In Abyssinia the British occupied Aduwa today. The advance to Addis Ababa is continuing.
A summer’s day, as warm as in June. I think nostalgically of Balcic. In the morning I went for a walk with Madeleine Andronescu around Lake Floreasca. She is pleasant and amusing—but I know that I’ll soon tire of her. I told her frankly that I don’t like to get to know people. And it’s true that I don’t like it. I have nothing to ask of them, nor anything to give.
Sunday, 6 April
The Germans have declared war on Yugoslavia, in exactly the same way they did before their invasion of Poland, Norway, Belgium, and the Netherlands. “German troops have received instructions to restore order in the Balkans,” Hitler said. The Serbs will resist. But for how long? German troops have already attacked Yugoslavia and Greece, though it is not yet known where or with which forces. We’ll have news by this evening.
Evening
Belgrade has been bombed twice, in the morning and in the afternoon. Communications are broken, the radio silent—no direct news from there. In Greece the attack is taking place through Thrace and Macedonia. At the moment it seems that it is not a lightning advance. Yesterday the Russians signed a nonaggression and friendship pact with the Serbs. Turkey is reserving its positions. I don’t think they will launch anything unless they are directly attacked themselves. Addis Ababa has been captured by the British. Yesterday this would have seemed to me extremely significant, but now, with the avalanche of new developments, it arouses no feelings.
Monday, 7 April
Still no news from Belgrade. The German communiqués give no geographical precision (how far have they advanced? in which sector?), and there are no Yugoslav communiqués at all. I fear that the Polish campaign will be repeated there. Massive bombing that disorganizes communications, cuts road and rail links, dislocates armies, and fragments the country, before people have even realized that there is a war. So far there is no sign of a German attack on Albania (the only action that was to be expected all along). It is possible that the whole war in Yugoslavia will be over in five to ten days, without a battle properly so called, and anyway without enough time for a “front” to take shape. Maybe things will unfold differently in Greece. Salonica will probably fall soon, but a front might be established farther south. That is the only thing that counts. In the end, no one is so mad as to hope that the Germans will fail to occupy Greece. The question is: how long will it take? with how many casualties? If the war in the southeast is still occupying the Germans in four or five months’ time, forcing them to make serious efforts and sacrifices, it will be a very bad business for them (even if they are victorious). But if the war there finishes soon, it might represent in April 1941 what the war in Norway represented in April 1940: the prologue to a great offensive in May-June, on the decisive western front.
I am full of fears and worries, which I am unable to conceal. I am also irritated by other people’s optimism. On Saturday I dined at Alice Th.’s, with Branişte,3 Hillard,4 and Aristide. All three were certain of victory (it’s true that the new German attack had not yet begun); there is no doubt in their mind. I, on the other hand, am terrified at what might happen. Are the terrible days and nights of last year about to begin again?
Strange Yugoslav bombing (but is it Yugoslav?) of Sofia, Timisoara, Arad, and Budapest. No damage, no casualties. “A provocation”—shrieks Berlin. It is being said that the Germans are determined to throw Bulgaria, Romania, and Hungary against the Serbs. Yesterday and the day before there was constant talk of a general mobilization.
Last night at the Ateneu, a wartime Matthäus-Passion. Many cuts that reduced the whole work to about a third. Ich will bei meinem Jesu wachen was missing, for example.
Tuesday, 8 April
A Greek communiqué says that the Yugoslavs are retreating on the southern front and meeting up with the Greek left wing. No indication that there is coherent Yugoslav resistance.
Anguish, despondency, unbearable loneliness. But above all else a will— more “as a matter of principle”—to keep going.
Wednesday, 9 April
Salonica has fallen. The whole Greek army of eastern Macedonia is cut off from the rest of the country. Either it will be annihilated or it will surrender: there is no other way out. Belgrade is a heap of ruins. In the south of Yugoslavia, as in the north, great destruction, large-scale retreats, thousands of prisoners. Everything is collapsing into a rout. In Eritrea the British have occupied Massawa, but in Cyrenaica they have lost Derna. The terrible blows they are receiving make you forget the successes they had all through the winter. Once more Germany gives the impression of being an invincible, demonic, overwhelming force. The general feeling is one of bewilderment and impotence.
These are bitter days, with the old taste of ashes, and with tears that one is too proud to allow oneself. But I can’t say I feel desperate. Tired, oppressed, defeated—but not at the end of all hope.
Thursday, 10 April
An autumn day, cold, rainy, with a chill damp typical of November. It is warm at home, but I no longer feel “at home.” In ten days I have to hand my place over to the new tenant. Next week I’ll already begin moving my things—where, I don’t know. It would have been nice to have a room at home with Mama. But their place is too small for me to have any more than a bed. Books, desk, clothes cupboard: none of that would fit there. I don’t know whether Sacha Roman’s offer (to give me a room at his place) is all that serious. But I don’t want to go on too much about how bad I feel at leaving my studio apartment. I felt good here: I was alone and sufficiently “left in peace.” I don’t know what will replace this solitude. But I’ll find shelter somewhere—for the time being. However bad the conditions, it may not be worse than in the Valea lui Soare.
