Friday, 10 October
The headlines in today’s Universul-. “The Whole Soviet Front Has Collapsed”; “The Decision Has Been Reached”; “The Destruction of Timoshenko’s Armies Means the End of Russian Campaign”; “Disaster for Bolshevik Armies.” More tersely, Evenimentul has one full-page headline: “The Russian Campaign Is Over.”
The following comes from Hitler’s proclamation to the army on the night of i to 2 October, only now published for the first time: “This is the result of twenty-five years of Jewish domination, which calls itself bolshevism but is essentially the same as the most general form of capitalism. In both cases, the people in charge of the system are the same: the Jews, only the Jews.”
Zissu gave me ten thousand lei in an envelope. As I came down the stairs I immediately thought of giving it back to him. I really will have to return it—and as soon as possible. Small amounts are wretched and humiliating. When Zissu gave Nae hundreds of thousands of lei, it certainly never crossed his mind that he was performing charity. I don’t want him to be able to become my benefactor at so cheap a price.
Saturday, 11 October
A slight, almost imperceptible lowering of the tone in today’s papers. “The Hour of Collapse Is Near,” said one headline in Universul. Yesterday the collapse was already an established fact. But the fact is that fighting is still taking place. This evening’s German communiqué says that the destruction of Bryansk and Vyazma “is proceeding.” One’s impression is that there can be no question of a general collapse, only of major fighting in different sectors, and with different prospects. This evening Rosetti spoke of “bluffing”—very witty of him. Simionescu-Râmniceanu said that the new offensive was Hitler’s contribution to winter relief. I think that yesterday’s panic and today’s ironic skepticism are both premature. We’ll have to wait a few days before we can be clear about what is happening.
My career as a marchand de tableaux1 has fallen through. Madame Zissu is more perceptive than I am. I had lunch at her place and felt a terrible urge to scream in her face about all that is weighing me down.
I have finished reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream with my teacher.
Leaving on my mind. I’d like to run away, to escape.
Sunday, 12 October
Fighting continues. That’s all that can be said for the moment. A grave, extremely tense situation—but nothing devastating or definitive. In the south, the German communiqué reports that the battle of the Sea of Azov is finished. In the center, fighting continues in the regions of Bryansk and Vyazma. Nothing new in Odessa or Leningrad.
Visited Pippidi in the evening. Returned through total darkness. The city had never been so dark, and I didn’t even have a flashlight to help me. Rain—and as hot as a summer’s night.
Monday, 13 October
“The battlefields of Bryansk and Vyazma are well behind the front,” states yesterday evening’s German communiqué. The Russians also admit that they have lost Bryansk. The offensive against Moscow is in full swing. The German pressure is increasing from Bryansk, Orel, and Vyazma (all three of which have been passed). A “titanic,” “gigantic” battle—but beyond these vague appreciations we know nothing for certain.
The Bukovina Jews have been taken from various localities (Vatra Dornei, Cimpulung, Gura Humorului) and sent off to an unknown destination. To Transnistria, some say. God knows what awaits us too, this winter. It hasn’t yet started and already seems dreadfully long.
Smoky rain, biting cold, damp November wind.
I finished Much Ado About Nothing last night. What childishness—in places, even stupidity! But some things, some verses, are enchanting. Everywhere in Shakespeare there are memorable things that I should like to be able to use, to quote, to keep in mind.
Tuesday, 14 October
Yesterday evening’s communiqué: operations on the eastern front are continuing according to plan. This evening’s communiqué: operations are following the anticipated course. But is the momentum of the battle slowing down? News placards in the street: “The Decisive Hour Is Approaching.” “Peace Approaching.”
I finished Tristram Shandy this evening, after a long time spent slowly (too slowly) reading it. Anyway, it is all too long, too uniform, too loose. After the first hundred pages there was nothing more to be learned. And there are still four hundred to go. Pleasant nevertheless. Peaceful reading for a long untroubled winter.
