REL331

Trans[ater£ from tfie Dutcfi liy Arno[r£]. Pomerans

Foreword: liy Eva Hoffman

lntroauction ana notes liy ]an G. Gaar[ancft.

Etty

Hille sum

An Interrupted Life THE DIARIES, 1941-1943

ana

Letters from Westerbork

AN OWL BOOK

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY NEW YORK

Henry Holt and Company, LLC Publishers since 1866 115 West 18th Street New York, New York 10011

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Foreword copyright© 1996 by Eva Hoffman Introduction and notes copyright © 1996 by Jan G. Gaarlandt An Interrupted Life English translation copyright© 1983 by Jonathan Cape Ltd. Originally published in the Netherlands in 1981 as Het vemoorde Ieven: Dagboek van Etty Hillesum, 1941-1943. First English-language edition published in the United Kingdom in 1983. First American edition published in 1984 by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Letters from Westerbork English translation copyright © 1986 by Random House, Inc. Originally published in the Netherlands in 1982 as Het denkende hart van de barak. First English-language edition published in the United States in 1986 by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved. Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hillesum, Etty, 1914-1943. [Verstoorde Ieven. English] An interrupted life: the diaries, 1941-1943; and, Letters from Westerbork I Etty Hillesum; translated from the Dutch by Arnold ). Pomerans; foreword by Eva Hoffman; introduction and notes by )an G. Gaarlandt.

p. em. Previously published (1st work): 1st American ed. New York: Pantheon Books, 1984. Previously published (2nd work): 1st English language ed. New York: Pantheon Books, 1986. ISBN 0-8050-4894-4 ISBN 0-8050-5087-6 (pbk.) I. Hillesum, Etty, 1914-1943. 2. Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945)-Netherlands­ Personal narratives. 3. Jews-Netherlands-Biography. 4. Netherlands-Ethnic relations. I. Gaarlandt, ). G. II. Hillesum, Etty, 1914-1943. Denkende hart van de barak. English. III. Title. IV. Title: Letters from Westerbork. DS135.1\'6H54813 1996 940.53 '18'09492-dcZO

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Contents

F o r e w o rd by Eva Hoffm a n v 1 1

I n t r od u c t i o n b y ]. G. Ga a rl a n d t x 1 1 z

A n In t e r r u p t ed L ife: THE DI A RIES, 1941-1943 1

L e t te rs f r o m Wes t e r b o r k 2 3 3

No tes 3 66

Forewora

When we pick up Etty H i llesum's dia ries and letters today, we know from the outset what will come at their tragic end . And yet, to sta r t reading them is to be jolted into fresh surprise. All the writings she left behind were composed in the shadow of the H olocaust, but they resist being read primarily i n its d a r k l ight. Rather, their abiding interest lies in the light-filled mind that pervades them and in the astonishing internal j ou rney they chart. The traj ectory of that j ourney echoes classical accounts of spiritual transformation; but Etty's pilgrimage grew out of the intimate experience of an intellectual young woman-it was idiosyncratic, individ ual, and recognizably modern.

Aside from a few fundamental facts about her family-she came from an assimilated Jewish background-we k n o w l ittle about her early h istory, her childhood temperament, or the for­ mative episodes of her youth. She comes to us unmediated . But an encounter with her is instantly and compellingly d i rect. Etty wanted, aspired to be a writer, and she has a w riter's knack for conveying herself onto the page with fluent i m mediacy, for d ra w i ng us right into her personal world. From the fi r s t entries she comes across as a wonderfully v i v i d person a l i ty : charming, unaffected, with funds of warmth and an eager appetite for pleasure. She enjoyed the quotidian details of her l i fe and de-

{ vii J

scribes them with relish: the motley household in which she lived, the Russian lessons she gave, the walks she took through her beloved Amsterdam. On one level, then, a young woman of her time: emancipated, educated, urbane, with professional am­ bitions and a penchant for bohemian lifestyles. She had a v ariety of lovers, intimates, and a circle of interesting friends. She was a percipient observer, aware of the issues and movements of her time: socialism, fascism, anti-Semitism. Even her passing re­ marks about such things show penetrating and distilled insight.

But capable though she was of extroversion and engagement, her most intense need, and gift, was for the inner life. Her essential existence, she often reminded herself, took place in the privacy of self-reflection, at a desk covered with pinecones, vases of flowers, and books.

The private Etty Hillesum who revealed herself in her d iary was impassioned, erotically volatile, restless, and often tor­ mented. I n the early entries, she repeatedly records swings from elation to brooding melancholy, from embracing excitement to depressed withdrawal, from expansive flights of fantasy to beset­ ting self-doubt. She could easily be seen as one of the scores of over-sensitive, slightly neurasthenic young women from a culti­ vated and codd ling milieu.

Such categories are not inappropriate; Etty herself thought in psychological terms. But they are also insufficient, for Etty had the kind of genius for introspection that converts symptoms into significance and joins sel f-examination to philosophical investi­ gation. The d iary is a continuous, animated dialogue with her­ self, a constant d rive toward her own truth. She knew how to follow subtle movements of her feelings and how to question and criticize herself. Even in states of extreme d istress, she re­ tained an unerring sense of emotional proportion, a kind of perfect inward pitch. She recognized her own tendencies to false exaltation and self-denigration, her attraction to grandiose ideas, and her possessive greed; she upbraided herself for them, and

[ viii }

countered them with insistence on moderation, and on the pre­ cise, modest word. "My protracted headaches: so much masoch­ ism; my abundant compassion: so much self-gratification," she

wrote severely. Etty knew she had to master her own excesses and conflicts, and to "give some form to the chaos" inside her.

H e r chosen guide in this endeavor was Julius Spier, a J ungian psychoanalyst cum palm reader and general guru. What can we make of the curious, ambiguous relationship between t he m ? By today's standards, aspects of it seem questionable. As part o f his therapeutic method, Spier engaged in eroticized tousles with his patients, which were not, apparently, supposed to lead to sexual intercourse. Etty's descriptions of his tanta lizing touches and k isses, o f the casual liberties he took with admiring fem a le pa­ tients, strike us as highly incorrect, to say the least. Yet, in putting her trust in this strange mentor, Etty was acting in tune with her time. The i n terwar decades were a period of eclectic psychoana­ lytic experiments, of eccentric adventures in self-exploration. As is so often true with charismatic figures, Spier's v irtues may have been d iscernible only through personal contact. Etty was some­ times perplexed by him; but even after their relationsip was consummated, she never doubted his integrity or his capacity to heal. She thought of him as gentle, good, spiritually complex; and she threw herself into her "work" with him unreservedly.

Perhaps Etty's relationship with Spier belonged less in the category of psychotherapy than i n a much older tradition of active philosophical teaching. Because she believed in h i m , Spier became her "task," the person against whom she tested and questioned herself, the occasion of her struggle and growt h . Her most arduous battle was with the problem of sexuality i n its modern, feminine v a riant. Etty was both seduced and riven by her desi res, torn between romantic yearnings for submergence and the need for independence. Through her real and meta­ phorical wrestlings with Spier, she trained herself to check her impulses and restrain the impetuousness of her needs. She d is-

{ i X }

covered that she could exist on her own without losing herself in another, and feel affection without making proprietorial claims. I n other words, she learned the kind of love that is closer to selfless agape than to urgent eros and that combines deep sympa­ thy with calm detachment.

The process of change is always mysterious, but in the middle stages of Etty's diary, it becomes almost palpable. Her writing becomes suffused with simpler, more serious tones. As both her tenderness and detachment deepened, she reported a new seren­ ity, a sense of identity that remained steadily itself. I ncreasingly, her writing points toward that border where attentiveness to subjectivity meets contemplation, where emotional intuition converges with moral thought.

In all of this, Etty had the courage to follow the thread of her own experience-and that thread took her further still, in more unexpected and radical d i rections. Etty never lost her mercurial responsiveness, even as she began to describe states we are accus­ tomed to identify as religious: gratitude for all that was given to her, a profound self-acceptance and acceptance of others, and a conviction, not of any specific set of meanings, but of meaning­ fulness itself-of the inward beauty and rightness of life. By winding her way through her own psyche to the point' of self­ reconciliation, she had come to a place where she could feel the hidden harmony of the world.

Of course Etty was making her later journal entries as the world was being torn apart by war, as the atmosphere for Dutch Jews turned daily more dangerous, as her friends were being deported and killed. Was it escapist of her to keep looking inward at such a time? She asked the question herself and an­ swered in the negative. "I feel like a small battlefield, in which the problems . . . of our time are being fought out," she wrote early in the diary, and she continued to be convinced that it was her vocation and everyone's duty to look first unto themselves and solve the war within. Certainly, her hard-won strength met

{ X }

the severest of tests. She faced the inexorable progress toward destruction without evasion. She confronted dangers to herself and her family with an almost stoical fearlessness, a balance that was no longer undermi ned by external assaults.

I n the last stages of her amazing and moving j ourney, Etty seemed to attain that peace which passeth understanding. Even in her powerful and unflinching letters, written from the hellish transit camp of Westerbork, Etty talks about the sustenance she d raws from reading and musing, and about savoring moments of beauty and quiet: the glorious blue sky, the field of purple lupins, the moon l ight made of silver and eternity. She was perfectly capable of writing about Westerbork in presciently astute terms. She was lucid about the politics of the Jewish Council for which she worked, about the situation of the Dutch Jews, and about the peculiarly fascinating society of the transit camp. But what she found within herself seemed to her more capacious and impor­ tant. At one point, she says she wants to write like Dostoyevsky; and there is indeed in her something of the Russian feeling-the sense of a majestic stream o f l i fe, which includes within itself pain and suffering as well as happiness and j oy, and which has to be accepted in all its encompassing depths. Etty came to see herself and her fellow human beings as part of that stream, and their human condition-their ability to love and hate, to maintain or give up their dignity-as always and everywhere the same. She remained vitally engaged with the people around her, but she had "let go" of any grasping attachments. Her ideas and her compas­ sion had become so completely incarnated in herself that she needed almost nothing else for a sense of fulfillment.

Finally, however, the violence and brutality she saw all around her overwhelmed even her capacity to understand. In her last letters, she spoke of what was happening at Westerbork as incom­ prehensible, mad, warped in a grotesque way. Perhaps herein lies a clue to her decision not to save herself. For the reader who comes to love Etty through her writing, as for the friends who

{ r i }

tried to rescue her, it is not easy to come to terms with that often reaffirmed choice. But perhaps it was a consistent result of her development. She had become exquisitely attuned to the currents of moral beauty, and she could not bear the ugliness that was flooding the world. She did not suppose that she was entirely immune from that ugliness. Because she had looked at herself so closely, she refused to engage in projection or collective hatred­ to declare that all evil existed within the enemy, and all goodness inside "us." For a heroically long time, she resisted the temptation to hate all Germans because of what many Germans were doing. But, finally, it became appropriate to hate. She found the guards at Westerbork bestial. She also felt that the position into which she and her fellow Jews were forced was horribly, hopelessly "twisted." Her descriptions of Westerbork inmates helping to load families, old people, and infants onto the doomed transport trains are ruthlessly candid and unbearably wrenching. She knew all too well that her survival would mean someone else's death, and the whole calculation seemed to her bitterly wrong. The meaning of staying alive had become utterly perverted, and per­ haps the only way for her to save meaning was by accepting death.

Etty Hillesum l ived at a time when the macrocosm of histori­ cal events almost completely crushed the microcosm of individ­ ual l i ves. It was her enormous act of resistance to reverse this order of importance, to assert that the microcosm of the soul can encompass the external world and, in addition, hold infinite space. By starting always with the origin of herself, she had forged an original and richly humane vision. Ultimately, no act of personal resistance or perception could withstand the imper­ sonal forces unleashed in the Holocaust. But by knowing and feeling so deeply and fully, an unknown young woman became one of the most exceptional and truest witnesses of the devasta­ tion through which she lived and of the suffering humankind whose fate she chose to join.

-Eva Hoffman

{ X l l }

Introauction

Eight exercise books closely written in a small, h a rd -to-decipher hand-ever since I first read them, I have been preoccupied by what they reveal : the life of Etty H i llesum. These exercise books set out the story of a twenty-seven-year-old woman from A m ­ sterdam. They cover t h e years 1 94 1 a n d 1 942, years of war a n d oppression for Holland, but for Etty a t i m e of personal growth and , paradoxically enough, of personal liberation. Those were the very years when the scenario of extermination was being played out all over Europe. Etty Hillesum was Jewish and she wrote a counterscenario.

Between her entry for Thursday, 10 November 1 94 1 - " Mor­ tal fea r in every fiber. Complete collapse. Lack o f self­ confidence. Aversion. Panic"-and that for Friday, 3 July 1 942-"Very well then, this new certainty that what they are a fter is o u r total destruction, I accept it. I know it now and I shall not burden others with my fears. I shall not be bitter i f others fail to grasp what is happening t o us Jews. I w o r k and continue to live with the same conviction and I find l i fe mean­ ingful , yes, meaningful"-between these two entries, Etty's whole existence is bracketed. Her relationships with lovers and friends, family and colleagues, her moods and feelings, her

{ xiii }

thoughts about Judaism, women, passion, the growing evidence of disruption in the world around her-she examined every­ thing and recorded it all frankly, clearly, and intensely. Lest she lose her grip on a "tempestuous, havoc-ridden world," she searched for the sources of her existence, finally discovering an attitude to l i fe that is best described as radical altruism. The last words in her d iary are: "We should be willing to act as a balm for all wounds."

The diary begins on Sunday, 9 March 1 94 1 . I n late January or early February of that year, Etty had met a man who was to become the focus of her thoughts and emotions. That man was Julius Spier, the founder of "psychochirology," the study and classification of palm prints. Spier-whom Etty refers to as S.­ was a Jewish emigrant from Berlin, born in Frankfurt on 25 April 1 887. He had once been a bank manager, and over the years he had d iscovered a talent for reading hands and palms. He also founded a publishing house, took singing lessons, and then moved to Zurich for analysis training under Carl Gustav Jung. It was Jung who persuaded him to turn his psycho­ chirology practice into a full-time profession.

Wherever Spier went, he attracted disciples. In 1 939 he j oined his sister in the Netherlands. His children, Ruth and Wolfgang, stayed on in Germany with his non-Jewish wife, from whom he had been d ivorced in 1 93 5 . A highly unusual man, Spier has been called a "magical personality" by many of his admirers, especially women. And indeed he seems to have had a most unusual gift for reading people's lives from thei r palms, and for interpreting the results with rare psychological insight.

For Etty, at least, he became a catalyst, setting her on a search for the essential, the truly human, in d ramatic opposition to the inhumanity around her.

I n the process, Etty developed a religious sensibility that gives her writings a profound spiritual dimension. The word "God " occurs in even her earliest entries, although there she uses it-as

{ X j II }

we o ften do in daily speech-almost unconsciously. Gradually, however, she moves toward an ever more intense dialogue with the d ivine. Etty's entries completely change style whenever she add resses God, and she add resses Him regularly, without the least embarrassment. Her religiosity is totally unconventional . In Holland today, Ch ristians and Jews are claiming Etty as typi­ cally C hristian or typically Jewish-an unprofitable d iscussion, because Etty chooses her own way. She has her own religious rhythm, not inspired by church or synagogue, or by dogmas, theology, liturgy, or tradition; all these were completely alien to her. She add resses God as she does herself. "When I pray," she writes, "I hold a silly, naive, or deadly serious d i alogue with what is deepest inside me, which for the sake of convenience I call God."

And l a ter: "I repose in myself. And that part of myself, that deepest and richest part in which I repose, is what I call 'God . ' "

The way she is sometimes absorbed in her conversation with God seems to be pure mysticism. Was she a mystic ? Perhaps, but she insisted that "mysticism must rest on crystal-clear honesty, and can only come after thi ngs have been stripped down to their naked reality." Her mysticism led her not into solitary contem­ plation but squarely back into the world of action. Her v ision had nothing to d o with escape or self-deception, and everyth ing to do with a hard-won, steady, and whole perception of reality. Her God, in a sense, resided in her own capacity to see the truth, to bea r it and find consolation in it.

We know l i ttle about Etty's life before the war. Esther-her official first name-was born on 15 January 1 9 1 4 in Middelburg, where her father, Dr. Louis Hillesum, taught classical lan­ guages. A fter moves to Tiel and Winschoten, he and h is family settled down in 1 924 in Deventer, a med ium-size city in the east of Holland, beautifully situated by the I Jssel River. There he became assistant headmaster and four years later headmaster of the town gymnasium.

{ X II }

Etty's father was an excellent and disciplined scholar-books and intellectual pursuits filled his life. Etty's mother, Rebecca Bernstein, was Russian by birth and had fled to the Netherlands after yet another pogrom. She was passionate, chaotic, and in almost everything quite the opposite of her husband. That led to a tempestuous marriage in the stately house at 9 Geert Grootes­ traat. It is difficult to say how much that affected the three children.

What is certain is that Etty and her brothers, Mischa and Jaap, were all intelligent and gifted. Although Etty's own direc­ tion in those days in Deventer was not yet fixed, she was witty, vivid, eager to read books and to study philosophy, and in these ways she was far ahead of her school friends. Mischa was a brilliant musician who played Beethoven in public at the age of six. He was considered by many to be one of the most promising pianists in Europe. His talent as a musician dominated the daily course of the household . And her other brother, Jaap, d iscovered several new vitamins when he was seventeen, for which he won admission to the academic laboratories, an unusual honor for a medical student. He later became a doctor.

Etty left her father's school in 1932, went on to take her first degree in law at the University of Amsterdam, then enrolled in the Faculty of Slavonic Languages. By the time she turned to the study of psychology, the Second World War had broken out and her l i fe had begun to assume the character we discern in these diaries.

Etty's l i fe in Amsterdam is not easy to reconstruct. I n her diaries she talks most of the time about two specific groups of people: one, the so-called Spier group; the other, the "family" of five with whom she l ived.

Just before the war Etty had moved to a large house at 6 Gabriel Metsustraat, in South Amsterdam. Her room on the third floor overlooked the Museumplein, the main square in

{ XV i }

Amsterdam, with the Concert-hall at one end, the Rijksmuseum at the other, and a skating rink in the middle.

The owner of the house, Han Wegerif, a widower of sixty­ two, had asked Etty to l ive there as a sort of housekeeper. Be­ sides H a n (Etty usually refers to him as Father Han or Papa Han, although she soon developed an intimate relationship with him) and his twenty-one-year-old son Hans, who was studying

economics, there was a German cook called Kathe, a reasonable "social-democrat" called Bernard, and Maria Tuinzing, a nurse who became one of Etty's best friends. These l ast two rented their rooms.

The other main circle that Etty describes is the group a round J ul ius Spier, the psychochirologist. She had met him at a m usic evening at the home o f Mien Kuyper, where her brother and another pianist, Evaristos Glassner, played and where Spier used to sing. A d r i Holm, Henny ("Tide") Tideman, Dicky de Jonge, Lies) Levie, and Etty frequently gathered at 2 7 Cou rbetstraat in South Amsterdam where Spier rented a room in the house of the Nethe fam ily. (Etty was separated from him, she w rites, "by three streets, a canal, and a little bridge.") Spier talked w i th them about palm prints and psychology, and he also became a therapist to each one. After three or fou r therapy sessions Etty became his assistant ("my Russian secretary") and, a fter a w h i le, his lover and intellectual partner.

Etty spent another part of her l i fe in the academic world of students and professors of Russian language, such as Professors Van W i j k and Becker, and through them she made connections with the leftist student resistance. Becker recommended her as a Russian teacher and sent her pupils, which enabled her to earn some money. I n her diary Etty mentions a number of friends and acquaintances, using j ust thei r fi rst names. I t is not essential to an understanding of the diary for us to know anyth i ng more about them, and indeed, in most cases I have not been able to

{ X V i i }

find more information about them. Wherever I have thought it important I have added a note.

Etty was twenty-seven years old when she began her diary. A t h e r d e s k in t h e small room o n Gabriel Metsustraat Etty pro­ d u ced one of the most remarkable texts of our time-a testi­ mony of faith and love written in the darkest hours of modern history. At the time she started writing Holland was increas­ ingly under the sway of Germany's reign of terror. After Hol­ land's capitulation in May 1 940 the Germans began to isolate the Dutch Jews. When in February 1941 the first anti-pogrom strike in European h istory broke out in Amsterdam, the Nazis intensi­ fied their pressure on the Jews and on any form of Dutch resis­ tance. Jews were thrown out of their jobs, forbidden to buy in stores frequented by non-Jews, and otherwise maltreated; ghet­ toes were created and "work camps" set up. I n April 1 942, the Germans launched their first major roundups of the Jews, re­ quired them to wea r the yellow star, and, after moving all the Jews they could find to Amsterdam, declared the provinces 'Judenrein."

Through the influence of friends, Etty was given a job as a typist in one of the departments of the Jewish Council . As in other occupied countries, the Council was formed at the instiga­ tion of the Germans to mediate between the Nazis and the mass of Jews. The Nazis gave orders to the Council and then let it decide how to implement them. The Council was under the illusion that by negotiation it could save the Jews from the worst. I ts declared purpose was to decide who was fit to be sent away for "labor service" and who was indispensable at home; its real purpose was to calm the fears of the panic-stricken Jews. In this way the Council became a subtle weapon in the hands of the Nazis.

A d iscussion of the role of the Jewish Council falls outside the scope of this introduction, nor is this the place to pass j udgment

{ xviii ]

on it. What is relevant is that Etty began work on 15 July 1 942, at about the same time a girl named Anne Frank, hidden in a house a few miles away, began writing her diary. I n the same month the fi rst big street roundup took place in Amsterd a m . T h e N a z i s wanted t o concentrate all t h e J e w s in Westerbork, a transit camp (Durchgangslager) in the east of the Netherlands, not far from the German border. Though not itself an extermi­ nation camp, Westerbork would be the last stop before Ausch­ witz for more than I 00,000 Dutch Jews. Etty volunteered to accompany the Jews arrested in the roundups to Westerbork, where she worked in the camp hospital. Thanks to a special permit from the Jewish Council she was able to travel to A m ­ sterdam a d o z e n times. S h e brought letters and messages from Westerbork to Amsterdam and even to resistance groups, and picked u p medicines to bring back. Etty's health was often very poor and in September 1942 she stayed in Amsterdam for almost three months. Finally, early in June 1 943, she took leave of her close friends and departed Amsterdam for Westerbork, this time never to return.

B ui l t at the end of 1 939 by the Dutch government, Westerbork was originally intended to house some fifteen hund red German Jews who had fled to the Netherlands before the war. Etty a rrived there j ust as the human landslide began, when room suddenly had to be found on the small site for thirty or forty thousand people, including the Jews of Amsterdam, who had been crowded i n to a ghetto d u ring the previous months. Some reported v ol u ntarily; the rest had been picked up in the streets or d ragged out of their houses. From other prison and labor camps-for instance, the notorious camp i n Vught and the ones in Amsterdam, Ommen, and Ellecom-Jews were packed off to Westerbork. (The exceptions were a small number of "cultural Jews"-intellectuals, artists, even bankers-who, at the i n terces­ sion of a few high Dutch officials, could be assigned to a castle in

{ Xi X }

the small town of Barneveld. Etty's brother Mischa was eligible for Barneveld, but he refused to go without his parents. Later all the Jews in this refuge were sent to Theresienstadt v ia Wes­ terbork, and most survived.)

The camp was a community living in fear, doomed by the threat of the weekly transport train leaving for Poland. Every Monday a train pulled into the camp; every Tuesday the long line of freight cars pulled out again, packed with more than a thousand men, women, boys, girls, and infants. From 1 5 J uly 1 942 until 3 September 1 944, week in and week out, the trains left, ninety-three in all.

The aim of those d ispatched to Westerbo rk, each clutching the "stamps" the Jewish Council had issued, was to remain there as long as possible. The stamps entitled them to stay a little longer in the camp-a week, two weeks, occasionally a few months. But in the long run, time ran out for all stampholders, including the members of the Jewish Council, most of whom were deported in June 1 943.

As Etty wrote in one of her many letters during 1 942 and 1 943, mud and misery were the essence of Westerbork-as were sick ness and overcrowd ing-a universe of noise and fea r crammed into a patch of heath half a kilometer square. I t w a s in this hell that she spent the last months of her l i fe, continuing to keep her d iary, to write her letters, and, with great devotion, to nurse the sick in the hospital barracks. And it was in this hell that she wrote again and again, "Despite everything, life is full of beauty and meaning."

Most of Etty's letters were add ressed to the friends already fa­ miliar to readers of her diary: Han Wegerif, his son Hans, the housekeeper Kathe, Maria Tuinzing, and Tide. Then there were Klaas Smelik, his daughter Johanna ("Jopie") Smelik, Milli Ort­ mann, and Christine van Nooten, a colleague of Etty's father.

{ X X }

Milli Ortmann and Christine van Nooten kept sending food

parcels to the Hi llesums through the Red Cross, which did much to sustain them in Westerbork. Often the letters were simply add ressed in the most general terms ("My d ea r people"), or not at all, meant to be passed around among the larger group o f friends.

Etty's letters vividly describe the crowded wooden barracks, the muddy heath, the labyrinths of barbed wi re, and the field of wildflowers at the edge of the camp. She captures the human atmosphere of Weste rbork, from the hie rarchy of camp leaders and guards to the daily struggle to stay alive, from the poignant reunions with friends and family to the wrenching departu res on the weekly transport. As she put it in one of the last entries in her dia ry, she wanted to be the "thinking heart of the barracks." And she was. She fired the imagination of many camp inmates; survivors still speak of her "shining persona l i ty . " Wherever she was, she attracted a community of human fellowship. So it is not surprising that her letters reveal the growth of a whole new circle of close Westerbork friends: Osias Korma nn, who became her i ntimate companion, and to whom she wrote a number of letters from Amsterdam d uring her leave from Westerbork, Hedwig and Jupp Mahler, Jopie Vleesch houwer, whom she called her "comrade-in-a rms," Philip Mechanicus, author of In Depot, a d iary that became famous after the war, and, of course,

Werner and Lies) Levie, old friends from Amsterd a m . I n time, they were j oined by Etty's parents and her brother Mischa. Etty's older brother, Jaap, was allowed to remain i n Amsterdam for a w h i l e to carry out his medical d uties.

I t was in this ci rcle that Etty Hillesum d isplayed her courage and human ity to the fullest. In Westerbork her soul found its deepest expression: she placed herself unreservedly at the serv ice of her people. During the time she was still perm itted to travel, she spurned all attempts by her Amsterdam friends to take her

{ X X j j

to a safe house (on one occasion, by force). Later, when she was no longer allowed to leave the camp, she rejected all offers to help her escape. She was determined to share the fate of her fellow Jews, without bravado, but also without despair. "Po­ land" to her was synonymous with destruction; she did not de­ lude herself on that score. She knew that she would not survive, although she tried to calm her friends by predicting her return. How death would come to her she did not know. No one in Westerbork had heard about the gas chambers, but many sus­ pected that their fate was sealed.

On 7 September 1943, after a deportation order had been issued for Mischa, Etty, and her parents, Etty stepped onto the platform beside a waiting train bound for Poland. Jopie Vleeschhouwer described her departure in a letter to the friends in Amsterdam: "Talking gaily, smiling, a kind word for every­ one she met on the way, full of sparkling humor, perhaps j ust a touch of sadness, but every inch the Etty you all know so well. . . . I saw Mother, Father H., and Mischa board car No. 1. Etty finished up in No. 12, having first stopped to look for a friend in car No. 14, who was pulled out again at the last minute. Then a shrill whistle and the 1,000 'transport cases' were moving out. Another flourish from Mischa, who waved through a crack in No. I, a cheerful 'Bye' from Etty in No. 12, and they were gone."

The j ourney was to last three days. Before they finally left the Netherlands, Etty threw a postcard add ressed to Christine van Nooten out of the train. I t was found and sent by farmers: "We left the camp singing," it read. They reached Auschwitz on 10 September 1943. That very day, her mother and father were gassed.

On 30 November 1943, the Red Cross reported the death of Etty Hillesum. Her brother Mischa died on 3 1 March 1 944. Jaap was sent to Bergen-Belsen at the beginning of 1944. He survived the camp but died on the way back to Holland.

{ xxii ]

Etty's d i aries were finally published almost forty years a fter her death. Etty k new instinctively that she would not return from the camps and asked her friend Maria Tui n z ing to give her d ia ries to K laas Smelik and his daughter Johanna after the war. Klaas Smelik was the only writer she knew, and she hoped he could find a publisher. She wanted to leave some trace of her l i fe behind and share her insights with future generations. But de­ spite the Smelik family's best efforts, the d i a r ies remained un­ published. After a number of years the Smeliks gave u p the a ttempt, until 1 980, when Klaas Smelik, Jr., asked me to look at the eight tattered notebooks. The very first sentences I read fascinated and shocked me, and they have remai ned with me ever smce.

The letters came into my possession at the same time as the d iaries. Most of them had circulated among Etty's friends dur­ ing the war and had eventually ended up i n Maria Tui nzing's hands. Two long letters from the camp-those of 18 December 1 942 and 24 August 1 943-had been clandestinely published at the end of 1 943 in book form by the Dutch Resistance. As a result of the new and widespread interest in Etty's l i fe, a numbe r of n e w letters h a v e come t o l ight, a n d it is certainly possible that still more will be unearthed; d uring the last months of her l i fe, Etty probably wrote over a hund red. But there w i l l be no more d iaries; Etty took her last notebook with her on the train to Auschwitz.

As of this writing, Etty H i llesum's d ia ries have been published i n fourteen countries and translated into twelve languages. And now, the d iaries and letters finally appear in one volume, which i s appropriate, because they represent one integral narrative. Etty made no essential d istinction between her jou rnal and her correspondence. Her letters, in fact, are a k i n d of epistolary j ou rnal i n which she shares with her friends her inti mate

{xxiii]

thoughts, her passions, her insights. But having the two texts side by side does allow us to glimpse the fullest possible portrait of this extraordinary figure, whose very existence was, as Ter­ rence Des Pres so movingly put it, "a marvelous gift."

{ xxiv }

Jan G. Gaarlandt Haarlem, Holland May 1 996

An Interrupter/ Life T H E D I A R I E S , 1 9 4 1 - 1 9 4 3

Sunday, 9 March [1 941]. Here goes, then. This is a painfu l and well-nigh insuperable step for me: yielding up so much that has been suppressed to a blank sheet of lined paper. The thoughts i n my head are sometimes so clear and so s h a r p and m y feel ings s o deep, b u t writing about them comes h a r d . T h e main d i fficulty, I think, is a sense of shame. So many inhibitions, so m uch fea r o f letting go, of allowing thi ngs to pour out of m e , and y e t that i s w h a t I must do if I am ever to give my l i fe a reasonable and satisfactory purpose. I t is like the final, liberating scream that al ways sticks bashfully in your throat when you make love. I am accomplished in bed, just about seasoned enough I should think to be counted among the better lovers, and love does indeed suit me to perfection, and yet it remains a mere trifle, set apart from what is truly essential, and deep inside me something is still locked a way. The rest of me is like that, too. I a m blessed enough intellectually to be able to fathom most subjects, to ex­ press myself clearly on most things; I seem to be a match for most of l i fe's problems, and yet deep down something l i k e a tightly wound ball of twine binds me relentlessly, and at times I am nothing more or less than a miserable, frightened creature, despite the clarity with which I can express myself.

[ 3 J

Let me fix that moment earlier this morning, although it has nearly slipped from my grasp again. Through sheer brainwork I got the better of S. for an instant.' His penetrating, clear gaze, his full, sensual mouth; his bull-like, burly figure and his feather-light, easy movements. A fifty-four-year-old in whom the struggle between the spirit and the flesh is still in ful l cry. And it seemed as if I were being crushed under the weight of that struggle. I lay buried under his personality and could not

get away; my own problems, which seemed to be much of the same kind, made me flounder. I can't really put it into words; in any case I am not yet as honest with myself as I should be, and it is always hard to get to the bottom of things with words.

First impression after a few minutes: a face that was not sensual, un-Dutch, a not unfamiliar type, not altogether sympa­ thetic.

Second impression: intelligent, incredibly wise, age-old gray eyes, which d rew one's attention from the full mouth, but not for long or altogether. I was awed by his skill, his ability to read my deepest conflicts from my second face: my hands. There was

an oddly disagreeable moment, when my attention slipped and I thought he was referring to my parents when, in fact, he meant me: "Philosophically and intuitively gifted," he said, and more in the same vein. He spoke as one might when giving sweets to a small child. "Happy now? Look, here you are, you've got all these marvelous qualities, so why aren't you happy now ? " I felt an instant dislike, a sense of humiliation, though it was probably only my aesthetic feelings that were hurt. Anyway, I thought he was pretty odious just then. But later those marvelously h uman eyes, sizing me up from out of gray depths, rested again on my own. I would dearly have l iked to kiss those eyes.

Now that I think about it, there was another time, that Mon­ day morning some weeks ago now, when he d isgusted me. A year before, a pupil of his, Miss Holm,Z had come to see him,

r 4 1

covered from head to toe with eczema. Became his patient. Was

cured. Now worships him, in a manner of spea k ing, although I'm not quite sure what manner that is exactly. My a r rogance took over at one point, and I said I'd prefer to solve my own problems. Meaningfully Miss Holm said, "No man is an islan d . " T h a t h a d a nice, convincing ring t o it. A n d then s h e spoke about the eczema that had afflicted her, including her face, so badly. And S. turned toward her with a gesture I can't recall accurately any longer but which I found very unpleasant: "And what's your complexion like now, then, eh ? " He could have been talk­ ing about a cow at market. I don't know, but I thought he was vile at that moment, sensual, a bit cynical, and yet there was someth ing else about him, too.

Then, at the end of the session: "Now we must ask o u rselves,

what can we do to help this person ? " Or maybe it was, "This person needs help." By that point I had been won over by the demonstration of his skill and I felt in need of his help.

And then there was his lecture. I only went to it so that I could watch him from a distance, examine him from a fa r before yielding myself unreservedly to him. The impression was good. F i rst-rate lecture.

A charm ing man. Cha rming smile, despite the false teeth. I fell under the spell of the inner freedom that seemed to emanate from him, of the suppleness, ease, and singular grace of his heavy body. His face looked quite different again-it seems d i fferent every time I see it; back home, by myself, I cannot con j u re i t up i n my mind. I try to assemble all the pieces I know as one might a j igsaw puzzle, but they refuse to fit together, remain i n dimly seen conflict. Sometimes I get a quick, clear glimpse of the face before me, but then it falls apart again into dispa rate pieces. Most annoying.

There were many attractive women and girls at his lectu re. I was touched by the almost palpable love he was shown by sev­ eral " Aryan" gi rls-he, the Jew who had fled from Berlin, who

[ 5 1

had to come all the way from Germany to help them to inne r peace. I n t h e corridor stood a slender young girl, w i t h a peaky, delicate, not altogether healthy-looking face.3 As he passed-it was the interval-S. exchanged a few words with her, and she gave a smile so charged with devotion, so obviously from the very depths of her soul, and so intense, that it almost hurt me. I was suddenly filled with a vague sense of unease, wondered whether all was really as it seemed, had the feeling: that man is stealing this young girl's smile, and all the tenderness this child bears him is stolen from someone else, from the man who will l ater be her own. What he d id was pretty mean and unfair. He was clearly a dangerous man.

Next visit. "I can only afford twenty guilders." "That's a l l right, y o u c a n come for t w o months, a n d I shan't turn you away after that either, if you still need me, that is."

I had done it now, me with my "spiritual constipation." He would bring order to my inner chaos, harness the forces now at loggerheads within me. He took me metaphorically by the hand and said, look, that's how you should live. All my l i fe I had had the feeling that, for all my apparent self-reliance, if someone came along, took me by the hand, and bothered about me, I would be only too willing and eager to deliver myself up to his care. And there he was now, this complete stranger, this S. with his complicated face. And in j ust one week he worked wonders with me, almost in spite of myself. Gymnastics, breathing exer­ cises, and i l luminating, liberating words about my depression, my attitude to others, and the like. Suddenly I was living d i ffer­ ently, more freely, more flowingly; the costive feeling vanished, a little calm and order came into my life, at first entirely under the influence of his magical personality, but gradually with the as­ sent of my own psyche, of my own awareness.

But to go back. "Body and soul are one." That was no doubt why he began to test my physical strength in a sort of wrestling

[ 6 1

match. It was apparently more than adequate, for remarkably

enough, I floored the man, big though he was. All my inner tensions, the bottled-up forces, broke free, and there he lay, physically and also mentally, as he told me later, thrown. No one had ever been able to do that to him before, and he could not conceive how I had managed it. His lip was bleeding. I was allowed to dab it clean with eau de cologne, an embarrassingly intimate t hing to do. But then he was so "free," so guileless, so open, so unaffected in his movements, even as we tumbled about together on the ground. And even when I , held tightly in his arms and finally tamed, lay under him, he remained "objective," pure, while I surrendered to the physical spell he emanate d . It all seemed so innocent, this wrestling, new and unexpected, and so liberating. I t was not until later that i t took hold of my fantasies.

Sunday night in the bathroom. Now I am immaculately clean from top to toe. Just the sound of his voice over the telephone tonight was enough to make my body betray me. B ut I swore like a navvy, tel ling myself that I was no longer a hysterical teenager. And I suddenly understood those monks who flagel­ late themselves to tame their sinful flesh. I fought a v i olent battle with myself. I raged, and then there was profound clarity and peace, and now I feel gloriously, immaculately clean inside and out. S. has been thrown again, for the umpteenth time. Will it go on like this for long ? I am not in love with him, but sometimes I feel that his personality, not quite "rounded" yet, still at odds with itself, is weighing me down. At the moment it is not. I can view him with detachment now: a living, battling man endowed with primitive strength, and yet spiritua l , with penetrating eyes and a sensual mouth.

The day began so well , with my head bright and clear, and I made up my mind to write it all down later. But later came a really bad fit of depression, an inescapable pressure in my skull

[ 7 J

and gloomy thoughts, much too gloomy to bear for long, and behind it all the emptiness of my quest; but that's something else I shall have to fight.

"Melodious rolls the world from God's right hand. " This line by Verwey4 was stuck in my head all day. I too wanted to roll melodiously out of God's hand. And now goodnight.

Monday morning, 9 o 'clock. Come on, my girl, get down to work or God help you. And no more excuses either, no l i ttle headache here or a bit of nausea there, or I 'm not feeling very well. That is absolutely out of the question. You've just got to work, and that's that. No fantasies, no grandiose ideas, and no earth­ shattering insights. Choosing a subject and finding the right words a re much more important. And that is something I have to learn and for which I must fight to the death: all fantasies and d reams shall be ejected by force from my brain, and I shall sweep mysel f clean from within, to make space for real studies, large and small. To tell the truth, I have never worked properly. I t's the same with sex. I f someone makes an impression on me, I can revel in erotic fantasies for days and nights on end. I don't think I ever realized how much energy that consumes, and how much it is bound to detract from any real contact. Reality does not chime with my imagination, because my imagination tends

to run riot. That's how it was that time with S. as well . I had formed a fixed idea of my visit to him, and I went there in a kind of rapture, leotard under my woolen d ress. But everything turned out quite differently. He was matter-of-fact again and remote, and I instantly turned rigid. And the physical exercises weren't any good, either. When I stood there in my leotard, both of us looked as embarrassed as Adam and Eve after they had eaten the apple. He d rew the curtains and locked the door, and his usual freedom of movement had gone and I would have liked to run away and weep, it fel t so horrible when we were

{ 8 1

rolling about on the floor, as I clung tightly to him, sensuously

and yet revolted by it all. What he did was anything but excit­ ing, and I was overwhelmed by disgust. Yet if l hadn't had those fantasies, everything would no doubt have been quite d i fferent. There was an i mmediate and mighty collision of my extravagan t fantasy l i fe w i t h t h e sober reality: an embarrassed a n d sweating man tuck ing a crumpled shirt into his trousers when i t was all over.

A n d it's exactly the same with my work. At times I can suddenly see a subject clearly and distinctly, think my way through it, great sweeping thoughts that I can scarcely grasp but which a l l at once give me an intense feeling of i m portance. Yet when I try to write them down they shrivel into nothing, and that's why I lack the courage to commit them to paper-in case I become too disillusioned with the fatuous l i ttle essay that emerges.

But let me impress j ust one thing upon you, sister. Wash your hands o f a l l attempts to embody those great, sweeping thoughts. The smallest, most fatuous l i ttle essay is worth more than the flood o f grandiose ideas in w hich you l ike to wallow. O f course you must hold on to your forebodings and your intu i tions. They are the sources upon which you d raw, but be careful not to d rown in them. Just organize things a little, exercise some mental hygiene. Your imagination and your emotions a re like a vast ocean from which you wrest small pieces of land that may well be flooded again. That ocean is wide and elemental, but what m a tter are the small pieces of land you reclaim from it. The subject right before you is more important than those pro­ d igious thoughts on Tolstoy and Napoleon that occurred to you in the m iddle of last night, and the lesson you gave that keen young girl on Friday night is more important than all your vague philosophizings. Never forget that. Don't overestimate your own i n tensity; it may give you the impression that you are

[ 9 1

cut out for greater things than the so-called man in the street, whose inner life is a closed book to you. In fact, you are no more than a weakling and a nonentity adrift and tossed by the waves.

Keep your eye fixed on the mainland and don't flounder helplessly in the ocean. And now to the job in hand !

Wednesday night. [ . . . ] My protracted headaches: so m uch masochism; my abundant compassion: so much self-gratification.

Compassion can be creative, but i t can also be greedy. Objec­ tiv ity is better than swooning in great emotions. For example, clinging to one's parents: one has to see theln as people with a destiny of their own. The desire to prolong ecstatic moments is misplaced . It's understandable, of course: you long for an hour's moving spiritual or "soulful" experience, even if it is followed by the inevitable jolt as you come down to earth again. Such jolts used to annoy me, I would be overcome with fatigue, and pine for more of those exalted moments. Call it by its proper name: ambition. What I put down on paper must be perfect right away; I don't l ike putting in the daily grind. And I'm not really sure of my own talent; it doesn't really feel l ike an organic part of me. I n near-ecstatic moments I think myself capable of God knows what, only to sink back again into the deepest pit of uncertainty. That happens because I fail to work each day at what I believe is my real talent: writing.

Theoretically I have known that for a long time; a few years ago I scribbled on a scrap of paper, "Grace d u ring its rare ap­ pearances m ust be welcomed with polished skil l . " But that was something that leaped out of my brain and still hasn't been translated i n to flesh and blood. Has a new phase of my l i fe really begu n ? But the question mark is wrong. A new phase shall begin ! Battle has been joined. "Battle" isn't right either, since at this moment I feel so good and harmonious, so utterly whole, or rather: my awareness is growing apace and everything that was

[ 1 0 1

locked up in my head until now in the shape of precisely worked-out formulae is about to flow into my heart. But my exaggerated self-consciousness will have to go first-! still enjoy this in-between state too much. Everything will have to become more straightforward, until in the end I shall, perhaps, fi nish up as an a d u lt, capable of helping other souls who are in trouble, and o f creating some sort of clarity th rough my work for others, for that's what it's really all about.

1 5 March, 9:30A.M. [ . . . ] Yesterday a fternoon we read over the notes he had given me. And when we came to the words, " I f there were o n l y o n e human being worthy of t h e n a m e of 'man,' then we should be j ustified in believing in men and in human­ ity," I threw my arms round him on a sudden impulse. I t is the problem o f our age: hatred of Germans poisons everyone's mind . "Let the bastards d rown, the lot of them"-such sentiments have become part and parcel of our daily speech and sometimes make one feel that l i fe these days has grown impossible. Until suddenly, a few weeks ago, I had a l iberating thought that sur­ faced in me like a hesitant, tender young blade of grass thrusting its way through a wilderness of weeds: if there were only one decent German, then he should be cherished despite that whole barbaric gang, and because of that one decent German i t is wrong to pour hatred over an entire people.

That doesn't mean you have to be halfhearted; on the con­ trary, you must m a ke a stand, wax indignant at times, try to get to the bottom of things. But ind iscriminate hatred is the worst t h i ng there is. It is a sickness of the soul. H atred does not lie in my nature. I f things were to come to such a pass that I began to hate people, then I would k now that my soul was sick and I should have to look for a cure as quickly as possible. I used to believe that my inner conflicts were due to a particular cause, but that was much too superficial an explanation. I thought that

[ II }

they simply reflected a clash between my primitive instinct as a Jew threatened with destruction and my acquired, rational­ ist and socialist belief that no nation is an undifferentiated mob.

But it goes deeper than that. Socialism lets in hatred against everything that is not socialist through the back door. That is crudely put, but I know what I mean. I have recently made it my business to preserve harmony in this household of so many conflicting elements: a German woman, a Christian of peasant stock, who has been a second mother to me; a Jewish girl stu­ dent from Amsterdam; an old, levelheaded social democrat; Ber­ nard the Philistine, with his pure heart and his fai r intellect, but limited by his background; and an upright young economics student, a good Christian, full of gentleness and sympathetic understanding but also with the kind of Christian mil itancy and rectitude we have become accustomed to in recent times.5 Ours was and is a bustling little world, so threatened by politics from outside as to be disturbed within. But it seems a worthy task to keep this small community together as a refutation of all those

desperate and false theories of race, nation, and so on. As proof that life cannot be forced into pre-set molds. But doing this causes a great deal of inner struggle and disappointment, and now and then means inflicting pain on others, and anger and remorse. Sometimes when I read the papers or hear reports of what is happening all round, I am suddenly beside mysel f with anger, cursing and swearing at the Germans. And I know that I do it deliberately in order to hurt Kathe, to work off my anger as best I can. Even if it is against a dear friend who I know is fi lled with love for her country of birth, which is only natural and understandable. But sometimes I can't bear the thought that she cannot share my hatred-1 want to feel at one with my fellow beings even in that. And all this when I know perfectly well that she finds the new order as dreadful as I do, and is j ust as bowed down by the excesses of her people. But deep down she

[ 1 2 }

is of course one of her people, and while I understand, I some­ times cannot bear it. The whole nation must be destroyed root and branch. And now and then I say nastily, "They' re all scum," and at the same time I feel terribly ashamed and deeply unhappy but can't stop even though I know that it's all wrong. At other times, we all feel very close to Kathe and tell her encouragingly, "Yes, of course, there are still some good Germans, and anyway the soldiers can do nothing about it, and there are some quite nice ones even among them ." But that is only in theory, of course; these few friendly words help us to tuck away what misgiv ings we have left. I f we really felt like that, we should not have had to say it so emphatically si nce we should all be feeling the same way, the German peasant woman and the Jewish stu­ dents, and then we could all tal k about the nice weather or cabbage soup, instead of torturing ourselves with acrimonious d iscussions. For these discussions are hardly ever concerned with real politics, with any attempt to grasp major political trends or to fathom the underlying currents. On the contrary, everything looks so clear-cut and ugly, which is why it is so unpleasant to d iscuss pol itics in the present climate and why I fel t that sudden urge to fling myself at S., an oasis in a desert. This is by no means my last word on the subject, but now I must think of my work, and take a breath of fresh air.

Sunday morning, 1 1 o'clock. I . . . ] My l i fe's priorities have been suddenly changed . In the past, I liked to start the day on an empty stomach with Dostoyevsky or Hegel, and d u ring odd, j umpy moments I might also darn a stocking if I absolutely had to. Now I start the day, in the most literal sense, with the stocking and gradually work my way up through the other essential chores to higher planes, where I can meet poets and philosophers again. I shall have to sweat blood to rid my style of a l l that pathos if I am ever to make anything of it, but really it's all a matter of looking for the right words.

r 1 3 1

Half-past twelve, after my walk, which has by now become a cherished tradition. On Tuesday morning, while studying Lermontov, I jotted down that S.'s head keeps peering at me from behind Lermontov, that I want to speak to him and stroke his dear face, and that I can't do any work as a result. That seems quite a long time ago now. Everything has changed a little since. H is head is still there when I work, but it no longer distracts me; it has become a familiar, beloved backdrop, his features have grown blurred, his face has dissolved into vapor, a wraith, call it what you will. And here I have hit upon some­ thing essential. Whenever I saw a beautiful flower, what I longed to do with it was press it to my heart, or eat it all up. I t was more difficult with a piece o f beautiful scenery, but the feel i ng was the same. I was too sensual, I might almost write too greedy. I yearned physically for all I thought was beautiful, wanted to own it. Hence that painful longing that could never be satisfied, the pining for something I thought unattainable, which I called my creative urge. I believe it was this powerful emotion that made me think that I was born to produce great works. It all suddenly changed, God alone knows by what inner process, but it is different now. I realised it only this morning, when I recalled my short walk round the Skating Club a few nights ago. It was dusk, soft hues in the sky, mysterious silhou­ ettes of houses, trees alive with the light through the tracery of their branches, in short, enchanting. And then I knew precisely how I had felt in the past. Then all that beauty would have gone like a stab to my heart, and I would not have known what to do with the pain. Then I would have felt the need to write, to compose verses, but the words would still have refused to come. I would have fel t utterly miserable, wallowed in the pain, and exhausted myself as a result. The experience would have sapped all my energy. Now, I know it for what it was: mental mastur­ bation.

[ 1 4 1

But that n ight, only just gone, I reacted quite d i fferently. I felt that God's world was beautiful despite everythi ng, but its beauty now fil led me with joy. I was j ust as deeply moved by that mysterious, still landscape in the d usk as I might have been before, but somehow I no longer wanted to own it. I went home invigorated and got back to work. And the scenery stayed with me, in the background, as a cloak about my soul, to put it poetically for once, but it no longer held me bac k : I no longer "mastu rbated" with it.

And that's what it's l ike with S. as well, indeed with everyone nowadays. That c ritical afternoon, when I sat rigid, staring at him and unable to utter a word, was no doubt also a reflection of my "greed . " That afternoon he told me a few things about his personal l i fe. About his wife from whom he was d i v o rced but to whom he still wrote, about the girlfriend in London whom he wanted to marry but who was so lonely and dej ected now, about an old flame, a ravishingly beautiful singer, with whom he still corresponded as well.6 Then we wrestled again, and I was deeply a ffected by his great, attractive body .

A n d w h e n I s a t facing him again a n d fell silent, I w a s moved perhaps just as I used to be by a walk through beautiful scenery. I wanted to "own" him. I wanted him to be part of me. True, I d i d not long for him as one longs for a man, he had not yet moved me sexually, and though I never felt quite relaxed with him he had touched me to the very depths of my being, and that was more important. And so I wanted to own him, and I hated all those women of whom he had spoken to me; I was jealous of them, and perhaps wondered, although not consciously, what part of him was left for me, and fel t that I had no hold over him after a l l . These feelings were really petty, not on a high plane at all, but I d i d not realize that at the time. All I fel t was w retch­ edly unhappy and lonely-I realize why now-and all I wanted was to get away from him and to write. I think I know what all the " writing" was about as well: it was j ust another way o f

{ I 5 }

"owning," of d rawing things in more tightly to oneself with words and images. And I'm sure that that used to be the very essence of my urge to write: I wanted to creep silently away from everyone with all my carefully hoarded treasure, to write it all down, keep tight hold of it, and have it all to myself. And this grasping attitude, which is the best way I have of describing it, suddenly fell away from me. A thousand tyrannical chains were broken, and I breathed freely again and fel t strong and looked about with shining eyes. And now that I don't want to own anything any more and am free, now I suddenly own every­ thing, now my inner riches are immeasurable.

S. is completely mine now, even if he were to leave for China tomorrow. I feel him round me and I l ive in his aura; i f I see him again on Wednesday that's fine, but I no longer sit about desperately counting the days as I did the week before. And I no longer ask Han, "Do you still love me ? " "Do you still think I'm special ? " or "Are you sure I 'm still your favorite ? " That, too, was a kind of clinging, a physical clinging to what can never be physical. And now I live and breathe through my "soul," if I may use that discredited word.

And now I know what S. meant after my first visit to him. "What's in here [and he pointed to his head] must get down there [and he pointed to his heart] ." At the time it wasn't clear to me how his work could bring that about, but it did, I still cannot tell how. He assigned their proper places to all the things that went on i nside me; it was like a j igsaw puzzle, all the pieces were mixed up, and he put them together properly. How he d id it I can't tell, but it's his business after all, his profession, and people know what they're talking about when they speak of his "magical personality."

Wednesday. [ . . . ] I surprised myself with a need for m usic. I don't seem to be unmusical, am seized with interest whenever I

[ 1 6 1

hear a piece of music but have never had the patience to sit down specially to listen to it; my full attention has a l ways been reserved for l iterature and the theater, areas that are within the province of my own thoughts. And now, quite suddenly, m usic is beginning to press its claims, and once again I find that I am open to an experience that makes me forget myself. And it is above a l l for the l impid, serene classics that I long, not for those mangled modern composers.

9:00 P. M. God help me and give me strength, for the struggle is boun d to be d i fficult. His mouth and body were so c l ose this afternoon that I cannot get them out of my mind . And I don't want to have an affair with him, though things are fast moving in that d irection. But I don 't want it. His future wife is in Lon­ don, lonely and waiting for him. And my own ties are very precious to me as well . Now that I am gradually becoming more composed, I am able to acknowledge that I am real l y a v e ry serious person who does not like to make l ight of love. What I really want is a man for l i fe, and to build something together with h i m . And all the adventures and transient relationships I have had have made me utterly miserable, tearing me apart. B u t I a l ways lacked t h e strength t o resist, and my c uriosity a l ways got the better of me. Now that my inner forces have been con­ centrated, they have started to fight against my appetite for a dventure and my far-ranging erotic cu riosity. Really it is a l l j ust a game, and you don't need to have an affa i r with a man to have an intuitive understanding of him. But it's hard going this time all the same, God knows. His mouth looked so familiar and dear and close this a fternoon, that I si mply had to brush i t softly w i th my l ips. And our wrestling that began in such a m atter-of-fact way ended with our resting in each other's a rms. He d i d not k iss me, but gave my cheek a powerful nip, although the most unfor­ gettable thing for me was that when he recovered his composure he asked shyly, almost painfully so, and with a p p rehension,

[ 1 7 1

"What about my mouth-didn't it put you off? " That's where his weak spot is, then. The struggle against his own sensuality, localized in that heavy, wonderfully expressive mouth. And his fea r of putting people off with it. A touching man. But my peace was shattered. And then he said again, "But one's mouth ought to be smaller." And he pointed to the right side of his lower l ip, which protrudes in an odd way from the corner of his mouth, curving thickly, a piece of lip that seems to have got out of control. "Have you ever seen anything so willfu l , there's nothing like it . . . " I don't remember his precise words. And then I once again brushed my l ips softly over that obstinate l ittle piece of mouth. I haven't kissed him properly, there is no real passion in me yet, but he is infinitely dear to me and I would not want to spoil the fine, warm feeling I have for him with the complica­ tions of a sexual relationship.

Friday, 21 March, 8:30 A . M. Actually I don't want to write any­ thing down now, for I feel so light and radiant and cheerful that all words seem leaden by comparison. Even so I had to pay for this morning's inner joy with a j i ttery and fu riously beating heart. But then I washed all over in ice-cold water and lay down for a long time on the bathroom floor until I was completely calm again. I have become what he calls "combat ready" and even take an athlete's anticipatory pleasure in the "battle."

