You tell me that you love me terribly
that you miss me unbearably
I know it isn’t very modest of me
but I want it and that is that
You will help me, Buluś and God.
MAY 23, 1942, SATURDAY
Always on Saturdays. It would have been easier if I wrote several days ago. Now I don’t know what to write, where to start? Something has been bothering me terribly the last few days. I talked to Nora and in the end I told her that this other trait of Zygmunt is bothering me. This and that. But still, once, not so long ago, I asked Jarośka why the whole world was against us, why they all thought it funny, stupid, absurd? Not Mama, not anymore. And I’d like to give her a big hug for it. But Nora too, even her. I know that she is thinking about what it’s going to be like when my romance ends. She’s accusing me of taking it too seriously and (does she have a clearheaded view of it?) she makes my heart ache. I know that she’s not sure, she doubts whether Z really loves me. I know it; I can feel it. And it pains me; it bothers me perhaps. Those tiny, unimportant details …
Because you should know that I am jealous, terribly, insanely jealous. And I think it’s this jealousy and not my complex (which is gone now) that makes me hate. It annoys me. Constantly, it annoys me constantly.
And Zyguś sometimes says something without realizing it and it hurts me so badly. Sometimes, when it bothers me too much, I think about running away. To run away, to run away as far as possible, to be away from him but also to not see it all, to not suffer this agony. But there are times when I know that it is not possible. When I hold him tightly, when he’s near, so very near, I feel that I wouldn’t be able to part with him for all the treasures in the world. That would mean giving up my soul, the most important part of my life.
Nora, you are wrong. You’re different, but I’d be left with nothing.
Studying, nature—that’s all good when love is fulfilled or when you’ve never experienced it. One thing perhaps—poetry. Poems would flow in a wide stream like tears, like longing, like despair and suffering.
I knew that Zygmunt’s parents were part of the hostile atmosphere surrounding us, but I wasn’t aware how much against it they were and how important it was. Because of his late returns? What else? And what if Irka … What then? But I do know, because I take a bit of him away from them. Who ever heard of such a young boy getting so seriously involved? I understand and I don’t resent them for it, but I’m a bit sorry about it, yes and no. It can be something very important or not important at all.
I love Zyguś the most in the world. He is my dearest and he is most mine. I don’t want to bother him with my issues, but I know that nobody in the world understands me like he does. It’s always so that when your heart aches, you can feel this pain in all your limbs. Which is why my worries hurt me more then.
When Z is good to me, everything is good and bright and full of sunshine. It’s May, 23rd of May—such a shame the month is about to pass. The nights are filled with stars. They’re so intoxicating and I dream so much, I dream, I dream. You will help me, Buluś and God.
MAY 24, 1942, SUNDAY
A morning like today can happen only when you’re young, when you’re in love and when you’re loved back. Oh, my God, it was so amazing! We were so close and … no, nothing can change that. The world’s so cruel! I always knew it too. But it’s sweet that Z has various adventures and that he tells me about them … In any case I like to know. I’ll come up with something. But why would I care that they are evil, insincere, jealous, when Z is the best and the sweetest? After all I am not in love with them, but with him. And I know that my dream will come true, like all my dreams, because it is fate. And it’ll be so, if we persevere, we’ll survive and we’ll be a happy couple. And I won’t be stupid anymore; I’ll just smile when looking at silly things. Oh, Mama, my Mama! You and Zyguś, please love me! You will help me, Buluś and God.
MAY 25, 1942, MONDAY
He picked me up from the factory at noon. And it was (oh, Dido is so annoying!) wonderful. All young, all May—that should be enough for you and anyway:
When I hear those words so sweet
those dear words, oh, my Good Angel
each is a precious treasure at my feet
each says more than many pages.
But if I wanted to say
how wonderful is this night in May
words would become meaningless
words would be laughable, I guess.
