
life strife with a knife.
Let there be a gush
of blood. Let cheeks flush
with golden sweet champagne
let there be a screeching orgy again
of tinderbox moods of those with “no pain”
God is not needed
maybe the sad ones will silently pray
he is not with us
in laughter or play
in scenes or fights
in wine in glasses!
But when the unhappy hour comes
when the sky bleeds with fire and fear
they fall, and wish God was near!
when their lives waste away in sickness
when through poverty their bodies decay
when fear makes them dumb and hunger takes a toll
all they can ask is, “Won’t God help at all?”
Then from barred windows of every jail
and from damp cellars you hear the wail,
You hear complaints from wide and far
Lord, won’t you save us! Lord, but you are!
(You are the only one who can save)
If only our God forgot and forgave!
That’s when they turn into your humble slave.
You’re there again. In a loaf of black bread,
In clouds that darken over each head,
under each summer of heavy drought,
under each conscience guilty with doubt
in tears of comfort, in hope and need,
You’re there again and called indeed.
And when the sun returns to the sky
And things get bright—from that day on
You won’t be called
they will keep sinning, you will be gone …
as it was before
So it is. Jerschina came over. Actually I didn’t know that I would care so little. Might be because I hate them. Forgive me, God! Zyguś is very good and lovely, and argumentative. Maciek came. We’ll talk another time, when there’s some news. You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 11, 1941, THURSDAY
No!… war, who knows? Maybe in two years … But Zyguś, so wonderful, tender, sweet and good, and lovely, that he exceeded my dreams. I felt so good today. I would like to tell someone about the happy moments I’m experiencing within this misery. The way Zyguś was, it would be a sin not to love him like I love him … I’ve got many poems in my head, but I can’t write. See you later … You will help me, Buluś and God, until dreams come true.
DECEMBER 15, 1941, MONDAY MORNING
Today I’d like to talk and write, and talk, and talk, and I don’t even know where to start … I think with the fact that Nora doesn’t understand me. Yes, she herself knows it and told me I am a step ahead. She’s behind, where I was, well … more than a year ago, or a year. And I would gladly reach out to her, but she … why? She’s hindering herself. I’d like it if you could understand me completely already. Why, Noruś, when I’m telling you something, I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, and you don’t understand me and make it into an accusation yourself. However, we do understand each other in other matters, something always remains.
If only you knew, dear Diary, how many poems live in me, but I don’t even know if and when I’ll commit those thoughts to paper. And even Nora doesn’t understand me anymore. Oh, I must have changed a lot. Well, perhaps I’m really not myself anymore, maybe I’m the lining of Zygmunt’s soul. I’ve transformed awfully, but after all my old self is still there! And life, life is anticipation now. For do you know, there are moments in life without sad or happy experiences, without storms, without streams of happiness, and one doesn’t count those moments later. And while they last, they plunge one into a blissful state of calm and indolence.
No, it’s not because I wore a hat that I’ve become unfamiliar to Nora, not at all—but for some other reason, why, why has my sensuality faded? Because it has been replaced by a monotonous caress, an almost “marital” one. However, I realize now that I need it very much; I need this gentle, delicate tenderness as much as the outbursts. And do you understand now, Noruś, and perhaps it’ll be: “How much one should prize you, only he who has lost you can tell,”* but you and I are similar, so I don’t know … but maybe you’ll need it too?
I’ve written an idiotic thing, I probably won’t send it to her. And those poems crowd in so much, but I won’t write either. Bye, dear Diary, until … I don’t know. You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 16, 1941, TUESDAY
Bulczyk’s birthday is coming up, as is the date of writing the birthday letter, the traditional letter. Because I always send a letter, and only very, very rarely can give my wishes personally. And now what in the world can I send her? No, I can’t send wishes, greetings—no. Buluś, what can I give you? I’ve been thinking about this all day. I will send you, then, a bright, silver, winter memory, a memory from a time when we didn’t know we were happy. Only I don’t know if I can re-create it so vividly as it was. No, I can’t do it at all now. And such is the illness I am suffering from now. You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 20 1941, SATURDAY
For Bulczyk’s birthday. Do you remember?
Horses galloped at a steady pace
A sleigh raced on just like a lightning flash
Snow and frost laid kisses on our face
Frosty hair, and snow-kissed winter blush
The wind blew panting, right across our eyes
Hooves struck up snow fountains from the ground
Riding in a sleigh felt so nice
With the bell’s laughing sound!
Snow and pine cones fell on our heads
Which our passing there would shake and stir
Both of us went on, deep in our sleigh,
Wrapped up warm in a lovely coat of fur.
Silent trees around us stood in wonder
Morning silence shaken from its thoughts
We went riding, like a laughing thunder
With the bell’s laughing sound!
Our tracks with fresh new snow are filled
The horses’ silhouettes were drowned in fog
the driver and the sleigh, the wood, the field
all you heard still was the bell’s sweet sound …
Know that when the dusk begins,
and the tower bell tolls for evening prayers
and the December day has spent
all its power—curled, and shriveled
in a ponderous hour—I will come to you
I’ll come in yearning that flows
or in a sparkling star that glows
or in a silent holiday breath
or in a sigh instead?
