Diary 1916-1919

Berlin, Saturday, April 8, 1916

I insisted that F[1] . give me a diary. Superstition – to be lucky. Today after dinner, Mrs. Cornel was there – that might be lucky for me too.

I told F. that I would hold him responsible if I didn’t do well this year. We’ll see. I would so want to be endlessly happy. And I deserve it. And then on that Saturday there was a little row because of that ……

Notes:

[1] Assuming that “F.” means Fuchs.

Monday, April 24, 1916

My attitude towards F. in recent days has been somewhat less strange. On Friday he had ………. and I went to see him. He was very nice, although there was no warmth in him. On Saturday evening we were together at Kempiński's[1] for dinner, we were as nice together as we had been for a long time. And it seems to me that in general, in my entire attitude towards him, a colossal role is played by my character, or rather my attitude towards people. I have no inner grace in me. I am as simple as a stick. This inner stickiness does not provide enough content for such a constant attitude with F. as mine, and a certain dryness emerges from it. So that he really becomes susceptible to the grace of others, even that of the bratty Jerudnikowa. This is a general lack of mine, which must be remedied by a certain willpower, because I have become convinced that it is always only with such grace that I gain people's sympathy. Only that in my case it depends on good humor, and good humor on so many other things! But I guess you also have to work out this in life with willpower!

Notes:

[1] A restaurant in Berlin.

Monday, May 8,  1916

I don't know why apathy has taken over me so completely. Apathy towards F. I'm simply afraid to be with him, because I have nothing to say to him and, strangest of all, I don't try to interest him or myself in any topic. I don't know what will happen next. It seems that it has never happened to such a degree. Something has cooled between us. It's characteristic that we haven't kissed since Makary's birthday. I simply don't know what will happen if this war continues through this winter - the same thing again - trumpet trumpet, no impressions? With this daily meeting in the café. Simply torture. I often convince myself that this whole attitude towards Kazini has a lot to do with it. Apparently, the fault lies with me. I don't have such a clear goal before me as Ada, and above all, I don't know how to gather company around me. That was a mistake with Kazi, because it's still taking its toll. Poor me. Madzia sent her photo with J[1]. I feel as if all the things in her life were successful, which ended in fiasco for me. She got the gold medal that I wanted so much as a child, she left for college without any breaks, she will finally marry early to the chosen and beloved. And me?

Notes:

[1] Rapnael Jonas, whom Madzia met in Geneva and married later in 1916.

Sunday, May 28, 1916

Yesterday there was a Huberman[1] concert – F. sat down next to Sokolow with real pleasure when I showed him the seat there. In the café he sat far away from me. It was the first time since we met that he had sat far away from me in a café. Later, he did sit down and made excuses, but that only got him into even more trouble. Because his place was with me yesterday.

The tragedy of “Kaziow” has begun in general. He doesn’t think about me at all anymore. I feel it in various subconscious, perhaps instinctive actions. I talk about him, tell him stories, I even tell something unflattering (as I did about Julek). When I am interested in a person, when I care about them, I don’t say anything about them. But what is most important and most horrible is that I don’t dare to address him with any warmer, more tender gesture. As if I felt that it was false in me, or more importantly, that it would not resonate with him.

The question remains what to do? I racked my brains over this with Kaz, and I rack my brains now. I've been with this man every day for two years and I don't even know what works for him, what to take from him. And I'm a psychologist?

Now we're in a situation like two tightrope walkers on one rope. The slightest awkward movement by one or the other brings disaster. I can't balance at all. I only have a little feeling for him and the desire for it not to waste away so miserably.

Is it kindness or anger?

Notes:

[1] Bronisław Huberman, a noted Polish Jewish violinist.

Monday, May 29, 1916

Yesterday I was at F.'s after dinner. Actually, I talked myself into it. However, I had a vague feeling that Yermokukhova would come and call. In fact, someone called while it was going on. F. answered briefly, without mentioning his name (he had already answered this way once, when we were with the Marchlewskis[1]). Almost thoughtlessly, I asked who had called. He answered that it was Jerm. That she had asked how to send letters in Russian to Russia - she and her brother wanted to send letters to Russia. I told him that they were sent to the Red Cross, but he said that it was a pity that I sent her away like that, but tomorrow she would be at Steglit...

Of all this, the only truth was the pity... that he sent her away like that. It was doubtful that she would ask about the letters (now, after 2 years of war, she wants to write to Russia - it's a pity that I wasn't surprised yesterday), besides, he answered - jawohl, nein, jawohl. I was convinced that they would meet at Steglit… I was stupid not to go to the café to take a book instead of at 8:30. He came at 9:15. He came with a mild disposition, looking into my eyes – for peace of mind and knowing the futility of my grimaces at present – ​​I put on a good face he maurais feis. He was affectionate and nice – in Weinstuhe he touched my knees, leaned towards my cheek while eating, brought me Kriegserinnerung etc. When leaving he kissed me several times and said: “mein…. das kindchen einige Tage ohne kusschen sein”[2] – I smiled bitterly in my mind, because I thought to myself: I have been without this for months – he walked me to the tram – and that was it. And I walk around with the indescribable impression that he went from Jermol. to this vilegiatura… Of course, I can check it perfectly well tomorrow in any way I can and I will also make the necessary effort, but if he really did it! It's generally pleasant to deal with a person you don't trust and suspect of dishonesty at every turn. I'm not even sure if she's not staying with him in the evening. And I don't trust him, because I know how skillfully he was able to deceive his people when it came to me.

Notes:

[1] Julian Marchlewski was part of the Spartacus League, but it seems he was imprisoned in Berlin at this time, so maybe his family?

[2] “my... the child will be without a kiss for a few days”

in the morning at 8:30 [May 30, 1916]

It's also interesting that yesterday he told me so casually that he would leave…. not even leave me…. ……. ……. and when I asked him in passing he answered vaguely at 9, another time he mentioned that he wasn't leaving until ten.

Poor me – I didn't sleep half the night because of this again.

Wednesday, June 8, 1916

God, how my heart physically hurts today. As if I had contracted some kind of heart disease. And it's all because of F. Yesterday, his terror when I said that he had addressed the card incorrectly. Today, his explanations over the phone. I have the impression that ... she must have traveled with him. Yesterday, when I told him that the men here are to blame, that Polish women are leaving the city without permission, he didn't say anything to that. I don't know if he meant just me or someone else.

On the night[1] of July 3, 1916

Maybe I'm wrong to suspect F. of this Jerm. - I don't know. Yesterday I was sure I'd find her there, I came unexpectedly, but I didn't. I was there last week and this week on Sunday. Will that change his intentions? I don't know. In any case, I dream of Chinkowski. And I'd really like to go to Switzerland for those two weeks. What if?

Dawid was here. He didn't even call, even though he was there for half a day. Later I went to F. and stupidly came back very late. In the meantime, he was emablaging[2] with my mother, because he called at 10:30 p.m. I have a great grudge against him for that reason.

When I think about Faj. about Hor., about War., who thought so warmly about me, and yet they even consider themselves happy, I can't get over how deceitful it is. Another love would lift them up... and the intensity and quality of happiness, they would be the kings of life, when they are beggars, living only on the waste that falls to them. For me now the most important issue is not to become a similar beggar. And this is coming, even with F.

Notes:

[1] Not sure what this means other than a sense that this was not her usual time to write in the diary.

[2] The Polish word is “emablować” which appears to mean something like surrounding a woman with special consideration.

July 14, 1916

I've been unwell for the past two days. I've been thinking a lot about my fate. I'm simply furious with myself about that whole business with Kazio. I behaved terribly towards him. So much, so much boundless stupidity!

I keep thinking only about my age, about my unsettled fate, and about all of us being so completely at the mercy of fate. I simply don't know what will become of all this. Black despair overwhelms me at the thought of how old I am! Have mercy on me, God! This whole F. situation is so terribly uncertain!

My worst and last mistake was not being in Warsaw during this past winter.

Sunday, July 31, 1916

My longing for solitude is so great that I would give anything for it right now. I feel… such intense hatred for F., just like I once felt for H., and for the same reasons. I often wonder if F. isn't a hundred times more despicable than H. I don't think I could ever be truly happy with him.

Julek is getting a job at Samuel's.[1]  Exactly 10 years after the Hohensalz affair. I'm back at the same point as I was with H., only the person has changed. I wonder what this analogous situation will bring after another 10 years. Maybe Madzia's wedding?

My life is so wasted…

Notes:

[1] Don’t know if this is the same Samuel mentioned with some tobacco sales in 1915 for her brother. Perhaps also Samuel Faust, per Aunt Fela correspondence.

Saturday, August 12,  1916

Madzia wrote that she got engaged to Jonas. Mom was very moved. I, on the other hand, was reminiscing about the situation exactly 10 years ago: Julek is now doing business with Samuel, just like Dad did with him back then – and just as I was supposed to get engaged to Kazik back then, now Madzia is. Only back then those things didn't work out, but these will. I wish that Fela, Rózia, and Julek would finally follow in Madzia's footsteps. I would probably be the last one, as long as they are all happy.

August 16, 1916

For the past 2-3 days, F. has been cold as ice again. He shows no interest in me, doesn't even look at me. Nothing. My mother is ill – he hasn't asked if we have money, he hasn't shown any sympathy – nothing. This man is wearing me down. He's harsh – unkind.

Wednesday, August [September[1] ] 6, 1916

I am simply dying of despair at the thought that I missed out on Kazio three years ago. He was mentioned in the newspaper the other day, that he belongs to some census committee. All the Warsaw celebrities and him. I missed out on him and Skibniewski… – in one fell swoop, a husband (happiness), a job, and fame, and I sit here, sit with my illnesses, worries, etc. I'm applying for a job for 150 marks a month. Brrr… I don't have enough words to express my indignation at myself.

F. doesn't write, I don't know what's wrong with him – I feel infinitely, infinitely bad when I remember all this.

Notes:

[1] She never changed her writing to September, but the 6th was Wendesday.

October 1,  1916

Yesterday, on the anniversary of painful memories, I read Kazik's letters – those incredibly tender ones at the beginning and those hastily written, just to get it over with, at the end. And I was overwhelmed by such boundless sorrow, not despair, but a kind of sorrow that gnaws and gnaws away at everything: my brain, my soul, my heart, my will to live. I also reread my diary from that time and realized how much I wanted to leave Łódź – that year Kierz... came to Warsaw, and that was when it was all over. And now I also want to leave Berlin. My relationship with F. has reached a standstill. We can go on like this for another whole year without any progress. He once mentioned that he likes it this way: working all day and then going to the city and chatting a little (plaudern). That's his ideal life. Today he called. I told him angrily that I had read the old letters today, that I wouldn't be going to the Simons', and then (oh, human nature!) he said he would come to the city. I told him I didn't want him to be bored.

Sunday, November 5, 1916

So, we have an independent kingdom.[1]  I've lived through three phases: at first I was a hostile foreigner, then an occupied German, and now an ally... That's how everything comes full circle...