It is a wonderful May night now! With a smiling moon. Oh, if only Z were with me. I place my invisible hands on Mama’s temples and on Ticiu’s. Good Lord God, take care of them and of us. You will help me, Buluś and God.
MAY 26, 1942, TUESDAY
I’m writing by the light of the moon—literally. The story unfolds. I know, or rather I feel that it’s all Zośka’s fault. And I know why she does it—it’s not about the other girl, but about the change, about separating me from him and … Not tomorrow, on Thursday. I can’t even tell whom I hate more—her or them. It’s been like that from the very beginning, grrr. You will help me, Buluś and God!
MAY 28, 1942, THURSDAY
I love Z very much. He is so athletic and I’m so impressed. I can take cover by him, I can simply cuddle against him—it’s so great, so snuggly and …
But let’s start from the beginning. After all it wasn’t a nice day today.
First thing in the morning—the meeting, going beetroot red and then discussing work; then the conversation with Zyguś. Then there was Maciek and finally this disgusting plot, which evolved into something of a horrible size and nothing of it. Because this whole adventure with Z is rather pleasant. But also strange, oh, so strange! I didn’t realize it could be like that.
Z says that I am languid and inflexible, and this and that, and he constantly probes me about the reasons why I don’t like dancing. And I don’t like dancing because I don’t know how to dance. And when I feel like today, when I feel so strange, it’s like a shiver, like I don’t know what, and I’m against it. Hell, am I the biggest swine on planet Earth? Oh, it’s so good to get it off my chest, I feel relieved. I’m glad he feels comfortable mentioning me so openly, but at the same time it hurts, I feel like I’m stuck at a lower level and I can’t soar. But then I forgot about everything in the world. When I hugged him, when I clung to him with my whole body …
The most difficult part is always saying goodbye. Somehow I love him with my whole body and having him close is like having a personification of spring by me. And spring can be intoxicating! Is it true that women are dangerous in springtime? Yes, wild females. But not me, I only like the most innocent caresses which then make me go into a strange state and if it wasn’t 9 p.m. I would probably go wild just like them, but … Well, girl, don’t go crazy—ah, I’m taken and that is that. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JUNE 2, 1942, TUESDAY
Probably—but it’s difficult to write. You know, now I know what the word ecstasy means. I almost understand it. It’s indescribable; it’s the best thing two loving creatures can achieve. For the first time, I felt this longing to become one, to be one body and … well … to feel more, I could say. To bite and kiss and squeeze until blood shows. (And then there’s this other symptom.) And Zyguś talked about a house and a car and about being the best for me.
Lord God, I’m so grateful to You for this affection and love and happiness! I’m writing these words differently, whispering them in my mind so I don’t scare them away or blow them out. To write a poem, but a bloodthirsty one, a springtime one. Mama is on her own, even H is not there. I don’t want to think about anything, I just want to desire so badly, so passionately like … you know. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JUNE 6, 1942, SATURDAY
Days and moods have shimmered. Not many days have passed, but many thoughts have flown through my mind. One morning I woke up and I thought that something had happened. Two aerials stuck out of the roof opposite, piercing the blu
e sky. I could only see those aerials and the snippet of the sky between them and nothing more. Why am I writing about it? Because I want to show you that it wasn’t some symbol that brought this thought. I simply woke up from a dream, which told me not to believe in my great, cherished fantasy. Why? I don’t know. I just felt grown-up and found this fantasy childish, stupid and unfeasible. So this is how it is when you look at the world dispassionately—two aerials and the sky. And me, so wise, I could smile with derision, but I have no energy and no courage for it … So my belief lessened now, but it came back and is increasing bit by bit. I still pray with the same zeal as before. Not now. What I want the most is the dream. I want the desire, yes, because I desire with every tiny bit of my body, my thoughts, my imagination. Even the most innocent book stirs me up, as does the closeness of other people, and us. Ah, I struggle with such horrible dreams, disgusting dreams. And I … and you. A swaying ship, I’m running, gaining speed … and … and … should I jump?! I would jump if … I’d jump a thousand times if he existed forever.
