Journal 1935–1944

by Mihail Sebastian

  A.B. has offered to translate my De două mii de ani for possible publication in America. No, no. Even if the idea were not a fantasy (an extreme one at that!), I still would not accept. I no longer have anything in common with the books I have written. To the extent that I can still make plans for the future (though I am too despondent, too weary, too embittered), I think of leaving after the war to write plays and film scripts in a big city somewhere. It’s an occupation for which I think I am suited. And I don’t consider it as anything other than an occupation.

  In the end, we Jews are childishly, absurdly optimistic, sometimes without being aware of it. (It’s the only thing that helps us to live.) In the midst of catastrophe we go on hoping. “It’ll work out all right”—we always say mockingly, but in fact we do think “it’ll work out all right.” I do so myself, I who am the least entitled to hope. Valeriu Marcu rightly points out: “Diese ewig Geschlagenen sind vor ihrem Schicksal die ewig Optimistischen. Sie glauben immer.; es könne nicht gar zu schlimm kommen. ”4

  Cacaprostea’s first measure at the Foundation has been to remove the chapters about Jewish writers from Călinescu’s Istoria, which is already at the typesetters.5 I haven’t thought much about it, or tried to analyze the strange sense of satisfaction with which I heard the news. The honest fact is that I laughed, and that, without knowing why, I thought a favor had been done to me.

  Wednesday, 28 May

  The German battleship Bismarck, which on Saturday notched a great victory off Greenland by sinking the battleship Hood, has been sunk in turn this morning after a dramatic four-day chase. What a lightning riposte by the British! There has been no end to the phone calls giving the news: Rosetti, Madeleine, Aristide . . . Heavy fighting in Crete, with major casualties.

  Saturday, 31 May

  The fighting in Crete will continue for a day or two, but the island already seems lost. The capital—Canea—fell yesterday. The British are retreating and will probably try to leave by sea.

  The schools were due to remain open until 20 June, but an urgent directive from the ministry has brought this forward to 14 June, when everything (universities and schools) is supposed to shut. Today everyone has been asking with concern the reason for this decision. Again there is talk of mobilization, and rumors are spreading of a war with the Russians. I have the feeling it is another farce.

  On Thursday evening there was a meeting at Vianu’s6 with Ralea, Papilian, Pippidi,7 and Eugen Ionescu. A long discussion about Nae Ionescu, who for Ralea and Vianu was no more than a café regular, a spinner of yarns, an impostor, a “smart aleck.” I enjoyed telling them that for me, Nae Ionescu was the devil.

  Sunday, 1 June

  So spring is over—that “Spring 1941” from which we feared so much in the way of calamities, if not the final calamity itself. Et pourtant nous sommes encore là.8 We are still alive, still on our feet; nothing irreparable has happened. I wonder whether the spring really did pass easily, or whether—since we are now at the end—we have the false impression that it was bearable. (Alas, everything is bearable!) It may be that if someone had told us on 1 March that spring would see Bulgaria occupied, Yugoslavia destroyed, Cyrenaica reoccupied, Greece fallen, and Crete invaded, the perspective of so many defeats would have seemed to us disastrous. But now, when all these things have happened, they seem to have become unimportant. Again and again, the only thing that counts is that we should remain on our feet. So long as Britain does not surrender, there is room for hope.

  We are moving into summer, and evidently into a new phase of the war. Crete was an episode. Now the Germans must soon decide on a fresh action. All directions are possible: Suez, Gibraltar, Turkey, even the British Isles.