I’ll come …
In a gray winter’s hour,
when the windows sparkle with ice,
I’ll say one word, just one word,
frank like tears, but soothing and warm …
Yes, we’ll be with her then, so that she’s not lonely in that crowded, rumbling and empty capital. Bye, dear Diary, we’ll go to her together … You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 23, 1941, WEDNESDAY*
Nothing, days pass. They are all alike. Oppressed with thoughts, waiting, idleness … They pass, I sit at home and think, think, go crazy with thinking. I’m gaining weight. I’m as big as a barrel. Disgusting. I wrote a birthday letter to Mom. I’ve seen Jerschina; he has two sons. Well, is this even thinkable? We’re making an album with Norka, i.e., Norka is making it, I’m helping and it brings me such delight, such pleasure, that I could spend whole days doing it. I wouldn’t even want to see Z. Just keep making this beautiful album. And then … who knows, perhaps it can
be published like this?
There is something I would like to say about Zygmunt. Something that worries me. Namely—I don’t hate him, but I don’t love him either. Maybe it’s not true, maybe it’s only temporary, and I did swear, did make solemn promises. And I did promise to last throughout the war, but I don’t know how it happened and where it came from, but here it is. Can I deny it? I can’t even tell him this either, that—what, I’m not attracted to him, I’m fed up with all “that,” and I’m left, again, with poems, you, Mom, Nora, such ethereal beings. And you know that at times there’s something and then all the shortcomings come to light and create something like aversion—weariness. Why? Whence? I don’t know. Oh! If I hated, but not that, I don’t hate, I’m indifferent to it. So why, why do I pray every night for the dream. I don’t know either. I only know one thing: I need work, physical or intellectual, work away from home—an occupation! I’ve got many “poemy” thoughts in my head. You don’t know that this question accidentally turned into a most genuine compliment.
I can wake the day
and spread around the shadow of the night
I can scatter blackest clouds
with golden flashes of light
I can stand around the deepest snow
and call forth Spring
and I know where treasures hidden lie
and where fairies dance and sing
I can find my way on city streets
in taxis, in trams I can ride
Light bulbs—I can light the spark inside
Wrap a village deep in muffling snow
Soothe the pain—I know
people who dwell in cities and towns
I can spread silvery cheer
wrap trees in warm moss, both far and near
I know where tiny dwarves reside
and blow forth bubbles with dreams inside
I can make starry skies appear
right in the middle of the day
And I know a magical world
of elves and princesses, castles in air
I know a whole world that isn’t there
But that’s something that I never knew
and I never thought of that before
Someone asked me with reproach, “And you,
you write poems, but can you do much more?”
The album is coming along beautifully, ah, it’s come in handy, the way he is … no, no, I won’t say. You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 24, 1941
Ah, I feel like writing poems so much, I want to write and write forever.
Windy, cold, and icy
Wind is in a mood, not nice, he
blows on since the dawn
Gusts and gales, they swerve and sway
People wonder at the wind, and they
don’t know what’s going on
Why’s the wind so raving mad
Was it crossed by some brave lad
as it blew about?
Maybe gnomes or dwarves awoke it
with a woodland shout?
or it had a dream in which
a rival wind blew through, and each
leaf in the woods blew out!
It blows and wails and paces
falters, picks up, races
snow or no snow,
sand or no,
roofs get blown,
branches caught
Burned-out dust it raises up
makes a mess and will not stop
through the swamp and through the hollow
where the streams flow, it must follow
It sits on the windmills’ wings
and flings clouds through the sky
then it jumped and swayed away
shook around a pile of hay
Messed a branch about
and it flew right out.
DECEMBER 28, 1941, SUNDAY21
Or maybe because I didn’t submit myself to Your protection. Think and believe, although it’s hard to believe. Yesterday coats, furs, collars, oversleeves, hats, boots were being taken away on the street. And now there’s a new regulation that under pain of death it is forbidden to have even a scrap of fur at home. I feel so sorry, actually for Dido the most of all of us. But then what is there to be sorry for—the furs or that warm, cordial relationship which dissipated and disappeared.
I didn’t see Zygu for a week and I can admit I was pleased with this, it cured me of this persecution mania a little. But … but he came after a week, i.e., paid me an official visit (in a coat), and generally made the impression of slaving through some duty. That’s not what’s awful, he came because he had to, but he’d rather not come and it’d be a hundred times better if he hadn’t. I’m not going into any details, but it’s only my instinct which tells me that … well, you probably know.
Another thing, which abashes me slightly, is that he lies. I have never imagined a person I respect would lie. It’s disgusting and I really do not understand it. They were all little, meaningless lies, so? So nothing. But this morning I choked on tears of anger. I know only one remedy for those miseries; perhaps I’ll apply it! Yes, yes, but wait a bit. Oh, it hurts—so I love. You will help me, Buluś and God.
DECEMBER 30, 1941, TUESDAY
So it’s been a year since I wrote: “Be gone, worries, tears and upheaval.” And today, today it’s completely different, today I’m a year older, a year more experienced, maybe a bit more mature, but not worth much more. There’s not much more I can do.
