Renia's Diary

by Renia Spiegel

  JULY 2, 1940, WAR

  A drop slowly follows another

  They’ll soon form a stream together

  JULY 6, 1940

  What a terrible night! Horrible! Dreadful. I lay there with my eyes wide open, my heart pounding, shivering like I had a fever; I was all ears. I could hear the clanking of wheels again. Oh, Lord God, please help us! A truck rolled by. I could hear a car horn beeping. Was it coming here? For us? Or for someone else? I listened, straining so hard it felt like everything in me was about to burst. I heard a jangling of keys, a gate being opened opposite. They went in. I waited some more. This was terrible. Then they came out, taking loads of people with them, children, old people. One lady was shaking so much she couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit down. The arrests were led by some fat hag who kept yelling in Russian, “Sadis’, seychas sadis.”* She loaded children onto the wagon. This night roundup was horrible. I couldn’t wait for the dawn to come. And finally! Now! But it wasn’t the end yet. Only now, in the light of day, I could see the despair, the violence, the lawlessness. Some people were crying, most of the children were asking for bread. They were told the journey would take four weeks. Poor children, parents, old people. Their eyes were filled with insane fear, despair, resignation. They took whatever they were able to carry on their slender backs to the place they would not reach. Poor “refugees” from the other side of the San. They are being taken to Birobidzhan.† They will travel in closed, dark carriages, 50 people in each. They will travel in airless, dirty, infested conditions. They might even be hungry. They will travel for many long weeks, with children among them dying out, they will travel through this happy, free country, the only one resounding with the song:

  Wide is my Motherland,

  Of her many forests, fields, and rivers!

  I know of no other such country

  Where a man can breathe so freely.‡

  And how many will reach their destination? How many will die on their way from illness, infestation, longing? When they finally reach the end of their deportees’ route somewhere far into Asia, they will be stuck in rotting mud huts, hungry, exhausted (like those who have already left) and in this slow dying ironically called life they’ll admire the happy workers’ paradise, listening to the song:

  A man stands as the master

  Over his vast motherland.

  AUGUST 8, 1940

  Oh! How much water has passed in the San (I say that, even though I can’t see the San) since our last conversation? I was down with a stomach bug, a headache and other horrors.

  Our trip to Ticiu has been put off day after day. Now we don’t have much summer vacation left, but we’re still going. I’ll see Lila. But! But! Do you know Lila? No? Pity! Shame! She is my wonderful, golden-haired cousin and friend. Supposedly my real friend is Nora, but it is completely different. I share everything with Lila, while with Nora … well … not so much. I’m not ashamed of anything in front of Lila, I don’t feel embarrassed of anything. My wonderful little cousin, the companion of my childhood, the creator of the scar on my right cheek next to my nose (but only a small one). We always have something to talk about. We find out “nice things” together, we pull pranks. Lila, oh, Lila! Do you remember? And there, ha ha ha …

  I get messages from Mama often. Things look good there now, much better. I’m glad. I might see Mama soon. Aha! But I’m the only one who can know this. If it comes true, I will tell you. Because in fact it’s stupid: a border. What is it? People just said so, put stones along, rammed posts in and said, “It’s mine up to here!” And what does it matter that they have torn lands apart, that they have divided brothers, sent children’s hearts far away from their mothers? “This is mine” or “The border is here”—I don’t care about it at all! The clouds, the birds and the sun laugh at all these borders, at human beings, at their guns. They go back and forth, smuggling rain, blades of grass, rays of sunshine. And no one even thinks of banning them. If they even tried, the sun would burst out with bright laughter and they’d have to close their eyes. It’d cock a snook with its rays and cross “the border.” The clouds, birds, and wind would follow. So would (quietly) one small human soul, and plenty of my thoughts. So I might go, what do you think?

  AUGUST 21, 1940

  And? Of course I went, I visited my auntie at Horodenka and then traveled all the way here, to Zabłotów.* So, so much has happened, that I find it difficult to relay. So let me start from the beginning. Auntie Lusia was supposed to take me there and that was the plan until the most important evening. On that most important evening, she was supposed to take me there, she was supposed to, and then suddenly no! Granny decided to take us there. Granny, poor Granny, suffered so terribly on the way, burned her face and then went back. It’s a pity she went back; at least we wouldn’t be so alone. So alone at our own father’s place.