I can’t say that I am very brave. Physical squalor frightens me, as does moral squalor. I am not made to wander around. And if you can’t even glimpse some rest at the end of the wandering, what is the point of all the worry and suffering? Today all is grey, all is desolate. I’d like to be overcome by a long, leaden sleep.
Sunday, 13 April
The war in Serbia is confused. You can’t tell whether there are any battles and, if so, where they are and between which forces. Yugoslav communiqués are nonexistent. The only information comes from Berlin, Rome, or Budapest. Not even the British in Athens seem to know how things stand. Zagreb fell in the first few days, and this was followed by a declaration of independence by a so-called Croatian state. The Italians have occupied Ljubljana, and at Lake Ohrid they have met up with German forces. There is no word of a Serbian attack on Albania. The Hungarians crossed their border with Yugoslavia on Friday, “in order to protect the local Magyar population.” Yesterday and the day before there was talk of a similar Romanian attack on the Serbian Banat. For the moment, the Bucharest press is in the van, jubilant that “an artificial state is tumbling down.” Yet a Romanian military action against Yugoslavia seems too difficult to be a real possibility. The Germans reported today that they have occupied Belgrade. We do not have a map to show us the situation on the ground. Perhaps there are still some areas of Yugoslav resistance, but no one knows exactly where! All is lost, of course, so you can feel only surprise that the occupation has not yet been completed. In any event, it will all be over in a few days’ time. In Greece the British have started to link up with the Greeks, and some kind of real resistance is under way. But I can’t believe it will lead to the consolidation of a front. All that can now be done in the Balkan war is to inflict heavier casualties on the Germans and force them to extend their efforts. But there is no way the business can last more than a month. I think that by the first of June at the latest it will be completely wrapped up, and the Germans will be free to start a fresh action somewhere. Berlin reports that German troops have surrounded Tobruk and, farther on, have occupied Bardia. So now they are at the Egyptian frontier. The Suez Canal will be their next objective.
In Moscow, two events are more interesting for their hid
den significance than in and of themselves: one, the official protest against Hungarian intervention in Yugoslavia, and two, the neutrality pact with the Japanese. War is becoming possible between Germany and Russia.
I don't have the energy to tell Madeleine that she should be on her way. I feel really bad that I let her stay with me on Thursday night. It was another painful night (like the one in May 1938 with Z.)—except that this time a love affair is completely out of the question. If I don’t want fresh complications, pointless time-wasting, and insoluble difficulties, I shall have to cut it short.
Monday, 14 April
The Germans are at Sollum, where fighting is taking place. Meanwhile, however, the British garrison in Tobruk is resisting. I don’t think they can break communications between the German troops who have advanced beyond Bardia toward Sollum and the German supply bases in Derna and Benghazi. A war on Egyptian soil, for Sidi-el-Barani, Alexandria, and perhaps even Cairo, is now an immediate danger, probably so great that General Wavell will ask the Egyptians to join in the fighting.
In Greece the Anglo-Greek front is holding. But can it really be called a front? I think that if their defensive lines are still holding, this is more because the Germans are not attacking them. They want to finish off the Yugoslavs first, and so may delay until later a direct attack on the Anglo-Greek front. The situation resembles the moment last May when the Germans, launching their offensive toward Dunkirk, halted their southward push for two weeks at the Somme. For a moment I thought then that Weygand would consolidate a front. But, of course, it fell apart immediately after Dunkirk.
There are unconfirmed reports that the Serbs have occupied Du-razzo5 in Albania.
My reading has given me much food for thought about the Revolution of 1848. Despite the depressing military disasters and my own gathering troubles (my approaching move), the play remains present in my mind. I even enjoy thinking about it.
Today I finished La femme à trente ans, the silliest of the Balzac novels I know.
Wednesday, 16 April
I am obsessed with my approaching move. This house in which I have lived for two and a half years, and where—God knows—I have not been happy, has nevertheless become as dear to me as a living being. I look at my belongings, as they are spread out here, and I feel that together they make up a live “presence.” This closeness is breaking down: a relationship is ending, and with it another period of my life. Sometimes I tell myself that I have no right to get depressed over such things. We are at war, and it is no misfortune to lose one comfortable dwelling for another less comfortable, or even for one that is very uncomfortable. Indeed, I might say that retrenchment will reduce “the area to hit”; that I will be less exposed to blows, less visible, more “camouflaged.” Besides, the rent will be lower. And even if I could have paid the rent here now, how would I have found the next payment in June? As life gets ever more bitter and expensive, and the money shorter and shorter, how will we manage to cope in two or three months’ time? Being all together at Strada Antim, we’ll spend less and hold out longer. Yes. But at other times (especially this evening), I tell myself that a lost position is a lost position; that renunciation is a slippery slope which, once you start going down it, is very hard to climb back up. Up to now I have struggled to keep my head above water, as if nothing had happened. I have struggled to keep everything as before. And this house that I am leaving is the first thing I have lost.