[ . . . ] This vague fear is something else I must conquer in myself.

Life is d i fficult, it is true, a struggle from minute to minute (don't overdo it now, Etty ! ), but the struggle itself is thrilling. In the past I would live chaotically in the future, because I refused to live in the here and now. I wanted to be handed everything on a platter, like a badly spoiled child. Sometimes I had the certain if rather undefined feeling that I would "make it" one day, that I had the capacity to do something "extraordinary," and at other times the wild fear that I would "go to the dogs"

[ I 8 }

a fter all. I now real ize why. I simply refused to do what needed

to be d one, what lay right under my nose. I refused to climb into the future one step at a time. And now, now that every minute is so full, so chock-full of life and experience and struggle and victory and defeat, and more struggle and sometimes peace, now I no longer think of the future, that is, I no longer care whether

or not I shall "make it," because I now have the inner certainty that everything will be taken care of. Before, I a l ways l ived in a n ticipation, I had the feeling that nothing I d i d was the "real" thing, that i t was a l l a preparation for something else, something "greater," more "genuine." But that feeling has d ropped away from me completely. I live here and now, this min u te, this day, to the ful l , and life is worth liv ing. And if I knew that I was going to die tomorrow, then I would say: it's a great shame, but it's been good while it lasted. I put that forward, in theory, before, one summer evening-! still remember it well-with Frans on the Reijnders' little terrace.7 But what I felt then was resignation, not acceptance, something l ike, well if it's all up w i th me tomorrow, I shan't bother my head too m uch, that's l i fe for you. And we know life, don't we ? We have experienced everything, if only in the mind, and there's no need any longer to hang on for dear l i fe. Something like that, I believe. We were v e ry old then, very wise, and very wea ry. But now it i s quite d i fferent. And so to work.

Saturday, 8:00 P.M. [ . . . ] I must make sure I keep up with my writing, that is, with myself, or else things will start to go wrong for me: I shall run the risk of losing my way. That's what it seems like to me at the moment, anyway, though i t may all be due to tiredness, of course.

Sunday, 23 March, 4 o 'clock. Everything has gone w rong aga i n . I long for something and don't know what it is. Inside I am totally a t a loss, restless, d riven, and my head feels close to

{ 1 9 1

bursting again. I look back on the last two Sundays with some nostalgia: the days stretched before me then like broad, open plains that I could cross with great ease, that offered wide, un­ impeded views. And now I am back in the midst of the scrub­ land again.

I t started last night; then the turbulence began to swirl up inside me, as vapor swirls up from a swamp.

I half wanted to read some philosophy, or perhaps that essay on War and Peace, then felt that Alfred Adler suited my mood better, and ended up with a l ight novel . But all my efforts were j ust tilting against the natural lassitude to which I wisely yielded in the end. And this morning everything seemed fine again. But when I began cycling down Apollolaan, there it was bac k , all the questioning, the discontent, the feeling that everything was empty of meaning, the sense that life was unfulfilled, all that pointless brooding. And right now I am sunk in the mi re. And even the certain knowledge that this too will pass has brought me no peace this time.

Monday moming, 9:30 [ . . . I It's silly, but he is still a stranger to me in a sense. Sometimes when he just strokes my face with his great, warm hand, or, with that inimitable gesture of his, runs his fingertips over my eyelashes, I begin to rebel. "Who told you that you could do this to me, who gave you the right to touch my bod y ? " I think I know the explanation. When we wrestled the fi rst time i t was an enjoyable contest, and though it was a little unexpected I immediately "caught on": I realized it was all part of the treatment. And that's indeed what it was, for when it was all over he stated very matter-of-factly, "Body and soul are one." I was, of course, erotically aroused by then, but he was being so businesslike that I quickly recovered. And when we had sat down again and faced each other, he said, "Now

{ 2 0 1

look, I hope this doesn't excite you, because I keep touching you everywhere," and by way of demonstration he put his hands out and touched my breast, then my a rms and shoulders. I thought something like, "Well , my friend, you ought to know j ust how 'excitable' I am, because I told you so myself, but all right, it's decent of you to d iscuss it so openly," and I recovered a little. Then he added that I mustn 't fal l in love with him, and that he a lways said this at the beginning. Well, it was fa i r enough, but I fel t a bit uncomfortable about it.

But the second time we wrestled, things were quite d i fferent. Then he too showed passion. And when at one point he lay groaning on top of me, for just a brief moment, and made the oldest convulsive movement in the world, then the lowest of thoughts rose u p in me like a miasma from a swamp, something like: " A funny way of treating patients you have, you get your pleasure out of i t and you get paid for it as well even i f it is j ust a pittance."

But the way his hands reached for me du ring the fight, the way he nipped my ear and held my face in his great hand, all that d rove me completely mad. I could sense the skilled and fascinating lover behind all these gestures. Yet I also thought it exceed ingly mean of him to abuse his position. I n the end my rebelliousness d ied down and there was a sense o f closeness between us, and more personal contact than we may ever have again. But while we were still lying on the floor, he said, "I don't want to have a relationship with you ." And he added, "I must tell you honestly, I find you very attractive." And then he said something about similar temperaments. And a l i ttle later, "Now give me a friend ly little k iss." But I was fa r from ready for that and turned my head away shyly. And he was quite himself again now that it was all over and said, as if musing to himself, " I t's all quite logical, you know. As a boy I was some­ thing of a d reamer." And then he told me a bit about his life.

[ 2 I ]

He talked and I listened, all surrender, and now and then he put his hand very tenderly on my face. And that's how I went home, with the most conflicting feelings, rebellious ones because I thought he was mean, and tender ones, overflowing with hu­ man k indness and warmth. And all the while I was over­ whelmed by erotic fantasies brought on by the guilefu l movements of his hands. For a few days I could do nothing but think of him. Though you couldn't really call it thinking, it was more l ike a sort of physical endurance test he was subjecting me to. His great supple body threatened me from all sides, it was on top of me, under me, everywhere, it threatened to crush me, I was quite unable to work and thought in horror, my God, what have I let myself in for; I went to this man for psychologi­ cal treatment to get some insight into myself and now this, it's worse than anything I've ever known. And I lived completely for our next meeting and had very erotic ideas about it, and that was the notorious occasion with the leotard under the woolen d ress and the tremendous clash of my wild fantasies with his matter-of-fact realism. Afterward I understood it all perfectly. He had pulled himself together and deliberately adopted a matter-of-fact attitude; but he too had had quite a struggle. And he asked, "Did you think about me this week ? " And when I made a few noncommittal remarks and lowered my head, he said, very honestly, "I must honestly tell you that I thought a lot about you the first few days of this week." All right, and then there was that wrestling match, but I have writ­ ten quite enough about that, it was revolting and I had a sort o f crisis. He doesn't know to this d a y w h y I went so stiff a n d strange, and still thinks it was because h e aroused me sexually. But his own conflicts came out in the open as well that time. He said, "You are quite a challenge," and he told me that despite his temperament he had been faithful to his girlfriend for the past two years. But I felt that being a "challenge" was far too

{ 2 2 1

noncommittal. I wanted to be the only one for him; I was the

spoiled child determined to "own" him, no matter that my heart was not i n it, for my fantasies had declared that he was to be my man, that I had to know him as my lover, and that was that. I wasn't operating at a very high level, but I ' v e w r i tten about that a l ready.

And now I fee l that I am a match for him, that my struggle is balanced against his, that in me, too, both impure and nobler impulses are fighting a mighty battle.

When he laid bare the man in him so suddenly, not waiting until I asked him to throw away his psychologist's mask, he lost some of his authority but has made me a l l the richer. He also gave me a l i ttle shock , inflicted a small wound , that hasn't com­ pletely healed and still makes me feel that he is a stranger: Who are you anyway, and who told you that you could meddle w i th m e ? Rilke has w ritten a beautiful poem about this mood of mine, I hope I 'll be able to find it again.

I did find the poem, the one of Rilke's that was on the tip of my tongue, after some searching. Years ago a friend read it to me. It was a summer evening on the Southern Wal k , and at the time he fel t it appl ied to me for some reason or other, probably because, despite our intimacy, I always thought of him as a strange r . That ambivalence in me is becoming clear to me now, thanks again to my clash with S. I t is all in the last two lines:

Strangely I heard a stranger say: I am with you.

Tuesday, 25 March, 9:00 P. M. [ . . . ] Because I am still so young and utterly resolved not to go under, and also because I feel that I am strong enough to pull myself together, I tend to forget how deprived we young people have become and how lonely. O r have I simply been anesthetized ? Bonger i s dead, Ter B ra a k , D u

[ 2 3 1

Perron, Marsman, all are dead. Pos, and Van den Bergh, and many others are in concentration camps.8 I shall never forget Bonger. (Odd how Van Wijk 's death has suddenly brought it all back to me.) I t was a few hours before the Dutch capitulation. And suddenly there was the heavy, cumbersome, unmistakable figure of Bonger shuffling along through the Skating Club, blue-tinted glasses, singular, heavy head tilted to one side and looking toward the clouds of smoke that came floating across the town from the faraway oil terminals. This image-the clumsy figure with neck craned and head tilted at the d istant clouds of smoke-is something I shall never forget. On an im­ pulse I ran, coatless, out through the doors behind him, caught u p w i th him, and said, "Hello, Professor Bonger, I have thought a lot about you these last few days, may I walk a little way with you ? " And he gave me a sidelong look through those blue glasses and obviously had no idea who I was, despite two exams and a year at his lectures. Still, those days people fel t so close to one another that I j ust continued walking by his side. I can't remember the precise words we exchanged. It was that after­ noon when people thought of nothing but getting away to En­ gland, and I asked, "Do you think it makes sense to escape ? " And he said, "The young have to stay put." And I , "Do you think democracy can win ? " And he, "It's bound to win, but it's going to cost us several generations ." And he, fearless Bonger, was suddenly as defenseless as a child, almost gentle, and I fel t

an irresistible need t o p u t m y arms round him a n d t o lead him l ike a child, and so, with my arm round him, we walked on across the Skating Club. He seemed a broken man and good through and through. All the passion and fire in him had been doused. My heart overflows when I think of how he was that afternoon-he, the college tyrant. And a t Jan Willem Brouwers Square I took my leave of him. I stood in front of him, took one of his hands between mine, and he gently lowered his heavy head a little and looked at me through his blue glasses, which

[ 2 4 1

hid his eyes, and sounded almost like a stage comic as he said, "My pleasure."

And next evening at Becker's, the first thing I heard was, " Bonger is dead ! " I said, "That's impossible, I spoke to him last night at seven o'clock." And Becker said, "Then you m ust have been one of the last people to speak to him. He put a bullet through his brain at eight o'clock . "

And two o f his l a s t words h a d been add ressed to an unknown student, one whom he had looked at kindly through a pair of blue glasses, "My pleasure ! "

And Bonger is not the only one. A world is in the process of collapse. But the world will go on, and so for the present shall I , full of good heart a n d goodwill. Nevertheless, we who are left behind are j ust a little bit destitute, though inwardly I still feel so rich that the destitution is not fully brought home to me. How­ ever, one m ust keep in touch with the real world and know one's place in it; it is wrong to live only with the eternal truths, for then one is apt to end up behaving like an ostrich. To live ful ly, outwardly and inwardly, not to ignore external reality for the sake of the inner l i fe, or the reverse-that's quite a task. And now I a m going to read another silly little story in Libelle9 and then to bed. And tomorrow back to work: studying, housekeep­ ing, and working on myself, nothing must be neglected, and don't take yourself too seriously either; and now goodn ight.

Friday afternoon, 8 May [1941], three o'clo4 in bed. I must work on m yself some more, there's nothing else for it. For a few months, I could do without this d iary, l i fe was so clear and bright inside me and so intense: good contact w i th the outer and inner worlds, l i fe-enriching, broadening of the personality ; stu­ dent contacts in Leiden: Wil, Aime, Jan; my studies; the Bible, Jung, and then S., and always S. again.

But now everything has ground to a halt, except for a bit of

[ 2 5 1

agitation, though it's not really agitation, I'm too depressed for that. Probably it is nothing but the physical fatigue everyone i s feel i ng this chilly spring, a n d which has p u t me right out of tune with everything around me.

But I k now perfectly well that the real trouble is my unstated, curious relationship with S. And I shall have to watch my every step.

8:00 P.M. We are always in search of the redeeming formula, the crystallizing thought. As I was cycling about in the cold, I sud­ denly thought: perhaps I am mak ing everything much too com­ plicated because I don't want to face the sober facts. I am not really in love with him. He captivates and sometimes fascinates me as a man, and I am learning an unbelievable amount from h i m . Ever since I met him, I have been experiencing a process of maturation, something I would never have thought possible at my age. There's really no more to it than that. But then we come to that confounded eroticism, with which he is bursting, as am I . A s a result w e a r e irresistibly driven toward each other physi­ cally, though neither of us wants it, as we both once said in so many words. But take that Sunday night, I believe i t was 2 1 April, the first time I spent a whole evening w i th h i m . We spoke, that is he spoke, about the Bible, later he read me some­ thing from Thomas a Kempis, while I sat on his lap, i t all fel t so right, it was barely erotic, just a lot of human warmth and friend l i ness. But a moment later his body was suddenly on mine and I was in his arms, and then I suddenly felt sad and lonely. He k issed my thighs and I grew lonelier stil l . He said, "That was lovely," and I went home with a leaden, sad, abandoned feeling. And straightaway I began to devise wonderfully inter­ esting theories about my loneliness. But couldn't i t simply be due to the fact that I wasn't able to surrender to our physical contact w i th my deepest being? For I don't really love him, and I know that ideally he wants to be faithful to one woman, and that

{ 2 6 I

woman happens to be in London, but that's not really the point. If I were a woman of true worth and greatness I would break off all physical contact with him; it really does nothing but upset me deeply. But I can't bring myself to renounce all the possibili­ ties that m ight then fall by the wayside. I think I am also afraid that I might bruise his manliness. Still, our friendsh ip would no doubt rise to a much higher level, and he would presumably be grateful to me in the end i f I helped him to stay fai thfu l to one woman. But I happen to be a particularly petty and greedy person. Now and again I want to be back in his arms, but then I end up unhappy all over again. There is probably a bit of child­ ish vanity about it all as well . Something l ike: here are a l l these girls and women who are mad about him, yet I, who have known him for the shortest time of all, am the only one with whom he is intimate. I f that is truly what goes on inside me then it's absolutely sicken ing. Really I am running the risk of ruining our friendship for the sake of physical pleasure. [ . . . ]

8 June {1941}, Sunday morning, 9:30. I think that I ' l l do it any­ way: I'll "turn inward" for half an hour each morning before work, and l isten to my inner voice. Lose myself. You could also call i t meditation. I am still a bit wary of that word. But anyway, why not ? A quiet half-hour within yourself. I t's not enough j ust to move your arms and legs and all the other muscles about in the bathroom each morning. Man is body and spirit. A n d half

an hour of exercises combined with half an hour o f meditation

can set the tone for the whole day. But it's not so simple, that sort of "quiet hour." I t has to be

learned. A lot of unimportant inner l i tter and bits and pieces have to be swept out fi rst. Even a small head can be piled high inside w ith irrelevant d istractions. True, there may be edify i ng emotions and thoughts, too, but the clutter is ever present. So let this be the aim of the medi tation: to turn one's i n nermost being i n to a vast empty plain, with none of that treacherous under-

{ 2 7 1

growth to impede the view. So that something of "God " can enter you, and something of "Love," too. Not the kind of love­ de-luxe that you revel in deliciously for half an hour, taking pride in how sublime you can feel, but the love you can apply to small, everyday things.

I might of course read the Bible each morning, but I don't think I'm ready for that. I still worry about the real meaning of the book, rather than lose myself in it.

I think I'll read a little bit of De Hof der Wijsbegeerte ("The Philosopher's Garden") each morning instead. I might of course confine myself to writing a few words on these blue-lined pages. To the patient examination of just one single thought, even if none of my thoughts is very important. In the past, ambition stopped me from committing such trivia to paper. Everything had to be marvelous, perfect, I simply could not allow myself to w r i te down any old thing, even though I was sometimes burst­ ing with the longing to do just that.

And, for goodness' sake, stop looking at yourself in the mir­ ror, Etty, you fool . I t must be awful to be very beautiful, for then one would not bother to look farther inside, one would be so dazzled by the blinding exterior. Others, too, would respond to the beautiful exterior alone, so that one might actually shrivel up inside altogether. The time I spend in front of the mi rror, be­

cause I am suddenly caught by a funny or fascinating or interest­

ing expression on this really not particularly pretty face of mine, could surely be spent on better things. It annoys me terribly, all this peering at myself. Sometimes I do find that I am looking pretty, but that's largely because of the dim l ighting in the bath­ room, and at such moments I can't tear myself away from my likeness and pull faces at myself in the glass, hold my head at all sorts of angles before my enraptured gaze, and then my favorite fantasy is that I'm seated in a large hall behind a table and facing a large company, all of whom keep looking at me and find me beautiful.

[ 2 8 1

You keep saying that you want to forget yourself completely, my girl, but as long as you're so full of vanities and fantasies you have not made much progress in the art of forgetting your­ self.

Even when I am working, I sometimes have a sudden urge to see my face; then I take my glasses off and look into the lenses. I t can b e quite compulsive. And I feel very unhappy about i t a ll because I realize how much I still stand in my own way. And it doesn't help if I force mysel f not to take pleasure in my face. I must learn to feel genuinely indifferent to my appeara nce, not to care in the least how I look. I must lead a much more inward l i fe. With other people, too, I pay much too m uch attention to appearances, d well ing on their looks. Yet what really matters is man's soul or his essence or whatever else you care to call what shines through from within .

Saturday, 1 4 June, 7:00 P.M. More arrests, more terror, concentra­ tion camps, the arbitrary dragging off of fa thers, sisters, broth­ ers. ' 0 We seek the meaning of life, wondering whether any meaning can be left. But that is something each one of us must settle with himself and with God. And perhaps l i fe has its own meaning, even i f it takes a l i fetime to find it. I for one have ceased to cling to l i fe and to things; I have the feeling that everything is accidental, that one must break one's inner bond s w i t h people and stand aside for all else. Everything seems so menacing and ominous, and always that feeling of total I m po­ tence.

Sunday, noon. We are but hollow vessels, washed through by history.

Everything is chance, or nothing is chance. I f I believed the first, I would be unable to live on, but I am not yet fully convinced of the second .

r 2 9 1

I have become j ust a little stronger again. I can fight things out within myself. Your first impulse is always to get help from others, to think you can't make it, but then suddenly you notice that you've fought your way through and that you've pulled it off all by yourself, and that makes you stronger. Last Sunday (was it only a week ago ? ) I had the desperate feel i ng that I was

tied to him and that because of that I was in for an utterly miserable time. But I pulled myself out of it, a l though I don't quite know how. Not by arguing it out with myself, but by tugging with all my mental strength at some imaginary rope. I threw all my weight behind it and stood my ground, and sud­

denly I fel t that I was free again. And then there were those brief meetings (in the evening at the bench on the Stad ionkade, shopping in town) that were of an intensity that, for me at least, was greater than anything before. I t was all thanks to that lack of attachment; all my love and sympathy and concern and hap­ piness went out to him, but I made no more demands on him, I wanted nothing from him, I took him as he was and enjoyed him.

I ' d j ust l ike to know how I did it, how I managed to break free. I f I knew that, as I really should, then I might perhaps be able to help others with the same problems. Perhaps it is l i ke a man tied to another with a rope and tugging until he breaks loose. He, too, probably won't be able to tell j ust how he did it; all he does know is that he managed to get away, that he had the will to do so, and that he struggled with all his might. That's what must have happened inside me. And the lesson I learned is this: thought doesn't help; what you need is not causal explana­ tions but will and a great deal of mental energy.

For a moment yesterday I thought I couldn't go on living, that I needed help. Life and suffering had lost their meaning for me; I fel t I was about to collapse under a tremendous weight. But once

[ 3 0 1

again I put up a fight and now I can face it all, stronger than before. I have tried to look that "suffering" of mankind fairly and squarely i n the face. I have fought i t out, or rather some­ thing inside me has fought i t out, and suddenly there were answers to many desperate questions, and the sense of emptiness made way for the feel ing that there was order and meaning after all and I could get on with my l i fe . All was smooth going again a fter a short but violent battle from which I emerged j ust a fraction more matu re.

I said that I confronted the "suffering of mankind" (I still shudder when it comes to big words), but that was not really what i t was. Rather I feel l i ke a small battlefield , in which the problems, or some of the problems, of our time a re being fought out. All one can hope to do is to keep oneself humbly a v a i l able, to allow oneself to be a battlefiel d . After all, the problems must be accommodated, have somewhere to struggle and come to rest, and we, poor little humans, must put our inne r space at their service and not run away. In that respect, I am probably very hospitable; m ine is often an exceedingly bloody battlefiel d , and d readful fatigue and spl itting headaches are the toll I have to pay. S t i l l , now I am myself once again, Etty H i l lesum, an ind us­ trious student in a friendly room with books and a vase full of oxeye d aisies. I am flowing again in my own narrow riverbed, and my desperate involvement with "mankind," "world his­ tory," and "suffering" has subsided. And that's as it should be, otherwise one might go mad.

Tuesday morning, 1 7 june. I . . . l I f you have an upset stom ach you must start to eat sensibly instead of venting your fury like a spoiled child on all the del icious food you think is to blame for your cond ition. Much better to concentrate on your lack of self­ control.

That is a piece of insight into myself I acquired today and w i th which I am most content. And the continuous sadness that

{ 3 1 1

has been gnawing at my insides these past few days is beginning to fade away as well .

Wednesday morning, 1 8 June, 9:30. Life itsel f must b e o u r foun­ tainhead, never something or someone else. Many people, espe­ cially women, d raw their strength from others, instead of d irectly from life. A man is their source, instead of l i fe. That attitude is as distorted and unnatural as it possibly can be.

4 July. [1941]. I am ful l of unease, a strange, infernal agitation, which might be productive if only I knew what to do with it. A "creative" unease. Not of the body-not even a dozen passionate nights of love could assuage it. It is almost a "sacred" unease. "Oh God, take me into Your great hands and turn me into Your instrument, let me write." This all came about because of red­ haired Leonie 1 1 and philosophical Joop. S. reached straight into their hearts with his analysis, but I still think people can't be reduced to psychological formulas, that only the artist can render human beings down to their last irrational elements.

I don't know how to settle down to my writing. Everything is still much too chaotic, and I lack self-confidence, or perhaps the urgent need to speak out. I am still waiting for things to come out and find a form of their own accord. But first I myself must find the right pattern, my own pattern.

In Deventer the days were like great sunny plains, each one a long, uninterrupted whole; there was contact with God and with every person I met, possibly because I met so few. 1 2 There were cornfields I shall never forget, whose beauty nearly brought me to my knees; there were the banks of the IJssel with the colo rful parasols and the thatched roofs and the patient horses. And the sun, which I d rank in through all my pores. And back here each day is a thousand fragments, the great plain is no more, and God, too, has departed. If this continues much longer then I'm

[ 3 2 1

bound to start asking myself about the meaning of l i fe all over

again, and that never means plumbing philosophical depths but is proof positive that things a re going badly with me. And then there is that ridiculous unease that I still can't quite place, but that one day, I should think, might help me to w ri te, if only I learn how to channel it properly.

You're not there by a long way yet, my girl, a lot of solid ground will have to be reclaimed from the raging waves, and chaos will have to make way for order. I can't help thinking o f S . ' s rem a r k :

"You a r e not really as chaotic as all that, it's just t h a t y o u refuse to turn y o u r back on t h e t i m e w h e n y o u thought being chaotic was better than being d isciplined ."

Monday, 4 August 1 941, 2:30 P. M. He said that love of mankind is greater than love of one man. For when you love one person you are merely loving yoursel f.

He is a m a ture fifty-five-year-old and has reached the stage where he can love all mankind, having loved many individuals in the past. I am an ordinary twenty-seven-year-old girl, and I too am filled with love for all mankind, but for a l l I k now I shall al ways continue to be in search of my one man. And I wonder to what extent that is a handicap, a woman's handicap. W hether it is an ancient tradition from which she must l iberate herself, o r whether it is s o much part o f h e r very essence that s h e would be doing v i olence to herself if she bestowed her love on all mank ind instead of on a single man. (I can't yet see how the two can be combined.) Perhaps that's why there are so few famous women scientists and a rtists: a woman al ways looks for the one man on whom she can bestow all her wisdom, warmth, love, and cre­ ative powers. She longs for a man, not for mankind.

I t's not a t all simple, the role of women. Sometimes, when I pass a woman in the street, a beautiful, well-groome d , wholly fem inine, albeit d ull woman, I completely lose my poise. Then I

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feel that my intellect, my struggle, my suffering, are oppressive, ugly, unwomanly; then I too want to be beautiful and dull, a desirable plaything for a man. It's typical that I always do end up wanting to be desired by a man, the ultimate confirmation of our worth and womanhood, but in fact it is only a primitive instinct. Feelings of friendship, respect, and love for us as hu­ man beings, these are all very well, but don't we ultimately want men to desire us as wome n ? It is almost too d ifficult for me to w rite down all I feel; the subject is infinitely complex, but it is altogether too important not to be discussed.

Perhaps the true, the essential emancipation of women still has to come. We are not yet full human beings; we are the "weaker sex." We are still tied down and enmeshed in centuries­ old traditions. We still have to be born as human beings; that is the great task that lies before us.

Where do we really stand, S. and myself? If I want to be clear about this relationship, then I must first clarify my relationship with all men and with all mankind, to use that sweeping word. Let me be full of pathos then, write down everything inside me, and when I have written all the unctiousness and exaggeration out of my system, perhaps I will then get down to myself.

Do I love S . ? Yes, madly. As a man ? No, not as a man, but as a human being. Or

perhaps it is more his warmth, his love, and his striving after goodness that I love. No, I can't work it out, try as I may. This writing is a sort of rough d raft; I try things out, discard this and that, and hope all the pieces will fit together in the end. But I mustn't run away from myself, or from difficult problems, and I don't really-what I do run away from is the difficulty of writing it all down. I t all comes out so clumsily. But then you don't put things down on paper to produce masterpieces, but to gain some clarity. I am still ashamed of myself, afraid to let myself go, to let things pour out of me; I am d readfully inhib-

l 3 4 I

ited, and that is because I have not yet learned to accept myself as I a m .

I t is d i fficult to b e o n equally good terms w i t h God and your body. This thought kept haunting me at a musical soiree some time ago, when S. and Bach were both with me. There is some­ thing complicated about S. He just sits there full of warmth and human k i ndness, in which you can bask with n o reservations. But a t the same time there he is, this great big man sitting there, with his expressive head, la rge sensitive hands that reach out for you now and then, and eyes whose caress can be truly heart­ rending. But the caress is impersonal, of course. He caresses the human being, not the woman. And the woman wants to be caressed as a woman, not as a human being. A t least that's how I feel at times. But he presents you with a real task, makes you fight very hard for it. I am a task for him, he told me that one of the fi rst times, but so is he for me. I must stop now, I keep feeling more and more miserable as I write this, a clear sign that I can't voice what is really going on inside me.

There is nothing else for it, I shall have to solve my own problems. I always get the feeling that when I solve them for myself I shall have also solved them for a thousand other women. For that very reason I must come to grips with myself.

A l l this devouring of books from early youth has been noth­ ing but laziness on my part. I allow others to formulate what I ought to be formulating myself. I keep seeking outside confir­ mation of what is hidden deep inside me, when I know that I can only reach clarity by using my own words. I really must abandon all that laziness, and particularly my inh i bitions and i nsecurity, if I am ever to find myself, and through myself, find others. I must have clarity, and I must learn to accept myself. Everyth ing feels so heavy inside me, and I want so much to feel light. For years I have bottled everything up, it all goes into some great reservoir, but it will all have to come out again, or I

[ 3 5 1

shall know that I have lived in vam, that I have taken from mankind and given nothing back. I sometimes feel I am a para­ site, and that depresses me and makes me wonder if I lead any kind of useful life. Perhaps my purpose in life is to come to grips with myself, properly to grips with mysel f, with everything that bothers and tortures me and clamors for inner solution and formulation. For these problems are not j ust mine alone. And if at the end of a long l i fe I am able to give some form to the chaos inside me, I may well have fulfilled my own small purpose. Even while I write this down, my unconscious is protesting at such expressions as "purpose" and "mankind" and "solution of prob­ lems." I find them pretentious. But then I'm such an ingenuous and dull young woman, still so lacking in courage. No, my friend, you are not there yet by a long chalk, you ought really to be kept away from all the great philosophers until you have learned to take yourself a little more seriously.

I think I'd better buy that melon first, and take it to the Nethes tonight. 1 3 That's also part of liv ing, isn't i t ?

Sometimes I long for a convent cel l, with the sublime wisdom of centuries set out on bookshelves all along the wall and a view across the cornfields-there must be cornfields and they must wave in the breeze-and there I would immerse myself in the wisdom of the ages and in myself. Then I might perhaps find peace and clarity. But that would be no great feat. It is right here, in this very place, in the here and now, that I must find them. But it is all so terribly difficult, and I feel so heavyhearted.

Afternoon on the heath. His fine strong head staring into the distance, and I , "What are you thinking of? " and he, "Of the demons that plague mankind ." (I had just told him how Klaas had beaten his daughter half to death because she had failed to bring him the poison he had asked for.) He was sitting under an overhanging tree, my head in his lap, and all of a sudden I said, or rather I didn't say it, it just burst out of me, "And now I would very much like an undemonic kiss." And he said, "You'll

{ 3 6 1

have to come and get it." And abruptly I got up, wishing I hadn't said anything, but then suddenly we were lying there in the heather, mouth upon mouth. And he said, "Do you call this undemonic ? "

But what does a k iss really mean i n our kind o f relationshi p ? I t hangs, a s it were, i n the air. It makes m e long for the whole man, and yet I don't want the whole man. I don't love him at all as a man, that's the maddening thing, so does i t all come down to my confounded desire to be important, to want to own some­ one ? To want to own his body, while I already have his spi rit, which is much more important ? Is it that confounded unhealthy tradition that insists that, when two people of the opposite sex are in close contact, they must necessarily want to have physical contact as well ? That feel ing is ingrained in me. My immed iate reaction on meeting a man is invariably to gauge his sexual possibilities. I recognize this as a bad habit that must be stamped out. He is probably better at sel f-control than I am, though he, too, has to fight his erotic impulses. Sometimes i t all seems so silly, j ust as if we were making life difficult on purpose, w hen everything should be so simple.

All the melons will probably have gone by now. I fee l as i f I were moldering inside, as if I were pl ugged up, and my body h u rts. But don't delude yoursel f, Etty, it's not really your body, i t's your ravaged l i ttle soul that a fflicts you.

I n a l i ttle while I shall no doubt be writing how beautifu l l i fe really is and how happy I am, but at the moment I can't even imagine what that feels like.

I still lack a basic tune; a steady undercurrent; the mner source that feeds me keeps d rying up, and worse still, I think much too much.

My ideas hang on me like outsize clothes into which I still have to grow. My mind lags behind my intuition. This is not altogether a bad thing. But it means that my m ind or my reason, or w hatever you care to call it, must sometimes work overtime

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in order to seize the various premonitions by their coattails. A host of vague ideas keep clamoring for concrete formulation. I m ust stop and listen to myself, sound my own depths, eat well, and sleep properly if I am to keep my balance, or it will turn into something altogether too Dostoyevskian. But alas the em­ phasis these days is on speed, not on rest.

Deventer, Friday morning, quarter past ten. [ . . . ] Still no letter from S . , the v i llain. Would j ust love to be with him there in Wageningen, in that cluttered household with the many pious daughters.

When I came downstairs, Mother's first words to me were, "I really do feel awful. " I t's so strange. Father has only to utter the smallest sigh and my heart just about breaks, but when Mother says with great pathos, "I really do feel awful, I couldn ' t sleep a wink again," and so on, I remain basically untouched.

I have no idea what I shall do today. I can't work in this house, I have no quiet spot I can call my own here, and I can't settle down to anything. I shall try to get as much rest as pos­ sible.

"Stop whining, for goodness' sake, you shrew, you nag, carrying on like that." Such are my inner reactions when my mother sits down to have a chat with me. My mother is someone who would try the patience of a saint. I do my best to look a t her objectively, and I try to be fond of her, but then suddenly I 'll find myself saying emphatically, "What a ridiculous and silly person you are." I t's so wrong of me, I don't live here, after all, I j ust allow myself to vegetate, and I put off my life until I have gone again. I have no impetus here to do any real work, i t is as if every bit of energy were being sucked out of me. I t is now eleven o'clock, and all I have done is to hang about on this chilly window seat, looking at the uncleared breakfast table and listen­ ing to my mother's pathetic complaints about butter coupons

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and her poor health, etc. And yet she is not really a shallow woman. That's the real tragedy of it. She wears you out with all her unsolved problems and her quickly changing moods; she is in a chaotic and pitiful state, which is reflected all about her in the utterly d isorgani zed household . And yet she is convinced that she is an excellent housewife, d riving everyone crazy with her perpetual fussing over the housekeeping. As the days go by here, my head feels more and more leaden. Well, all one can do is just get on w ith it. Life in this house is bogged down in petty details. They smother you, and nothing important ever happens. I would degenerate into a real melancholic i f I were to stay here for any length of time. There is nothing one can do either to help or to change things. The two of them are so capricious. One evening, when I gave them a glowing account of S. and his work, they did seem quite enthusiastic and responded with some imagination and humor. And I went to bed with such a w a rm feeling and thought to mysel f what nice people they really are. But next day i t was all suspicion and feeble j okes again. It was as i f they had lost confidence in their own enthusiasm, and I fel t badly l e t down. Well, Etty, you're j ust going t o h a v e to pick yourself u p again. Of course, my stomachache doesn't make me feel any brighter. I think I'll have a nap this afternoon and then go to the l ibrary to have a closer look at Pfister's w ritings. When all is said and done, I must be grateful to have all this time to myself, so let me use it well in God's name, silly girl that I am. And now enough of this scribbling.

1 1:00 P. M. I am beginning to think that it's going to develop into a very important friendship-"friendship" in its deepest and fullest sense. I feel very serious. I t's not the k ind of seriousness that floats above real i ty and later seems unnatu ral and overdone. A t least I don't think so. When I received his letter at six this evening-I had j ust come back from Gorssel soaked to the skin-I had no inner contact with it at all. I was dead tired,

f 3 9 I

physically as well as mentally, and did not really k now what to make of the letter. And then I curled up on my bed and looked carefu l ly at the familiar handwriting once more and was filled with such a staunch, strong feeling about our relationship. And I sensed how important he would be to my further spiritual growth, if only I could keep facing up honestly to myself, to him, and to the many problems that are bound to crop up now and then in our relationship. A momentous d iscovery. I will have to d a re to live l i fe with all the seriousness it demands and without thi nking that I'm being pompous, sentimental, or af­ fected . And I must not look at him as an end but as a means to growth and maturity. I must not want to possess him. I t is true that women seek the concrete reality of the body, not the ab­ straction of the spirit. Woman's main interest is the ideal man; man's is the world at large. Can woman shift her focus without losing her own power, without doing violence to her real being ? These and many other questions were prompted by his letter, which had a most fruitful effect on me.

Standing by another human being. Friendship, too, must have a d i rection.

Our house is a remarkable mixture of barbarism and culture. Spiritual riches lie within grasp, but they are left unused and unguarded, are carelessly scattered about. I t is depressing, it is tragicomic, I don't know what kind of madhouse this really is, but I know that no human being can flourish here.

I don't seem to be putting everyday things down on paper. Clearly they are not uppermost in my mind.

Wednesday. [ . . . ] Cold-blooded, icy objectivity is something my nature prevents me from attaining. I am too full of emotion for that. But I no longer go to pieces under the strain of all my disparate feelings. Daan has fallen to his death from an airplane. So many of our most promising, vigorous young men are dying

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day and night. I don't know how to take it. With all the suffer­ ing there is, you begin to feel ashamed of taking yourself and your moods so seriously. But you must continue to take yourself seriously, you must remain your own witness, mark ing well everything that happens in this world, never s hutting your eyes to real ity. You m ust come to grips with these terrible times and try to find answers to the many questions they pose. And per­ haps the answers will help not only yourself but a lso others. I sometimes feel like a post standing in a raging sea, lashed on a l l sides by the waves. But I am firmly moored , and the years have helped to weather me. I want to live to see the future, to become the chronicler of the things that are happening now (downstairs they are screaming blue murder, with Father yell­ ing, "Go, then ! " and slamming the door; that, too, m ust be absorbed, and now I am suddenly crying since I am not all that obj ective really and no one can breathe properly in this house; all right, make the best of it then); oh yes, a chron icler. I notice that, over and above all my subjective suffering, I have an irrepress­ ible objective curiosity, a passionate interest in everyth ing that touches this world and its people and my own motives. I have stopped c rying. But my head still throbs. I t is sheer hell in this house. I would have to be quite a writer to describe it properly. Anyhow, I sprang from this chaos, and it is my business to pull myself out of it. S. calls it "building with noble material"; he's a real treasure.

I am sometimes so d istracted by all the appalling happenings round me that it's far from easy to find the way back to myself. And yet that's what I must do. I mustn't let myself be ground down by the misery outside.

A poem by Rilke is as real and as important as a young man fall ing out of an airplane. That's something I must engrave on my heart. All that happens happens in this world o f ours, and you m ust not leave one thing out for the sake of another. Now go to sleep. Accept your inner conflicts, try to bridge them, to

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simplify them, for then your life will become simpler as well. Mull them all over, and perhaps they'll fall into place.

1 1:00 P. M. This is it, a moment of rest, a lull in the storm. I don't feel compelled to think any longer. I t could of course be due to the four aspirins I took.

From a d i alogue between Father and me on a walk along the Sin gel:

1: "I feel sorry for any woman who has anything to do with Mischa . " 1 4

Father: "The boy happens to be in circulation, what can you do about i t ? "

23 August 1 941, Saturday night. Things are getting m e down. I shall have to make a careful record of my moods again. I t can't be j ust this stupid cold in my head alone that makes everything look so black. But what is the truth of the matte r ? On Thursday night in the train from Arnhem back here, everything was fine. Outside, night was fal ling, silent, all-embracing, and majestic. And inside, the cramped compartment was ful l of workers, noisy and lively. I sat withdrawn in my dark corner, my right eye looking at the peaceful scenery and my left eye at the expres­ sive heads and graphic gestures of my fellow passengers. Yes, I loved it all, life and people. And then the long walk from Am­ stel station through the near pitch-darkness of the all but en­ chanted town. Quite suddenly I had the impression that I wasn't alone, that there were two of us. I felt as if I consisted of two people who were squashed tightly together and felt so good and so warm as a result. I was in such close touch with myself, full of inner warmth, and felt utterly self-sufficient. And then I had a long friendly chat with myself and walked happily down all the little Amstel side streets, completely immersed in myself. And I discovered with no small satisfaction that I got on very well with mysel f. And next day the feeling was still there. And yesterday

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a fternoon when I went to buy S.'s cheese and walked th rough beautiful South Amsterdam, I felt like an old Jew, w rapped u p in a cloud. No doubt that's recorded somewhere in our mythol­ ogy: a Jew moving along, wrapped up in a cloud. It was a cloud o f my own thoughts and feel ings that enveloped and accompa­ nied me, and I fel t so warm and protected and safe. And now I have a cold in my head and I'm uneasy, uncomfortable, and cross. The incomprehensible thing is that I have taken against people I'm n o rmally so fond of; I feel negative about everything, keep carping and complaining. And all this must be the d i rect result of a blocked nose ! A fter all, it's not really me, this d islike of my fellow men. When I feel wretched physically, I ought really to put a stop to my thought machine, which, a t times l i k e this, begins to w o r k extra h a r d , d isparaging everything t h a t c a n be disparaged . I n a n y case, i t would only b e common sense to go to bed now, I really feel rather i l l . It is probably as well that my actions just now do not reflect my thoughts. Hans was d ue to come back home tonight, and the very thought exasperated me. Whenever I feel antisocial he is always the one di rectly i n line of my d islike, probably because we share the same house. And so I wasn't looking forward to his homecoming, especially as I thought him a deadly dull, slow-witted, plodding sort of fel low. And then i n he came, wholesome and hearty from the sailing camp, and I suddenly realized that I was actually quite pleased and happy to sit down and have a talk with h i m , that his tanned face was fresh and interesting with its candid yet vague blue eyes. I leaped up, cooked him some soup, chatted some more, and found that I really l ike him, and for that matter every single one of God's creatures. I don't think there was anything forced in my attitude; no, it was rather that inner exasperation of mine that was out of character. I t's not really part o f me. So I really ought to keep it under control. Which means that when I can no longer work or read, as I can't tonight, I must go to sleep.

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26 August, Tuesday evening. There is a really deep well inside me. And in i t d wells God . Sometimes I am there, too. But more often stones and grit block the wel l, and God is buried beneath. Then He must be dug out again.

I imagine that there are people who pray with their eyes turned heavenward. They seek God outside themselves. And there are those who bow their head and bury it in their hands. I think that these seek God inside.

4 September {1 941], Thursday night, 10:30. Life is composed of tales waiting to be retold by me. Oh, what nonsense-! don't really know anything. I am unhappy again. I can quite see why people get d runk or go to bed with a total stranger. But that isn't really my way. I must keep sober, keep a clear head. And do it alone. It is j ust as well that that v il lain wasn't in tonight. Other­ wise I should have run to him again saying, "Please help me, I am so unhappy, I am bursting apart at the seams." And I expect others to straighten things out for themsel ves ! "Listen to your inner voice." Yes, indeed. So I withdrew to the fa rthest corner of my little room, sat on the floor, squeezed myself in between two walls, my head bowed. Yes. And sat there. Absolutely still, con­ templating my navel so to speak, in the pious hope that new sources of inspiration would bubble up inside me. My heart was once again frozen and would not melt; every outlet was blocked and my brain squeezed by a large v ice. And what I am waiting for whenever I sit huddled up like that is for something to give, for something to start flowing inside me.

I really took on too heavy a burden when I read all those letters from his girlfriend. I wish I were completely uncompli­ cated, l ike that man tonight, or like a field of grass. I still take myself too seriously. On days like this I am sure that no one suffers as much as I do. Imagine somebody i n pain all over his body, unable to bear anyone touching him even with the tip of a

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finger-that's the feel i ng in my soul, or whatever you want to

call it. The smal lest pressure causes pain. A soul without a skin, as Annie Romein once wrote about Carry van Bruggen . 1 5 I would like to travel to faraway places. And see other people, who need have no names. Sometimes I feel as i f the people with whom I have really close contact rob me of my v ision. My v ision of w h a t ? Etty, you really are being a bit devious and not v e ry conscientious. You should be able to trace the real reason for your melancholy, and for your awful headache. But alas, you're not really interested in doing so. You are just pla in lazy. Lord, grant me a l i ttle humility.

Am I too busy ? I want to get to know this century of ours inside and out. I feel it every day anew. I run my fingertips along the contours of our age. Or is that pure fiction ?

But I always project myself back into reality. I make mysel f confront everything that crosses my path, which sometimes leaves me feeling battered. It is j ust as i f I let myself c rash v i olently into myself, leaving dents and scratches. But I imagine that it has to be like that. I sometimes feel I am in some blazing purgatory and that I am being forged into someth ing else. But into what? I can only be passive, allow it to happen to me. But then I also have the feeling that all the problems of our age and of mankind in general have to be battled out i nside my l i ttle head . And that means being active. Well, the worst of it is now past. I tore round the Skating Club like a d runken fool and add ressed a few stupid rema rks to the moon. The moon, too, wasn't born yesterday. No doubt he has looked down on plenty of characters like me, seen a thing or two. Wel l , wel l . A hard l i fe is in store fo r me. Sometimes I don't feel like carrying on. At the moments when I feel I know exactly what is going to happen to me, what l i fe will be l ike, I get so tired and feel no need to experience things as they come. But life always gains the upper hand, and then I find everything "interesting" and exciting

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again, and I am full of courage and full of ideas. One must give things a rest, but I wilt during the pauses, or so it seems to me. And now goodnight.

It j ust occurred to me. Maybe I take myself too seriously, and I also want others to do likewise ? S. for instance. I want him to realize how much I suffer and at the same time try to hide it from him. Could this be due to the antagonism I so often feel toward h i m ?

Friday morning, nme o'clock. Right n o w I feel l ike someone recovering from a serious illness. Light in the head and a bit shaky on the legs. It really was a bit much yesterday. The fact is I don't lead a simple enough inner life. I indulge in excesses, bacchanalia of the spirit. Perhaps I identify too much with ev­ erything I read and study. Someone like Dostoyevsky still shat­ ters me. I really must become a bit simpler. Let myself live a bit more. Not always insist on the results straightaway. I know what the remedy is, though: j ust to crouch huddled up on the ground in a corner and listen to what is going on inside me. Thinking gets you nowhere. I t may be a fine and noble aid in academic studies, but you can't think your way out of emotional difficulties. That takes something altogether different. You have to make yourself passive then, and just listen. Reestablish contact with a slice of eternity.

I really ought to be simpler and less grandiloquent in my work, as wel l . When I do a simple Russian translation, the whole of Russia spreads out before my mind's eye and I feel I must write another Brothers Karamazov, at the very least. I make very high demands on myself and in inspired moments consider myself quite capable of meeting them, but inspiration doesn't last forever, and in my more mundane moods I am filled with sudden fears that I might not fulfill the promise of those "ex­ alted" moments. But why do I have to achieve things ? All I

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need do is to "be," to live and to try being a l i ttle bit human.

One can't control everything with the brain; must allow one's emotions and intuitions free play as well. Knowledge is power, and that's probably why I accumulate knowledge, out of a desire to be important. I don't really know. But Lord , give me wisdom, not knowledge. O r rather the knowledge that leads to wisdom and true happiness and not the kind that leads to power. A l i ttle peace, a lot of k indness, and a l i ttle wisdom-whenever I have these inside me I feel I am doing wel l . That's why I was so h u rt when the sculptress, Fri Heil, said to S. that she found me a real Tartar and that all I needed was a wild horse to carry me through the steppes. Human beings don't know m uch about themselves, do they ?

Hertha 1 6 said in one of her letters to S . , "Yesterday you laid your hand on me."

Real ity is not entirely real to me, and that is why I can't get down to doing things, fail to appreciate their true importance and significance. A single line of Rilke's seems more real to me than moving house or anything like that. I ought to spend all my l i fe behind a desk. Yet I don't really think I am a foolish d reamer. Real i ty does fascinate me, al though only from behind my desk, not in the liv ing and the doi ng. To understand ideas and people you must go out into the real world, onto the ground on which everything lives and grows.

Tuesday morning, 9 September. S. is the moving force behind quite a few women. In one of her letters, Henny1 7 calls him, "My Mercedes, my lovely, great big, darling Mercedes." On the floor above him l ives the "little one." He says that when she wrestles w i th him she is l ike a huge cat treading warily for fea r o f inflicting p a i n . On Friday night he rang Riet, and his voice sang over the w i res as he add ressed that eighteen-year-old child, "Hello, Rieeet." And meanwhile his other hand kept stroking

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my face, and on the table lay the letter from the girl he wants to marry, with the words "My darling J ul" right across the top, I couldn't help staring at them.

I have been so sad, so very, very sad these last few days. Why, I wonder ? I am not sad all the time, I manage to shake it off now and then, but later I drop back into i t.

I have never met anybody who had as much love, strength, and unshakable self-confidence as S. That Friday he said some­ thing like, "If I were to devote all my l i fe and strength to j ust one person I would destroy them." Perhaps that's why I some­ times feel I am being buried under his weight. I don't really know. I sometimes think I ought to be running to the ends of the earth to rid myself of him, but I also know I must get him out of my system without running away. And quite often he is no problem at all. Then everything seems so right. A t other times-now, for instance-he makes me feel i l l . Why should that be ? After all, he is neither a mysterious nor a complicated character. Is it the enormous amount of love he bestows on such endless numbers of people and which I would far rather have all to myself? There are indeed moments when that is in fact ex­ actly what I want-his concentrated, undivided love. But is that not being much too physical ? And much too selfish ?

I must j ust try to recapture something of that Friday evening. I had the feeling then that I had seen right into the heart of this mystery man, or rather of this non-mystery man. That was the evening when he handed me the key to the secret of his person­ ality. And for a few days it was as if I had locked him into my own heart, carrying him with me never to lose him again. Why am I so out of touch with him, and why do I want nothing more to do with him ? Has he become more than I feel I can handl e ? When he sits facing m e , large, gentle, with a kind of sumptuous sensuality about him and yet so full of human kindness, then he sometimes brings to mind the private life of a Roman emperor, I don't know why. There is something so voluptuous and yet so

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infinitely warm and good that lies over his whole figure-much too much for one person so that i t spreads out over a vast area. Why then does he remind me of a decadent Roma n ? I really do not know.

Stomachache and depression and that taut sensation inside me and the feeling of being crushed under a heavy weight a re the price I have to pay for my grasping insistence on knowing every­ thing about l i fe, on being aware of everything. Sometimes it becomes too much. When I took that character test, it appeared that I was someone who demanded everything of l i fe but also assim ilated everything. I shall, no doubt, cope with my p resent troubles as well ; my inner traffic jams are certainly part of it all, but they must be cut to a minimum, otherwise I really can't go on. When I cycled home yesterday, so unspeakably sad and as heavy as lead inside, and heard an airplane overhead, I was suddenly struck by the notion that a bomb might put a n end to my l i fe , and I fel t l iberated. It's been happening more often, that feel ing that it's easier not to go on

Thursday morning, nine o'clock. [ . . . ] Yes, we women, we fool­ ish, idiotic, illogical women, we all seek Paradise and the Abso­ l u te. And yet my brain, my capable brain, tells me that there are no absolutes, that everything is relative, endlessly d i verse, and in eternal motion, and that it is precisely for that reason that l i fe is so exciting and fascinating, but also so very, v e ry painful. We women want to perpetuate ourselves in a man. Yes, I want h im to say, "Darling, you are the only one and I shall love you for evermore . " I k now, of course, that there is no such thing as eternal love, but unless he declares it for me, nothing has any meaning. And the stupid thing is that I don't really want h i m , don't w a n t him forever or a s t h e o n l y o n e in my l i fe, and y e t I demand it of him. Do I demand absolute love from others be­ cause I'm unable to give it mysel f? And then I always expect the

{ 4 9 1

same level of intensity, when I know from my own experience that it cannot last. And I take flight j ust as soon as I notice the other becoming lukewarm. That's an inferiority complex of course, something like: if I can't inspire him enough to be on fire for me at all times, then I'd rather have nothing at all. And it's so damned illogical, I must rid myself of it. After all, I wouldn't know what to do if somebody really was on fire for me all day long. I t would annoy me and bore me and make me feel tied down. Oh, Etty, Etty !

Last night he said, "I believe I am your stepping stone to a truly great love." Strange, isn't it, for I have been a stepping stone for so many others.

And while what he says may be true, somewhere it h urts terribly and his words trouble me greatly. I think I know why. I want him to be madly jealous at the thought that a great lover may enter my life one day. He must love me eternally and me alone. I t's a k ind of compulsion with me. During the last few days I have been feeling extremely sensual. Last night in particu­ lar. And when he rang at nine o'clock saying, "Would you still like to come ov e r ? " I went with joy and physical longing and surrender. But you are fooling yourself, my girl, if you think it was all to do with sensuality, for we did not fly d i rectly into each other's arms. F i rst we talked. And I hung on his words, delight­

ing in the clear and pertinent way he expressed himself and feeling that I was learning an enormous amount. And truly this spiritual contact gives me much greater satisfaction than the physical one. Perhaps I tend to over rate the physical aspect, no doubt because of the fai ry tale that it is so feminine.

Odd, isn't it? Right now I feel that all I want is to fling myself into his arms, and j ust be a woman, or perhaps even less, j ust a piece of cherished flesh. I dwell too much on my sensuality; after all it only lasts a few days at a time, this rising wave. And that little bit of sensuality is what I then try to project onto the whole of life, until it overshadows all the rest. Then I need words of

{ 5 0 1

ded ication like "You alone for evermore." I ' m sure I ' m express­

ing myself badly, but the main thing is to get it down on paper. I d well so much on the importance of sensual ity because I tend to fan the l i ttle bit of wa rmth people now and then seek from each other with such exal ted vows as "I love you forever . " Yet one should accept things as they are and not try to l i ft them to im possible heights; only if you let them be will they reveal their true worth.

1 1:00 P.M. Some days seem very long, for so much h appens in them. I am utterly content at the moment, sitting behind this desk. My head rests heavily on my left hand; I am fi lled with well-being and resolve. The chi rology demonstration in Tide's room was fun . Before I'd have thought i t rather weird . So many women. Yet it was really enjoyable, l ively and stim ulating. Swiep 1 8 supplied the pears, Gera 1 9 the cakes, and I the depth psychology. And when it was all over, Tide, indefatigable as ever, on her feet since five o'clock in the morning, went back to work.

I can't w r i te anything of consequence right now, there is too much chitchat going on in the room for that. H ans, Bernard, and Han are doing a puzzle. I n the past I could never have sat down in a corner wri ting or reading if there were several people in the room-I was much too nervous-but now I sit here so sure of myself that the others don't d istract me in the least. I t would be the same even a t a mass meeting, I ' m sure. I f I acted my age, I would retire to my v i rginal bed in my l i ttle room, but my social instinct as well as habit, a friendly l ittle habit, make me l inger in this bed . Well, well . I ' ve also swallowed three aspirins, that's probably why I feel so snug and d rowsy. Tomor­ row back to work properly again. Potential schizoid that I am with an "unholy father-complex," I shall keep my nose to the grindstone again tomorrow, writing that letter for S., then pre­ paring the Russian lesson, and I really ought to ring up Aleida

[ 5 I }

Schot.2 0 But first I must have a good sleep. Life is worth l i ving. God, You are with me after all, if only a l i ttle bit.

Saturday night. I . . . ] Sua res on Stendhal: "He has severe at­ tacks of melancholy, betrays it to his friends, conceals it in his books. His spirit is a mask for his passions. He coins witticisms so as to be left alone with his exalted feelings-"

That is your disease: you want to capture l i fe in formulas of your own. You want to embrace all aspects of life with your intellect instead of allowing yourself to be embraced by life. You want to create the world all over again each time, instead of enjoying it as it is. There is something compulsive about it all.