I spoke with Feldman yesterday... He told me about the reception at the chancellor's, about conditional recruitment, etc. How will all this end, and most importantly, when!

Notes:

[1] Kingdom of Poland was a short-lived puppet state of the German Empire that was proclaimed during World War I by it and Austria-Hungary on 5 November 1916 on the territories of formerly Russian-ruled Congress Poland held by the Central Powers as the Government General of Warsaw.

Tuesday, November 14, 1916

Today I received a Nymphenburg[RS1]  porcelain dog from F. On the back was the date November 10th, so he did remember. He said he couldn't get the dog earlier, that's why he didn't say anything – and because of that I had such... worries!

Notes:

[1] Handmade porcelain manufacturer.

November 23, 1916

Something very unpleasant has happened, and I don't know how it will turn out. I have a lump in my breast that needs to be surgically removed. Whether it's benign or malignant will be determined after the operation. In the meantime, I am suffering torments that only a woman can experience.

If it is indeed something serious, then the matter with Fuchs is settled. He can leave me as if nothing ever happened; I won't even be able to say a word to him now, he'll be perfectly fine! No one marries such a sick woman.

So, if I am ill, then this is the end of my life. What else can happen to me then? Vegetation. No hope for any joy in life – and this helplessness and these regrets that I haven't managed to accomplish anything in life – not even being able to make the man who loved me, and how much he loved me, my husband! Now he will be afraid that there might be something wrong with me; now I am lost!

I don't know what will become of me, what I will do with myself, but what a storm is raging inside me! The day before yesterday I didn't sleep a wink all night. To top it all off, I keep thinking I have some other illness. Before... I thought I had a brain tumor, I went to Professor Budmuer at Klemperer's – they laughed at me – but now that fear of infection and the torments I went through have returned. I'm piling all sorts of illnesses on myself because something has indeed happened to me. Sometimes I think that subconsciously I must have already had an idea about this illness and I was constantly afraid of some other one, of course not hitting on the right one, but using the slightest nervous pain as a symptom. Now my lower back hurts, and I'm worried that I might have something wrong there (Goldangug gave me this idea – she has a tumor in her lower back, but apparently she's had it for a long time) – and I'm suffering and enduring inhuman torment.

Sometimes I find solace in the memory of Zosia Kinman, who had so many surgeries, but alas, one cannot find happiness in another's misfortune. I don't know what will happen if it really is... No, I simply can't believe it – I'm despairing, but I can't believe it. What a terrible night I went through the day before yesterday – it seems I atoned for all my sins.

Sunday, December 3, 1916

I am still suffering terribly, although the gland seems to have disappeared and it seems surgery won't be necessary. Everything goes numb at the mere thought of it... how much I have suffered. I have been ill since November 25th: a severe case of influenza. The situation with my breast is still undecided, but I'm afraid to even think that it might be alright, so as not to have even worse illusions. God, what terrible thoughts are going through my mind. How differently one sees the whole world when it's through the prism of one's own illness. I can't even think about it calmly. All values ​​have somehow shifted...

And I am so desperate about Rózia... What that poor thing must be suffering there... the same torments, the same suffering. God, how it gnaws at me... gnaws... I will write to her tomorrow to come here immediately. I am tormented by the thought of her being alone there as much as by my own misfortune. I know how much everything hurts and I know how terrible it is to be alone!

All this is based on old-maidish hysteria. A terrible tragedy... But what can be done about it? Now it's too late – to suffer until the end. I have never before seen old age – helplessness and poverty – so close before me. Have mercy on me, God! To suffer so much, and for what? I am a bundle of miserable nerves!

I simply don't know what to cling to... Studies? Work? Everything has become indifferent to me. My husband? I thought today about writing to Staszek Drobner... Let whatever happens, happen, better him than no one...

Sunday, December 10, 1916

Yesterday, I was back in town with F. for the first time in a long time. We were at Kleingold's for dinner. I told him about Ginsberg, that he was engaged, etc. He sort of replied parenthetically, "Ich bin nicht für heiraten" [“I am not in favor of marriage”] – I pretended not to hear.

Our relationship is on a very slippery slope. I need to think carefully about how to deal with him, but I, as I only discovered yesterday in a game, am capable of anything, except planning the means in advance, etc. An innate and still uncorrected error!

Friday, December 22, 1916

 Last Thursday – December 14 – I went to see Professor Hildebrandt. He said it wasn't serious, but he ordered surgery… He was kind, so I made up my mind right away. I had the surgery on Saturday. Ugh… It lasted only half an hour, but those feelings! Horrible. The pain that first night was intense; I had no idea it was possible to suffer like that, but that wasn't the worst I'd ever experienced. How many people were in various torments in the world at that moment. Today was the removal of the stitches… …and in moments – seriousness, certainty

as if something had already happened, fate – destined for life –

how many contacts I still have.

As I lay for three days in the clinic, I thought a great deal about myself — about that eternal theme of mine — my ineptitude for living. And I realized one more thing: that I have, in fact, almost always lived in a state of turmoil. Whenever I recall any period of my life, it is always marked by some worry, even when there was really no reason for tragedy at all. This bad mood of mine has already done me a lot of harm… Whether at the beginning of my stay in Krakow, or in Paris, or even more so the second time in Krakow, or in Zurich (what exactly I was sad about in Zurich is a mystery to me now), not to mention the trumpet in Łódź and in Warsaw with Kazi and after Kazi… I was at my happiest during the first year of the war, when F. was crazy about me, but for about a year now, I've been constantly in this bad mood again. How much less success I've had because of it, how many unpleasant situations, how many things haven't been handled well – this is evident from these consequences – I'm 33 years old and I've done nothing, accomplished nothing – I'm neither financially nor emotionally secure – in short, a bubble in the water – a leaf on a tree that an evil wind can knock off.

Of course, I'm making a resolution again – to be in a good mood and to work… But what do they mean? And what will they mean? My incompetence is too ingrained, and it's unclear whether I'll be able to overcome everything. So much energy, where will I find it? It would be so good if I could work on myself!

January 2, 1917

1917!

What will it bring? Joy and happiness, or pain and disappointment? For now, I've had a successful operation, and as Hildebrandt said – I'm completely fine. I'm in a tremendously good mood right now – (and also have a great appetite) and I'm starting to seriously believe that mood is directly related to nutrition… Meanwhile, I'm happy that I'm in a good mood.

On New Year's Eve, when F. was walking me home, I asked him what his wishes were: "dass mich das liebe madel lieb haben soll" [“that the dear girl should love me”] - - - And the next day at the Ka...s', he was talking against marriage again.

January 31, 1917

It's terribly bad in the world. It's hungry and cold.[1]  Wherever you go, there are complaints of hunger… In the evenings, soups are being cooked everywhere, the seamstress, the poor woman, can't sew because it's cold at home and there's no coal.

Sometimes I feel so ashamed that I can afford more than someone else, that someone else has a calculated ration of food, while I can, because I have money, buy something else. I'm in an era when I feel human injustice deeply. How many things are opening my eyes![2] 

This war – it's terrible!

I've thought a lot about Fuchs this week, and a deep anger at him has taken hold of me. His whole attitude toward me is abominable. I had the satisfaction in my soul that I hadn't written to him all this time.

Today I telegraphed him. And I feel less anger toward him. It seems to me that when I work, earn money, then I'll hold on to him even tighter. I wish I could be as cold towards him as possible – well, when I never follow through on such resolutions and, unfortunately, he always triumphs over me. I wish it would stop already!

Notes:

[1] See discussion of the “Turnip Winter”, a period of deprivation beginning winter of 1916-17.

[2] Really have no understanding of what money is supporting her, leave alone the rest of the family.

Sunday, March 11, 1917

Gradually, a hatred for people is building up within me, a dull hatred for everything around me – for F. I don't even like seeing him, because I know that seeing him is no longer of any use. Nothing new will happen – our relationship won't advance even a hair's breadth – nothing, nothing in my life will progress.

Such heavy despair seizes me at my incompetence – I picture better times, my greater wisdom… And yet, I'm like a prisoner – I don't even see the possibility of changing my fate for the better. Here in Berlin, I can live the same life for 100 years, and nothing will change.

Where can I escape?.

March 28, 1917

A note that completely unsettled me for the entire afternoon… He'll do absolutely brilliantly. What am I supposed to do now, in the same situation as back then? Yesterday, Simon was with us and kept complimenting me. Today, F. was in front of the library. He was affectionate, wanted to buy me a bottle, bought me flowers, apologized for not walking me to the tram yesterday, and… told me he was leaving for Switzerland with Gelrung…

I'm sort of indifferent, or rather frozen – sometimes I feel like these good relationships are like the pre-breakup of two people who don't want to part badly. And I don't know what to do to finally force him to make some heartfelt confession, after all, he loves me more than he perhaps realizes.

When I sometimes think about how wonderful things were for me back then: Skibniewski (money and academic pursuits) and how beneficial it would have been to our happiness (he wanted to find me a job, after all), I'm overcome with a bottomless, terrifying despair. How much longer will I live in constant despair?

А задве проходяшь, все лучше годы. [“And in just two [years], you let the very best years pass by.”]

[Newspaper clipping from a Polish paper was inserted in diary here:

10th Economic-Social Section. At the seat of the Legal Society, Kredytowa (Erywańska) 3, on 31 March of this year at 8 p.m., a meeting of the Economic-Social Section will be held, at which Dr. Kazimierz Horowicz will present papers:

1.     The organization of state statistics in an independent Poland.

2.     The organization of an insurance office in an independent Poland.]

Friday, April 6, 1917

F. left for Switzerland today. He's a bad man. When he asked what he should bring me, I told him passionately – "temperament."

I long for revenge, I want to go to Warsaw. But the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I should actually go to brush up on various purely scientific and publishing matters – and… who knows? Who knows? Apply for an associate professorship in Warsaw! Maybe, maybe! This plan must be carried out. I'm leaving at the beginning of May!

But will an associate professorship bring happiness? Certainly not. And it won't even offer the possibility of happiness. Because ultimately, it's neither the content nor the form of happiness. I won't be satisfied with the life of a scholarly woman, and this new splendor won't give me a new opportunity to deal skillfully with men. It's a life of incompetence for which there seems to be no remedy. Almost three years of "dating" a man and nothing! For this supreme stupidity, I deserve this miserable fate! And I have no way to deal with this man.

April 29, 1917

Eight cards arrived today from Fuchs – it's clear he remembers me after all. He mentions Radkowa, saying he was told she'd gone off to follow her husband for a few weeks.

But these last few days I've become terribly stubborn – I don't even want to get married – I'm terribly nervous, I have severe headaches, and unless I take bromide, I can't sleep. It has to be over. Better to settle this now than later. And I just don't know how to bring this thing to a successful conclusion – one way or the other, after all, it all has to be over. I honestly can't morally bear it all anymore.