I am no longer following the war in the Balkans. What’s the point of working myself up over each episode when the thing as a whole is already settled? Whether in one week or in two or four, the Germans will be the masters in Yugoslavia, Albania, and Greece. Until then we’ll be told one evening that Durazzo has been occupied by the Serbs (as we were the day before yesterday), only to have this denied the next morning; or we will be told in the morning that all the Yugoslav armies have surrendered (as we were yesterday), only to have it denied in the evening.
In North Africa the situation is unchanged: that is, very serious.
For the last three days I have been immersed in 1848. I read the documents of the revolution collected in six large official volumes—some four thousand pages of diplomatic reports, proclamations, statements, newspaper articles, letters, and so on. They are fascinating and strikingly vivid. The degree to which the epoch resembles a theatrical comedy may be seen from the memoirs of Colonel Locusteanu. Still, the documents add a great deal to what I previously knew or suspected. The material is so rich that it is becoming dangerous. For I am afraid of being carried away and losing myself in the “local color,” the atmosphere surrounding particular incidents, the anecdotal charm of history. The best method would be to get to know the epoch well, with its people, language, and events, and then to write a play completely free of “historical truth.” In any case, my hero will not be a real character but a complete invention of mine, with only a vicarious role in the revolution itself.
Thursday, 17 April
How can I explain the fact that today—in the midst of war, with so much bad news and so many worries, plus the obsession of moving my home (about which I dreamed a real nightmare yesterday)—I was able to have a whole day of literary exultation, of feverish impatience and nervous curiosity? When I got up this morning I could immediately see my play (my “latest” play, because I have put my other two projects aside for the moment), but I saw it with a sudden urgency that did not allow me time even to wash properly. I sat down at my desk and straightaway sketched out the scenario for Act One—not just in summary but, on the contrary, with a mass of incident and detail. Only then did I dare enter the bathroom. I also did an outline of the second and third acts, but of course it was more summary! I had no rest all day, and in the evening I returned to the manuscript and again found this morning’s extraordinary inclination to write. So I did the scenario for Act Two, also with a great wealth of detail. I think that tomorrow I’ll press on with Act Three (which I also now see quite well). If I’m left in peace (by whom? by life!), I think I could write the whole play in three to four weeks.
A terrible air raid on London last night, the worst since the beginning of the war. Hundreds of houses destroyed as well as hospitals, cinemas, theatres, large stores. But still the same determination to resist. “From Greece bad news, from Libya not so good”—someone said from London a little while ago.
Friday, 18 April
Good Friday! But I don’t feel I am on holiday. Nor is it a holiday for me. A dull rainy day—very fitting weather.
I continued all day my reading of the 1848 documents. The problem is that they are too vivid, too entertaining, so that I allow myself to be carried away by them. I think there is no longer any danger as far as Act One is concerned, because it is too clearly fixed, both as a historical moment (10 June 1848, the day of the attempt on Gheorghe Bibescu’s life) and as a scenario. But Act Two (which will probably take place on the day of the burning of the “Organic Regulations”) could involve a lot on top of yesterday’s scenario; here more than anywhere else, if I am not very careful, I could be overwhelmed by the material. It must be quite clear from the start that I am not writing a historical play, nor even an evocation of history. The play must, above all else, be a play: that is, it must have a plot that develops independently of the actual events of the revolution (so independently that, in terms of dramatic action, the same play could in theory be situated in a different epoch). In the end, what I want to write is not a play of the 1848 Revolution but a play about revolution in general. If I settle on 1848, it is partly because of the charm of the period, but above all because the unexpected similarities with the January revolt give rise to a whole series of allusions. I fear that the plot will have nothing dramatic; there is nothing in the projected scenario that points toward a climax. Like Jocul de-a vacanţa, it will be more a succession of vivid incidents than a plot properly so called. Indeed, as in Jocul de-a vacanţa, the action will slow down after Act Two. I shall have to be very careful here. The experience of my
first play should have served some purpose: a weak third act can throw everything away, however good the start; whereas a “strong” third act can raise and sustain a play, even if the first two have been dull.
I feel less giddy than I did yesterday, more skeptical even. But I like the idea of the play, and I realize there are some things in it which could work well in the theatre. I would even go further and say that it could be a big hit at the National. For precisely this reason I propose to keep calm and say no more to anyone about the play (I have talked to too many people: Leni, the Zissescus), so that when it is finished (if it ever is), I can, if necessary, remain anonymous and put it on in great secrecy, with someone else as the ostensible author. But it is true that, without a change in the general situation, the play could not be staged under my name or anyone else’s.
The war in Yugoslavia is over; there are no more regular troops to fight. Again today the surrender of all Yugoslav forces was announced, but this time it is probably true. The Greek front in Albania has started to give way. Yesterday the Greeks pulled out of Climia, three days after abandoning Gorica. In Greece there are hard battles and a continual German advance, not too rapid but certain enough. Things are pretty quiet in Libya. Last night Berlin suffered the heaviest British bombing since the start of the war. But there is a big difference between the “heaviest” British bombing and the “heaviest” German bombing. None of the communiqués indicates that the bombing of Berlin was comparable to the inferno in London. Nevertheless . . .
Journal 1935–1944 Page 43
