Journal 1935–1944

by Mihail Sebastian

  Tuesday, 9 December

  It will take some time before we know what is happening in the Pacific. It may be a new type of war there—quite unlike anything we have seen since August 1939. The first two days have been full of Japanese blows, with no response from the Americans or the British. The “blitz” technique perfectly accomplished. The Americans are stunned to have lost two armored battleships, and apparently an aircraft carrier, without having the chance to fire one shot. “A disaster”—my teacher says. Maybe he exaggerates, but anyway it is most disturbing to see America taken by surprise like any old Belgium or Yugoslavia.

  Wednesday, 10 December

  A catastrophic day in the Pacific. In the space of twenty minutes the British lost their only two battleships in Singapore: the Repulse and the Prince of Wales. There have been numerous Japanese actions all over the area, and no Allied response. I can’t follow the situation because I don’t know the map, but it leaves you feeling thunderstruck. It is a moment equal to the French collapse; the other fronts now move to the back of the stage. Even the war in Russia has become less important. The Russians have retaken Tikhvin in the north. The Germans are talking of a winter lull as if it were an established fact. It is the Japanese who have sensationally captured the notice boards.

  Thursday, 11 December

  Germany and Italy have declared war on the United States! Hitler spoke this afternoon, but I don’t yet know what he said. The sensation of the first Japanese successes, the Anglo-Saxon consternation, the general stupefaction—all this adds an aspect of pomp and theatricality, as well as one of tragic catastrophe, to the events. It will take several days for our heads to clear.

  Apparently the Japanese have also lost a top-class ship, and here and there the British and Americans do seem to be putting together a defense. We have had a number of shocks throughout the day. Universul reported that a third British battleship, the King George, had been sunk. But this was not confirmed, and the lunchtime papers did not mention it. Then the sinking of a 32,000-ton American aircraft carrier was announced—but later, when I read the dispatch more carefully, I realized that this was the same as the one sunk yesterday.

  I have reread The Way of All Flesh, this time in English. My poor memory disturbs me. True, it is ten to twelve years since I first read it, but I was still upset that I remembered absolutely nothing: not one name, not one character, not one episode. I had not even retained a general vague outline of the plot. Yet it is one of the books that meant something to me. I have written about it and referred to it many times! I thought of Butler as a writer familiar to me!

  Friday, 12 December

  A day without catastrophe. Is the Japanese “blitz” subsiding so quickly?

  This war has in a way covered over my great misfortunes and disgrace. I cling to it, live in it, lose myself in it—and thus forget my horrible old sufferings. I comfort myself with the thought that I am waiting for something—I who have nothing to expect.

  Saturday, 13 December

  Romania has declared war on the United States. The legation is leaving. A final gate has shut.

  Nothing new in the Pacific. In Russia there have been Soviet advances that may be local adjustments of the front or actions with a wider significance. In Libya the Germans are retreating west of Tobruk, leaving garrisons to maintain resistance at Bardia and Sollum.

  A dream last night. Jean Hurtig has been condemned to death, but for him to be executed someone must start a petition and pay a tax of, I think, forty lei. I don’t know why I am the one who drafts this petition and takes it to the offices of Adevărul. Then I am gripped by fear and go to Hurtig’s mother—Madame Sărăţeanu—to warn her of what has happened.

  Monday, 15 December

  Nothing new at the fronts. Sometimes I get the feeling that the war will never, never end. I am tormented by the thought that one day soon— tomorrow, the day after, five days from now—there will be fresh anti-Semitic attacks. It has been too quiet recently for something not to be in preparation. I am vegetating, falling apart, losing myself.

  Apparently the Struma has set sail and already arrived in Istanbul. Those people still have a life.

  Wednesday, 17 December

  The Union of Communities has been dissolved and replaced with a “Central Office.”1 A new census will begin of all inhabitants “of Jewish blood.” I think that Zissu is involved in all these developments.

