Renia's Diary

by Renia Spiegel

  Sometimes one has rivals; that’s the way it is. In some cases their very name can make one see red. What am I if she’s my rival?! I never thought of it, but he, apparently, did. No. It’s nothing. It will heal, that is certain. Either it will heal, or break forever! Perhaps only for some time. Because I find it hard to renounce the dream. The dream I’ve brought to perfection, cultivated in my most secret thoughts. Endure moods—already? No, I’ve given it the wrong name. It was a good mood, but I immediately know, feel it at once and change, ah, adjust myself. And I’m angry! But it’s best to hide a bad mood in the best mood.

  We wrote portraits of each other. Zygu was more open, so I wrote an even more “adoring” addition. How strange it is that I always prefer to say more, that I like to give as good as I get? I know a frame changes a lot, it’s like a stage set in the theater. Bye, good night. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  FEBRUARY 18, 1942, WEDNESDAY

  Why did such a nice day end like this? Why did this particular day, filled with friendly conversation with Norka and light, radiant plans from our world, close up and hunch down, like—me? Why am I not brightened by that day of March 16 and the beautiful dream of being together, being in the mountains, only for each other? Why is my own, my beloved, worse than all the others? Why is he so odious!? Odious, yes! This is not a cry of an effusive girl, no! I fully realize that all the letters of that word are odious little worms, which comprise an odious whole. How shallow, low and mundane it all is: circles, gossip, circles, gossip, circles … to infinity. Mama, my only, my dearest, take me away from this stifling disgusting atmosphere in which I’m suffocating. And Jarośka, she’s making my life impossible too! You see, I wanted to give love wings. I put all my soul into it, but the wings broke off and it fell, earthed, turned gray. Well, why am I surprised? It all boils down to this. Or perhaps we never, never really understood each other? And I am in such need of warm words. Oh, Mama. And I’m reading a book about love. Great, pure, although “earthly,” and I think that such a love can exist only in books, or maybe … Maybe great, beautiful love exists out there? Maybe one can receive what one gives? But not here, I have knocked at the wrong heart, I was wrong, oh, how horribly, horribly wrong I was … You will help me, Buluś and God.

  FEBRUARY 24, 1942, TUESDAY

  Me. I make myself laugh. I got fatter like some old, pudgy, chubby auntie. I have a triple chin. What is there to write about? I’m alive again. Plenty of errands to run. Plenty of things shared with Noruśka. And you know what? We might have an official celebration of our friendship anniversary. February 16, 1942.*

  Today started just like any other day lately. He told me I’ve been nasty recently and this and that. And everything was kept at a distance etc. etc. Until we looked at our bet (and counted the poems). Zygmunt took the photo away from me, the one that entered the arena of our lives so many times before. He wanted to keep it, I begged him, I asked, I started crying. Nothing. Zygmunt was relentless, though I cannot say he was uncaring, on the contrary. Jarośka makes me cringe with embarrassment. As a gesture of peace I will let Zyguś have a copy. But I resisted with all my might, even his caresses and looks didn’t tempt me—no! And why? Zygmunt asked me this and I couldn’t, I didn’t know how to explain. After all, this photo is part of a dream. The great, golden dream I carry with me through life, a dream that is stuck in me, that lives, that pulsates. So I said—whatever it takes. The price is peace and quiet, an incomplete album entry, perhaps even tension in our relationship or even a breakup …

  But this dream is unbelievable, nothing will make me withdraw, nobody will wake me up to reality. I think that one day it will be in the album and I will tell one little poppet, “You know what … it’s not my tears flowing. A dream cannot be conjured up before it is realized.” So Zygu might be cross, even though I thought he reached out. Zyguś, I love you so much; whatever I did, you should forgive me. But when I thought that it might not happen on Thursday or on Saturday or … ever, it broke my heart, I felt such longing … again. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  FEBRUARY 28, 1942, SATURDAY

  It was good and it was bad and then good again. Those feelings spill over in me. But I wrote a letter to Mama, a long letter, which gave me some relief. Oh, if I could only get away from here. It feels like every person I meet is my enemy. Perhaps it’s those stories.