  And Russia? Could there be a war between Russia and Germany? For three days everyone has thought one imminent. Since yesterday we have had a climate of mobilization in Bucharest. On Friday there was a blackout; yesterday an order was issued that air-raid shelters must be built in every yard in a maximum of two weeks. Today a number of trains have been canceled, probably because of troop movements. There is a wave of call-ups and requisitioning. At the height of the working season on the farms, horses and cattle are being taken away from people. Those who have been to Moldavia (e.g., G. M. Cantacuzino) say that there is a clear war zone in the region of the Prut. On the streetcars, in the streets and restaurants, people talk of war, war, war. From a political point of view, it seems unlikely to happen. But the actual state of things cannot be denied. Is it again a big bluff? But such a mise en scène would be too costly and, in the end, without any point. The same comedy could be acted with less ostentation and equally good results. In the space of a year and a half I have seen the most absurd happenings, the most incredible turnarounds. I should stop trying to judge, to understand, to predict. The facts carry more weight than anything else.

  What a character from a novel is Danacu, our landlord! I thought of him in connection with the novel I was planning some time back, and there seemed to be a suitable place for him in it.

  I spent a pleasant day with Zoe, whom I had not seen since I left the studio apartment.

  Monday, 2 June

  War, war, war: people talk of nothing else. Each person I meet has something new to tell: the Fourth and Fifth Armies have been called up; the financial administration in Moldavia has taken refuge in Oltenia; a general mobilization has been decreed for the 5th. You don’t know what to believe, how to check it, whom to ask. Panic sets in, and everything escapes the control of calm judgment. I went round to see Vişoianu, who has been called up. Like me, he thinks that war with the Russians is a politically dangerous business for the Germans (even if it would be militarily straightforward). Nevertheless I think that war is possible—even imminent. Radu Popescu, whom I met at Vivi’s, received his call-up papers yesterday and must report tomorrow to the Twenty-first [Regiment], which has already left for the Prut. He showed me his green-colored summons, and I shuddered at the mere sight of it. (What will happen to us Jews? What will be our military situation if there is a general mobilization?)

  A meeting between Hitler and Mussolini at the Brenner Pass is another sign that we are on the threshold of a major action. This is the decisive moment. Even if it is a complete fantasy, I should note my thought that we may be about to witness a formidable coup de théâtre, with a sudden switch in enemies. Germany starts a de facto armistice with the British (negotiated and concluded by Hess) and immediately turns against the Russians. Absurd? Of course. But it is very strange that, since Hess’s arrival in Britain, the British and the Germans have stopped bombing each other. And ten days on, the Hess affair has been completely forgotten. It is understandable that the Germans are silent. But why should the British be too, when they have an interest in the most almighty propaganda barrage? Is it conceivable that there is a tacit complicity between them? No, of course not—not if you think about it rationally. But we’ve seen so many things!

  I visited Pippidi this afternoon with Eugen Ionescu. He read us some strikingly topical pages from Thucydides. It could have been a pamphlet against the Germans.

  I finished Père Goriot today. It is by far the best thing of Balzac’s that I have read up to now. (Countess Beauséant’s ball reminded me of Mrs. Saint-Euverte’s reception. Goriot’s illness and death agony do not stop Baroness Nucingen from going to the ball, just as Swann’s illness and the Marquess of Osmond’s death agony do not stop Oriane from going to the reception.)

  I continued to think of my possible future novel. The first two or three chapters are already sketched in my mind. In particular, I have drawn some connections between various “floating” characters about which I have been thinking for so long. But, of course, it is a very remote project that will not happen before my play, nor—alas!—before the war. No, I am not oblivious to everything, believe me. Literature is too weak a drug for all that is happening.

  Tuesday, 3 June

  Last night I dreamed I was at the regiment, still a civilian. I report to an o
fficer (a lieutenant colonel, I think), and he takes me into Ilie’s office. Feeling very scared, I stand “at attention” and salute with my hand at the side of my hat. Ilie barks at me, checks my clothing, and makes one or two adjustments. When he asks me what I want, I say that I want to enlist. He accepts and says that he is doing me a big favor; there is just one other Jew in the whole regiment. He gives an order for me to be issued my uniform and equipment. The regimental yard has the appearance of a mobilization. I am very unhappy “What the hell got into me to come here!” I move away alone to a kind of field. When I come back, I meet Neumann (my classmate from 8th Year in Brăila), who is dressed in a lieutenant’s uniform. All the Jewish officers have been called up, he tells me. I again approach the barracks (but they are not the barracks of the Twenty-first) and find the regiment in fall uniform, apparently waiting for an inspection. I pass by a small platoon of male army nurses with strange equipment, some or all of whom are Jews. They prepare to swap their caps for huge red velvet berets—part of their parade uniform. Far off I can see a car belonging to the royal court. The King is coming, someone says. I am the only civilian in that whole uniformed multitude. “I hope no one sees me.” I flee in terror, run, run, run—and wake up.

