The first day at the club was fun (I mean I had fun), but today I felt like a fish out of water. People played this flirting game (some game it is) and I didn’t get even one card. I’m embarrassed to admit it even to you. Some boy named Julek (not Jurek) supposedly likes me, but why? Maybe because I’m so different from my friends. I’m not saying that’s a good thing—it could even be a bad thing—but I’m very different from them. I don’t even know how to laugh in a flirtatious way. When I laugh, it’s for real, openly. I don’t know how to “behave” around boys. That’s why I miss the old days, the age of pink … blue … being carefree … When Mama was still with me, when I had my own home, when there was peace in the world, when everything was blue, bright, serene; when such weather prevailed in my heart.
I lived among some cheerful meadows
Among fields painted with sunlight
I smiled at the golden stars
To pink emergence of daylight
My life was also all in pink
As bright as days filled with sun
I didn’t want it to end in a blink
Being a happy echo was fun
Sounding with silver glee
Reflecting merrily off the sky
In love with all, happy as can be
I didn’t know how much a heart could cry
I didn’t know the weeping of a soul
I didn’t know it could be different.
Today I’m filled with regret
And though I am still so young and whole
I look back into recent past
And cry. It’s gone … Shame, I’m aghast …
NOVEMBER 6, 19396
I’m ill. I have a sore throat. But I am breathing more easily now. I know that Mama’s alive, that she’s in Warsaw. She’ll come see me any day now. And I can’t wait, can’t wait … Ticio* sent a postcard; they have everything in abundance in Horodenka.† Daddy’ll get a job as a farmer. He might bring us some provisions.
We have three days off. Anniversary of the revolution. There’ll be morning assemblies at schools, young people’s marches. Such a shame I can’t be part of it. I’m ill …
DECEMBER 9, 1939
Holidays are coming. Daddy got a job in a sugar refinery. I might go there. Mama’s in Warsaw, not planning to come here.
I might get a scholarship … Let’s hope …
I love him, he’s wonderful, just like I dream about, I love him—but I don’t know if that’s in fact love. He doesn’t know of me and I only know that he’s in Border Patrol. And one more thing, something terribly “teenagerish”—I’d love to kiss his lips, eyes, temples, just like you read in romance books.
Irka is passionate. She goes to Marysia’s; there are plenty of beds there, with bed linen, and each couple goes to a separate room and … well, that makes you think. Belka said one mysterious sentence while we were working (Belka knows a lot), “Anyway look at Irka, at her broad walk…” Ugh … It’s so disgusting. Truth be told, I’m not passionate. I’d like to have a pretty husband, like him … I’d like to live in Crimea in a pretty villa-house, have a golden-haired little boy, a son, be happy and love everything …
I have to write down a translation of a German poem. Oh, I’ve grown sick of school!
Always at work, millions of hands
For thousand centuries, many decades
And every hand, which for an ax bends
Is like an Atlas, each the sky aids
Rattling and whirring, roaring and banging
This is the sound of our land’s iron call
Crunching and quaking, booming and clanging
Immortal singing of work befalls
Plenty of cylinders must go in and out
And plenty of screw bolts must stay about
Hammers must strike the anvil with might
To make the world simmer, be alight
Thousands of people must be on fire
Brains must ignite and never tire
To keep this flame always ablaze
Filling the world with warm light for years
“We work!” This is the title of our newspaper. “Work is power!,” “Forward with work” and many more similar slogans I’ve heard. And I spent some time thinking about what work is. Every time I thought about it, various images came to mind. Here is a gray working army, these are workmen, I can see students with their heads bowed, I can see pilots in roaring planes, seamen somewhere out at sea. They are all part of the powerful working army; work goes on out at sea, on land and in the air. Yes, but what in fact is work?
Everything hums and roars around
Work’s going on, never breaks down
It blares, it rattles and flutters in spades
Asking for soldiers for its work brigades!
Calls everybody on land and at sea
Those in the mines and those who fly free
To grab their axes, their chisels, their trowels
To join the workforces and not throw in the towel
To conquer the world as it is wide
To build a new one with work and to do it with pride
DECEMBER 15, 1939
The radio didn’t mention an explosion in a middle school in Przemyśl, the papers didn’t write about it, paperboys out in the streets didn’t shout, “The Konopnicka School has been blown up with steam!” Nobody knew about anything, but “something” did happen. This “something” took place at a chemistry or physics lesson. It was, of course, before the war. Here’s what happened: we had a guest at physics; we all shook like jelly, practiced all possible emergency measures, like “a wireless telephone line,” nudging, kicking, clearing one’s throat and other such methods, known only to us. Finally the new lesson started. And it was going well! But something was ticking! On the table there were plenty of little bottles, flasks, bowls, test tubes, stands, burners and other devices. It all looked rather impressive, powerful and very “scientific.” Even more so, when it was all lined, connected—it was pretty. I can still hear this voice saying clearly, “But please remember to leave an opening for steam, this is very important.” Of course! Certainly! Absolutely! All was going well, exceptionally well, the reactions were just like in the textbook, until … oh, what horror! In comparison to what happened next, Zeus sending a thunderbolt down was a quiet whisper and the clash of swords at Troy was a delicate rustle. Bottles, flasks, bowls, test tubes—first they all jumped up into the air and then landed on our poor tables, books and notebooks. The esteemed guest was of course outraged, etc. etc.… But let me keep that a secret, since the papers and the radio didn’t talk about it. And I’ve already spilled the beans, so now I ask for your discretion. Let’s keep this between us.
