HOW
A butterfly loves every flower
on the meadow, plain, and hill
lily and chamomile
plain bloom and bower
When it’s not chasing scents
But yearns for nectar still
LEAVES
The leaves in May they shiver
play with the wind impatiently
Is it strange?
To me it is not strange at all
Through August nights
they burn
with a blissful might
of loving, maybe
in autumn they turn yellow
shriveled and pale
this must be envy
They’re dead in the winter
and frozen right through
onto a snowy forest floor
they fall
they rustle, and don’t sing
and instead of caressing, they sting
Is it strange? To me it’s not strange at all
And I don’t know, is he worth it or not? Rather yes. I had more joy than sadness after all. Goodbye …
I dreamed, a sweet
and wondrous dream
I moved my feet
in clouds, it seemed
a land of colors and scents
and bells
and bells
of laughter
which echoed after
repeated again
until it spread
wide and away
until a whisper
of a sunny golden laugh
what a day
then in a cloud of white
a flock of butterflies flew in
with a name across the sky, so bright
a name as sweet as my dream
and just as wonderful …
then the awakening
not as eventful
with a prod in the side
my eyes open wide
it’s dark, day wakes
the shade’s about to stop
a lovely dream
a springlike dream
but not worth the waking-up
A very sad and teary day. Noruś, I wanted to write to you today. Not—although I know this belongs in the past—“that I’m your friend for crying,” but you see, this is how it works out, strangely. But have you ever thought about the meaning of those words? When someone is having a hard time, yes, a hard and sad time, when they need consolation, they turn to their closest person, to their mother—and I didn’t have a mother here. I wanted to write about friendship, but I know that my mood has changed since the morning. And? And it’s my lot to cry again. Oh God, but my heart is heavy! Words are only words and they say nothing. This burden won’t be shifted either by a letter to Mother, or to you, dearest Noreńka, or even by poems; this burden was imposed by his words. So humiliating! Why did I ask about that? Noruś, just think, I’ve got a sword in my heart, when it’s there, it hurts, it hurts very much, but when I try to remove it, it hurts even more. And the thought of our friendship seems to me such a quiet haven that I consider it sacred. Can you believe that he sensed it back then? But still, I am better. Can it be said that I have two faces? You will help me, Buluś and God.
JANUARY 19, 1942, MONDAY
Birthday! Dear Diary! Mama! Noreńka! I feel so good! I feel so light. It was his birthday today. I gave him a collection of poems (granted, it is rather pretty and I almost fell in love with it when making it) and he was so happy! I didn’t know it would please him so much. He was touched. I asked him what he’d like me to wish him. He said for us to survive this war without splitting up. Do I want that, too? What a question, do I? I don’t want us to ever split up at all. As Z put it, the poems connect us. How good that he understands this. Poems are something extraordinary and unique, they connect souls and ennoble, elevate love. God, thank You and may my dreams come true … You will help me, Buluś and God.
JANUARY 24, 1942, THURSDAY*
I feel so good! We understood that we’ve understood each other completely. And I opened your depths, dear Diary! Are you angry? I opened them to someone close and very loved! I gave all that’s deepest, most precious, most honest—all the worries and thoughts enclosed in poems. “When we are like water lilies,” Zygunio. The way you are honestly makes me feel at a loss for words, it’s better to lie down, close one’s eyes and dream. Only Jarośka keeps ruining the image for me with her comments, “He looks like a real Yid in that hat.” Let her talk, maybe she’s right, I’m unable to see it, and even if
The heart will take no orders gladly,
it is wiser than you are†
Generally I’ve been wanting to write something, but I’ve not known what all day.
First, “he” was on
a golden throne
a castle, horses, knights
a wings, like on a ghost
a true crowned prince—like most
sweet dreams on sweetest nights
He runs, jumps, flies
the dragon dies
and golden horseshoes gleam
and gleaming so
he jumped to glow
onto the silver screen
Again, it was “him”
a girl’s true dream
He captured towns and hearts
so lovely and unique
He tore down walls
scored hockey goals
The suit showed off his physique
Then new ones made a start
heroes from books
the soldier and the guard
with airplanes and with rank
And it was due to them
your heart sank
And then, a—who?