  Lovinescu (whom I met at Alcalay this morning) tells me that the baccalaureate examinations have been suspended because of the war. It looks as if this will break out any day now, or even any hour.

  Rosetti rang to say that according to the very latest information, the war will not take place. The Germans and the Russians have reached an agreement. As for yesterday’s meeting at the Brenner, the topic was France and the Axis’s intention to seal an official peace with it in the next few days. In return for losing nothing more than Alsace, in its colonies France will assume an obligation for armed resistance to Britain.

  Evening

  Again it is being said that war is imminent. A directive from the Ministry of Education, ordering all schools to close at the latest by the evening of the 7th, was published this evening. Ministers (according to Alice) are hurriedly evacuating their offices. Call-up papers are arriving in a flood. There are talks about a national government, with George Brătianu, Mihalache, Cuza, Codreanu Senior, and Gigurtu. I had supper at Alice Th.’s with Branişte, Vivi, Hillard, and Aristide. All of them, including Branişte, think that the war preparations are very grave.

  Saturday, 7 June

  Rumors of war are continuing to mount. By now the most sensible people think it inevitable. On Thursday, Bucharest Radio broadcast a new signal—a trumpet blast—which is supposed to precede any solemn news. On Thursday evening, Ciorânescu—a member of the Radio Broadcasting Council—told me that the radio programs have been ordered gradually to step up their propaganda for Bessarabia, until 15 to 20 June, when war is certain to break out. Alice (who, it is true, usually has the most fantastic information) was certain that a German ultimatum had been presented to Russia, and that a Romanian ultimatum would follow in the next few hours. Pan Halippa, on the General’s orders, was working to map out territorial claims on the other side of the Dniester.

  This morning what do we find in the papers? A dramatic official communiqué that contradicts the rumors of war spread by “thoughtless people,” “alarmists,” “unwitting tools of the enemy,” “scandalmongers,” “dens of idle swindlers.” No, no: la guerre n'aura pas lieu!9

  Tuesday, 10 June

  On the night of Saturday to Sunday, British and Gaullist troops entered Syria. They seem to be advancing swiftly, without meeting any serious resistance. Vichy has protested and is sending Dentz’s troops to fight.1 The Germans speak indignantly of “aggression.” It is possible that the whole business will be over in a week or ten days (though speed is not an English quality). Only later, when the Germans attack Suez through Turkey, will Syria become a key point again. It is strange that Hitler has not deeply committed himself in either Iraq or Syria. Because he couldn’t? Out of the question. Right now he can do anything. So why? Does this relative indifference to the Middle East not signify that his theatre of diplomatic and eventually military operations has really shifted? Toward Russia, for example? There is constant talk of a German-Romanian-Russian war, which will break out today, tomorrow, or the day after, or at the latest in ten to fifteen days. I met Engineer Lupaş the other day (not your ordinary man in the street), and he told me that the two armies are girded and ready on opposite banks of the Prut, just waiting for the first shot to be fired. On Sunday evening at Madeleine’s, Titel Comarnescu told me—in one of his well-known fits of hysteria—that war is absolutely prepared, and absolutely inevitable. And I still don’t believe it.

  Wednesday, 11 June

  Yesterday evening, at Alice’s, the telephone suddenly rang. Someone on behalf of Colonel Lovinescu to say that a date has been fixed for the offensive against Bessarabia: 20 June.