I haven’t seen Zyguś today, he’s overworked, tired and weak. And it’s good, it’s very lucky, because right now I’m brimming with energy. My greed for life makes me fierce. I’d like to use my power in an honorable battle. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JUNE 7, 1942, SUNDAY24
I’m at peace. Nora and I went for a long walk deep into the quarter and we talked. She was the first person I told. I realized that burden was what was tormenting me. We browsed through the sweet album and I felt good and most of all—at peace.
Zygmunt was there too, he was there and then left, I shouldn’t have written it down.
We also talked about Waldek. It’s strange. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not in l … e with him. I could choke on this word. And only half an hour ago my heart throbbed with fear.
Wherever I look, there is bloodshed. Such terrible pogroms. There is killing, murdering. God Almighty, for the umpteenth time I humble myself in front of You, help us, save us! Lord God, let us live, I beg You, I want to live! I’ve experienced so little of life, nothing. I don’t want to die. I’m scared of death. It’s all so stupid, so petty, so unimportant, so small. Today I worry about being ugly; tomorrow I might stop thinking forever. Yes, yes, war is terrible, savage, bloody. I feel I’ve become like that because of it.
Think, tomorrow we might not be
A cold, steel knife
Will slide between us, you see
But today there is still time for life
Tomorrow sun might eclipse
Gun bullets might crack and rip
And howl—pavements awash
With blood, with dirty, stinking slag
Pigwash
Today you are alive
There is still time to survive
Let’s blend our blood
When the song still moves ahead
The song of the wild and furious flood
Brought by the living dead
Listen, my every muscle trembles
My body fumbles for your closeness
It’s supposed to be a choking game, this is
Not enough eternity for all the kisses.
I was interrupted. But this thought absorbs me. Is it worth making an effort? No! I’m telling you, something’ll come up. What? Don’t know. But it will. Or perhaps already has. Can’t get it out of my head. Now is the time to think of other things. Lord God, forgive me, save me and protect me. Great One, end this war now. You will help me, Buluś and God. I believe in you!
JUNE 9, 1942, TUESDAY
I’m ill and slightly grumpy. I fear so much for Jarośka. She’s coughing, she needs to be taken to the doctor’s (her lungs are so weak). Granny refuses. I tell her that she should do it, Granny thinks that “should” is a relative thing to say. So what now? She’s a young child. Ah, Granny herself never goes to the doctor, she has this rule, but should it apply to a young child whose whole life is ahead of her? Maybe she should simply be helped, saved? Perhaps she’s really ill?
These are ordinary and stupid words—but tell me, do you understand the despair they contain? This child is really poorly. Bimba nags her terribly, but she never holds back. This situation’s not her fault after all, it was others who did it to her, why is Bimba so unfair?
I really felt like crying today. Granny thinks I should revive my poetry writing ambition. I yelled, “Granny, you don’t understand!” Mom wanted to turn me into a writer, but can one be “turned into” a writer? Oh, these people don’t understand anything. And I’m being told this now, when I’m trying to stop myself from writing verses. Because I don’t want to write when I have something to write about and I want to, but when I can, when I have to. They don’t know how much it hurts. And the killing goes on, the murdering. Zyguś is the only breath of spring and sunshine. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JUNE 14, 1942, SUNDAY
It’s dark, I can’t write. Panic in the city. We fear a pogrom; we fear deportations. Oh God Almighty! Help us! Take care of us; give us Your blessing. We will persevere, Zyguś and I, please let us, let us survive the war. Take care of all, of mothers and children. Amen. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JUNE 15, 1942, MONDAY
I’m restless and drunk. I spent the whole day in a terrible fright. I was tired, exhausted, in despair. And I’ve longed so badly … I long. Just think, two days and two nights. Dark nights, thick with darkness, just think, I burned so badly, I longed so badly.
