Yesterday evening I went with the Zissus (they rang and insisted) to the Pescăruş restaurant. Unpleasant company: she, vulgar and showy; he, honest but uninteresting (how could Nae Ionescu have thought him intelligent?). It depresses me to go out to elegant places, where people seem to be living on a different planet. Elegant, indifferent, wealthy, untroubled, remote from the obsession with war, remote from the other extreme of penury. In that world I feel my poverty, failure, and disgrace as a physical humiliation.
Monday, 16 June
Eugen Ionescu burst in this morning to tell me that there is no longer any hope: war with the Russians has been finally decided. Vinea, Carandino, Ciorănescu, Nădejde—all assured him that it was imminent. Vianu has gone off to Sinaia, to settle his children there. The TASS communiqué of the day before yesterday not only denies nothing but confirms everything. Those of us who still don’t believe there will be war are stupid or blind. He stayed with me all morning, tormented and convulsed. But I think he was calmer when he went back home.
This morning’s papers and this afternoon’s are silent. Still no hint from Berlin.
In Marx (The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte) there is a passage that perfectly fits the France of today: “It is not enough to say, as the French do, that their nation was taken unawares. A nation and a woman are not forgiven the unguarded hour in which the first adventurer that came along could violate them. The riddle is not solved by such turns of speech, but merely formulated differently. It remains to be explained how a nation of thirty-six millions can be surprised and delivered unresistingly into captivity by three swindlers.”7
Evening
Starting from this evening, the city is again in complete darkness. The measure was suddenly taken during the day and announced by radio and on posters. There is a fine drizzle, and it is pitch-black. I stayed home. Outside the police are going from house to house and drawing up lists of children to be evacuated. The general feeling is one of oppressive worry.
Tuesday, 17 June
All driving permits have been canceled by decree. There will no longer be any taxis or private cars. Petrol will be rationed for cars that do have special permission to move around.
Open-air theatres and restaurants have been closed. There is no light anywhere in the city.
Longhin (whom I haven’t seen since that time at Stîna de Vale) tells me that war is absolutely certain. Today the courts and appeal courts evacuated their valuables. Army Headquarters has installed itself in Snagov. The General has left for “the front.” Today or tomorrow a military parade will take place in Piatra Neamţ, and then it will begin. Ovidiu Lupaş assures me that the Russians will be crushed in a couple of weeks. Horia Roman (from Timpul) thinks war might even break out tonight, Jebeleanu that it might be delayed until Thursday.
I am trying to “reconsider” the situation. War between Russia and Germany still seems to me unlikely—but not out of the question. The coup de théâtre of August 1939 may be repeated today in the opposite direction. If Hitler realizes that he won’t finish the British off this year, and if he resigns himself to this fact, then what is there left for him to do with such a huge army? Let it be worn down through inactivity? Obviously he’d prefer to beat the British first and only then take on the Russians. But since the British have resisted more than he expected, the objectives may be posed in the reverse order. That would be logical. But I still think that we won’t go to war. (It’s true that my predictions are usually poor; nor did I think in September 1939 that it would come to war.)
The British are on the offensive in Libya, at Sollum and Port Capuzzo. It started before daybreak yesterday with a lightning attack, but so far the advances have been pretty mediocre. In Syria, too, the operations have lost momentum. The British seem to be going easy on the French, who are now counterattacking in their turn.
It is a year since Petain took over the government and asked for an armistice. A day of mourning that will not be forgotten. We were brokenhearted, and since then our dear image of France has been constantly degraded and disfigured. Paris itself, having remained unscathed and unscratched, seems cold, lifeless, indifferent. In the past I had only to utter the name of a Paris street and my heart would beat faster; now everything appears frozen, motionless, dead. Still, it is possible that France will come out of this too. Was the regime of Napoleon III less abject than the Petain regime?
Wednesday, 18 June
Rain and darkness. How strange the city looks, sunk in darkness and pierced by the brief, almost momentary glow of flashlights that people use to find their way without falling or hitting themselves.
The British offensive, repelled at Sollum, has been abandoned. Once again the depressing thought occurs that nothing can be done anywhere on earth against the German armies.
Nothing new on the internal front. War is still expected today, tomorrow, or the day after.
“It seems funny to speak of Eminescu as a philosophical poet. Actually, I am the only philosophical poet!” Who else but Camil could utter such a sentence? But since I have been seeing less of him, I again enjoy listening to him speak.
Thursday, 19 June
A very broad agreement has been concluded between the Germans and the Turks: nonaggression, friendship, inviolability. But from the text it is not clear whether “inviolability” means that German troops have no right to cross Turkey.
Carandino, on his way from Curentul, told me that in all likelihood the war will begin tonight.
I saw Călugăru for the first time in several months. He was unchanged: the same small, nervous, confused, hysterical, obsessed man from Cuvântul. He has written a play about John the Baptist, and another one about Charlie Chaplin for both the theatre and the cinema, using a new technical formula. He has also written a book of poems in Yiddish. For an hour he talked about himself and his writings, and read some aloud. He speaks terribly fast, without even looking to see whether you are listening or not. He asks no questions and waits for no answers: he just talks and talks. As far as war with the Russians is concerned, he thinks it is a complete impossibility, a propaganda invention on the part of the British. Moreover, he argues, if Hitler dared to attack the Russians he would be crushed. I left shrugging my shoulders, not saying a word. What would have been the point?