  Zyguś is so sweet, but I am not able to dance, I am languid, nasty, terrible. I don’t want anything else but … to go to Mama. Go there and have some respite for a while. I am so awful for saying all those things about him in a moment of weakness. It’s wrong, it’s low and it’s true. Mama, I’m so unhappy … You will help me, Buluś and God.

  MARCH 6, 1942, FRIDAY

  This week has been very eventful. It was Irka’s birthday. We spent the day with Nora; it was very pleasant. We had some pictures taken with Nora and Jarośka (they will probably be terrible, by the way). There might be some photos taken on Sunday and Mama wrote and sent two parcels and this and that.

  I haven’t seen Zygmunt all week long. Yes, and now I will have a nervous attack, I will vent my anger, I will explode! Yes, because I don’t care that he goes on his little visits. I understand—and he even told me this himself—that he likes company. But he is too embarrassed to go with me; he is simply embarrassed and ill at ease. He actually told me this, i.e., he didn’t want to go with me and said he would go on his own. Whatever, I will absolutely spare him the displeasure of my company, he might even be embarrassed in the street too. Well, tough. It is difficult to describe how bitter I am, I can taste the bile in my mouth. And just think, just think how I felt when Lidzia asked sweetly: “Why didn’t you come with Zygu?” New disappointments all the time.

  Letters to Mama are the only things that calm me down the most. I don’t mention anything about “the issue,” but I do say, rightly, that I would like to get away from here, to find a different world—I know it wouldn’t be better, but it attracts me because it would be new. I have had enough of this tête-à-tête. And it’s all because this roast is lacking gravy. “I’m angry, because I turned my heart inside out like an old pocket and shook all the crumbs out. I know, I know I’m a stupid cow, you don’t need to tell me.” This is what I wrote for Binka. Do you remember “open your hearts”? I’m angry with this poem now, I contradict it; it convinced me only temporarily and now I negate it with all my might. I was biased. Indeed, “open your hearts—to hearts wide open” is the right thing. But only to the ones that are wide open. And if there is no sweet secret left there, it will be empty.

  Purple light trickles out thin

  illuminating a ruby red urn

  showing some visions within

  enchanted specters that churn

  You can see some deep trances

  hidden in the ruby tone

  resting foreheads, sending glances

  You can see the crown of glimmers

  Mystery queen deep in fantasies

  on her throne of twilight dimmer …

  Then somebody opened the canopies

  Letting the light inside

  into the dark secret

  looking for something that hides

  Checking dressers, corners in sequence

  Peeking into a vase

  Looking, rummaging with both hands

  To conclude, “Empty, she’s an empty place.”

  A secret stops being itself when somebody finds it out. My heart is empty, because I said it all.

  I will never be angry, my darling

  when your cheeks go bright red

  when you find a question alarming

  when you say softly, “It’s a secret.”

  You’ll put a finger on your lips

  Your hair will fall onto your brow

  Your eyes’ll look up and eclipse

  Filled with mystery, surprise, disavow.

  I know you would like to say

  I know you would like to call

  it’s tough, so tough, but heyr />
  You want to know it all?

  It’s boring and it is fruitless

  Yes, I’d like to hear about it

  but I won’t be angry, my sweetness

  because then it would be unfit

  it wouldn’t be your secret sweet …

  So he is embarrassed. Well, till tomorrow. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  (ON SATURDAY)

  The wound has not healed, how could it have? Irka was there and Waldek and Zygmunt. And it was nice. Quite nice. I’m sending kisses … You will help me, Buluś and God.

