By another one that rumbles to school up the hill
An ordinary day, a bit gray, run-of-the-mill …
I will also try something else. I might win.
SCHOOL-FREE DAY
It slid down the sky at twilight
Rumbled down to earth all right
Filled with song, filled with twitter
Out of breath with all the jitter
A day—like a bird …
Splashing windowpanes with gold
Splashing eyes with sun and laughter
And then quickly gone, uncontrolled
Leaving just a worry thereafter
Leaving a shadow and then away
A meditation or a school-free day?
OCTOBER 23, 1940
This is a competition week, so I’m thinking about that more than about Zygo. Natek’s hitting on Nora. I haven’t been very lucky with him, but if all else fails, I’ll always have you!
A person stares at a looking glass
sighs and says loudly,
“Wouldn’t it be better alas
to have smaller lips and different eyes.
The nose also could have a resize!”
Not true, you stupid girl
Even if your beauty could outshine
that of Greek goddesses’ line
Your fate will remain the same
Your life will not be reframed
Life doesn’t care about your eyes
Your ugly lips
Nose the wrong size!
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Tell me the truth you reflect and all.
OCTOBER 24, 1940
Why do we rush so badly
Why do we count the days
Saturday to Saturday, madly
In rain, drought, frost and haze
Fast, fast and faster still
We want the stream of life to flow
Through happy days, through tears, when ill
Day after day does go
From Saturday to Saturday, sadly
Let days leave shadows behind
Why do we run so madly
What do we want to find
Blinded and staring wildly
Into what’s unknown and clouded
A pipe dream, rather untimely
A dream of a 16-year-old head.
We constantly speed away
Feverish, like in a nightmare
We get through short weeks, short days
Knocking them into the abyss without care
We speed ahead like crazed hurricanes
Out of breath, short-winded we race
As ever counting the days
And when we stop halfway to wait
Completely unfazed by all warnings
Life’s now stepped up like crazy
And runs and runs ablaze
NOVEMBER 6, 1940
But da capo,* attention! I went to the party and, surprise, surprise, right before it I found out that I won first place in the competition and am to be given Mickiewicz’s† works! My wonderful dream! Dear Diary, you helped me. My one and only, always so devoted!
So I come to the party and Maciek tells me about it in secret. Zygu congratulated me and spoke with me and only with me. Then, out of the blue, I got the award for my grades, for publishing the newspaper and for my 100% attendance.
Zygu was simply beautiful. All my hopes reverberated in me. Then the Head, with special emphasis, announced the winner of the competition. People clapped and congratulated me. Krela’ll send it to Kiev, to Głos Radziecki,‡ she’ll also write about it in the school newspaper. And she, Krela, who’s never happy with anything, she even praised me. Oh, what a triumph.
Then I went to that wretched party. Cukierman asked me. I said I couldn’t dance, so he excused himself. Then Major. I didn’t want to go, so I stood there on my own while Norka was dancing. I left. I walked through the wet streets, trying not to cry loudly. I thought, “This evening I won on the spiritual level, but I lost in life.” I vowed I would not go to a party again. But no, I will! Shy or not, I need to win in this other arena. Even if that means my soul will lose, let life win!!! Believe me, this is going to be hard and sad. And again, I think for a thousandth time, I think I need to hum this sad song of my poor, orphaned heart.
Mama, why are you not here
Such a long distance between us
Far, far away you disappeared
We both cry our eyes out
Why do you sob, why do I weep
Why has my life taken such a leap
My heart follows comfort’s traces
And I seek mother’s embraces!
Mom! Why couldn’t you be here today, to see my joys and be happy for me (as I know you are)? Why couldn’t I then cry my heart out in your embrace?
I wrote a poem for the class paper, why not?
Blood pulsates and so do cobbles
Marching to big celebrations
A huge, gray crowd hobbles
Red banners … For the nation
This mass pushes through the city
Flows from suburbs, backstreets, dwellings
With new people constantly swelling
Joining others in the nitty-gritty
Roads are almost overflown
Like with lava flowing down
Like with liquid iron alloy
That can set at any time
Crushing this world in deep sleep
Tearing the old world down
Those red banners … The red sweep …
NOVEMBER 7, 1940
Listen, do you perhaps know if it’s nice to have a lover? What do you think? I had this thought today! You know, I hate it when somebody talks about their future.
I don’t want the sick ones to look for solace in me
I don’t want to see hurt ones, as I’m hurt as can be
I want to live like some scoundrel, like a soul with no worry
I want to see good women carrying
The jobs of ministers, sailors at sea
Of diplomats, of those holding legal offices’ keys
I want to see them as pilots, in action
To hear them delivering speeches with passion
I want to live with no trouble
My life to be a happy bubble
I want to write poems forever
And I want to have a lover!
NOVEMBER 9, 1940
I went for a walk with Zygu. Of course not on my own; it was the whole group. I might go to Irka’s dance party. Zygu’ll be there. I won’t dance, but I’ll go.