Evening
Many people claim that at 5:30 this afternoon London spoke of a Ger-man-Romanian ultimatum to Russia. But this evening at Alice’s, between ten and eleven, I listened to the broadcasts from London in German, Romanian, and English, and there was no mention of such an ultimatum. All they said was that there are dozens of German divisions on the Russian frontier, and that “one way or another” the situation will have to be clarified in the next few days.
Our teacher gave an interesting interpretation of the Turkish-German agreement: namely, that Germany has been forced to give up any idea of attacking through Turkey, and to conceal this through a so-called accord.
If I were to record everything that people say, believe, guess, invent, affirm, or deny, I would have to blacken hundreds of sheets of paper. There is general bewilderment, total confusion. Days of the most terrible hysteria I have ever seen.
Pippidi told me over the phone that the war will begin tomorrow morning if it stops raining. Dr. Weber knows for sure that all the ministries have drawn up lists of functionaries to be appointed in Bessarabia. He also knows that the General is determined to enter Chişinău8 on the 27th of June, a year to the day since the province was lost. Aristide tells me that all the factories (including his paper factory—so the information is accurate and precise) have been instructed to prepare the necessary reserves to be sent to and distributed in Bessarabia.
Saturday, 21 June
Private telephones are not working. There is a strange sense of danger, isolation, siege. You feel you can no longer communicate with anyone. The buses no longer run; they are said to have been converted into ambulances. Maybe I am mistaken, but the streets seem emptier than before. Adania9 tells me that the Nati
onal Theatre is rehearsing plays for the theatres in Chişinău and Cernăuţi.1
I have been reading Thucydides—splendid and soothing. How stupid is our fretting over things that have remained the same down the ages! There is hardly one page in Thucydides in which you can’t find things directly applicable to events today. Sometimes it even seems like a contemporary pamphlet. I regret that I do not have a room of my own where I can collect myself. I feel a great urge to work. I would read and write as never before.
Sunday, 22 June
In two proclamations to the country and the army, General Antonescu has announced that Romania, alongside Germany, has begun the holy war to liberate Bessarabia and Bukovina and to eradicate bolshevism. This morning Hitler issued a long declaration, explaining the reasons for the war that began last night against the Soviets. Before the sun rose, German troops crossed the Russian frontier at several points and bombarded a number of towns. No precise geographical details are given. Molotov, speaking on the radio at dawn, protested against the “aggression,” the “brutality,” and so on. Here is the Soviet wolf forced to play the role of the innocent lamb—as if it were just another poor Belgium.
“Les bobards”2 are invented and spread with amazing speed. Just an hour after news of the war was reported in the papers, the lawyer Schwartz came to tell me that Romania had occupied Cernăuţi, occupied Chişinău, and broadcast a Te Deum from Cernăuţi. Three hundred Russian aircraft heading for Bucharest were all shot down. An acquaintance of his spoke on the ’phone with a nephew in Cernăuti, who reported with tears in his eyes that the city had been liberated.
Until the last moment I did not believe that there would be war. Yesterday evening still, this morning still, I was convinced of the contrary.
Evening
The city is as deserted as on a Sunday in midsummer. You would think everyone is off on holiday. In the evening we gather early at home. With the shutters drawn and the telephone out of service, we have a growing sense of unease and anguish. What will happen to us? I hardly dare ask. You are afraid to imagine what you will be like in another day, another week, another month.
Tuesday, 24 June
The first real air-raid alert. (There were two others yesterday, but they weren’t taken seriously.) Today anti-aircraft weapons and machine guns were being fired. Those who were out in the street claim to have seen two “black” (?) aircraft flying at a great height. It all lasted no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Being at home, I did not feel any alarm. But in the street there seem to have been moments of panic. We’ll get used to that, though.
In town, on the walls and shop windows, there are two propaganda posters by Anestin.3 (He did not actually sign them, but Anestin’s line is much more than a signature: it is a fingerprint.) One depicts Stalin in a white smock that carries the traces of bloody hands. The text: “The Butcher of Red Square.” The second—with the text: “Who are the masters of bolshevism?”—shows a Jew in a red gown, with side curls, skull cap, and beard, holding a hammer in one hand and a sickle in the other. Concealed beneath his coat are three Soviet soldiers. I have heard that the posters were put up by police sergeants.
I still don’t know if it is true that Leni and Froda are, or have been, under arrest. Worried by what I had heard, I called round to see them yesterday, but no one answered the door.
Camil claims that Zambaccian,4 who went to Malmaison5 to intervene on behalf of Zaharia Stancu, saw Leni and Scarlat there. Yesterday I rang Mircea Vulcănescu to ask him about the arrests. Will they continue? Could I be targeted myself? Is it true (as I was told some ten days ago) that the simple fact that I am Jewish and once belonged to a press association is good enough reason? Without even saying “hello,” he snapped back over the phone: “Well, what of it?” Well, obviously nothing. He gave me an appointment at the ministry, but I didn’t go.