  MARCH 11, 1942, TUESDAY*

  Again he reached out to me and he was like he used to be. And again I rejected him. I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. Indeed I was, but the wound has not healed just yet and I think it’ll never heal. This anger will resurface elsewhere, while it’s all about me wanting to get the other part of the portrait back. Why? Because now the most intimate issues—not of the heart, but of the soul—lay shamelessly on paper and bare their teeth; they are in somebody else’s hands. And it’s not about him possibly showing it to somebody else, now or later, when “this” is not there anymore, or about him reading it himself, or not. It’s about the fact that another “I” exists, lives. That I’m split in two, that I expelled something and that it now exists. It doesn’t mean I’m stupid. It rather means that I love this idiot who doesn’t love me back, that I believe, strongly believe in a dream which will never come true, which is just a phantasm. And I feel so very sorry for myself that I’d like to curl up in some corner and cry. I feel so sorry for you, stupid girl, because I can see how much suffering you have ahead of you—it won’t end anytime soon.

  So, so many worries are piling in front of me. I’m glad that Mama is coming, I’ll tell her. But I’m afraid she might not understand me, she might tell me to laugh it off, to stop caring, while I still feel the love, I love so much. The slightest whiff is enough to give me heartache and it goes on and on, until I tell Nora or you. But … Nothing … Is it true that …

  Yes, exactly this!

  I think spring is not a bliss

  It doesn’t fit my mood

  I’ll revolt, I will be booed

  I’ll defy those hard constraints

  grab my old, leaky umbrella

  put on black galoshes, no complaints

  my scarf and autumn jacket.

  I’ll sniffle, oh how yucky.

  And in all this gear

  I’ll walk through town all mucky

  saying for all to hear,

  “What foul, autumnal weather.”

  I’ll bump into some moron.

  Passersby at the end of their tether

  will stare at this rubber phantom

  speaking now of autumn.

  “It’s autumn where I am, really,

  I promise you, you have my word,

  I bring autumn to the fore pretty freely

  as spring is not in step with my mood!”

  Nobody seems to get it.

  Nobody says I’m right.

  So bored, tired, unhappy

  I stay at home, I hide.

  I draw the curtains, shut doors

  Put lots of wood in the stove

  guarding myself from the spring

  Rubbing my hands in the alcove

  until snowdrifts are here again.

  I will return to the autumn

  unless it changes from the very bottom!

  I really wouldn’t want it to be nice and for thousands of “couples” to come out into the streets. I am selfish, terribly selfish, but, really, what for? I don’t need it; it just yanks at my heart. Sometimes I get rebellious. I want to raise my head (after all spring is coming) and fight. Yes, fight against my love, against him and against my own helplessness and my own stupidity. I want to forget everything and write a novel. I’ll start soon because I feel that everything has to find an outlet. Bye, good night … You will help me, Buluś and God.

  MARCH 12, 1942

  There is no way to express this. No way at all. I only think about my parents who, even though they are alive, made me an orphan. Why don’t I have my own place today, why am I at the mercy of people who, at any moment, can say, “Go away! We don’t have to feed you”? That’s what Granny told me today. “Go away!” Why didn’t she say that earlier? Why did she let me live with them? Why didn’t my parents send me to go into service somewhere or even better, why didn’t they kill us both when they split? And now I have to think about it. I have to think about a way to leave this life in a quiet, unnoticed way. To remove myself. Everybody would be happy then, my parents wouldn’t need to think about what to do with me, Granny and Grandpa would have plenty of food for themselves, they wouldn’t have somebody else’s bastards to take care of and I … I’d be the happiest of them all. But I know it won’t come to that. I don’t have the courage. Why, why do I tell myself this, I don’t know. I only know that the hope of tomorrow keeps me together. But if tomorrow is … I’ll try.

  Bye, dear Diary, I love everybody, but my raw nerve, my only goal in life was home. It’s not my fault that I don’t have a home; it’s everybody else’s fault, but not mine, but it’s not them who suffer because of that, but me, only me. So I suffer without any fault on my part. Bye. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  We’ll compose a living poem

  we’ll drown it in a happy flood

  by all it will be softly spoken

  among spring, by all young

  it’ll be made of hot professes

  with bloody laments of affection

  adorned with our sweet caresses

  linked and framed by our lips’ attention

  It will pulsate with our blood

  taste of our kissing, our tears

  smell just like jasmine or lilac

  be sweet as old song in our ears

  it will be fresh like a fierce river

  whoever reads it, he will say,

  “I know it, it could be my verse…”

  MARCH 16, 1942*

  The third year of the war. But Renia! What do we care about the war today! We celebrated the second anniversary of our friendship, just like we planned.