6 October [1 941], Monday morning, nine o'clock. One sentence let d rop at midday yesterday still lingers. I asked Henny, "Tide, have you never wanted to get married ? " And she replied, "God has never sent me a man." Should I adopt the same criterion ? It would have to run like this: if I live by my own lights I shall probably never marry. Anyway, it's not something to worry about. All I need do is listen honestly to my inner voice, and I should be able to tell at any given moment whether or not a man has been "sent to me by God ." But I mustn't start brooding about it. O r temporize, or j ump into marriage for all the wrong reasons. I must have confidence and hear my inner voice and not think, "Won't I be lonely later on in life if I don't take a hus­ band now ? Will I be able to earn my own living? Will I finish up an old maid ? What will the world say, will they be sorry for me if I don't have a husband ? "

Last night I asked Han in bed, "Do you think someone l ike me ought to get married ? Am I a real woman ? " Sex for me is not all that important, although sometimes I give the impression that it is. Isn't it cheating to allow men to be taken in by that impression and then be unable to give them what they want? I

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am not really an earthy woman, at least not sexually. I am no tigress, and that sometimes gives me a feeling of inferiority. My p r i m i tive physical passion has been d iverted in many d i fferent ways and weakened by all sorts of intellectua l i za tions, which I am sometimes ashamed of. What is primitive in me is my warmth; I have a sort of primitive love and primitive sympathy for people, for all people. I don't think I am cut out for one man. I even find the loving of one man a bit childish sometimes. Nor could I be fa ithful to one man. Not because of other men, but because I myself am made up of so many people. I am now twenty-seven, and it feels as if I have had my fill of loving and being loved by men. I feel very, very old. It is no accident that the man I have been li v ing with these past five years is of an age that precludes any common future, and that my best friend plans to marry a young girl in London. I don't think my path will be: one man and one love. But I do have a strong erotic streak and a great need for ca resses and tenderness. And I have never had to go short of these. I notice I'm not able to put what I felt last n ight and this morning into proper words.

"God has never sent me a man."

My i n tuition stops me from saying yes to a man for l i fe, and my inner voice must be my sole guide in everything, but particularly in these matters. I must not not-marry j ust because one sees so few happy marr iages. That would merely be out of a sort of contrariness and anxiety and lack of faith; no, i f you do not marry it must be because you know that it is not for you. And do not take comfort in the spiteful remarks of spinsters, that marriage is not as good as people make out. I do believe in happy marriages, and perhaps I could have one myself, but j ust let i t come, don't have any theories about it, don't ask yourself what's best for you, and don't be calculating. I f "God sends you a man," so be it, and i f not, then so be it as wel l . But don't be bitter afterward and don't ever say, "I really ought to have done

[ 5 3 J

this or that." You must never ever say that, which is precisely why you must heed your inner voice now and turn a deaf ear to people who tell you otherwise. And now to work .

Monday morning, 20 October. They ate themselves to a standstill and clung ever more firmly to solid earth . This following one tomato sandwich, one apple syrup sandwich, and three cups of

tea with real sugar. I tend to toy with asceticism, to think I would love to brave hunger and thirst, cold and heat. But it's all romantic nonsense, for as soon as it gets the least bit cold what I like best is to crawl into bed and not get out again.

Last night I told S. that all those books are really bad for me, some of them, anyway. That they make me lazy and passive, and I want to do nothing but read. I only remember one word from his reply: "corruption."

Sometimes it takes so much effort to get through the daily round-getting up, washing, exercises, putting on stockings without holes, laying the table, in short getting through the basics-that little is left over for other things. Yet when, like any other decent citizen, I get up on time, I feel proudly that I have achieved something marvelous. That's what I need desperately: discipline from without as long as my inner discipline is still so imperfect. I f I stay in bed an extra hour in the morning, it doesn't mean I need more sleep, but simply that I 'm unable to cope.

There is a strange little melody inside me that sometimes cries out for words. But through inhibition, lack of self-confidence, laziness, and goodness knows what else, that tune remains sti­ fled, haunting me from within. Sometimes it wears me out com­ pletely. And then again it fills me with gentle, melancholy mUSIC.

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Sometimes I want to flee with everything I possess into a few words, seek refuge in them. But there a re still no words to shelter me. That is the real problem. I am in search of a haven, yet I must fi rst build it for myself, stone by stone. Everyone seeks a home, a refuge. And I am always in search o f a few words.

Sometimes I feel that every word spoken and every gesture made merely serve to exacerbate mi sunderstandings. Then what I would really like is to escape into a great silence and 1mpose that silence on everyone else.

Do whatever your hand finds to do and don't take thought for the morrow. Make your bed and carry your d i rty cups to the kitchen and face the rest as it comes. Get Tide some sunflowers today, teach that teenage girl some Russian pronunciation, and work the schizoid tendencies that elude your psychological pow­ ers of understanding out of your system. Do whatever your hand and spirit find to do, l ive every hour to the full, and stop fussing about with your thoughts and fea rs. I shall have to take your education in hand once again, my girl.

21 October, after dinner. It is a slow and painful process, this striv i ng a fter true inner freedom. G rowing more and more cer­ tain that there is no help or assurance or refuge in others. That

the others are j ust as uncertain and weak and helpless as you are. You are a l ways thrown back on to your own resources. There is nothing else. The rest is make-believe. But that fact has to be recognized over and over again. Especially since you are a woman. For woman always longs to lose herself in another. But that too is a fiction, albeit a beautiful one. There is no matching of lives. A t least not for me. Perhaps for a few moments. B u t do those moments justify a lifetime together ? Can those few mo­ ments cement a shared existence ? All they can do is give you a

[ 5 5 1

l ittle strength. And perhaps a l i ttle happiness. God knows, being alone is hard. For the world is inhospitable. In the past I used to d ream of giving it to one person. But it was not to be. And when you reach such painful truths at the age of twenty-seven, you sometimes feel quite desperate and lonely and anxious, although independent and proud at the same time. I have confidence i n myself, a n d I shall manage b y myself. The only measure you have is yourself. And the only responsibility you can shoulder in l i fe is responsibility for yourself. But you must do it with all your strength. And now to ring up S.

Wednesday morning, eight o'clock. Oh, Lord, give me fewer thoughts first thing in the morning and a little more cold water and exercises.

Life cannot be captured in a few axioms. And that is j ust what I keep trying to do. But it won't work, for l i fe is ful l of endless nuances and cannot be captured in just a few formulas. Not that you yourself cannot become simpler . . .

Thursday morning. Fool that you are. You try to d ra w yourself l i fe-size in words, in colorful, sweeping words. But no words will ever be able to contain all of you. God's world and God's heaven are so wide.

Back into darkness, into your mother's womb, into the collec­ tive. B reak free, find your own voice, vanquish the chaos within. I am pulled to and fro between these two poles.

24 October. The Levi girl is due for a lesson this morning. We must not infect each other with our bad moods. Tonight new measures against the Jews. I have allowed myself to be upset and depressed about i t for half an hour. I n the past I would have consoled myself by reading a novel and abandoning my work. Now I must finish working out Mischa's psychoanalysis. Won­ derful that he is taking it so well. One must not be too optimis-

{ 5 6 1

tic, but he deserves help. As long as one can get through to him, if only through the smallest chink, one must continue to try. Perhaps it will have some effect in his l i fe. Don't expect wonders, but keep hoping for small advances instead. For two days I have done nothing but work and ward off my moods.

How adult of me! Yet I am so attached to this l i fe of mine. What do you mean by "this life" ? The comfortable l i fe you

now lead ? Whether you a re truly attached to l i fe in the raw, in

whatever form it may come, is something the years alone w i l l be able to tell. There is energy enough inside you. There is also this: "Whether you spend your l i fe laughing or crying, it is still your l i fe . " But I am still attached to Western notions o f the good l i fe: being healthy, growing wiser and stronger, learning to stand on one's own two feet. But now to work.

After a conversation with Jaap:2 1 We occasionally throw each other crumbs of information about ourselves, but I don't think we understand each other.

Thursday morning [1 0 November 1 941]. Mortal fea r in every fiber. Complete collapse. Lack of self-confidence. Aversion. Panic .

1 1 November, morning. I t feels a s if weeks have gone b y and as i f I myself h a v e gone through a great deal, a n d y e t I keep fi nd ing myself back with the same problem: the urge-fiction or fan­ tasy, whatever you want to call it-to possess one man for l i fe. It's something I must eradicate. That hunger for the absolute must be crushed inside me. And the belief that without it we grow poorer. We grow richer, more complex, more d i v e rsified. To accept the ups and downs in human relationsh i ps and to see them as positive features, not as causes for sadness. Not wanting

[ 5 7 1

to possess another does not mean ignoring him. Granting an­ other complete freedom, even inner freedom, does not mean washing your hands of him. I'm only just beginning to under­ stand all that passion in my relationship with Max.2 2 It was sheer desperation, because I knew he was unobtainable, and that very knowledge spurred me on, no doubt because I tried to reach him in the wrong way . Too absolute. And the absolute does not exist. Life and human relationships are full of subtle­ ties. I know that there is nothing absolute or objectively valid, that knowledge must seep into your blood, into your self, not j ust into your head, that you must live it. And here I always come back to what one should strive after with all one's might: one must marry one's feelings to one's beliefs and ideas. That is probably the only way to achieve a measure of harmony in one's life.

21 November. I t is odd that while I have been so full of creative impulses, busy covering sheets of paper with a novel-The girl who could not kneel, or something like that, and a piece about the Levi girl-and so many, many other things, I should sud­ denly write this: "I leap up from the divan's blue coverlet as if bitten by an adder, a burning question on my lips, the ques­ tion . . ." And while I ostensibly ponder problems of ethics and truth and God Himself, I have developed an "eating problem ." Something for analysis, no doubt. I ruin my d igestion simply by eating too much. Through lack of self-control, in other words. I know I have to watch myself, but I am sometimes seized by a greed so powerful that it brooks no argument. I realize full well at the time that I am going to have to pay dearly for that extra l ittle morsel or that one bite too many, and yet I can't stop myself. I am convinced that this eating problem can be rooted out. Ultimately it is purely symbolic. Greed probably figures in my intellectual life as well, as I attempt to absorb a massive amount of information with consequent mental indigestion.

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First I shall have to get to the bottom of it all. And it will

probably turn out to have some connection with my dear mama. Mother a l ways talks about food as if nothing else m a ttered. "Come on, have a l i ttle more. You can't have had enough. H o w thin you've grown." I still remember watching my mother eat­ ing at some housewives' function years ago. I was sitti ng on the balcony of the l i ttle theater hall in Deventer. Mother was at a long table in the middle of a crowd of other domesticated ladies, wearing a blue lace d ress. She sat down to eat. She was com­ pletely engrossed. She ate with utter abandon. As I watched her from the balcony I suddenly felt quite revolted .

Her gluttony gave her the air of being terrified of m i ssing out on anything. There was something terribly pathetic about her as well as something bestially repulsive. That's how it seemed to me. In fact she was j ust an ordinary housewife in a blue l ace d ress eating her soup. I f I could only fathom what I really felt deep d own, why I observed her so closely, then I would under­ stand a great deal about my mother. That fea r o f missing out on things makes you miss out on everything. Keeps you from reality.

Psychologically, you could put it like this, i f you're i n terested in the m usings of a layman, that is: I have an unresolved antipa­ thy for my mother, and that is precisely why I do the things I abhor in her. At heart, I am not deeply concerned about food, although i t has its pleasurable and social aspects. But that's not the problem. I t is willingly and knowingly, or rather against one's better j udgment, ruining one's d igestion time a nd again. And the opposite as well: longing for the ascetic l i fe-black bread, fresh water, and a little fruit.

What S . blames analysts for is their lack of real love, their materialism. "You cannot heal disturbed people without love." And yet I could imagine their problems being tack led i n a purely objective manner. I agree with S., though, that an analy-

{ 5 9 1

sis that goes on for years is a bad thing. He thinks that as a result people are rendered unfit for society. I am putting it all very crudely of course. I really don't have the time to go into it all right now. The whole thing is so complex, and I am only a layman.

Saturday morning. I hope for, and at the same time I d read , the

day that I shall be completely alone with myself and with a blank sheet of paper. Then I shall do nothing but write. I haven't dared do it yet. I don't know why. When I was at the concert with S. on Wednesday, indeed whenever I see a lot of people together, I want to write a novel . During the interval I felt compelled to get hold of a piece of paper and to jot some­ thing down. I didn't know what. To spin out a few ideas. I n ­ stead, S. d ictated something about a patient. Interesting enough. And bizarre as well . But it meant that I had to ignore my own promptings, my desire to give an account of myself. I have this ever-present need to write but not yet the courage to get on with it. I think I tend to ignore my own inner needs. I sometimes get the feeling that my personality is growing stronger, but all I demonstrate to others is unwavering amiabil i ty and concern and benevolence even when it means effacing mysel f. The theory is that we should all put a good face on things, be sociable, and not bother others with our moods. In fact, when I suppress so much I become all the more antisocial: I don ' t want to see or speak to anyone for days.

There is a sort of lamentation and loving-kindness as well as a little wisdom somewhere inside me that cry to be let out. Sometimes several d i fferent d ialogues run through me at the same time, images and figures, moods, a sudden flash of some­ thing that must be my very own truth. Love for h uman beings that must be hard fought for. Not through politics or a party, but in myself. Still a lot of false shame to get rid of. And there is God. The girl who could not kneel but learned to do so on the

[ 6 0 1

rough coconut matting in an untidy ba throom. Such thi ngs are often more intimate even than sex . The story of the girl who grad ually learned to kneel is something I would love to write in the fullest possible way.

I protest too much. I have all the time in the world to w rite. More time than anyone else, probably. But there is that inner vacillation. Why, I wonder ? Because I think I must come out

with nothing but brilliant ideas ? Because I haven't yet worked it all o u t ? But that can only come with practice. "Above all be true to yourself." S. is quite right. I am so fond of him and at the same time have such antipathy for him. And this antipathy I S related to deepe r things, thi ngs that are beyond me.

Sunday morning, ten o'clock. Remarkable, this connection be­ tween certain moods and menstruation. Yesterday evening I was certainly flying high. And tonight it is suddenly as if my blood­ stream has been transformed. Life feels altogether d i fferent. At first you don't know what is happening, and then suddenly it dawns on you: that premenstrual feeli ng. I used to th i n k : I don't want any c h i l d ren, so why must I go th rough this senseless monthly performance, put up with all the inconvenience that goes along with it. And in a rash and pleasure-loving moment I thought of hav ing my womb removed . But you have to accept yourself as you were created, and you simply can't say that it's nothing more than a nuisance. The interaction of bod y and soul is a most mysterious thing. The rema rkable, d reamy and yet illuminating mood I was in last night and this morning was due to this very change in my body.

My sudden eating complex elicited a d ream last night. It was very clear, at least I thought so, but now that I want to write it all down much of it has gone. A lot of people round a table w i th S. at the head. He said something like, "Why don't you go and visit other people ? " And I, "Because of all that bother about

f 6 I I

eating." And then he gave me that famous look of his that I would need a whole l ifetime to put on paper, a look he has when he is annoyed and which makes his face as expressive as it can possibly be. And I read in it something like, "So, that's what you're really l ike, eating is all that matters to you." And I sud­ denly got a feeling of, "He's seen right through me; now he knows exactly how materialistic I am." I haven't described this d ream properly, it cannot be done. However, what can be de­ scribed is the sudden realization: now he has seen through me, knows what I am really l ike. And the horror of it.

Something of last night's "illuminating" expansiveness l ingers on. Peace and space again for everything. A little love and lots of affection for Han. And no more antipathy for S. Not even for the work. I shall go my own way in the end, and the detour has done me no harm. What is the hurry, after all ? Life grows slowly toward fulfillment-that sort of feeling. I f only it were true. This whole wide, spacious day lies spread out before me. I

shall let mysel f slide very slowly into it, without hindrance, without haste. G ratitude, fully conscious deep gratitude sud­ denly for this bright, spacious room with the wide d ivan, the desk and the books, the peaceful old, and yet very young, man. And the friend with the fine, full mouth who has no secrets from me and who can nevertheless become so secretive, in the background. But above all, clarity and peace of mind and also confidence in myself. As if I had suddenly reached a clearing in a dense forest where I could lie down flat on my back and stare into the wide sky. In an hour's time it can all be quite d i fferent, I know. Particula rly in this precarious state when my lower anat­ omy is in a ferment.

Tuesday morning, half-past nine. Something has happened to me, and I don't know if it's just a passing mood or something cru­ cial. It is as if I had been pulled back abruptly to my roots, and

{ 6 2 1

had become a l i ttle more self-reliant and independent. Last night, cycling through cold, dark Lairessestraat-if only I could repeat everything I babbled out the n ! Something like this:

"God, take me by Your hand, I shall follow You d utifu l l y , a n d n o t resist t o o m u c h . I s h a l l evade none of t h e tempests l i fe has in store for me, I shall try to face it all as best I can. But now and then grant me a short respite. I shall never again assume, in my i nnocence, that any peace that comes my way will be eterna l . I shall accept a l l the inevitable tumult a n d struggle. I delight i n warmth a n d secu rity, but I shall n o t rebel if I have to suffer cold, should You so decree. I shall follow wherever You r hand leads me and shall try not to be afra id. I shall try to spread some of my warmth, of my genuine love for others, wherever I go. But we should n ' t boast of our love for others. We cannot be sure that it really exists. I don't want to be anything special , I only want to try to be true to that in me which seeks to fulfill its promise. I sometimes imagine that I long for the seclusion of a nunnery. But I know that I must seek You among people, out in the world . "

A n d that is what I shall d o , despite the weariness a n d d islike that sometimes overcome me. I vow to live my l i fe out there to the ful l . Sometimes I think that my life is only j ust beginning. That the real d i fficulties are still to come, although at times I feel that I have struggled through so many a l ready. I shall study and try to comprehend, I shall allow myself to become thor­ oughly perplexed by whatever comes my way and apparently d iverts me, yes, I shall allow mysel f to be perplexed time and again perhaps, in order to a rrive at greater certai nty. Until I am no longer perplexed and a state of balance has been achieved, but with all paths still open to me. I don't know if I am able to be a good friend to others. And i f I cannot be, because it is not in my nature, then I must face that as well . In any case I m ust not try to fool myself. And I must keep within my own li mitations. And remembe r that I alone can set these.

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I t is as if my relationship with S. had suddenly changed . As if I had finally wrenched myself clear of him, when I had imagined

I was perfectly free all along. I felt it deep down inside me then: my life must be completely independent. A few weeks ago when there was talk of all Jews being sent to a concentration camp in Poland, he turned to me and said, "Then we shall get married, so that we can stay together and at least do some good still . " A n d although I realized h e meant for o u r work, h i s words filled me with happiness and warmth and a feeling of great closeness to him. But that feeling has gone now. I don't know what it is, a sudden sense of complete emancipation from him, of continuing all by myself. No doubt a great deal of my energy is still invested in him. Last night on the cold bicycle ride, in a sudden flash of insight, I understood the depth of the intensity, the commitment I have made to this man and his work and his life. He has become an inseparable part of me. And with this new part of me I must now go on, but alone. Outwardly nothing is changed, of course. I remain his secretary, continue to take an interest in his work, but inwardly I am much less bound.

The relationship of literature to life. I must work things out for myself.

Friday morning, 8:45. Last night I felt that I must ask his for­ giveness for all the ugly and rebellious thoughts I have had about him these last few days. I have gradually come to realize that on those days when you are at odds with your neighbors you are really at odds with yourself. "Thou shalt love thy neigh­ bor as thyself. " I know that the fault is always mine, not his. Our two lives happen to have quite different rhythms; one must allow people the freedom to be what they are. Trying to coerce others, of course, is quite undemocratic, but only too human. I t i s psychology that will probably pave the way t o true freedom. We tend to forget that not only must we gain inner freedom

[ 6 4 1

from one another, but we must also leave the other free and abandon any fixed concept we may have of him in our imagina­ tion. There is scope enough for the imagination as it is, without our having to use it to shackle the people we love. Yesterday afternoon I cycled off to see him. At the corner of Apollolaan and Michelangelo I was suddenly overcome by the compell ing u rge to write something in my notebook, and there I stood, writing in the col d , about the fact that literature is so full of dead bodies and how strange that is. So many frivolous deaths, too. Well, how ridiculous if every time you are convinced that God knows what magnificent ideas are ta k ing shape in your hea d , all that emerges is some incoherent rambli ngs on a few blue lines, on a street corner in the freezing cold ! I walked into S . ' s place, into those small, familiar rooms that he almost overwhelms with his size. Gera was there; we chatted a bit, and that feeling of ease crept over me again. And then, since I was still feeling out of sorts, I began to throw my coat, my hat, my gloves, my bag, my notebook, everything, across the room, to the astonished amuse­ ment of S. and Gera, who asked what was the matter with me this time. Whereupon I said, "Look, I don't feel up to i t, I feel like breaking something, so thank your lucky stars that the flowerpots on the windowsill aren't smashed to bits." My out­ burst plainly did Gera good.

That was because I had exploded j ust as she m ust often have wanted to do but hadn't dared in front of him. "Well d one," she said; my raising the roof probably expressed the kind of feeling that keeps flaring up in her and in most other people when they come up aga inst a much stronger personality. We should never say to ourselves beforehand, not even five minutes beforehand, ''I'm going to do so-and-so, and say such-and -such." I had plan ned everything I was going to say to him. Matters of princi­ ple. Objections to chi rology, etc. All urgent and so important. And j ust before I came in the mood had changed so much that I scarcely wanted to say anything at all.

[ 6 5 1

And as soon as Gera had gone, I at once had a quick wrestle with him, threw him onto the divan, nearly killed him, and then we were ready to get down to hard work. But instead he sat down suddenly in the big armchair in the corner so beautifully covered by Adri, and I curled up as always round his feet and we were suddenly having an animated discussion about the Jew­ ish problem . And his words made me feel once again that I was d rinking from a powerful source of energy. And I was once again face to face with that life of his, undistorted this time by my own i rritation. I have recently been picking odd sentences from the Bible and endowing them with what for me is a new, meaningful, and experiential significance. God created Man in H is own image. Love thy neighbor as thyself. Etcetera.

My relationship with my father is something I shall at long last have to tackle as well-with determination and love.

Mischa announced that Father would be arriving on Saturday evening. Fi rst reaction: Oh, my God . My freedom threatened. A nuisance. What am I to do with him ? Instead of: How nice that this lovable man has managed to get away for a few days from his excitable spouse and his dull provincial town. How can I make things as pleasant as possible for him with my limited resources and means? Wretched, good-for-nothing, indolent worm that I am. Oh yes, the cap fits. Always think of yourself first, of your precious time-time you only use to pump more book-learning into your addled brain. "What shall it profit a man if he has no love ? " Fine theories to make you fee l comfort­ able and noble, but in practice you shrink from even the smallest act of love. No, what is needed here is not a small act of love. It is something fundamental and important and difficult. To love your parents deep inside. To forgive them for all the trouble they have given you by thei r very existence: by tying you down, by adding the burden of their own complicated li ves to your own. Well, no matter. Now I must make up Pa Han's bed, prepare

{ 6 6 I

the lesson for that girl Levi, etc. But the m a m item for this

weekend's program: to love my father deeply and sincerely and to forgive him for d isturbing my pleasu re-seek ing l i fe . When all is said and done I think a great deal of him, but in a rather compli cated way: my love for him is forced, spasmod ic, and so mixed with compassion that my hea rt al most breaks. Masochis­ tic compassion. A love that leads to outbursts of sadness and pity, but not to simple acts of tenderness. I nstead there is much effusiveness and a desire to please so violent that each day of one of his visits once cost me a whole tube of aspirins. But that was a long time ago. The last time things were much better. But still, there is always that hunted feeling as well as the related wish that he wouldn't always bring his troubles to me. And for that I must learn to forgive him this time. And also learn to think and genuinely mean: How nice that you have managed to get away. Wel l , that's a prayer for this morning.

Sunday morning, 1 0:30. [ . . . ] There is still not enough room inside me for all my inner and outer conflicts. The moment I come to terms with any single one of them, I become d isloyal to the rest. On Friday evening a d i scussion between S. and L. about C h rist and the Jews. Two philosophies, sharply defined, bril­ liantly presented, rounded off, defended with passion and v igor. But I can't help feeling that every hotly cham pioned p h ilosophy hides a l ittle l ie. That it must fall short of "the truth." And yet I myself will have to find a philosophy to live by, a fenced-in space of my own, v iolently seized and passionately defende d . But then wouldn't that be giving l i fe short change ? The alternative may well be floundering in uncertainty and chaos. Be that as it may, a fter that d iscussion I went home feeling deeply sti rred, al­ though I couldn't help wondering, isn't it all a lot of nonsense ? Why do people work themselves into such a passion ? Aren't they deluding themselves ? That doubt always looms at the back of my mind.

I 6 7 1

And then my father arrived. With so much love, so much tried and tested love. The day before, after that fervent morning prayer, I had suddenly felt happy and lighthearted. But when he eventually turned up on my doorstep, my little Papa, with the umbrella he had picked up instead of his own, a new checked tie, and a lot of small packets of sandwiches, seemingly helpless, I felt terribly self-conscious again. All my strength vanished, and I felt inhibited and terribly sad. And because I was still under the influence of last night's discussion, I could not give him the warmth he deserved. And there was no love to help-it had d r ied up completely. I was again all chaos and confusion inside. A few critical hours and the kind of relapse I used to have during the worst times. I t helps me, I suppose, to reexperience how bad things sometimes used to be. I crept into my bed in the middle of the day. Life out there had once more become a great tale of woe. And so on. Too much to put down on paper.

Then something dawned on me. At a fairly advanced age, my father had traded all his uncertainties, doubts, and probably also his physical inferiority complex, his insurmountable marriage problems, for philosophical ideas that though held in perfect sincerity and full of the milk of human kindness are totally vague. Those ideas help him to gloss over everything, to look j ust at the surface instead of plumbing the depths he knows full well are there, perhaps precisely because he knows it. And so he can never hope to attain clarity. Beneath the surface, his resigned philosophy simply means: Oh, well, which of us knows any­ thing, all is chaos within and without. And it is that very chaos that also threatens me, that I must make it my life's task to shake off instead of reverting to it time and again. And no doubt my father's expressions of resignation, humor, and doubt appeal to something in me that I share with him, but which I must nevertheless outgrow.

About the razor-sharp debate last night: deep down I have an inkling that quite a lot of sense was spoken after all, and this

[ 6 8 1

tacit feeling was suddenly intensified by my father's intrusion

into my world. Hence my resentment of h is presence, my paral­ ysis and i m potence. It really has nothing to do with my father. That is, not with his person, his most lovable, pathetic, dear person, but with something in mysel f. The generation gap. From my parents' chaos, their failure to speak out, I must learn to take a definite standpoint, learn to come to grips with things, despite the recurrent feeling that it's all a waste of time. "Well, c h i l d ren, there i t is, l i fe's like that . . . " And so on, and so on.

When the real i zation dawned on me, my strength returned, and also my love, and the few hours of panic had vanished.

Wednesday morning, eight o'clocJv in the bathroom. Woke up in the middle o f the night. And suddenly remembered my impor­ tant d ream. A few minutes of intense effort to bring i t bac k . Gl uttonous. Greed y. H a d the feeling that the d ream w a s part o f my persona l i ty , t h a t I h a d t h e right t o hang o n t o i t , t h a t I m ust not let it escape me, that I had to be certain of i t i f I am to be a rounded and whole person.

At five o'clock that choked feeling agam . Queasy and a bit giddy. O r was I imagining it all ? For five min utes I was swept by all the fears of all those young girls who suddenly, to their horror, real i ze that they are expecting a baby they d o not want.

The mother instinct is something of which I am completely devoid. I explain it like this to mysel f: life is a vale of tears and all human beings are miserable creatures, so I cannot take the responsibility for bringing yet another unhappy creature into the world.

Later: I have earned some immortal deserts: I have never w r itten a bad book, and I have not added another unhappy being to those peopl ing this sorrowful earth.

I 6 9 J

I kneel once more on the rough coconut matting, my hands over my eyes, and pray: "Oh, Lord, let me feel at one with myself. Let me perform a thousand daily tasks with love, but let every one spring from a greater central core of devotion and love." Then it won't really matter what I do and where I am. But I still have a very long way to go. I shall swallow twenty quinine pills today; I feel a bit peculiar down there, south of my midriff.

Friday morning, nine o'clock. Yesterday morning, running about in the mist, once again that feeling: I have truly reached my limits, everything has happened before, I have been through it all, so why do I go on ? I know it all so well; I can go no farther

than I have already gone, the frontiers are too close, and to cross them means making straight for a mental institution. Or for death ? But I haven't yet thought that far. The best cure for it a l l : study a dry-as-dust piece of grammar or g o to sleep. T h e only fulfillment for me now is to lose myself in a piece of prose or in a poem w i th each word of which I have to wrestle. I can d o without a man. Is it because I have always had s o many of them round me? Sometimes I feel totally replete with love, in a nice

way. Life has really been very good to me, and still is. It's d i fficult to say things like that after the night I have had. And now my feet into water. Even this muddle about an unborn child is something I do so badly. No doubt it will all turn out all right.

Shortly before 4:45 P. M. What matters is not to allow my whole life to be dominated by what is going on inside me. That has to be kept subordinate one way or another. What I mean is: one must not let oneself be completely disabled by j ust one thing, however bad; don't let it impede the great stream of l i fe that flows through you. I keep trying to take myself in hand, telling

[ 7 0 ]

mysel f to get down now to preparing tomorrow's lesson, or to make a start on Dostoyevsky's Idiot, not j ust as a d iversion, but seriously working my way through the book. Like a day laborer. And in between I shall keep running downsta i rs

· to per form

those r ites with the water. I have the feeling of something secret deep inside me that no one knows about. It means, a fter a l l , being part o f life. T h a t w a s an exhilarating s h o r t walk I h a d with S . at two o'clock. He w a s so cheerful a n d boyish again. He j ust radiates love in all d i rections, a little at me as well, and I radiate back. White chrysanthemums. "So bridal." I am really faithful to him, inwardly. And I am fai thful to Han as wel l. I am fai th ful to everyone. I walk down the street next to a man, I carry white flowers that could be a bridal bouquet, and look u p at him radiantly. Yet just twelve hours ago I l a y in t h e a rms o f another m a n and loved h i m then a n d l o v e him n o w . I s that sord i d ? I s it decaden t ? To me it feels perfectly all right. Perhaps because the physical thing is not so essential to me, no longer so essential. The love I now feel is different, wider. O r am I fooling myself? Am I too vague? Even in my relationships ? I don't think so.

Saturday morning, 9:30. Fi rst I must make sure of keeping my chin up, muster a little courage for the day. When I woke up early this morning there was that leaden oppression again, that utter blackness of mood, that unrelieved gloom. No trifling mat­ ter, when all is said and done.

It feels to me as if I am occupied in saving a human life. How preposterous: to save a human life by doing my utmost to keep it from l i v i n g ! But all I want is to keep someone out of this miser­ able world. I shall leave you in a state of unbornness, rudimen­ tary being that you are, and you ought to be grateful to me. I almost feel a li ttle tenderness for you. I assault myself with hot water and blood -curdling instruments, I shall fight patiently and

[ 7 1 J

relentlessly until you are once again returned to nothingness, and then I shall have the knowledge that I have performed a good deed, that I have done the right thing. After all, I can't give you enough strength, and besides, my tainted family is riddled with hereditary disease. When Mischa got so confused and had to be carried off to an institution by force and I was witness to the whole horror of it, I swore to myself then that no such unhappy human being would ever spring from my womb.

Just so long as it doesn't all d rag on too long. I get so terribly worked up. It's only j ust been a week, and already I am ex­ hausted by the whole performance. But I shall bar your admis­ sion to l i fe, and truly you should have no complaints.

Friday morning, nine o'clock. People complain about how dark it is in the mornings. But this is often the best time of my day, when the dawn peers gray and silent into my pale windows. Then my bright little table lamp becomes a blazing spotlight and floods over the big black shadow of my desk. Last week it really fel t marvelous. I sat engrossed in The Idiot, solemnly translated a few lines, wrote them down in an exercise book, made notes, and suddenly it was ten o'clock . Then I felt: Yes, that's how you should always work, so deeply immersed that you forget the time. This morning I am wonderfully peaceful. Just l i ke a storm that has spent itself. I have noticed that this always happens following days of intense inner striv ing after clarity, bi rth pangs with sentences and thoughts that refuse to be born and make tremendous demands on you. Then suddenly it d rops away, all of it, and a benevolent tiredness enters the brain, then everything feels calm again, then I am filled with a sort of bountifulness, even toward myself, and a veil envelops me through which l i fe seems more serene and often much friendlier as wel l . And a feeling of being at one with all existence. No longer: I want this or that, but: Life is great and good and

{ 7 2 J

fascinating and eternal, and if you d well so m uch on yourself

and flounder and fluff about, you miss the mighty, eternal cur­ rent that is l i fe. It is in these moments-and I am so gratefu l for them-that a l l personal ambition d rops away from me, that my thirst for knowledge and understand ing comes to rest, and that a small piece of eternity descends on me with a sweeping wingbeat. True, I realize that this mood will not last, that i t w i l l probably be gone w i t h i n half an h o u r , b u t I have nevertheless been able to d ra w new strength from it. And whether today's bountifulness and expansiveness is due to my swallowing six aspirins or to Mischa's playing, or to Han's warm body last night, in which I almost completely buried myself, who can say, and what does it matter anywa y ? These five minutes have been m ine. Behind me the clock ticks away. The sounds in the house and on the street are l ike distant surf. A bare electric bulb in a neighbor's house cuts through the drabness of this rainy morn­ ing. Here, beside this great black surface that is my desk, I feel as though I am on a desert island. The statue of the Moorish girl stares out into the gray morning with a serious dark look that is carnal and serene at the same time. And what does it matter whether I study one page more or less of a book ? If only I l i s tened to my own rhythm, and tried to live in accordance with it. Much o f what I do is mere imitation, springs from a sense of d u ty or from preconceived notions of how people should behave. The only certainties about what is right and wrong are those that spring from sources deep inside oneself. And I say it hum­ bly and gratefully, and I mean every word of i t right now, though I k now that I shall again grow rebellious and i r ri table. "Oh God, I thank You for having created me as I am. I thank You for the sense of fu lfillment I sometimes have; that fulfill­ ment is after a l l nothing but being fi lled with You. I promise You to strive my whole l i fe long for beauty and h a rmony and also humility and true love, whispers of which I hear inside me

[ 7 3 1

d uring my best moments." And now to clear the break fast table and make some preparation for the Levi girl's lesson and put a little paint on my face.

Sunday morning. Last night, shortly before going to bed, I sud­ denly went down on my knees in the middle of this large room, between the steel chairs and the matting. Almost automatically. Forced to the ground by something stronger than myself. Some time ago I said to myself, "I am a kneeler in training." I was still embarrassed by this act, as intimate as gestures of love that cannot be put into words either, except by a poet. A patient once said to S., "I sometimes have the feel ing that God is right inside me, for instance when I hear the Saint Matthew Passion." And S. said something like, "At such moments you a re completely at one w i th the creative and cosmic forces that are at work in every human being." And these creative forces are ultimately part of God, but you need courage to put that into words.

This phrase has been ringing in my ears for several weeks: you need courage to put that into words. The courage to speak God's name. S. once said to me that it took quite a long time before he dared to say "God," without feeling that there was something ridiculous about it. Even though he was a believer. And he said he prayed every night, prayed for others. And, shameless and brazen as always, wanting to know everything there is to know, I asked, "What exactly do you say when you pray ? " And he was suddenly overcome with embarrassment, this man who always has clear, glass-bright answers to all my most searching and i ntimate questions, and he said shyly: "That I cannot tell you. Not yet. Later-I often wonder why this war and everything connected with i t afflicts me so l ittle. Perhaps because it is my second great war ? I was in the thick of the first, and then relived it in all the postwar literature. So much rebel­ liousness, so much hatred, the passion, the arguments, the call for social justice, the class struggle, etc.-we have been through

{ 7 4 1

it all. To go through it a second time just won 't do, it becomes like a cliche. I t's happening all over again: every country praying for its own v ictory, the same old slogans, but now it's like a deja v u and there is really no point in flying into a passion about it."

I said last night to twenty-one-year-old Hans, right in the middle of a conversation, "Look, politics really isn't everything in life, you know."

And he, "You don't have to talk about it all the time, but it's probably the most important thing all the same."

Between his twenty-one and my twenty-seven years lies a w hole generation. It is now 9:30 A . M . , Han lies snoring gently and familiarly, far behind me in the dim room . The gray, soundless Sunday morning is turning into a bright day, and I shall grow along with it. These last three days I seem to have grown years older. And now like a good, d isciplined girl back again to translation and Russian grammar.

2:00 P. M. While cataloging S.'s books, I unexpectedly came across Rilke's Book of Hours. Paradoxical though it may sound : S. heals people by teaching them how to suffer and accept.

Wednesday evening. Ruth2 3 is given presents by stage-door a d ­ m i rers in a small German provincial town, a n d Hertha gets kindness fro m prostitutes who visit her bookstall in a London park. The blond musical comedy star is twenty-two years old and the melancholy dark-haired gi rl is twenty-five, the second is to become the stepmother of the first. And the real mother is fi fty and "engaged" to a man of twenty-five. And the ex­ husband, the father and prospective groom, lives in two small rooms in Amsterdam, reads the Bible, shaves every day, and has only to stretch out his eager hands for the breasts o f the many women round h i m , which are like so many fruits in a l ush orchard . And I , his "Russian secretary," am trying to make sense of it all. The result is a friendship whose roots take an ever-

[ 7 5 J

firmer hold on my restless heart. I still use the formal Sie, per­ haps to keep the right distance, to survey the scene. The foolish and passionate desire to "lose" myself in him has long ago van­ ished, has grown "sensible." All I have left of that feel ing is the will to "yield" myself up to God, or to a poem.

The great cranium of mankind. The vast intellect and great heart of mankind. All ideas, however opposed, spring from a single brain: the brain of mankind, of all mankind. I feel it is indivisible, and perhaps that explains why I am sometimes filled with a deep sense of harmony and peace, despite the many clashes. One has to know all thoughts and let all emotions pass through one to j udge what has been devised in that immense

cranium and what has passed through that great heart.

And so l i fe is a passage from one deliverance to the next. And I shall probably have to seek my deliverance in bad pieces of prose, j ust as a man in extremis may seek deliverance in what is aptly called a "tart," because he needs someone to still his deep hunger.

Monday, 5:00 P.M. I know the intimate gestures he uses with women, but I still want to know the gestures he uses with God. He prays every night. Does he kneel down in the middle of his small room ? And does he bury his heavy head in his great, good hands ? And what does he say ? Does he kneel before he takes his dentures out or afterwa rd ? That time in Arnhem: "Let me show you how I look without my teeth. I look so old and so 'know­ ing.' "

"The girl who could not kneel." This morning, in the gray dawn, in a fit of nervous agitation, I suddenly found myself on the floor, between Han's stripped bed and his typewriter, hud­ dled up, my head on the ground. As if I were trying to seize peace by force. And when Han came in and seemed a bit taken

{ 7 6 1

aback by the spectacle, I told him I was looking for a button. But that was a l ie. And Tide, that strong thi rty-five-year-old red­ head, said quite frankly one evening, speak ing in her bright, clear voice, "You see, I'm just like a child about this, when I am i n trouble I kneel down in the middle of my room and ask God what to do." Her k isses a re like a shy l ittle girl's, S. once showed me, but her gestures to God are mature and certain.

Many people have fixed ideas, and so they bring their c h i l d ren up in rigid ways. The result is not enough freedom of action. With us i t was precisely the other way round . I think my pa rents a l ways fel t out of their depth, and as life became more and more d i fficult they were gradually so overwhelmed that they became qu ite incapable of making up their minds about anything. They gave us child ren too much freedom of action, and offered us nothing to cling to. That was because they never established a foothold for themselves. And the reason why they did so little to guide our steps was that they themselves had lost the way.

And I see our own task more and more clearly: to a llow their roving talents to mature and take more solid shape in us, thei r c h i l d ren.

31 December 1 941, ThurJ·day morning, ten o'clock. I t was such an odd feeling waking up in Deventer: I was all sharp corners and edges as I a d vanced into the ice-cold morning.

Just a few words on the occasion of my being, for a short w h i le, a guest in my child hood room with my faithful old lamp by the bedside. Simple things. I have noticed that i t is best for me to get up early. And as always I have to brace myself like a hero to plunge into the cold water. I am real ly a very heal thy person. The main thing for me is to keep my mental balance; the rest follows. My breakfast plate was graced with a chicken leg. Darling mamynka, who translates all her love into chicken legs and hard-boiled eggs.

f 7 7 1

The train to Deventer. The open skies, peaceful and also a l ittle sad. I look out of the window, and it is as if I were riding through the landscape of my own soul . Soul-landscape. I feel l ike that often: that the outer landscape is the reflection of the inner. Thursday afternoon along the river IJssel. A radiant, sweeping, bright landscape.

Mother. Suddenly a wave of love and sympathy that washes away all the petty irritations. Five minutes later, of course, I am on edge once more. But later in the day again the feeling: per­ haps there will come a time, when you are old, when I'll be spending a while with you, and then I'll be able to help you see what really goes on inside you and smooth away your anxieties, for I am gradually coming to realize what disturbs you.

8:00 P. M. The lung man more or less grinned his way over S.'s great big chest. No matter what he asked-did S. cough a lot, did he produce a lot of phlegm, or God knows what-S. had only the one reply, ''I'm afraid the answer is no." And the first thing he said when he stepped out of the surgery was, "It's Davos for me right away, but I insisted that the entire harem must come along. Yes, Switzerland will be grateful to me." I was still chuckling out on the street. And he kept threatening me, "Just you wait until Friday, when the X rays will be ready." We managed with great difficulty to get three lemons from a bar­ row, by paying ten cents apiece instead of the usual seven. But we were determined to have some cake and whipped cream. And then we roamed the streets again, I hanging playfully onto his arm with my Cossack hat askew on my head and he with a silly-looking alpine cap above his gray mane, l ike two crazy lovers. And now it is almost 8:30. The last evening of a year that has been my richest and most fruitful and yes, the happiest of all. And if I had to put in a nutshell what this year has meant­ from 3 February, when I shyly pulled the bell at 27 Courbet­ straat and a weird-looking character wearing some sort of an-

[ 7 8 J

tenna on his head examined my palms-then I would say: greater awareness and hence easier access to my inner sources. In the past I , too, used to be one of those who occasionally ex­ claimed, "I real l y am religious, you know." O r something like that. B u t now I sometimes actually d rop to my knees beside my bed , even on a cold winter night. And I listen in to myself, allow myself to be led, not by anything on the outside, but by what wells up from deep within. It's still no more than a beginning, I know. But it is no longer a shaky begi nning, it has a l ready taken root.

I t is now 8:30. A gas fire, yellow and red tul ips, an unexpected piece of chocolate from Aunt Hes,2 1 the three fir cones from Laren Heath, and my Pushk in, of course. I feel so "normal," so terribly normal and nice, without any of those terribly profound and vexing thoughts and oppressive feelings-normal, full of life and depth, but a depth that also feels perfectly "norm a l . " And I should also mention t h e salmon salad that is waiting for me tonight. Now I am mak ing tea and Aunt Hes is knitting a cardigan and Pa Han is fiddling about with a camera, and why not a fter a l l ; within these four walls or within fou r other ones, what does it matte r ? The essential is somewhere else. And I hope to make some progress with Jung this evening.

7 Jan uary, 1 942. Wednesday, 8:00 P.M. Walked along the snow­ covered canal tonight, after the unexpected encounter at the Jewish Council. Then he said, "I am much less sure of my technical skill than I am of my human warmth."

And later, each of us hanging on to a strap on the n umber 2 4 tram, " I t w a s good of you t o come along; y o u a l ways stimulate me, because you feel things so strongly and I am really a 'sound­ ing board,' you could say. "

We reported t o t h e Jewish Council at 4:30. H i s hea rt wasn't really in it. Questions, income, emigration certificate, Gestapo, and sim ilarly ed ifying matters. A young man behind a table.

{ 7 9 1

Sensitive, weak, intelligent face. Me, his "Russian secretary," tagging along brazenly as if I were indispensable, ostensibly because of his hearing, but really in order to be with him. And was amply rewarded again. After the peaceful chitchat between him and the meek, really a very nice young man, someone sud­ denly stepped eagerly up to S. "Good evening, Herr S." S. looked at the man, who had a marvelously sardonic Mephisto­ phelian head on a small body, without recognizing him, and then said on the off-chance, "Oh, yes, you must have been on one of my courses." That happens to him all over Europe, I imagine. When I walk with him in the street someone is bound to come up every few yards or so wanting to shake hands, and S. invariably says, "Oh, you must have been to consult me." This man, with the sharp, sardonic features that contrasted so strongly with the weak face of the young man, had in fact never attended S.'s classes but had met him through the Nethes, and seemed extremely keen to become a client. And the sharp one said to the meek one, "Watch out for Mr. S., he can tell every­ thing about you. From your hands." And the meek one immedi­ ately opened his right hand and put it out on the table. S. had time to spare, so he looked at it. And it really is very difficult to describe how he does it. It's like this: when S. says, "This is a table," and when someone else says, "This is a table," then the two tables are quite different. The things he says, even the sim­ plest ones, sound more impressive, more important, I would almost say more highly "charged" than the same things said by anyone else. And not because he adopts a portentous air, but because he seems to d raw on deeper, stronger, and more truly human sources than most others. And in his work he looks for human, not sensational, results, although he invariably causes a sensation j ust because he is able to look so deeply into people.

But back to the bare little office at the Jewish Council, to the sensitive young man who held out his hand, the eager Mephis­ topheles, and S., who after a few preliminary remarks estab-

{ 8 0 1

lished a very strong contact with the young man. And

remember, we had gone there to answer questions about our financial position. I can't recall everything that S . told him, but one thing he d i d say was, "You do your work here most thor­ oughly, but it is al ien to your nature." And then quite casually, "He is quite an introvert, this young man." I t is v e ry d i fficult for me to repeat all of it. Like a good pupil, I j oined in myself, saying, "There is also something a l i ttle soft and sensitive about h i m . " And that the young man seemed to have talents that were not being fulfilled because of his lack of self-confidence. S. took it up and said, "When you are given clear orders you al ways do your best, but if you are presented with a l ternatives you vacil­ late." And more of the same. As a result, in a very short time the young man was, as it were, bowled over, and said in utter aston­ ishment: "But Herr S., everything you've said to me here in a couple of minutes is almost exactly word for word what came out in a test I had to take." He promptly made an appointment for a consultation and was immediately forthcom i ng with a hund red and one pieces of adv ice on how to fill in a l l the forms. I see that I have underplayed the humorous side of this strange

meeting. Later we stood like exultant schoolchild ren shouting w i th l a ughter on the snow-covered canal-at the unexpected and fun n y course of that official interview: an appointment for a consultation and an official who suddenly exuded benevolence and was willing to do anything he could to bend the law for us.

11 January, 1 1 :30 P. M. I am so glad that there is all that washing­ u p waiting for me in the disorganized kitchen. A sort of pen­ ance. I have some sympathy for monks in rough habits kneeling on cold stone floors. I feel a bit sad again tonight, but then I myself wanted those embraces. The dear man had j ust made u p his mind to l e a d a chaste life d u ring these few weeks u n t i l he reports to the Gestapo. Or as he put it with such chi ld l i ke sim­ plicity: to radiate nothing but sweetness to harness the cosmic

[ 8 I }

forces of goodness. No reason not to believe him. And then along comes this wild "Kirghiz" girl and confounds his d reams of chastity. And I asked whether he would have regrets. "No," he said, "I never regret anything, and anyway it was beautiful and has taught me that I can't escape my earthy nature. But for me," he added, "physical contact is always preceded by some kind of 'spiritual closeness,' and that is why it is so good ."

And what do I come away with ? With sadness. I realize I cannot fully express my feelings for a person in embraces. And I also feel that that person eludes me in my arms, precisely be­ cause he is in them. I think I would rather see his mouth from a distance and long for it than press it to my own. In very rare moments that brings me a kind of happiness, if I may use so big a word. And tonight I shall sleep next to Han, out of pure sadness. Everything has become chaotic again.

Now I know for certain: he prays after he has taken out his teeth. Really that's quite logical. You must first get all your mundane chores out of the way.

I seem to be blossoming right now, I radiate warmth all round, says S., and he enjoys it. A few years ago I was really a terribly sick person, what with my two-hour naps each after­ noon, my monthly pound of aspirins-it was all quite horrifying when I look back on it. Today I was leafing through these scribblings again. They have become "ancient literature" for me; they all seem so remote now, all those problems I used to have. Now my inner world is all peace and quiet. It was a d i fficult road, though it all seems so simple and obvious now. One phrase has been haunting me for weeks: "You must also have the cour­ age to say openly that you believe; to say God ." Right now, a little spent and tired and sad and not altogether satisfied with myself, I don't feel it with the same intensity, but it still remains part of me. Tonight I shall probably say nothing to God, al­ though I do yearn for cold stone floors and contemplation and

{ 8 2 1

seriousness. Seriousness about things of the body. My body still has its own way much of the time, is not yet at peace with my soul. Yet I fi rmly believe in that oneness. And I believe less and less that one man is enough to satisfy my body and my soul. I am now sad in quite a different way.

I no longer plumb the depths of despair. My sadness has become a springboard. In the past I used to think that I would al ways be sad, but now I know that those moments too a re part of l i fe's ebb and flow and that all is well . This is a sign of confidence, of very great confidence, even in myself. I have gradually come to realize that I am going to manage my l i fe properly.

And yet: I don't want his body at all, although I sometimes have the sudden feeling that I am madly in love. I s this perhaps because I feel for him so deeply, so "cosm ically," that the body simply cannot keep pace ?

Tide and I are closest to him, and yet we a re quite d i fferent. We m ust be very fond of each other. Today, when Tide saw the two of us out and kissed us both, there was such a wonderful intimacy between the three of us for a moment. A n d now will you for goodness' sake go to bed ?

1 9 February 1 942. Thursday, 2:00 P.M. If I had to tell what made the greatest impression on me today I would say: Jan Bool's2 5 great big pu rple chilblained hands. Somebody else was m a r tyred today. That gentle boy from "Cultura. " 2 6 I still remember how he used to play the mandolin. He had a n ice girlfriend at the time. She had since become his wife, and there was also a child. "He was one of the best," said Jan Boo!, in the crowded univer­ sity corridor. They have finished him off. And Jan Romein and Tielrooy and several more of the fragile old profs. They are now prisoners i n a d rafty barracks, in the same Vel uwe where they used to spend their summer holidays in friendly guest housesY

[ 8 3 1

They are not even allowed their own pajamas, or anything else of their own, Aleida Schot said in the cafeteria. The idea is to demoralize them completely and to make them feel inferior. Morally they are all strong enough, but most of them are rather fra i l . Pas has retired to a monastery in Haren and is writing a book. Or so they say. It was very gloomy at this morning's lectures. And yet it wasn't altogether depressing. There was one bright spot. A short unexpected conversation with Jan Boo! as we walked through the cold , narrow Langbrugsteeg and then waited at the tram stop. "What is it in human beings that makes them want to destroy others ? " Jan asked bitterly. I said, "Hu­ man beings, you say, but remember that you're one yourself." And strangely enough he seemed to acquiesce, grumpy, gruff old Jan. "The rottenness of others is in us, too," I continued to preach at him. "I see no other solution, I really see no other solution than to turn inward and to root out all the rottenness there. I no longer believe that we can change anything in the world until we have first changed ourselves. And that seems to me the only lesson to be learned from this war. That we must look into ourselves and nowhere else." And Jan, who so unex­ pectedly agreed with everything I said, was approachable and interested and no longer proffered any of his ha rd-boiled social theories. Instead he said, "Yes, it's too easy to turn your hatred loose on the outside, to live for nothing but the moment of revenge. We must try to do without that." We stood there in the cold waiting for the tram, Jan with his great purple chilblained hands and his toothache. Our professors are in prison, another of Jan's friends has been killed, and there are so many other sor­ rows, but all we said to each other was, "It is too easy to feel vindictive." That really was the bright spot of today.

And now to have a nap and then to learn a l ittle about Rilke's girlfriend. Life goes on, and why not! I should write more regularly. But there is much too little time.

[ 8 4 1

25 February, Wednesday. It is now half-past seven in the morn­

ing. I have clipped my toenails, d runk a mug of genuine Van Houten's cocoa, and had some bread and honey, all with what you might call abandon. I opened the Bible at random, but it gave me no answers this morning. Just as well, because there

were no questions, j ust enormous faith and gratitude that l i fe should be so beautiful, and that makes this a historic moment, that and not the fact that S. and I are on our way to the Gestapo this morning.

27 February, Friday morning, ten o'clock. [ . . . ] How rash to assert that man shapes his own destiny. All he can do is deter­ mine his inner responses. You cannot know another's inner l i fe from his ci rcumstances. To know that you must know his d reams, his relationships, his moods, his disappointments, his sickness, and his death.

[ . . . ] Very early on Wednesday morning a large group of us were crowded into the Gestapo hall, and at that moment the c i rcumstances of all our lives were the same. All of us occupied the same space, the men behind the desk no less than those about to be questioned. What d istinguished each one of us was only our inner attitudes. I noticed a young man with a sullen expression, who paced up and down looking d riven and harassed and making no attempt to hide his irritation. He kept looking for pretexts to shout at the helpless Jews: "Take your hands out of your pockets . . . " and so on. I thought h i m more pitiable than those he shouted at, and those he shouted at I thought pitiable for being afraid of him. When it was my turn to stand in front of his desk, he bawled at me, "What the hell's so funny ? " I wanted to say, "Nothing's funny here except you," but refrained. "You're still smirking," he bawled again. And I, in all innocence, "I didn't mean to, it's my usual expression . " And he, "Don't give me that, get the hell out of here," his face saying,

{ 8 5 1

" I ' l l deal with you later." And that was presumably meant to scare me to death, but the device was too transparent.

I am not easily frightened. Not because I am brave, but be­ cause I know that I am dealing with human beings and that I must try as ha rd as I can to understand everything that anyone ever does. And that was the real import of this morning: not that a d isgruntled young Gestapo officer yelled at me, but that I felt no indignation, rather a real compassion, and would have l iked to ask, "Did you have a very unhappy childhood, has your girl­ friend let you down ? " Yes, he looked harassed and d r iven, sul­ len and weak. I should have liked to start treating him there and then, for I know that pitiful young men like that are dangerous as soon as they a re let loose on mankind. But all the blame must be put on the system that uses such people. What needs eradicat­ ing is the evil in man, not man himself.

Something else about this morning: the perception, very strongly borne in, that despite all the suffering and inj ustice I cannot hate others. All the appalling things that happen are no mysterious threats from afar, but arise from fellow beings very close to us. That makes these happenings more fam i l iar, then, and not so frightening. The terrifying thing is that systems grow too big for men and hold them in a satanic grip, the builders no less than the victims of the system, much as large edifices and spires, created by men's hands, tower high above us, dominate us, yet may collapse over our heads and bury us.