Wednesday, May 23, 1917

On Sunday evening, when I arrived at the Kahns' house (maybe 10 minutes later), Mom called me from the street, and when I reached the window, she said, "David's here." I went downstairs without a second thought. He greeted me with a kiss on the hand, and when Mom asked him how he found me, he said, "Elend..." We walked around for a while—the conversation was frantic, with questions about my family—he only asked if he could have my book from me, because he was interested in it. To which I angrily replied, "As the author, I have to give it to you." He promised to come the next day.

He came on Monday, stayed for tea, and then we went for a walk in the Tiergarten. We talked. Later, he said how sad it was ending because he had to go to Trudy's that evening. I scoffed at his compulsion, this submission to her wishes. So he said he'd be with me that evening. We actually met again at 10:00 and stayed at Lausch's until 12:00. On Tuesday, he came to the library. We had dinner, then at his hotel.

And it was a surprise for him that, in the hotel, where we were alone, I wouldn't even let him get close. And this seems to be the turning point in our entire relationship.

D. forgot that he loved me like no one else, and you could tell by his behavior. We talked about the possibility of me becoming his wife – and I told him with satisfaction about Aunt Hania, how she had praised him to me then. And one thing is characteristically a triumph for me: that at the beginning of our hotel conversation, he thought of me as before – as a pleasure to be enjoyed whenever possible, and then his wish took a different form: that I could spend four weeks with you! Later, he considered the matter of his return to Berlin and said he would definitely do so during the summer. He also asked for permission to write. At the farewell, in Mother’s presence, he was deeply moved; it was clear that it had touched his heart.

And now the question: what will come of this? If Klara weren't there, one could certainly hope for some kind of fulfillment of this relationship, but given her existence, divorce seems out of the question. She won't let him go, and he won't leave her. To think that by agreeing to his "four weeks" I would bind him so strongly to me that I would do it afterward would be quite risky, because "who knows the souls of men in the vast lands," perhaps he would then be fed up with me. So I'm just waiting for a miracle. What will life bring next? I've been dreaming this evening too: he's mine, we live in Berlin. Fuchs is my dear friend, as he always has been. And all three of us are doing wonderfully well.

F. is naturally jealous. He must feel that I'm very well disposed towards D.. So he's sweet to me. When I was thinking about choosing between them, I came to the conclusion that D. would give me a lot for an intimate, loving life, and F. would give me a lot for a career. I vote for the first one.

Friday, May 25 [1917]

For two days after D.'s departure, I was very calm, internally overjoyed. There was a sort of joyful silence within me (I remember it was the same within me in Königsberg). Yesterday I was with F., and the joy was dimmed again. F. is jealous, but he didn't show any jealousy – he's too smart. I was fine with him – but with D., it's far, far better – more intimate, more tender. With F., it wasn't like that for a single moment. His violence and harshness, even in moments of affection, take forms that offend me. Only today, a few days have passed – and everything has shifted so much. It seems to me as if he never left, or was a long time ago, and I can't imagine him coming back, for joy and pleasant days to return.

I'm waiting for a letter. Will he write at all?

Sunday, May [June 10] [1917]

I don't think I've ever been what I am. A strange apathy, or a dead calm. This applies especially to Fuchs. It was David who caused it, and of course, he hasn't given any sign of life, but maybe it's easier for me to live with this feeling now, like this constant struggle.

I keep thinking now about whether I will ever have a child in my life.

Tuesday, Salzubrunn, July 31,  1917

I've been here for over two weeks.[1]  I'm treating my bronchitis, basically resting. The food is excellent considering our current circumstances – because Mom gives me her share of milk – I drink four glasses a day. It's simply fabulous, considering the times. I've rarely lived so peacefully, so far from it, as I do now – last year in Warren, I wasted so much on F., now I barely think about him.

However, as always, the despairing thought lingers within me that I'm wasting my time so much, that I'm not doing anything, creating anything, that I'm not enjoying life. When I see my children, tears flood my heart. And I don't see any way out – it's war – I'm trapped in these living conditions, and F. is like stone. He doesn't think of me as a wife at all – he thinks that by lending us 30,000 marks, he's paying off his obligations to me. He's aging rapidly (and I don't have the slightest feeling for him today; on the contrary, it seems he'll soon be physically repulsive to me). It's strange how I constantly think about Kaziu – I'm convinced that my behavior towards him was beneath criticism and had to lead to such an end. If he were free, I would move heaven and earth to have him mine. But if he were, he would be more decent than F. and like Dawid!

I want to go to Warsaw, then to Switzerland for two weeks. Will anything come of it, will I even advance a step further in my pursuit of a happy future? I don't know. But I'm truly worth other days and nights – why should a woman die within me?

F.'s baseness is so great that I despise myself for continuing this relationship with him. This is the most vile exploitation on his part, this relationship with me. If there's any justice in the world, someone should take me away from under his nose. But what is justice? Things are bad now. It's a shame it ended this way with David!

Notes:

[1] The span town of Bad Salzbrunn, now Szczawno-Zdrój in Poland.

Thursday, Salzubrunn, August 9, 1917

Yesterday I read the news that Fajans had been accepted as an assistant professor in Munich. Of course, I was impressed by this news. Half a sleepless night and all day today. How wonderful it would be if I were his wife and could also complete my habilitation in Munich. With Bükler, of course, who, as Külpe's successor and an acquaintance from Bonn, would allow it. But oh well, there's one single and most important obstacle – his wife. I wish for her, even Kronfrinz, to fall in love with her, as long as she abandons him. I can't imagine him simply abandoning his wife – abandoning her for me, so incapable of such a thing. And Fajans should have experienced some emotional catastrophe for his convenience at the time.

My heart sinks when I remember that it's been seven years since then. What a terrible failure I've been.

We're leaving Salzbrunn now. These four weeks have passed like a dream. I've recovered, ……………. and I really don't want to go back to Berlin. I feel like there's nothing waiting for me there – it's always this automatic work in the library, arguments with Mom after dinner, and eternal, hopeless boredom with Fuchs in the evenings.

Today I was reflecting on that first year of knowing him. I have the impression that what I accepted as conditions from Heaseler back then, when he asked me if he would be a good husband for me, was already silence – a retreat. It was the same reserve as Kazia's saying – tomorrow we'll make a marriage pact, and tomorrow didn't bring it. No, that man didn't even consider committing himself for a moment. Maybe he'd be more inclined to think about marrying me now than he did then. He's gotten a little used to me. I don't know what it's like for him in Sweden now, but he should have missed me dearly. I doubt winter will bring any change.

Sepetember 5,  1917

I've been back in Berlin for three weeks. F. is still in Stockholm and doesn't seem to be coming anytime soon. He has neuralgia in his left arm—Freud would have taken comfort in this neuralgia—it's an obstacle to his arrival, something he's resisting. And it's neuralgia in his left hand, so he can walk freely despite his former sciatica (which is now out of the question) and can use his right hand. The portrait is unfinished by Mrs. Weissberger[1] —she has developed rheumatoid arthritis in her right hand and can't do anything—so she wants to keep it because of this impossibility of finishing the painting.

Strange — I have not seen him for eight weeks now — I do not miss him, nor do I feel any longing for him; I am content that he is not here. I have already drafted my request for a trip to Switzerland[2]  — I feel that I must have some change, and that I must secure it for myself.

I read the newspapers, and a sharp pain grips me, so sharp that I have to glance at the articles, because I simply can't bear it. I understand the people whose hearts are breaking with pain. All newspapers are full of lies, monstrous, vile lies.

Today I read Gorky's newspaper, "Novaja Zhizn."[3]  What is happening in this poor country! How many vain efforts – how many misfortunes – how many tragic paradoxes. Such an immense sadness has overcome me.

Notes:

[1] Don’t see any prior reference to a portrait being painted, nor of whom.

[2] Don’t know to whom she would need to make such a request.

[3] Short-lived Menshevik newspaper “New Life”. Rare comment on Russian developments.

Friday, September 14, 1917

I'm almost certain that F. is cheating on me there in… If he truly loved me, could he really not have written for so long?

I've been with Sam two or three times recently. I was there once when I learned of my uncle's death; at least he spoke honestly to me about Adela, something he had never done before. When I was at my uncle's on Thursday, I could already see very clear signs of his interest in me: Samuel, who gets up to give me his chair, who gives me his coat, walks me home, makes a bet with me about something stupid, I was the winner, well – that says a lot. As for the notarial matter, I'm calm now; as long as S. is here, nothing materially bad will happen to us.

I'm wondering whether to continue this thread of sympathy…

Monday, September 24, 1917

I don't know what's wrong with me. I simply haven't been able to find a place to live since yesterday morning. Apathy – I don't feel like doing anything. I have time, but I don't know how to use it, I don't feel like going to anyone – I don't feel like bothering with anything!

Fuchs wrote that he'll be arriving this week. Maybe he'll be here tomorrow. I worry rather than rejoice over his arrival. I'm becoming completely indifferent to everything. I'm so ashamed of my entire life. Last night, I had this burning desire to leave everything and go to Russia – to throw myself into everything – to do something fruitful, and I had such a great sense of my own nothingness, of my own worthless waste of time! And I live with this feeling now – I really don't know what will get me out of this state, or whether I should decide to go somewhere. In that respect, Fela would be right – to leave – and it would be better to go to Stockholm than to Switzerland.

I haven't seen Sam in ages. Today I had a brief phone call, and he responded curtly and gruffly. I have the impression I'd be happier with him than with that miser Fuchs, simply because F. is almost 10 years younger than him.

This fantasy of mine is strange. It always paints pictures for me, beautiful illusions, images so alluring that I later find it hard to believe that I'm living in such a sad reality. It makes me think I'm in some other, better land.

This depressive state of mine is strange. I suppose it's a subconscious grasp of some unpleasant fact in spe. What is it? Some personal misfortune (betrayal? Illness?), or something else is about to happen in the family (like the anxiety over Uncle Max). I suppose it will clear up soon, but in the meantime, I feel so bad.

(I recalled a poem I once wrote to Horowicz; it has the same ending phrase – it's twelve years ago!)

There's one thing missing for me now, back in Horowicz's time. From the first era – (1 year in Krakow) – I always thought it was enough to want an admirer, and I actually had one, the only man I cared about – I had him, so to speak, "at my feet." Now I don't want anyone at all! And that's the downside that old age brings: a lack of desires…

Thursday, September 27,  1917

Thursday, September 27

Fuchs arrived yesterday. I was at the station with Gasbo. All the little things that struck me at the very beginning (taking the porter's belongings as soon as we saw him and entrusting them to us, giving him a pair of gloves as a gift after a quarter of a year of absence, etc.) made me formally disgusted with him. If this man had touched me with the slightest touch, I would have screamed with disgust. What a strange man he is, and how little people realize his true value as a human being (or perhaps they do, since he doesn't have much sympathy for real people).

October 20, 1917

Fuchs' disease has wreaked havoc on my life – that is, only now do I see how good it is to have at least such a cavalier sorvante.