In the daytime I was choking with the heavy, threatening atmosphere of the dead city. Oh, days are so hard. Nerves are engaged, they jerk with tension, senses are engaged too, dying with longing.
Was Zyguś sweet? I don’t know if he was particularly sweet, but he was somehow deliciously manly. And at the end I felt that he was first and foremost a man. It was the second time I felt it. I compared it to a book. I surprised myself that I could. I want to laugh out loud, ha ha ha, laugh myself sick. This feeling is worthy of gods and people in ecstasy. One would like to let go. No! No! We’ll persevere, won’t we? Yes. My wonderful springtime head, we’ll persevere!
He was delightful and when I’m with him, I feel so small, like a child, I feel safe. It’s completely dark now. I’m writing in the darkness, but I still know what I’m writing.
The conversation about lips was not pleasant, but it didn’t spoil anything. Nothing and nobody could spoil this.
God Almighty, please let it go on, keep on saving us. Only You can protect us and my faith is so powerfully strong. You will help me, Buluś and God!
I devise you, my amorous tremble
I devise you with my thoughts alone
A bloody spring fruit you resemble
My body embraced by hips, I groan
My chest billows restlessly, I moan
Veins pulsate angrily, with danger
with a holy act, holy pain, holy anger
blessed be the sense that feels.
I will grab you, smother, crush you, peel
Take you between my hips
Oh! I will be generous and giving
I will be happy, I will be living.
I will absorb you, I will writhe and adore,
I will kiss you like a lithe whore
A real one, real and alight.
The pinnacle of crudeness! I will smack my own face for it, but I’ll still write it. In the evening! I haven’t written down a prayer. I wrote about silliness and I was thinking about it. Forgive me, Lord. Who will I raise my hands to, if You abandon me? Whom will I trust? Holy God, please protect me, put Your hand on the heads of those who believe, who need Your protection.
My Dear Mama, today, in this terrible, horrible moment, you’re with strangers and perhaps it’s better this way, perhaps you’re safer … but if you were (God forbid) … if we were … I don’t want to say it. And again, for the umpteenth time when children cuddle up to their mothers, you’re far away. All of the important, dangerous, crucial moments in life divide us. And you, my De
ar Mama, pray for us, pray for us wherever you are. There is one God. He will listen to you, pray for your orphaned children. Our God is the only one, people died saying these words, believing and I am still alive, alive and faithful.
You will help me, Buluś and God.
JUNE 18, 1942, THURSDAY
Today is my big day. I turn 18 on the 18th. I’m an adult now, but I don’t know much. There has been plenty of sadness and worry in my life already, plenty of joy and love too. But I don’t know much; I don’t even know what I should know. Right now I’m feeling good, I’m not so bad, thank goodness.
Nora is a sweet, good creature. She suffers because she doesn’t know much. I find it strange how we all attract each other, we who are so “self-critical.” She likes Maciek. That would be great, wouldn’t it?!
What’s the day today? I smashed my head. Then everyone gathered and it was quite nice. Norka has given me the album, a complete one, beautifully bound, wonderful! Oh, there’s something so sweet, so lovely, so good; something that lifts us, makes us better. Yet another fulfilled dream. Nora, I believe and you know that it’s not the last one …
Zyguś has given me chocolates and two gingerbread hearts, Irka flowers and perfume, and Maciek sent me roses and a card, wishing for all my dreams to come true.
And I? What can I say, sometimes I dream about being famous, about reaching heights and flying across the world, and not just in my mind. And yet sometimes I just want to be an ordinary person—a townswoman, a mother. I want, I want so very badly to have children, happy and good, righteous, noble and honest children. Who knows which of those tasks is nobler, which one is harder?
Oh, I feel so good, Mama, and I know that you’re sending many dear words through the air. Do you know that I am already 18? Yes, and I believe, and I love those whom I loved.
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