12 March 1 942, Thursday evening, 1 1 :30. How indescribably beautiful it all was, Max, our cup of coffee, the cheap cigarette, and that walk through the darkened city, arm in arm, and the fact that we two were together. Anyone who knew about our past would have found it strange and quite incredible, this meet­ ing out of the blue-just because Max intends to get married and wants me of all people to give him advice. But that's what was so beautiful-to be able to come back to a friend of one's

{ 8 6 1

youth and see oneself reflected in the light of his own greater

maturity. A t the start of the evening he said, " I don't know what it is, but someth ing in you has changed. I think you have turned into a real woman ." And at the end, "The change is not for the worse, believe me, your features, your gestures, they're as l ively and expressive as ever, but now there's so much more wisdom behind them, it's so nice to be with you," and he shone his flashlight briefly in my face, nodded in recognition, and said decidedly, "It's you all right." And then, half clumsily and half fam il ia rly, our cheeks brushed and we moved on and d re w apart. I t really w a s beautiful. A n d paradoxical though it m ust sound, perhaps it was our fi rst real meeting. As we walked on h e s a i d suddenly, "I think t h a t perhaps o v e r t h e years we c a n grow into real friends." And so nothing is ever lost. People d o return to you, you live with them inside you until a few years later they are back with you again.

On 8 March I had written to S . , "My passion used to be nothi ng but a desperate clinging to-to what, exact l y ? To some­ thing one cannot cling to with the bod y . "

A n d it w a s t h e body of t h i s m a n , w h o n o w walked beside me like a brother, to which I had once clung in terrible despair. That, somehow, was the most gladdening thing: something had survived , the pleasing and familiar exchange of ideas, the shar­ ing of each other's presence, the revival of memories that no longer haunted us, who once had li ved so destructively o ff each other. Al though by the end, of cou rse, we were both emotiona l l y exhausted.

Still, it was the old Max who suddenly asked, "Have you had an a ffai r with anyone else since then ? " I held up two fingers. Later when I said I might marry a refugee so that I could be with him when they sent him to a camp, he pulled a face. As we took our leave, he said, "You won't do anything foolish, will you ? I ' m so a fraid you'll come to grief." And I, "I won't come to grief, don't worry." And I wanted to add something, but by then

[ 8 7 1

we had moved too far away from each other. I f you have a rich inner l i fe, I would have said, there probably isn't all that much difference between the inside and outside of a camp. Would I myself be able to l ive up to such sentiments? There are few illusions left to us. Life is going to be very hard. We shall be torn apart, all who are dear to one another. I don't think the time is very far off now. We shall have to steel ourselves inwardly more and more.

I would love to read the letters I wrote to him when I was eighteen. He said, "I always had such ambitions for you, I ex­ pected great works from you." I said, "Max, they'll come. There's no hurry. Can't we be patient ? " "Yes, I know you can write. Now and then I read over the letters you wrote to me; you can write."

Still, it's a comforting thought that things like that can still happen in this riven world of ours. Many more things perhaps than we are prepared to admit to ourselves. A youthful love suddenly rediscovering itself, smiling back at its own past. And reconciled to it. That's what had happened to me. I set the tone that evening, and Max went along with it, and that said a good deal.

So, everything is no longer pure chance, a bit of a game now and then, an exciting adventure. Instead I have the feeling that I have a destiny, in which the events are strung significantly to­ gether. When I think how we talked together through the dark city, older now, softened by the past, feeling that we still had so much to tell each other but vague about when we should meet again, I am filled with a profound and solemn gratitude that this could happen in my life. I t is now close on midnight, and I'm going to bed. It's been a good day. At the end of each day I feel the need to say: Life is very good after all. I have my own philosophy now, one I'm prepared to speak up for, which I S saying a lot for the self-conscious girl I've always been.

[ 8 8 1

Tuesday morning, 9:30. Last night, when I bicycled over to see S., I was fi l led with a warm, intense longing for spring. And as I rode d reamily along, over the asphalt of Lairessestraat, looking forward to seeing him, I suddenly felt the caress of ba lmy spring air. Yes, I thought, that's how i t should be. Why shouldn't one feel an i mmense, tender ecstasy of love for the spring, or for all humanity ? And one can befriend the winter, too, o r a town, o r a country. I well remember a wine-red beech tree from my youth. I had a very special relationship with that tree. At night, fil led with a sudden longing, I would bicycle for half an hour to reac h i t , then d ance round i t , captivated a n d bewitched b y i t s blood­ red look. So, why shouldn't one fall in love with spring ? The caress of the spring air was so soft and so all-embracing that a man's hands, even his hands, seemed coarse to me by compari­ son.

And so I came to him. The small bedroom held a glimmer of l ight from h i s study, and when I walked i n I saw that his bed had been turned down and above it a heavily-laden spray o f orchids had been hung to spread i t s fragrance. On the l i ttle table beside his pillow stood daffodils-so yellow, so poignantly yel­ low and young. The turned-down bed, the orchids, the d a ffo­ d ils-there was no need to lie down in that bed ; even as I stood in that d i m l y lit room i t was as if I had had a whole n ight of loving. And there he was sitting at his small desk, and I thought again how much his head resembled some gray, weather-beaten, age-old l a ndscape.

Yes, we need patience. Our desire must be like a slow and stately ship, sailing across endless oceans, never in search of safe anchorage. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, it will find a mooring for a moment. Last night it came across j ust such a one. Was it only fou rteen days ago that I had been so wild and wanton, pulling him toward me, bringing him down on top of me and late r feeling so unhappy that I could scarcely bea r to go on

{ 8 9 1

living? And was it only a week ago that I slid into his a rms and was still unhappy somehow because something about i t seemed so forced ?

No doubt those ports of call were necessary in order to reach these calm waters, this intimacy, this cherishing and valuing of each other. A night like this l ingers as large as l i fe in one's memory. And not many such nights may be needed for the feeling that l i fe is rich and full of love.

9:00 P. M. The solemn Moorish girl looks out at the flower gar­ den, with her dark glance, serene and sensual. The small cro­ cuses, yellow and purple and white, droop spent and exhausted over the rim of the chocolate tin, all life gone since yesterday. And then the yellow bell-flowers in the translucent green crystal vase. What are they really called ? S. bought them in a flush of spring fever. And last night he came back with that bunch of tulips. The small red buds and the tiny white ones, so tight, so inaccessible, so incredibly dear-! had them to look at all after­ noon, while listening to Hugo Wolf.2 8 The Rij ksmuseum, too, was there outside the window, so invitingly fresh and new i n its contours and at the same time so old and familiar.

We are not allowed to walk along the Promenade any longer, and every m iserable little clump of two or three trees has been pronounced a wood with a board nailed up: No Admi ttance to Jews . 2 9 More and more of these boards are appearing all over the place. Nevertheless there is still enough room for one to move and live and be happy and play music and love each other. Glassner3 0 brought a little sack of coal and Tide some wood, S. sugar and biscuits, I had some tea, and our small Swiss vegetar­ ian artist suddenly arrived with a big cake. First S. read to us about H ugo Wolf. And when he came to some passages about Wolfs tragic life, his mouth quivered a little. That's another reason why I love h im so much. He is so genuine. And lives every word he says or sings or reads. When he reads sad things,

{ 9 0 1

he is genuinely sad. And I am touched by the fac t that at that moment he looks as if he is about to burst into tears. And I would gladly weep in unison with him.

Glassner gets better and better a t the piano. This a fternoon I whispered to him how happy his piano playing made us.

There a re moments in which i t is suddenly brought home to me why creative artists take to d rink, become dissipated, lose their way, etc. The artist really needs a very strong cha racter if he is not to go to pieces morally, not to lose his bearings. I don't quite know how to put it properly, but I feel i t v e ry strongly in myself at certain moments. All my tenderness, a l l m y emotions, this whole swirling soul-lake, soul-sea, soul-ocean, or whatever you want to call it, wants to pour out then, to be allowed to flow forth i n to j ust one short poem, but I also feel, if only I could, l i k e fl inging myself headlong into an abyss, losing myself in d ri n k . A fter e a c h creative act o n e h a s to b e sustained by o n e ' s strength of character, by a moral sense, by I don't know what, lest one tumble, God knows how far. And pushed by what dark im­ pulse ? I sense it inside me; even in my most fruitful and most creative inner moments, there are raging demons and self­ destructive forces. Still, I feel that I am learning to control my­ self, even in those moments. That is when I suddenly have the urge to k neel down i n some quiet corner, to rein myself in and to make sure that my energies are not w i l d ly d issipated.

I t's late evening now, and I have j ust been held by S.'s search­ ing light-gray gaze, which d rew me in, and by his dear, ful l mouth. F o r a moment I felt s o sheltered a n d sustained b y this gaze. I had been straying all day in endless space, and then suddenly I came up against a frontier-the frontier that turns back shiftlessness and boundless despa i r .

This morning I noticed t h e d a r k branches outside forming a lattice in the translucent spring light. I saw the treetops when I woke up, outside my window. And I saw the trunks this a fter-

[ 9 1 1

noon, from the wide windows of the floor below. And inside, the red and the white tulip buds, bending toward one another, the noble piano, black and mysterious and complex, a being in itself, and further away still the Rij ksmuseum. And S., now so strange, now so familiar, very distant and yet very close, one moment an ugly, ancient goblin, the next a stout, good-natured, biscuit-loving uncle, then the chamber with the warm vmce, always changing, so remote and yet so close.

Saturday morning, ten o'clock. Some mornings I wake up with a complete sentence in my head, a few words I must have said to myself softly in the middle of the night, half asleep. I don't know exactly where they spring from, but they come back to me in the morning. Today, after I had lain awake for a bit, this phrase from out of the night came to me: "A gradual change from the physical to the spiritual."

And that change is connected with my relationship to S.

Keeping a d iary is an art I do not understand. Quite a lot has happened this morning. Our latest clerk turned up triumphantly with three clandestine turnips and bartered them with Kathe for sauerkraut. And I was on the telephone to S. first thing asking him to be sure he gave Lies! the eggs in time for d inner. But he had a lready seen to it, thoughtful and conscientious man that he is. Do I really have to write down things like these ? Whole books would be filled, and although I can believe that one day they might make exciting reading, let others write them, not me.

And then, a week ago, I thought I would keep a record of everyone I spoke to each day. But that would be bound to use up an awful amount of paper. And what would be the point, any­ way ? Sometimes my day is crammed ful l of people and talk and yet I have the feeling of living in utter peace and quiet. And the tree outside my window, in the evenings, is a greater experience than all those people put together. I sometimes think so many

{ 9 2 1

things happen in my life, so many interesting people, so many books, so much talk, it's a pity I can't write it all down for the years to come. But then, my real life is something quite d i ffer­ ent: hanging about for three hours at Lippmann and Rosen­ thal's.1 1 I know they are bullies and thieves. And yet? I have never been so close to S. and so at peace with him as I was in those th ree hours of waiting. All my pent-up energy and good humor came to my aid then, and it was as if, d uring those hours, we grew more inseparable stil l . Life may be brimming over with experiences, but somewhere, deep inside, all of us carry a vast and fruitful loneliness wherever we go. And sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths, or the turning inward in prayer for five short minutes.

Ta ke that day, for instance, when I had to deliver his wed­ d ing ring to Lippmann and Rosenthal in the morning and that same day to Van Meerloo's with Lies!, and on to the Cafe de Paris with Herbert Nelson and Sylvia Gross and Dr. Levie, who became "Werner" for the first time (I was most gratified to see that my last bit of snobbery has gone: in the past I would have reveled in taking coffee with "celebrities" and saying "Du" to a stage d i rector, but all that has completely gone now and what remains is human warmth stripped of any trappings, and I am grateful that it should be so), so, the Cafe de Paris, and in the evening spaghetti, and then the discussion, back here, about S.'s book, and my heart-to-heart talk with S. about that youthful correspondence of mine that had suddenly turned up, and then the walk through the bright night, a night in which the deep feelings between us were deepened further still, then on to the Lev ies', with Wei ! , the journalist from Frankfurt, who has intel­ lectual water on the brain, an undernourished soul, and h ungry eyes-a shivering l ittle ape but one with the philosopher's swell­ mgs on his left pal m. ("He comes from a materialistic back­ ground and has brought his materialism into his spi ritual

{ 9 3 ]

world," said S., who, so to speak, took the man in hand for fi v e minutes and b u i l t up his character, adding, "Yes, seeing so many destinies pass through one's hands every day, as I do, one gradu­ ally comes to recognise how to build up each human being-one sees the finished build ing in one's mind's eye, but he himself has to supply the stones and the labor.")

And as he sat there with his expressive, gesticulating hands and said, "Yes, seeing so many destinies pass through one's hands"­ at that moment once again he was a great man, and I was so irritated by Wei! with his pigheaded, know-it-all attitude, but when we were alone again, S. merely said, "The poor fel low ! " And i t is with the help of such quiet comments that he helps me to grow.

Then the short walk to S.'s place; and back home by myself through the bright night, and then, though it was 1 2 :30 A . M . , a talk with Han, again about my correspondence with A . , and how strange it was that something I myself had left behind me so long ago still bothered him. That was my day, then, a long day. And the most important thing about it a l l ? That the branches of the tree outside my window have been lopped off.

The night before, the stars had still hung like glistening fruit in the heavy branches, and now they climbed , unsure of them­ selves, up the bare, ravaged trunk. Oh, yes, the stars: for a few nights, some of them, lost, deserted, grazed over the wide, for­ saken, heavenly plain.

For a moment, when the branches were being cut, I became sentimental. And for that moment I was deeply sad. Then I suddenly knew: I should love the new landscape, too, love it in my own way. Now the two trees rise up outside my window like imposing, emaciated ascetics, thrusting into the bright sky l i ke two daggers.

And on Thursday evening the war raged once again outs ide my window and I lay there watching it all from my bed. Ber-

[ 9 4 1

nard was playing a Bach record next door. It had sounded so powerful and glowing, but then, suddenly, there were planes, ack-ack fire, shooting, bombs-much noisier than they have been for a long time. It seemed to go on right beside the house. And i t suddenly came to me again: there must be so many houses a l l over the world that are collapsing each day under j ust such bombs as these.

And Bach went gallantly on, now faint and small. And I lay there in my bed in a very strange mood . Filaments of light along the menacing bare trunk outside my window. A constant pounding. And I thought to myself: any min ute now a piece of shrapnel could come through that window. It's quite possible. And it's equally possible that there would be a lot of pain. And yet I felt so deeply peaceful and gratefu l , there in my bed, and meekly resigned to all the disasters and pains that might be in store for me.

All d isasters stem from us. Why is there a war ? Perhaps because now and then I might be inclined to snap a t my neigh­ bor. Because I and my neighbor and everyone else do not have enough love. Yet we could fight war and all its excrescences by releasing, each day, the love that is shackled inside us, and giv­ ing it a chance to live. And I believe that I will never be able to hate any human being for his so-called wickedness, that I shall only hate the evil that is within me, though hate is perhaps putting it too strongly even then. In any case, we cannot be lax enough in what we demand of others and strict enough in what we demand o f ourselves.

Yes, the trees, sometimes at night their branches would bow down under the weight of the fruit of the stars, and now they are menacing daggers piercing the bright spring air. Yet even in their new shape and setting they are unspeakably beautiful. I remember a walk along an Amsterdam canal, one d reamlike summer night, long, long ago. I had visions then of ruined cities. I saw old cities vanish and new cities arise, and I thought to

f 9 5 I

myself, even if the whole of this world is bombed to bits, we shall build a new world, and that one too will pass, and still l i fe will be beautiful, always beautiful.

Even ill-fated Rotterdam. What a bizarre new landscape, so full of eerie fascination, yet one we might also come to l ove again. We human beings cause monstrous conditions, but pre­ cisely because we cause them we soon learn to adapt ourselves to them. Only if we become such that we can no longer adapt ourselves, only i f, deep inside, we rebel against every kind of evil, will we be able to put a stop to it. Airplanes, streaking down in flames, still have a weird fascination for us-even aes­ thetically-though we know, deep down, that human beings are being burned alive. As long as that happens, while everything within us does not yet scream out in protest, so long will we find ways of adapting ourselves, and the horrors will continue.

Does that mean I am never sad, that I never rebel, always acqui­ esce, and love l i fe no matter what the circumstances ? No, far from it. I believe that I know and share the many sorrows and sad circumstances that a human being can experience, but I do not cling to them, I do not prolong such moments of agony. They pass through me, like life itself, as a broad, eternal stream, they become part of that stream, and life continues. And as a result all my strength is preserved, does not become tagged on to futile sorrow or rebelliousness.

And finally: ought we not, from time to time, open ourselves up to cosmic sadness? One day I shall surely be able to say to Ilse Blumenthal, "Yes, life is beautiful, and I value it anew at the end of every day, even though I know that the sons of mothers, and you a re one such mother, are being murdered in concentration camps. And you must be able to bear your sorrow; even i f it seems to crush you, you will be able to stand up again, for human beings are so strong, and your sorrow must become an integral part of yourself, part of your body and your soul, you

[ 9 6 1

mustn't run away from it, but bear it like an adult. Do not

relieve your feelings through hatred , do not seek to be avenged on all German mothers, for they, too, sorrow at this v e ry mo­ ment for their slain and murdered sons. Give your sorrow all the space and shelter in yourself that is its d ue, for if everyone bears his grief honestly and courageously, the sorrow that now fills the world w i l l abate. But if you do not clear a decent shelter for your sorrow, and instead reserve most of the space inside you for hatred and thoughts of revenge-from which new sorrows w i l l be b o r n for others-then sorrow will never cease in this w o r l d and will m ultiply. A n d if you h a v e given sorrow t h e space i t s gentle origins demand, then y o u may truly s a y : l i fe is beautiful and so rich. So beautiful and so rich that it makes you want to believe in God."

What with one thing and another-that cup of coffee (which must nowadays be d runk with reverence, for each day i t may be our last) and chatting with Kathe and big and small Hans round the stove-it has turned 1 1 :30 A.M. I must still type out that talk w i th Hetty, things l i ke that a re awfully d i fficult, and my pro­ gram now includes The Idiot, which I have neglected for a long time, and Jung's Symbols of Transformation, of which I found a

tattered copy in S.'s library. And at 6:30, I have to meet S., and then with him and Glassner to the L.s' (I am most curious about Liesl's cooking), and then Tide in the evening. And tomorrow afternoon music at my place. And so on.

Sunday evening, 9:30. I tell myself: keep calm, Etty, why get so worked up about a young lady with the sleek head of a boy, who wears trousers, has piercing blue eyes, and wants you to teach her Russian ? O r about her provocative girlfriend, who so wants to get to know you because she finds you so "charming," which of course flatters your vanity. And then the bacon and eggs. Things like that are quite an adventure these days-any rna -

[ 9 7 1

ment now I shall be writing about nothing but food. "A real week for guzzling," said S. this afternoon.

And she with the sleek boy's head said to S., "Hallo, friend. You 're really something. All those Madonnas on your wall, and Christ, and that old tapestry. You're really something." And that telepathic young man who said last week, "There is something of the Early Christian about you. I f you believed in reincarna­ tion I would tell you that you lived at the time of the Apostles."

Then, last night's haute Sauternes and his growing lack of inhibitions. And my enormous respect for this man who, despite his strong sensuality, his overwhelming sensuality that I could feel bubbling under the wine-alas, just two glasses-lives a l i fe that could almost be called austere. A wholesome l i fe, literally.

There a re other, quite different things to write about, but my impatience still stops me from writing them down. And this evening that unprecedented emotional response to that girl's unexpected blue eyes and strange face. And suddenly I was back behind my desk, and by chance my eyes fel l on this passage of Rilke:

" . . . I realized then that I must follow him, Rod in: not by reshaping my own creation, but in my inner a rticulation of the artistic process: I must learn, not his art, but his deep inner serenity for the sake of creation. I must learn to work, to work, Lou, I need to so much ! II faut toujours travailler-toujours-he said to me one day, when I spoke to him of the awful chasms that have opened up between my good days."

And suddenly, I knew it again, and all was peace and serenity, which never abandon me for as long as they used to, not even in my most emotional moments. I looked round my desk. There were the two volumes of Rilke's letters-! really must read them systematically, and in the near future, too. Then there was the book by Jung on which I had started. And Dostoyevsky's Idiot that has to be properly studied, for its language no less than its

I 9 B J

contents: my growing number of pupils forces me to per fect my k nowledge of the language all the time. And then there is the work for S.; I must keep myself ready for him, must be open to him and learn to share his way of experiencing thi ngs. There is a l ways someth ing new to learn from him, al ways a l ittle more­ but, at the same time, I must not neglect my Russian studies.

And the people, the friends, my many friends ! Nowadays there a re hardly any accidental relationships left; you have a deep i f subtly d i fferent relationship with each person , and m ust not be d isloyal to one for the sake of the other. There a re no wasted and boring mi nutes any longer, one has to keep learning how to take one's rest between two deep breaths or in a five­ minute chat.

I was not worked up only because of those two women; there was also my vanity: that petite, dynamic Hagen, who said to me

so pertly and yet so frankly, "I noticed you straightaway on that cou rse-you were the only really 'notable' person, a fter a l l . " And it wasn't even vanity but perhaps m o r e exultation t h a t a l l k i n d s of h u m a n beings should feel free t o open themselves to me, that no human being is alien to me any longer, that I can fin d the way to people of every sort. And that, a fter all, isn't vanity but joyful love for all the many k inds of people, and happiness because I shall always be able to find my way to each one of them.

And back to me came the words I wrote down months ago in one o f these notes to myself, words I shall keep writing d own time and again, until they are part of me: Slowly, steadily, pa­ tiently.

And tonight I had to bring these words to mind once aga i n . There is so m u c h w o r k , and I can't tell w h a t will c o m e of i t.

Wednesday morning, eleven o'clock. What made the biggest im­ pression on me last night ? That small globe on top of the book­ case, so small that I could hold the entire earth w i th its oceans

[ 9 9 J

and continents m my two hands, smaller even than that silly little orange lamp that used to hang above the red-lacquered prano.

And my reaction to Mischa and his music ? Suddenly, right in the middle of a Beethoven piece, a desperate compassion for­ Little Brother, my l i ttle brother. What is the good of it all, what good is all your brilliant playing before your enthusiastic and often sensation-hungry public, when you have that line of suf­ fering round your twisted little mouth ? Poor boy ! It is just as Leonie said, "I t's impossible to enjoy the music because you can't stop wondering about what is going on inside the pianist." That's what all the d rama is about.

And S.'s face looming up from fa r away after the interval, so pale with his penetrating, now almost light green eyes, with all that terrible pity in them. And just as important: something of that dear and gentle and "open" look was back in Werner's face.

It is a good thing from time to time to feel the emptiness and wea ri ness in yourself for a moment or two, j ust to recall how things used to be and how they are now. Monday night, on going to bed, I said, "Dear God, today I cannot praise you, I honestly don't feel happy enough ." The tree outside the house seemed a l i feless lump of timber stabbing a dull sky. But the feeling of deep unhappiness lasted for only a moment. The day seemed to start out so bleakly yesterday. But after an hour of calm and concentrated work everything was fine again. And then there was that man from Enkhuizen with his generous gift of coffee beans and his offer of hospitality, and after the lesson, so touchingly, a cheese sandwich made of bread he had baked himself. And he said, "Have a bite," probably thinking, This poor lamb is dying of hunger, and he lit a pipe and we had a little chat.

And after that Leonie: her emotional attachment to me is so terribly strong. I probably behave much too guilelessly and un-

{ I 0 0 J

consciously toward others and take it for granted that everyone is just as free inside as I am. But I shall have to work on her "transference."

"You, my beloved, my dearly beloved, priceless, private, psycho­ logical un iversity. I have so much to d iscuss with you again and so much to learn from you."

Last night, as I sat there under the autocratic head o f that Knight of the Cross, watching the goldfish, which always seems to take things l ightly and really is a model example of someone happily going his own way-it was j ust then that I had that strange feeling again: There sits Adri, I thought, and Tide over there, and there the Levies and S., and Leonie on my left, and my l i ttle brother behind the piano, all my good friends around me, and I felt a great bond with each one in a d i fferent way, a bond that was not a chain. And as a result so many inner forces were freed. So much inner freedom and independence, and find ing myself so immersed and happy and strong. And now before coffee I shall treat mysel f to an hour with Rilke's letters.

A little later. I still have to learn to adjust to others. I ti red Leonie w i t h my description of the girl with the boy's head, the blue eyes, and the man's clothes. She merely got the feeling-as she told me afterward-that I had met some middle-class girl who was unable to get on with life.

And why did I have to tell Jaap that I shall be atten d i ng the night rehearsals at the Jewish theate r ? I t can only upset him. Is it pure swank on my part, perhaps, or j ust showing off what an "interesting" l i fe I lead, despite the fact that I 've rid myself o f my last bit of snobbery-or have I ? When I s t i l l feel t h e need t o b l u r t out things l i k e tha t ? True, you have t o t a l k about some­ thing, and you can't tell every Tom, Dick, and Harry about your intimate relationship with a tree outside your window. But you should always ask yourself what another is able to cope with,

[ I 0 I /

certainly when that other is slightly unstable and a bit of a problem.

Not only "listening in to oneself" but also "listening in to others." And as long as there is still so much noise and hubbub inside, so long will it be hard for others to approach you, except for those who look deeper and feel the undertow, the l i fe cur­ rent that never stops flowing in the depths. But you should never make l i fe d i fficult for others. And you must not be too ingenuous and too unaware in your intercourse with others, but try to be more in tune with them, to learn what each one of them can take in and cope with.

Slowly but surely I have been soaking Rilke up these last few months: the man, his work, and his life. And that is probably the only right way with literature, with study, with people, or with anything else: to let it all soak in, to let it mature slowly inside you until it has become a part of yourself. That, too, is a growing process. Everything is a growing process. And in between, emo­ tions and sensations that strike you like lightning. But still the most important thing is the organic process of growing.

To be very unobtrusive, and very insignificant, always striv ing for more simplicity. Yes, to become simple and live simply, not only within yourself but also in your everyday dealings. Don't make ripples all around you, don't try so hard to be interesting, keep your distance, be honest, fight the desire to be thought fascinating by the outside world. Instead, reach for true simplic­ ity in your inner l i fe and in your surroundings, and also work. Yes, work. I t doesn't matter at what, I still haven't found solid ground under my feet, but whether it's Russian essays or read­ ing Dostoyevsky and Jung or having a talk, all of these can be work. And have confidence that it will all come together and everything will turn out all right in the end. That confidence is something I 've had for a long time.

[ I 0 2 }

I keep remembering from my early student days how I would walk at night through the streets, my hands bunched into fists in the pocket of my coat, my head hunched deep into my collar, and how I used to say, "I want to work, I shall work"-and then I would come back home and be so exhausted by my determination that I had no strength left to do the actual work .

A nd so it wen t on for years. I remember Abrascha calling after the train that was taking me to Deventer, "You must work, child, work, work, always work."

And I could hea r the rhythm in the wheels of the train: work­ work, work-work, work-work.

And I w rote him a profound letter on that very subject, but I d i d n ' t do any work that year either because I simply couldn't. Later I came to see how it all fitted together. And now ? A s well as having the will, I now know how to put it i n to action. The will flows smoothly into the deed, the barriers I couldn't cross before have at last broken down. And I no longer say, "Yes, but I have not yet found my 'territory.' " I no longer suffer because I

have not yet d iscovered the right "instrument," the right "ob­ ject," as S . once put it to me. All that matters now is the " d eep inner serenity for the sake of creation. " Though whether I shall ever "create" is something I can 't really tell. But I d o believe that it is possible to create, even without ever writing a word or painting a picture, by simply molding one's inner l i fe. And that too is a dee d .

2 April [1 942]. Thursday morning, eight o'clock. The m o r n i n g l a y ready-made outside my window. T h e green grass of t h e Skating Club and the Rij ksmuseum seemed wide awake. And my two gaunt ascetics still pointed at the sky. I t was a good awakening.

Last night at eight o'clock, Loekie turned up with an orange, which now l ies there in all its gaudy roundness and perfection between the freesias and the three pine cones I gathered, how

[ I 0 3 I

long ago ? I really do like her so much, want to hang on to her and stop her from sliding down into the mire, which is where she will probably end up. I f I help her conscientiously with her Russian now, it might perhaps give her a small toehold later for something better than the random adventures in which she keeps getting involved, almost despite herself. Eczema on her hands again, and a swelling on her foot; she can't get greens anywhere or buttermilk and other necessities, because she has no regular supplier. And yet she never complains and always shows the same d reamy face with the clear, childlike eyes. Yes, Loekie, one day I shall write a short story about you, and then you will walk with your long dancer's legs over oh, so many lines of my exercise book.

At 9:30 my latest pupil. And now that the first impression has had time to sink in-she is really like a charming young boy-I wonder: How are you and why did you turn out this way and how do you live and are you happy ? Worked hard with her for an hour. And there was that remarkable invisible current be­ tween us. For me however, it had a human rather than an erotic bias. As for the latter, I am, of course, erotically receptive in all d irections-to S.'s demonic mouth, to Liesl's trim little figure and waving blond hair, no less than to this girl with her slim and lively boy's face and bright, almost unnaturally bright, voice.

But the sexual and erotic element in me has gradually been conditioned to play a subordinate role to human warmth, al­ though that warmth is intense and passionate enough. Typically, ever since I met this gi rl, this boy, I don't really know what to call her, I have had regular d reams about her. She is constantly in my d reams.

The first one went like this: I had just given her a Russian lesson, and we left together. She had two heavy suitcases, and I carried one of them. Suddenly, right in the middle of the street, she took leave of me and left me holding her luggage. I stood there feeling utterly confused and abandoned, and called after

[ 1 0 4 1

her, "We haven't fixed the next lesson," but she called back, " I ' l l g i v e y o u a r i n g . " I fel t less t h a n cheerful, a l o n e in the middle o f t h e street w i t h t h e heavy suitcases.-S.'s interpretation was that I must have wanted to relieve her of her problems.

Good Friday moming, 8:30. Last night at 1 0:30 when I came back to my l i ttle room, where the cu rtains a t the one l a rge window are always left open,3 2 there it stood, my poor, ravaged, lonely tree. A hesitant star climbed up its austere body, rested for a moment in the crook of one of its limbs ( ? ! good ! ) and then lost i tself in the wide sky, no longer caught u p in the branches. The Rij ksmuseum looked l ike a turreted city far away. Between S.'s bookcase, wide and deep, still a mysterious temple of wis­ dom, and my small monk's bed, there is j ust enough room for me to kneel down. Something I have been wanting to w rite down for days, perhaps for weeks, but which a sort o f shyness­ or perhaps false shame ? -has prevented me from putting into words. A desire to kneel down sometimes pulses t hrough my body, o r rather it is as i f my body had been meant and made for the act of k neeling. Sometimes, in moments of deep gratitude, kneeling d own becomes an overwhelming u rge, head deeply bowed , hands before my face.

It has become a gesture embedded in my body, need ing to be expressed from time to time. And I remember: "The girl who could not kneel," and the rough coconut matting in the bath­ room. When I write these things down, I still feel a l ittle ashamed, as if I were writing about the most intimate of inti­ mate matters. Much more bashful than if I had to write about my love l i fe. But is there indeed anything as intimate as man's relationship to God ?

Saturday, nine o 'clock. We don't live under the same roof. I am separated from him by five streets, one very long one and fou r shorte r ones, by a bridge a n d b y a canal . And w h e n I h a v e cycled

[ I 0 5 }

back home from seeing him, there on my desk is a small black telephone, and a similar marvel of modern technology stands on his overladen worktable. And we are connected by these two very often. That's how I know that he went to see that epileptic count with a copy of Symbols of Transformation and a volume of Rilke's letters, while I stayed behind on my sunny veranda with Symbols of Transformation and another volume of Ril ke's letters. Quite by chance.

"It's really amazing," I said to him with great satisfaction on Thursday afternoon on the number 24 tram, when I went with him to the station. For days Jung's book had been beckoning me on my desk, and on a sudden impulse the night before I had picked it up and immersed myself in it for an hour. When I told him next morning, he said, astonished, "Would you believe it, I picked it up last night as well, on an impulse. It had been lying on my table for days, but I suddenly fel t it was time to make a start with it."

And things like that happen quite often. Right now I am deep in Rilke. He is constantly in my thoughts, I have never experi­ enced anything l ike it before-to become so completely ab­ sorbed in a writer as to lose oneself in him, so to speak . And then, there they were on top of his desk as well: Rilke's Collected Works, and in the evening he now and then reads me a line of Rilke over the telephone. Just like that, at random, without any prompting.

How did that discussion go again-on Thursday morning ? When in the middle of saying something or other his fine, large hands slid along my bare thighs, and I suddenly said, "You know, only the other day I thought to myself that you are really a complete stranger." He looked rather taken aback and said, "And you real ly believe tha t ? Because we have never seen each other naked ? I don't feel like that at all." To him everything is of a piece, he does not separate the physical from the spiritual

{ I 0 6 }

and feels so close and familiar to me precisely because his l i fe is so much more coherent than mine. And I said to h i m that I was a bit afraid of the ultimate physical approach, that I would only want it i f the body were the expression of the soul. And that it was for that reason that I had been so shy and withdrawn that evening with the haute Sauternes-that I had had the feeling that it was pure sensuality and that it could as well have been any other woman.

Then he became very serious and said that I was totally mis­ taken, that it was I and I alone who had "excited " h i m that time. Well , wel l . But I keep catching myself being i r ritable as I write this because I am really in two minds. For during o u r u l timate sexual contact, unknown sensations and emotions or even con­ flicts may easily a rise. When I told him that, he said h e was quite ready to face any consequences.

But he also said that he would always feel the same way about me even i f that man-and -woman business shoul d n ' t turn out to be a great success-he doesn't take it all that seriously and it isn't his fi rst priority. But I still can't get the full flavor of our d iscussion properly onto paper. I only know that I love him, a bit more every day, and that I ripen beside h i m i n to a genuine and adult human being. A bit more every day.

Last night before falling asleep I asked myself if I did not live too reckless a l i fe. I n London there is a girl he intends to make his wife. Inwardly, I live in complete independence and freedom from h i m , and I tell myself that I go my own way in the world, but will I really be able to go on l i v ing away from the w a rmth of the rays that emanate from the very center o f his being ? When I thought about it very hard last night, in bed, shortly before falling asleep, I felt that I would not, and then my face was suddenly wet w ith tears and there was a longing in me that fel t heavy as lead.

And this, too. I n all the relationships I have had d uring my crowded young l i fe, it always happened a fter a while that I

{ I 0 7 }

looked back with nostalgia at the begi nning, at the adventurous, fresh, promising begi nning, and thought, "What a shame it is no longer like that, that it's never ever going to be as beautiful again . " And now, with S., it's the other way round. With every new phase of our relationship I look back and say to myself, "The bond between us has never been as deep and as strong as it is now." With every fresh step the relationship seems to gain in intensity and all that went before seems to pale in comparison, so much more many-sided and colorful and eloquent and inward does our relationship become all the time.

I once said, after 3 February, when I had known him for a year, a whole year, "I don't believe it could ever grow better still." And yet it did, for all of a sudden a barren patch of our friendship came into blossom. And I have long since stopped saying, "It can't get any better." I know now that the two of us will grow in every possible direction.

Wednesday, 9:30 P. M. I reached for this paper suddenly, with a fierce gesture, between the typing of a few letters and with a violent headache. Such longing to jot down a few word s ! Such a strong sense of, Here on these pages I am spinning my thread. And a thread does run through my life, through my reality, like a continuous line. There is the Gospel of Saint Matthew morn­ ing and night, and now and then a few words on this paper. It's not so much the imperfect words on these faint blue lines as the feel i ng, time and again, of returning to a place from which one can continue to spin one and the same thread, where one can gradually create a continuum, a continuum that is really one's l i fe.

Am I just writing this under the influence of the Rilke let­ ters ? Or do these letters affect me so much that I live in constant longing for them, drink them in with deep drafts, because I feel I have reached the same stage he describes i n his letters of 1 903 and 1 904 ?

{ 1 0 8 1

I still waste too much time, do not concentrate my mind nearly enough, am still too careless on the whole. Like a wave, the urge to kneel down sometimes floods through me, al most i r resistibly, and then my head grows heavy, I sometimes think, heavy with devotion.

And now I still have to type S.'s letter to Mischa. I am very grateful to him for dictating it. He has entered Mischa's l i fe with so much determinat ion that Mischa will eventually be unable to shake h i m off and perhaps will even find h i m a sheet anchor at some catastrophic moment in his much too difficult l i fe . S. never lets things go on by chance. Somewhere he al ways becomes part of your "destiny."

Thursday morning, ten o'clock. This morning, early, I kneeled down in the l ivi ng room among all the bread crumbs on the carpet. And if I should have to say aloud what I said in my prayers, it would go something like this: "Oh, Lord, this day, this day-it seems so heavy to me, let me bear i t well to i ts end, through the multitude of days. This day will probably be no heavier than any other day, but my strength to bear it is not so great . And then there is the anxiety and the burden of wonder­ ing what this summons to S. from Lippmann and Rosenthal really means. But Lord, help me not to waste a d rop of my energy on fea r and anxiety, but grant me all the resilience I need to bear this d a y . " German soldiers were already d rill ing at the Skating Club. And so I also prayed, "God, do not let me d issi­ pate my strength, not the least little bit of strength, on useless hatred against these soldiers. Let me save my strength for better things."

1 5 April {1 942]. Wednesday mormng, 8:30. A shout of j oy, an i m petuous shout of spring ! I have partaken of his mouth and have sipped of his breath. He is back. Like exuberant c h i l d ren we ran about his sun-filled rooms these last few days, with so

I I 0 9 /

much love, so much warmth, so much child ish joy. There is so much to write-well, the facts don't really matter. You have been going to bed too late again, Etty, these last few days; it'll end in tears.

I have l ived j ust one life these last few days, this spring, with that dear, kind face always near me. And yet I have been atten­ tive to so many other lovable faces. It was not physical food, there was hardly any physical contact, more the intense savoring of its promise for the future. I still have that length of gypsy material in my wardrobe. With Liesl's help I shall make a d ress from it, open on all sides to the sun, the wind, and his caresses. And then in the summer, the heath, me in the gypsy d ress with tanned bare legs and flowing gypsy hair, and then a small farm­ house with a low-beamed ceiling and the smell of apples and a view over the heath at night.

All that is still to come. Yesterday Lippmann and Rosenthal. Robbed and hunted, and yet? So much joy, human joy, more than that pale-faced, j ittery, plundering official could ever imag­ ine. And the recurrent feeling that one is complete master of one's inner resources, which grow stronger by the day, and the feeling of love, not j ust for one man, for one paltry man, but for everyone with whom one happens to share one's l i fe. I have a thousand things more to note down, but I must first read my Saint Matthew and then, after breakfast, some Russian conversa­ tion, this afternoon the Freudian and Leonie, and then perhaps Lies!. In the evening to him, to do some more work. I have sipped of his breath.

It is now 1 1 :30 at night, and I am lying in my bed. Han has just taken off his shirt, and once again I stretch out and relax along his familiar body. I have just taken an enchanted leave for the night of my two trees, my two dagger thrusts into the starry sky.

Just half an hour ago I was with S. We worked and chatted

[ 1 1 0 1

under the small lamp, and there was j ust one, single, controlled caress. This afternoon I looked at his expressive mouth and whispe red to it, "Tonight you will be the beaker from which I will sip his breath." The way he spoke of his wor k ! I fel t as if I were sitting beside a life-giving source, a source fro m which strength flowed into me. I love him so much. This evening I sat on the floor leaning against his legs, and he looked pensively down at me and said , "However do you manage it? Isn't it terribly hard for someone like you who is so used to living with men ? "

And he also said, "Only eighteen months ago I could never have left a girl like you alone-I would have thought it a sin (or something like that) not to take her to bed . " And he added, ' ' I ' m astonished how much I h a v e changed. But otherwise I should never have been able to work as hard as I do now."

And I said, "I have complete respect for the way you live and hold it in high rega rd." And after a while: "One acqui res more patience. I think physical intimacy is too often forced. I can live on a single caress from you for a long, long time." And so on. And now I am lying in bed beside Han, my bare legs between his thighs, looking at his profile and his closed eyes. There is an expectant expression on his face, he too is so familiar to me and so close. And I also know this: I now have the patience to w a i t for t h a t loving caress from S. t h a t h a s become so essential to m e , and that patience I o w e t o Han. Life w i t h him over t h e y e a r s h a s helped t o assuage my appetite, life with him and his caressing hands, which were always round me.

And Han is taking an increasing, al most organic, place i n my emotional l i fe. I see and feel the difference between what was and what is more and more clearly and appreciate the important role he has played . Things used to be much more d i fficult, and he often i r ritated me, but that has all passed . And I love him very much, d i fferently. For now there is something rounded off

{ 1 1 1 J

in our relationship, there are no fresh possibilities. Yet here I am lying by his side, stretched beside him in real affection, and watching h is expectant profile to see whether he wants me again tonight, and I am ready for that as well-not for me, but for him. Out of a sense that he has a right to, but also out of genuine friendship. And S . ? I have sipped his breath out of the beaker of his mouth, and perhaps this is the first time in my life that I have really k issed a man.

Nine o'clock next morning. By my faded hyacinth out on the veranda. It was, of course, not the whole truth when I w rote that I gave myself to him out of genuine friendship and because I fel t h e h a d a right after a l l the years w e had spent together. That sounds so noble. There is something of that about it, of course. But it isn't j ust giving on my part; it also becomes an act of taking and of pleasure. Bodies that have known each other for so long suddenly begin to move with their own laws and rhythms. And now I look forward to a long day of steady work on this veranda.

Perhaps that is the only real way of kissing a man. Not j ust out of sensuality but also from a desire to breathe for one mo­ ment through a single mouth. So that a single breath passes through both. And it was with S. that I had this experience for the first time. Ever since, my kisses for Han have been platonic. But yes, bodies, they have their own laws. This Easter Monday, now, a good week ago. Early in the morning I was lying in bed with Han and fel t the familiar touch of his caressing hands. Perhaps I had the somewhat coarser thought: if I give myself to him now, he'll be off to a good start and he'll probably be less upset at my being away for the rest of the day. But a thought l ike that is far too calculating, and never counts for much with me-human warmth invariably takes over.

Homo sum-. I remember, at the end of the day, which

r 1 1 2 1

comprised a whole l i fe, as I lay in bed at two o'clock in the morning, being surprised at myself, perhaps even moved in a way, and asking myself: What sort of a person are you, reall y ? At 1 1 :3 0 o n Easter morning I had gone t o S. Lunch, intensity,

warmth. And after lunch at the little table next to the window­ sill with the flowering plants-he, l ike a patriarch, but with the radiant look of the lover, in his big armchair-we had moved easily on to his wide divan. And then for a short hour we had shared one breath as I had been wanting to do for many, many weeks. And I had rested so confidently and with so much sur­ render in his arms and yet full of sensual tension. B u t above everythi ng else there was that shared breath. And in that short hour so m uch strength flowed into me that I believed I could live on i t my whole life long.

Then a walk along a country road for a few hours. A small brook, willows and meadows and in the distance the town. And his gesticulating hands and expressive hea d . And d u ring our walk we passed a long, low-built house that came from a d i ffer­ ent century, and the house had a face of i ts own and it reached out to me. What I mean is that I felt in touch w i th everything round me, at one with the landscape through which I was walk­ ing, and with an old house that suddenly came alive for me.

Ril ke. The Dinggedichte. And in the evening that little dinner for just the three of us. My two friends, S. and Han, and green peas and fried eggs and substitute whipped cream. And a hectic girl, leaping about in the kitchen among all those pans, but everything came off beautifu l l y ! And after the meal he even d ictated that letter to Mischa. Half-past nine at the Levies'. First time together. And then a new slice of l i fe opened up and con­ tinued until two o'clock in the morning. The struggle to stop Werner smoking. And when-I think it was about half past m idnight and there had been a bit of an argument-! snatched away his umpteenth cigarette, he suddenly j umped on me like a

{ 1 I 3 }

frenzied, small black gypsy, and to his dismay I floored him. Then a wild wrestling match on the floor, Lies! looking on with a philosophical expression.

Next day at breakfast Werner said, "I feel marvelous, as if I ' ve wrestled it all out of my system, so healthy." He cut down his smoking for two days, Lies! later told S., and the wrestling match had apparently given him a bit of a shock because he suddenly realized how very unfit he had become. He put that down to his smok ing, too. And yesterday afternoon when he read me something from Maimonides, I said quite bluntly, "There's absolutely no point reading edifying things like that. Reading Maimonides and wanting to build a new world after the war when you are systematically, against your better knowl­ edge, poisoning and destroying yourself with God knows how many packets of cigarettes a day ! " And I know I am right. Unless every smallest detail in your daily life is in harmony with the high ideals you profess, then those ideals have no meaning.

My poor old father, the night before last. He said, "One should be thankful, nowadays, each day the sun shines and one is still at large." And he added a bit ruefully and ironically, "At least that's what I tell other people all the time." He really can't take much more. There is too much debris piled up over your well­ spring to be cleared away by the time you are sixty years old. All we can do is to try to help others not to be so sad when they reach sixty. Much has been changed in my relationship with my parents, many tight bonds have snapped, and as a result I have gained the strength to love them more genuinely.

Well , that Monday, that Easter Monday. Lies! and Werner at two o'clock in the morning, like two Parisian street urchins sitting on the edge of their improvised gypsy beds in the liv ing room. And me in Renate's bed. I took the blackout paper down from the window, and suddenly there were two stars at the head

[ 1 1 4 1

of the bed. They were not the same stars I see th rough my window, but I felt in touch with them all the same, and sud­ denly I was quite certain that no matter where I was in the world I would always find stars and be able to flop down on a bed, or on a floor, or anywhere else, and feel absolutely at home. And of this rich, oh, so rich Easter Monday, these were probably the two things that mattered most of all: the house that reached out to me and showed me its face, and those two stars at two o'clock in the morning. And now I really must get down to work.

17 April. Friday morning, nine o'clock. My God, what a charac­ ter ! Just look at her j umping about on that divan ! She must be a Russian. We don't do that sort of thing in Holland, do we ? An enfant terrible.

I am still assailed far too much by words like these. I prayed early this morn ing, "Lord, free me from all these petty vanities. They take u p too much of my inner l i fe, and I know only too well that other things matter much more than being thought nice and charming by one's fellows." What I mean is, that sort of thing m ustn't take up too much of your time and i m agina­ tion. For then you get carried away with: "What a n ice person I am, what fun I am, how much everyone must like me."

I n the past I used to play the fool almost despite myself, and fel t terribly unhappy doing it. Now I am sometimes madly exu­ berant j ust out of a surplus of energy, particularly on those days when I am most serious and concentrated inside. Then some hidden sort of childish elation bubbles out of me, sometimes bordering on silliness. That's all right. But if it becomes obvious that others a re applauding such behavior, then it's time to make sure i t isn't going to one's head or tickling one's v a n ity, for if that is a l lowed, one's focus will once again be shifted from the inner l i fe toward the outer. As i t is, I have been l iv ing a l i fe of

[ 1 1 5 1

pleasure these past few days, and it is on j ust such days that I must be even more collected and peaceful inside, for if I am not then everything gets dissipated in vanity and play-acting.

22 April. Wednesday morning, noon. My reply to Tide's postcard: You dear, I was so touched by what I found in my letterbox this mormng.

At certain fixed times-though less and less often now-I have a tremendous need to cut myself off, to be quite alone for a time. On Sunday I found it very difficult to leave my desk and go over to your place. Was that very selfish and antisocial of me? However, I did enjoy the good atmosphere you create around you even though I didn't join in very much.

But last night I acted with shameless lack of consideration, j ust sitting in the corner and reading. I must still learn to find the courage it takes to say at times l ike these, "I am going to stay at home and keep myself to myself for a while." But I am still too afraid of hurting others, when it actually hurts them much more if I am with them in fact but not at all in spirit.

Recently, I think, I have been much too much of an extro­ vert-to use that imposing piece of j argon for once-and my really more introvert nature is being avenged. But I am no longer thrown off balance as badly as I used to be in the past. My inner peace never completely deserts me these days.

You r words fi rst thing this morning were so very welcome and have done me so much good, Tide. A big hug.

8:00 P. M. This afternoon in his sunlit room I flung a pair of childish arms round his summery neck and nestled a little girl's face against that broad, kindly head of his, which radiates so much gentleness and generosity, and said, "I love you so much, so terribly much." At times l ike that he gives off such an all­ encompassing goodness that [ want to cry-no embrace is then enough to express my feelings for him.

[ 1 1 6 1

He told me that d u ring the lecture last night he had had to struggle with himself not to shout at me, "Leave the class." But then he had said to himself, "Is that really what you're l ike, getting hurt j ust because someone isn't listening to you ? " And he had pulled himself together and had j ust been a bit cross for a few hours about my unseemly behavior, and then it had all blown over. And he said, "What would happen to my theories i f I d i d n ' t l i v e b y them ? " or something like that.

Leonie told me a little while ago that her friend said of S. in her sleep, "He's a real lady's man, you can sense it as soon as he takes your hand. He has that kind of aura."

What do people mean by a real lady's man ? I t's j ust another cliche. I think most of us get the wrong idea when we hear that phrase-we immediately think of sex. He is a lady's man, true enough, but only in the sense that, like Ril ke, there is something about him to which women immed iately respond and open up. And that is because he has so strong a feminine streak that he can understand how women feel-women whose souls can find no home since men will not join them to theirs. But in men like him the "soul" of a woman is given welcome and shelter. I n that sense he is a lady's man, yes !

And H a n . What am I to do about him ? This afternoon, Leonie said with a guilty face, "I must speak to you, I think I ' ve behaved v e ry stupidly toward you." S. said, ' ' I 'll let the two of you have a chat. I ' l l disappear for a bit." And it was truly no small matter she confided in me. She had asked Han-tamper­ ing w ith my l i fe-"Well, and what do you think of the relation­ ship between Etty and S., it can't really be all that platoni c ? " But when she saw the surprised expression on Han's face, she had started backpedaling in a panic and seems to have saved the situation. At least I hope so. Right now Han is quietly ensconced on the v e randa behind a cigar and a newspaper. And I said something like, "Leonie, why bother an old man with things he can't possibly cope with ? Why should I tell him things that

{ I I 7 ]

would upset him terribly but don't upset me in the least ? S u rely honesty doesn't entail telling everybody everything. All that matters is that you feel responsible for one another. And live your own life and not bother the other with it more than is necessary. And that doesn't mean living a life of frivolity." And so on.

And now there is so much more to write, but it won't come because of-forgive me-those accursed insides of mine.

This time it's really bad. Which also explains my odd behav­ ior last night. Everything's due to those insides. My chemical composition suddenly changes, and I don't feel responsible any longer. The strangest processes ferment inside me d u ring those few days of changed blood circulation. And there are also sud­ den bursts of creativity, but above all there is despair, so much despai r at not being able to express any of the many vague and unclear things inside me. And finding that, though I'm getting quite old, I'm still without an "instrument" and without an "object." I must delve deep into myself and fetch up unformed slabs of granite and chisel them into shape. But no strength to l i ft them up as yet, no tool to hew the granite. And now a little homework for Becker's lesson tomorrow.

1 1:00 P. M. Typical that the telephone conversations we have, lasting an hour and a half or more at the end of the day, should be the most intense contacts I have with him. Then there are j ust our voices, the harmony of two voices in unison. No, that is badly put. Tonight his words were once again like a soothing hand laid upon my head. He said, "You should not be so depen­ dent on your body, you must learn to get over these moods more quickly each time." But that's what I always try to do. This in connection with my insides, which turn everything upside down for a few days.

And we spoke of so much else, so much. And yet it's never an idle parade of words with him. Always aimed at the serious

{ 1 1 8 1

things of l i fe. And always without pom p and ci rcumstance-so ordinary, l i k e l i fe itself.

And his words also made me feel I really oughtn't to be thinking stupid things like, I am a l ready so old, I ' m twenty­ eight and I haven't yet been able to express anything of all that lies buried in me and cries to be let out. One should j ust grow and mature and not think about the years. Perhaps it won't be until I'm sixty that I'll be able to say what I think I have to say.

Something else: at times I think that I will be able to write one day, to describe things, but then I suddenly grow tired and say to myself, "Why all these words ? " I want every word I write to be born, truly born, none to be artificial, every one to be essential. For otherwise there is no point to it at all. And that is why I shall never be able to make a l iving by writing, why I must a l ways have a job to earn my keep. Every word born of an inner necessity-w riting must never be anything else.

24 April, Friday morning, 9:30. Eduard Veterman's face among a c rowd of actors in the cafeteria: a gentle, friendly, mysterious moon, floating above a turbulent landscape. O r a C h inese lan­ tern, casting a soft glow over all.

A n d as I stood , small and lost, in the center of that big stage, the gaping, empty chasm of the auditorium stretching out threateningly before me, I was suddenly hit by the realization that some people base their entire lives on applause from that gaping chasm.

Those were really the strongest impressions of the many hours I spent in the world of the theater. I found no real people, no one with whom I wanted to have a close friendship.

And it was at that time, too, that I reali zed that the last remnants of my snobbery had deserted me after a l l .

I w a s reminded all at once of a t i m e when, at about t h e a g e of fi fteen, I was sitting in my father's small study, untidy and impersonal as were all the rooms in all the d i fferent houses in

{ I I 9 ]

which we ever lived-I sat there and suddenly needed to write. And I still remember what I wrote: "Red, green, black. Through the leaves of the green tree I see a girl in a bright red d ress." Etcetera. That was the only way in which I could express all the vehement feelings inside me.

Later, too, on the train to Paris. Excited by the rhythm of the train, by the many impressions-there I sat with a miserable little notepad clutched in my fingers, and aga in needed to w rite. And I wrote something like: "Grey, dark, black, but inside it was bright orange and crimson ." And then, in that hu rtling train, I also wrote: "It is certain that the world dies a separate death for each one of us, and yet the world still exists." How odd. I remember that I thought this sentence immensely impres­ sive and that, for a time, it relaxed me from my inner constric­ tion.

I still need to write things down. I should like, as it were, to caress the paper with j ust the right word-I should like to write about yellow daffodils, tiny yellow marsh-marigolds, my chest­ nut twigs, which have stopped blooming now, their many small hands stretched out as gracefully as a dancer's and at the same time raised so defensively toward the sky. And so on. Many unconnected thoughts. But there is one good thing at least: my old asperity has gone. I could list a host of clever formulations overflowing with wit that I used to think up, but nowadays I 've grown tired of all that. Indeed, I sometimes wonder whether I haven't been livi ng too much on my "soul" of late-treating ideas with too much d isdain. Sometimes I have a fleeting u rge to express this or that in elegant words, but I kill the urge straight­ away, finding all that now much too contrived. It will all balance out in the end. Have patience. Slowly, steadily, patiently.

Yesterday I woke up at six o'clock, and the first thing that struck me was that I'll have to study Dutch all over again and fashion myself an instrument out of that language. I probably place too much trust in the belief that the words will come by

{ 1 2 0 1

themselves when the time is ripe. Perhaps that is my great mis­

take. I am nothing and I know nothing.

When it comes to portraying character or atmosphere, I think I should get stuck at the first attempt. S. said to me one day, "You still savor your talent." I sometimes wonder if it is a talent at all. Perhaps I am really squandering everything I've got. No doubt I should be more energetic in concentrating my m ind at this desk, my true hub. Sweep together all the scattered pieces from every corner and mold them into a whole. Perhaps I allow myself to be blown too easily with the wind. But I really don't know where to begin. Perhaps one day there will be a begin­ n i ng, and then I shall know how to go on. But what of that beginning? Above all: be steadfast. Don't let the days c r umble away between your clever fingers. Time passes so quickly. It's past ten o'clock al ready.