DECEMBER 26, 1939
Half of the school year is gone already. The time has passed in a flash. First I was elected to the committee as the head of the drama club, then we were supposed to have a party with boys, there were many searches in the city, there were four sexual murders. And now, tomorrow night, I can go to see Daddy at Horodenka. But before I have a meeting tomorrow and I’ll go for a rehearsal at Słowacy.* There might even be a party. Shame I won’t be there, since recently I’m feeling kind of … I’m going through silly, salad days and thoughts, which are quite pleasant. Just silly thoughts: life, buying powder compacts, taking photos, everything, everything is silly.
The meeting’s tomorrow. I need to prepare a cabaret song about our class 4A based on “Suffer, my soul.”†
I
Suffer, my soul and you will be redeemed
Don’t suffer enough and you’ll be condemned
In our fourth grade
Young girls in droves
Dreaming, the whole brigade
Sitting by a cold stove
Suffer, my soul …
II
As soon as by the stove
Rogues gather and hove
Immediately the voices boom
“Please leave the classroom!”
Suffer, my soul …
Even though our breaks
Loudly reverberate with sound
But during the hour
Everybody quietly cowers
Suffer, my soul …
III
Our class will compete
With such other suite
That our behavior pales
By comparison, it fails
Suffer, my soul …
DECEMBER 27, 1939
I
Round the corner
At Dworski Street
Not far from the Słowacki seat
A guy and a girl walk free
Just by the Christmas tree
II
I tell you, Rena,† just listen to me
Don’t be as soft with yourself as can be
Grab some cash and go to school
Don’t miss a party, don’t be a fool
III
Józek Ciuchraj, listen to me in advance
Grab your accordion, play some Styrian dance
One, two, three, four, not a beat he misses
What a great party this is
IV
Stop sending us glances
Go find somebody to dance with
Then run quickly home
Go to sleep, don’t roam
JANUARY 9, 1940
The party’s over. At the Christmas party I got an award for the best student, a chess set. Then we were preparing for a contest, and this contest is as early as tomorrow. I’m to recite a poem called “The Locomotive.”* Let’s hope it goes well.
Apart from that we are moving out of our school. Now we’re going to be at a school with boys. Today we took everything from our classroom, our decorations, our inkpots, everything. This is supposed to be a seven-year school. Ugh, horrible. I hate everything, at first it promised to be something completely different, but I changed my mind a long time ago. I still live in fear of searches, of violence. And this whole thing of going to school with boys! Well, let’s wait and see how that works out. The torture starts on the 11th, I’ll tell you how that goes. Bye-bye, my dear Diary. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Let’s hope it goes well!!!
I’m so incredibly stupid, what has happened to me? I’ve never been like that, people used to think me quite smart. How idiotic is it to fall in love with a komandir, to want to kiss him? Am I crazy? How can you dream of love in the form of some komandir? I don’t go out with boys; that’s the fact. I’ve never been in love either, but there is still time for it, I think. Although when I was at the party, I felt sorry that I didn’t know anybody and I left with Nora, while Belka and the other girls stayed behind. Belka, she stayed, I was furious. But then Belka was jealous of me, jealous that I left. And she didn’t party at all, she was angry and sad, I barely managed to lift her spirits a bit. And then I was angry that one scaredy cat turned around, the same one that I had a little bit of interest in. It’s all so disgusting and stupid … I thought I was smarter than that …
JANUARY 12, 1940
It’s all passed now. I mean everything that I’ve been pondering over here. I did perform at the contest. “The Locomotive” went so-so, but the contest went very well. So well, in fact, that when I came to school, boys called me “Four steps at a time.”
But I’ve completely forgotten to tell you about the boys. The devil isn’t as black as he’s painted. At least that’s what I think, for now. We have new teachers, but all our girls are together (I’m in 8C).
The boys are such innocent young things; they don’t know much and they’re very polite, they are rather swell. Other girls, our former colleagues, are even jealous of our set. The 8C boys aren’t particularly attractive, with the exception of one very cute Ludwik P. and sweet Majorko S. They want us to mix up how we sit, i.e., a boy, a girl, another boy, but for now it isn’t so.
On the day of the contest I got a letter from some komandir (of the Krasnaya Armya), summoning me on a rendezvous. I’ve decided to hide this letter, play a prank and write a reply.
Dear Diary, I do understand how important you are. I like browsing through your pages more and more often, looking for this feeling I felt then.