  But from the beginning! We spent three days in Horodenka. Lila was so happy to see us! Sweet kitten, she’s so poor. Just think, she visits some strangers and sees her own furniture … The same she was used to touching for so many years, which became part of her and the house. She returns to her tiny room full of remnants, she sees … those warm, nice, cozy rooms, the mirror over the washbasin, the head of a girl deep in thought on the most important shelf of the old sideboard, a lump of salt (for rain and good weather) and shiny, decorative cushions (which today decorate some strangers’ rooms). She sees it all and thinks, “Oh, God, never again.” Yes, that’s what Lila feels, but she won’t talk about it with anybody but me.

  Ticiu came to pick us up from Horodenka. We had to ride for four hours in a horse-drawn cart. I’ve missed him so much. You can’t call it anything else but longing. I’ve been pining for somebody close, oh, yes! I’m engulfed by this strange tenderness upon seeing Ticiu, both now and all the time. Generally I’m torn between two feelings. I came here and straightaway another feeling took over—some weird attitude of mine and Ticiu’s to the house, and housekeeper’s toward Ticiu. And it so happened that in the evening Lila thought the same thing and we started talking about how something was wrong. Attention! If two people notice the same thing, then surely it’s not just a delusion or a mishearing. Oh no! The housekeeper tries hard to be polite, but to no avail. She knows exactly how old Bulczyk* is, she treats Tusio as if she were some feudal queen talking to her poorest vassal.

  Ticio bought some fabric, but can’t find it now; on top of this there is this “intrament” plus our laughter and her folly—it all meant we decided to run away. Yes, that’s the only way to describe it. We have money, we’re buying tickets and going back to auntie’s. But even so, I still feel sorry for Ticiu, my poor Ticiu, but also … what? To … But I’m 16 already, ha ha ha! No, it’s funny! So in such circumstances this dreamed-of family home, this red velvet tablecloth and the dresser with little curtains with the pattern of dolls and all of this—God, never again. Yes, but I won’t tell anybody about it. Only you … and Lila … and Mom. Oh, Mom! Mom! Mom! Come to the rescue!

  AUGUST 22, 1940

  I spent half the night crying. I’ve decided to go. I feel so sorry for Ticiu, even though he keeps whistling cheerfully, but … what? Children flee from him as if … I would feel terrible. I told him, almost crying, “I know, Ticiu, that you had the best dreams, but this is not your home.” This came to me in the night:

  Will you, fantasies, all fade

  Just like the very first dreams?

  Will you flow with such small tears

  Leaving behind just weepy streams?

  Will my sun, so bright in my dreams

  And my life so full of colors

  Plunge and drown in dark themes

  And if so? Stop crying, alas,

  Stem the tear-filled stream’s flow

  Even if dreams disappear

  Death will always be your beau!

  Wind, stop crumpling my petals

  I’m an orphan, can you see?

  Don’t jerk me, don’t bend down

  I’ve enough sufferi
ng, let me be

  I’m not from these parts, you know

  But my heart is oh so strong

  Delicate, silver petals

  Not a little flower, I’m made as if of metal

  Not like the wildflowers that grow here

  Happy and playful and full of cheer

  Among the silver fields of many sisters

  Fate hurls me strangely, gives me jitters

  Standing on my own is no fun

  An orphan and not an orphan.

  SEPTEMBER 10, 1940

  Oh! So much water has passed in the Prut River in Zabłotów. And I just sit here in peace and go to school. Beautiful Miruś Moch is our math teacher and I shiver in front of him as if I were some kind of a scarecrow. We have a whole new set of teachers. We also have a new schoolmate, Luśka Fischler. She joined our threesome, known in the class as “the aristocratic three.” They call her the fourth one for the bridge. There is one boy I like and Nora likes one too. We want to go to a party, in part because we want to get closer to that world—and we already made a step in this direction—and in part because Irka doesn’t want us to come. There is very little time. We shall see …

  SEPTEMBER 21, 1940

  We didn’t go to the party because there was no party. But! But! We made a big, huge step forward. Our class is calm. But! What do I care about the class when we are about to create a real gang with the boys! Mine is so wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful! Mine, the most mine is Zygo S. Together we are ZSR.* I’ve met him already today! Nora admitted she liked him a lot, but she knew he was my type, she let go. Nora has cute, sweet Natek and Irka has Maciek. And? And I don’t know how it’s going to go and I don’t really have much confidence in myself.

  SEPTEMBER 30, 1940

  It seems that our gang will not come about after all. I was terribly apathetic, but now my energy’s coming back somehow, though slowly. It’s all very strange. I know him, but he doesn’t even say hello. Irka doesn’t want to either. Nora doesn’t want anything to do with Irka. There is something wrong with Nora too …

  On Monday he smiled at her, so now she doesn’t want anybody else. Or something, I don’t know. Sometimes I feel terrible. Neither of us have it, I had more, but now it seems it’s Nora. She tells me to leave him, because he’s a lout … A lout, ha ha ha. And Natek’s a gambler. Eh, life’s nasty! Can it get better? Mom is not here. If only she were here, I wouldn’t have so many worries.