NOVEMBER 12, 1940
Just a few words, as it’s late. I got a prize, hooray! Hooray! Children by Jan Brzoza.* I felt so haughty; it was so nice. Pity Buluś couldn’t see it. I have a paper to deliver on it on 24 December. The day of Mama’s birthday … Will you be here with me, Mama? I was also selected to the Mickiewicz event committee. I’ll tell you about it later. Zygu teases me sometimes, but today he was sweet. On Saturday I’m going to a dance party at Irka’s. He’ll be there! If I don’t party, then I don’t! He is what matters!!!
NOVEMBER 18, 1940
Today I am under the spell of a film. Perhaps because I haven’t been to the movies for a while or perhaps because, for sure because somehow I was in those images, people, views, incidents. Yes, some of my dreams were in it and that’s exactly why I liked Young Pushkin.† I like Pushkin a lot, he is my hero; I might get his photo from somewhere.‡ Because, you know, I’m changing my whole plan and am starting to
wonder if maybe it’s better to be famous than happy after all. To be a poet like (not Konopnicka), but … like … Pushkin!!! Now I can compare his youth to mine. It’s clear he wasn’t successful with women. It’s a pity he died—I would shake his hand.
When Pushkin was in high school, he didn’t study at all. He went on rendezvous with the other kids, went on moonlight walks on fragrant (even in the film) nights, picked white water lilies for his lover. He pined, dreamed, loved … Wasn’t the world in his favor and could he become non-romantic? Wonderful, wonderful—ugly ape obez’yana!* Pushkin! And the name! One utters his name with reverence.
But I could never become famous like that. I’ve been like a street urchin for four years now. All I see is gray, cracked cobblestones and cracked, thirsty lips. I don’t see the sky, because the sky is just a moldy, dusty scrap of clouds. All I can see are ashes and soot that choke, that corrode the eyes, that stifle breathing. I can see people in the streets as sharp as stones steadily crushed with pickaxes and ground into sharp, stinging dust in coarse, rough fingers. No revolution will ever be able to fix this. Nothing will … Because those who have velvety voices and pleasant touch, those who lead silky soft, comfortable lives, they’ll always remain … But I don’t care, I detest the revolution, I, an average person (a phlegmatic), can’t stand the rabid mob, so let it rather be the way it is. But you, Pushkin, what did you want?
Look, how everything is distorted
how fake, how wretched, how down-market
It’s new, but completely rotten despite
red, red and white …
NOVEMBER 18, 1940†
My romance seems to be over. What a stupid, crude, arrogant idiot. He likes playing with me. And for all of this I could thank my dear friend Tusiek. What a vermin, damn it! But you know what? He’s not worth writing about. Naturally I’ll have my revenge; I’ll find a way. There’ll be another reading evening, oh, I’d like that so much! Will you help me again?
I am coming to you
I’m on my way!
A train rumbles on the tracks
across bridges, along archways
through fields and towns, it doesn’t relax
It glides ahead, it hisses, it speeds
Along the slippery steel rails
At a high speed it proceeds!
Colors are red and yellow
with some black, green and blue
The evening lights are so mellow
Scattered around each day anew
I hear the long-drawn-out toot
The locomotive wheezes and puffs
I’m coming to you, I’m en route
Following the trail on the map …
NOVEMBER 20, 1940
I’ve had my revenge today. I wrote him an offensive poem. He got annoyed. Now he’ll leave me alone. I can’t stand him. “Rhymester” is what he called me today. It’ll be even worse now, he’ll … I wish I were dead! You know, sometimes all of it is so stupid, and so important. No, it doesn’t matter. It’ll always be “I’ll never know what happiness looks like.” Miraculous God, please, don’t let it be a prophecy. I’m so low, so low … so very low.
NOVEMBER 24, 1940
I went to the theater today. Everybody said I looked very smart. But Zygu wasn’t there. I act really indifferent now and he’s surprised, angry, says this or that to me, and I still do nothing. (Nora says this is only a beginning.) All I say is, who knows!
Nora’s Maciek lives on the fifth floor. She constantly stares at it.
Is it made golden with the light of dawn?
Is it surrounded by darkness?
Why are you so far withdrawn?
Why is the whole world between us?
Why does this terrible river
Divide us like a shiver?
NOVEMBER 28, 1940, THURSDAY
Tomorrow is a math demonstration lesson, I’m so terribly scared. I’ve had strange feelings toward Nora those last few days. I feel she’s terribly fake. As soon as she notices that Z wants to say something to me, she purposefully interferes. Yes, it’s all because of Waldek. And anyway she’s temperamental and whimsical and I, thank God, seem to not meet her requirements anymore. She was so happy that people thought she liked Z. She liked it, even though she knew it was not true. Ha ha ha!
NOVEMBER 30, 1940
The lesson is over. It went pretty well, I was prepared. I’m in a paper. I’m falling out of love with Zygu, as I don’t have any stimulation from him. Nora has sprained her ankle. I wrote an article about it and a poem too. I’ll write it down for her. It’s not so bad with Nora after all. I created it, so I’ll write it down. I’d like it in Piszemy sami.* Something must be wrong with me!