But it has also revealed something else – how lonely I am, how incapable I am of achieving anything in life. I never see anything through to the end – no intentions, no resolutions – nothing remains of my life – it's falling apart. I have absolutely no idea what will happen next. F. no longer loves me like he used to. Many threads remain that bind us – but the one that held us together stronger than all the others – the love thread – is gone. I'm no longer his first choice in company, he doesn't even need me spiritually anymore. I've lived to see it through.

But I have to find a way out of all this, because this life is a whirlwind… I have excellent living conditions now – I should at least take advantage of them…

Wednesday, October 24, 1917

David was here for a few hours on Sunday. He and Truda were visiting Uncle Moritz; he didn't visit me, who lives just a few steps away.

It hurt me terribly and has forever determined my course of action towards him. There are no excuses for such things, no forgiveness.

Fuchs is still ill. The root of his neuritis is purely psychological: at first, it was a reason for not returning to Poland – now it's the reason for his complete severance of relations with me. If the illness weren't rooted in this, our infrequent weekly visits wouldn't be so utterly meaningless and simply burdensome.

Lately, I've been terribly reproaching myself for my cautious treatment of him. How terribly these past few years have been, and for what? For what? After the war, I'll be tearing my hair out for this behavior, for the waste of time.

I've noticed a certain Widerstand in my thinking. Thought doesn't go beyond certain limits – it hits snags… the inability to think things through has led to all my previous life disasters.

I finally need to shake this off. Set a goal and move forward.

For now, I can't have any other goals except work and earning money. The latter, as always, is failing me – but work should finally be fruitful. Such a tragedy, whatever it is, should finally give me some resources, some fame, and above all, the feeling that I'm moving forward.

It's so hard for me to bring myself to do this.

This indifference is strange to me. F., even last winter, because not a day had passed since spring when we hadn't seen each other. Now I can't imagine what I would say to him if I saw him even twice a week. And I see that he doesn't feel the need to see me either.

I've survived.

If only I could find someone to whom I could attach myself with such a wholehearted devotion! At this age!

November 10, 1917

The third anniversary. I thought I'd forget about it altogether and decided not to mention it. It didn't matter to me anymore. It was just that I was so angry I didn't want to call him. I did call, though, and it sounded like a laugh; what's he laughing at? There are no cabs like there were three years ago. Oh! Since I'm not a schlagfertig [quick-witted], I didn't say anything sensible to him. When I came home for dinner, I found his book Daumier and a Chinese woodcut. He'd managed. This evening we were having dinner at Kempiński's, he sat down and was being nice in his usual way...

Now it occurred to me that I'd done something stupid; I should have pretended I didn't remember the date. But I didn't say anything either, I didn't mention anything. If he's a real man, this will hurt him. The only problem is, he's not a man.*

Today I noticed terrible wrinkles on my face. Hello! Old age and ugliness.

* For context: last year he only gave me that little dog after several days, and on the actual day he said nothing — so, progress. Nota bene, Dawid was apparently here for the second time and did not call on me. Ertedigt [Done]…

Wednesday, December 19,  1917 

The events in Russia have completely ruined my mood. Radkowa is triumphant. F., under the influence of her career, has clearly become indifferent to me, a career I can't manage. I haven't seen him since last Thursday and I don't feel the need to see him. Tears are constantly welling up in my eyes. It seems to me that unless there's some unexpected turn, some crisis, we'll probably see each other once a month until everyone soon goes their separate ways... Horrible... And yet, perhaps it's even better.

Is it possible that people like the Radkowie can maintain themselves this way? That there's so little justice in the world, that courage is truly everything, and a brave person can achieve everything without a shred of nobility? Horrible... I'm completely devastated by this.

And the issue of peace suddenly demands a new life plan from me. What should I do with myself, what should I begin? I stand helpless, not knowing what to do, where to stop in my projects. Now, once again, the bubble is tossing from wave to wave. I tell myself a hundred times that F. is better than no one, and silence lies within me. No wish – no crystallized desire.

I read my novel, begun years ago. And today I have outgrown this topic. I always put off writing it, telling myself: I'll write better later. I never imagined that later there would come a time when I didn't want to write this topic at all. Today, something else amuses and tempts me as a topic. These socialists – this tragedy between an idea and the baseness of life's actions. Gina, like me, dreams of the presidency of the Russian republic for her husband, Marchlewska – of a ministerial seat, and I won't say anything about someone like Radkova. This "socialist" will probably buy herself thousands of rags, steal thousands more for a rainy day, and be sated not only with fame but also with delicacies she won't skimp on – at worst, she'll have "memories" that will last a lifetime.

I imagine people who don't want peace, simply out of convenience. They've adapted to certain places, certain conditions, and they fear change, because peace can undermine the well-being of some individuals just as much as war. But peace like this is torture.

Sunday, December 23,  1917

I am filled with terrible despair that our Polish Society[1] has developed so lamely, that it has become not an institution for Poles but merely some personal affair. That I have done nothing to make this Society, in the broadest sense of the word, an institution that is growing and bringing some benefit with each passing day. That I have accomplished nothing for the prisoners of war, and gained no relief for the workers. I am ashamed of myself and think I am simply unworthy of the trust that some people still place in me.

There is only one strange thing about me — I cannot lose myself in work done for others; something keeps pulling me toward work for myself, toward creative work.

Notes:

[1] Rare mention of her aid work and or prisoners of war.

Saturday, December 29, 1917

I wanted to work tonight—I couldn't. The news about Poland's separation from the Russian state, etc., scared me too much.[1]  I now understand a type of people who were completely incomprehensible to me before—political suicides.

Notes:

[1] As part of the Brest-Litovsk negotiations (treaty not signed until March 3, 1918), on December 27 it was stipulated that  “Poland, Lithuania and Courland, already occupied by the Central Powers, were determined to separate from Russia on the principle of self-determination that the Bolsheviks themselves espoused.”

January 13, 1918

It's Sunday. F. got away with his "Alten," and I'm already home alone. I have a lot of work, but I don't even want to work.

Although I still don't have the feeling in my heart that I'll leave here, thinking about it, I'm convinced that there's no point in staying here. What am I going to do? Continued work at the library for 185 marks, now this unpleasant relationship with Fuchs, with no end in sight and not a pretty one at all, and after the war, just bustling around? Maybe I'll find some good work there—maybe I'll meet someone there...

Strange—when things went south with Kazi, I felt that even if he came back to me, I'd already lost everything for him, and above all, the desire to be close to him. Now I ask myself this question – if F., for example, told me right now that he wanted to marry me, would it please me, would I agree to it for the sake of happiness? And I can't answer this myself. It's a kind of inhibition, the cause of which I can't understand. When I ask this question, I immediately get confused, my thoughts wander, I can't imagine anything. There's simply a void. Does this mean I'd like it, but I know it won't happen to me, so I don't want to ruin my blood with this beautiful image realized, or do I really not want it, but I just don't want to cross out this plan now, I don't know. The fact itself is painful, but I never manage to realize it.

And yet, it's so terribly, terribly hard, and I'm plotting revenge. I gave myself my word that after my trip to Switzerland, I wouldn't write him a broken word.

There is one proverb whose truth I have learned in all its horror: strike while the iron is hot.

Wednesday, January 23, 1918

I met this Hertzberger a few weeks ago during those dinners at Kempiński's. He immediately struck me with his good manners. For about two weeks, we've been seeing each other quite often, and as a man, I really like him. It's strange that I think about him all day long, I'm cheerful, but in the meantime, there are constant reminders: enough of these toys, I should finally think seriously about my future – how much longer will I be young?

I'm having ridiculously stupid moments with him, and I can't imagine him being attracted to me, just like I think I am. I'm amused by the fact that I'm even interested in any man – because of that, in all my time here in Berlin (almost 3 1/2 years), no one has ever once taken an interest in me as a nice or likable man. It's always been people.

And strangely enough – I somehow like him, just like I did Fajans back then, who, by the way, still flashes before my eyes now. I keep remembering my stupidity back then: I simply can't comprehend how foolish I was – after all, this man was head over heels in love with me – and yet, even though I wanted him with all my might, I left, offending my feelings and his – without really considering anything – and most importantly – without even realizing it!

And the worst part is that in a few years I'll probably be tearing my hair out over my current stupidity!

Fuchs somehow completely lost track of everything I could do.

February 1, 1918

A strange thing happened with F. yesterday. It was his birthday. I bought him a paper knife for 40 marks, and he was supposed to be at our special dinner, and then to the theater. Instead of arriving at 6:00, he arrived at 7:00. He was clearly in no hurry, blaming it all on communication difficulties due to the strike, even though that's not true, etc. He was delighted with the knife, but he didn't say a single word to me in or after the theater, and he went out with the Simons. It seems all ties between him and me are broken – it's already 4:00 p.m. today, and he hasn't called yet, hasn't even bothered to thank me for a gift he never received from any of his friends! And what was that before?

I learned the hard way that a man's love isn't eternal, and if you're going to strike, you have to strike with a very hot iron. I swore to myself that if I went to Switzerland, I wouldn't write him a single word from there. The only question is whether there will still be some kind of relationship between us by then.

I didn't sleep last night—I woke up at 6:00 a.m., despite going to bed late—and started dreaming (due to Zapolska's "Der junge Zar") of love. The dream was more intense than ever, and... its subject was... Samuel. I don't know if he's the best husband for me today. He would have treated me differently, as a husband, than that crazy F. But I feel so sad about all this. I have to find a way to live with him somehow

Tuesday, February 5, 1918

These days, I received a letter from Mader [Madzia?], asking what was going on with my trip to Switzerland. Writing back, I realized that staying here wasn't worth it for F. anymore, except for Samuel. When I woke up the next day, this thought immediately came to me with a strange clarity.

F. was here yesterday. I think he had some small gift for me, but someone came into the room, and then we argued again, and he didn't give me anything.

I've lost every last bit of feeling for him. I'm concerned about one thing now – S. I think he can love me more and give me more, as a woman in need of tribute and tenderness, than F.

Sunday, February 16, 1918

I had this Indian man over who looked at me with loving eyes, probably because I'm one of those white women who look at him without repulsion and still welcome him into their homes. And I was thinking that I would now reciprocate the feelings of any white man who looked at me with such eyes. I simply feel the need to feel those feelings.

Strange, this sense of foreboding I seem to have. Last Monday I invited Mrs. Lichtenstein to visit on Tuesday; she said she could only come on Friday. I agreed, yet at the same time I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. On Friday I had visitors, and they were bored, which troubled me terribly. A premonition??

Despite terrible worries sometimes due to my unsecured future, I'm experiencing very interesting days. In fact, I'm infinitely well in many ways, and for many, my life might actually seem enviable.

Monday, March 4, 1918

Baumberg was just here. He was talking about Kazio's wife, apparently a hotheaded socialist, and he prefers his mother to her. Kazio apparently has a son.

Yes, indeed. And I'm stuck in this spinsterhood so terribly. He achieved everything he wanted – and the wind blew my dreams away.