  “Go over to Catholicism! Convert as quickly as you can! The Pope will defend you! He’s the only one who can still save you.” For several days I have been hearing this same refrain. This morning Comşa, this evening Aristide and Alice, asked me in all seriousness why I am still waiting. I don’t need arguments to answer them, nor do I search for any. Even if it were not so grotesque, even if it were not so stupid and pointless, I would still need no arguments. Somewhere on an island with sun and shade, in the midst of peace, security, and happiness, I would in the end be indifferent to whether I was or was not Jewish. But here and now I cannot be anything else. Nor do I think I want to be.

  Today, more acutely than before, I had the feeling that it is not true, that everything is terribly unreal, that I am thrashing about as in a nightmare, that I am sinking beneath it—and that I must wake up. So long as I don’t go mad! At times I feel so tired that I am afraid I will crack up and lose control of myself.

  Thursday, 18 December

  I am worried by Poldy’s silence and the uncertain news about him. Has he been in a camp? Is he leaving for Toulouse? May God give him the courage to be patient and hang on! Duduia Mică and her husband have been baptized. This evening, Muni Goldschläger [reading uncertain] spoke to me of baptism as a possible solution. He claims that Christian Jews were not deported in Bukovina.

  The new Jewish leaders: Streitman2 and Vilman!3 They were installed today by Lecca.4

  Saturday, 20 December

  Hong Kong has fallen. The Germans are continuing to advance on the Russian front, but without any great speed. In Libya the advancing British forces have reached Derna. But nothing has changed. Everything is still the same.

  Sunday, 21 December

  The letter I shall send tomorrow to Zissu:

  “Dear Mr. Zissu,

  “I beg your pardon for these lines, but, believe me, it is much harder for me to write them than it will be for you to read them. You can tear them up and forget about them: I shall never forget them. I need money I have not had any real ‘money’ for a long time, but now everything has become literally unbearable. Tomorrow I have to pay the rent. Moreover, Christmas will find me with nothing. I tell myself that there must be someone in this big city who can make me a loan. Loan is not a euphemism. I mean a sum that I shall one day pay back.

  “Either we shall see the end of this nightmare of war, and then a person like myself, with a name, an arm, and a head on his shoulders, will easily earn what is refused him today, and will pay the sum back; or else we shall never see the end of this war, and then the money—whether lent or not—will in any case be lost together with life itself.

  “This simple calculation makes me speak with a certain bluntness. I ask you to help me through this hard moment. If you do not have the money or are unable to give it, perhaps you could find someone in the circles close to you.

  “But if not, tear this up and forget it.”

  Derna has fallen.

  Tonight, six months of war in Russia.

  Monday, 22 December

  Brauchitsch5 has been removed. Hitler has taken personal command of German land forces through a proclamation that is also a call to fight on, drafted in an unexpectedly alarmist style. The simple fact of the change in command is a recognition of failure on the Russian front. The proclamation itself heightens the seriousness of the event. All day, everyone you meet speaks of nothing else. Vişoianu, Camil, Rosetti. George Brătianu told Rosetti today that the situation is extremely serious, and that the switch from Br. marks a historic moment.

  Six months of war in Russ
ia. The papers have not published their usual monthly balance sheet. An awkward silence, which cannot be coincidental.

  A sentence in a letter from Mircea Eliade to Rosetti: “This year there have been two extraordinary things for me: the amazing weakness of the Soviet air force, and my reading of Camoens.”

  Tuesday, 23 December

  The eve of Christmas, with its holiday bustle, its haste, abundance, and wealth—all quite remote from me. Lighted shop windows, crowded shops, purchases, white packets, presents. . . I cannot buy anything. Until this morning I did not have a penny, and I kept wondering where I would find two thousand to three thousand lei to give Mama for the housekeeping over these four days of holiday. Around two o’clock an envelope arrived from Zissu with—I think—ten thousand lei. I didn’t even have the courage to read what he had written to me, or to count the money. I feel ashamed, terribly ashamed; I wish I could return the money to him tomorrow. I have never felt so bad toward anyone as I do toward this man who is so wealthy and so sordid. The 23rd of December—the due date for the rent. I met the landlady in the courtyard, but I didn’t say anything to her. Maybe she will wait—but I am in any case in her hands, and she could kick me out whenever she wanted.