No German or Romanian communiqué about how things are going. It is said that Cernăuţi and Chişinău have been occupied, that the Dniester has been reached at several points. But it is also said that the offensive on the Prut6 is still not under way, that a strong push is expected from the direction of Poland before the advance on Bessarabia begins. Of course, no one knows anything for sure. There are rumors of air raids on Galaţi and Iaşi, Brăila and Constanţa. But they are so exaggerated as to be implausible.
Thursday, 26 June
Midnight. The fourth air-raid warning of the day. The first two, almost one after the other, lasted from 5:30 a.m. until 9:00. Bombs fell in our part of town, at the junction of Strada Sfinţii Apostoli with Strada Rahova. The first loud explosion was accompanied with a brief flash, as of lightning. There are dead and wounded, but it is not known how many. It was not a major attack, and I think the bombs were dropped more or less at random. Now I am too tired to note any more about this first day of alarms.
The news from the front is still imprecise. In the north, the Germans seem to have penetrated some 150 kilometers, to the vicinity of Vilna. The rest of the Russian front seems to be holding out. From the Prut, no reliable news but dozens of rumors. At first the talk was of a Soviet disaster, but now it is rather less heady. In any event, neither Chişinău nor Cernăuti has yet been occupied. It is even said that the Russians have counterattacked in the Sculeni-Fălciu region. But I refuse to believe all the things that are said or whispered. I’ll wait for the official communiqués.
The day before yesterday there was more serious bombing at Constanţa and Galaţi. People coming from there “brag” about it, but they are stupidly garrulous and terribly hysterical. A little more calm and patience are needed.
Friday, 27 June
A relatively calm night. Scarcely had I written the last note and retired when the sirens sounded again. But we decided not to go to the shelter. In the end, I don’t think we are less “protected” on the ground floor or three floors above us than we would be in the basement. I slept until morning and did not even hear the other two alerts of which people later spoke.
Among yesterday’s dead was Zanea Alexandru, a pupil from my 8th Year, a tall, handsome, and sturdy boy, with a certain personal distinction in that rowdy class. I have one of his exercise books that he gave me on the last day of school.
“What shall I do with it, Mr. Zanea?”
“Please read it. I’d like to know what you think of my writing.”
“Okay, I will.”
Some people (Comşa, Lereanu) are completely indifferent to the course of the war. Sometimes this makes me angry: it seems callous, egoistic, unimaginative.
“The Jews will be removed from villages in Moldavia,” say today’s papers. The measure may be extended to other regions. The banner headline: “Yids to Labor Camps!”
Saturday, 28 June
Twenty-four hours of calm. Not one air-raid warning. I went to bed early, being very tired, and slept through till morning. The third Romanian communiqué appeared today. Again it is sober and restrained: no official news, no real indication of what is happening. The German press dispatches speak of great victories without spelling out anything. The same goes for the German communiqué. It does seem, however, that there has been a major advance in the north of Poland, and that there is fighting in the Minsk region (on the old territory of Russia). Someone told me today that Smolensk has been occupied, so that Moscow itself is now directly threatened. As I have no radio, I cannot verify anything, cannot know anything. I always wait for an official communiqué.
Meanwhile I go on reading Thucydides. Book Five, which I read yesterday, is more a history of diplomatic operations among Athens, Sparta, and Argos than one of war operations as such. Some of the similarities, of the analogies, are incredibly striking. What an easy game Giraudoux invented! And in the end, how little he drew from material so rich in suggestions!
I am worried about the anti-Semitic tension that is being fueled by the press, radio, and street posters. Why? Why? I know perfectly well why, but I can’t break the habit of asking this silly question.
I stay at home all the time, though I find it suffocating. I dare not go too far into town; it is best not to be seen, not to have people talk about me. Toward evening I walk around outside the house. What I really need is a big yard, with a little sky and a little grass to roll in.
Sunday, 29 June
Book Six of Thucydides, which I read today, recounts the war of Athens against Syracuse, the Sicilian expedition, the diplomatic negotiations with the colonies in Italy, and the treachery of Alcibiades. It seemed the finest of all the books, the one most susceptible to comparisons with the present war. The analogies between the Peloponnesian War and the wars of 1914 and 1940 are so great that they sometimes seem to merge into one. Only the element of anti-Semitic diversion was lacking in the war policy of the Greek city-states—a lack all the more glaring in that they were waging a war for economic interests but (like today) camouflaging it beneath a war in the name of ideology and public opinion. The Jews would have been very useful to them, if they had had any, but closer analysis might reveal who then served that function. It amuses me to recall that when Victor Ion Popa produced Aristophanes’ Plutos a couple of years ago, he put a starkly Semitic mask in among all the Greek ones. The poor man felt that something was missing there. . . .
I intend to read Aristophanes after I have finished Thucydides. I find the Peloponnesian War too absorbing to set it aside so quickly. With Aristophanes, I shall remain within its framework.
There were alerts last night and this morning, each one lasting an hour or an hour and a half. But no bombing. A few roars, but that could have been anti-aircraft fire.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 46