  You didn’t let me finish at yours, so I have to start from the beginning. The old-fashioned clock’s hands moved just a few hours forward, but so much has changed in that time. The morning was wonderful, it was as good as one can only imagine, it was familiar, delightful and at the same time unusual. We triumphed over Irka, we felt we were heading for something better, we felt we had a great day to celebrate! It’s been a while since I was in such a good mood … And it was all gone the moment Zygu appeared. He brought with him something alien, something stiff, he pushed me into the state I am in now.

  I’d like to write something cheerful, to thank you, Renia, for all your efforts to make this day a pleasant one, but I can’t. In the morning I radiated joy, now I sit here, cold, hunched over a page from your diary, completely broken, and I can’t even think of anything anymore. It is all Zygo’s doing. He made me feel like some small, stupid, unimportant person who at best can smile idiotically, or rather laugh, and nothing more. Renia, don’t hold it against me that I spoiled this day filled with warmth, sweetness, delight. We need to remember one thing: satisfaction is never creative. I’m grateful to Zygu for bringing me back to my senses (I’m sure absolutely unintentionally). I sobered up, I don’t know for how long, because there is somebody else who can affect my state of mind again.

  We could actually start our novel now, the mood couldn’t be more appropriate, but there’s one problem, Renia, I’m simply not able to. I don’t have even the slightest bit of a writing talent. You have so much more imagination. To you writing comes easily, you have panache. And my knowledge is way too limited to undertake the writing of even the smallest novel. Renia, start writing on your own, I might join you or not, that remains to be seen.

  But now I’m thinking of something new, Mila’s idea. “Organize a day of truth,” she told
us and “Put it all on the table.” Yes! We need to fulfill this plan. It might change my attitude to Zygu, it might even bring me closer to you two.

  It’s strange, after all we don’t need any new circumstances, because I don’t think we could be any closer to each other than we are now. Because, Renia, we are very close, but I am distant from you and Zygu. I always feel it when you are together and I would really like that to change. So chin up, all must end well. We have achieved so much, Renia, we’ll achieve this as well. Vivat March 16! Vivat our dear friendship! “Be gone, worries, tears and upheaval…”

  MARCH 17, 1942, TUESDAY

  I didn’t write yesterday because you were at Norka’s. Pity. I felt so good. And all that joy, this blissful calm, I transferred onto the pages of Nora’s diary. I felt like this even in the afternoon. We were together, the four of us, and I thought we were so close. Shame that you, Nora, didn’t feel the same way … (ah, you don’t know anything about Julek). Strange that I wrote so little about Julek. I’ll write some more now, since he became my … let me say it … my “brother-in-law.”

  In fact I like Julek a lot, especially that he disappointed me in a nice way. I expected him to be rather experienced, to like girls, to be idle, a pleasure-seeker, superficial, talented and very smart. And now I see that there is something very straightforward about him, that there’s nothing artificial about him, nothing unnatural. He’s very good and not at all bigheaded. So I’m glad that Norka said the words, “I love.” Admittedly she said it as a question, “Do I?” but she’s loved him without being aware of it for a long while. And I wish her all the best in love. I’m waiting impatiently for it to happen.

  Yesterday I felt that everything we dreamed about came true. We won over her, this awful cow, we have our shared “baby” (the album), we have our friendship and … we take photos. Yes, this (for those in the know) means a lot too. And then, i.e., yesterday, when we were finally alone, it was sweet and it smelled of spring. Zygmunt said that we would never argue again. But I replied it was not possible. True, I knew it and I admitted that I was angry and when I’m angry I invent outrageous things about him and I have already forgotten what it was about and I felt bad about it, until this wound stung again. Until I remembered that he was embarrassed to go with me to Irka’s. And today this story with the photo unnerved me again.