  For the whole of today, as of yesterday, we kept discussing the Brauchitsch affair with very great interest. In a childlike way we glimpse great changes in various situations. It was the same at the time of the Hess business. And it will pass over in the same way.

  I am old, sad, dried up, apathetic, lost. In a sense, the war is a drug.

  Thursday, 25 December

  The first day of Christmas, spent stupidly en famille (Zaharia, Debora, Marcu and his wife, Aunt Lucia, and others), playing belote and eating. Not a moment of solitude, not a moment of rest.

  An implausibly beautiful, springlike day, with a pure sunny sky and a light wind more like a breeze. Oh to be somewhere in the mountains, with a young woman you love!

  Ideas of things I might write. The play (“Freedom”), about which I thought again today after it had been out of my mind for several weeks. The novel. An essay on music. But I won’t write anything—and so I’ll lose beyond retrieval things that I could say only through long and careful work. I cannot count on moments of inspiration or prolificness. My writing never “bursts forth.” Eight hours of work a day might lead me to surprise even myself. But without discipline, without continuity of work, without material freedom, without a lot of application—je ne vaux rien.6

  I regret not having copied Zissu's letter before I tore it up. It was disgusting and attracted pity. And in the envelope were 8,500 lei, not 10,000. I'll be really glad if I can give it back to him by the 10th of January.

  Without a paper or a radio, no news about the course of the war. I thought a lot about how it might work out, and my conclusions were not too rosy. I am too tired to formulate them now. Maybe tomorrow.

  Saturday, 27 December

  Hong Kong has fallen. Benghazi has fallen. In Russia the front remains unchanged. The Germans are fighting defensively. The Russians attack and, here and there, move slowly forward.

  Froda, back from six months in a camp at Tîrgu Jiu, says a number of things: some tragic, others grotesque, others downright comical. He looks quite pale, and says that now that he is out of there he will start another life. He realizes that so far his life has been artificial, ungenuine, false, and inadequate. I know about such decisions to begin everything again from scratch. After a couple of weeks, the routine sets in again as one forgets and abandons the effort.

  Sunday, 28 December

  Lunch at Alice’s, as on every Sunday, with Aristide and Branişte. The same information, the same interpretations, the same predicted dates, the same discussions—à n’en plus finir.7 The war will end in the autumn of 1942. But it’s not out of the question that it will end sooner—next March, for example. But if you stop and think about it, it may go on until 1943, and even 1944 is a possibility. The Germans no longer have enough oil. The Germans no longer have food. Italy cannot hold out any longer. There are partisan attacks in Serbia. It’s a hard winter in Russia. The same things over and over again, which we say dozens of times almost mechanically, and which never change anything. It is exactly as in an asylum, with lunatics both docile and manic, full of tics and idées fixes.

  Tuesday, 30 December

  I dreamed of Paris again last night. A long dream, in which the joy at being in Paris was strangely mixed with anxiety that it was under German occupation. All the time I felt threatened, pursued.

  Roger from Hachette has asked me to translate a few children’s books for his publishing house.

  “C’est pour vous rendre service, car autrement, vous savez, des traducteurs fen ai des tas et des tas.”8

  He offers me 8o bani9 per line—which, he says, works out at roughly 25 lei a page, or 2,500 lei a hundred pages.

  “Ce sont des livres pour enfants, car les livres sérieux je les donne aux traducteurs plus connus. J'ai par exemple un Pierre Bénoit que traduit M. Iacobescu. ”

  “Qui est-ce Monsieur lacobescu?''