A figure on the street
Someone with lips so sweet
Someone with eyes bright and deep
Someone you dream of and would keep
Someone like a daydream in May
who won’t disappear or fade away
Again, it was “him”
a girl’s true dream
a star of some repute
and scored hockey goals
A talent beyond dispute
His suit was well-tailored and clean
and he vanished on a bright silver screen
And sometimes it’s exactly like it was with this poem. First it gained speed, winged out and stopped, and I’m struggling, struggling, struggling and I can’t finish. But maybe I will finish it …
He sulked and lay in wait
then with one leap
he gushed a stream sharp and deep
He spread dark wings
and in a flash
he scrawled a streak of poems
across a page at a dash
Each feeling and each thought
he pressed through signs of black
He moved in narrow scribbles
which gleamed behind his back
He spat verse after verse
and coughed up rhyme, and then
he brought forth inky tears
from a poor old fountain pen
Then he stood
his back against the script
on a clear blank page, as dark
as a stubborn mountain goat
as an arrow through a tree bark
he clammed up with a frown
and looked around in fear
and the ending of this poem
will never draw near
Maybe I will finish it after all. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JANUARY 26, 1942, MONDAY
Today was such a strange day. My poor darling Noruśka. She came over this morning at a run and said, crying, “My grandpa is dead.” And ran off. My heart gave such a squeeze and hurt so much. Later I was anxious about her, I thought they rounded her up to sweep snow. I know how sensitive she is and what it means to her. And when I was wondering whether the poor thing isn’t freezing somewhere and what she’s doing, I felt how dear this little friend of min
e is to me. Her diary is a story of our friendship. It could be entitled “How a friendship strengthened.” Oh, but it must be said that she should be given the more noble position, the one of more respect. And now we’re so close that I feel her pain like my own. I would like her to come to us. Her most recent letter was something so warm that one really has to be very cordial to be able to write it. It is so terrible, Irka lost her grandma, Norka—her grandpa. Oh God, preserve the lives of everyone else and stop this war. Buluś hasn’t written. Ticiu hasn’t written. Oh, this whole family of ours is also a body torn to shreds. Will it come alive? Will it ever come together? I’ve come to doubt the term “family home”—I can only have my own now. Oh, make it happen, God. The grandparents are to us all that’s protection and care, and everything. Oh good, darling, saint Bimba! It’s somehow warm and sunny with them in this freezing weather. I’m experiencing moments which are rare in life. I’m 17 and when I look into his eyes I forget everything that’s sad in the world. And I’d inscribe them in my heart in golden letters. Because I’m at that age and in that state when words, glances, caresses give joy. When I’m happy at the mere sight of my sweetheart. And now perhaps the poems have introduced this clarity. Mama, write how you’re doing! Your silence is such a burden. I say “good night” to the young and happy, “good night” to the sad and worried, “good night” to you, my faraway Mama, and you, my sad dear friend. Good night … You will help me, Buluś and God.
May this night bring relief
some sweet respite
to those in pain
and grief
a hopeful, joyful
sprite
to those in happy love
May its cool hands lie
across the temples burning
with heat of day
To the world
may it bring all the help
it might
and may it knock on doors
to hearts barred shut
good night …
Well … She hasn’t written, no. It weighs so heavy on me. And, as is my wont, I immediately start imagining—and I don’t want to think. I am so sad. Z stirred such concern in me too. He says I’d like to live lightly, that I don’t care much about anything. Does even he not notice this mask I put on (with difficulty), or maybe, maybe it’s true, maybe always trying to “mock the world” I now mock unwittingly? But I can’t say I think like that about my only Mama, my dearest, and about our affairs, which are a difficult, oppressing experience to me. My whole youth has been like this. You know. I have never lacked for anything materially—but morally, sometimes. And I couldn’t show it, and I didn’t want to care much about anything, and it’s stayed this way. And now, Buluś, write and visit. Such are my most ardent wishes. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JANUARY 30, 1942, FRIDAY
No, there’s been no letter, not a word … only my head is thumping, why? And I’m thinking of writing a novella. No content, no so-so moods, no more. And in response to you, Buluś.
If I was just like you are now
I would have all the boys in tow
I’d be surrounded by many a lad
and let them kiss!
let them go mad!
I wouldn’t mind, I wouldn’t care
the young girl’s shame would not be there
I’d fling my arms wide open, then
I would deny it all again
I’d kick back those who are a drag
Then I would show a lot of leg
And hike my dress up high enough
To let the blinding light shine through
With so much grace
who could ever face
so much temptation and resist?
The righteous ones would not be missed
The chaste old souls could let tongues fly
against my body, till they die
against my lips, and all my hair
I’d keep all boys so sweet right there
I’d make them choke on bliss—and how!
if I was just like you are now …
But I am not, and that is why
I’ll love no other, even if I try
my love is young, ashamed, aware,
and so unhappy, so full of care …
I’m happy with what I’ve written about myself—I’ll refresh it a bit. You will help me, Buluś and God.