I met Fuchs at the Simons' yesterday. It was over after two weeks of not seeing him. And I met him just as I met Gylenburg, without any emotion, without any joy, without any feeling that I'd met the man I wanted to meet, and he seemed to have the same feeling. That it would end so badly. A complete break is three times better, with that feeling that the breakup occurred between two people, than such warm dumplings of once great affection. He, who couldn't stand half a day without me before, now feels no need to be with me at all.

Thursday, March 21, 1918

My relationship with F. has cooled to a crawl. We have almost nothing to say to each other on the phone. Talking to him on the phone is a formal agony. I was at a concert with him on Tuesday, and it was quite pleasant, he told me all sorts of things, but the next day there was that same emptiness in the phone conversation again. Our friendship has completely vanished.

But one thing seems strange to me. I'm acutely aware of this, and somehow it's quiet inside me. I get the most nervous when I talk to him, but when he's not there and I'm alone (I hardly ever go anywhere with him), I don't think of him with any feeling—good or bad—and I somehow don't have that "bad feeling" that gripped my heart so much during my stay in Berlin with Kazi. I only think with great sadness (a calm sadness) about how good it would have been if he had married me right after his divorce from his wife.

Now things have shifted. So many bad feelings have arisen and so many illusions have been shattered. I don't know if it's a shame. There's so much sadness and so much peace within me.

Is this the calm before the storm? Or is it the peace—a premonition of a good ending to my romantic affairs?

Characteristic. I haven't wanted to go to Switzerland all this time, but now I really want it. We've already submitted our request.

March 22, 1918

F. hasn't called until now (5 p.m.) and won't. It seems that even the daily phone calls will cease. It's strange how quietly and inconspicuously everything has resolved itself (perhaps nothing will happen after this?). If I fell in love with someone else now, I wouldn't have any resentment or personal grudge against him. It's a different story when I think about how nice life could be with him if he weren't so disgustingly stingy. I owe myself a lot for tolerating so much…

This morning I read the newspaper about the offensive in the west.[1] I was saddened. The war has been going on for almost four years, and I can't get used to it. It seemed to me that every drop of blood that falls there today was drained from my own body. I put the newspaper down because my hands suddenly felt weak and I couldn't hold it.

When I thought about all the dirty tricks F. did, big and small (even if only his lie the day before yesterday, that he was home—and he wasn't when I called him), I told myself that one must be a decent person. When everything around them is vile and everything fails, one must at least be able to rely on oneself. I am the one who doesn't do dirty tricks.

The example of others affects me like drunken Helots affect Greek youth. Well, when all this doesn't bring happiness.

Notes:

[1] The German spring offensive, which began on March 21.

Tuesday, March 26, 1918

I was at F.'s on Sunday. The Vogts were there. I was convinced once again that even in such a well-matched marriage - a medical professor, she a medical doctor and they got married out of deep love - there is no absolute commonality in terms of ancestry, but deep down he is German, she French.

David is coming for 8 days with Klara... I wonder how he will behave.

F. was very nice on Sunday and since that day I have had a better feeling for him - I was convinced once again how feelings change - on Saturday I would have torn him apart, on Sunday I returned from him with a good, cheerful feeling ready to forget everything - but what good does it do that again neither yesterday evening nor today all day long he did not find a moment to call.

The last mistake I made and which simply cannot be corrected is that day of November 11. When he celebrated his anniversary so warmly. He should have been pinned to the wall then.

Yes, there is no cure for stupidity. I feel strangely old… like I'm an old, crumpled granny...

1:30 a.m. [March 27, 1918]

I was at this Vecsey[1] concert. I came absolutely enchanted. That is, to play – there was no end to the ovations – he played for an encore from 10:30 to 11:15.

When I looked at him like that, I had before me the type of man absolutely blessed with the graces of fortune: a talent for acting – one of the most beautiful in the world, young, handsome, rich, healthy. When he stood there on the pass surrounded by a clapping crowd, women smiling at him and ready to give him their all, as he smiled and waved a white handkerchief joyfully in farewell, he seemed to me to be the god of happiness. The red carnation in his buttonhole was the purple not of blood, but of the ………….. fiery kiss that the eyes of the delighted listeners threw at him from all sides. He laughed with happiness, with this adoration surrounding him.

I felt so poor, small, without talent, without happiness, without anything. During the concert I kept thinking about my old age, which looks like this ………….. I'm afraid that it will come true just as my ……….. after graduating from university came true about not getting married.

Simply all hope is in this M.

Notes:

[1] Franz von Vecsey, a Hungarian violinist.

Thursday, March 27,  1918

I was dreaming so beautifully about how I would spend this 1st Easter evening. Meanwhile, F. was as bad as a dog and spoke to me vulgarly twice - once he said "ihr (me and Fela) seid vom sozialismus ungerauchelt"[1] .

F. also spoke on the phone today in such a way as to get rid of me. He lies to me in the ugliest way. In order to justify his leaving the house ... he says in the morning, warning in advance, that he is going to the post office to have some fun.

D. arrived, but of course he did not let me know that he was there. Knowing his character, I should have assumed that he would come to us the day before he left.

These are my 3 German Flamms[2] . Apparently they are all dying.

Notes:

[1] Seems something like you and Fela are “smaoked’ {intoxicated?) by socialism.

[2] “Flames” – not sure who “3” are—Fuchs, David, and (Kazio)?

Sunday, March 31, 1918

I spoke to David by phone. He said he had been sleeping since last year. I said I would wake him up, "Wenn es der Mühe wert ware!"[1] Characteristically, he said "I must be very nice to you, my Lady!" (Is there no way I can do that!). He promised to come within a month. He is absolutely pulling my leg. A coward and a scoundrel. Today I am making fun of the whole thing.

It's strange that every time David is here, I have a "neue bertrage" for this "wife" drama.

I wonder if I will ever put him on?

Notes:

[1] “If it were worth the effort.”

April 4,  1918

I sent my Freud to the publisher today. I don't know if he'll accept it. If he does, there'll be some glory in it.

Thursday, April  25, 1918

It is characteristic that this Mour[1] has not called me so far.

I was at the Russian embassy today on the subject of some fugitive. They are staying at the Elite Hotel, room no. 220. Various figures flashed along the corridor – all of them generally well dressed. In the room in question, this Geschäftsführer, a Jew, elegantly dressed, black as a devil with a gold tooth, settled this matter for me very well and very coulantly. During the conversation I asked him about Joffe. „Вы мне скажете обь товарищь Joффе?”[2] he asked the man standing next to him. Although I was an opponent of the Bolsheviks[3], I had a very positive impression - you can see that these people are trying to handle the matter well (this effort is visible in the first place), that they understand the importance of their role and handle it with seriousness. All this is complete. It is interesting that they are establishing relations with Mensheviks here - their acquaintances. Apparently, the Berlin ground - as neutral - mitigates many things.

Notes:

[1] Moritz Tramer?

[2] “You tell me about comrade Joffe.”

[3] So, Franka sides with the Mensheviks in her politics with respect to Russia.

Monday, April 30, 1918

The news that Moor has left struck me today like a bolt of lightning. He didn't call me even once. But that, of course, is his business. The real issue is why I am so inept at looking after my own affairs—why I allowed him to leave without even seeing him. It pained me deeply to realize just how helpless I am; it is simply despair-inducing to see the extent to which I am incapable of looking out for myself. Now, of course—with his wife present—any such thoughts are impossible; he himself had warned me that things would be different once Marie was here.

There is just one thing I do not understand: why did this news make such a profoundly depressing impression on me? Why, for instance, does the thought of Fajans leave me feeling utterly indifferent—cold, evoking absolutely no reaction—while news like this regarding Moor tears at me, torments me, and gives me no peace? What is this? To me, it remains a complete enigma.

Saturday, May 4, 1918

Perhaps never since my time in Berlin have I endured such gray days amidst such glorious weather. F. has sent only two brief postcards during the entire span of his absence so far (nearly two weeks). This is the first time he has failed to send frequent news of himself. I no longer have any idea what to do—whether to force a crisis, or simply go on suffering. But the latter truly exceeds the limits of my strength. I do not know what to do with myself; nothing interests me, and my advancing age fills me with dread. In this entire vast city of Berlin, I currently have not a single soul—life simply fills me with terror. Not a single person, not a single beloved soul. And to think that three of my siblings are suffering in just the same way! This absolute apathy. I have no desire for anything.

Monday, May 20, 1918

Julek was here for five days (since Thursday). He is a gem of a young man, and I deeply lament the fact that he has no wife to love and cherish him. He deserves that more than anyone else.

F. hasn't written a word these past few days; instead, however, he wrote a two-page letter to Mother. Most likely out of spite.

Today, after Julek had left, I found myself thinking about Alwin—and about how precarious our position in this apartment actually is. And it occurred to me that, just as we are moving out of this apartment, I am also moving out of the realm of human feelings. I give F. absolutely no thought; he is a matter of complete indifference to me. Whereas before I used to dwell on his various virtues as a potential husband for me, now I do not even give those virtues a second thought. Let whoever wishes lay claim to his paintings and all his other wonders—somehow, it has all lost its allure for me. What remains is simply a despicable man. Rub. doesn't quite trust him either.

Friday, May 24, 1918

Yesterday, Fela wrote that momentous letter regarding F. Such a thought would never have crossed my mind, and indeed, I doubt whether it is true. I shared this news with Rub., who—though he, too, denied it—nevertheless remarked that such things cannot be allowed to go unpunished.

By Tuesday, it will have been five weeks since F. left, and I would very much like him to stay there for another couple of weeks. It is a good—a so-called good—sort of peace without him; once he returns, a certain kind of drudgery will begin all over again.

And yet, I feel a terrible, profound regret that this relationship is destined to have such an ugly ending—that it failed to blossom into something beautiful, something beneficial for both him and me—but instead proved to be nothing but rot.

I tormented myself with all manner of self-reproach on his account—imagining that I was somehow dragging him into something harmful—and at night, my heart ached terribly; I even had a very distressing dream (I was supposedly moving into some small, low-ceilinged apartment that I found distasteful; I started awake several times, finding solace, as it were, in the sight of my own spacious room—a manifestation of my anxieties... that is how I interpret it). But by day—once the "Gespenster"[1] had vanished, and with them, the daytime fears and heart pains—a question arose within me: were these heartaches and spasms a premonition of some impending misfortune—as I have usually been accustomed to regarding them—or are they merely the physiological manifestation of my psychological states? Or, in this specific instance: the physical echo of the distressing thoughts with which I had been tormenting myself? It is curious.