Thursday, 16 October
A Romanian communiqué stated that Odessa’s defense lines had been broken and that three villages (probably on the outskirts) were occupied this morning. Odessa is burning. Many special editions. The flags are out.
The situation of Moscow seems to be worsening by the hour. The Germans are also attacking to the north, from Kalinin. The outer fortifications have been breached. At present the German communiqués and dispatches say nothing precise, probably because they would prefer to report a great surprise victory. The weather is extremely favorable: calm, sunny, dry. An October as in 1939. Will Japan enter the war? Will it attack the Russians? The Konoye government has resigned. Grave declarations are being made in Tokyo, as on the eve of major events.
Never have I thought so intensely about leaving. I know it’s absurd, I know it’s impossible, I know it’s pointless, I know it’s too late—but I can’t help it.2 The idea of leaving makes me dizzy. Free, free—somewhere far away. A ship with 750 Jewish migrants is leaving in a few days’ time— and though I am not and cannot be one of them, it has become an obsession for me. In the last few days I have read a number of American magazines that Ocneanu gave me (New York Times Book Review), and I suddenly saw in detail another world, another milieu, other cities, another time.
The Struma:3 to get on there I’d need a sense of adventure, and above all I’d have to be younger, healthier, less ground down by life.
Look in my face: my name is Might-have-been.
Friday, 17 October
Odessa has fallen. The streets are decked with flags. Demonstrations. The German communiqué says nothing about the offensive against Moscow, but the press dispatches say that the city is being evacuated.
The Jews of Gura Humorului have been sent to Mogilev—according to Fanny Scharch, who was in tears at the lack of news about her parents and sister. An acute sense of danger, of uncertainty about each day, each hour. You’d like to sleep, to vanish somewhere beneath the earth, to let time pass over you. All our struggling to stay alive is so futile if there is no longer any light even in the far distance.
Saturday, 18 October
Many short dreams last night.
1) I am with Alice and Aristide in a large restaurant—probably the Cina. We are planning a trip to Italy, though we don’t have much money. Aristide shows me the route on a map. We are brought some cakes, I think. George Enescu comes in. Aristide introduces me, then goes with him into an adjoining room and shuts the door, because they have some kind of secrets to discuss.
2) I am with Zoe. She has decided to marry me and I don’t have the courage to refuse—which gives me great pangs of conscience in the dream. The funny thing is that she made up her mind because she thought I was suffering too much, even fasting for her sake—whereas, in reality, I had been fasting for Yom Kippur. We go together to the registry officer, who is a friend of mine. I say that I want him to marry us, and he reads a passage (probably from Renard’s Journal) about marriage. Some lists are pasted up in our courtyard at Strada Antim (lists I saw yesterday at the recruitment office, but in the dream they are lists of people’s marital status). Someone congratulates Mama. I am very unhappy at the whole event. I think that we won’t be able to make our trip to Italy. On the other hand, I think that my telephone will be reconnected if I marry her.
3) I am in Brăila, at the secondary school. I go into the classroom, but I have been rushing so much that all I am wearing are a shirt and underpants. Arghir is at the teacher’s desk. I sit on a bench in the middle of the class. Arghir reads from the 5th Year textbook. Mea
nwhile a Legionary revolution has erupted. I look out the window and see a brass-band demonstration passing by. It is raining very hard. Some children on the parade can scarcely be seen beneath the driving rain and umbrellas. I go quickly into the street (but I am no longer a school pupil), and in a kind of arcade I come across an army patrol that refuses to let me through. I am terrified, and the sounds of revolution grow on all sides.
4) I am in bed with Lereanu. We are waiting for Comşa. I undress her so that she is naked, then kiss her with a mixture of disgust and excitement. Everything is too confused—and I don’t remember any more.