FEBRUARY 6, 1942, FRIDAY
Such an ordinary Friday. Because you don’t know that on Fridays too, and, well, generally always, every day. I’ve had a letter from Buluś, Jerschina brought it. I’ve studied nothing for him. I am so sorry, so ashamed—horribly. And I really want to learn now. I want to, so much, I think about it. Mama, forgive me, please, forgive me, you’ve experienced this too once, after all—I … I can’t.
Zygmunt wanted to come more often, I agreed. But this is something I’ve experienced since the very first stages of love—I don’t like to see him that often. It is as if I’m worried that it’ll become commonplace, that I’ll get bored, run out of energy (but it’s not so, right, Noruś?). So why blubber? Because it was the way it was today? After all, yesterday and earlier, and before that, it was different. So it has to be said how it was. Was or wasn’t. It got me very excited and caused pleasurable unsettling shudders. Everything was sweet: kisses, glances and words, and all that wasn’t so ethereal, yes, that too. And today it was like that at first too—not at the end. Because really, who’s to blame that I started thinking about the honest and clear way Z has of telling things. I told him things too and perhaps it was this telling of mine that humiliated me so much internally. “Renuśka! You’re so silly!” Mama would say. Because you didn’t experience another love before this one? Because your dream was so undreamed? Because that first kiss, as Z says, was like freshly picked cherries? Yes, because of that! Because when he (after all quite honestly and in good faith) told me about all those flings of his, the casual flirting and little romances, I couldn’t impress him with anything like that, if it could impress him at all? Or maybe not that … I must touch my heart like this, bit by bit, to see where it hurts. Maybe the impassioned speech about that first Jadzia, no, not that either, and not the fact that those experiences were much more romantic than ours, or perhaps the comparison? Yes, yes … you compared me loving you to yourself loving her. I was nothing, nothing at all in your life; you didn’t even pay attention to me. But what do I really want? I’ve always known this after all, I didn’t even (at times) demand reciprocity. Still, why are you surprised that I was “consumed by reticence”? Why, I was embarrassed, humiliation was ravaging my eyes anyway. Whatever I said and did always seemed too much to me. You were free to do anything, but girls have their own special “blessed” rules. And why, Z, why did “it” happen? It was not because you found me attractive (“Because I didn’t even try to make interesting conversation”), not because I found you, is that it? Or perhaps the row with the variety show and the contest? Perhaps that was unimportant—quite unimportant? Those rivals I conquered, that didn’t make me happy (or did it?) (I know now—the variety show). After all each one of them could have done it. I knew all this, but never, ever, suspected that hearing it in such a nice, “accessible form” would cause me such pain, well, not as much pain as a spasm. You could only love her, although later no longer. And there was no name for our relationship—it was something between a friendship and exactly that—and then it took on a more distinct character. But I can phrase it differently. To me, you were immediately more than a friend (although I hated you at times), maybe precisely because of this. Maybe I would have withdrawn and closed the front if…? Oh there’s always been an “if,” and that’s why I stayed and would stay. But even today I’m sorry I was wet behind the ears, a novice, a goose; I’m sorry that I can’t say, “At least I know I didn’t live tediously.” But one promise will be kept, even if I loved most ardently—like today. Now it feels better, it feels good, now I will leaf through the old
, those disarmingly naïve pages. You will help me, Buluś and God.
Let us then sing
let us then sing
until the dream
of youth lives on
till it can thrill and thrive and spring
let us then fill
the sky with song!
FEBRUARY 8, 1942, SUNDAY
I’d like to start a story. A story of our love. Written completely independently. But one has to, it’s hard maybe, when … I don’t know. You will help me, Buluś and God.
FEBRUARY 16, 1942, MONDAY
Tomorrow I’m going to Noruśka’s. For the whole day. We’ll talk to our hearts’ content. We’ll settle everything and build, at least theoretically, our future company. We have to do it. At all costs, we need to. I went to Irka’s, she’s paid me a return visit. And again a spiderweb of relationships is starting to be spun. But I don’t want this web to wrap itself so much that spiders suffocate me. I need to see my own one, we must meet.
It is disgusting, this life, which starts with staring at his lips and ends with looking at his fingernails. I try with all my might to remove myself from this influence. But it’s very hard, because I dream of throwing my arms around him. If I had some occupation, or someone else, I wouldn’t think so much about it. It’s strangely amusing that I always know it in advance.
Yesterday I told Jarośka the story of my revenge. Jarośka says, “Stupid, you are making up stories!” And today, today there’s some truth to it after all.