I got u p at 7:30. Made breakfast. A few pages of Rilke, a page of the Bible, some awkward stammerings onto this paper, my latest pupil is d ue in forty-five minutes, this afternoon I shall have to sleep for an hour, because of my still rebellious insides­ then work on Starreveld's papers, prepare the transl., write to Aime, a bit more Russian, and tonight S.-a letter to Mischa. A lot happens to one on a day like this.

It is cold and chilly today-1 have thrown my brightest shawl over my terracotta sweater to counter it. I am sitting here now so peaceful and absorbed and collected-in an hour's time I shall be another person altogether: animated and intense, and the stupid thing is that after lessons like that it is impossible to settle back straightaway i n to your earlier state of peaceful reflection­ contacts with others invariably alter you, even if only a little. We are like chemicals: processed all day long and constantly com­ pounded with other materials. One great, continuous process. But which part of you is the original eleme n t ? It's almost fright­ ening when you suddenly start to think about such matters. That you pass through the many hours of the day and at the end

[ 1 2 1 1

you are a d i fferent person from the one you were at the begin­ ning. But here comes Kathe with the coffee.

2:00 P.M. Bit by bit you must learn this, too: on those days when you feel physically out of sorts, don't hit out and make trouble for those around you. People are really much too ready to do that. Feeling wretched and continually taking it out on those around them. We must find out how to come to terms with our own bad moods without making others suffer for them. I am gradually learning to control myself. Right now I feel like some animal that wants only to creep into a quiet corner and lie there hugging itself. That's quite a good feeling: not to want to hit out, but to stay quietly curled up in some corner. And also not to let your thoughts and feelings spill out on everything around you. I used to do that all the time. Then I would poison every­ thing-everything that came near me, everything that came into my head , everything I set eyes on-with my bad feelings. Now I know how to isolate and accept that mood and make sure it causes no more trouble. Such days are really very trying. But one must grow more and more independent of one's body.

Last night. I kept him at arm's length. Earlier, when after an evening of work we were suddenly lying beside each other on the floor-1 looked at his dear, kindly face, in which the mouth seemed so aggressive-and I said something like this, "We mustn't try to express physically all we feel for another." That's really why I am always so sad after we have had physical con­ tact. One can often say much more with a very, very small gesture than in the wildest and most passionate night of love. And I flung myself against him almost desperately. And yet things are not nearly as bad as they used to be. I am happy in his caresses, although I am always fearful we may suddenly reach a limit, with no further possibilities. And I also said to him that sometimes on the telephone I feel much closer to him than in even the most passionate embrace. Is that some sort of over-

{ 1 2 2 J

sensibility on my part, I wonder ? Yet here lies the eternal source

of human suffering. I don't feel it as strongly in my body as I used to, but it follows me everywhere like a d i stant echo.

And this, too: how can I explain that, whenever I have had physical contact with S. in the evening, I spend the night with Han ? Feelings of guil t ? I n the past, perhaps, but n o longer.

Has S. unleashed things deep down inside me that can't yet come out but carry on their subterranean existence with H a n ? I can hardly believe that. Or is it perversity ? A matter of conve­ nience ? To pass from the arms of one into those o f the othe r ? What sort of l i fe am I leading?

Last night when I cycled home from S., I poured out a l l my tenderness, a l l the tenderness one cannot express for a man even when one loves him very, very much, I poured it all out i n to the great, a l l -embracing spring night. I stood on the l ittle bridge and looked across the water; I melted into the landscape and offered all my tenderness u p to the sky and the stars and the water and to the l i ttle bridge. And that was the best moment of the day.

And I fel t this was the only way of transforming a l l the many and deep and tender feelings one carries for another i nto deeds: to entrust them to nature, to let them stream out under the open spring sky, and to realize that there is no other way o f letting

them go.

26 April 1 942. Just a small red, faded anemone. But I like the idea that in years to come, I shall chance upon it again between these pages. By then I shall be a matron, and I shall hold this d ried flower i n my hands and say with a touch of sadness: "Look, this is the anemone I wore in my hair on the fifty-fifth birthday of the man who was the greatest and most unforgetta­ ble friend o f my youth. I t was d u ring the third year of World War I I , we a te under-the-counter macaroni and d rank real cof­ fee, on w h i c h Lies! got 'd runk,' we were a l l in such high spirits, wondering if the war would be over soon, and I wore the red

[ I 2 3 }

anemone in my hair and somebody said, 'You look a mixture of Russian and Spanish,' and somebody else, the blond Swiss w i th the heavy eyebrows, said, 'A Russian Carmen,' and I asked him to recite a poem about William Tell for us in his funny Swiss burr."

And when it was all over we walked back through the famil­ iar streets of South Amsterdam and climbed up to his roof ga rden. And Lies! had run ahead and put on a d ress of shiny black silk, tigh t round her slender body, with full sleeves of a translucent sky blue and the same sky blue over her small white breasts. And she is the mother of two children ! So thin and frail. Yet somewhere underneath runs a source of primitive strength. And Han looked so "natty" and go-ahead, and h is card a t table bore the inscription: "Eternally Youthful Lover, Father of Hero­ ines,'' which titles Han accepted under protest. Lies! said to me later, "I could fall in love with that man."

But what made this evening stand out, at least for me, was this: it was about half past eleven, Lies! sat next to the piano and S. on a chair in front of her, and I stood leaning against him, and then Lies! asked something, and suddenly we were all talking psychology and S. assumed that intense expression and he began to speak with great vitality and spontaneity. For h i m the day had been one long rush of flowers and letters and people and to­ ing and fro-ing and organizing a dinner and being the head of a table and later some wine and more wine, which he can't take all that well, and he must also have been terribly tired, but suddenly someone asked a question about something serious and immediately he was wide awake, missing nothing. He could have been standing on a platform in front of an attentive audi­ ence, and Liesl's l ittle face above all that translucent sky blue was suddenly suffused with interest, and she looked at him with big eyes and stammered in the touching way that was so pecu­ lia rly her own, "I find it so moving that you are the way you are." And I leaned even closer against him and stroked his kind

{ I 2 4 ]

expressive head and said to Lies!, "Yes, that's really the greatest thing about S. He is always will ing to talk and has an answer for

you, and so the hours we spend with him are never a waste of time." And S . looked up in childlike aston ishment, with an expression I can't hope to describe, and said, "But isn't that so w i th every human being ? " He kissed l i ttle Lies! on her cheeks and forehead and pulled me tighter against his knee and I was suddenly brought to mind again of what Lies! had said a few weeks ago on her sunny roof, "I would so love to spend a few days with the two of you . . . "

S. said, "One must never seek to go to the l im i t, but leave some things to the imagination."

29 April. Wednesday morning. So much to w r i te-and so l i ttle time, alas, so little time. What I need is an even tighter schedule. So as not to lose too much time in the fissures o f the day, the gaps between my va rious busynesses. To switch over from one task to the next with a sure and firm movement. I still let too much time fritter away between one thing and another. Stead­ fastness. My day sometimes seems l ike a com p l i cated piece of machinery with many handles, and I must familia r i ze myself with the i r operation, work more steadily, assiduously and con­ tinuously, above all continuousl y. There is such an awful lot to be done. A deep breath between two turns of the handle is rest enough. Such a mess has piled up on my desk. That, too, is due to m isuse of the machine. And now to the Russian lesson.

5:00 P.M. An ihm bin ich eigentlich erst schopferisch geworden- it is really with him that I became creative. How silly that I can't say that i n D u tch but must put it into German ! It is through being with him that my creative powers fi rst awoke, and through him they will also take shape. Later on, he will have to th rust me away, push me toward my own inner space. In a flash of insight

{ I 2 5 ]

it is suddenly clear to me: I must not long to spend my whole l i fe with him, nor seek to marry him. I t is thanks to him that I have found a way of expressing myself, but he must release me again into a cosmic space where I can discover another expression, one that is purely my own.

8:00 P. M. There seemed to be a touch of nervousness j ust now in his voice, when he asked me somewhat ironically on the tele­ phone, "Well, are you coming over here with your yellow star ? " Only a few months ago I still believed that politics d i d not touch me and wondered if that was "unworldliness," a lack of real understanding. Now I don't ask such questions anymore. I have grown so much stronger, and I honestly feel I can cope with these frightful days, that I 'll get through them, even make it my historical duty to get through them. A few months ago I was in two minds as to how I would choose, when it came to it, be­ tween this sunny veranda, my untroubled studies, and Han's faithful eyes on the one hand, and a concentration or some other camp where I could share my troubles with S. Now all that has ceased to matter. For something inside me has suddenly changed, and I know now that I shall follow S. wherever he

goes and share his sorrows. And that, I believe, is because I have grown so much less dependent on him and so am able to tie my life to h is, without feeling that I am sacrificing mine.

That must sound paradoxical, but i t is the only wisdom there is between man and woman. And this too: a few months ago I was perhaps frightened that our dream would go sour on us in a life so full of care and pain. Yet somewhere inside me I now feel so at one with myself, and also with him, that the outer reality can do little damage to that bond. And as the emphasis shifts increasingly toward the inner life, so one grows less and less dependent on circumstances. I am writing this at my trusty desk, surrounded by books, chestnut twigs, and celandine plus the pencil sketch of S.'s head diagonally across from me on the wall.

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I may be writing this in great comfort, but there is something inside me, tough and indestructible, that tells me I shall be able

to bear d i fferent ci rcumstances, too. I am so glad that he is a Jew and I a Jewess. And I shall do

what I can to remain with him so that we get t h rough these times together. And I shall tell him this evening: I am not really frightened of anything, I feel so strong; it matters l ittle w hether you have to sleep on a hard floor, or whether you are only allowed to walk through certain specified streets, and so on­ these are all m i nor vexations, so insignificant compared with the infinite riches and possibilities we carry within us. We must guard these and remain true to them and keep faith with them. And I shall help you and stay with you, and yet leave you entirely free. And one day I shall surrender you to the gi rl you mean to m a r ry .

I shall support your every step, outwardly a n d inwardly. I think I have grown mature enough now to bear a great many hard things in life and yet not to grow too h a rd inside.

I feel so sure of myself and not in the least afraid and some­ how so triumphant and unbreakable, and also so full of love and confidence. And whenever even the smallest vacillation, the tini­ est fea r should beset you, I shall be there to support you. A n old d ress, a couple of sandwiches, a little bit of sun, and now and then a kindly glance at each other. One hand is all we need to caress. And a little work. And our work can be done anywhere, wherever there is a human being, be he only a camp guard. I am coming over to your place right now. I have put on a beauty of a new pink wool blouse, and I have washed myself fro m top to toe w i t h lilac soap.

I once quietly bemoaned the fact that there is so l ittle space for our physical love in your two small rooms, and n o chance of going elsewhere because of all those notices and prohibitions. And now i t seems a veritable paradise of promise and freedom: your little rooms, your small table lamp, my lilac soap, and your

{ 1 2 7 1

gentle, caressmg hands. God knows how much that means to our relationship, to all that may lie in store for us. Not that I worry unduly about the future. You can't tell how things will turn out in the long run, and so I don't bother too much about it. But if things are to be harder for us, I am quite ready to bear it.

Thursday, six o'clock. Never give up, never escape, take every­ thing in, and perhaps suffer, that's not too awful either, but never, never g1ve up.

Last night. At 8:45 P.M. I dropped in to see Lies! and Wer­ ner.33 Werner sat by the coffee grinder in the corner of the k i tchen, his gypsy face staring out defiantly above his yellow star-in its special honor he had bought two pounds of real coffee beans that afternoon, which must have cost him a whole week's wages at the very least-and Lies! was shuffling about with a stiff neck and a pale little white face from all that cough­ ing. And I sat on the dresser and we were all nearly d runk with the smell of the coffee and I looked round the cheerful bright kitchen and at Werner's gypsy head, which can sometimes be so mischievous, and at Liesl's trim little figure, and sighed with a sense of well-being: Children, it's so neat and tidy here and everything is so clean and bright, and there you are, a couple of bohemians. What a fascinating combination ! And then we flopped into armchairs and, with the steaming black coffee be­ fore us, reflected a bit on the Middle Ages and on history and yellow stars and psychology. I n the years to come, children will be taught about ghettos and yellow stars and terror at school and it will make their hair stand on end.

But parallel with that textbook history, there also runs an­ other. A few comfortable chairs, bought with the insurance money because all your possessions were wiped out of existence by bombs-a cup of coffee, a few good friends, a happy atmo­ sphere, and a little philosophizing. And life being beautiful and

[ I 2 8 }

worthwhile all the same. Or at least that was what I was bold enough to proclaim . Werner began to look serious then. But we were so contented, the three of us together that night-the very night on which the "yellow star" was issued.

And I said, "It is probably worth quite a bit being personally involved in the w r iting of history. You can really tell then what the history books leave out." That man in Beethovenstraat this afternoon won't get a mention in them. I looked at him as one might at the fi rst crocus in spring, with pure enchantment. He was wearing a huge golden star, wearing it trium phantly on his chest. He was a procession and a demonstration all by himself as he cycled along so happily. And all that yellow-I suddenly had a poetic v ision of the sun rising above him, so radiant and smil­ ing d i d he look.

Come now, Etty my girl, things aren't all as congenial as you make out, and you really seem to gloss things over with your flights of poetry. Last night I wondered aga i n if I was so un­ worldly s i m ply because the German measures a ffec t me so l i ttle personally. But I don't fool myself for one single moment about the gravity of it all. Yet sometimes I can take the broad historical view of the measures: each new regu lation takes its l i ttle place in our century, and I try then to look at it from the v iewpoint o f a later age.

And the suffering, the ocean of human suffering, and the hatred and all the fighting? Yesterday I suddenly thought: there will always be suffering, and whether one suffers from this or from that really doesn't make much d i fference. I t is the same w i th love. One should be less and less concerned with the love object and more and more with love itself, i f i t is to be real love. People may grieve more for a cat that has been run over than for the countless v ictims of a city that has been bombed out of existence. I t is not the object but the suffering, the love, the emotions, and the quality of these emotions that count. And the big emotions, those basic harmonies, are always ablaze ("blazing

[ I 2 9 }

harmonies" is not bad ! ), and every century may stoke the fire with fresh fuels, but all that matters is the warmth of the fire. And the fact that, nowadays, we have yellow stars and concen­ tration camps and terror and war is of secondary importance. And I don't feel less militant because of this attitude of mine, for moral certainty and moral indignation are also part of the "big emotions."

But genuine moral ind ignation must run deep and not be petty personal hatred, for personal hatred usually means l ittle more than using passing incidents as excuses for keeping alive personal hurts, perhaps suffered years ago. Call it psychology, but we can't let ourselves be led astray any longer; we must l ook at all that indignation we feel and discover whether its roots a re genuine and deep and truly moraL-Heavens, how I am d i ­ gressing! All t h i s in connection w i t h that quarter of an hour over a cup of fresh coffee. I t is now 8:30. And there is still soooooo much to w rite.

I skipped off at 9 : 1 5, leaving my two bohemians in their tidy rooms, and rushed into S.'s place out of breath. Oh, yes. Werner said as I left, ''I 'd love to know what S. thinks about the yellow star." And at 1 0:30 I rang Werner from S.'s and asked, "Can you recommend a good lawyer in the Jewish Counci l ? I want to ask him what happens if I marry a German refugee-that is, a stateless person. Will I be able to share his lot i f, say, he is sent to Poland ? " Etcetera. And Werner's voice suddenly very serious, "These are no small matters.'' And I , very resolutely, "Yes, I know, for it means living out one's destiny."

And in the many whirlpools into which I was being d ragged after that, these few words almost got lost as well. But I keep finding them again, and each time they make me a little proud and very, very serious. Instead of l iving an accidental life, you feel deep down, that you have grown mature enough to accept your "destiny."

Mature enough to take your destiny upon yourself. And that

[ 1 3 0 1

is the great change of the last yea r. I don't have to mess about

with m y thoughts anymore or tinker with my l i fe, for an organic process is at work . Something in me is growing, and every time I look inside, something fresh has appeared and a l l I have to do is to accept it, to take i t upon myself, to bea r it forward, and to let it flourish. A few months ago I asked myself if I wanted to follow him into exile or wherever. And my imagination then enacted a host of heart-rending scenes. Deserting this beloved desk, the most dependable refuge I know, this sunny veranda and Han's levelheaded, ever-present succor-if I may put it like that-for an uprooted l i fe in God knows what unfriendly spot on this earth, cut off from the past and from the future.

But nothing was decided at the time. True, I devised the most wonderful prayers for him against the day when he would be banished and far from me, and I wrote him letters in my thoughts that I certainly believed, had I written them, would have been among the most beautiful letters in world l i terature. But yesterday I suddenly felt oddly serious and grown-up and sure, and when I once again looked inside, l o ! -something had matured in me d uring the past few months, was there, and all I had to do was to accept it.

Then I knew that I would bind my l i fe to his, in a pretend m a rriage, just to be with him. One day, I would surrender him unharmed to his girlfriend, and I knew I could share a hard l i fe with h i m precisely because I fel t less bound to h i m than I had a few months ago. And now and then I looked round my room and said, "Oh, Etty, do you real i ze what you a re doing ? " But the room would be going with me; it had become a part of myself. And I cou l d n ' t have stayed in it all my life anyway, that I knew, and so long as I carry it in me I shall always be able to withd ra w i n t o it. I t's part of m y education, h a s stood loyally by m e all these years, and has helped to make me, has always been so ready and open and receptive, and sometimes bathed in sunlight.

And H a n ? I sn't that a natural process as well ? I shall slip

[ I 3 1 }

away from him very gradually until suddenly I shall be gone altogether, and I know that my heart will break many times when I think of him, about him, and also about me. But I shall always carry him with me; he, too, has become substance of my substance and has transformed it. And I felt so sure of mysel f. A pretend marriage, statelessness, banishment, or whatever, a mar­ riage for friendship and also for love, but for a love of a d i fferent quality from the love needed for an ordinary marriage. And then to let him go and to depart from him and never want to burden him w i th my poor self, I don't seek the least curtailment of freedom for either of us. And it is j ust because I feel so free that I am not afraid to share his hardships. With all the risks they entail: the double danger that the bond will grow too tight or that we may d r i ft apart and the intensity of our relationship die down.

But that doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that the two of us together will probably bear the hardship better than either of us alone. That we shall survive these difficult years. And that

I shall be able to help him practica lly. I told him all that during a long and serious and almost

businesslike conversation. And suddenly he looked down at me from his heights-I was

sitting on the floor, my head against his knees-with searching and tender eyes, and said, "The marvelous way you have grown ." And later, "You are a fantastic girl."

And i t is right to feel sick and confused and unsettled for once, l ike today, full of cold fear and uncertainty, and a sigh of "Good God, child, what are you letting yourself in for ? " But also a growing sense of self-certainty. I have matured enough to assume my destiny, to cease living an accidental life. But fi rst I must have a chat with a lawyer. And with Tide. And my par­ ents. And make absolutely sure that my inner certainty keeps growing stronger. And it helps that I am now twenty-eight and no longer twenty-two. Now I have a right to a destiny. It is no

[ I 3 2 }

longer a romantic d ream or the thi rst for adventure, or for love,

all of which can d rive you to commit mad and i r responsible acts. No, it is a terrible, sacred , inner seriousness, d i fficult and a t the same time i nevitable.

And then the other side of the coin. Something quite d i fferent, much less factual. Weeks ago, I came into his place one eveni ng. The bedroom caught a gleam of light from his study, the bed ­ clothes h a d been turned down for t h e night revealing white sheets and a white pillow, radiant yellow daffodils at the head of the bed, a heavy spray of orchids curv ing into the room over his bed , and I stood there stock-stili in that small, half-lit bedroom and looked at the white pillow on which his head would be resting that night, alone-and then I turned back i n to his study and we worked hard the whole evening, perhaps there was the odd tender gesture between us, but those few minutes, when I stood there alone beside his turned-down bed with the spray of orchids, I felt as if I had just spent a night of love.

And yesterday I lay on that bed , for the first time naked in his arms, and i t was less a night of love than that time. And yet it was good. I t was not exciting, there was no ecstasy. But i t was so sweet and so safe. The last inhibitions d ropped away from me and it was so infinitely good to see his great, expressive hand resting on my w h i te body, through my half-closed eyes. And he thought me beautiful. And placed his hand ca refully on my breast and whispered almost with surprise, "So soft. And how gentle . . . "

18 May 1 942. [ . . . I The threat grows ever greater, and terror increases from day to day. I draw prayer round me like a dark protecti v e wall, w ithd raw inside i t as one might into a convent cell and then step outside again, calmer and stronger and more collected aga i n . I can imagine times to come when I shall stay on my knees for days on end waiting until the protective walls a re

{ I 3 3 }

strong enough to prevent my going to pteces a l together, my being lost and utterly devastated.

26 May, Tuesday, 9:30 A.M. We walked along the quay in a balmy and refreshing breeze. We passed l ilac trees and small rosebushes and German soldiers on patrol. We spoke about our future and how we would so like to stay together. Then I walked back home in the evening, through the soft night, feel­ ing light and languid from the white Chianti, and I was sud­ denly absolutely certain of what I now again doubt: that I shall be a writer one day. Those long nights through which I would write and write would be the most beautiful nights of all.

At night, after dinner. [ . . . ] Michelangelo and Leonardo. They, too, are part of me, they inhabit my life. Dostoyevsky and Rilke and Saint Augustine. And the Apostles. I do seem to move in

particularly exalted circles. But it is no longer a matter of my l iterary pretensions. These writers tell me something real and pertinent. Even on my saddest and most tired days I no longer let myself sink as deep as before. Life flows in a continuous and unbroken stream, at times a l i ttle more sluggishly, impeded by more obstacles, but nevertheless it flows on. Neither do I tell myself any longer, as I used to: I am so unhappy, I don't know what to do. All that has become completely alien to me. I n the past I honestly thought I was the unhappiest person in the world .

" I t is sometimes hard t o take in and comprehend, oh God, what those created in Your l ikeness do to each other in these dis­ jointed days. But I no longer shut myself away in my room, God, I try to look things straight in the face, even the worst crimes, and to discover the small, naked human being amid the monstrous wreckage caused by man's senseless deeds. I don't sit

{ 1 3 4 1

here in my peaceful flower-filled room, pra1smg You through

Your poets and thinkers. That would be too simple, and in any case I am not as unworldly as my friends so kindly think. Every human being has his own reality, I know that, but I a m no fanciful visionary, God, no schoolgirl with a 'beautifu l soul.' I try to face up to Your world, God, not to escape from reali ty into beautiful d reams-though I believe that beautiful d reams can exist besi d e the most horrible reality-and I continue to praise You r creation, God, despite everything." Paral lel w i t h the pro­ cess of growing toward each other there runs a process of more and more freeing oneself of the other. But on those days when I feel a l together worn out and tired, I perhaps cling more desper­ a tely to h is strength, as if I expect salvation from it. A t the same time the energy that reaches me from him defeats me, for I cannot measure up to it. And neither is the proper reaction. My salvation m ust be wrought with my own strength, not h i s . H i s tremendous v itality c a n suddenly irritate m e and frighten me, but that is probably what happens quite often when those who are sick come up against those in perfect health-they feel de­ prived.

Saturday morning, 7:30. [ . . . I The bare trunks that climb past my w i n dow now shelter under a cover of young green leaves. A springy fleece along their naked, tough, ascetic limbs.

I went to bed early last night, and from my bed I stared out through the large open window. And it was once more as if l i fe with all its mysteries was close to me, as if I could touch i t . I had the feeling that I was resting against the naked breast of l i fe, and could feel her gentle and regular heartbeat. I fel t safe and pro­ tected . And I thought, How strange. I t is wartime. There a re concentration cam ps. I can say of so many of the houses I pass: here the son has been thrown into prison, there the father has been taken hostage, and an eighteen-year-old boy in that house

I 1 3 5 J

over there has been sentenced to death. And these streets and houses are all so close to my own. I know how very nervous people are, I k now about the mounting human suffering. I know the persecution and oppression and despotism and the impotent fury and the terrible sad ism. I know it all.

And yet-at unguarded moments, when left to mysel f, I sud­ denly lie against the naked breast of life, and her arms round me are so gentle and so protective and my own heartbeat is d ifficult to describe: so slow and so regular and so soft, almost muffled, but so constant, as if i t would never stop.

That is also my attitude to life, and I believe that neither war nor any other senseless human atrocity will ever be able to change it.

Thursday morning, 9:30. On a summer's day like this I lie in bed as if cradled in sweet arms. It makes one feel so indolent and languid. And when he sang "The Linden Tree" last time (I thought it so beautiful that I asked him to sing me a whole forest full of linden trees), the lines on his face looked like old, age-old, tracks through a landscape as ancient as creation itself.

At a small corner table at Geiger's recently, Miinsterberg's young and finely cut face thrust itself between his and mine, and in a flash I realised to my dismay how old his face really looks. And I had a kind of snapshot realization then: I would definitely not want to tie my life to his for good. But really such reactions are so mean and unworthy. They all revolve about a convention, about marriage. My life is in any case bound to his forever, or rather it is united to his. And not only my life, but my soul as well. I admit I find that a grandiloquent word to use so early in the morn ing-probably because I have not yet ful ly acknowl­ edged the fact that I have a soul.

It really is mean and petty and unworthy to think whenever you happen to be particularly pleased with his looks, "Yes, I will

{ 1 3 6 1

marry him and stay with him forever," and whenever he looks so old, so age-old, so ancient-and especially when a fresh young face appears beside his, to think, "No, it's no goo d . " These attitudes simply m u s t b e rooted o u t . There are so many­ how shall I put it ?-impediments to truly deep feelings and relationships, relationships that transcend all the bounds of con­ vention and marriage. And the real problem is not even the question of convention and marriage, but the preconceptions one carries about in one's own head.

Friday evening, 7:30. Looked at Japanese prints with Glassner this afternoon. That's how I want to w rite. With that much space round a few words. They should simply emphasize the silence. J ust like that print with the sprig of blossom in the lower corner. A few delicate brush strokes-but with what a ttention to the s mallest detail-and all around it space, not empty but inspired. The few great things that matter i n life can be said in a few words. I f I should ever write-but wha t ? -1 would l i k e to brush in a few words against a wordless background . To de­ scribe the silence and the stillness and to inspire them. What matters is the right relationship between words and wordless­ ness, the wordlessness in which much more happens than in all the words one can string together. And the word less back­ ground of each short story-or whatever it may be-must have a d istinct hue and a discrete content, j ust l i ke those Japanese prints. It is not some vague and incomprehensible silence, for silence too must have contours and form. All that words should d o is to lend the silence form and contours. Each word is like a small milestone, a slight rise in the ground beside a flat, endless road a c ross sweeping plains. It really is quite laughable: I can write w hole chapters on how I would like to write, and i t is quite possible that apart from these words of wisdom I shall never put pen to paper. But those Japanese prints suddenly

[ 1 3 7 1

showed me most graphically how I would really like to write. And one day I would love to walk through Japanese landscapes. I n fact, I am sure that one day I shall go to the East.

9 June [1 942], Tuesday evening, 10:30. This morning at breakfast reports about conditions in the Jewish d istrict. Eight people in one small room, w i th all that entails.3 4 I t's still quite inconceiv­ able, and to think that it's happening just a few streets away, almost on our own doorstep . . . And this evening, on our l ittle walk from S.'s vegetarian Swiss friend back to h is house with the proliferating geranium, I suddenly asked h im, "Do tell me, what should I do about all those guilt feelings I have when I hear that eight people have to live in one tiny room, while I have this great sunny place all to myself? " He gave me a wicked, sidelong look and said, "There are two alternatives: either you move from your room" (and he glanced at me with an ironically searching expression that meant: I can just see you doing that) "or you must d iscover what really lurks behind your guilt. Per­ haps the feeling that you don't work hard enough ? " And then the truth suddenly dawned on me, and I replied, "Quite true, my work takes me into rarefied intellectual realms, and when I hear about such terrible housing conditions I probably wonder if I would be able to go on doing it with the same conviction and application if I were living with seven hungry people in one filthy room." I fea r that I might not be able to pass that test. I still have to prove the validity of my way of l i fe: I shall al ways have to earn my living as I do now, I am not cut out to be a social worker or a political reformer, even if my guilt feelings some day force me into becoming one or the other.

Of course I d idn't say all this on our short wal k . All I said was, "Perhaps it is the fea r that I wouldn't be able to pass the test." And he, very seriously and very calmly, "This test is some­ thing all of us will have to face." And then he bought five l ittle rosebuds and put them into my hands and said, "You never

{ 1 3 8 1

expect anything, and that's why you never go away empty­ handed . "

Wednesday morning, 7:30. I t's s o compelling, Saint Augustine o n an empty stomach. Having a cold n o longer throws me com­ pletely off balance, but it's fa r from pleasant all the same. Good morning, untidy des k ! The duster has fallen carelessly across my five baby rosebuds, and Rilke's Uber Gott lies half c r ushed under Russian for Businessmen. The crumpled anarchist Kropotkin rests neglected in a corner, he is no longer properly at home here. I fetched him down from a dusty shelf to reread his first reaction to the prison cell in which he was to spend several years. That account can still teach us how to cope with the measures by which our own freedom of movement is increasingly being re­ stricted. To take what little space we are left with, to fathom its possibilities and to use them to the full.

And I thought: the first thing is to make sure that my system does not break down, I don't want to get sick here. I shall imagine I am on an expedition to the North Pole, forced to spend a few years in the Arctic. I shall move about as much as I possibly can, do my exercises, and not let conditions get me down. Ten steps from one end of my cell to another is better than nothing; doing it 150 times adds up to one Russian verst. I shall cover seven versts every day, about five miles; two v e rsts in the morning, two before lunch, two a fter lunch, and one before I go to sleep.

The hour before break fast. I t is so quiet round me, although the neighbors have their radio on and Han is lying behind me snor­ ing, even i f pianissimo. There seems to be no sense o f urgency.

Friday. [ . . . ] And now Jews may no longer visit greengrocers' shops, they will soon have to hand in their bicycles, they may no

{ I 3 9 }

longer travel by tram, and they must be off the streets by eight o'clock at night.3 5

When I feel depressed about these measures-this morning they weighed on me like a menacing lead mass-it is not really the measures themselves that cause my anguish. Hav ing to give some really awful lesson can torment me as much as the worst measures the occupying power can devise. I t is never external events, it is always the feeling inside me-depression, uncer­ tainty, or whatever-that lends these events their sad or menac­ ing aspect. I t always spreads from the inside outward with me, never the other way round. Generally the most ominous mea­ sures-and there are quite a few of those nowadays-have no power against my inner certainty and confidence and, once faced, lose much of their menace.

I shall have to come to terms with cold and d iscomfort, for they now take up too much of my energy and spoil my enthusi­ asm for work. I must get rid of the idea that because I suffer so much from the cold and from colds and have a stuffed-up nose I am j ustified in letting myself go a little and in working less hard. Just about the reverse is true, I would say, although even here I should not force i t. And because food is getting increasingly scarce we shall have less and less resistance to colds, at least I shall. And then winter is still to come. But I must persevere and remain productive. I should be preparing myself even now for physical handicaps so that I don't come to a complete standstill every time I encounter some unexpected obstacle. I shall have to adapt myself in advance, make incapacity part of my daily life, of my whole self, the better to control and then dismiss it. Rather than come up against i t anew every time and use up all my time and strength in the process. This may seem clumsily put, but I know what I mean.

Saturday morning. As tired and discouraged and worn out as an old maid. And as d reary as the chill drizzle outside. And as

{ 1 4 0 1

ineffectual. But no one made me sit in the bathroom read ing

until one o'clock in the morning when I could barely keep my eyes open with fatigue. That's not the real reason, of course. A growing sense of unease and exhaustion. Pe rhaps it's purely physical after all ? Or is it the many spli nters of my ego that bar the way ?

The more tired and ineffectual I feel, the more astonished I am by his energy and by the love he has for everyone at all times. Then I resent the fact that he has so much strength even in times like these. We could be ordered at any moment to those barracks in Drenthe Province, and the greengrocers have signs in their shops saying, "No Jews." The average person has more than enough on his plate these days. But he still sees six patients a day and gives a l l he has to each one. He breaks them open and d raws out the poison and delves down to the sources where God hides H imself away. And he works with such intensity that, in the end, the wate r of life begins to flow again in d ried-up souls; each day the life stories pile up on his l ittle table, al most every one ending with, "Please help me." And there he is read y and will ing to help each one. Last night I read the following passage about a priest: "He was a mediator between God and men. Nothing worldly ever touched h i m . And that was why he un­ derstood the need of all who were still busy growing."

There are days when I can no longer carry on, from fatigue or something. That is when I want his attention and his love for myself alone. Then I am nothing but my cramped l i ttle ego, and the cosmic spaces inside me are locked away. And, of course, I also lose contact with him. Then I want him, too, to be nothing but ego, "cramped " and there for me only. A very understand­ able and fem in i ne wish. But I have come quite a long way and shall have to persevere. And suffer relapses on the way. I n the past I would sometimes write on the spur of the moment, "I hold h i m so dear, so infinitely dear." That feeling has now gone. Perhaps that is why I am so heavy at heart, so sad and so worn

[ 1 4 1 1

out. I have not been able to pray these last few days either. And I don't l ike mysel f. These three things are doubtless intercon­ nected. And then I become suddenly as obstinate as a mule, refusing to take another step on a rocky path. When I get this dead feeling-no space within me and no energy left for him­ then I suddenly wonder: has he let go of me as well ? Are his energies so used up by the many who need him each day that he simply had to turn away from me? Etty, I loathe you. So selfish and so mean. Instead of supporting him with your love and caring, you fret like a spoiled child because he isn't paying enough attention to you. It is a petty woman indeed who wants all a man's attention and love for herself alone. Just had a very factual and bland telephone conversation with him. And I be­ lieve that he can see what is happening to me, that I am working myself into a "tragic" mood. And it's not j ust a question of being unhappy all the time, but a question of being more unhappy than ever before. Bringing a dramatic situation to a head and then suffering from i t with relish. A remnant of my masochism ? And it doesn't help being so reasonable and adult on the surface when poisonous plants have taken root and are proliferating underneath. He would probably laugh out loud i f he heard all these fantasies about my dead feelings for him. He would simply say gravely in a matter-of-fact and resigned tone of voice, "That happens in every relationship, that sort of withdrawal. One must leave it alone, and one day everything will be all right again."

I take such moments much too seriously. I t is all so stupid of me, and in times like these, too, which sap one's strength so. Feeling unhappy j ust because the bonds between you and a man seem to have slackened. You, who don't have to stand in queues for hours on end. And have enough food every day-Kathe sees to that. And your desk and books waiting for you each morning. And the most important man in your l i fe l ives only a few streets away and hasn't been carted off yet. Just have a good

[ 1 4 2 1

n ight's sleep and stop carrying on so. You should be ashamed of yourself.

19 June, Friday morning, 9:30. I am sometimes afraid to call a spade a spade. Because nothing will then be left to the i magina­ tion ? No, things ought to be called by their proper name. I f they can't stand it, then they have no right to be. We try to save so much in life with a vague sort of mysticism. Mysticism m ust rest on crystal-clear honesty, can only come a fter things have been stripped down to their naked reality.

I often find when I come home at night that I want to record the wonderful experiences I have had. Not in the plain and neces­ sarily clumsy words befitting a d iary, no, what I would l i k e best is to be able to produce immediate aphorisms and eternal truths from the simplest experiences. Less than that w i l l not do. That's where all my vagueness and my generalizations come in. I t seems quite beneath my d ignity t o write about my belly (what a singularly plump and crude name for so important a part of the body ! ) . I f I were to write the whole truth about last night's mood, I would have to admit honestly and factually: i t was the day before I started menstruating, and I am only half responsible for my actions then. I f Han had not chased me to bed at h a l f p a s t twelve, I would probably still b e sitting at my d e s k . I d o n ' t think that I have a n y truly creative ideas at times like those, j ust pseudo-creative ones at best. I am all turmoil and commotion inside. And then I am overwhelmed by a sort of agitation and disruption and sometimes a recklessness as well, and all because of the female, with me, alas, three-weekly, process south of my m i d r i ff. So much for my reactions last night.

Soon you'll have grease spots all over your books and ink spots all over your sandwiches, said Pa Han. The others are still at

[ I 4 3 }

lunch, I have pushed my plate to one side and am copying out bits of Rilke between the extremely good strawberries and the odd kind of rabbit food we are eating . . . And now the room is empty, and I am writing amid crumbs on the tablecloth, a lonely radish, and d irty napkins. Kathe is already washing up in the k i tchen. It is half past one. I shall take a nap for an hour until the worst of my stomachache has gone. At five o'clock Becker is sending me a man who wants to take Russian lessons. Tonight I must read Pushkin for one hour. I don't have to stand

in queues and have few worries about the housekeeping. I don't think there's another person in all Holland who has it as easy, at least that's how it seems to me. I feel a very strong obligation to make full use of all this time I have to myself, not to waste one minute of it. And yet I still don't work with enough concentra­ tion and energy. I really have obligations, moral obligations.

Saturday night, 12:30. [ . . . ] Humil iation always involves two. The one who does the humiliating, and the one who a llows himself to be humiliated. I f the second is missing, that is, if the passive party is immune to humiliation, then the humiliation vanishes into thin air. All that remains are vexatious measures that interfere with daily life but are not humiliations that weigh heavily on the soul. We Jews should remember that. This morn­ ing I cycled along the Station Quay enjoying the broad sweep of the sky at the edge of the city and breathing in the fresh, unra­ tioned air. And everywhere signs barring Jews from the paths and the open country. But above the one narrow path still left to us stretches the sky, intact. They can't do anything to us, they really can't. They can harass us, they can rob us of our material goods, of our freedom of movement, but we ourselves forfeit our greatest assets by our misguided compliance. By our feelings of being persecuted, humiliated, and oppressed. By our own ha­ tred . By our swagger, which hides our fear. We may of course be sad and depressed by what has been done to us; that is only

[ 1 4 4 1

human and understandable. However: our greatest i n j u ry is one we inflict upon ourselves. I find l i fe beautiful, and I feel free. The sky within me i s as wide as the one stretching above my hea d . I believe in God and I believe in man, and I say so without embarrassmen t. Life is hard, but that is no bad thing. If one starts by taking one's own importance seriously, the rest follows. I t i s not morbid indiv idualism to work on onese l f. True peace will come only when every individual finds peace within him­ self; when we have a l l vanquished and transformed our hatred for our fellow human beings of whatever race--even into love one day, although perhaps that is asking too much. I t is, how­ ever, the only solution. I am a happy person and I hold l i fe dear indeed, in this year of Our Lord 1 942, the umpteenth year of the war.

Sunday morning, eight o'clock. [ . . . ] My breakfast is a t my elbow: a glass of buttermilk, two grayish slices of bread with cucumber and tomato. I have d ispensed with the cup of hot chocolate to which I used to treat myself surreptitiously on a Sunday morning, in order to train myself in more frugal habits. I pursue my appetites to their most secret and hidden lairs and try to root them out. More and more we must lea rn to do w i thout those of our physical necessities that are not absolutely v ital. We must train our bodies until they expect n o more than the absolutely essential, especially when it comes to food, for it looks as i f we are going to face some very lean times. Not "going to face"; those times are here a lready. And still my feeling is that we are wonderfully well off. But it is easier to train onesel f to go without in times of abundance, voluntarily, than in scarce ti mes, through necessity. What one does freely of one's own accord is a lways more soundly based and longer lasting than what has been forced upon one. (I shall never forget Professor Becker and his l i ttle box of cigarette stubs.) We must grow so independent of material and external things that whatever the circumstances

{ 1 4 5 1

our spirit can continue to do its work . And so: buttermilk in­ stead of hot chocolate.

What a lot there is to deal with on my desk . Tide's geranium, which she gave me last week (was it only a week ago ? ) after that sudden flood of tears, is still standing there. And then the pine cones, I remember when I picked those up. It was on the heath, j ust behind Mrs. Riimke's country cottage. I think it was the first time I had spent the whole day with S. out in the country. We had a talk about the demonic and the angelic. Well, we shan't be seeing any heath for a very long time, and every so often I find it a great deprivation, although I know that as long as one small street is left to us, the whole sky still stretches above it. And the three pine cones will, if need be, go with me even to Poland. Goodness me, my desk looks just like the world on the first day of creation. As well as exotic Japanese lilies, a geranium, faded tea roses, pine cones that are now holy relics, that Moorish statue, there are also Saint Augustine and the Bible and Russian grammars and d i ctionaries and Rilke and countless little scrib­ bling blocks, a bottle of ersatz lemonade, typing paper and car­ bons and more Rilke, all jumbled together, and of course J ung. And this is only what j ust happens to be lying about.

Tuesday morning, 8:30. [ . . . ] A few days ago, I still felt a bit maligned and vindictive, but this morning I suddenly lay there laughing aloud in my bed at my infantile reactions. I had been staring at Hertha's ever-smiling face on his chest of d rawers. I was standing by the door, ready to leave, and looking with one eye at that face that has smiled unceasingly for the past sixteen months and with the other at his bed already turned down for the night, and I felt desolate and sad and lonely all over again, thinking, "Yes, that inv iting bed over there is for that deadly dull girl with her lifeless smile." His thundering laughter would probably re-echo from all the walls if he ever read these tor­ mented womanly outpourings of mine. Poor Hertha, how unfair

{ 1 4 6 1

I have been to you. I often wonder what sort of l i fe you live in

London, sometimes even as I cycle down the quiet street and see from a fa r his figure leaning out of the window, bending over that straggly geranium shedding its l i feblood , and the impatient waving o f his arm. I run up the stone steps to the front door, which he has usually opened for me by then, and tumble i n to his two small rooms quite out of breath. Sometimes he stands there looking as powerful and imposing as i f he were hewn from some primeval, weathered stone. And sometimes he looks not nearly so impressive, but good-natured and plump like a cuddly toy, so much so that I find it hard to believe that a man who looks like that could be anything but boring or effeminate. And then a sudden thought will shape his features, and he will say, "Look here . . . " and then come out with someth ing from which I can usually learn a thing or two. And a l ways his hands, his la rge, fine hands, continuous conductors of a tenderness that flows straight from his soul. Poor Hertha, in faraway London. I have the l ion's share of our common bond . Later I shall be able to tell you so much about him. Through suffering I have learned that we must share our love with the whole of creation. Only thus can we gain admittance to it. But the price is high: much blood and tears. But all the suffering is worth it. A n d i t is all still i n store for you. By then I no doubt shall be tearing frenetically through the world, insignificant woman that I shall never cease to be.

You will probably have to travel a similar path to m ine, for this man is so steeped in eternity that he is unlikely to change. And I think that you and I have much i n common, for other­ wise this friendship between him and me would never have been. You a re probably a little more d i fficult and lonely than I am now. And no doubt you are more serious, where he finds me a l ittle outlandish. And my sense of loss will begin with your welcome entrance into our lives. He will think these words stupid, for he has enough love for us all; with him none of us has

{ 1 4 7 1

to go short. But we women have such a strange makeup. My l i fe is intertwined with yours, but what will that mean when we all come together ? I f we are ever to meet then i t would be best to agree right now to be kind to each other, no matter what. Are you not desperate sometimes over there, across the Channel ? Of course you are, I have read all your letters. A young girl all on her own in that big battered city. How do you do it? Really, deep down I admire you, and once I give in to my compassion for you it will overflow.

There is one woman in Amsterdam who prays for you every evening. This is really noble of Tide, for she too loves him, next to God, with a love that is the fi rst and last in her l i fe . I am glad there is somebody who prays for you, your life is better protected for it. I can't do it yet. I'm not really generous enough, except perhaps in odd flashes, but in the main I am full of all the vices-jealousy and obstinacy and what have you. Perhaps there will come a night when I , too, shall pray for you. And that same night you will suddenly feel so good and more reconciled with life than you have been for a long time, and you won't be able to tell where all these new feelings come from. But I haven't yet reached that point. What are you doing at this momen t ? You r d a i l y struggle is so much harder than m i n e that I might easily come to feel guilty about you, as I feel guilty about all who must slave for their daily food, who must stand in long queues, and so on . I t places great moral obligations and responsibilities upon me. For all I have to do is study Russian and learn more about the great and beloved country in which that language is spoken. The moment you step ashore I shall rush wildly to the station and take a ticket straight to the heart of that country. What do you think of so much childish romanticism in the early morn­ ing? I n times like these ? Yes, it makes me ashamed of myself, but that is precisely what goes on in my imagination. Oh, Hertha, if you only knew under how grave a threat we l ive here.

[ I 4 8 ]

I write on this sunny morning so blithely about "stepping

ashore" and "meeting each other," but who knows i f we shall not have perished in some ghastly camp long before that ever happens? Our l i fe here is more and more menaced from day to day, and w hat the end of all this will be nobody can tell .

Thursday afternoon. From a letter from m y father w i t h h i s inim­ i table sense of humor: "Today we have entered the cycleless age. I have delivered up Mischa's bicycle personally. In Amsterdam, I see from the paper, the Jews may still cycle about. What a privilege ! At least we need fea r no longer that our bicycles will be stolen. That is some balm for the nerves. In the wilderness we also had to do without bicycles, for forty long years."

2 7 June, Saturday morning, 8:30. I f we have to share a prison cell with several others, isn't it our duty to keep our bodies and souls clean and fresh ?

Yesterday at our musical afternoon, S. said after a Schubert piece for fou r hands followed by Mozart, "Schubert reminds me of the l i m i tations of the piano, Mozart of its v i rtues . "

A n d Mischa, hesitant and fumbling for the right words, "Yes, Schubert abuses the piano in this piece in order to make music." Later I walked a short way with him along the quay. Sud denly I was overwhelmed by the presentiment of imminent parting and said, "Perhaps we real ly have no future . . . " And he replied, "Perhaps, but only if you take a materialist view . . "

One can l i v e w i thout coffee and w i thout cigarettes, Lies) said rebelliously, but not without nature, that's i mpossible, no one should be al lowed to deprive you of that. I said, "Think of i t as i f we'd got to spend a prison sentence here, for a few years perhaps, and learn to look at the couple of trees over there across

{ 1 4 9 1

the road as if they were a forest. And for prisoners, we still have a good deal of freedom of movement."

Lies!, that small elf, a moonlight bather on warm summer nights, also cleans spinach for three hours a day and queues for potatoes to the point of passing out. And little sighs escape her at times, sighs that start deep down inside her and make her small body tremble from head to toe. She seems cloaked in shyness and chastity, although the facts of her life don't sound altogether chaste, and at the same time there is something powerful, an original natural force, in her. And she would be utterly amazed if she could see what I have written here: really she is my only girlfriend.

Monday morning, ten o'clock. [ . . . ] God is not accountable to us, but we are to H im. I know what may lie in wait for us. Even now I am cut off from my parents and cannot reach them, although they are only two hours away by train.3 6 But I know exactly where they are, and that they're not going short of food, and that there are many kind people all round them. And they know where I am, too. But I am also aware that there may come a time when I shan't know where they are, when they might be deported to perish miserably in some unknown place. I know this is perfectly possible. The latest news is that all Jews will be transported out of Holland through Drenthe Province and then on to Poland. And the English radio has reported that 700,000 Jews perished last year alone, in Germany and the occupied territories. And even if we stay alive, we shall carry the wounds with us throughout our lives. And yet I don't think life is mean­ ingless. And God is not accountable to us for the senseless harm we cause one another. We are accountable to Him ! I have al­ ready died a thousand deaths in a thousand concentration camps. I know about everything and am no longer appalled by the latest reports. I n one way or another I know it all. And yet I find life beautiful and meaningful. From minute to minute.

[ I 5 0 }

1 july [1 942], morning. My mind has assimilated everything that has happened in these last few days. So far the rumors have been infinitely worse than the reality, for us in Holland at least, since in Poland the killers seem to be in ful l cry. But though m y mind has come to terms with it all, my body hasn't. It has d is­ i n tegrated into a thousand pieces, and each piece has a d i fferent

pam.

And now I can rouse neither body nor soul, I a m so shattered physical l y . It is almost one o'clock. After I've had my coffee I shall try to get a bit of sleep. And at 4:45 to S.'s. My day is sometimes made up of a hundred days. But now I am com­ pletely exhausted . Last night at seven o'clock I was cast into a hell of alarm and despondency brought on by the new regula­ tions. I t was all to the good, I suppose, since it helped me to get some idea of the fea r felt by so many others-for fea r was something I had almost forgotten. Then at eight o'clock I was all peace again. And I was almost proud of the fact that, exhausted though I was, I could still give one and a half hours o f Russian conversation. In the past I would have telephoned to cancel it with some excuse about feeling unwell . And tonight it'll be a new day and I'll be seeing somebody else in trouble, a Cathol ic girl. For a Jew to be able to help a non-Jew these days gives one a peculiar sense of power.

3:45 in the afternoon. Sun on the balcony and a light breeze through the jasmine. As I said, a new day has d awned-how many of them have there been since seven o'clock this morning? I shall l i nger another ten min utes with the jasmine, and then on the household bicycle-for which we have a permit-to see the friend who has been part of my life for sixteen months and whom I feel I have known for a thousand years, yet who can still suddenly present me with an aspect so new that I catch my

[ 1 5 I J

breath with surprise. How exotic the jasmine looks, so delicate and dazzling against the mud-brown walls.

I can't take in how beautiful this jasmine is. But there is no need to. I t is enough simply to believe in mi racles in the twenti­ eth century. And I do, even though the lice will be eating me up in Poland before long.

It is possible to suffer with dignity and without. I mean: most of us in the West don't understand the art of suffering and experi­ ence a thousand fears instead. We cease to be alive, being full of fear, bitterness, hatred, and despair. God knows, it's only too easy to understand why. But when we are deprived of our l ives, are we really deprived of very muc h ? We have to accept death as part of life, even the most horrible of deaths. And don't we live an entire life each one of our days, and does it really matter i f we live a few days more or less ? I am in Poland every day, on the battlefields, if that's what one can call them. I often see visions of poisonous green smoke; I am with the hungry, with the ill­ treated and the dying, every day, but I am also with the j asmine and with that piece of sky beyond my window; there is room for everything in a single life. For belief in God and for a miserable end. When I say, I have come to terms with life, I don't mean I have lost hope. What I feel is not hopelessness, far from it. I have lived this life a thousand times over already, and I have d ied a thousand deaths. Am I blase then ? No. It is a question of living life from minute to minute and taking suffering into the bar­ gain. And i t is certainly no small bargain these days. But does it matter if it is the Inquisition that causes people to suffer in one century, and war and pogroms in anothe r ? To suffer senselessly, as the victims would put it? Suffering has always been with us, does it really matter in what form it comes? All that matters is how we bear i t and how we fi t it into our lives. Am I merely an armchair theorist safely ensconced behind my desk, with my familiar books around me and the jasmine outside ? I s it all

{ I 5 2 j

theory, never tested in practice ? I don't think so. All our conver­ sations are now interlarded with sentences such as, " I hope he'll still be there to enjoy these strawberries with us." I know that Mischa, with his delicate physique, has been ordered to report at Central Station, and I think of Miriam's and Renate's3 7 pale little faces, and of many, many worried people, and I know it all, everything, every moment, and I sometimes bow my head under the great bu rden that weighs down on me, but even as I bow my head I also feel the need, almost mech anically, to fold my hands. And so I can sit for hours and know everything and bear every­ thing and grow stronger i n the bearing of it, and at the same time feel sure that l i fe is beautiful and worth l i v i ng and mean­ ingfu l . Despite everything. But that does not mean I am al ways fi lled with joy and exaltation . I am often dog-tired a fter standing about in queues, but I know that this too is part of life, and somewhere there is something inside me that will never desert me

a gam.

3 July 1 942, Friday evening, 8:30. Yes, I am still at the same desk, but it seems to me that I am going to have to draw a line under everything and continue in a d i fferent tone. I m ust admit a new

insight i n to my life and find a place for it: what is a t stake is our impending destruction and annihilation, we can have no more illusions about that. They are out to destroy us completely, we must accept that and go on from there. Today I was filled with terrible despair, and I shall have to come to terms with that as wel l . Even i f we are consigned to hell, let us go there as grace­ fully as we can. I did not really want to put it so blandly.

Why this mood at this particular momen t ? Is it because I have a blister on my foot from walk ing through the hot town, because so many people have had sore feet ever since they were stopped from using the trams, because of Renate's pale little face, because she has to walk to school on her short l ittle legs th rough the heat, one hour there and one hour back ? Because Lies! stood

{ I 5 3 ]

in a queue and d idn't get any vegetables after a l l ? It is for such an awful lot of reasons, all of them petty in themselves, but all of them part of the great campaign to destroy us. Some are merely grotesque by comparison, though equally hard to grasp: that S. may no longer visit this house, no longer has access to the piano or to his books. That I may not visit Tide, and so on.3 8

Very well then, this new certainty, that what they are after is our total destruction, I accept it. I know it now, and I shall not burden others with my fears. I shall not be bitter if others fail to grasp what is happening to us Jews. I work and continue to live with the same conviction, and I find life meaningful-yes, meaningful-although I hardly dare say so in company these days.

Living and dying, sorrow and joy, the blisters on my feet and the jasm ine behind the house, the persecution, the unspeakable horrors-it is all as one in me, and I accept it all as one mighty whole and begin to grasp it better if only for myself, without being able to explain to anyone else how it all hangs together. I

wish I could live for a long time so that one day I may know how to explain it, and if I am not granted that wish, well, then somebody else will perhaps do it, carry on from where my life has been cut short. And that is why I must try to live a good and faithful life to my last breath: so that those who come after me do not have to start all over again, need not face the same difficulties. Isn't that doing something for future generations ? Bernard's Jewish friend had them ask me after the latest promulgations, "Didn't I now agree that all Germans should be done away with, preferably hung, drawn, and quartered ? "

Yes, we carry everything within us, God and Heaven and Hell and Earth and Life and Death and all of history. The externals are simply so many props; everything we need is within us. And we have to take everything that comes: the bad with the good, which does not mean we cannot devote our life to

{ 1 5 4 1

cunng the bad. But we must know what motives msp1re our

struggle, and we must begin with ourselves, every day anew.

There was a time when I thought that I had to come up with a host of brilliant ideas each day, and now I sometimes feel l i k e a barren stretch of land on which nothing grows, but which is nevertheless spanned by a high, wide sky. And this way is by far the better. Something has crystallized . I have looked our de­ struction, our miserable end, which has a l ready begun i n so many small ways in our daily life, straight in the eye and ac­ cepted it i n to my l i fe, and my love of l i fe has not been dimin­ ished. I am not bitter or rebell ious, or in any way discouraged. I continue to grow from day to day, even with the likelihood of destruction staring me in the face. I shall no longer fl i r t with words, for words merely evoke misunderstandings: I have come to terms with l i fe, nothing can happen to me, and after all my personal fate is not the issue; it doesn't really matter i f it is I who perish or another. What matters is that we are all ma rked men.