  “Comment qui est-ce? C'est un écrivain. Il est très connu. Il a beaucoup traduit."1

  I shrug my shoulders. Roger probably thinks I am envious of Iacobescu’s reputation (who could he be?) and am pretending not to know him. But he continues quite deliberately:

  “C'est du travail à faire, je vous assure. Évidemment pas trop bien payé, mais si vous travaillez quelques heures par jour, vous pouvez finir un livre en deux semaines. Je vais vous donner un livre pour commencer et vous allez nous présenter un échantillon de quelques pages, que nous soumettrons à M. Ciorănescu. Vous savez, moi je m'y connais pas, mais M. Ciorănescu est notre critique et s'il est d'avis que ça marche, alors l'affaire est faite.”2

  I heard him through and kept nodding, without indignation, without irony, without even despondency. But I’d like to box his ears one day.

  Mama has given me a tie for the New Year. I feel moved, but I can’t disguise a certain annoyance. That’s seven hundred lei we will be short tomorrow. In town there are sounds of happy people hurrying around, full of plans for their New Year’s Eve party. We have two thousand lei in the house, out of the last ten thousand I managed to borrow. And then?

  I have read The Vatican Cellars, after fourteen or fifteen years. My bad memory is almost abnormal. All I remembered from the whole book was that a character throws a stranger from a moving train. That was all. The rest had completely vanished. I had not even held in my memory the striking fact that Lafcadio was born in Bucharest and was a Romanian citizen. The book is interesting in many ways. I very well understand that sotie3 is not an invented term but corresponds to something real. I can also see readily identifiable traces of Dostoevsky, especially of The Devils. All in all, the farce is still alive, even virulent, thirty years after the novel first appeared.

  [Wednesday], 31 December 1941

  The Russians have landed in eastern Crimea, recapturing Kerch and Feodosiya.

  The last day of the year. I don’t want to, or need to, look back and take stock. I carry inside myself the 364 terrible days of the dreadful year we are closing tonight. But we are alive. We can still wait for something. There is still time; we still have some time left.

  Footnotes

  1. Immediately after the Iron Guard took power together with General Antonescu on 6 September 1940, Jews were excluded from employment by all government agencies.

  2. The Iron Guard legislation excluded Jews from military service but organized army-supervised forced labor for them.

  3. In English in the original.

  4. “This country that nothing threatens and that lives in the obsession of war.”

  5. Artist, friend of Sebastian’s.

  6. General Constantin Petrovicescu: was the pro-Iron Guard minister of the interior in the first government of Ion Antonescu (September 1940-Januaiy 1941). When the Iron Guard rebelled against Antonescu, Petrovicescu was dismissed.

 
7. Colonel Alexandru Riosanu: head of Siguranta (the state security police), sided with Antonescu in the conflict with the Iron Guard. Later he was governor of Bukovina.

  8. This lesson will mark the end of this work/May it be useful for the centuries to come.

  9. Mihail A. Antonescu: minister of justice in the first Antonescu government, soon to become deputy prime minister and minister of foreign affairs.

  1. Alircea Cancicov: economics minister in the first Antonescu government.

  2. Nicolae Mares: minister of agriculture.

  3. Victor Dimitriuc: deputy economics minister in charge of oil and mining.

  4. Jewish neighborhoods in Bucharest, heavily damaged during the Iron Guard rebellion that turned into a pogrom.

  5. The Iron Guards killed 121 Jews during their rebellion against General Antonescu.

  6. As if nothing had happened.

  7. Radu Demetrescu Gyr: poet and fanatical follower of the Iron Guard.

  8. Nichifor Crainic: extreme right-wing journalist, author of a xenophobic and racist National Christian fundamentalist theory.

  9. Ion Biberi: writer.

  1. Vladimir Streinu: literary critic.

  2. Leopold (Poldy) Stern: lawyer and writer, friend of Sebastian's.

  3. Haig Acterian was sentenced to prison for his participation in the Iron Guard rebellion. Like many other Iron Guards in the same situation, he was freed on the condition that he would volunteer for duty on the eastern front.