Sunday, 19 October
I went this morning to a Gieseking concert at the Philharmonic (the Schumann concerto, a Bach Brandenburg concerto for flute, piano, and violin, Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony). I got the ticket at the beginning of last week, after a lot of hesitation and a sudden final decision: come what may, Pm going to go! But the pangs of conscience started at once. I was ashamed of myself. Could I possibly be so light-minded and unscrupulous as to go to a German concert in these bitter days? Hundreds of Jewish families from Bukovina are right now in forced exile! Thousands of Jews are in labor camps—including Benu! Each day, each hour, fresh horrors and humiliations press down on us—and I go to the Philharmonic! I made up my mind to return the ticket and in no event to attend the concert. But at the moments of greatest indignation, another voice began to creep through. Why should we do penance? Why should we so absurdly give up things? Why should we deny ourselves the few pleasures remaining to us? I haven’t listened to any music since the spring, when they took my radio away. A concert—such a fine one at that—will allow me to forget and be happy for an hour. How many pleasures are left to me? Until yesterday evening and right up to this morning, I didn’t know if I would go. I went.
It was a strange feeling as I entered the Ateneu, where I had not set foot for so long! I couldn’t overcome my shyness, my shame, my fear. I’d have liked it if no one had seen me, if I had seen no one. I felt like a kind of ghost, come back to the world for a few moments. What a rustle of dresses, of white hands, furs, uniforms! So many splendid women. Nearly all the men well dressed, calm, exuding comfort and self-confidence. Sitting on my fold-down seat, I felt a wretched outcast, ugly, old, sad, and shabby. Has the war left its mark only on me? Have I alone been living through it? Do not all these people feel it, see it, know it? Half the pleasure of the concert was taken away by the obsessions I had brought along with me, and which I could not shake off for a second. I don’t know if I’ll repeat the experience.
Beethoven appeals to me less and less. They were operatic phrases— could have been Rossini. I think I’d enjoy listening to the sonatas more.
Regarding music, there is a curious observation in Thomas de Quincey (I began reading Confessions of an English Opium Eater yesterday evening) to the effect that a knowledge of instruments stops you from letting yourself go and really enjoying the music: “To the deep voluptuous enjoyment of music absolute passiveness in the hearer is indispensable. Gain what skill you please, nevertheless activity, vigilance, anxiety, must always accompany an elaborate effort of musical execution; and so far is that from being reconcilable with the entrancement and lull essential to the true fruition of music,. . . that even so much as an occasional touch of the foot would utterly undermine all your pleasure.” If I were ever to write an essay on music (which I have been thinking of doing for some two or three years), I would try to show that musical understanding is neither “entrancement” nor “lull”; that these are indeed inferior forms of musical sensitivity.
No definite news about the course of the war. The German communiqués are still preoccupied with the twin action at Vyazma and Bryansk, where the number of prisoners is said to be in excess of 600,000. Nothing sure about the situation of Moscow; nor about the Kharkov and Rostov regions.
It is not yet clear whether the Japanese government formed yesterday is a peace cabinet or a war cabinet. My impression is that Japan will not enter the war so long as Russia has not effectively collapsed.
Monday, 20 October
Depressing news from the Union of Jewish Communities, where we went this morning to take a letter for Benu. The roads in Bessarabia and Bukovina are filled with corpses of Jews driven from their homes toward Ukraine. Old and sick people, children, women—all quite indiscriminately pushed onto the roads and driven toward Mogilev. What will they do there? How will they eat? Where will they find a roof over their heads? Death by shooting is a much gentler fate. Yesterday we heard that all Jews originating from Bessarabia and Bukovina must leave Bucharest and set off for Ukraine and Transnistria. This morning it was specified that this applied only to those who have come since January 1940. Why? No one knows. Hardly anyone asks any longer.