By "coming to terms with life" I mea n: the real i ty of death has become a definite part of my l i fe; my l i fe has, so to spea k , been extended b y death, b y m y looking death in t h e e y e a n d accepting i t , by accepting destruction as p a r t of l i fe and no longer wasting my energies on fear of death or the refusal to acknowledge its inevitability. It sounds paradoxical: by exclud­ ing death from our life we cannot live a full life, and by admi t­ ting death i n to our l i fe we enlarge and enrich i t . This has been my fi rst real confrontation with death. I never knew what to make of it before. I had such a v i rginal attitude toward it. I have never seen a dead person. Just imagine: a world sown with a m il lion corpses, and in twenty-seven years I have never seen a single one. I have often wondered what my attitude to death really is. I never delved deeply into the question: there was no need for that. And now death has come as large as l i fe, and I greet him as an old acquaintance. Everything is so simple. You

[ 1 5 5 J

don't have to have any profound thoughts on the subject. There death suddenly stands, large as life and part of it.

And so I can go to sleep peacefully. I t is ten o'clock. I d idn't do very much today. I fell behind, what with hav ing to walk hot pavements on my blistered feet and similar petty annoyances. Then I was overcome with despair and uncertainty. And then I went to see S. He had a headache, and that worried him, for normally everything works so smoothly in his powerful bod y . I lay in his arms, and he was so gentle and so sweet, almost wistful. I feel a new period is beginning in our lives, more serious and more intense, one in which we shall concentrate on the essentials. Every day we shed more trivia. "We a re mov ing toward our destruction, that is quite plain now, we mustn't fool ourselves about that." Tomorrow night I shall borrow Dicky's3 9 bed; she will sleep on the ground floor and come up to wake me in the morning. We can still do that. And I know that we shall support one another often in these hard times.

A little later: And i f this day has brought me nothing else-not yet that fine and final confrontation with death and extinction­ then I am nevertheless grateful for that kosher German soldier at the kiosk with his bag of carrots and cauliflowers. First he pushed that note into Liesl's hand on the tram, and then came the letter that I had to read and reread: she reminded him so much of the late rabbi's daughter whom he had nursed on her deathbed for days and nights on end . And tonight he is paying a visit.

And when Lies! told me all this, I knew at once: I shall have to pray for this German soldier. Out of all those uniforms one has been given a face now. There will be other faces, too, in which we shall be able to read something we understand: that German soldiers suffer as well. There are no frontiers between suffering people, and we must pray for them all. Goodnight.

[ I 5 6 ]

Saturday morning, nine o'clock. It feels as if great changes are taking place in me, and I believe i t is more than a passing mood.

Last night was a great brea kthrough : a new insight, at least if one can call something like that insight, and this morning I was filled with peace again and with an assurance I have not felt for a long time. And all this because of one little blister on my left foot.

My body is a home for many pains; they l ie hidden in every corner, with first this one making itsel f felt and then the next. I have become reconciled to that, too. And I wonder how I can work so well and even concentrate with all my aches and pains. But I also have to accept that intellectual powers alone do not get one very fa r when things get really serious. The walk to and from the tax office has taught me that. We walked the pave­ ments of this sunny, beautiful town like happy tourists. His hand caught mine, and they fel t so good together, our hands. And when at one point I was overcome with ti redness and had this sudden peculiar feeling about not being allowed to take a tram anywhere in this great city with its long streets, and not even being a llowed to sit down at one of the li ttle pavement cafes (I could tell h i m something about so many pavement cafes: "Look, that's where I went with my friends two years ago, a fter I took my finals"), then I thought, or rather I d i d n ' t really think it, it welled up somewhere inside me: throughout the ages peo­ ple have been tired and have worn their feet out on God 's earth, in the cold and the heat, and that, too, is part of l i fe. This sort of feeling has been growing much stronger in me: a hint of eternity steals through my smallest daily activi ties and perceptions. I am not alone in my tiredness or sickness or fears, but at one with millions of others from many centuries, and it is all part of life.

And at the end of our long walk there was a room waiting for us with a d i v a n on which to fling ourselves after having kicked off our shoes, and then such a wonderful treat sent by friends-

{ 1 5 7 1

a basket of cherries from the Betuwe. A good lunch, which used to be something we took for granted, is now a special treat. As life becomes harder and more threatening, i t also becomes richer, because the fewer expectations we have, the more the good things of l i fe become unexpected gifts that we accept with gratitude. At least, that's how I feel, and he as well, and we can tell each other from time to time how strange it is that we feel

no hatred or indignation or bitterness, but we can't say that

openly in company, for no one would understand. During our walk I knew that a house was waiting for us at

the end, but I also knew that . a time would come when there would be nothing like that and all our walks would end in some barracks. I knew this while we were walking, knew it would be true not only for myself but also for all the others, and I accepted that too. And one more thing I learned from this wal k : those short two hours on the pavements gave me such a bad headache that my skull th reatened to burst its seams. And my feet were so sore that I thought to myself, How will I ever be able to walk again ? And all the aspirins I swallowed when we got back (I felt I had to take them because otherwise I would have had to go to bed, but shouldn't one gradually learn to bear pain without artificial aids ? ) made me feel foul and poisoned all next day. Yet I did not let it get me down, not for one moment, though I had to tell myself, "You're in a poor state, Etty. Your body is com­ pletely unfit and has no resistance; in a labor camp you'd break down inside three days, and all the intellectual power in the world will not be able to save you if a companionable walk lasting less than two hours, with every possible comfort awaiting you at the end, makes you so tired." I don't mind so much for myself-I can stretch out on the floor and relax, and when it is all past I praise l i fe and God. But I'm afraid of being a burden to others. In the past I never let on that I had overdone things: I kept on walking, kept on playing, went to bed very late, joined in everything. But wasn't it all j ust showing off? Being afraid

{ 1 5 8 ]

that others wouldn't find me much fun and that they might

d rop me i f they had to bear the weight of my tired body as well as their own ? Just part of my inferiority complex. In any case, we a r ranged to meet again today and to look up a few a d dresses in the Jewish d istrict where we might perhaps be able to help, and that means walking much farther than we d id on Thursday morn mg.

By last night I had not plucked up enough courage to say that I cou l d not walk so far, for I know that to him such walks a re relaxing. And I also thought something li ke: Tide can w a l k w i t h him for hou rs, so I should b e able t o do it, too. I t is that s a m e o l d childish fea r of losing another's l o v e if o n e does n ' t m e e t a l l h i s expectations. But I am ridding mysel f more and m o r e of these feelings. One must be able to admit one's inadequacies, even in the physical sphere. And one must also be able to accept the fac t t h a t o n e may n o t always b e for another j ust w h a t o n e would have l i ked to be.

To a d m i t one's weaknesses is not the same as com plaining about them, for compla ining means sh i fting the misery onto others. And I ' m sure that this was why j ust before eight o'clock last night, as I was actually on my way to see him, I rang u p a pupil and canceled a lesson, which is something I rarely do. And as I was lying next to h i m on the d ivan I suddenly said that I was so sorry that the walk had made me so tired, because it made me realize just what poor physical shape I was i n . And he immed iately repl ied, as if i t was the most obvious thing i n the world, "Then i t would probably be much better i f we d idn't go on that walk." And then I said that I would take my bicycle with us so that I could ride back home. I t seems such a small thing, but for me it was quite an achievement. Normally I would probably have ruined my feet rather than give h i m the slightest cause to think I might spoil his walk.

It's all i n my m i n d , of course, but now I say, quite simply and candidly, "Look, my strength isn't up to it, I can't go any far-

{ 1 5 9 I

ther, there's nothing I can do about it, you must take me as I a m . " This is j ust one more step toward maturity and indepen­ dence, and I seem to be getting a little closer every day.

Many who are indignant about injustices are only ind ignant because the inj ustices are being inflicted on them . Their indig­ nation is skin-deep.

I n a labor camp I should die within three days. I should lie down and die and still not find life unfair.

Late morning. Every pretty blouse I put on is a k ind of celebra­ tion. And so is every occasion I have to wash with scented soap in a bathroom all to myself for half an hour. It's as i f I were reveling in these civilized luxuries for the last time. But even if I have to forgo them one day, I shall always know that they exist and that they can make life pleasant, and I shall think of them as a great boon even if I can't share in them any longer. For whether or not I share in them isn't really the point, is i t ?

O n e m u s t face up t o everything that happens, even when some­ one in the shape of a fellow human being comes up to you j ust as you are leaving the pharmacy with a tube of toothpaste, pokes you with his finger, and demands inquisitorially, "Are you al­ lowed to buy that ? " "Yes sir," you say softly but firmly in your customary pleasant manner, "this is a pharmacy. " "I see," he says, curtly and suspiciously, and walks on. I am no good at such exchanges. I can be sharp in intellectual debate, but when it comes to bullies in the street, to put it bluntly, I am completely at a loss. I become embarrassed and sad and upset that people can behave like that to each other, but I am quite incapable of quick repartee, of giving as good as I get. That man should not have been allowed to question me like that. He probably thinks he's a great idealist; no doubt he'll do his bit one day to clear society of

{ 1 6 0 1

all "Jewish elements." These brushes with the outside world still make me sad. But I am not the slightest bit concerned about cutting a fine figure in the eyes of this persecutor or that. Let them see my sadness and my utter defenselessness, too. There is no need to put on a show, I have my inner strength and that is enough, the rest doesn't matter.

8:30 A . M. He wore a pair of light blue pajamas and an embar­ rassed expression when he came in. He looked very sweet. And he sat for a while on the edge of the bed talk i ng to me. Now he has gone, and it will be another hour before he's fi n ished : wash­ ing, exercises, "reading." "Reading" is something I a m allowed to do with him. When he said, ''I'll be another hour still," I felt as sad as if I had j ust said farewell for good. A sudden wave of sadness washed through me. Oh, to let someone you love go entirely free, to leave him to live his own life, is the most d i ffi­ cult thing there is in this world. I am learning it for his sake.

There was a riot of bird song on the flat, graveled roof, and a pigeon outside my wide-open window. And the early-morning sun.

He woke u p at 5:30. At 7:30 I stripped and washed, d i d a few exercises, and then went back under the bedclothes. He came in hesitantly i n his light blue pajamas, looked embarrassed. He was coughing and still has that pain in his head, and he said, "We won't be going to Adri's for that meal. I've had a really bad nightmare, a 'dream-omen . ' I'm in a state of exhaustion . " And so we are off to the doctor's this morning instead of going for a walk. I shall retire for the day into my own stillness, accepting the hospitality of that calm space for one whole day. Perhaps I shall be rested then. Body and mind are very tired and out of condition. But I won't do any work today, and everything should be all right.

There is sun outside, and this room now feels so welcoming

[ 1 6 1 1

that I should be able to pray in it. The two of us have done a lot of living, a fter all, he with women, I with men, and yet there he sat in his light blue pajamas at the edge of my bed and j ust leaned his head against my bare arm, and we spoke a little, and then he went away again. I t was really very touching. Neither of us is tasteless enough to take advantage of the other. We have had wild and unfettered lives in many strange beds, and we are nevertheless shy all over again, each time. I find this very beauti­ ful and delight in it. Now I shall put on my brightly colored d ressing gown and go downstairs to read the Bible with him.

Then I shall spend the whole day sitting in a corner of the silent space I carry within me. I still lead a very privileged life. I need do nothing today, not even housework, and I have no lessons. My breakfast is wrapped in a napkin, and Adri will bring us a hot meal. I am left alone in my still corner, squatting like a Buddha and smiling like one as well, deep within, that is.

9:45. Those psalms that have become part of my daily l i fe were excellent fare on an empty stomach.

We shared the beginning of the day together, and that was very lovely. And very sustaining. There was that silly stab in my heart again when he said, "Now I'm going to do my exercises, and then I'll get d ressed." And I felt as if I was forsaken and all alone in the world. I remember thinking I would love to share my toothbrush with him, feeling the desire to be with someone, to share in his smallest everyday activity. And yet this d istance is good and fruitful: one discovers the other anew each time. Soon he will come up to fetch me for breakfast at his small round table beside the geranium, which is still shedding more petals each day. Oh, those birds and the sun of the gravel-covered roof! And in myself so much meekness and acceptance. And a con­ tentment that rests in God. Something elemental flows out of the Old Testament, and something homely as well. Splendid people live in its pages, poetic and austere. The Bible is so rug-

[ 1 6 2 1

ged and tender, simple and w1se. And $ 0 full of wonderful

characters, too.

1 0:00 P. M. Just one thing more: every minute of this day seems one great gift and consolation, a memory I shall ca rry within me as an ever-present reality. And each phase of it has been fol ­ lowed by another that makes everything t h a t h a s gone before seem pale. We must count neither on being preserved nor on being destroyed . These are the extreme possibilities, but neither is a certainty. What matter are the concerns of daily l i fe. Last night we talked about the labor camps. I said, "I don't have any illusions about them, I know that I shall be dead within th ree days because my body is so useless." Werner was sure he would fare no better. But Lies! said, "I don't know, I have a feeling that I'll come through . " I can sympathize with that feeling of hers, I used to have it myself. A feeling of indestructible resilience. And I still have it now, that's the whole point, but no longer i n a purely material sense. It doesn't matter whether my u ntrained body will be able to carry on, that is really of secondary impor­ tance; the main thing is that even as we die a terrible death we are able to feel right up to the very last moment that l i fe has meaning and beauty, that we have realized our potential and l ived a good life. I can't really put it into words.

Monday, 1 1:00 A . M. Perhaps I can now write for a few uninter­ rupted hours about the essentials. Rilke wrote somewhere to his paralyzed friend Ewald of "days in which the m i nutes pass like years." That is how yesterday felt to us. When we said good-bye I leaned against him and said, "I want to stay with you as long as I possibly can." And his mouth looked so soft and defenseless and sad, and he said, almost d reamily, "Yes, which one o f us does not have his wishes ? "

And I wondered: must we say good-bye to these wishes as wel l ? When one begins to accept, must one not try to accept

{ 1 6 3 J

everything? He leaned against the wall of Dicky's room, and I leaned gently and lightly against him, j ust as I had done on countless similar occasions in the past, but this time it suddenly felt as if the sky had fallen as in a Greek tragedy. For a moment my senses were totally confused, and I felt as though I was standing with him in the center of infinite space-pervaded by threats but also filled with eternity. In that moment a great change took place within us, forever. He remained leaning against the wall for a little and said in an almost plaintive voice, "I must write to my girlfriend tonight, it will be her birthday soon. But what am I to say to her? I haven't the heart for it or the inspiration." And I said to him, "You must start even now and try to reconcile her to the fact that she will never see you again, you must give her something to hold on to for the future. Tell her how the two of you, though physically apart for all these years, have nevertheless been as one, and that she has a duty to carry on if only to keep something of your spirit alive." Yes, that's how people talk to each other these days, and it doesn't even sound unreal anymore. We have embraced a new reality, and everything has taken on new colors and new emphases. And between our eyes and hands and mouths there now flows a constant stream of tenderness, a stream in which all petty desires seem to have been extinguished. All that matters now is to be kind to each other with all the goodness that is in us. And every encounter is also a fa rewell. This morning he rang me up and said almost d reamily, "It was so beautiful yesterday, and we must be together as much as possible."

In the afternoon, when the two of us, spoiled "bachelors" that we still are, sat over a copious lunch at his small round table, a lunch in which the world outside ceased to matter, and I said that I didn't want to leave him, he suddenly became stern and solemn and said, "Don't forget what you always preach. Never forget it." And I did not even have the old feeling that I was a l ittle girl acting a role in a play far beyond my understanding,

r 1 6 4 1

but fel t instead that my very l i fe and fate were at stake, and I

could accept that, with all the threats, the uncertainties, the fai th, and the love, for it seemed to fit me like some ga rment specially made to measure. I love him with all the unselfishness I a m capable of, and I shall n o t burden him w i t h e v e n t h e smallest weight of m y fea rs and demands. I shall even rel inquish the wish to stay with him to the last moment. My whole being has become one great prayer for him. And why only for him ? Why not for all the others as well ? Girls of sixteen are being sent to the labor camps as well. We older ones shall have to take them under our wing when it is the turn of us Dutch girls. Last night I suddenly fel t like saying to Han, Do you know that sixteen­ year-old girls a re being picked up as well ? And I kept i t back and thought to myself, Why add to his already heavy burden ? Everyone surely knows what is going on, but we must be kind to others and not always saddle them with what we can perfectly well carry alone.

A few d ays ago I still thought to myself: the worst thing for me will be when I am no longer allowed pencil and paper to clarify my thoughts-they are absolutely indispensable to me, for wi thout them I shall fall apart and be utterly destroyed.

But now I know that once you begin to lower your demands and your expectations, you can let go of everything. I t took me j ust a few days to learn that.

Perhaps I shall be able to stay on here for another month, but by that time any loophole in the regulations will surely have been closed . � 0 Every day I shall put my papers in order, and every day I shall say fa rewell . And the real farewell , when it comes, will only be a small outward confirmation of what has been accomplished within me from day to day.

I feel so strange. Am I really sitting here wri ting things d own so calmly ? Would anybody understand me if I told them that I fee l so strangely happy, not bursting with it, but j ust plain happy, because I can sense a new gentleness and a new confi-

r 1 6 5 1

dence growing stronger inside me from day to day ? That a l l the confusing and threatening and dreadful things that assail me do not d rive me out of my mind for even one momen t ? I dare hardly write on, I don't know how to put it, i t is as if I had gone a lmost too far in my d issociation from all that drives most peo­ ple out of their minds. If I knew for certain that I should die next week, I would still be able to sit at my desk all week and study with perfect equanimity, for I know now that life and death make a meaningful whole. Death is a gentle s lipping away, even when gloom and abominations are i ts trappings.

We still have to go through a great deal. We shall become poor, then destitute, until in the end our strength will go, not only because of all the fears and uncertainties but also, very simply, because we are banned from more and more shops and therefore have to cover longer distances on foot, which is already undermining the health of many people I know. From all sides our destruction creeps up on us, and soon the ring will be closed and no one at all will be able to come to our aid. All the l i ttle loopholes that a re still left will soon be stopped up. Life is so strange: it is cold and wet j ust now. As if you had suddenly been thrown from the peaks of a sultry summer night down a steep d rop into a dark and chilly valley. Last time I spent a night with Han, it was also on the razor edge of heat and cold. Yesterday when we talked before an open window about the latest devel­ opments and I looked into his tortured face, I had the feeling: tonight we shall lie in each other's arms and sob. We did indeed lie in each other's arms, but we did not sob. Only in our fi nal ecstasy did a flood tide of despair, of elemental human sorrow, rise up from deep within me and submerge me, and there was so much pity for myself and for everyone else, and after that a feeling that everything had to be just as it was. But in the dark I was able to bury my head between his naked shoulders and weep my tears in secret. And then I suddenly thought of Mrs. W.'s cake in the afternoon, and how it was covered with straw-

{ 1 6 6 1

berries, and I couldn't help grinning and giv ing way to a feel ing of radiant good humor. And now I must see to lunch, and at two o'clock I am going over to see S. I should add that my stomach is upset but I have decided not to d well on my health any longer, it takes up too much paper and I'll cope with it somehow. I n the past I used to write a great deal about it because I couldn't manage it properly, but now I have got the better of it. At least that's what I think. Am I being fri v olous and reckless ? I can't really tell.

7 july, Tuesday morning, 9:30. Mien4 1 just rang to say that M i ­ scha had been selected for Drenthe yesterday. Outcome un­ known. Mother is up and about, she said, and Father read s a lot, he really has great inner resources.

The streets through which we cycle are not what they used to be, the sky hangs so low and so threatening over them and there seem to be storm signals even when the sun is shining. We now l i ve side by side with destiny, or whatever you want to call it, we rub shoulders with it daily, and nothing is how we learned it from our books.

This much I know: you have to forget your own worries for the sake of others, for the sake of those whom you love. All the strength and love and fa ith in God that one possesses, and which have grown so mi raculously in me of late, must be there for everyone who chances to cross one's path and who needs it. "I have become so terribly used to you," he said yesterday. And God knows how "terribly" I have become "used to" h i m . And yet I must let him go. I mean: out of my love for him I must draw strength and love for everyone who needs it, but my love and concern for him must not be allowed to become too egocen­ tric. And you can d raw strength even from suffering. You have to be consistent to the end . You can say, I can bea r everything else, but if something were to happen to him or if I had to leave him, then I couldn't go on. But even in that case you simply

{ 1 6 7 J

have to go on. You must learn to forgo all personal desires and to surrender completely. And surrender does not mean giving up the ghost, fading away with grief, but offering what l i ttle assistance I can wherever it has pleased God to place me. I feel so strange, as if I were floating on air, as if I were d i vorced from reality, had no precise awareness of what was going on.

A few days ago I wrote: I long to sit at my desk and get on with my studies. That is no longer true. It may indeed be granted to me, but I must stop longing for it. Werner said yesterday, "We shan't be moving house, it's not worth it any longer." And he looked at me and said, "If only they let all of us go together." The little Weyl girl peered sadly at her thin legs and said to me, "I must try and get myself two pairs of long underpants this week, but how am I going to do i t ? " And to the others, "If only I could share a compartment with you." They are leav ing by train one night next week at half past one, and the journey is free, oh yes, free, and they are not allowed to take any pets with them. That was all in the call-up notice. Also that they had to take working shoes and two pairs of socks and a spoon, but no gold or silver or platinum, no, nothing like that, except for wedding rings-quite a generous concession, that. And I shan't take a hat, said F--,4 2 a cap will be much more becom­ mg.

Yes, that's how we carry on in the evenings. Last night when I was walking home to mull over the latest news with the others, I thought to myself, "How in heaven's name will I be able to give a lesson tonigh t ? "-! could write a book about those lessons with that girl with her sleek boy's head and her great question­ ing eyes. I hope I shall remember everything that happens to us so that one day I 'll be able to retell it all. It is so d i fferent from everything you read in books, altogether different. So I make a mental note of every small gesture, every utterance, every facial expression, and I do so with almost cold detachment. I approach

[ 1 6 8 1

things like an artist and expect that later, when I feel the need to

tell everything, I shall have what talent it takes to d o so.

Afternoon. One of Bernard's friends met a German soldier i n the street who asked him for a cigarette. A conversation started up, and i t appeared that the sol dier was an Austrian teacher who had worked in Paris. I must record one remark he made as quoted by Bernard. He said, "In Germany more soldiers die in their barracks than are killed by the enemy."

That broker turned up on Leo Krijn's terrace on Sunday morn­ ing and said, "We must pray for better things with all our hearts, as long as there still is hope. I f we allow our h atred to turn us i n to savage beasts like them then there is no hope for anyone."

My biggest worry is what to do with my useless feet. I just hope my blister heals up in time, or else I'm bound to be a nuisance when we a re all herded together. And I must go to the dentist soon-so many essentials that I have put off endlessly but are now, I think, urgent. I shall stop all that messing about with Russian grammar, too, I know enough to keep my pupils going for the next few months, and I'll be better occupied finishing The Idiot.

I won't copy things out anymore either, because it takes up too much time, and I won 't be allowed to d rag all this paper around w i th me in any case. I shall simply try to store away the essential bits in my mind against the lean days. And I had better get used to the fact that I shan't be about much longer, and prepa re for my leave-taking in all sorts of little ways so as to be sure I a m not hit too hard by the finale when it comes: getting rid of letters and papers and other old junk in my desk. I really do think that Mischa will be rejected as unfit.

{ 1 6 9 1

I must go to bed earlier, otherwise I feel sleepy all day and that's no good. I must try to get hold of that letter from our kosher German soldier before Lies! goes to Drenthe, and pre­ serve it as a document humain. After dealing out crushing blows, history often takes the strangest of turns. Life is so odd and so surprising and so infinitely varied, and at every twist of the road the whole vista changes all of a sudden. Most people carry ste­ reotyped ideas about life in their heads. We have to rid ourselves of all preconceptions, of all slogans, of all sense of security, find the courage to let go of everything, every standard, every con­ ventional bulwark. Only then will life become infinitely rich and overflowing, even in the suffering it deals out to us.

I would so much like to read everything of Rilke's before the time comes when I won't perhaps be able to lay my hands on books for a long time. I feel very much at one with a small group of people I met by chance at Werner and Liesl's. All are being deported next week to work in Germany under police guard . Tonight I dreamed that I had to pack my case. I tossed and turned, fretting about what shoes to take-all of them hurt my feet. And how was I to pack all my underwear and food for three days and blankets into one suitcase or rucksack ? And I had to find room somewhere for the Bible. And if possible for Rilke's Book of Hours and Letters to a Young Poet. And I very much wanted to take along my two small Russian dictionaries and The Idiot so as to keep up the language. I t's going to be strange d u ring registration when I give my occupation: teacher of Russian. Presumably that will make me a "special case. " For all I know they might decide to make use of my linguistic expertise once I'm in their clutches, in which case I could still end up in Russia, although God alone knows by what circuitous route.

Eight o'clock. Well, now, let's put a lid on all today's tumult, and I'll have this evening to myself in peace and quiet concentration.

l 1 7 0 1

A yellow tea rose on my desk is flanked by two small vases of violets. A fter our regular evening conversation with the others S. looked utterly worn out and said, "How on earth do the Levies stand i t ? I can't take any more, I feel absolutely awfu l . " As for me, I am able to put everything, fact and rumor, behind me and study and read all evening. How odd: not a single one of the day's worries and alarms has followed me here; I sit at my desk "untouched," immersed in my studies as if nothing were hap­ pening in the world outside. Everything has simply fallen away from me, leaving no trace, and I feel more " receptive" than ever before. Next week no doubt it will be the turn of the Dutch Jews. With each minute that passes I shed more wishes and desires and attachments. There are moments when I can see right t hrough l i fe and the human heart, when I understand more and more and become calmer and calmer and am filled with a faith in God that has grown so quickly inside me that it frightened me at first but has now become inseparable from me. And now to work.

Thursday morning, 9:30. Such words as "god " and "death" and "suffering" and "ete rnity" are best forgotten. We have to be­ come as simple and as wordless as the growing corn or the fal l ing rain. We must j ust be.

H a v e I really made so much progress that I can say with complete honesty, I hope they will send me to a labor camp so that I can d o something for the sixteen-year-old girls who will also be going? And to reassure the d istracted parents who are kept behind, saying, "Don't worry, I'll look after your chil­ d ren " ?

When I tell others, Fleeing o r hiding i s pointless, there i s no escape, so let's just do what we can for others, it sounds too m uch like defeatism, like something I don't mean at a l l . I cannot find the right words either for that radiant feeling inside me, which encompasses but is untouched by all the suffering and all

[ 1 7 1 1

the violence . But I am still talking in much too philosophical, much too bookish a way, as if I had thought i t all up j ust to make life more pleasant for myself.

Friday morning. One moment it is Hitler, the next it is Ivan the Terrible; one moment it is resignation and the next war, pes­ tilence, earthquake, or fam ine. Ultimately what matters most is to bear the pain, to cope with it, and to keep a small corner of one's soul unsullied, come what may.

Later. I keep fretting and brooding and trying to do the most urgent daily chores as quickly as possible, and there is a knot inside that makes it hard to breathe and I rack my brains and

have to give up my studies for part of the morning, pace up and down the room, have a stomachache, and so on, and suddenly my confidence floods back: later, when I have surv ived it all, I shall write stories about these times that will be like faint brush strokes against the great wordless background of God, Life, Death, Suffering, and Eternity. Your worries leap up on you like vermin. All right, so you have to do some scratching, and your looks suffer as a result, but in the end you manage to shake them off. I shall treasure the short time I still have to stay here as one might a bonus, as a holiday.

A hard day, a very hard day. We must learn to shoulder our common fate; everyone who seeks to save h imself must surely realize that if he does not go another must take his place. As if it really mattered which of us goes. Ours is now a common destiny, and that is something we must not forget. A very hard day. But I keep finding myself in prayer. And that is something I shall always be able to do, even in the smallest space: pray. And that part of our common destiny that I must shoulder myself, I strap tightly and fi rmly to my back, it becomes part of me, as I walk through the streets even now.

And I shall wield this slender fountain pen as if it were a

[ 1 7 2 1

hammer, and my words will have to be so many hammer strokes w i th which to beat out the story of our fate and of a piece of history as it is and never was before. Not in this totali­ tarian, massively organi zed form, spanning the whole of Eu­ rope. Still, a few people must survive if only to be the chroniclers of this age. I would very much like to become one of their number.

S.'s q uivering mouth when he said, " Ad r i and Dicky won't be allowed to bring me my food anymore."

11 July 1 942, Saturday morning, eleven o'clock. We must only speak about the ultimate and most serious things in life when the words well u p inside us as simply and as naturally as water from a spring.

And i f God does not help me to go on, then I shall have to help God . The surface of the earth is gradually turning into one great prison camp, and soon there will be nobody left outside. The Jews here are telling each other lovely stories: they say that the Germans are burying us alive or exterminating us with gas. But what is the point of repeating such things, even if they should be true ?

It hasn't stopped pouring with rain since last night. I have al ready cleared out one of the d rawers in my desk. I red is­ covered the one photograph I have of S., which I mislaid nearly a year ago. I have al ways been absolutely convinced that it would turn up again. And there it suddenly was, at the bottom of that untidy d rawer. That's typical of me: I just k now w i th some things, big or small, that they will turn out all right in the end. I never worry about tomorrow. For instance I know I am going to have to leave here very soon, and I haven't the faintest idea where I'll end up or how I shall earn my living, but I know that something will turn up. I f one burdens the future with one's worr ies, it cannot grow organically. I am filled with confi­ dence, not that I shall succeed in worldly things, but that even

{ I 7 3 }

when things go badly for me I shall still find l i fe good and worth l iving.

I catch myself making all sorts of minor but telling adj ust­ ments in anticipation of life in a labor camp. Last night when I was walking along the quay beside him in a pair of comfortable sandals, I suddenly thought, "I shall take these sandals along as well, I can wear them instead of the heavier shoes from time to time." What goes on in my head at moments like that? Such lighthearted, almost playful good humor. Yesterday was a hard, a very hard day, when I suffered agonies. Yet once more I was able to brave i t all, everything that came storming at me, and now I can bear a l ittle more than I was able to bear yesterday. And that probably explains my cheerfulness and inner peace: that I am able, time after time, to cope all by myself, that my heart does not shrivel up with the bitterness of it all, and that even the moments of deepest sadness and black despair finally make me stronger. I don't fool myself about the real state of affairs, and I 've even d ropped the pretense that I 'm out to help others. I shall merely try to help God as best I can, and if I succeed in doing that, then I shall be of use to others as well. But I mustn't have heroic illusions about that either.

But how shall I really feel and act, I keep wondering, with a call-up card for Germany in my bag and orders to leave in a week's time ? Supposing the card came tomorrow, how would I act then ? I wouldn't tell a soul at first but retire to the quietest spot in the house, withdraw into myself and gather what strength I could from every cranny of my body and soul. I would have my hair cut short and throw my lipstick away. I would try to finish reading the Rilke letters before the week was out. And I'd have a pair of trousers and a jacket made out of that heavy winter coat material I ' ve got left over. I would try to see my parents, of course, and do my best to reassure them, and every spare minute I would want to write to him, to the man I

{ 1 7 4 1

shall al ways long for-I now know that for certain. Yes, when I think about having to leave him and never being able to know what is happening to him, I feel as if I were dying a l ready.

I n a few days' time I shall go to the dentist and have lots and lots of holes in my teeth filled . For that really would be awful: suffering from toothache out there. I shall try to get hold of a rucksack and pack only what is absolutely essential, though ev­ erything must be of good quality. I shall take a Bible along and that slim v olume Letters to a Young Poet, and su rely I ' l l be able to find some corner for the Book of Hours. I won 't take along any photographs of those I love; I'll just take all the faces and famil­ iar gestures I have collected and hang them up along the walls of my inner space so that they will always be w i th me.

And even now I keep telling my heart that we two will have to carry on even i f I am separated from those without whom I now think I cannot live. Each moment I free myself m o re from dependence on external props and d ra w closer inwardly to those from whom I cannot be separated however far apart we h appen to be. And yet, when I walk with him hand in hand along the quay, which looked so autumnal and stormy last night, and then warm myself in his little room on his open and loving gestures, I am flooded with human, oh so human, hopes and desi res: why can't we stay together after all ? Nothing else would really matter if only we could be together. I don't ever want to leave him. Yet sometimes I say to mysel f, I t is probably easier to pray for someone fa r away than to witness him suffering by your side.

I n this tempestuous, havoc-ridden world of ours, all real com­ munication comes from the heart. Outwardly we are being torn apart, and the paths to each other lie buried under so much debris that we often fail to find the person we seek. We can only conti n ue to live together in our hearts, and hope that one day we may walk hand in hand again.

[ I 7 5 }

I cannot tell, of course, how I shall react when I really do have to leave him. His voice over the telephone this morning still rings in my ear; tonight we shall have a meal together; tomorrow morning we shall work together and then lunch at Lies! and Werner's, and in the afternoon we shall play music together. He is still here. And perhaps in my heart of hearts I do not really accept that all of us are about to be separated. A human being, after all, is only human.

Many accuse me of indifference and passivity when I refuse to go into hiding; they say that I have given up. They say everyone who can must try to stay out of their clutches, it's our bounden duty to try. But that argument is specious. For while everyone tries to save himself, vast numbers are nevertheless disappearing. And the funny thing is I don't feel I'm in their clutches anyway, whether I stay or am sent away. I find all that talk so cliche­ ridden and naive and can't go along with it anymore. I don't feel i n anybody's clutches; I feel safe in God's arms, to put it rhetori­ cally, and no matter whether I am sitting at this beloved old desk now, or in a bare room in the Jewish district, or perhaps in a labor camp under SS guards in a month's time-! shall always feel safe in God's arms. They may well succeed in breaking me physically, but no more than that. I may face cruelty and depri­ vation the likes of which I cannot imagine in even my wildest fantasies. Yet all this is as nothing to the immeasurable expanse of my faith in God and my inner receptiveness.

I shall always be able to stand on my own two feet even when they are planted on the hardest soil of the harshest reality. And my acceptance is not indifference or helplessness. I feel deep moral indignation at a regime that treats human beings in such a way. But events have become too overwhelming and too de­ monic to be stemmed with personal resentment and bitterness. These responses strike me as being utterly childish and unequal to the fateful course of events.

{ 1 7 6 1

People often get worked up when I say it doesn't really mat­ ter whether I go or somebody else does, the main thing is that so many thousands have to go. I t is not as if I want to fall into the arms of destruction with a resigned smile-fa r from it. I am only bowing to the inevitable, and even as I do so I a m sustained by the certain knowledge that ultimately they cannot rob us of anything that matters. But I don't think I would feel h appy if I were exempted from what so many others have to suffer. They keep telling me that someone like me has a d u ty to go into hid ing, because I have so many things to do i n life, so m uch to give. But I know that whatever I may have to give to others, I can give it no matter where I am, here in the c i rcle of my friends or over there, in a concentration camp. And it is sheer a r rogance to think oneself too good to share the fate of the masses.

And i f God H i mself should feel that I still have a great deal to do, well then, I shall do it after I have suffered what all the others have to suffer. And whether or not I a m a v aluable human being will only become clea r from my behavior in more arduous c i rcumstances. And if I should not survive, how I die will show me who I really am. Of cou rse that doesn't mean I will turn down a medical exemption if they give me one on account of my inflamed kidneys and bladder. And I have been recom m ended for some sort of soft j ob with the Jewish Council. They had permission to h i re 1 80 people last week, and the des­ perate are thronging there in d roves, as shipwrecked people might cling for dear life to a piece of driftwood . But that is as far as I am prepared to go, and beyond that I am not willing to pull any strings. I n any case, the Jewish Council seems to have be­ come a hotbed of intrigue, and resentment against this strange agency is growing by the hour. And sooner or later it will be their turn to go, anyway.

But, of course, by then the English may have landed. A t least that's what those people say who have not yet abandoned all

[ I 7 7 ]

political hope. I believe that we must rid ourselves of all expecta­ tions of help from the outside world, that we must stop guessing about the d u ration of the war and so on. And now I a m going to set the table.

Sunday morning prayer. "Dear God, these are anxiOus times. Tonight for the fi rst time I lay in the dark with burning eyes as scene after scene of human suffering passed before me. I shall promise You one thing, God , j ust one very small thing: I shall never burden my today with cares about my tomorrow, al­ though that takes some practice. Each day is sufficient unto itsel f. I shall try to help You, God, to stop my strength ebbing away, though I cannot vouch for it in advance. But one thing is becoming increasingly clear to me: that You cannot help us, that we must help You to help ourselves. And that is all we can manage these days and also all that really matters: that we safe­ guard that little piece of You, God, in ourselves. And perhaps in others as well . Alas, there doesn't seem to be much You Yourself can do about our circumstances, about our lives. Neither do I hold You responsible. You cannot help us, but we must help You and defend Your dwelling place inside us to the last. There are, it is true, some who, even at this late stage, are putting their vacuum cleaners and silver forks and spoons in safekeeping in­ stead of guarding You, dear God. And there are those who want to put their bodies in safekeeping but who are nothing more now than a shelter for a thousand fears and bitter feelings. And they say, 'I shan't let them get me into their clutches .' But they forget that no one is in their clutches who is in Your arms. I am beginning to feel a l i ttle more peaceful, God, thanks to this conversation with You. I shall have many more conversations with You. You are sure to go through lean times with me now and then, when my faith weakens a little, but believe me, I shall always labor for You and remain faithful to You and I shall never d rive You from my presence.

[ I 7 8 }

"I have strength enough, God, for suffering on a grand scale, but there are more than a thousand everyday cares that leap up on me without warning like so many fleas. So I scratch a way desperately and tell myself, 'This day has been taken care of now, the protective walls of a hospitable home still surround me like a well-worn, familiar piece of clothing, there is food enough for today, and the bed with the white sheets and the warm blankets stands waiting for me tonight, so don't let me waste even one atom of my strength on petty material cares. Let me use and spend every minute and turn this into a fruitful day, one stone more in the foundations on which to build our so­ uncertain future.' The jasmine beh ind my house has been com­ pletely ruined by the rains and storms of the last few days; its w h i te blossoms are floating about in muddy black pools on the low garage roof. But somewhere inside me the j asmine contin­ ues to blossom undisturbed, j ust as profusely and delicately as ever it d i d . And i t spreads its scent round the House i n which You d well, oh God . You can see, I look after You, I bring You not only my tears and my forebodings on this stormy, gray Sunday morning, I even bring you scented j asmine. And I shall bring You all the flowers I shall meet on my way, and truly there a re many o f those. I shall try to make You at home always. Even if I should be locked up in a narrow cell and a cloud should d ri ft past my small barred window, then I shall bring you that cloud, oh God, while there is still the strength in me to d o so. I cannot promise You anything for tomorrow, but my i n tentions are good, You can see.''

And now I shall venture out upon this day. I shall meet a great many people today, and evil rumors and threats will again assault me like so many enemy soldiers besieging an inviolable fortress.

1 4 july, Tuesday evening. Everyone must follow the way of life that suits h i m best. I simply cannot make active preparations to

{ I 7 9 }

save myself, it seems so pointless to me and would make me nervous and unhappy. My letter of application to the Jewish Council on Jaap's urgent advice has upset my cheerful yet deadly serious equilibrium. As if I had done something underhand. Like crowding onto a small piece of wood adrift on an endless ocean after a shipwreck and then saving oneself by pushing others into the water and watching them d rown. It is all so ugly. And I don't think much of this particular crowd, either. I would much rather j oin those who prefer to float on their backs for a while, drifting on the ocean with their eyes turned toward heaven, and who then go down with a prayer. I cannot help myself. My battles are fought out inside, with my own demons; it is not in my nature to tilt against the savage, cold-blooded fanatics who clamor for our destruction. I am not afraid of them either, I don't know why; I am so calm it is sometimes as if I were standing on the parapets of the palace of history looking down over fa r-distant lands. This bit of history we are experi­ encing right now is something I know I can stand u p to. I know what is happening, and yet my head is clea r. But sometimes I feel as if a layer of ashes were being sprinkled over my heart, as if my face were withering and decaying before my very eyes, and as if everything were falling apart in front of me and my heart were letting everything go. But these are brief moments; then everything falls back into place, my head is clear again, and I can once more bear and stand up to this piece of history that is ours. For once you have begun to walk with God, you need only keep on walk ing with Him and all of l i fe becomes one long stroll-such a marvelous feeling.

We go too far in fearing for our unhappy bodies, while our forgotten spirit shrivels up in some corner. Our lives a re going wrong, we conduct ourselves without dignity . We lack a histori­ cal sense, forget that even those about to perish are part of history. I hate nobody. I am not embittered. And once the love

{ 1 8 0 1

of mankind has germinated in you, it will grow without mea­ sure.

Many would call me an unrealistic fool if they so much as suspected what I feel and think. And yet there exists i n me all the reality the day can bring. I must look up those sentences in Rathenau's letter I copied out some time ago. That is what I shall miss later: here, I need only stretch out my hand to put my finger on so many words and passages. Out there, I shall si mply have to carry everything inside me. One ought to be able to live without books, without anyth ing. There will a l ways be a small patch of sky above, and there will always be enough space to fold two hands in prayer.

It is now 1 1 :30 P.M. Weyl straps on his rucksac k , w hich is much too heavy for his slight back, and starts walking toward Central Station. I go along with him. One ought really to stay u p all night and do nothing but pray.

Wednesday morning. I'm afraid I did not pray h a rd enough last night. When I read S.'s note this morning, something broke inside me and overwhelmed me. I was busy laying the break ­ fast table, and suddenly I had t o stop in t h e m iddle of t h e room and fold my hands and bow my head, and the tears that had been locked up i nside me for so long welled up from my heart.

It m ust sound odd, but these few fa int, untidy pencil scrawls a re the fi rst real love letter I have ever received. I have su itcases full of others, of the so-called love letters men have w r i tten me in the past. Passionate and tender, pleading and demanding, so many words with which they tried to warm themselves and me, and so o ften it was all a flash in the pan.

But these words of his, yesterday, "Oh you, my heart i s so heavy," and this morning, "Dear one, I so want to go on pray-

r 1 s 1 1

ing." They are the most precious presents ever laid before my spoiled heart.

Evening. No, I don't think I shall perish. This afternoon a brief spell of so much despair and sadness, not for everything that is happening but simply for myself. And the thought that I will have to leave S., not even grief about the longing I shall feel for him but grief about the longing he will feel for me. A few days ago I thought that nothing more could happen to me, that I had suffered everything in anticipation, but today I suddenly real­ ized that things can indeed weigh more heavily on me than ever I thought possible. And they were very, very heavy. " I was unfa i thful to You, God, but not entirely." I t is good to have such moments of despai r and of temporary extinction; continuous calm would be superhuman. But now I know again that I shall always get the better of despair. This afternoon I should not have thought it possible that, by this evening, I would be so calm again and so hard at work at my desk . But now my head is clearer than ever before. Tomorrow I must speak to S. at length about our fate and our attitude. I mus t !

The Rilke letters have come, those covering the years 1 907- 1 9 1 4 and 1 9 1 4- 1 92 1 ; I hope I shall be allowed to finish them. And the Schubert, too. Jopie brought them. And like a second Saint Martin, she took off her pure wool sweater, which wards off the rain and the cold, and gave i t to me. Just the garment for a long journey. Will I be able to pack the two parts of The Idiot and my small Langenscheidt dictionary between the blankets ? I would gladly make do with a little less food if only I could get the books in. Fewer blankets won't do, for I'm bound to freeze to death as it is. Han's rucksack was lying in the passage this afternoon, I tried it out on the sly, there wasn't very much in it, but to be honest the thing was much too heavy for me. Well, I am in God's hands. My body with all its aches and pains as well. If I should ever feel utterly crushed and bewildered, I will surely

{ 1 8 2 1

remember in some tiny corner of my mind that I shall surely be

able to get up again. I walk along a path even while I am led along it. I look to my

memory, and it tells me clearly how I must act. Or not how I must act, but that I will know how to act when the time comes.

"Dear one, I so want to go on praying." I love him so m uch. Now I must go and do some reading. When I pray, I never pray for mysel f, al ways for others, or

else I hold a silly, naive, or deadly serious d ialogue with what is deepest inside me, which for the sake of convenience I call God. Praying to God for something for yourself strikes me as being too childish for word s . Tomorrow I must ask S. i f he ever prays for himself. To pray for another's well-being is someth ing I find childish as well ; one should only pray that another should have enough strength to shoulder his burden. I f you do that, you lend him some of your own strength.

The greatest cause of suffering in so many of our people is their utter lack of inner preparation, which makes them give up long before they even set foot in a camp. They believe our fate is sealed a l ready, our catastrophe complete. Really, Dante's Inferno is comic opera by comparison. "Ours is the real hel l , " S. said recently, very simply and drily. There are moments when my head spins with the wailing and the howling and the screeching all around. And the sky looms so low and so threateni ng. And yet now and then that bright and bubbling good humor of m ine rises to the surface again, it never really leaves me, and i t isn't gal lows humor either, I 'm quite sure. I have grown so used to the times in which we live that few things baffle me now or obscure my view. After all, it has not been "l iterature" and "aesthetics" alone I have been busy with here at my desk d uring these last few years.

No, w hat I have collected here has helped me to ride over these past eighteen months. It has become part of me and

{ 1 8 3 1

will help me brave what other storms life may still have in store for me.

Later. I must remember something for my most d ifficult mo­ ments: the fact that Dostoyevsky spent fou r years in a Siberian jail with the Bible as his only reading matter. He was never allowed to be alone, and the sanitary arrangements were not particularly marvelous.

[On 15 July 1 942 Etty was gwen a job zn the Cultural Affairs

Department of the Jewish Council.]

1 6 July, 9:30 P.M. "Have You any other plans for me, oh God ? " Tomorrow I must betake myself to hell, and i f I a m to d o the work properly, I shall have to get in a good night's sleep. I t would take me a whole year to describe just this one day. Jaap and Loopuit, my old friend, who said, "I shan't let our Etty be d ragged off to G." And I said to Jaap, after Leo de Wolff 4 3 had once again saved us from having to hang about for a few hours, "I shall have to do a great many favors for a great many people after this." It is all most irregular and certainly not fair. Liesl said very breezily, "You happen to be a victim of patronage."

And yet there in the passage, amid all the gloom and the bustle, I was able to read a few Rilke letters, to continue living my own l i fe. Despite the deadly fear I saw in all those faces. All those faces, my God, those faces !

I am going to bed now. I hope to be a center of peace in that madhouse. I shall get up early in order to brace myself. "Oh God, what are Your plans for m e ? " It took me quite a few hours to get over that offer of a j ob. How did it all happen so quickly ? S. said, "I read your diary this afternoon, and as soon as I read it I knew: nothing will happen to you." I must do something for Liesl and Werner, I really must. Not rashly but after a lot of reflection.

{ 1 8 4 1

A m i racle has happened, and that too I S someth ing I must

accept and learn to bear.

1 9 july, Sunday evening, 9:50. "I need to talk to You so m uch, oh God," but I must go to bed . I feel as if I were d rugged, and i f I am not in bed by ten o'clock I shan't be able to get through another day l i ke this one. Indeed I shall have to invent an en­ tirely new language to express everything that has moved my heart these last few days. And this night. He is breathing as if he were running a race. And I think under the blankets, "Let us pray together." No, I can't put it into words, everything that happened the last few days and last night.

"And yet I am one of Your chosen, oh God, for You allow me to experience so many things and have given me enough strength to bear them a l l . " Last night when I finally went up to Dicky's room at two o'clock and kneeled down, almost naked, in the middle of the floor, completely undone, I suddenly said, "I have been through such great things, today and tonight, my God, I thank You for helping me to bear everything and for letting so l ittle pass me by." And now I simply must go to bed.

20 july, Monday morning, 9:30. They are merciless, totally with­ out pity. And we must be all the more merciful ourselves. That's why I prayed early this morning:

"Oh God, times are too hard for frail people like myself. I know that a new and kinder day will come. I would so m uch like to live on, i f only to express all the love I carry within me. And there is only one way of preparing the new age, by living it even now in our hearts. Somewhere in me I feel so light, with­ out the least bitterness and so full of strength and love. I would so much like to help prepare the new age."

That's how it went, more or less, my prayer this morning. I suddenly had to k neel down on the hard coconut matting in the bathroom, and the tears poured down my face.

{ I 8 5 ]

And that prayer gave me enough strength for the rest of the day.

And now I must still read a short story. I shall try to preserve my lifestyle come what may, even if I have to type a thousand letters a day from 1 0:00 A.M. until 7:00 P.M. and get back home, sorefooted, at eight, and then still have to get some food down. I shall always find an hour for myself, never let circumstances grind me down. I should be quite unable to do the work were I not able to d ra w each day on that great reservoir of peace and maturity .

"Yes, God , I am fa ithful t o You, through thick a n d thin."

21 July, Tuesday evening, seven o'clock. This afternoon on my long walk home, when worries assailed me wildly and refused to go away, I suddenly said to myself, I f you really believe in God, then you must surrender yourself completely and live in faith. Never worry about tomorrow. And as I was walking along the quay with him-and I thank You, oh God, for mak­ ing that possible, even if it is only for five minutes a day, I am still grateful-he said, "Oh, the worries we all have." And I said to him, "We must be consistent, if we have any faith at all then we must have faith all the time."

I feel as if I were the guardian of a precious slice of life, w i th all the responsibility that entails. There are moments when I feel like giving up or giving in, but I soon rally again and do my duty as I see it: to keep the spark of life inside me ablaze. I shall now read a few Rilke letters and then very early to bed . When it comes to my personal life I am still so infinitely better off than most.

And between the urgent petitions I typed out today i n sur­ roundings best described as midway between hell and a mad­ house, I still found time to read Rilke, and he said as much to

I I 8 6 J

me as he would had I read him in the seclusion of my quiet room .

And I want to add something: I believe I have gradually managed to atta in the simplicity for which I have a lways longed.

22 July, 8:00 A . M. "God give me strength, not only spi ritual strength but physical strength as well . I n a moment of weakness I must make You a candid confession: if I have to leave this house I shall be totally lost. But I don't want to worry about that in a dvance. Take these worries from me, please, for if I have to bear them as well as all the others, I shall scarcely be able to go on l i ving.

"I am so terribly tired, my whole body aches, and I have no energy for today's work. I don't really believe in it, and if it goes on for long I shall probably end up completely worn out. Still, I am grateful to You for driving me from my peaceful desk into the midst o f the cares and sufferings of this age. I t wouldn't do, would it, to l ive an idyllic life with You in a sheltered stud y ? Still I confess i t truly i s d i fficult to carry You intact with m e and to remain faithful to You through everything, as I have always promise d .

"As I walk through t h e streets I am forced t o think a great deal about Your world. Think is not really the right word, it is more an attempt to plumb its mystery with a new sense. It often seems to me that I can already discern the beginning and the end of this one phase of history, already see it in per­ spective.

"And I a m deeply grateful to You for leaving me so free of bitterness and hate, with so much calm acceptance, which is not at all the same as defeatism, and also with some understand ing for our age, strange though that may sound. One m ust under­ stand one's age j ust as one understands one's contemporaries, for after all, it is of their mak ing, it is what it is and must be understood as such, however perplexing it may be."

[ I 8 7 }

[On 22 July 1 942, Etty volunteered at the Jewish Council for depor­

tation to Westerbork.}

Wednesday, 2:00 P. M. My heart failed a few times again today, but each time it came back to life. I say my good-byes from minute to minute, shaking myself free of all outer things. I cut through the ropes that still hold me bound, I load up w i th everything I need to set out on my journey. I am sitting now by a quiet canal, my legs dangling over the stone wall , and I won­ der whether one day my heart will be so weary and worn that it will no longer fly where it wants, free as a bird.4 4

23 July, Thursday, 9:00 P. M. My red and yellow roses are now fully open. While I sat there working in that hell, they quietly went on blossoming. Many say, "How can you still think of flowers ! "

Last night, walking that long way home through the rain with the blister on my foot, I sti l l made a short detour to seek out a flower stall, and went home with a large bunch of roses. They are j ust as real as all the misery I witness each day. "There is room for many things in my life, so much room, oh God." As I walked down those overcrowded corridors today, I suddenly felt the urge to kneel down right there, on the stone floor, among all those people. The only adequate gesture left to us in these times: "kneeling down before You." Each day I learn something new about people and realize more and more that the only strength comes, not from others, but from within.

"Living is not the sole meaning of life," S. said when we discussed the problem of how to make sense of all that happens.

I t is all a great big mess, I think to myself quite often, against my will as it were. But today I suddenly wondered why I used the word mess in the first place. It is so much hot air and doesn't make things any better.

[ I 8 8 ]

The m ost depressing thing of all is that the mental horizon of

all the people I work with is so narrow. They don't even suffer deep down. They just hate and blind themselves to their own pettiness, they intrigue, they are still ambitious to get on, i t is all a great big, d i rty mess, and there are moments when I would like to lay my head down on my typewriter and say in despair, " I can't go on like this." But I do go on, learning more about people all the time.

It is now ten o'clock. By rights I ought to be in bed. But I must do a little reading fi rst. I am still so fantastically well o ff. Lies!, brave little Lies), sits up until three o'clock in the morning making l ittle bags as an outworker for some factory. Werner hasn't taken his clothes off for si xty hours, all sorts of strange things have been happening in our lives, God grant us strength. But above all, let S. get well and don't take him away from me yet. Today I was suddenly filled with fears that he was about to be torn from me.

"Dear God, I have promised to trust You and to banish all my fea rs and anxieties. I am supposed to be with h i m on Saturday night. I can't thank You enough for making that possible even now." This day was another very black day, I was only j ust able to bear it, but I feel l ike ending it on a happy note, I don't know why, with something about the roses or about my love for him. I am going to read a few more Rilke poems and then to bed .

I shall take Saturday off. Odd, isn't it, I am so healthy these days, no headaches, no

stomachaches, etc. Sometimes I feel tiny twinges of them, but then I summon up all the inner calm I possess until my blood courses quietly through my veins again. Most of my aches are imaginary, I now rea lize. Neither is my new inner calm put on, as many think it is. Had all of this ha ppened to me only a year ago, I should certainly have collapsed within three days, com­ m itted suicide, or pretended to a false kind of cheerfulness. But

{ I 8 9 j

now I am filled with such equanimity, endurance, and calmness that I can see things very clearly and have an inkling of how they fit together.

Today when both of us kept saying how much we wanted to stay together, I thought to myself once again, "You look so ill, so terribly tired, and loving you as much as I do, the worst thing that could happen to me would be to sit by and watch you suffering. I would much sooner pray for you from a distance." I shall accept whatever lies in store for me. I don't much believe in help from the outside, nor do I count on it. On the English or the Americans or a revolution or God knows what. No one should put his trust in that sort of help. Whatever happens is for the best. Goodnight.

24 July, Friday morning, 7:30. I would very much like to do an hour's hard studying before I start on this day. I feel a great need to do so, and I also have the necessary concentration. When worries started to assail me again early this morning, I simply j umped out of bed. "God, take them away from me, please."