  OCTOBER 6, 1940

  And another step forward. Again nothing. Before the mountaintop the heart aches, it’s a time for waiting.

  OCTOBER 12, 19408

  Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Yesterday everybody left the house; I was on my own with burning candles on the table in a huge, brass candlestick. Ah, a single moment of solitude. All memories came back and then I was able to think about all the things that get forgotten in the daily whirlwind, in the rumble, grating, splashing of the passing life.

  Once again, I asked myself the same question I asked last year: Mama, when will I see you again? When will I hug you and tell you about what happened and tell you, Buluś, how terrible I’m feeling?! And you will tell me, “Don’t worry, Renuśka!” Only you can say my name in such a warm, tender way.

  Mom, I’m losing hope. How long, how long? I stared into those burning candles—Mama, what are you doing there? Are you thinking about us, too, about our torn hearts?

  Who is stifled, killed, destroyed by you

  forever remains free

  but why do you hurt the living ones

  you furious devil, you’re so angry?

  You bathe in the ocean of red blood

  livid with vendetta, seething with flames

  you’ll set the whole world on fire

  and in its glow list dead people’s names

  On battlefields and graveyards

  your bloodthirsty eyes shimmer with greed

  you creak, “more,” and a plague erupts

  famine, misfortune suddenly freed

  A new heap thrown at the feet

  all fall with the same lethal wound

  those who’re alive have broken hearts

  and the heap grows, in the sky its crown

  Ah, you’ve had enough of revenge

  a mocking laughter sounds about

  you howl, you infuriated beast,

  “More, I want blood to fill my snout.”

  We see the boys out in town, we’re close, we see Maciek almost every day. Only Zygo* and Natek are so distant. Zygo walked back from school with us today. He looked right at me. He has very powerful eyes and I went red in the face and didn’t say anything. Oh, to hell with such nature! He flirts with Iśka, or perhaps I’m just imagining it. Anyway, should he flirt with me? I don’t say anything. We’re planning to go to a party soon—will I have fun? Nora more likely than me, since someone is in love with her. I don’t believe in anything. Unless Bulczyk comes?

  OCTOBER 19, 1940

  We sat opposite each other at the Russian club this week. He stared at me, I stared at him. As soon as I turned my eyes away from him, I could feel his eyes on me. Then, when he said two words to me, I felt crazy, filled with hope. I felt as if a dream was coming true, as if the goblet was right by my lips.

  But the goblet’s still far away. A lot can happen before lips touch lips. So many things can happen to stop them from touching. This is the closest I’ve ever experienced to real love, because my victim is actually looking at me and saying two words, but then he is embracing Iśka. (By the way, Holender’s getting married!! Well! Well! I’m not interested in him anymore. I haven’t been for a while.)

  Today at the history club Nora’s Natek was talking to her all the time, he was laughing and he was very polite. Oh! She’s in a much better position! I envy Norka! I mean, I want Zygo to be like that too. God permitting! God permitting! Mama! I came up with such an algorithm:

  Whether you love or you don’t

  There’ll always be much crying

  Your bitter tears won’t be drying

  Whether you love or you don’t

  You will send your gaze around

  At times filled with longing, at times dumbfound

  Whether you love or you don’t

  There’ll always be much crying.

  I’ve written various nice things in Norka’s diary today. They announced a competition at school today, entitled “School-free day.” My dear Diary, I want to win it so much. Please help me. I’ll try different approaches.

  APPEARS

  Like so many before, an ordinary day

  Starts a bit gloomy and a bit gray

  Then morning dawn shimmers and winks

  The day becomes blue and orange and pink

  And follows a different direction from then on

  Along rumbling pavements through various town’s sections

  Not rushing to school to be there on time

  Not getting there just when the bell chimes

  This is not an ordinary day that looms

  Full of silly pranks in the classroom

  One that threatens with bad grades

  One that roars with alarm sirens

  One that rumbles with nonstop work

  Full of rushing, blurry bottom to top

  Counting minutes and hours in all detail

  In factories—speedy, in schools—slow like a snail

  One that is cheerful and in its glad rags

  On the sunny warm day outside itself it drags

  One that laughs easily at ace film comedies

  That brings books, stamp collections and other commodities

  One that brightens up the lives of its fans

  For whom pupils like to stop a clock’s hands

  One that passes so quickly and is still succeeded