Prompted by F., I have conceived the idea for a new, major novel. On the duplicity of man. The entire conundrum of baseness and intellect coexisting within a single individual. I recall that once, after I had finished junior high school, I hesitated to write a little story and submit it to a magazine, for fear that I would have nothing left to write about when I grew older. It seemed to me that the handful of ideas I possessed constituted my entire lifetime’s reserve—a trove yielding so many words and concepts that it would be impossible to bring them all to fruition within a single lifetime. Just as *The Student* eventually overwhelmed me—and having failed to write it back when the subject matter was still fresh, I now find myself unable to tackle it because it no longer holds my interest—the same fate may well befall my current ideas. In any case, I would like to complete the following works:

1. *Hunger*

2. *Illness*

3. That *...fsky* romance

4. *Hatred*

Alongside these, running in parallel, would be my academic endeavors: works concerning my profession, self-punishment, and so forth.

Notes:

[1] Ghosts.

Saturday, May 25, 1918

Of course, the question arises: what to do if this is the case—what to do if Fela is wrong? 

And yet, I bear a great deal of the blame for all of this; had I insisted on marriage two years ago, none of this would have happened.

Wednesday, June 26, 1918

Over the past few days, I have written repeatedly to Rózia and Fela, telling them that I do not regret that nothing came of things between Horo. and me—that here in Berlin, I have experienced and seen so much. As I was writing this, it occurred to me that such strenuous self-justification is, according to Freud, actually a sign of subconscious regret. Yet, in this particular instance, I could not bring myself to admit that Freud was right. Today, however, I think quite differently. Yesterday, I read in the newspaper about the sudden death of Abramowski[1] . The question now arising at the University of Warsaw is who will succeed him. Of course, were it not for the complications involving Horow. in Warsaw, I would have gone there most willingly to complete my habilitation. Another point: had I married Horow. back when I had the chance, I would undoubtedly be a *docent* today. Living in Warsaw continuously, I certainly would have been working in a laboratory, and some tangible results would surely have come of it. Naturally, securing such a foothold at a university is of colossal importance. Just the day before yesterday, I was discussing this very matter with Mrs. Lichtenstein. She urged me—insisted, in fact—that I address this issue and go see Stumpf[2] . She is right. I cannot forgive myself for failing, at the beginning of winter, to follow through consistently on my intention to work with Rupp[3]. 

All in all, when I reflect upon my entire life, I see nothing but a string of errors. Sheer despair overwhelms me when I consider how squandered my best, most beautiful years have been, and how my energies have been utterly wasted—spent on nothing, all in vain. I invariably do the opposite of what I truly desire, and that is precisely why so little ever comes of it. If I cast a critical eye over the period since October 1st—since the time I finally had a room of my own, and thus a greater opportunity to work—I have committed the following egregious errors in life:

1. I handled the entire matter regarding the job with Rupp with such passivity. I simply cannot forgive myself for this. Two of my character flaws played a role in this *faux pas*: a) taking offense too easily (I was "offended" that Rupp hadn't given me an answer, instead of simply asking him about it in the most straightforward manner possible); and b) inconsistency of action—once I had started something, I ought to have seen it through as a matter of principle, rather than leaving it hanging in mid-air;

2. Take, for instance, that incident involving Grodzieńska[4] and the pearls. It was simply scandalously stupid behavior. I desired a certain object very much; therefore, I should have gone about obtaining it in the precise manner I had intended. By so easily letting go of material things in this way, I inadvertently let slip the most vital facts of my life as well;

3. The fact that, on November 11th, I failed to speak with F.—even though both his disposition and conduct, as well as my own general mood at the time, were such that a conversation was practically invited, and under circumstances most favorable to me;

4. The simply scandalous incident involving Moore. I absolutely cannot forgive myself for this one. To have a man so well-disposed toward me, and then to simply let him slip through my fingers! It is, after all, a lifelong disgrace. Just as it was once in Warsaw with...

Had I, back then, accepted his proposal to establish that institute, I would be a figure of European renown today. But as it stands? I sometimes console myself with the thought that every cloud has a silver lining—that, ultimately, what I have lived through is not without value—but this is merely self-deception. What have I achieved in life thus far? As a woman, I am solitary and worse off than any average woman; as an individual, I do not earn enough to support myself; and as a scholar, I have accomplished nothing that would secure me a place within the scientific world. A fine result indeed!

I am currently finishing my piece, "Hunger." I simply poured it out of myself. I do not know if it will be any good. For the first time, I am writing so spontaneously—without the laborious revisions that my popular articles for *Nar. Gaune*[4]  used to demand. I fear it may not be sufficiently polished. I recall experiencing a similar sense of lightness some time ago while writing that short article for Freud; indeed, Sachs later wrote that he wished I had delved more deeply into the subject. It was, after all, merely a matter of jotting thoughts down on paper. Yet, perhaps the rigor required of a scholarly article is not quite so essential in literature.

Notes:

[1] Edward Abrramowki, a classic anarchist and chair in Experimental Psychology at the University of Warsaw, on 21 June 1918.

[2] Carl Sumpf was, among other things, the founder of the Berlin School of Experimental Psychology.

[3] Hans Rupp, described in German Wikipedia as a pioneer of applied psychology. There are many references to him in the diaries.

[4] Not sure what these refer to, but maybe in earlier diaries not yet transcribed.

Sunday, June 29, 1918[1] 

I hardly ever see F. anymore; he barely calls every other day—briefly, abruptly. It is now plainly evident that absolutely nothing binds us together. I spoke with Simon on Friday. He, too, knows all the rumors circulating about him—and he, too, is convinced that the man is dishonest.

Dora is supposed to have a talk with him about me sometime in the coming days. It is a conversation that comes far too late. Besides, for such a conversation to have yielded any result—for us to have actually been able to marry—it would have had to happen back then; but now—what could possibly be salvaged by it? Shattered trust? A broken faith that this man could ever bring me happiness? Somehow, I simply could not imagine sharing a life with him anymore. At this very time last year, I was ready to walk through fire for him—I envisioned a life shared together—but not anymore. So, in a way, perhaps this conversation is superfluous—at least insofar as the objective Dora hopes to achieve is concerned! My only desire is for there to be someone who will tell him that he is a swine.

It is a terribly meager satisfaction. Meanwhile, the world around me feels utterly desolate. A certain Professor Valentin came by once—just the one time—and promised he would call, and so on... yet he hasn't made a sound since. Yesterday, I met a Russian man from Moscow—but what does it signify, really, that I managed to make an impression even on him? That impression is neither lasting nor strong enough for anything to ever come of it.

The years are slipping by—the very best years of my life—and I have absolutely no idea what lies ahead; as it stands, the future looks simply catastrophic.

I am growing older, terribly heavy and sluggish, and my utter ineptitude at living is manifesting itself in ever-harsher shades. It would be fitting for me to be a millionaire’s wife—yet what lies before me is simply the horror of destitution.

Abramowski has died. The Warsaw academic world is in a ferment; had I at least two scholarly papers to my name, I might still have been able to compete for an assistantship—for *something*—but as things stand? My instinct to pursue scholarly work was sound, but what good is that now? After four years, I possess absolutely none of the academic credentials to show for it.

Notes:

[1] The 29th was Saturday, so not such which is correct.

Friday, July 5, 1918

Dr. Pentman from Moscow was here; I liked him very much, as he is exceptionally well-mannered and charming. I had been simply dreaming about him for the past few days; now, however—ever since Landowska mentioned that he is having an affair with her sister-in-law back home—I find myself thinking about him somewhat less. It is a foolish habit of mine: whenever I become infatuated with someone I’ve just met, I always imagine that—any moment now—a new romance is about to begin.

F.—throughout almost the entire week (that is, since Sunday morning)—called only once, yesterday, and very briefly at that. Evidently, I am not at all essential to his happiness. He has grown unaccustomed to me. After three and a half years of seeing each other every single day, he feels absolutely no need to see me now. Men—it was only through him that I finally came to truly understand them all.

Sunday, July 7, 1918

I visited Rotten today—but it didn’t bring me complete peace of mind. I am in a terrible mood; everything in my brain and heart feels turned upside down. As I was leaving, she shared with me a *parole*—a motto—from one of her authors: "Never shoot unless you are certain you will kill."

Applied to F., these words perfectly sum up the situation. One must not embark on undertakings without knowing with absolute certainty what their outcome will be.

Miss Rotten recounted how her organization came into being. She herself reached out to several Englishwomen—having heard that they were in Germany and currently present in the area—and offered them her assistance. It is evident that helping others was in her very nature, seeing as she was the one to take that first step.

But what am I to do with myself now? Who could possibly describe how many pieces of me have been torn apart? As I reflect upon myself—drawing a comparison with her—I realize just how much I lack the drive for such work. The clearest proof lies in the fact that I was, after all, involved in this work—albeit involuntarily and by sheer chance—from the very first moment of the war; and yet... I let it all slip right past me. I was preoccupied with Fuchs—and such matters were alien to him—but what does that say about *my* character? She created something out of nothing; whereas I, despite being right in the thick of it, let the whole thing slip through my fingers—as if through a sieve. And that, right there, is my character; and that is how it has been with everything. People and opportunities flock toward me as if drawn by "bait"—but then they realize it is merely a "lure," and they flee. Back then, at the beginning of the war—when those days in Rügen came to an end and a lull in activity set in—that was the moment when I should have taken it all into my own hands. In that case, I would have received a salary as well, and there would have been no issue with that wretched library. We could have had a Polish branch right away.

From this, I can draw but one conclusion regarding my intellect and my social sense: I possess neither. I failed the test of the social activist. And I ought to make a note of that—or rather, to put it more accurately: whatever I do, I do merely to get it over with; I put nothing of myself into it... I do everything by halves.

Geńka once remarked that Mańka’s poems were a cry for a husband. Yes, there are women whose every endeavor is just such a cry; yet they spend their entire lives screaming, their work remains paltry, and the husband never comes.

Had I any sense, I would have elevated my work to an entirely different level—and everything with F. would have turned out completely differently. I always end up at the same conclusion: I am infinitely stupid.  

Tuesday, July 23, 1918

Yesterday, I was tormented by the thought of how I had botched my time here through my own incompetence—how incompetence destroys what already exists, while skill creates something out of nothing. Take Rotten and me, for instance. I was admitted immediately into a Society that was handling everything on a massive scale; back then—after those trains had departed—I could have established an organization unique in all of Germany. The funds were there, the premises were available, the infrastructure was in place, and so on. Out of sheer stupidity—simply due to a lack of experience, a failure to grasp the nature of the work that could have been undertaken—I did nothing. That Society eventually faded away.

Miss Rotten, on the other hand, had only her wits and her ten fingers, yet she made something of them; she built a European-wide organization. She knew exactly what steps to take to achieve her goal—whereas I, invariably, never seem to know what needs to be done. Just as I had suspected when I first joined the library—thinking to myself that the whole endeavor was nonsensical—that is precisely how it turned out. This job has yielded me nothing; that other undertaking, however, would at least have provided me with genuine moral satisfaction. It would have simply made me more resilient in life, given the multitude of practical issues that would have required handling. It would have been entirely possible to establish an international organization along those very lines—yet, in the end, nothing was done. Had the matter been approached correctly from the outset, even the financial issue—the very reason I went to work at the library—would have resolved itself. That is just how "clever" I am. And it would have been truly wonderful had I simply had an example to follow. Only now do I fully grasp the sheer magnitude of what could have been achieved. It is far too late for anyone to change that now. That, precisely, is one of the bitter costs of war.