I don't know what I shall do if they send for him, what influence I can use on his behalf.

We must accept everything as it comes and be prepared for the worst. Don't brood and don't be afraid, but be calm and think clearly. When the crucial moment comes, you will surely know what you have to do.

My roses are still in bloom. I shall take that half-pound of butter to Jaap.

I f I should survive and keep saying, "Life is beautiful and meaningful," then they will have to believe me.

If all this suffering does not help us to broaden our horizon, to attain a greater humanity by shedding all trifling and irrele­ vant issues, then it will all have been for nothing.

Tonight I shall dine with him in the Cafe de Paris. It is

[ 1 9 0 1

a lmost grotesque, an outing like that. Lies! said, " I t is a great privilege, isn't it, that we have been chosen to bea r all this ? " Lies! i s a great woman, a truly great woman, I would like to write about her one day. We shall come through, no doubt.

25 july, Saturday morning, nine o 'clock. I started the day stu­ pidly. By talk ing about the "si tuation," as i f words could be found to describe it.

This precious gift, this one free day, is something I m ust use wel l . Not by chattering or bothering those a round me, but by sustaining my spirit: I have noticed a growing need to proffer my unruly spirit all the material it can d igest. This last week has brought clear proof of how much stronger I have become. I keep fol lowing my own inner voice even in the madhouse in which I work, with a hund red people chattering together in one small room, typewriters clattering, and me, sitting in a corner read ing Rilke. Yesterday we were all moved out suddenly in the middle of the morni ng; tables and chairs were pulled from under us, people thronged about giving orders and counter-orders, even about the smallest chair, but Etty j ust sat down in a corner on the d i rty floor between her typewriter and a packet o f sand­ wiches and read Rilke. I make my own rules and do as I like. In all this chaos and misery I follow my own rhythm, so much so that at any given moment between typing letters I can i m merse myself in the things that matter to me. I t is not that I am cutting myself off from all the suffering around me, nor is it a d ulling of the senses. I take everything in and store it a way, but I go my own way. Yesterday was a silly day. A day in which my sardonic humor asserted itself and I suddenly fel t like an exuberant child.

God save me from one thing: don't let me be sent to a camp with the people with whom I now work every day. I could w r i te a hundred satires about them. Still, l i fe continues to be full of pleasant surprises: yesterday I ate fried flounders with S., unfor­ gettable both as to cost and quality. And this afternoon a t five

[ 1 9 1 1

o'clock I am going over to his place, and I shall stay there until the morning. We shall read a l ittle and write a little and be together for one evening, one night, and one brea k fast. Yes, such things still happen. I have been feeling strong and happy since yesterday. So free of fears and anxieties. And I am developing very strong leg muscles thanks to all the walking I do. Perhaps I shall walk right across Russia one day, who knows ?

I t is now 9:30. I want to sit here at this desk until noon; the rose petals lie scattered among my books. A yellow rose has opened as far as it can and now looks at me large and wide. The two and a half hours I have left seem to me like a year's seclu­ sion. There is a vast silence in me that continues to grow.

27 July 1 942. One should be prepared at all times to review one's life and to start all over again in a d i fferent place. I am spoiled and undisciplined.

Despite all that has happened, my desire to enjoy life to the ful l is probably still much too great. When I consider the mood I have been in since last night I cannot but say to myself, "You are an ungrateful wretch. " There was so much that was good this weekend. So much that ought to sustain me for weeks even if those weeks had brought little but disaster. Instead I behave inconsiderately toward my colleagues, the other typists. It's j ust that I find the work so utterly monotonous. I am more queru­ lous and sad and dissatisfied this early morning than I have been for a long time, and not because of the great "suffering" but because of all sorts of petty resentments and grievances. And I am very sad that so much that was precious and fine about this weekend has been buried and stifled beneath such unimportant things. That a somewhat v u lgar and bossy girl said to me, when I tried to slip away at five o'clock, "No, you don't, you can't possibly go before that guide has been typed out, you're being inconsiderate." And since my machine can only manage five

[ 1 9 2 1

copies at a time and we need ten, I had to type everything out

twice. And I was dying to be with my friends, and I had a pain in

my back, and every cell in my body was rebelling. You have the w rong attitude altogether, Etty, my girl. You should remember that your typing is what allows you to stay on i n Amsterdam w i th the people you love. But yesterday afternoon it suddenly struck me how depressing, d reary, demeaning, and without any real point this whole business really is: "I humbly beg for ex­ emption from labor serv ice in Germany, because I a m already working for the Wehrmacht here and am ind ispensable." The whole thing is hopeless. And I firmly believe unless we provide an alternative, a dazzling and dynamic alternative with which to start afresh somewhere else, then we are lost, lost permanently and for all time.

I am tired and depressed. I still have half an hour, and I would like to write for days, until all of my sudden depression has been shaken off.

Yesterday a fternoon I sat in a narrow, overcrowded corridor and waited for Werner for one and a half hours. I sat on a stool against the wall, and people walked on me, over me, and past me. I sat there w i th Rilke on my lap and read. And I really read, concentrated on every word. And I found someth ing that could suffice for many days. I copied it down immediately. And later I fou n d a d ustbin in the sun in the yard behind our most recent place of employment, and I sat down there and read more Rilke.

And Saturday night: the ring of our relationsh i p was closed so simply and manifestly. As if noth i ng more ever covered me at night than a flowered blanket.

And there are always the canals beside which I walk and which I engrave ever more deeply on my memory, so that I need never again be without them. And can working just one short

[ 1 9 3 1

hour longer, even if it is monotonous work, really deprive you of anything that matters? Should you let it get you into such a state ? My fears obviously run deeper than I thought, and I shall no doubt get to the bottom of them, but I haven't the time to do it now.

I shall soon be walking along the canals again, and I shall try to be very quiet and to listen to what has really happened inside me. I really shall have to change a great deal.

And another thing: I still believe I have an inner regulator, which warns me every time I take the wrong path by bringing on a "depression." I f only I remain honest and open with myself and determined enough to become what I must be and to do what my conscience commands, then everything will turn out all right.

28 July, Tuesday morning, 7:30. I shall allow the chain of this day to unwind link by link, I shall not intervene but shall simply have faith. "I shall let You make Your own decisions, oh God . " This morning I found a buff envelope in m y letter box. I could see there was a white paper inside. I was quite calm and thought, "My call-up notice, what a pity, now I won't have time to try repacking my rucksack." Later I noticed that my knees were shaking. It was simply a form to be filled in by the staff of the Jewish Council. They haven't even issued me with an iden­ tity number yet. I shall take the few steps I have to. My turn may not come for a long time. Jung and Rilke will go with me in any case. And if my mind should be unable to retain very much later on, nevertheless these last two years will shine at the edge of my memory like a glorious landscape in which I was once at home and which will always remain part of me. I feel that I am still tied by a thousand threads to everything I treasure here. I will have to tear myself away bit by bit and store every­ thing inside me, so that when I have to leave I shall not abandon anything but carry it all with me.

{ 1 9 4 1

There are moments when I feel l ike a little bird, tucked away in a great protective hand.

Yesterday my heart was a sparrow, caught in a vise. I t is on the w i ng again, flying wherever the fancy takes it. And now I shall make some sandwiches and be on my way.

I shall become the chronicler of our adventures. I shall forge them into a new language and store them inside me should I have no chance to write things down. I shall grow d u l l and come to l i fe again, fall down and rise up again, and one day I may perhaps discover a peaceful space round me that is mine alone, and then I shall sit there for as long as it takes, even if it should be a year, until l i fe begins to bubble up in me again and I fi n d t h e words t h a t bear witness where witness needs to be borne.

8:30 P.M. This was a day of gaiety, neglect of duty, and sunshine. I played truant along the canals, and I crouched in a corner of his room facing his bed. There were five tea roses i n a small tin vase.

There is a d i fference between hardy and hard. It is often forgotten nowadays. I believe that I get hardier every day, except for the recalcitrant blister of mine, but I shall never grow hard. All sorts o f things are becoming clear to me. For instance, this: I don't want to be S.'s wife. To put it quite soberly and bluntly, the d i fference in our ages is too great. I have seen a man change before my eyes in a few years. I see him changing even now. H e is an o l d m a n whom I love, love infinitely, a n d t o whom I shall a l ways be united by an inner bond . But "marry," what the worthy citi zen calls marry, I must, in a l l seriousness and hon­ esty, say finally that I do not want to. And the fac t that I am going to have to go my own way all by myself gives me a great feeling of strength. Sustained hourly by the love I bear him and others. So many couples rush off to be ma rried at the last mo­ ment, i n haste and desperation. I would rather be alone and there for everyone.

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Nothing can ever atone for the fact, of course, that one section of the Jewish population is helping to transport the majority out of the country. History will pass j udgment in due course.

And yet there i t always is again: life remains so "interesting" through it all. Ever-present in me is an almost demonic urge to watch everything that happens. A wish to see and to hear and to be present, to worm out all of life's secrets, to observe with detachment what people look like in their last convulsions. And also, suddenly, to be forced to face oneself and to learn what one can from the spectacle that one's own soul enacts i n these times. And later to be able to find the right words for it.

I shall read through my old d ia ries. I have decided not to tear them up after all. Perhaps later on they will help reacquaint me with my former sel f.

We have had more than enough time to prepare for our present catastrophe: two whole years. And the last of these has proved to be the most crucial of my l i fe, my most beautiful year. And I know for certain that there will be a continuity between the l i fe I have led and the l i fe about to begin. Because my l i fe is increasingly an inner one, and the outer setting matters less and less.

29 July, Wednesday morning, eight o'clock. On Sunday morning I was curled up on his floor in my big striped d ressing gown, darning socks. Water can be so clear that you can see right through i t and distinguish everything on the bottom. What a basi c way of putting things I have.

What I really wanted to say is: it suddenly felt as i f life i n its thousand details, twists, and turns had become perfectly clear and transparent. J ust like a crystal-clear sea.

You huddle in the corner on the floor in the room of the man you love and darn his socks, and at the same time you are sitting

[ I 9 6 ]

by the shore of a mighty ocean so transparent that you can see to the bottom. And that is an unforgettable experience.

And now I think I am getting fl u or somethi ng very much like it. It shouldn't be allowed, I am against it on principle. And my unfit legs a re still very ti red today from yesterday's long wal k . And today I must get Werner's identity papers. I shall stand there in that li ttle room with the same friendly smile and dogged determination I d isplayed yesterday on my own behalf. And it is high time I saw the dentist as well . And will there be a lot of work today ? One can never tell what the day will bri ng, but i t doesn 't matter, for one doesn't have to depend on what the day bri ngs, not even in these times. Am I exaggerating? What if my call-up papers come tomorrow ? It looks as i f transportations from Amsterdam have stopped for the time being. They are now sta rting in Rotterdam. "Help them , oh God, help the Rot­ terdam Jews."

{It would seem that Etty kept no diary between 29 july and 5 Septembe1� when there was a dramatic change in her circumstances:

she voluntarily accompanied the first group of jews being sent to

Westerbork camp.

Her life was also drastically changed by the sudden illness and

death of Spier on 15 September 1942, the very day the Gestapo came to take him to Westerbork. At the end of August 1 942 Etty had been

given leave to return to Amsterdam for a few days. She was ill when

she arrived and stayed there for over a month.

Her last notes were written in the aftermath of Spier's death,

before she returned to Westerbork.}

15 September 1 942, Tuesday morning, 1 0:30. "Perhaps, oh God, everything happening together like that was a little hard. I am reminded daily of the fact that a human being has a body, too. I had thought that my spirit and hea rt alone would be able to sustain me th rough everything. But now my body has spoken up

I I 9 7 1

for itself and called a halt. I now realize, God, how much You have given me. So much that was beautiful and so m u ch that was hard to bear. Yet whenever I showed myself ready to bear it, the hard was d irectly transformed into the beautiful. And the beautiful was sometimes much harder to bear, so overpowering did it seem. To think that one small human heart can experience so much, oh God, so much suffering and so much love, I am so grateful to You, God , for having chosen my heart, in these times, to experience all the things it has experienced. Perhaps it is all to the good that I fell ill. I am not yet reconciled to that fact, I am a little numb and bewildered and helpless, but at the same time I am trying to scrape together what patience I have from all the corners of my being, and I shall have to find a new kind of patience to meet this entirely new state of affa i rs. I shall follow the tried and tested old method, talking to myself now and again on these faint blue lines. And talking to You, God. Is that all right? With the passing of people, I feel a growing need to speak to You alone. I love people so terribly, because in every human being I love something of You. And I seek You every­ where in them and often do find something of You. But now I need so much patience, patience and thought, and things will be very difficult. And now I have to do everything by myself. The best and the noblest part of my friend, of the man whose light You kindled in me, is now with You. What was left behind was a childish, worn-out husk in the two small rooms in which I experienced the greatest and deepest happiness of my life. I stood beside his bed and found myself standing before one of Your last mysteries, my God."

3:00 P. M. The tree is still there, the tree that could write my life story. But it is no longer the same tree, or is it I who am no longer the same? And there is the bookcase, within reach of my bed. I have only to stretch out my left hand to touch Dostoyev­ sky or Shakespeare or Kierkegaard. But I do not stretch out my

[ 1 9 8 1

hand. I feel so d izzy. "You have placed me before Your ultimate mystery, oh God. I am grateful to You for that, I even have the strength to accept i t and to know there is no answer. That we must be able to bear Your mysteries . "

I am sure i t would b e good for m e t o sleep for days, t o l e t go completely. The doctor said yesterday that my inner life is too intense, that I must come down to earth, that I keep knocking at the gates of heaven, and that my physique simply cannot stand it. Perhaps he is right. Oh God, the last one and a half years ! And the last two months, which were a whole l i fe in themselves. But have I not had hours of which I could say, "This one hour is like a whole life, and if I should suddenly die, i t would still have been worth i t ? " And there have been many such hours. Why should heaven not be like them ? But it is really the other way roun d : heaven is inside one, like Ril ke's "cosmic interior."

And now I must sleep and let everything go. I am so d i zzy. Nothing in my body feels right. I want so badly to get well again. "But I accept everything from You r hands, oh G o d . "

But I s t i l l suffer from t h e same o l d complaint. I cannot stop sea rch ing for the great redeeming formula. For the one word that sums u p everything within me, the overflowing and rich sense of l i fe. "Why did You not make me a poet, oh God ? But perhaps You did, and so I shall wait patiently until the words have grown inside me, the words that proclaim how good and beautiful i t is to live in Your world, oh God, despite everything we human beings do to one another."

The thinking heart of the barracks.

Tuesday night, 1:00 A . M. I once thought that I wanted to read your life up to and includ ing the last page. Now I have done j ust that.

There you lie now in your two small rooms, you dear, great, good man. I once wrote to you, "My heart will always fly to you l ike a bird, from any place on earth, and i t will surely find you."

{ 1 9 9 1

And this is what I wrote in Tide's diary, "that you had become so much a part of the heaven that stretches above me that I had only to raise up my eyes to be by your side. And even if they flung me into a dungeon, that piece of heaven would still spread out within me and my heart would fly up to it like a bird, and that is why everything is so simple, so terribly simple and beauti­ ful and full of meaning."

I had a thousand things to ask you and to learn from you; now I will have to do everything by myself. But I feel so strong that I'm sure I 'll manage. What energies I possess have been set free inside me. You taught me to speak the name of God with­ out embarrassment. You were the mediator between God and me, and now you, the mediator, have gone, and my path leads straight to God. I t is right that i t should be so. And I shall be the mediator for any other soul I can reach.

I am sitting at my desk lit by my small lamp. I have written to you so often from this very place and written about you as well. I must tell you something quite remarkable. I have never seen a dead person. In this world, where thousands die every day, I have never seen a corpse. Tide says, "It is only a 'shell.' " I know that's true. But you are the first dead man I shall have seen, and I cannot help feeling that that must be highly significant.

People seem to fritter away what could be their last moments. So many make themselves ill or refuse to get better for fear of being d ragged away. Many even take their own lives, again out of fear. I am so grateful that his life has come to a natural end. He has been spared the suffering that his fellow humans would have inflicted upon him. You, dear spoiled man, would have been quite unable to bear that. I can bear it much better, and even as I suffer I shall continue to live your life and pass it on.

When one has once reached the point of experiencing life as something significant and beautiful, even in these times, or rather precisely in these times, then it is as if everything that happens has to happen j ust as it does and in no other way. To

{ 2 0 0 1

think that I am back at my desk again ! And I shan't be going back to Westerbork tomorrow, but shall be with all our friends as we lower your body into the ground.

Oh well, that's the way things are, you know, one of man's more hygienic habits. Still, we shall all be together again and your spirit will be with us and Tide will sing for you. I f only you k ne w how happy I am that I can be there. I came back j ust in time, I was still able to kiss your withered, dying mouth, for the last time you took my hand and led it to your lips. You once said when I came i n to your room, "The wandering girl." And you also once said, " I have such strange d reams, I d reamed that C hrist himself came to baptize me." Now I stood with Tide beside your bed, and for a moment we thought that you were dying and that the light in your eyes was breaking. Tide put her a rms round me, and I kissed her dear, pure mouth, and she said very gently, "We have found each other." We stood beside your bed, how happy you would have been to see the two of us there like that. Perhaps you did see us, j ust when we thought you were dying?

And I a m grateful that your last words should have been, " Hertha, I hope . . . " What a struggle you waged to remain faithful to her, and how faithful you remained above everything else ! A n d I myself made it very d ifficult for you, I know, but I, too, learned from you what true faithfulness is, and struggle and weakness.

All the bad and all the good that can be found i n a man were in you-all the demons, all the passions, all the goodness, all the love-great d iscerner, God-seeker, and God-finder that you were. You sought God in every human heart that opened u p before you-and h o w many there were ! -and found a l ittle bit of Him in each one. You never gave up, you could be so impa­ tient about small things, but about the i m portant things you were so patient, so infinitely patient.

I am glad that it should have been Tide herself who came to

{ 2 0 1 J

tell me, Tide, with her dear and radiant face. We sat together i n t h e kitchen. And Father H a n came in later a n d stood at t h e back. And Tide touched the keys of your piano, and she sang a short song, "Lift up mine heart with gladness." I t is now two o'clock in the morning. I t is so quiet in the house. I must tell you something strange, but I think you'll probably understand. A portrait of yours hangs on my wall. I want to tear it up and throw it away. To be closer to you. We did not call each other by our fi rst names. We used the formal Sie for a long time, and later, much later, we said Du. And your Du was to me one of the most caressing any man had ever used toward me. And as you know, there had been quite a few. You always signed your letters with a question mark, and I mine as well. You began your letters with, "Just listen to this . . . ," with your characteristic, "HO'ren Sie mal, " but across your last letter you wrote, "Dearest." To me, you are nameless, as nameless as the heavens above. And I want to put all your por­ traits away and never look at them again, for they are so much dead matter. I want to carry you in me, nameless, and pass you on with a new and tender gesture I did not know before.

Wednesday morning, nine o'clock (in the doctor's waiting mom).

often used to think to myself as I walked about in Westerbork among the noisily bickering, all too energetic members of the Jewish Council: if only I could enter a small piece of their soul . I f only I could be the receptacle of thei r better nature, which is sure to be present in all of them. Let me be rather than do. Let me be the soul in that body. And I would now and then d iscover in each one of them a gesture or a glance that took them out of themselves and of which they seemed barely aware. And I felt I was the guardian of that gesture or glance.

16 September, Wednesday, 3:00 P.M. I'm off once more to that street. I was always separated from him by three streets, a canal, and a little bridge. He died at 7: 1 5 yesterday, the day my pass

[ 2 0 2 1

ran out.4 5 Now I am going to visit him one more time. Just now in the bath room, I thought, "I shall be seeing my first dead person." But it d i d n ' t seem to mean anything to me. I thought: I must do something solemn, something out of the ordinary. And I kneeled down on the coconut matting. And then I thought, "This is so conventiona l . " How full of conventions we are, full of preconceptions about what we think ought to happen in cer­ tain situations. Sometimes, when I least expect it, someone sud­ denly kneels down in some corner of my being. When I'm out walking or j ust talking to people. And that someone, the one who kneels down, is mysel f.

And now a mortal shell lies on that more than familiar bed . O h , that cretonne coverlet! I hardly need to go back there aga i n . I t's all being played out somewhere inside m e , everything; there are wide plains inside me beyond time and space, and every­ thing is played out there. And now I walk along those few streets again. How often I have walked them with h i m , always engaged in absorbing and worthwhile d ialogue. And how often will I be walking there again, no matter in what corner of the earth I happen to be ? Am I expected to put on a sad or solemn fac e ? I a m not really sad, am I ? I would like to fold m y hands and say, "Friends, I am happy and grateful, and I fi n d l i fe very beautiful and meaningful. Yes, even as I stand here by the body of my dead com panion, one who d ied much too soon, and j ust when I may be deported to some unknown destination. And yet, God, I a m grateful for everything. I shall live on w i th that part of the dead that l ives forever, and I shall rek i ndle into life that of the living that is now dead, until there is nothing but life, one great life, oh God."

Tide will sing for him once again, and I a l ready rejoice in the moment when I shall hear her vibrant voice.

Joop,4 6 old friend, I am by your side, not physically, but you a re much in my thoughts, and I a m so grateful that I can give you something of what I cannot help handing on.

[ 2 0 3 1

It is significant that you should have entered my life. It could not have been otherwise. Hello!

17 Septembe1� ThurJday morning, eight o'clock. What he called " reposing in oneself. " And that probably best expresses my own love of life: I repose in myself. And that part of myself, that deepest and richest part in which I repose, is what I call "God . " I n Tide's d iary I often read, "Take h i m gently into Your arms, Father." And that is how I feel, always and without cease: "As if I were lying i n Your arms, oh God, so protected and sheltered and so steeped in eternity." As if every breath I take were filled with it and as if my smallest acts and words had a deeper source and a deeper meaning. In one of his first letters to me he wrote, "If I can pass on a little of this overflowing strength, then I am happy."

"It is all to the good that my body has called a halt, oh God ." For I must rest a while if I am to do what I have to do. O r perhaps that i s j ust another conventional idea. Even if one's body aches, the spirit can continue to do its work, can it not ? It can love and hineinhorchen-"hearken unto"-itself and unto others and unto what binds us to life. Hineinhorchen-I so wish I could find a Dutch equivalent for that German word. Tr uly, my life is one long hearkening unto my self and unto others, unto God. And if I say that I hearken, it is really God who hearkens inside me. The most essential and the deepest in me hearkening unto the most essential and deepest in the other. God to God.

"How great are the needs of Your creatures on this earth, oh God. They sit there, talking quietly and quite unsuspecting, and suddenly their need erupts in all its nakedness. Then, there they are, bundles of human misery, desperate and unable to face life. And that's when my task begins. It is not enough simply to

f 2 0 4 1

proclaim You, God, to commend You to the hearts of others. One must also clear the path toward You in them, God, and to do that one has to be a keen j udge of the human soul. A trained psychologist. Ties to father and mother, youthful memories, d reams, guilt feelings, inferiority complexes, and all the rest block the way. I emba rk on a slow voyage of exploration with everyone who comes to me. And I thank You for the great gift of being able to read people. Sometimes they seem to me like houses with open doors. I walk in and roam through passages and rooms, and every house is furnished a l i ttle d i fferen tly, and yet they are all of them the same, and every one must be turned into a d welling dedicated to You, oh God. And I promise You, yes, I promise that I shall try to find a d welling and a refuge for You in as many houses as possible. There are so many empty houses, and I shall prepare them all for You, the most honored lodger. Please forgive this poor metaphor."

At night, 1 0:30. "God, give me calm and let me face everything squarel y . " There is so much to face. First I must start living a d iscipl ined l i fe. At this moment, the l ights are being turned off in the men's barracks. But was there ever a real l ight in them ? Where were you this evening, Jopie, little com rade ? I have mo­ ments when I am suddenly filled with sadness: sad ness that I cannot walk out of my barracks and onto the great moor out­ side. I take a short walk around the camp and before long find my comrade, with his tanned face and that straight furrow be­ tween his eyes, by my side. And as it grows dark I can hea r in the d istance the first chords of Beethoven's Fifth.

I so wish I could put it all into words. Those two months behind barbed wire have been the two richest and most intense months of my l i fe, in which my highest values were so deeply confirmed. I have learned to love Westerbork. Yet when I fell asleep on my narrow plank bed there, what I d reamed of was

[ 2 0 5 1

the desk behind which I now sit and write. "I am so grateful to You, God, for having made my life so rich, but no matter where You place me, I always long for that desk of mine." But it does make life rather difficult and hard at times. It is now past 1 0:30, the time when they turn out the lights in the bar­ racks, and when I myself must turn in. "The patient is a d vised to lead a quiet life," it says on my impressive certificate. And that I have to eat rice and honey and other such fabulous delica­ ctes.

I am suddenly reminded of that woman with the snow-white hair and the fine oval face. She carried a packet of toast in her knapsack, all she had for the long journey to Poland, for she was on a strict d iet. She was so incredibly lovely and so serene with her tall, girlish figure. One afternoon I was sitting out in the sun with her j ust in front of the transit barracks. I gave her a l ittle book from Spier's library, Johanna Muller's Die Liebe, and she seemed very glad to have it. She said later to some young girls who came over to j oin us, "Remember, when we leave early tomorrow morning each of us may cry j ust three times." And one of the girls replied, "I haven't been issued with a ration book for that."

I t is about eleven o'clock now. How quickly the day has passed. I shall have to go to bed after all. Tomorrow Tide will put on her light gray suit and sing, "Lift up mine heart with gladness" at the cemetery chapel. I shall ride in a car with little black curtains for the first time in my life. I have still so much to write down, enough to keep me busy for many days and nights. "Give me patience, oh God . An entirely new k ind of patience. This desk seems so much part of my life once again, and the tree outside my window no longer makes me feel giddy with delight. By leading me back to my desk, You probably intended me to do my best." And now really goodnight.

I am so afraid you will have a hard time of it, Jopie, and I

{ 2 0 6 1

would so m uch love to help you. And I will certainly do what I can. Goodnight.

Sunday n ight. Verbalize, vocalize, v isualize.

Many people a re still hieroglyphs to me, but grad ually I am learning to decipher them. It is the best I can do: to read life from people.

In Westerbork it was as if I stood before the bare palisade of life. Life's innermost framework, stripped of all outer trappings. "Thank You, God, for teaching me to read better and better."

I talk a great deal to people, more than ever of late. I still speak much more expressively and clearly than I can write. Sometimes I feel that I shouldn't dissipate my strength on the spoken word, that I should withdraw and go my own quiet, sea rching way on paper. A part of me wants to do j ust that. But another part wavers and loses itself in words among people.

Max, did you see that deaf and dumb woman m her eighth month, with her epileptic husband ? I wonder, Max, how many women in their ninth month are being d r i ven from their homes in Russia this very moment and still reach for their gun s ?

M y heart i s a floodgate for a never-end ing tide of misery.

Jopie on the heath sitting under the great, big sta rry sky, tal king about nosta lgia. I have no nostalgia left, I feel at home. I have lea rned so much about it here. We are "at home." Under the sky. I n every place on earth, if only we carry everything within] us.

I have often felt, and I still feel, like a ship w ith a precious cargo; the moorings have been slipped, and now the ship is free

{ 2 0 7 1

to take its load to any place on earth. We must be our own country. It took me two nights before I could bring myself to speak of it to him, this most intimate of all intimate feelings. And all the time I was dying to make him a present of it. And then, then I knelt down on the great heath and told him about God.

The doctor is wrong, of course. In the past words like his would probably have made me feel insecure, but now I have learned to see through people and to illumine their words with my own insight. "You live too cerebral a life. You don't let yourself go enough. You ignore the basic rules of life." I nearly asked, "Do you want me to lie down with you here on this couch ? " It wouldn't have been a very sensitive remark, but that's what he really wanted . And later, "You don't live in the real world." And I thought to myself, "He really doesn't make sense." The real worl d ! All over the real world men and women are being kept apart. The men are at the front. I n camps. I n prisons. Men and women separated from each other. That is the real world. And you have to come to terms with that. And not j ust stoke your desires and retreat into Onan's sin. Why not turn the love that cannot be bestowed on another, or on the other sex, into a force that benefits the whole community and that might still be lov e ? And if we attempt that transformation, are we not stand­ ing on the solid ground of the real world , of reality ? A reality as tangible as a bed with a man or a woman in it. And there are other realities, too, are there not? There is something childish and lacking about an older man who, in these times, my God, in these times, goes on about living life to the full. I wish so much that he had come right out with exactly what he really meant.

"After this war, two torrents will be unleashed on the world: a torrent of loving-kindness and a torrent of hatred . " And then I knew: I should take the field against hatred.

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22 September. I would love to be like the l il ies of the field.

Someone who managed to read this age correctly would surely have learned just this: to be like a lily of the fiel d .

I once thought, "I would l i k e to fee l t h e conto u rs of these times with m y fingertips." I was sitting at my desk with no idea what to make o f life. That was because I had not yet arrived at the life in myself, was still sitting at this desk. And then I was suddenly flung into one of many Aashpoints of h uman suffering. And there, i n the faces of people, in a thousand gestures, small changes of expression, life stories, I was suddenly able to read our age-and much more than our age alone. And then i t sud­ denly happene d : I was able to feel the contours of these times with my fi ngertips. How is it that this stretch of heathland su rrounded by barbed w i re, through which so much human misery has flooded, nevertheless remains inscribed in my mem­ ory as something almost lovel y ? How is i t that my spirit, far from being oppressed, seemed to grow lighter and brighter there ? It is because I read the signs of the times and they did not seem meaningless to me. Surrounded by my w r iters and poets and the flowers on my desk, I loved l i fe. And there a mong the barracks, full of hunted and persecuted people, I found confir­ mation of m y love of life. Life in those d rafty barracks was no other than l i fe in this protected, peaceful room. Not for one moment was I cut off from the life I was said to have left behind. There was simply one great, meaningful whole. Will I be able to describe all that one day ? So that others can feel too how lovely and worth living and just-yes, just-life really i s ? Perhaps o n e day G o d will g i v e me t h e few s i m p l e w o r d s I need. And bright and fervent and serious words as well. But above all simple words. How can I d raw this small v illage of barracks between heath and sky with a few rapid, delicate, and yet pow­ erful, strokes o f the pen ? And how can I let others see the many i nm a tes, who have to be deciphered like hieroglyphs, stroke by

[ 2 0 9 1

stroke, until they finally form one great readable and compre­ hensible whol e ?

O n e thing I n o w know for certain: I shall never be able to put down in writing what life itself has spelled out for me in liv ing letters. I have read it all, with my own eyes, and felt it with many senses.

This house, I feel, is slowly losing its hold on me. I t's a good thing to be able to cut all ties with it. Very carefully, with great sorrow, but also in the certainty that it is all for the best and that there can be no other way, I let go, day by day.

And with one shirt on my back and another in my ruck­ sack-how d id that fairy tale go, the one about the king who searches his k ingdom for the shirt of his happiest subject, and finds in the end that the man does not own a shi rt-and with a very small Bible, perhaps my Russian dictionaries and Tolstoy's fol k tales, and no doubt, no doubt at all, there will be room for one volume of Rilke's letters. And then the pure lambswool sweater, knitted by a friend-what a lot of possessions I have, oh

God , and someone like me wants to be a l ily of the fiel d ! And with that one shirt i n m y rucksack I a m off t o an "un­

known destination ." That's what they call it. But wherever I go, won't there be the same earth under my roving feet and the same sky with now the moon and now the sun, not to mention all the stars, above my grateful head ? So why speak of an un­ known destination ?

23 September. We shan't get anywhere with hatred, Klaas.4 7 Appearances are so often deceptive. Take one of my colleagues. I see him often in my thoughts. The most striking thing about him is his inflexible, rigid neck. He hates our persecutors with an undying hatred, presumably with good reason. But he him­ self is a bully. He would make a model concentration camp guard. I often watched him standing beside the camp entrance to admit his hunted fellow Jews, never a pleasant sight. I also

{ 2 I 0 }

remember his th rowing a few grubby pieces of licorice to a

sobbing three-year-old across the table and saying gruffly, "See you don't get it all over your face." Thinking back, I'm sure it was more awkwardness and shyness than lack of good will that made him seem curt-he simply couldn't h i t the right tone. When I saw him walking about among the others with his rigid neck and i m perious look and his ever-present short p i pe, I al­ ways thought, All he needs is a whip in his hand, it would suit him to perfection. But still I never hated him, I found him much too fascinating for that. Now and then I really fel t terribly sorry for him. H e had such an unhappy, miserable mouth, if the truth be tol d . The mouth of a three-year-old who has been unable to get his way with his mother. He himself had meanwhile passed the thi rty-yea r mark, a clever fel low, a successful lawyer-one of the most able in Holland-and the father o f two child ren. But the mouth of a dissatisfied three-year-old had been stamped on his face. There was never any real contact between him and others, and he would give such covert, hungry looks w henever other people were friendly to each other. (I could a lways see h i m d o i t, for we lived a life without walls there.) Later I heard a few things about him from a colleague who had known h i m for years. During the German invasion he jumped into the street from a third-floor window but failed to kill himself. Later, he threw himself under a car, but again to no avail. He then spent a few months in a mental institution. It was fear, j ust fear. I also learned that his wife had had to walk on tiptoe in the house because he could not bear the sl ightest noise and that he used to storm at his terrified children. I fel t such deep, deep pity for him. What sort of l i fe was that? In the end he hanged h imself. (I must make sure his name is taken off the card index.)

Klaas, all I really wanted to say is this: we have so much work to do on ourselves that we shouldn't even be think ing of hating our so-called enemies. We are hurtful enough to one another as it is. And I don't really know what I mean when I say that there

{ 2 1 I }

are bullies and bad characters among our own people, for no one is really "bad" deep down. I should have liked to reach out to that man with all his fears, I should have liked to trace the source of his panic, to drive him ever deeper into himself, that is the only thing we can do, Klaas, in times like these.

And you, Klaas, give a tired and despondent wave and say, "But what you propose to do takes such a long time, and we don't really have all that much time, do we ? " And I reply, "What you want is something people have been trying to get for the last two thousand years, and for many more thousand years before that, in fact, ever since mankind has existed on earth." "And what do you think the result has been, if I may ask ? " you say.

And I repeat with the same old passion, although I a m gradu­ ally beginning to think that I am being tiresome, "It is the only thing we can do, Klaas, I see no alternative, each of us must turn inward and destroy in himself all that he thinks he ought to destroy in others. And remember that every atom of hate we add to this world makes it still more inhospitable."

And you, Klaas, dogged old class fighter that you have always been, dismayed and astonished at the same time, say, "But that-that is nothing but Christianity ! "

And I , amused by your confusion, retort quite coolly, "Yes, Christianity, and why ever not ? "

A t night the barracks sometimes lay i n the moonlight, made out of silver and eternity: like a plaything that had slipped from God's preoccupied hand.

24 September. "There is just one consolation," said Max with his awkward, lopsided grin. " I n winter, the snow will pile up so high that it'll cover the barrack windows, so it will be dark all day as well." He thought he was being rather witty. "But at least we'll be nice and warm, the temperature will never d rop below

{ 2 1 2 1

zero. And they've put two li ttle tiled stoves in the workshop," he

added delightedly. "The men who brought them told us that they are such good burners that they'll explode the fi rst time they're lit."

We shall have to su ffer and to share a great deal this winter; let us hel p one another to bear i t : the cold, the da rkness, and the hunger.

We shall be housed in wooden barracks under a bare sky, with bunks from the Maginot Line in tiers of th ree, and no lights because Paris has not sent the wiring. And even if there were l ights, there still isn't any blackout paper.

I have had to cut things short, and now it is evening again. My body is behaving most d isagreeably today. A small, rose-red cyclamen stands under my steel lamp. Tonight I spent a great deal of time thinking of S. I suddenly felt the fi rst twinges of grief, and that, too, is a part of life. And tonight I suddenly found that there were so many questions I would have l i ked to ask h i m , not least about him self, that so much has been left unclear. Now I shall have to find the answers myself. Stupid, but whenever the telephone rings it will never again be his voice at the other end, half bossy, half tender, saying, "Listen here." Things are bound to be very hard now and then. How long it is since I last saw Tide !

M y latest treasure: the birds o f the heavens a n d the l ilies o f the fields in Matthew 6:33: But seek y e fi rst the kingdom of God, and h i s righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.

And tomorrow a date with Ru Cohen in the Cafe d e Paris. There were five people in Adema van Scheltema Squa re4 8 d ressed in nothing but nightshirts and slippers, and it has turned so chilly, and now they have also taken someone in the last stages of cancer, and last night a Jew was shot in Van Baerl Straat, j ust round the corner from here, "while trying to escape."

[ 2 1 3 1

Many people are being killed this very moment, all over the world, while I sit here writing beside my rose-red cyclamen under my steel office lamp. My left hand rests on a small open Bible, I have a headache and a stomachache, and the sunny summer days on the heath and the field of yellow lupins stretch­ ing as far as the delousing barracks are buried deep i n my heart. It was not a month ago, on 27 August, that Jopie wrote to me, "Here I sit again with my legs dangling out of the window listening to the tremendous stillness, while the lupin field, now stripped of its j ubilant colors, is bathed in comforting sunlight. Now everything is so solemn and so peaceful that I am very calm and serious, too. I d rop down from the window and take a few steps in the loose sand and stare at the moon." And then he ended his letter, written in his tight, close hand writing on cheap paper, "I can understand why one might say, Only one gesture will do here: to d rop to one's knees. No, I didn't do it myself, I didn't think it was necessary, I did my kneeling even while I sat on the windowsill, and then I went to sleep."

It is odd how this man has sprung so suddenly, almost noise­ lessly, into my life, vital and inspiring, even while my great friend , the one who had attended at the birth of my soul, lay in his bed full of pain and turning into a child. "At difficult mo­ ments l ike these, I often wonder what You intend with me, oh God, and therefore what I intend with You."

With a sharp pang, all of suffering mankind's nocturnal d istress and loneliness passes now through my small heart. What shall I be taking upon myself this winte r ?

"One d a y , I would love t o travel through all t h e world, o h God; I feel d rawn right across all frontiers a n d feel a bond with all Your warring creatures." And I would like to proclaim that bond in a small, still voice but also compellingly and without pause. But first I must be present on every battlefront and at the center of all human suffering.

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"Give me a small line of verse from time to time, oh God, and if I cannot write it down for lack of paper or light, then let me address it softly i n the evening to Your great Heaven. But please give me a small line of verse now and then . "

25 Septembe1� 1 1:00 P. M. Tide told m e that a girlfriend once said after the death of her husband, "God has moved me u p into a more a d vanced class; the desks a re sti ll a little too big for me."

And when we spoke about his not being there anymore and how strange it was that neither of us felt empty inside, indeed had a sense of fulfillment, Tide simply ducked her head and shrugged her shoulders and said with a brave little laugh, "Yes, the desks a re still a l ittle too big, things a re bound to be a bit d ifficult now and then."

Matthew 5:23: Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee; 24: Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; fi rst be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.

I was h u r rying along at Ru's side, and after a very long conver­ sation in which we broached all the "ultimate questions" once agai n , I suddenly stopped beside him in the middle of narrow, d reary Covert Flinck Straat, and said, "But you k now, Ru, like a child I still feel that life is beautiful, and this helps me to bear everything." Ru looked at me full of expectation, and I said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world-and it really is, "Yes, you see, I believe in God . " And, I think, he was rather taken aback, then, searching my face for some mysterious sign, appeared to like what he found there. Perhaps that is why I fel t so radiant and so strong for the rest of the day ? Because i t came out so spontaneously and so simply in the middle of that d rab working-class d istrict, "Yes, you see, I bel ieve in God . "

{ 2 I 5 j

I ' m glad I 've been able to stay on in Amsterdam for a few weeks. I am going back refreshed and reinvigorated. I used to be much too unsociable, much too indolent. I really ought to have gone to see those old people, the Bodenheimers, and not have let myself off with the excuse that there's nothing I can do for them. And there were so many other thi ngs like that where I fell short. I pursued my own pleasure too much. I was so ready, of an evening on the heath, to gaze into a friendly pair of eyes. That was lovely, and yet I fel l short in so many ways. Even with the girls in my dormitory . From time to time I would fling them a l i ttle piece of myself and then run away. It was not nearly good enough. And yet I am thankful it was like that and that I shall be able to make amends when I get back . I ' m sure I'll be re­ turning in a more serious and more concentrated frame of mind, less in pursuit of my own pleasure. I f one wants to exert a moral influence on others, one must start with one's own morals. I keep talking about God the whole day long, and it is h igh time that I lived accordingly. I still have a long way to go, oh yes, a long way, and yet sometimes I behave as if I were there al ready. I am frivolous and easygoing, and I often look on things that happen as if I were an artist, a mere observer. There is some­ thing bizarre and fickle and adventurous in me. But as I sit here at my desk, late at night, I also feel a compelling, d i rective force deep down, a great and growing seriousness, a soundless voice that tells me what to do and forces me to confess: I have fallen short i n all ways, my real work has not even begun. So far I have done l ittle more than play about.

26 September, 9:30. I shall have to surrender much more of me to You, oh God. And also stop making conditions: if only I remain healthy, and so on . . . Even if I am not healthy, life goes on, doesn't i t ? I have no right to lay down conditions. I will

[ 2 1 6 1

not do so in future. And the moment I made that resolution, my

stomachache suddenly became quite a lot better. I leafed a l ittle through my diary this morning. Thousands of

memories flooded back . What a rich year it has been !

27 September. For what shall it profit me if I should bestow all my worldly goods to feed the poor and have not love . . .

At least you don't have to suffer with me, S . , spoiled d a rl ing that you were, I am able to face it alone: that l ittle bit of cold and that l ittle bit of barbed wi re, and yet you continue to live in my heart. And I carry on what is immortal in you.

We a l ways end up with some material token: that small bro­ ken pink comb of his Tide gave me. I really don't want to keep any photographs of him, perhaps I won't ever speak h is name again, but that grubby l i ttle pink comb, which I have seen h i m use t o comb his thin hair for one a n d a h a l f years, n o w lies in m y briefcase among m y most important papers, and how wild with grief I should be if I were ever to lose it! We human beings a re strange creatures, a re we not?

28 September. I t made quite an impression on me that time, when that flirt of a doctor with his melancholy eyes said to me, "You live too cerebral a l i fe, it's bad for your health, your consti­ tution isn't u p to it." When I told Jopie about it, he said reflec­ tively, "He's probably right." I worried about it for quite a long time, but then I realized with ever-greater certa i nty: he wasn't right. True, I may think too much, sometimes with a demonic and ecstatic intensity, but I refresh myself from day to day at the original source, l i fe itself, and I rest from time to time in prayer. And what those who say "You live too intensely" d o not know is that one can withdraw into a prayer as into a convent cell and leave again with renewed strength and with peace regained.

I think what weakens people most is fea r o f wasting thei r

{ 2 I 7 }

strength. If after a long and arduous process, day in, day out, you manage to come to grips with your inner sources, w i th God, in short, and if only you make certain that your path to God is unblocked-which you can do by "working on yourself"-then you can keep renewing yourself at these inner sources and need never again be afraid of wasting you r strength.

29 September. You often said, "This is a sin against the spirit, it will be avenged ." Every sin against the spirit will be avenged, in man himself and in the world outside.

Let me j ust note down one more thing for myself: Matthew 6:34: Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

We have to fight them daily, like fleas, those many small worries about the morrow, for they sap our energies. We make mental provision for the days to come, and everything turns out differently, quite d i fferently. Sufficient unto the day. The things that have to be done must be done, and for the rest we must not allow ourselves to become infested with thousands of petty fears and worries, so many motions of no confidence in God. Every­ thing will turn out all right with my residence permit and with my ration book; right now there's no point in brooding about it, and I would do much better to write a Russian essay. Ultimately, we have j ust one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves, more and more peace, and to reflect it toward others. And the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will also be in our troubled world.

Just had a short telephone conversation with Toos. Jopie writes, "Don't send any more parcels. Everything i s in turm oil." Haanen sent a letter to his wife: too short to make sense but long enough to make everyone nervous. Nasty. And it set off a bad reaction in me as well . We have to fight that. Must turn our

{ 2 1 8 1

backs on all these pointless rumors, which spread like an infec­ tious disease. Now and then I get an inkling of what goes on in all these unhappy people. Their l ives a re so impoverished and so empty. And then they say what I have heard from so many of them, "I can't read any books these days, I j ust can't concentrate any longer. In the past my house was a lways full of flowers, but now, well , I no l onger care for that sort of thing." I m poverished , empty lives. Can they be taught to work on themselves, to find peace in themselves ? To live a productive and confident l i fe despite a l l these fears and rumors ? To know that one can fling oneself down on one's knees in the farthest and quietest corner of one's inner l i fe and stay there kneeling until the sky above looks sunny and clear again ? I felt i t once more in the flesh, last n ight, what human beings have to suffer these days. It is good to be reminded of that from time to time, i f only to learn how to fight it. And then to continue undisturbed through the wide and open landscape that is one's own heart. But I haven't reached that point yet. Fi rst to the dentist, and this afternoon to my appointment a t the Jewish Council in Keizersgracht.

30 September. To be true to one's own spontaneity, to what one set out to do i n an all too spontaneous moment.

To be true to every feeling and thought that has started to germinate.

To be true in the fullest sense of the word, to be true to God, to one's own best moments.

If I have one duty in these times, it is to bear witness. I think I

have learned to take it all in, to read l i fe in one long stretch. And in my youthfu l a r rogance I am often sure that I can remember every least thing I see and that I shall be able to relate it all one day. Still, I must try to put it down now.

I seem able to see ever more clearly the gaping chasms that swallow up man's creative powers and joie de v i v re. They are holes in our own mind. Sufficient unto the day is the e v i l

{ 2 1 9 1

thereof. And: man suffers most through his fears of suffering. The body keeps leading the spirit, when it should be the other way round. "You live too cerebral a life." And why now ? Be­ cause I would not surrender my body to your greedy hands ? How strange men are ! How much I want to write. Somewhere deep inside me is a workshop in which Titans are forging a new world. I once wrote in despair, "It is inside my little skull that this world must be rethought, that it must be given fresh clar­ ity." I still occasionally think so, with the same, almost diaboli­ cal, presumption. I know how to free my creative powers more and more from the snares of material concerns, from the idea of hunger and cold and danger. They are, after all, imaginary phantoms, not the reality. Reality is something one shoulders together with all the suffering that goes with it, and with all the difficulties. And as one shoulders them, so one's resilience grows stronger. But the idea of suffering (which is not the reality, for real suffering is always fruitful and can turn life into a precious thing) must be destroyed. And if you destroy the ideas behind which life lies imprisoned as behind bars, then you liberate your true life, its real mainsprings, and then you will also have the strength to bear real suffering, your own and the world's.

Friday morning, in bed. I have not been entirely honest with myself. I shall have to learn this lesson, too, and it will be the most d i fficult of all: "Oh God, to bear the suffering you have imposed on me and not just the suffering I have chosen for myself."

I have been using so many words these last few days to con­ vince mysel f and others that I must go back to Westerbork and that my stomach is not really all that bad-perhaps it really isn't, either.

It seems to me that I have only to stretch out the fingers of my hand to hold all Europe and Russia in my grasp. So compact, so

[ 2 2 0 1

easily surveyed and fam i l iar have they become for me. Every­ thing seems to be so near--even i n this bed . Remembe r: even in this bed . Even if I had to l ie still and motionless for weeks. But I stil l fin d i t hard to bear the thought tha t I may not be able to get u p .

" I promise You t o l ive as fully as I c a n wherever it should please You to put me. But I should so much like to go back on Wednesday, if only for the two weeks." Yes, I know perfectly well , there is a risk: there are more and more SS men in the camp, and there is more and more barbed wire all round, and everything is getting stricter, it's possible they won't even let me out again i n two weeks' time, that's always on the cards. Can I take that risk ?

I give myself until Sunday, and if it then turns out that it wasn't j ust a passing spell of gidd iness, then I will have to be reasonable and stay. I give myself three days. But I must keep calm, not d o anything silly. Not try to compress a whole l i fe into a few weeks. The people I have to see won't run away. I t really doesn't have to be done in a rush, no need to throw my p recious l i fe away. Don't let me provoke the gods wantonly, they have a r ranged everything so wonderfully well, don't let me go and spoil their work for them now. I give myself another three days.

Later. I have the feel ing that my l i fe is not yet finished, that i t is not yet a rounded whole. A book, and what a book, in which I have got stuck halfway. I wou ld so much like to read on. There have been moments when I have felt as if my whole l i fe had been one great preparation for community l i v ing, when in fact I have always led a very private life.

Later. Flowers and fruit grow wherever they are planted, isn't that what it all mean s ? And shouldn't we a ffirm that meaning ?

{ 2 2 I ]

I am sure I shall learn to do it. We must learn to dispense with labels. You don't have to know whether it is called an intestinal hemorrhage or a stomach ulcer or anemia to know what i t is. It looks as if I shall probably have to lie flat on my back for a time, I don't want to admit it yet, I still split hairs to convince myself that it isn't too bad and that I'll be able to leave here on Wednes­ day. I have made up my mind: I shall give myself another three days, and if I still feel trapped in this armor of weakness then I shall j ust have to give in. And if I should feel fit again by Monday ? Then I shall call on Neuberg and say in my most prepossessing way-yes, I can see it already, a smile revealing the new porcelain tooth with its gold edge-"Doctor, I have come to speak to you as one friend to another. Look, I would so much like to go, do you think I could ? " And I know al ready that he will say yes, because that's what I will make him say. I shall make him give me the answer I want to hear.

I think I still have a lot to learn before I can shoulder my burden, whatever that might turn out to be.

I am rather gratified when I find that yet another well-laid plan turns out to have been nothing but vain speculation. We used to feel so certain that we would help each other bear the sorrows of our age. Now he lies a wasted corpse under a stone-what does the stone really look like, I wonder-in the farthest corner of flower-filled Zorgvlied cemetery, and I lie, encased in weakness, in the l ittle room that has been my own now for almost six years. Vanity of vanities-but what was not vain was my d iscovery that I was able to commit myself unreservedly to another, to bind myself to him and to share his sorrow. And did he not lead me to God, after first paving the way with his imperfect human hand ?

No, my girl, the way your body feels under the blankets, I don't like it one little bit.

[ 2 2 2 1

Not to be mobile is a very bad business. "And how mobile I

used to be, my God, how mobile ! How many of Your unknown highways and byways did I not walk with a rucksack on my back ! It was like a mi racle. Gateways suddenly opened up for me everywhere and led me on to roads I had a l ways thought closed. How much space· there was for me! But now I am really ill, truly I am. I give You another two and a half d ays."

I want to pay them all a v isit some day, one by one, the thousands who passed through my hands on their way to that patch of heath. And if I do not find them, then I shall look u p their graves. I s h a l l never again b e able to s i t quietly at a d e s k . I want to travel all over the world and see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears how they fared, all those we sent on their way.

Late afternoon. Walked a l ittle indoors. Who knows, perhaps it will be a l l right after all, perhaps it's j ust anemia and I 'll get over it with a bit of medicine.

And now i t seems that I have been "exempted . " "Am I ex­ pected to jump for joy ? " I asked the lawyer with the short leg. I don't want that scrap of paper for which most Jews would give their right arm, I don't want it in the least, so why should it have d ropped i n to m ine of all laps ? I want to be sent to every one of the camps that l ie scattered all over Europe, I want to be at every front, I d on't ever want to be what they call "safe," I want to be there, I want to fraternize with all my so-called enemies, I want to understand what is happening and share my knowledge with as many as I can possibly reach-and I can, i f You will only let me get healthy, oh Lord !

Saturday morning, 6:30, in the bathroom. I am beginning to suf­ fer from insomnia, and that's not allowed. I j u mped out of bed at the crack of dawn and kneeled down at my window. The tree stood motionless out there in the gray, still morning. And I

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prayed, "God, grant me the great and mighty calm that per­ vades all nature. If it is You r wish to let me suffer, then let it be one great, all-consuming suffering, not the thousand petty anxi­ eties that can break a human being. Give me peace and confi­ dence. Let every day be something more than the thousand everyday cares. All those worries about food, about clothing, about the cold, about our health-are they not so many denials of You, my God ? And don't You come down on us hard in punishment? With insomnia and with l ives that have ceased to be worth l i v i ng ? " I want to lie here quietly for another few days, but then I would wish my life to turn into one great prayer. One great peace. To carry my peace about with me once again. "The patient must live a peaceful life." "Give me peace, Lord, wher­ ever I may be. Perhaps I no longer feel Your peace because I am doing wrong. Perhaps, but I don't know." I brood far too much about my health these days, and that is no good. "Let there be the same great cal m in me that pervaded Your gray morning today. Let my day be more than j ust looking after the body."

I t is now close on seven o'clock. I shall go and wash from head to toe in cold water, and then I shall lie down quietly in my bed , dead still, I shall no longer write in this exercise book, I shall simply lie down and try to be a prayer. I have fel t it so often, all misery for a few days and thinking I wouldn't get over it for weeks, and then suddenly the clouds were l i fted from me. But now I don't live as I should, for I try to force things. I f at all possible I would so much like to leave on Wednesday. But I know perfectly well I am not much good to anyone as I am now. I would so love to be just a l i ttle bit better again. But I ought not to make any demands. I must let things take their course, and that's what I am trying to do with all my might.

"Not my will, but Thy will be done."

A little later. Of course, it is our complete destruction they wan t ! B u t let us bear it with grace.

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There is no hidden poet in me, just a little piece of God that might grow into poetry.

And a camp needs a poet, one who experiences l i fe there, even there, as a bard and i s able to sing about it.

At night, as I lay in the camp on my plank bed, surrounded by women and girls gently snoring, d reaming aloud, quietly sobbing and tossing and turning, women and girls who often told me during the day, "We don't want to think, we don't want to feel, otherwise we are sure to go out of our m inds," I was sometimes filled with an infinite tenderness, and lay awake for hours letting a l l the many, too many impressions of a much-too­ long day wash over me, and I prayed, "Let me be the t h i n k in g heart o f these barracks." A n d that is w h a t I w a n t t o be again. The thinking heart of a whole concentration camp. I l ie here so patiently and now so calmly again, that I feel quite a bit better a l ready. I feel my strength returning to me; I have stopped making plans and worrying about risks. Happen what may, it is bound to be for the good.

Saturday, 4:00 P. M. I must really stop being so i m patient. Why a m I i n such a h urry to share the deprivations of those behind barbed wire ? And what are six weeks in a l i fetime ? There is an iron band round my skull, and the debris of a whole city weighs down on my head. I really do not want to be a sick, d ry leaf dropping from the stem of the community.

3 October, Saturday evening, nine o 'clock. One ought to pray, day and night, for the thousands. One ought not to be without prayer for even a single minute.