DECEMBER 8, 1940, WEDNESDAY†
Suddenly, I love him like crazy. Just think, everything was about to go dormant and today it sprang back to life. Nothing happened—but still so much! He played with my hood, stroked it, came closer! But I’m vain. I think of a thousand projects. Fralalalalala! Wonderful Zygu, wonderful, so wonderful!!! This is what I wrote once:
Hey, let’s drink our wine
Let’s drink from our lips
And when the cup runs dry
Let’s switch to drinking blood
Wanting and yearning
Inspiration and love burning
Let them start a fire
Let rage burn like a pyre
But remember, girl, that flames
travel in your veins
that blood can burst you from inside
Wanting and yearning
Inspiration and love burning
Let them start a fire
Let rage burn like a pyre
Both wine and lips are red
One life before you are dead
Our hearts are hungry, young, on fire
Only for each other beating.
Remember, girl, that flames
travel in your veins
WHAT IS BEING ROMANTIC?
It’s a horse that gallops through the steppes
It’s a high cloud that swiftly follows
Moving smoothly, steeped in a deep red glow
Shrouding white swan’s down in golden twilight
It’s a Lover on the edge of a deep abyss
Sliding down the rope from the great height
A bunch of roses red in his embrace.
RIFFRAFF, OR CHILDREN OF MACHINES
Among the rattling and grating of iron
Among the racket of collapsing chunks
Among the whirring and birring of workshops
With sharp, piercing dust that in the air hangs
burning our hearts and our dreams
we grew up, we, working children
people machines
In the roaring fire of forges
Crucibles engorged with molten metal
In the swelter of slag slurry treacle
We got tempered, we, steel people
Our hands are rough and mighty
Our hands like iron springs
Our hearts like slag—hot, flighty …
Seething, boiling power of teens
Working people—children of machines
DECEMBER 9, 1940
I love, I desire, I’m crazy for Zygu!!!
DECEMBER 10, 1940
I went to the second floor today. Zygu said to me, “How are you, girl,” or something along those lines, and he pulled my hair. You know, recently, when I see him, I have this blissful, pleasant feeling that’s unpleasant at the same time. Something paralyzes me. Ah, that idiot, if he only knew how much I love him. There’s an invisible thread connecting us. It could break, but no … If we could really be together, it would be wonderful and terrible at the same time! “The chocolate box may be empty, but there is lots of sweetness in your lips.” I don’t know. I have no idea what’s happening to me.
Oh, age, you! When one loves like never before
The one who knows you, can’t ever find peace
The one who knows you, is d
runk with ardor
And life only starts when the other heart is seized.
The one in love can never wake up
Stuck in a tormenting dream, in a feverish shake
Only to fall asleep when the dawn erupts
And dream of loving and heartache.
DECEMBER 11, 1940
Today I stayed at home. I’m to write a paper. I’m to write for the competition. Because Krela told the Teich girl that she expects something great from me. What should I write?
FROST
The air is windy and foggy …
The sky Decemberish gray …
Feathery balls of sparrows, all groggy
Bounce off glassy roads all day …
It’s somewhat sleepy outside.
Snow falls softly and slides
Along invisible lines
Grayish clouds blossom everywhere
As if cigarette smoke was in the air.
HEINE*
Leise zieht durch mein Gemüt
Liebliches Geläute,
Klinge, kleines Frühlingslied,
Kling hinaus ins Weite.
Kling hinaus bis an das Haus,
Wo die Blumen sprießen,
Wenn du eine Rose schaust,
Sag, ich laß sie grüßen.
Slowly cutting through my musings
This lovely, this tinkling sound
Jingle, spring song, chime your music
And travel far off, be unbound.
Fly all the way to the house
Dozing among pretty flowers
And when you see a rose there
Give my greetings to her.
DECEMBER 20, 1940
So what, that I can write nice poems and I can say that I’m … well, you’ll see for yourself (I’ll paste a photo) and that my couplets are so cheerful that the whole school sings them, that girls and boys like me—I’m not happy with my school life. Jara—ah! I always want what’s best for her. I once even decided to keep trying to convince her to practice (so that she can become a pianist). But sometimes, almost all the time, she embarrasses me. God! She flirts with my male friends. In fact she has this shrewdness, this ability to win people’s liking. She has a very good heart, but not a crystal personality. She’s very talented when it comes to music, also when it comes to acting, but she’s not very clever, she doesn’t have this thing, this innate thing, this something. And she’s a woman, oh, a real, horrible woman, like Aunt Hela—just slightly … And you know what I’m like. Mama and you—you two know! I can’t fight for them because I’m dispirited, both for fighting and for life. So far my skills have paved my path for me, but now there is this terrible possibility of the two of us, poor, lonely souls, getting separated! God! Jealousy—no, I don’t want, do you hear me, I don’t want it, I want to love her without a shadow of resentment, I want this, I love my only little sister!!! But she, she … No, I can’t. She’s aware of her successes and now she started talking to me with half smiles, ironic semi-words. She’s happy she can go with Zygu, she wants to impress me this way and when I call her, she pretends not to hear me. Once she told me, “Rena, I’ll get married before you anyway!” But it’s not about that. Lord, You’ve separated me from my mother, don’t separate me from my sister!!!