Then again, perhaps it wasn't merely the lack of an example; perhaps what was truly missing was that inner "drive"—that specific desire to direct my efforts in that particular direction. I, however, was always drawn to literary and scholarly pursuits—in which, unfortunately, I also accomplished very little. The extent of my abilities was, quite simply, limited.

Wednesday, July 24, 1918

Today, a scene took place that was necessary, yet at the same time unpleasant. I wanted to see Gerson to give him a newspaper. I went to Kempiński’s as usual, and there, at the Gerson table, I found… F.—sitting with Mrs. Weissgerber and another lady. First of all, he became visibly flustered—and to me, this was a far stronger indication of his guilt than the mere fact of his being in her company. He also seemed quite annoyed that I was speaking at such length with Gerson at another table; so, he came over to join me—ostensibly for a private conference—and proceeded to fill me in on our shared business. It was all the very same information he had already given me over the phone yesterday.

I had thought he was making a play for Mrs. Mayer; but as I see it now, he is actually setting his sights on that wealthy little widow. They met in Stockholm; later, she was in Berlin; I learned quite by chance that he had visited her in Munich; and now, she has wandered back here once again. She is wealthy—and that is the sum of it. Either he is exploiting her for some ulterior motive—which I doubt—or else he views this marriage as a sound business proposition for himself. Or perhaps he has actually taken a genuine interest in her. The devil only knows. Our relationship is slowly entering a critical phase.

Monday, July 29, 1918

I have read Kropotkin’s book[1] ; it made a profound impression on me, for it opened my eyes to the true significance of the entire French Revolution. It also enables me to understand the whole of the current movement. Yet I cannot help but think that things ought to be entirely different now. After all, the French Revolution was searching for a path—it had to forge its own routes, it had to coin its own slogans—it had to create everything from scratch. Modern revolutions, however, not only have precedents behind them—and not just one, but those of 1848, 1871, and 1905—but they also possess Marxism; they have theoretical analyses and calculations at their disposal; they have means of propaganda, such as manifestos; and they know how to utilize strikes—a tactic utterly unknown in the 18th century—and so on. If contemporary revolutions commit the same terrorist atrocities as those of a century ago, it signifies that they have learned absolutely nothing.

Progress advances at a terribly sluggish pace. When, in the wake of the French Revolution, one realizes that we are still stuck in the exact same spot as we were a hundred years ago, one feels nothing but shame.

I will never, however, accept the notion that the workers alone should constitute the ruling power... That would be just as much of a social injustice as the prerogatives claimed by other classes—the so-called "higher" ones.

F. has bought himself a villa. He showed it to me—displaying photographs of every single room, as well as the floor plan. He did not make the slightest gesture, crack the faintest joke, or offer the slightest remark regarding the housekeeper...

Despite everything, this man is truly extraordinary. One must admire his energy, his intellect, his strength of will, and the sheer magnitude of his capacity for work. His faults are formidable, yet one must never—not even for a moment—consider them in isolation, detached from his virtues. A powerful mind and will. She will always accomplish whatever she sets her mind to, for she possesses the ability to execute.

Everything changes drastically, day by day. I have noticed that ever since the war began, the world has taken on a different aspect each day. The entire configuration of affairs shifts daily. What held value yesterday loses it today, and may well regain it the very next day. In short, Heraclitus’s words have never rung truer than they do now: *Panta rei*—everything flows.

I have always held—and continue to hold—an immense respect for Rottenówna’s work. Yet, when I spoke with her recently and realized that she has absolutely no grasp of what is transpiring in Russia—that, blinded by her wartime philanthropy, she has ceased to truly comprehend the war itself—well, at that moment, I thought to myself: I do not covet your merits in the service of the poor; rather, as a conscious individual, I prefer to possess a clear understanding of what is unfolding around me during such historic times.

Notes:

[1] The Great French Revolution, 1789–1793,published in 1909.

Wednesday, July 31, 1918

F. called an hour ago to say he was busy and couldn't see me today. Yet, an hour later, Jezierska calls to say that Radkowa has arrived. Aha!

August 4, 1918

One of my greatest desires is to preserve my sense of humor, to always maintain a lightness of spirit—never to let myself be weighed down...

Jezierska told me the other day that Springer is simply in love with me—that he is always asking after me, and so on. Yes—I always seem to appeal to precisely those people I have no interest in.

Tramer wrote that he would like to find himself a life companion. I understand exactly what he means by that. I spent the entire week pondering what to do; finally, I told myself: surely I cannot lie to him and pretend to harbor any feelings for him—so, in my letter, I gently suggested the idea of ​​Rózia to him.

Sunday, August 10, 1918

Last Tuesday, I sent him a letter explaining that, since I was unable to see him, I was requesting the return of my money. He sent the money and called; he even stopped by—though he missed me—but now, for the past few days, he has once again given no sign of life.

Meanwhile, a major scandal involving Radkowa has broken out—one that would suit me perfectly, provided, for instance, that F. were to get wind of it as well. But I’ll make sure to rub his nose in it good and proper.

Apparently, she is leaving tomorrow. It seems she intends to get in touch with me then. Well...

I spent the entire day today worrying terribly about him. In general, I worry far too much, and lately, I seem to have completely lost whatever coquettishness I once possessed. The consequences of all this are absolute solitude and a total lack of desire to work. I am wasting a terrible amount of time because of it.

Thursday, August 22, 1918

I have the distinct impression that the life I lead is extremely simplified. I face no material hardships. Mother handles everything—she does the chores and does the shopping—so that I am entirely free to devote myself to my own affairs. In fact, I spend my entire day immersed in my own concerns. Yet this mode of life, precisely because of its simplicity, causes me great pain; I see how little my energies are being utilized, how—all this while—other people’s children are growing up around them, how they derive all manner of joys from life and from themselves, and I see the utter poverty of my own existence.

If I am to consider the matter of marriage dispassionately, someone like Samuel would be the ideal choice—he would afford me a great deal of personal and financial freedom. F., unless he undergoes a radical transformation, will simply wear me down to the bone with his stinginess and his entire way of life. I ought to make a definitive decision about my future already. It is high time; I am stagnating here just as surely as I was back in Łódź.

Today, I spent a great deal of time reflecting on how long ago it was that I was here in Berlin with...—and how, had I only managed to apply myself to... back then, so many things would have turned out differently. I am a beast—that is the long and short of it.

Heringsdorf, Wednesday, September 4, 1918

I have been in Heringsdorf[1]  for nearly two weeks now; I do nothing—I eat well, I drink, and I ponder. Uncheerful thoughts. I constantly ask myself: why am I so lonely? I have turned so many men’s heads in my lifetime; I even tried, just now—right here on this...—to count them:

1. Kazio, 2. Staszek, 3. Malinowski, 4. Lantnejonb, 5. Figurski, 6. Ignacy Rubinstein, 7. "Abbé Mouret," 8. Professor Heinrich, 9. Rolo, 10. Tramer, 11. Fajans, 12. Lenke, 13. David, 14. Szerenowski, 15. Fuchs.

These are all men who were seriously interested in me—and I am not even speaking of the whole host of other such instances: like that minister’s son in Bonn; like the musician in Kraków who photographed me at every turn—Bandrowski, Kuna, Birnbaum, Stranowicz; or like that Finn in Berlin at the start of the war, Simon, and so many others. Why is it that, out of these fifteen men—who were, after all, seriously interested in me—I was unable to hold onto a single one? Why could I not carve out some happiness for myself? This so-called "success" of mine was, in truth, my undoing.

And now, the situation stands thus: Tramer’s letters reveal that Rózia is in love with him—while he, for his part, would much prefer to remain merely her aufrichtiger Freund[2] . I do not know whether his feelings for me play any role in this. But regardless—I would give a great, great deal—I would be willing to sacrifice I know not what—to see the two of them marry. Whether this would bring happiness to them both, I cannot say; but that she would be better off than she is at present—of that, there is no doubt. And as for me? F. visited me here. I am dealing with him wisely enough now—insofar as I am not arguing—but I doubt whether anything will come of it, or if that last misunderstanding won't leave scars too deep to heal. That leaves me with a choice between Samuel and Valentin. Or M. These last two options, however, are mere pipe dreams. I would prefer the third one, but there is absolutely no sign of that happening anymore. Unless some stroke of good fortune comes to my aid once again, I simply do not know what will become of me.

There is only one thing I desire fervently right now—with all my might: that Rózia be emotionally secure. I am ready to pray to God Himself for this. How dear this little creature is to my heart! Tr. ought to make this happen—yet I see that, thus far, he hasn't the slightest inclination to do so.

At the beginning of my stay here, I was positively sickened by the memory of how disastrously I had treated Fajans back in the day. My conduct was the height of stupidity. I simply cannot fathom how my brain was functioning at the time. And my only fear is that, a few years from now, I will look back on my current behavior and think exactly the same thing. *C’est triste, cela.*

Notes:

[1] Heringsdorf is a popular seaside resort and spa In Usedom.

[2] Her "sincere friend."

Heringsdorf, Wednesday, September 4, 1918

I have been in Heringsdorf[1]  for nearly two weeks now; I do nothing—I eat well, I drink, and I ponder. Uncheerful thoughts. I constantly ask myself: why am I so lonely? I have turned so many men’s heads in my lifetime; I even tried, just now—right here on this...—to count them:

1. Kazio, 2. Staszek, 3. Malinowski, 4. Lantnejonb, 5. Figurski, 6. Ignacy Rubinstein, 7. "Abbé Mouret," 8. Professor Heinrich, 9. Rolo, 10. Tramer, 11. Fajans, 12. Lenke, 13. David, 14. Szerenowski, 15. Fuchs.

These are all men who were seriously interested in me—and I am not even speaking of the whole host of other such instances: like that minister’s son in Bonn; like the musician in Kraków who photographed me at every turn—Bandrowski, Kuna, Birnbaum, Stranowicz; or like that Finn in Berlin at the start of the war, Simon, and so many others. Why is it that, out of these fifteen men—who were, after all, seriously interested in me—I was unable to hold onto a single one? Why could I not carve out some happiness for myself? This so-called "success" of mine was, in truth, my undoing.

And now, the situation stands thus: Tramer’s letters reveal that Rózia is in love with him—while he, for his part, would much prefer to remain merely her aufrichtiger Freund[2] . I do not know whether his feelings for me play any role in this. But regardless—I would give a great, great deal—I would be willing to sacrifice I know not what—to see the two of them marry. Whether this would bring happiness to them both, I cannot say; but that she would be better off than she is at present—of that, there is no doubt. And as for me? F. visited me here. I am dealing with him wisely enough now—insofar as I am not arguing—but I doubt whether anything will come of it, or if that last misunderstanding won't leave scars too deep to heal. That leaves me with a choice between Samuel and Valentin. Or M. These last two options, however, are mere pipe dreams. I would prefer the third one, but there is absolutely no sign of that happening anymore. Unless some stroke of good fortune comes to my aid once again, I simply do not know what will become of me.