You know, I go through these different phases where I choose different husbands from among the young boys around me. I must have had around 60 of those phases in my life already. Or maybe even 100. And of course I keep finding new husbands (I mark people). Bye, kisses, Renia
JANUARY 19, 1940
Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen,
Die hat einen Andern erwählt;
Der Andre liebt eine Andre,
Und hat sich mit dieser vermählt.
Es ist eine alte Geschichte,
Doch bleibt sie immer neu;
Und wem sie just passieret,
Dem bricht das Herz entzwei.*
You might not understand it, so I’ll try to translate it into Polish for you. (Oh, Granny’s been pestering me since midday. What does she want from me? I’m going crazy!)
A boy chose a girl as his dove
But she took somebody else as her true love
She cherishes the other one like her pearl
But the other one looks at yet another girl
He gave her his heart
And married her for a start
A story as old as time
Always a new mountain to climb
Whoever loved like this
Knows what a broken heart is
So in my case it’s like this:
Łaba fell in love with Renia
But Renia is fond of Ludwik
Renia thinks Ludwik is a prize
While Ludwik to Krzysia turns his gorgeous eyes
He follows her everywhere, for her he is spoken
While Renia is deeply heartbroken
While Renia is furiously angry
But soon she’ll leave that behind
A new love will capture her mind
Yes, that’s the truest truth. What do I care about this Łaba, sitting there and staring at me for five hours until it makes me sick? What do I care about this or someone else who gawps at me? I like Ludwik. I turn around and look probably a bit too often, when I meet his gaze and sometimes a little smile on his face. Is it possibly a joke? Possible, likely. Why haven’t I said a word to him yet? Why do I flee when he’s near? Why am I glad when he fools around? He in turn never recommends me when it comes to anything, a trip to the movies, a committee; and generally he treats me kind of badly. So why, when I turn back and look at him, why does he stare at me? A mystery. And anyway nowadays I am somewhat flighty; I like a different person all the time, that’s natural. I told Nora that I need excitement and that I need to check our biology textbook to read about the mental state of 16-year-old girls. And she says to that, “Oh, if you need excitement, stop staring at books and find yourself a boyfriend.” She is crazy! She’s been terrible recently! Admittedly I too have a “dirty imagination” now, according to Auntie Lusia.
Majorko is a nice, swell boy, a friend. I’m impressed with Władek; I like him too. How do I know what to do?
They say spring will be hot and then they say it won’t. I’m bored with those “liberators.” It’s the time for titmice now. As Tońko and Szczepko* said from France, “Release sparrows, keep canary birds, spring will bring titmice!”
JANUARY 26, 1940
Brrr … Brrr … Brrr … I can’t even try to explain how terrible I’m feeling. I have troubles, like every normal human being. What on earth?! I’m no princess to feel bored, but I’m clearly bored. I’ve been struggling with a cold for several days. I haven’t left home, I’ve been reading a bit and nobody, literally nobody, visited me but Eda. Nora hasn’t been for a long while since the bombardments (Granny told her off once). In fact everything with Nora seems to be done and dusted. A friendship like this is good if it doesn’t last too long. After all I only hang out with her because I don’t have any other company, but I’ll try to see her as little as possible outside of school. We don’t
share thoughts anymore; we don’t share opinions. There is nothing that connects us. And our liking for each other, as I realized, seems to be fizzling out, on her side too.
Now people seem to be only interested in material things. Which is not surprising at all, since a goose costs 100 złoty, and used to cost 4 złoty; a liter of milk costs 3.50 złoty, and used to cost 15 groszy; a pair of shoes—300 złoty, and it used to be 12 złoty.* So it doesn’t surprise me at all. People pay (whoever can) and wait for the spring to come. It will! It’ll come, I promise you.
I have decided to have a photo taken, as there isn’t much one can do with money anyway. You peep out into the street and all you see is lines, lines everywhere, people waiting in lines to buy bread, butter, sugar, eggs, thread, shoes—everything. And if you think that after five hours of waiting you might get anything else on top of bread, you are very, so very wrong. And if you, by any chance, would like to buy two loaves of bread, better be careful, you profiteer.
So listen, workmen
celebrate, do
never betray your treasure
let smiles brighten your faces
the red banner safe in your embraces
Celebrate, do!
No masters in workplaces
You can do whatever you wish
all made equal by the word tovarishch
the red banner safe in your embraces
Those who used to reside in grand manors
now live in poor plain huts
resigned to life in rags
and what do you have? You have your wish
you have the word tovarishch
and the red banner in your embraces
FEBRUARY 4, 1940
I’m so very sad! I’m singing, but that means nothing, I’m laughing, but that means nothing either. If I only could, I’d cry my eyes out. Granny took all her anger out on me. I know that they like Arianka better, they prefer her to me. I’m just a doormat. Mama loved us equally, there are others who prefer me, but she knows how to get on in life, she’s like those people who know how to steal the show. And I was so happy today, wanted to write a poem, wanted to tell you something. But don’t worry, all will be well again.