I remember it was a variety show, it was fun, Rysiek was in excellent spirits. Today I met Rysiek too, how different than last year’s. He’s huddled, his fur’s been plucked, he’s disinfecting some sick people from typhus, but he still chats and tells his tall tales.
I saw Poldek, he was carting along some stiff.
I had a letter from Nora, so cordial and warm. Oh yes! Everything’s revived in this area, everything fell into place, we’ve become closer and understood each other, and we’re united in friendship. One year, how everything’s changed, I don’t know what the next one will bring? And how can I know what I will come to write next year? Next year and a year ago … And now I’m standing on the border and … I’m grateful to the one passing for listening to my pleas and I’m asking the new one to be favorable. Oh God, let all dreams come true like that! I saw Mama, there was something with Zygu and something started in politics. So this year, which will end today in an hour and a half,* will disappear and pluck one flower from my life. It was a year overflowing with love. Everything, tears, sighs, explosions of anger, jealousy, all this stemmed from that one emotion. And you, New Year being born, will you be sympathetic to Cupid hearts? You are young after all. You too know how to love. And if you want to be loved as well, for people to say goodbye to you with regret and not a sigh of relief, if you want your date to be entered in golden numbers into the world’s history and in a flowery garland into people’s hearts, become worthy of it. Bring a branch of peace into this howling, fighting world and quieten it like a rough sea with a magic wand. And let me still love the one I have fallen in love with, and let me be loved. Make it so that people who were separated by the war are joined in a blissful calm. And return parents to children and my Mama to me. Actually, it’s a continuation of my dreams. Let them continue, each of them is a little part of the fireplace, of the “royal whim.” You’ll understand and I will too. And tomorrow I will greet you on a new page, although maybe only ugly things will happen tomorrow, but the Year will be New, it’ll be full of hope for the long 12 months. So farewell, old year, with thanks and gratitude for those first love’s kisses, for motherly caresses, for friendship, for everything good and bad. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JANUARY 1, 1942, THURSDAY
I promised, so I’m writing. It was a day like all the others, in the morning I went to Norka’s, then I was at home, then I was sorting out a birthday gift for Zygu. And when I came home, I found Zygu there. He was very debonair and pretty. His wish for me was to endure and survive. I
t was very ordinary; we sat at the table and talked.
Z left soon (angry that I didn’t want to show him the previous New Year’s Eve in the diary). But it’s not true! I know that although by all appearances everything was all right, things were subdued somehow. It seems that Z had the best of intentions, but they slowly cooled down, and … I don’t know, but I feel there’s something. It can’t go on like this! If we had decided to act openly, it must be done. The truth must be revealed! Because I know that all aversions, contemplations, inquiries, suspicions are just another form of love. Because there are no dreams in which he doesn’t appear. And now my spirits have lifted, because maybe I’ve just convinced myself. And I’d felt sad, oh how sad. I was crying and thinking of Bulczyk. I wanted to write a letter, which would have been a cry of yearning! I feel so lonely, like I have nobody, nobody. There is only Buluś, but so far away. I’ve realized that mother and child are the closest beings after all. I understand that I am to Mom what my child would be to me. I feel like crying, I’m unutterably sad. God, make it so that it gets better now. I’m yearning for something warm … You will help me, Buluś and God.
JANUARY 5, 1942, MONDAY
The letter from Mother was warm. But I wrote nothing, I was waiting, always waiting for a warm embrace, a look, but only a cold, frosty wind blew. It chilled my heart, it brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to write a letter to Mama, but changed my mind. This letter would’ve been such a painful cry, it would’ve wounded a mother’s heart. No, I’m lying to the world that I’m indifferent to it; it’s not true! I am hurt, I am simply writhing in pain. I don’t know, is it that unknown girl who won him over with her father’s position and nationality? Or that he never mentioned a word about it, or that he practically stayed away for two weeks? What?—Everything!
I talked about this with Jarośka. We talked like two women friends. But there is a difference between us (not even of age), but of emotion, I love despite everything, she hates. But we agreed about one thing: I need entertainment, I need somebody, urgently; I’ve written to Norka about this already. If this doesn’t heal the wound, it will make it scar over. And then … Who knows what happens then? Times are such now that one should think about something else, about life worries, but well, I can’t. Maybe I am sinning. And do you know with what disgust I’m making an album of poems for his birthday? Because Maciek told me that he’s asking for it. Well, but one has to be magnanimous when saying goodbye. Next time I will try not to fall so hard, treat it lightly, from hand to mouth, and not go into the depths. But this one has deeply affected me all year round. Just think, 365 days and not one when I didn’t think of him, so few nights when I didn’t dream. And now will all this dissipate in such a pedestrian way? Actually it should have already collapsed because of this a long time ago, after all he always had a roving eye for every skirt, excuse me, not every one—those who looked him in the eye. It is typical for him that he’s attracted to girls who are attracted to him. In fact, he told me once that he reciprocates feelings excessively, apparently he reciprocates coquetry too. That I don’t know, but surely, have I not experienced it myself? But in this album I’ll write what I feel. I have to. Maybe he’ll understand me.
Renia's Diary Page 20