There is only one thing I desire fervently right now—with all my might: that Rózia be emotionally secure. I am ready to pray to God Himself for this. How dear this little creature is to my heart! Tr. ought to make this happen—yet I see that, thus far, he hasn't the slightest inclination to do so.

At the beginning of my stay here, I was positively sickened by the memory of how disastrously I had treated Fajans back in the day. My conduct was the height of stupidity. I simply cannot fathom how my brain was functioning at the time. And my only fear is that, a few years from now, I will look back on my current behavior and think exactly the same thing. *C’est triste, cela.*

Notes:

[1] Heringsdorf is a popular seaside resort and spa In Usedom.

[2] Her "sincere friend."

Heringsdorf, Sunday, September 8, 1918

I am leaving for Berlin again tomorrow morning. It seems I have rested well and can now resume my arduous toil. However, this year I would like to utilize my time differently than I have in the past, and I wish to clarify for myself—somehow—the guidelines by which I am to live through my fifth winter in Berlin.

1. The first matter concerns my relationship with F. He is slowly becoming the bane of my existence. I cannot simply cast him aside, for I fear his vengeance; yet every encounter with him literally costs me my health. I must avoid him with elegance, while still refraining from a complete rupture. However, at the very first suitable opportunity, I must let him know that he is a scoundrel.

2. I must make a concerted effort to spend time in the company of others as often as possible. Since the weather is cold, and there are concerts and theaters—I must attend them frequently. I must, by every means available, finally and definitively banish that wretch from my thoughts.

3. I must focus my attention intently upon my academic pursuits. To carry out in Warsaw:

 1) the founding of a psychology journal

2) a scholarship for a study on a physiognomic [experiment?]

3) the printing of *Lies*

4) the printing of *Hunger*

5) the printing of *Polish Synonyms*

6) to submit Fela’s work for publication[1]

7) possibly, a survey among children regarding the war

In Berlin: to work in a laboratory (to attend lectures on career guidance; possibly to travel to Breda or Hamburg for a week to visit Stern—and to work in Stumpf’s laboratory on *Einstellung* and *Ideenflucht*).[2]

4. Not to neglect the Society for Mutual Aid.

5. To slowly but surely write the novel *O światło* [On Light].

But above all: not to lose my sense of humor. That is the one thing I sorely lack: an evenness of temperament—this constant plummeting of hope, strength, and faith in myself and others is dreadful. When this happens, I simply lose myself entirely and become utterly useless. When I look at the results of the last few years, I feel like weeping at how little has actually been accomplished or achieved. Life is slipping away, yet I remain perpetually stuck in the planning phase.

"I wish that this year, at the very least, would bring you the happiness 'you deserve,'" Mother writes to me today.

I am setting off, it seems, with a good premonition. What will life bring to fruition for me—will it yield as much as I expect, less, or perhaps even more?

Four years ago, I traveled to Berlin having been expelled from Zoppot, filled with hatred for that city. Aside from F.’s betrayal, nothing truly bad befell me there. Today, I travel there armed with a reserve of strength, health, and experience. It may well be that things will go better for me—that what I have so fervently... I yearn—and I will find a beloved, kindred spirit. Why should I be deprived of the most important thing in life?

Notes:

[1] Will be curious if I find out anything else of what this might be!

[2] Carl Stumpf, a philosopher and psychologist, at the University of Berlin. The “Enistellung” effect refers to the development of a mechanized state of mind, and  “Ideenflucjht” is “flight of ideas,” but I don’t find anything specifically linking Stumpf to these concepts.

Berlin, September 11, 1918

I returned to Berlin on Monday. Fortunately, F. is not here—he has gone away. I am currently preoccupied with matters that I must examine within myself every day:

1.     whether I accomplished anything of value during the day (or anything I had set out to do);

2.     whether what I did could not have been done better.

I have realized that even the smallest things—both today and yesterday—could have been handled far better. Of course, my greatest failing in this regard is a lack of resilience. This is an area where I must constantly strive to improve, for it is my most significant flaw.

Tuesday, October 15, 1918

I’ve returned from Warsaw. I was there for thirteen days. My real intention in going was to meet someone—anyone—and to simply be around other people; yet I arrived, conducted my survey, and ended up seeing only old acquaintances. There were no great ovations—and that was that. I ran into Hor. once: I was leaving a tobacco shop on Marszałkowska Street just as he was walking in, and he barged through the doorway in such a boorish manner—clearly, he didn't recognize me at first. My heart simply clenched tight in my chest.

I arrived back here yesterday morning; today I let F. know I was back, yet he didn't even bother to call a second time. Everything is just fizzling out in such a repulsive way. And I am as lonely as a fencepost—there is simply no human being by my side. Things cannot go on like this; something has to give—there must be some kind of turning point. It is the same situation with Fela, Rózia, and Julek—it’s dreadful. I feel as humiliated as it is possible to feel—for this is entirely the result of my own ineptitude.

Thursday, October 17, 1918

There is one fact that interests me, namely: why do I have such a complete lack of self-control? For instance, I bought a swimsuit—a purchase I badly regret. After all, I know perfectly well that dark colors don’t suit me; I had even seen lighter-colored suits in which I looked far better—yet I blundered: I let myself be talked into it. Today, the ease with which I handed over 1,000 marks remains a veritable enigma to me—perhaps because the money was paid in a single banknote. At such moments, the psychological impact of the money itself is far less potent than the allure of the object being purchased.

I find this deviation from my own principles fascinating; after all, it amounts to nothing less than a "weakness of character."

October 24, 1918

Yesterday, Jezierska told me that F. has been gallivanting about with that Miss Hernlerg from the diplomatic mission. She has a car at her disposal, so he drives around with her, dragging her off to Mehring and everywhere else imaginable.

So, he’s found himself another “Flaming.” She’s just his type, too—thirty years his junior; she’s the same age as his daughter—but what does he care? As long as business is booming... She serves as Joffe’s right hand—much like Miss Lewy did at the Hilfsverein for him and Bebutov.

Mother isn’t here. My leg is hurting. I can’t go out. My little household looks a sorry sight right now—left without help, saddled with this wretched domestic staff I have here. My heart breaks at the thought that this might be my future.

I am furious with myself—precisely because, back when I had the chance, I didn’t pin that scoundrel against the wall. Nobility of spirit counts for nothing when dealing with men. They are nothing but beasts and lowlifes, every last one of them. We still haven’t seen each other since his arrival—curious, isn’t it?

Tueday, November 12, 1918

I am like an empty pot. Nothing is happening inside me; nothing is taking place. This whole Berlin revolution barely moves me—I stand on the sidelines of it. The worst part is that I have absolutely no desire to do anything at all. I phoned F. this morning. It seems he doesn’t want to be with me because he doesn’t want me to see what an insignificant role he is playing in the current revolution. As I walked away from the phone, I said to myself: *I’ll outlast him.* To hell with him—I won’t call him again. I wish I could leave—to break things off with him once and for all, to see something new, meet someone new, and—dear God—to find myself interested in someone again.

There is much of my own fault in all of this—but right now, in this very moment, my only concern is to pull myself out of this apathy. What will save me? What will lead me back onto the path of action? I grasp at everything, yet everything slips through my fingers. Everything is unfolding chaotically, foolishly, and somehow askew; and I feel not only powerless but utterly despairing at all this emptiness within me.

How will I ever be able to strike a spark from within myself again? How will I find a talisman for myself?

November 19, 1918

I am good—both consciously and subconsciously. I seethe with *Ressentiment*—and this inevitably surfaces; it is something people sense in me, despite themselves.

Wednesday, December 11, 1918

I don’t think I have ever been in a state quite like this before—not even after that notorious fiasco with Kazio. It is this absolute emptiness I feel inside. I have no desire to do anything. I crave nothing. Most importantly, I feel no pull toward other people. Usually, when someone loses a loved one, they seek solace and affection from others; I, however, avoid people. I feel nothing toward anyone. I want nothing from anyone. I find myself marveling at how other people...

Old Mrs. Neufeld, speaking about that reprimand from Rose, remarked: "Some people do absolutely nothing at all, yet they garner so much affection, while others sacrifice themselves for the sake of humanity..." (she left the thought unfinished). She hit the nail right on the head. I am not a very likable person to others. I often find myself pondering now: why? Where does the fault lie in all of this? What is it about me that is so off-putting?

As for why I am unpleasant right now—well, that is hardly surprising. The business with F., the library affair, and now this latest incident—they have completely broken me, emotionally and morally. I have no one I can turn to for comfort, no one to whom I can simply cling. I spend my entire days doing absolutely nothing, just letting the time slip away. I have no drive, no inclination for anything whatsoever. How will it all end?

Sunday, December 22, 1918

Yesterday, F. left—for no less a place than Moscow. Although I had already known about it the day before yesterday, when he came to say goodbye—and didn't even bring me a parting gift—I felt terribly, truly terribly sad. I spent half the night thinking about him, and about how this relationship—which had begun so splendidly—ended so miserably. When I reflected that this M., in whom I have placed so much hope, is just another "Tramer," I could only shake my head. I simply do not know how to live. I am such a complete bungler at life that I cannot make use of anything—even though everything seems to fall right into my lap. I consider this the greatest misfortune of my life, and I am utterly powerless to do anything about it. I suppose this is how I shall die. Sometimes I am seized by a greater despair, sometimes a lesser one. But how long will my patience last?

For the first time ever, I absolutely wished him ill on his journey—even though I know he will return in triumph.

Sonia wrote that, in Warsaw, I am regarded as a compromised figure. I wonder whether that letter of mine actually appeared in print, and what sort of impression it made. I would much prefer not to think about it at all. I pick up a Polish newspaper with trembling hands.

1919

Sunday, December 22, 1918

Yesterday, F. left—for no less a place than Moscow. Although I had already known about it the day before yesterday, when he came to say goodbye—and didn't even bring me a parting gift—I felt terribly, truly terribly sad. I spent half the night thinking about him, and about how this relationship—which had begun so splendidly—ended so miserably. When I reflected that this M., in whom I have placed so much hope, is just another "Tramer," I could only shake my head. I simply do not know how to live. I am such a complete bungler at life that I cannot make use of anything—even though everything seems to fall right into my lap. I consider this the greatest misfortune of my life, and I am utterly powerless to do anything about it. I suppose this is how I shall die. Sometimes I am seized by a greater despair, sometimes a lesser one. But how long will my patience last?

For the first time ever, I absolutely wished him ill on his journey—even though I know he will return in triumph.

Sonia wrote that, in Warsaw, I am regarded as a compromised figure. I wonder whether that letter of mine actually appeared in print, and what sort of impression it made. I would much prefer not to think about it at all. I pick up a Polish newspaper with trembling hands.