  Yesterday A.B. saw Gunther, the envoy of the United States.2 He doesn’t know either if there will be a war between Russia and Germany. He thinks there is indeed a German ultimatum, with such tough conditions that he finds it hard to believe the Soviets will accept it.

  Yesterday at school we had a meeting to discuss the 8th Year. (In general, my experience as a teacher has been uninteresting. Neither my pupils nor my “colleagues” have taught me anything new.) Yesterday, however, I felt for the first time at close quarters the terrible tragicomedy of school. The elderly Latin teacher, finicky, tired, ridiculous, so worn and ineffectual as to be moving, insisted on failing an insolent pupil and making him repeat the exam. We defended the boy and tried to get him moved up to the next year while the poor teacher resisted almost in desperation, almost in tears. We felt that for him it was a question of pride, revenge, personal prestige. He didn’t want to let his victim go, and clung to him with a stubborn, relentless effort. He virtually begged us to help him by not allowing the boy through; this seemed to be his way of making up for wounded pride.

  “The boy will kill himself if you don’t pass him.”

  “Well, so what? It wouldn’t be any loss. None at all.”

  I got the feeling that that man was capable of murder.

  Thursday, 12 June

  More than yesterday or any other time, everyone now believes there will be war. Yesterday evening I heard several times at different places: “The ultimatum expires tonight.” Some people were actually expecting an air raid last night; others expect one tonight. Those who can are leaving Bucharest, especially if they have children. Gina Strunga (at whose place I had supper yesterday) is leaving for Sighişoara. Begoghina3 is leaving tomorrow morning. Since yesterday, General Antonescu has been in Germany having meetings with Ribbentrop and Hitler. It looks as if the final decisions are being made.

  “Do you still not believe it? really not?” Eugen Ionescu asked me this morning, eaten up with panic.

  Jews are being arrested in the street, and it is said they will be sent to concentration camps. I don’t know what the criterion is. At Strada Lipscani, I myself saw a whole column being marched along between bayonets; it was made up of all sorts of people, most of them well dressed.

  On the Şosea, where I went for a walk toward evening with Comşa and Lereanu, an endless German motorized column was heading out in the direction of Ploiesti. Across the road from the Minovici villa, an elegant young lady accompanied by two men in civilian clothes had stepped out of a limousine and, with her arm raised, was shouting “Heil!” to one lorry after the other. They were the first civilians I have seen saluting the Germans in such a hearty manner.

  Saturday, 14 June

  TASS has issued a communiqué about “rumors of a war between Germany and Russia.” The news is false, provocatively put about by the British and especially by Stafford Cripps.4 It is true that German troops are massed on the border with Russia, but this is “probably” for other purposes. It is also true that Russian troops are on maneuvers in the same region, but these are normal training maneuvers. Germany has presented no ultimatum to Russia, nor any te
rritorial or economic demands. Relations between the two countries are excellent.—That is what is known as a “malencontreux”5 communiqué. It comes at a time when, in Bucharest, the war atmosphere has reached a paroxysm, at the very moment when everyone is expecting the bugles to sound. The morning papers put the communiqué somewhere on their inside pages, among news items devoid of importance. The evening papers no longer publish it at all. So far there has been no response from Berlin, no sign of what is to come. Here, people are stupefied. Only tomorrow will heads begin to clear.

  For several hours this morning, nearly all telephones in the possession of Jews were out of service. Maybe the first little diversion. Anti-Semitism covers up many disappointments.

  Today is the first anniversary of the fall of Paris.

  Sunday, 15 June

  The same silence continues to surround the TASS communiqué. Berlin appears not to have taken note of it. In Bucharest there is “great disappointment.”6 But the evacuations go on. Everyone talks as before of the war that is about to start—on Wednesday night, apparently. Nevertheless, I have the feeling that the critical moment has passed; there is less panic, less impatience, less enthusiasm.

  Haig has been sentenced to thirteen years’ imprisonment.