It is an anti-Semitic delirium that nothing can stop. There are no brakes, no rhyme or reason. It would be something if there were an anti-Semitic program; you’d know the limits to which it might go. But this is sheer uncontrolled bestiality, without shame or conscience, without goal or purpose. Anything, absolutely anything, is possible. I see the pallor of fear on Jewish faces. Their smile of atavistic optimism is frozen, their old consoling irony is extinguished. One day, far from now, the nightmare will pass—but we, you, he, I, who look into each other’s eyes, will be long gone. Already (according to Gaston Antony4) the number of Jews murdered since June is more than a hundred thousand. How many of us are left? How long will it be before we too are murdered? My heart is weighed down with despondency. Where can I direct my gaze? What can I expect?
“Leave!” Rosetti advised me yesterday.
It was more than a piece of advice. What he outlined was a definite plan: to leave for Istanbul and to write there to Lassaigne, who would surely help me to make my way further. But everything is immeasurably difficult, beginning with the first steps of obtaining a passport, a Turkish visa, a Bulgarian visa—not to speak of money Nor do I feel that these material obstacles are the most serious. Above all else, there is my own doubt. Can I leave on my own? Do I have the right to leave Mama alone? Can I leave Benu alone? I don’t feel sufficiently robust, in every sense, to go away like that. And, with my ruined health, can I attempt such a major venture? On the other hand, is it not madness to wait— helpless and falling apart—to be killed?
Tuesday, 21 October
All Jews are obliged, under a law that appeared in this evening’s papers, to deliver items of personal clothing to the state. The required quantity is laid down for each of seven categories: from those without any income to those with an annual income of 500,000 lei. It would be hard to copy the whole text, which in terms of anti-Semitism is perhaps the wildest and most unexpected thing I have read up to now. A Jewish person who earns 10,000 lei a month is obliged to donate: four shirts, ten pairs of underpants, four pairs of socks, four handkerchiefs, four towels, four flannels, three suits, two pairs of ankle boots, two hats, two overcoats, two linen blankets, two undersheets, two pillow covers, two pillowcases, two sheets. The amounts demanded of the highest income bracket are beyond belief: thirty-six shirts, twelve suits, twelve overcoats, and so on. It is so grotesque that I’m not sure it isn’t a sick joke. I see that the law does not bear any signature, so I wonder whether it was not sent to the typesetter by some prankster. For if it is in earnest, you realize after the first moment of comical stupor that it is actually tragic. The cost of the items in question is far above the income that is taken as a criterion! If each Jew were to give all the money he earns, he still could not manage to buy all the things demanded of him. The penalty is five to ten years’ imprisonment, or a fine of 100,000 to 500,000 lei.
I had a long sleepless night. Only after four in the morning did I manage to drop off at last. All the time I thought of how my departure might be organized. It is becoming the obsession of my life.
Wednesday, 22 October
A postcard received by Volcovici (a teacher at my school) from his parents and brothers: “Mogilev. My dear ones, we
are healthy. We are doing a long journey on foot. At night we are in the fields. I embrace you.”
Four months of war. Winter still seems a long way off. For the last few days we have had spring weather. The time of year is not hindering the German offensive. Our lack of information makes it impossible to assess the situation. Moscow will probably fall (we can’t say whether in one or in six weeks), but there is no telling what might happen then. Anyway, the war is now becoming remote and immaterial to us. They’ll slaughter us—and I don’t think the light of victory will reach us in our graves (if we have any). At any moment we could be taken from our homes, pushed onto the roads, and killed. None of us knows if, tomorrow morning, he will turn the calendar page on today: the 22nd of October.
Evening
Rosetti tells me that the Germans have won the war, that the Russians can no longer put up any resistance, that Britain has no option other than to reach a compromise peace. I try to raise his spirits, but without success. To all my arguments that a British victory is certain (however distant), he shrugs his shoulders: no, no, there’s nothing more to be done.
On another subject, he tells me that official and semiofficial circles— whose source is Antonescu—claim that Transylvania will be regained from the Hungarians in three weeks at the outside. The Marshal [Antonescu] is supposed to have written in some album: “From Odessa I leave for Cluj.” On our way home we spoke in greater detail about my possible departure, in which he insists on taking a close interest.
Journal 1935–1944 Page 53