4 October {1942], Sunday evening. Tide this morning, then Pro­ fessor Becker in the afternoon. Later Jopie S melik.� 9 Ate with Han. G id d y and weak. "God, You have entrusted me with so many precious gifts, let me guard them well and use them prop-

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erly." All this talking with friends is bad for me right now. I am worn to a frazzle. I lack the strength i t takes to leave it all behind, to strike a balance between my inner and my outer worlds. That is my main task. They are both equally strong in me. I so love being with people. It is as if my own intensity d raws what is best and deepest right out of them: they open up before me, every human being a new story, told to me by l i fe itself. And my eyes simply read on joyfully. Life has confided so many stories to me, I shall have to retell them to people who cannot read the book of life itself.

Alone for once in the middle of the night. God and I have been left together, and I feel all the richer and at peace for it.

8 October, Thursday afternoon. I am still sick. I can do nothing about it. I shall have to wait a little longer to gather up all their tears and fears. Though I can really do it here j ust as well, here in bed. Perhaps that's why I feel so giddy and hot. I don't want to become a chronicler of horrors. Or of sensations. This morn­ ing I said to Jopie, "It still all comes down to the same thing: life is beautiful. And I believe in God. And I want to be there right in the thick of what people call 'horror' and still be able to say: l i fe is beautifu l . " And now here I lie in some corner, d izzy and feverish and unable to do a thing. When I woke up j ust now I was parched, reached for my glass of water, and, grateful for that one sip, thought to myself, "If I could only be there to give some of those parched thousands j ust one sip of water." And all the time I keep telling myself, "Don't worry, things aren't all that bad." Whenever yet another poor woman broke down at one of our registration tables, or a hungry child started crying, I would go over to them and stand beside them protectively, arms folded across my chest, force a smile for those huddled, shattered scraps of humanity, and tell myself, "Things aren't all that bad, they really aren't that bad." And all I did was j ust stand there,

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for what else could one d o ? Sometimes I might sit down beside someone, put an arm round a shoulder, say very l ittle and just look into their eyes. Nothing was alien to me, not one single expression of human sorrow. Everything seemed so familiar, as if I knew it all and had gone through it all before. People said to me, "You m ust have nerves of steel to stand u p to it." I d on't think I have nerves of steel, far from it, but I can certainly stand up to things. I am not afraid to look suffering straight in the eyes. And a t the end of each day, there was always the feeling: I l ov e people so much. Never any bitterness about what was done to them, but a l ways love for those who knew how to bea r so m uc h although nothing had prepared them for such burdens. Blond Max with his shaven head, always with a l i ttle fresh stubble, and his gentle, blue d reamer's eyes. He had been so mistreated in Amersfoort that he could not be " t ransported" anywhere but had to be left behind in a hospital. One night, he gave us an exact account of what they d i d to him. Others will record such stories in all their m inutiae one day, someth ing that will presumably be necessary i f the history of these times is to be handed down in full to the next generation. I have no need for these details.

Next day. Father suddenly turned up, and there was great ex­ citement. "My little abbess" and "what quixoticism" and "Lord, make me less eager to be understood by others but make me understand them . "

I t i s n o w 1 1 :00 A . M . Jopie must have reached Westerbork by now. It feels j ust as if a piece of myself were there. I am having to battle with i m patience and dejection a l l the time today, brought on by pains in my back and that leaden feeling in my legs, which want so much to travel the world but cannot yet d o s o . I t w i l l come. B u t one should n o t b e s o materialistic. F o r even while I lie here, am I not traveling through the worl d ?

The earth is i n me, and the sky. And I well know that some-

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thing like hell can also be in one, though I no longer experience it in myself, but I can still feel it in others with great intensity. And that is as it should be, or else I might grow too complacent.

Paradoxical though it may sound: whenever one tries too desperately to be physically close to some beloved person, when­ ever one throws all one has into one's longing for that person, one is really giving him short change. For one has no reserves left then for a true encounter.

I am going to read Saint Augustine again. He is so austere and so fervent. And so full of simple devotion in his love letters to God . Truly those are the only love letters one ought to write: love letters to God. Is it very arrogant of me to say that I have too much love in me to give it all to just one perso n ? The idea that one can love one person and one person only one's whole l i fe long strikes me as quite childish. There is something mean and impoverishing about it. Will people never learn that love brings so much more happiness and reward than sex ?

I fold my hands in a gesture that I have come to love, and in the dark I tell you silly and serious things and implore blessings upon your honest, sweet head. Yes, I pray for you. Goodnight, beloved.

Saturday night. I think that I can bear everything l i fe and these times have in store for me.

And when the turmoil becomes too great and I am com­ pletely at my wits' end , then I still have my folded hands and bended knee. A posture that is not handed down from genera­ tion to generation with us Jews. I have had to learn it the hard way. It is my most precious inheritance from the man whose name I have almost forgotten but whose best part has become a constituent of my own life.

What a strange story it really is, my story: the girl who could not kneel. Or its variation: the girl who learned to pray. That is

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my most intimate gesture, more intimate even than being with a man. A fter all one can't pou r the whole of one's love out over a single man, can one ?

12. 1 0. 42. My i mpressions are scattered like glittering stars on the dark velvet of my memory.

The soul has a d i fferent age from that recorded in the register of births and deaths. At your bi rth, the soul al ready has an age that never changes. One can be born with a twelve-year-old sou l . O n e c a n also b e born with a thousand-year-old soul . . . I be­ l ieve the soul is that part of man that he is least aware of, particularly the West European, for I think that Orientals " l i ve" the i r souls much more fully. We Westerners do not really k now what to do with them ; indeed we a re ashamed of our souls as if they were something immoral. "Soul" is quite d i fferent from what we call "heart." There a re plenty of people who have a lot of "heart" but very little soul.

Yesterday I asked Maria5 0 about somebody, " I s she i ntelligent ? " "Yes," said Maria, "but only as fa r as her brains are concerned . " S . a l ways said of Tide, "She has an intell igent sou l . " Whenever S . and I spoke about the great d i fference in our ages, he always said, "Who can tell whether your soul is not much older than m i ne ? "

Sometimes i t bursts into ful l flame within me, as i t has j ust done again: all the friendship and all the people I have known this past year rise up in overwhelming number and fill me with gratitude. And though I am sick and anemic and more or less bedridden, every minute seems so full and so precious-what will i t be like when I am healthy once more ? " I rejoice and exult time and again, oh God: I am grateful to You for having given me this l i fe . "

A s o u l is forged out of fi r e a n d rock crystal. Something rigor-

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ous, hard in an Old Testament sense, but also as gentle as the gesture with which his tender fingertips sometimes stroked my eyelashes.

In the evening. And then again there are moments when l i fe is dauntingly d i fficult. Then I am agitated and restless and tired all at once. Powerfully creative moments this afternoon, though. And now utter exhaustion.

All I can do is to lie motionless under my blankets and be patient until I shed my dejection and the feeling that I'm crack­ ing up. When I fel t like that in the past, I used to do silly things: go out d rinking with friends, contemplate suicide, or read right through the night, dozens of books at random.

One must also accept that one has "uncreative" moments. The more honestly one can accept that, the quicker these mo­ ments will pass. One must have the courage to call a halt, to feel empty and d iscouraged. Goodnight.

Early next morning. Vorwegnehmen. To anticipate. I know no real Dutch equivalent. Ever since last night, I have been lying here trying to assimilate just a little of the terrible suffering that has to be endured all over the world . To accommodate j ust a little of the great sorrow the coming winter has in store. It could not be done. Today will be a hard day. I shall l ie quietly and try to anticipate something of all the hard days that are to come.

When I suffer for the vulnerable, is it not for my own v ul nera­ bility that I really suffe r ?

I have broken m y body l i k e bread a n d shared it o u t among men. And why not, they were hungry and had gone without for so long.

I always return to Rilke. It is strange to think that someone so frail, who did most of his writing within protective castle walls,

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would perhaps have been broken by the circumstances in which

we now l ive. I s that not further testimony that l i fe is finely balanced ? Evidence that, in peaceful times and under fav orable circumstances, sensitive artists may search for the p u rest and most fitting expression of their deepest insights so that, d uring more turbulent and debilitating times, others can turn to them for support and a ready response to their bewildered question s ? A response they a r e unable t o formulate for themselves, since a l l t h e i r energies a re taken up in looking after t h e b a r e necessities ? Sadly, in d i fficult times we tend to shrug off the spiritual heri­ tage o f artists from an "easier" age, with "What use is that sort of thing to us now ? "

I t i s a n understandable but shortsighted reaction. And utterly impoverishing.

We should be w i l l ing to act as a balm for all wounds.

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Letters from Westerbork

Westerhor£

My dear people,2

Monday, 1:00 P. M., in the Mah lers' cubbyhole,

where Eich wald is at this moment making me

porridge. 1

I really am going to send off a letter to you at last. This is the fift h time I 've started. One experiences too much here and goes about with too many conflicting feelings to be able to w rite. Anyway, I can't. So I j ust send you my greetings. Besides, I think I ' m going to have to come back to Amsterdam fairly quickly to have mysel f finished off in a high-class abattoir. I ' m no good for anything, it's rea lly very sad, there is s o m u c h to be done here. But there it is, something inside me has gone w rong, I am l iv ing on pai nkillers and will probably turn up without warning under your dearly loved noses. There is nothing I can do about it. Funny, I've been here nearly three days-it could be three weeks. I t isn't as "idyllic" as in the summer, nothing like. I 'll go and have a nap, and after that I ' l l start the endless march again th rough the barracks and the mud. What a pity I can't stay; I wish so much that I could.

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Vleeschhouwer3 is just coming m; I 'll give him this letter. Good-bye for now, everyone, and please forgive this short, messy scribble.

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Lots of love, Etty

Sunday evening, 29 November 1 942

Father Han, Kathe, Hans, Sister Maria, greetings, that's a l l .

I find it i mpossible to write here, n o t for l a c k of t i m e b u t because of all the d i fferent impressions that come bursting i n . I'm sure I could talk for a year at a stretch about this one week. I am on the leave list for next Saturday. What a priv ilege to be able to get away from here and see you all again. I ' m glad I didn't pl unge into the thick of things during the first few days; once i n a while I take to my bed for an hour, and then things a re all right agai n . Suitcase, clothes, and blankets a r e ready. T h e Mahlers t a k e won­ derful care of me. I t is now half past eight and I am sitting once more i n their hospitable l ittle nook, a real oasis. Next to me Vleeschhouwer is immersed in a book. Mahler and his w i fe and two friends are playing cards. Little Eichenwald, my fai thful mil k-provider, s i ts on the floor in a corner next to the dog H u m pie, unpicking the seams of Mij nheer Speyer's coat, which he wants to turn into a lumber jacket. Sterzenbach's brother (this is for Hans) is writing letters and in a moment will tell us more about h is prison experiences.� Auntie Leah's trusty l i ttle stove stands i n the corner brewing all sorts of good things for the assembled company. J ust now Witmondt5 came i n (I v i s ited his w i fe a few ti mes i n Amsterdam; the people around me are all such close friends that I feel you know them wel l , too). H e was wearing a voluminous cape, and we shouted i n chorus, "Good God, Max, how d i d you come by that magnificent cape ? " And Max-who looked like a skeleton when he was brought here from Ame rsfoort and has been carefully nursed by the Mah­ lers-said solemnly and dramatically, "This cape i s still covered with blood from Amersfoort"-and there were some dark red spots on it. What a lurid story ! I am sitting squashed into a corner, barely managing to write. Just now another young man came in, one from Kattenburg, who is due to go on transport in

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the morning. All this is happening in a l ittle room measunng two meters by three.

The central heating is on-yes, really-and the men are sit­ ting in their shirt sleeves. Everything here is ful l of paradox. In the big barracks, where so many people have to lie on metal springs without mattresses or blankets, they are dying o f cold. In the little huts, where there is central heating, people can't sleep at night for the heat. I share one of these huts with five room­ mates. Two double bunks, so unsteady on their legs that when the fat Viennese woman above me turns over at night, the bed shakes like a ship in a storm. And mice nibble at our bedding and our food supplies, which can be somewhat d isquieting.

And what do I actually do in this place ? I'm back to j uggling five miserable mugs to share out coffee among hundreds of people. Now and then I run away out of sheer frustration-like last time, when a little old woman fainted in a corner and there wasn't a single d rop of water to be had in the whole camp, because the water supply had been cut off. And then the people from Ellecom6 came. They were taken straight to the hospital. I sat by their beds stupefied. I still can't get it into my head that people can do such things to each other, and that some live to tell the tale.

I have started a small campaign to bring the l ibrary, which is stored in the cellar of a locked warehouse, out into the light of day. Everyone recognizes the need for books, but nothing gets done for lack of space. On Tuesday I'm going to have a talk with Paul Cronheim,? the Wagner man, and with the notary Spier.8 I should so much like to help provide some spiritual nourishment; I'll see what chance there is of that.

It is certainly not very pretty here: a gypsy life, poverty, mud. This afternoon I went into a couple of the bigger barracks, where several children seemed to be dying before my eyes­

Dear child ren, I may not be writing with much inspiration, but I 'm glad to be here. As for my health, I'm not completely fit

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yet. All sorts of little complaints haunt me, but never mind; I ' l l see t o t h e m later.

This is hardly a real letter, but I fel t so guilty that I had sent you only one depressing l ittle scrawl. Westerbork completely swallows me up. By the end of the week I'll have surfaced again. No, i t is i mpossible to write from here; it would take the better part of a l i fetime to digest it all. And how wonderful it will be to be with you again next week ! Thanks for your letter, Papa Han. And lots and lots of love to all of you.

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Till the weekend, Etty

A ms teraam

[18} December 1 9429

This time, as usual, I came back with va rious commissions from the heath. A n ex-soubrette with gallstones asked for some hai r dye. Then there was a girl who couldn't get out of bed because she had n o shoes. And all sorts of other trifles. Not that the lack of shoes is a trifle, of course. And there was the commission from Dr. K . that I undertook with great pleasure, but I fi nd that i t weighs more and more heavily on me. The soubrette has long s i nce dyed her hair again and the girl-without-shoes is able to get out of her bed again and brave the mud, but I have still not been able to fulfill Dr. K.'s request. To be honest, that's not j ust because I haven't been well for a few weeks.

A few evenings before I left Westerbork, I went to his austere l ittle o ffice, where he sometimes sits working deep i n to the night. He looked tired and thin and pale. He pushed a thick fi le aside for a moment, after fi rst telling me some remarkable things about it, with appropriate humor. Then he looked around as i f searching for something and with some d ifficulty found a few words: He had been feeling like an old man the last few months. The war would be over one day, surely . . . To

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start with, he would probably want to go and sit for a long time deep in a large forest and forget a good deal . . . then he might want to go and see Sev ille and Malaga, for where he should have memories of these cities, there are j ust a couple of gaps. He would also like to go back to work . . . there would surely be a League of Nations . . . How we suddenly got from the League of Nations to the two sisters in the Hague, one fai r and one dark, I no longer remember. But, he said, once I was back in Amsterdam on leave, could I possibly write to them, something in my style, about l i fe in Westerbork ?

"Yes," said I, w i th much understanding, "it is certainly im­ portant to keep in touch with the outside world . "

Your friend K. said almost indignantly, "Outside world ? These two women mean much more to us here than just the outside world; they mean a whole part of our lives." And then, in that bare l ittle office on that late evening, he spoke so mov­ ingly about you both that I gladly agreed to his request. But to be frank: now, sitting down to write, I'm not sure what exactly to tell you about l i fe in Westerbork.

It was summer when I came here for the first time. Up till then, all I'd known about Drenthe was that i t had a lot of megalithic tombs. And then suddenly there was a village of wooden barracks, set between heath and sky, with a glaringly yellow lupin field in the middle and barbed wire all around. And there were human l ives as well, thick as flies. To be honest, I had never realized that refugees from Germany had al ready been held on Drenthe heath for four years, years in which I had been busy taking up collections for Spanish and Chinese chil­ d ren. 1 °

During the first few days I walked around as if through the pages of a history book. I met people who had been in Buchen­ wald and Dachau at a time when to us these were only distant, threatening sounds. I met people who traveled all around the world on that ship without being allowed to disembark at any

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port. 1 1 You must have heard of that; the papers were full of it. I

have seen snapshots of little child ren who a re probably now growing up in some unknown corner of this earth. Who k nows whether they will even recognize their parents-if they ever see them agai n ?

I n short, one had the feeling o f seeing i n tangible form a small part of the Jewish predicament of the last ten years. And we had thought there was nothing at Drenthe except megalithic tombs. It was enough to take your breath away.

I n the summer of 1 942-it seems years ago; so much more has happened in a few months than can be told in a few pages­ this small settlement was turned upside down and shaken to the marrow. With horror, the old camp inmates witnessed the mass deportation o f Jews from Holland to Eastern Europe. From the very beginning they had to make their own considerable contri­ bution in terms of human l ives when the quota of "voluntary workers" was not completely filled.

One summer evening I sat eating red cabbage at the edge of the yellow l upin field that stretched from our dining hut to the delousing station, and with sudden inspiration I said, "One ought to write a chronicle of Westerbor k . " An older man to my left-also eating red cabbage-answered, "Yes, but to d o that you'd have to be a great poet."

He is right, it would take a great poet. Little journalistic pieces won't do. The whole of Europe is gradually being tu rned into one great prison camp. The whole of Europe will undergo this same bitter experience. To simply record the bare facts of families torn apart, of possessions plundered and liberties for­ feited, would soon become monotonous. Nor is it possible to pen picturesque accounts of barbed wire and vegetable swill to show outsiders what it's like. Besides, I wonder how many outsiders will be left if h istory continues along the paths it has ta ken.

There you are-I could tell right away that noth ing would come of my report on Westerbork . The fi rst attempt has got me

[ 2 4 3 1

bogged down in generalities. On the whole, a person more or less contemplative by nature isn't really suited to describing a specific place or event. One discovers that the basic materi als of l i fe are the same everywhere, and that one can live one's life with meaning-or else one can die-in any spot on this earth. The Big Dipper looks down on some d istant hamlet j ust as reliably as it does on a great city at the hub of a nation, or as it does on a coal mine in Silesia; so that all's right with the world . . .

All I really want to say is this: I am no poet. And I am rather at my wits' end to know how to honor my promise to K. For although the name Westerbork is highly charged for us, and will reverberate in our ears for the rest of our l ives, I don't know precisely what I can say about it. Life there is so eventful, al­ though many may consider it deadly boring.

But on the morning after I heard your friend K. speak the names of Sev ille and Malaga with such fanatical longing, I met him on the narrow paved path between barracks 14 and 1 5. He was wearing his usual trilby hat, which makes him seem so out of place among all the wooden planks and low doors. He was walking quickly because he was hungry, but he still found time when we passed to say pointed ly, "Have you thought about what I asked you ? You know, making the acquaintance of those two sisters will greatly enrich your life, too."

And so I find myself at an unheard-of late hour facing a blank piece of paper after a l l .

Yes-Westerbork.

I f I understand it correctly, this place, now a focus of Jewish suffering, lay deserted and empty j ust four years ago. And the spirit of the Department of Justice hovered over the heath.

"There wasn't a butterfly to be seen here, not a flower, not even a worm," the very first German inmates told me emphati-

r 2 4 4 1

cally. And now ? Let me give you a rough idea from the inven­ tory. We have an orphanage, a synagogue, a small mortuary, and a shoe-repair factory under construction. I have heard talk of a madhouse being built, and my latest informa tion is that the expanding hospital ba rracks complex al ready has a thousand beds.

The two-person jail that stands l i ke something out of an operetta in one corner of the camp is apparently no longer large enough, for they plan to build a bigger one. I t must sound strange to you: a prison within a prison.

There a re minor "cabinet crises," what with all the people who like to have a finger in every pie.

We have a Dutch commandant and a German one. The fi rst is taller, but the second has more of a say. We are tol d , more­ over, that he likes music and that he is a gentleman. I 'm no j udge, although I must say that for a gentleman he certainly has a somewhat peculiar j ob.

There is a hall with a stage where, in the glorious past when the word "transport" had not yet been heard, a rather faltering Shakespeare production was once put on. At the moment people sit a t typewriters on the same stage.

There is mud, so much mud that somewhere between your ribs you need to have a great deal of inner sunshine i f you don't want to become the psychological victim of it all. The physical effects, such as broken shoes and wet feet, you will certainly understand.

Although the camp build ings are all one story, you can hear as many accents as if the Tower of Babel had been erected in our midst: Bavaria and Groningen, Saxony and Limburg, The Hague and East Friesland; you can hear German with a Polish accent and German with a Russian accent; you find all sorts of dialects from Holland and Berlin-all in an area of half a k ilo- meter squa re.

The barbed wire is more a question of attitude.

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" Us behind barbed wire ? " an indestructible old gentleman once said with a melancholy wave of his hand. "They are the ones who live behind barbed wire"-and he pointed to the tall villas that stand like sentries on the other side of the fence.

If the barbed wire just encircled the camp, then at least you would know where you were. But these twentieth-century wires meander about inside the camp, too, around the barracks and in between, in a labyrinthine and unfathomable network. Now and then you come across people with scratches on their faces or hands.

There are watchtowers at the four corners of our wooden village, each a windswept platform on fou r tall posts. A man with a helmet and a gun stands outlined against the changing skies. I n the evening one sometimes hears a shot echo across the heath, as it did once when the blind man stumbled too close to the barbed wi re.

Finding something to say about Westerbork is also d i fficult because of its ambiguous character. On the one hand it is a stable community in the making, a forced one to be sure, yet with all the characteristics of a human society. And on the other hand, it is a camp for a people in transit, great waves of human beings constantly washed in from the cities and provinces, from rest homes, prisons, and other prison camps, from all the nooks and crannies of the Netherlands-only to be deported a few days later to meet their unknown destiny.

You can imagine how dread fully crowded it is in half a square kilometer. Naturally, few follow the example of the man who packed his rucksack and went on transport of his own accord. When asked why, he said that he wanted the freedom to decide to go when he wanted to go. It reminds me of the Roman j udge who said to a martyr, "Do you know that I have the power to have you killed ? " And the martyr answered, "Yes, but I have the power of letting myself be killed . "

Anyway, it is terribly crowded in Westerbork, as when too

{ 2 4 6 J

many d rowning people cling to the last bit of flotsam after a ship has sunk . People would rather spend the winter behind barbed

w i re in Holland's poorest province than be d ragged away to unknown parts and unknown destinies deep within Europe, from where only a few indistinct sounds have come back to the rest of us. But the quota must be filled; so must the train, which comes to fetch its load with mathematical regularity. You cannot keep everyone back as being indispensable to the camp, or too sick for transport, al though you try it with a great many. You sometimes think it would be sim pler to put yourself on transport than have to witness the fear and despa ir of the thousands upon thousands of men, women, children, infants, invalids, the feeble­ minded, the sick, and the aged who pass through our helping hands in an almost uninterrupted flow.

My fountain pen cannot form words strong enough to convey even the remotest picture of these transports. F rom the outside the i mpression is of bleak monotony, yet every transport is dif­ ferent and has its own atmosphere.

When the first transport passed through our hands, there was a moment when I thought I would never again laugh and be happy, that I had changed suddenly into another, older person cut off from all fo rmer friends. But on walking through the crowded camp, I realized again that where there a re people, there is l i fe. Life in all its thousands of nuances-" with a smile and a tear," to put it in popular terms.

I t made a great difference whether people a rrived prepa red, with well-filled rucksacks, or had been suddenly d ragged out of their houses or swept up from the streets. I n the end we saw only the last.

After the first of the police roundups, when people arrived in slippers and underclothes, the whole of Westerbork, in a single horrified and heroic gesture, stri pped to the skin. And we have tried, with the close cooperation of people on the outside, to make sure that those who leave are equipped as well as possible.

{ 2 4 7 1

But if we remember all those who went to face the winter m Eastern Europe without any clothes, if we remember the single thin blanket that was sometimes all we were able to dole out in the night, a few hours before departure . . .

The slum-dwellers arrived from the cities, displaying their poverty and neglect in the bare barracks. Aghast, many of us asked ourselves: what sort of democracy did we really have ?

The people from Rotterdam were in a class by themselves, hardened by the bombing raids. "We don't frighten easily any­ more," you often heard them say. "If we survi ved all that, we'll survive this, too." And a few days later they marched singing to the train. But it was midsummer then, and there were no old people yet, or invalids on stretchers bringing up the rear . . .

The Jews from Heerlen and Maastricht and thereabouts came telling stories that reverberated with the great send-off the prov­ ince of Limburg had given them. 1 2 One felt that morally they could live on it for a long time. "The Catholics have promised to pray for us, and they're better at that than we are ! " said one of them.

People came with all their rivalries. The Jews from Haarlem said somewhat loftily and acidly: "Those Amsterdammers have a grim sense of humor."

There were children who would not accept a sandwich before their parents had had one. There was a remarkable day when the Jewish Catholics or Catholic Jews-whichever you want to call them-arrived, nuns and priests wearing the yellow star on their habits. 1 3 I remember two young novices, twins, with iden­ tical beautiful, dark ghetto faces and serene, childish eyes peer­ ing out from under their skullcaps. They said with mild surprise that they had been fetched at half past four from morning mass, and that they had eaten red cabbage in Amersfoort.

There was a priest, still fairly young, who had not left his monastery for fifteen years. He was out in the "worl d " for the first time, and I stood next to him for a while, following his eyes

[ 2 4 8 1

as they wandered peacefully a round the barracks where the

newcomers were being received. The others-shaven, beaten, maltreated-who poured i n

along w i t h the Cathol ics that day stumbled about t h e wooden hut with movements that were still unsteady and stretched out their hands toward the bread, of which there was not enough.

A young Jew stood very still next to us. His j acket was much too loose, but a grin broke through his stubbly black beard when he said , "They tried to smash the wall of the prison with my head, but my head was ha rder than the wall ! "

Among a l l the shaved heads, it was strange to see the white­ turbaned women who had j ust been treated in the delousing barracks, a nd who went about now looking d istressed and hu­ m i li a ted.

C h i l d ren dozed off on the dusty plank floor; others played tag among the adults. Two little ones floundered helplessly around the heavy body of a woman lying unconscious in a corner. They d i d n ' t understand why their mother j ust lay there without an­ swering them. A gray-haired old gentleman, straight as an ar­ row and with a clear-cut, aristocratic profile, stared a t the whole infernal canvas and repeated over and over to himself: " A terri­ ble day ! A terrible d ay ! "

And among all this, the unremitting clatter o f a battery of typewri ters: the machine-gun fire of bureaucracy.

Through the many l i ttle windowpanes one can see other wooden barracks, barbed wire, and a blasted heath.

I looked at the priest who was now back in the world again. "And what do you think of the world now ? " I asked. But his gaze remained unwavering and friendly above the brown habit, as i f everything he saw was known, familiar from long ago. That same evening, a man later told me, he saw some priests walking one behind the other in the dusk between two d a r k ba rracks. They were saying their rosaries as i m perturbably as if they had j ust fi n ished vespers at the monastery. And isn't it true

{ 2 4 9 1

that one can pray anywhere, in a wooden barracks j ust as well as in a stone monastery, or indeed, anywhere on this earth where God, in these troubled times, feels like casting his likeness ?

For those who have been granted the nerve-shattering privilege of being allowed to stay in Westerbork "until further notice," there is the great moral danger of becoming blunted and hard­ ened .

The human suffering that we have seen during the last six months, and still see daily, is more than anyone can be expected to comprehend in half a year. No wonder we hear on all sides every day, in every pitch of voice, "We don't want to think, we don't want to feel, we want to forget as soon as possible." It seems to me that this is a very great danger.

True, things happen here that in the past our reason would not have judged possible. But perhaps we have faculties other than reason in us, faculties that in the past we d idn't know we had but that possess the ability to grapple with the incomprehen­ sible. I believe that for every event, man has a faculty that helps him deal with i t .

If w e were t o save o n l y o u r bodies a n d nothing more from the camps all over the world, that would not be enough. What matters is not whether we preserve our l ives at any cost, but how we preserve them. I sometimes think that every new situation, good or bad, can enrich us with new insights. But if we abandon the hard facts that we are forced to face, if we give them no shelter in our heads and hearts, do not allow them to settle and change into impulses through which we can grow and from which we can d raw meaning-then we are not a viable genera­ tion. It is not easy-and no doubt less easy for us Jews than for anyone else-yet if we have nothing to offer a desolate postwar world but our bodies saved at any cost, if we fail to d raw new meaning from the deep wells of our distress and despair, then it will not be enough. New thoughts will have to radiate outward

{ 2 5 0 1

from the camps themselves, new insights, sprea d ing lucid ity, will have to cross the barbed wire enclosing us and j oin with the insights that people outside will have to earn j ust as bloodily, in circumstances that are slowly becoming almost as d i fficult. And perhaps, on the common basis of an honest search for some way to understand these dark events, wrecked lives may yet take a tentative step forward.

That's why i t seemed such a great danger to me w hen all around one could hear, "We don't want to think, we don't want to feel , it's best to shut your eyes to all this misery . " As if suffering-in whatever form and however it may come to us­ were not also part of human existence.

I see that I have strayed far beyond your friend K.'s innocu­ ous request. After all, I was to tell you something about l i fe in Westerbork, not about my own v iews. I coul d n ' t hel p it, they j ust sl ipped out.

But what about the old people ? All those aged, infirm peo­ ple ? What use is my philosophy when I have to face the m ? In the history o f Westerbork, surely the saddest chapter w i l l be the one that deals with the old. Probably even sadder than the story o f the people from Ellecom, who arrived mutilated, send ing a shudder of horror throughout the camp.

To the young and healthy, you can say something that you believe in and can act upon in your own l i fe: that history has indeed laid a heavy destiny on our shoulders, and that we must try and attain the grandeur we need to bear it. You can even say that we should consider ourselves front-line soldiers, although we are sent to very peculiar fronts. It may seem as i f we are doomed to complete passivity, but no one can prevent us from mobilizing our inner forces. No one. But have you ever heard of front-line sold iers aged eighty, bearing the red-and-white canes of the blind as their weapon s ?

O n e summer morning I came upon a m a n mumbling t o h i m ­ self, " F o r heaven's sake, look at t h e k i n d of labor forces for

[ 2 5 1 1

Germany they've sent us now ! " And when I hurried around to the entrance, masses of old people were j ust being unloaded from dilapidated trucks onto our heath. There we stood, almost beyond speech. That was really going too far, we thought. But later on we knew better and would ask each other with every new transport: "And-how many old people and invalids this time ? "

There was a little old woman who had left her spectacles and her medicine bottle at home on the mantel-could she go and get them now, and where exactly was she, and where would she be going ?

A woman of eighty-seven clung to my hand with so much strength that I thought she would never let go. She told me how the steps in front of her little house had always gleamed and how she had never in her life thrown her clothes under the bed when she went to sleep.

And the bowed little gentleman of seventy-nine: he had been married for more than fifty years, he told me; his wife was in the hospital in Utrecht, and he was about to be taken out of Holland the next day . . .

Even if I went on for pages, I still couldn't convey any idea of the shuffling and the stumbling and the falling down, the need for help along with the childish questions. You can't do much with words. A helping hand on the shoulder is sometimes too heavy. Oh no, these old people, they need a chapter to them­ selves. Their helpless gestures and exhausted faces crowd many a sleepless n ight . . .

In a few months the population has swelled from a thousand to roughly ten thousand . 1 � The greatest influx dates from the awful days of October, when after a massive Jew hunt through­ out the Netherlands, Westerbork was swept by a human flood that threatened to engulf it.

Hence this is not exactly an organically evolved community, with its own even rhythms. Yet-and this is what takes the

[ 2 5 2 1

breath away-you can find every attitude here, every class, ism, conflict, and current of society. And the a rea still rema i ns only

half a kilometer square. In retrospect is that really so surprising, si nce every individual

carries deep in his inner being the trend , the part of society, the cultu ral level he represents? But what always strikes one anew is that even at a time of shared d istress these d istinctions a re main­ tained .

One day in the mud between two big barracks I met a gi rl who told me she had ended up in Westerbork by chance. This is a typical phenomenon: everyone views his own case as an unfor­ tunate accident. We have not yet gained a common sense of history. But to come back to the girl: she told me a pathetic tale of l i ttle packages that fai led to arrive and of a pair of lost shoes. And then her face brightened, and she said: "But we have been lucky with people; our barracks is full of the best people. Do you know what they call i t ? The bocht van de Herengracht ! " 1 5 Confounded, I looked from her worn-out shoes to her made-up face and did not know whether to laugh or cry.

Of all the shortages in Westerbork concentration camp, the shortage of space is surely the worst.

About two and a half thousand of the more than ten thou­ sand people are housed in 2 1 5 small huts, which used to be the main part of the camp and which held one family each in pre­ transport times.

Every l i ttle hut has two small rooms, sometimes three, and a l i ttle k i tchen with a faucet and a WC. There is no doorbe l l , w h i c h makes entering a quick a n d unceremonious business. A s soon as y o u open t h e front door, you're standing in t h e m i d d l e o f t h e kitchen. I f you're there to v isit friends who live in the l ittle back room, then w i th your newly acquired informality you rush straight th rough the front room, where another family may be sitting at the table or having a fight or getting ready for bed.

I 2 5 3 J

And for some time now, these little rooms have usually been crammed with visitors eager to escape for a while from the big barracks. The hut dwellers are housed like princes by compari­ son, envied and constantly besieged by all Westerbork.

The scandalous shortage of space in Westerbork is really clea r in the colossal, hastily built barracks, those jam-packed hangars of d rafty slats where, under a lowering sky made up of hun­ d reds of people's d rying laundry, the iron bunks are stacked in triple decks.

The poor French would never have suspected that Jews, ex­ iled to one Drenthe heath or another, would someday d ream their fea r ful d reams on beds built for the Maginot Line. I'm told that's where these bunks come from.

On these iron beds people live and die, eat, fall ill, or lie awake through the night, because so many child ren cry, or be­ cause they cannot help wondering why so little news comes from the thousands who have already set out from this place.

The beds provide the only storage space there is: suitcases lie under them, and rucksacks hang over the iron bars. The other furniture consists of rough wooden tables and narrow wooden benches. Matters of hygiene I shall not mention in this modest account, lest I cause you some unappetizing moments.

Scattered through this vast space are a few stoves, which don't even give enough heat for the old ladies crowded around them. How people are expected to live through the winter in these barracks has not yet been made clear.

All these great human warehouses have been put up in pre­ cisely the same manner in the middle of the mud and have been furnished in the same, let us say austere, style. But the remark­ able thing is that while a trip through one barracks may make you feel you are in a squalid slum, another will give the impres­ sion of a solid middle-class district. In fact, every bunk and every rough wooden table seems to radiate its own atmosphere.

I know of a table in one of the barracks where a candle burns

[ 2 5 4 1

m a glass lantern every evening. Some eight people usually sit around it, and it's called the "bohemian corner." When you go on a few steps to the next table, also with eight people sitting a round it, the only d i fference may be that it holds a couple of d irty pans instead of a candle, but it is an entirely d i fferent world.

Like circumstances do not yet seem to produce like people. Lead ing lights from cultural and poli tical circles in the big

cities have also been stranded on this barren stretch of heath five hund red by six hund red meters. With one mighty convulsion all their scenery has collapsed about them, and now they stand a round a l ittle hesitantly and awkwardly on this drafty, open stage called Westerbo rk. These figures wrenched from their context still carry with them the restless atmosphere of a society more complicated than the one we have here. They walk along the thin barbed-wire fence. Thei r silhouettes move, l i fe-size and exposed, across the great stretch of sky. You cannot imagine it . . . Their armor of position, esteem, and property has col­ lapsed, and now they stand in the last sh reds of the i r humanity. They exist in an empty space, bounded by earth and sky, which they must fil l with whatever they can find within them-there is nothing else.

One suddenly realizes that it is not enough to be an able politician or a talented artist. In the most extreme distress, l i fe demands quite other things.

Yes, it is true, our ultimate human val ues are being put to the test.

Perhaps I have persuaded you, with my chatter, that I have now told you something about Westerbork. But when I let Wes­ terbork rise up in my mind's eye, in all its facets and with all its spiritual and material needs, I can see that success has eluded me. Furthermore, this is a very one-sided story. I could have told quite another, fi lled with hatred and bitterness and rebe l l ion.

But rebell ion born only when d istress begins to affect one

{ 2 5 5 1

personally is no real rebellion and can never bear fruit. And the absence of hatred in no way implies the absence of moral indig­ nation.

I know that those who hate have good reason to do so. But why should we always have to choose the cheapest and easiest way ? It has been brought home forcibly to me here how every atom of hatred added to the world makes it an even more inhospitable place. And I also believe, childishly perhaps but stubbornly, that the earth will become more habitable aga i n only through the love that the Jew Paul described to the citizens of Corinth in the thirteenth chapter of his first letter.

[ 2 5 6 1

Saturday afternoon, 26 December {1 942}

The more I think about it, the worse i t seems that I have left you without news for so long. I wanted to write as soon as I got back here, to you and to Rosenberg and Haussmann: you were a lways so k ind and hospitable, I felt so much at home with you. H a uss­ mann's potato soup certainly lives as a culinary high point in my memory, and the Hanukkah l ights in the big barracks are an even more precious memory because I was there with you.

The reason I haven't managed to write is p robably that I fel t rather i l l , quite apart from being downcast when t h e doctor told me I would have to rest for another five weeks. But my good humor is gradually creeping back.

I am so glad that I spent those weeks in Westerbork and that among other things I know how and where you live. Dear Osias, I promise that there won't be any more long pauses from now on. Please remember me to Rosenberg of course, and to your comrades Haussmann ("niece" and all) and F rank and Gri.ineberg, won't you ? And lots and lots of love to you, from

Etty

[ 2 5 7 1

1 6 Jan umy 1 943

Now look , Osias, 1 6 this is terrible: have you really not received any letters at all from me up to now ? That's the impression Vleesch­ houwer gave me. How treacherous you must think I am ! But I must be honest and confess: I have written you only once so far, though at some length, in the middle of the night, with a promise to write again soon. But the "soon" stretched into a few weeks.

You know, Osias, I have many friends. Some come to me with

their spiritual needs, and those I must talk to for a long time. Then there are others to whom I write regularly and in detail because I know that they need it and also because I want to help them. But with you it's quite different: you are there in my life, your absence from it is unimaginable. I often have conversations with you, but feel no need to write them down; I always believe you'll sense them without letters. So if you don't hear from me for some time you mustn't be disappointed or even unhappy; I still have the same strong, good feelings about you. This morning as I lay thinking of you, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to tell you again that I should be terribly sorry if you thought I cared less for you than before. Everything decent and beautiful that I have shared with you has become part of my emotional life, and will always be there.

I hope my first letter has arrived by now. There were a few bits and pieces in it I very much wanted you to see. Are you very busy? Would it be possible sometime to have a few words from you? And are you still living with good old Rosenberg' 7 in the quiet back room ? How I would love to be fit again and surprise you by j ust turning up. Meanwhile my orders are: rest, rest, and more rest. But even in bed one can live one's l i fe, or at least try to.

Until another time, Osias Kormann !

Regards to Rosenberg.

[ 2 5 8 J

In friendship, Etty

Friday morning, in bed {undated}

G reetings from a girl with an excruciating big toe, Osias. You may recall that this girl is a good friend of yours or you may have forgotten, since so much goes on where you a re-too much.

As for me, the same contradiction still applies: the spirit is l ivelier and more creative than ever, but the flesh cannot form a structure solid enough to support so ardent a spirit.

However, I am patient-not always, of course-an d live sen­ sibly so as to be well again as soon as possible. And then I ' l l turn u p again. You m ust have some work for me by now in the "V," or a re there a l ready too many people and not enough room ? 1 8

Your v i l lage has been suddenly turned into a city, w i thout doubt a very sad and strange one.

I have the uneasy suspicion that you don't sleep at all any­ more. You ought to now and then. You will, won't you pleas e ?

So Rosenberg's mother h a s arrived. How is he coping ? I s he able to make her l i fe a l ittle easier ? My very best wishes to them, please. A n d to Unger as well.

These days many people think: l i fe is coming to an end , this is a great eclipse. Perhaps much later i t will be seen as a new beginning as well . Why don't I keep my feet on the ground ? Am I a d reamer ? Oh please let me be, there have to be people l i k e me, too. My realities may be d i fferent from what most people call reality, but still they are realities.

Osias Kormann, dear friend on the Drenthe heath-what a bizarre business l i fe really is-I send you my love, I ' m very fond of you.

Etty

{ 2 5 9 1

Wednesday afternoon, 24 March 1 943

Is it a long time since I last wrote you, Osia s ? It feels l ike j ust a few days, but that goes to show how quickly time passes for me.

Anyway, may I smile on you again from afa r ? I have a doctor who gets furious when I come into his office beaming. He says it's unforgivable to smile at all in times like these. I think he's wrong; what do you say ? Hello, Osias, how are you, what are you up to ? Are you very busy ? 1 9 Are you in a good mood ? Will

you need an assistant in the near future? I don't ask for high wages, j ust friendly treatment. For now I am still going in for morning exercises, the sun, the Bible, Russian, potato peeling, l i terature, and conversations with much-too-optimistic or much­ too-pessimistic, polemical, suicidal, angry, sad, or what-have-you people. A va ried program, you can see. And for the rest, I still have a young heart and old bones; the balance between them could be a bit better. My doctor is unable to come up with anything wiser at the moment. He says that most people in these unbearable times suffer in the soul and the mind, but with me the sufferer is the body. Though I swallow bitter, sweet, sour, solid, and liquid things in turn, I'm sure it's a lot of nonsense and we should look to nature for restoration. All in all, however, I think I w i l l be a useful person again one day, and you'll make fabulous coffee when I come back, won't you ?

Lots of love, Osias, and think kindly now and then of

Etty

And best wishes to Rosenberg.

[ 2 6 0 1

Friday morning {spring 1 943]

I t seems that the good Lord and the Zentralstelle2 0 d o n ' t want me to have coffee with you this week; we shall have to wait and see whether next week brings my travel permit. I hope you are especially well in all respects, my dear Osias; it would be nice if I could come and see for mysel f.

How a re the yellow lupins-are they out aga i n ? And a re you having spring now and then, despite everything? And give my regards to Rosenberg. And accept a harmless but nonetheless heartfelt hug from

Etty

Until next week, then. And regards from m y father, who was glad to receive your greetings. And don't spoil your nice eyes, please, w i th these awful hieroglyphics. (I used to write every­ thing on the typewriter, but lately I 've had to get used to w riting by hand again.)

{ 2 6 I ]

'Bye, E.

Thursday morning, 8 April [1943]

My watch has broken, Osias. Now I absolutely must come back to Westerbork, since there isn't a single person left in Amster­ dam with time to mend a watch. You know that my needs are few, but one thing I cannot do without is a watch. As you can probably guess, there are a few other reasons, too, why I want to be back among you all. And I look forward to seeing you your­ self j ust a tiny bit !

I have more glad tidings, especially for you: my wisdom tooth has emerged, not without severe labor pains, but in the end i t proved t o be there. S o you can still entertain hopes that I will be wise one day. What does wise mean to you: egoistic ? All this egoism is getting so boring. Since people have been telling each other for centuries that man is basically an egoist, one begins to believe it and actually becomes egoistic. There are so many sides to a human being that it would be nice to try something else, j ust for a change from boring and unproductive egoism. Anyhow, we'll argue about that when we see each other, won't we ? Your letter was nice; you're an old cynic but a very dear person.

I n Westerbork I'll have to look out for hundreds of people­ not only friends but the children, the parents, and the grandpar­ ents of friends. That will be a labor in itself, and other labor will surely turn up without my looking for it.

My dear friend, I look forward to seeing you-but I've said that a lready.

Until next week.

{ 2 6 2 J

'Bye ! Etty

Amsterdam, 5 May 1 943

Osias my dear,

Aga i n it must look as if I've been faithless, but the real reason why I haven't written is j ust human inertia. Your coffee must have grown cold by now, but it's not my fault. I feel a l most like a soldier a waiting his next orders. On the one hand I a m grate­ ful for every day I can spend here at my desk immersed in things that a re close to me. On the other, I want nothing more than to be back with you all as soon as possible. When I stop to add it up, I see that I have al ready been away from your Heath Metropolis for five months, though oddly it feels like only a week-rather, it feels as if I 've never been away at a l l . One could go on living in several places at once this way, couldn't one ?

Osias, you know the Skating Club, next to the Concert­ gebouw ? I sometimes go walking there with you along the rail­ ings, and we have such a lovely time together. Usually you a rrive quite out of the blue. I take my customary turn around the club grounds, and suddenly you are at my side, and I d e l ight i n your closeness all over again.

As far as my health goes, I don't have much to complain about. I have admittedly become a shade less productive than I was before my illness, but that must be true of many people in this blessed Europe of ours.

Osias my dear, this must be enough for today. I am waiting anxiously to find out when we will see each other again at last­

Please give my special regards to Petzal . I mean so often to write to him, but-laziness, etc., as you well know. And best wishes again, of course, to Rosenberg.

And to yoursel f: most definitely auf Wiedersehen!

[ 2 6 3 1

' Bye ! Etty

Friday afternoon, 21 May [1 943}

My dear Osias,

Every evening for the past few days I have meant to send you another bulletin, but each day is so unsettled now. My blankets will have to wait up on your wooden gallery a little longer than I thought, until they can cover me again.

On the morning of April twenty-fourth my call-up came: I was to report on the twenty-fifth. I started getting my rucksack ready right away, but was told in the afternoon that my call-up had been an "error." That seems a curious expression, as if i t wasn't an "error" for everyone else. O h well, I shan't start phi­ losophizing on this unpleasant subject now; we can talk to each other soon enough.

Today I heard that fifteen colleagues from the Jewish Council in Westerbork will get leave and fifteen volunteers here will be needed as replacements. I shall volunteer, of course, and then j ust wait and see whether they can use me, since I represent a somewhat peculiar, nihilistic faction. But I think we shall soon see each other in any case now that the "liquidation" of "Jewish remnants" has taken on a faster tempo.

To think that ten months have already passed since I met a small man with a gray cap and heavy spectacles in the school in Westerbork, and since that man told me fantastic stories about the camp and said afterward, "You are definitely no Dutchwoman; you have too much warmth." Yes, Osias, and all the rest.

This is not really a letter, only a hasty greeting. I expect your work is sad again right now. Auf Wiedersehen, in a few days or in a few weeks, but anyway auf Wiedersehen!

Etty

{ 2 6 4 1

[Note apparently left in Amsterdam]

Saturday evening, 5 june 1 943

Little Maria,

Don't let's be too materialistic: a few days more or less, and whether or not we managed to see each other doesn't really matter to us, does i t ? It's a pity, I would so much have l iked to see you, but that will happen again, I'm absolutely certa i n .

I t is late; I c a n ' t tell y o u h o w tired I a m . I had hoped to reach you by telephone in Wageningen, because I stayed a day longer, but I didn't manage it.

You ask for a diary. Because it's you, I'm leaving a silly piece of w riting behind. There's a lot of rubbish in it, i nd iscreet woman that I am !

If you ever have a hard time, pou r your soul out on a scrap of paper and send it to Etty; she'll be sure to answer you.

Look a fter Father Han-but you do that anyway. He'll tell you all sorts of thrilling stories about the last two days. I can h a rdly keep my eyes open; what hard work ca rrying a rucksack is! I am not saying good-bye; we are not really leaving each other, a re we ?

May all go very well with you, dear child .

Etty

[ 2 6 5 1

Wes terbork

Monday morning, eleven o'cloc� 7 June 1 943

My very dear people,

Did you go on waving to my two rosebuds for a long time ? You are a l l so dear to me; I held onto that thought d uring the whole train trip, and now the camp with its large-scale m isery o f trans­ ports coming and going has swallowed me whole again. I have been here a hund red years al ready. The j ourney was pleasant enough. There is a nice spirit of comradesh i p among our people. They told me some tall tales, starting with the news that we had to walk the whole way from Assen to the camp, luggage and all. I wasn't too pleased to hear that. But when they announced that a shop selling nougat had opened in the camp, that the orphan­ age had held a flower show, and that polo was the l a test craze, my eyes were opened.

I n Assen it was pouring rain, and a leaky truck was waiting for us. We a l l were a bit wet when we a r rived . Together with our d r i pping luggage we were ushered into a hall (which isn't what used to happen), where our rucksacks and suitcases were searched by the police. I readily opened the little bag with the

[ 2 6 7 1

Koran and the Talmud in it; they didn't bother with my ruck­ sack, w h ich is as big as a house, and I certainly didn't mind.

The hut where I have been put this time is something be­ tween a small storehouse and a boudoir. Beds, two or three tiers high, suitcases and boxes everywhere, flowers on the table and in the window, and a couple of languid females in long silk pei­ gnoi rs. Most astonishing. I share my place with a former beauty queen from Het Leven.2 1 At ten o'clock she propped a m i r ror against my butter dish and busied herself for half an hour with her eyebrows. There was no bed for me; but we had to work anyhow that night, because a transport from Vught had ar­ rived.Z Z We were due to report at 4:00 A . M . , so at eleven I rolled myself in a blanket, clothes and all (the sleeping bag was wet and had been hung up to d ry), on a bed whose regular occupant was said to be working through the night. When I had been lying down for an hour, greatly enjoying the musical gnawings of the mice (which seem to have multiplied since I was last here), along came the bed's real tenant, a nearsighted lady with a pitch­ black mustache from Lijnbaansgracht, a place I have never much l iked. So then we lay side by side together on her narrow bunk-what you might call a piquant situation.

I woke up fairly stiff at about four o'clock. I fortified myself with your delicious wheaten creation, darling Kathe, and then walked again through the nocturnal Westerbork landscape. First of all we underwent a Lysol treatment, because so many l ice always arrive from Vught. From four to nine I d r agged screaming child ren around and carried luggage for exhausted women. It was hard going, and heart-rending. Women with small children, 1 ,600 (tonight another 1 ,600 will a rrive); the men had been deliberately kept back in Vught. The morning trans­ port is ready, Jopie and I have just been walking along it. Large, empty cattle cars. In Vught two or three children die every day. An old woman asked me helplessly, "Could you tell me, please could you tell me, why we Jews have to suffer so much ? " I

[ 2 6 8 1

couldn't answer. There was a woman who had had to feed her fou r-month-old child on cabbage soup for days. She said, "I keep call ing, 'Oh God, oh God '-but does He really still exist ? " Among the prisoners I met an ex-assistant o f Professor Scholten,

w ho taught me procedural law once upon a time. I hardly recog­ nized him because of his emaciation, beard, and staring eyes. I also met my internist, Schaap. When I was in the NI Z,2 3 Schaap stood by my bed wearing an expression that implied my nonex­ istence and explained to the other doctors gathered a round: "Here lies a young lady who positively wants to go back to Westerbork," as i f I were an incomprehensible case. Now he looked fit and cheerful (he has already been here for some time). This evening's delivery from Vught included his wife and chil­ d ren, who also looked quite good (tell Tide this). On my j o u rney through the camp this morning I met many old friends-friends of my parents, too. People whom I used to k now as decent c i tizens, living in peaceful and comfortable circumstances, I now find inhabiting the big ba rracks as regular members of the pro­ letariat. It is very moving, the state some of them a re in. I'd rather not have my parents here. At the moment I am sitti ng in Jopie's l ittle house, and he is sitting opposite me in soldier's trousers and a d i rty gray j acket. He sends you h is kind rega rds. One o f his best friends died a few hours ago. The friend's w i fe and child were sent through some time past; the man was in an ad vanced stage of TB and couldn't go with them. Jopie told me that theirs was one of the few good marriages he had known. Several days ago another good friend of his died.

This afternoon I shall try and get a l ittle sleep; I now have a bed-someone went on leave today. At four in the morning another transport comes from Vught. Last night I was able to piece together a picture of Vught, a truly horrible picture.

I am glad I've come back to Westerbork. I am greeted warmly on all sides. I went to see Hedwig Mahler, who is being a llowed to stay here for the time being, and met a woman who

I 2 6 9 J

was once the headmistress at Father's schooJ.2 4 They gave me a bowl of semolina. Then I went to see Kormann, who almost k illed me with pleasure and gave me another bowl of semol ina. Later I went to v isit someone else and was given more semolina. I let the rest of them have the cabbage. One and all seem to be well.

With everything I 've been doing, it is now half past twelve. I have j ust fetched my bread ration and ten grams of butter from the kitchen, as well as a small v itamin C tablet, which was a surprise. Now I 'll stop this muddled tale. Tonight at seven I'll go and see Herman B. in the hospital; I couldn't make it last n ight.2 5 I can't do the night work the way I used to; I collapse in the middle. But don't worry-I'm not rushing a t things head­ long anymore. At the moment I itch all over despite the Lysol.

A hasty farewell to you all, too many to mention by name. You are all of you so very dear to me.

[ 2 7 0 1

More later, dear people. Etty

{undated, probably early june 1 943]

My little Maria,

Why don't you write Etty to say how you are? Are you happy, a re you sad , d o you rush around, do you sit quietly at home, what does Ernst have to say, what does Amsterdam have to say,

what does Father Han do, does Kathe go to bed on time ? As I walk th rough the mud between the wooden barracks, I feel as if I am walking at the same time along the corridors of my six­ year home, or sitting at a shaky table in the noisy little parlor, or working at my beloved, untidy desk. I tal k to many people here who say, "We don't want to remember anything from before; otherwise we couldn't manage to live here." But I can live here as well as I do j ust because I remember everyth i ng from "before" (it's not really a "before" for me), and I go on l i v i ng.

Noon

My soul is content, Maria. I was given fou r hospital barracks today, one large and three small; I have to check whether the people there need any food or luggage from the outside. The wonderful thing about it is that I now have free access to the whole complex of hospital barracks at almost any time of day.

Later

Take these few words j ust as they come, l i ttle one. There isn't much time for w riting here-but the letters I send you in my thoughts a re much longer.

I am fine, and content. I live j ust as I did in Amsterdam, really; sometimes I don't even notice that I ' m in a camp, which is very strange. And all of you a re so close to me that I don't

r 2 1 1 1

even miss you. Jopie is a cherished companion. In the evenings we go and watch the sun setting over the purple lupins behind the barbed w ire. And if I get leave I ' l l probably be back.

Do write.

{ 2 7 2 ]

'Bye ! Etty

Tuesday, 8 june 1 943, ten o'clock

My dear people,

Not much heath is left now inside the barbed wire; more bar­ racks are always being added. Only a l ittle piece remains i n the farthest corner of the camp, and that's where I'm sitting now, in the sun under a glorious blue sky, among some low shrubbery. Right across from me only a few meters away, a blue uniform with a helmet stands in the watchtower. A guard with an enrap­ tured expression is pick ing purple lupins, his gun dangling on his back. When I look to the left I see billowing w h i te smoke and hear the puffing of a locomotive. The people have a l ready been loaded onto the freight cars; the doors are closed . There are many green police,2 6 who sang this morning as they m a rched by the side of the train, and the Dutch milita ry police a re out as well . The quota of people who must go is not yet fi l led . Just now I met the matron of the orphanage, carrying a small child in her arms who also has to go, alone. And a number of people have been taken out of the hospital barracks. They are doing a thor­ ough j ob here today; big shots from The H ague have come on a v isit. I t's very strange watching these gentlemen at work from close quarters. I've been up since fou r this morning dealing with the babies and carrying luggage. I n a few hours you can accu­ m ul a te enough gloom here to last a l i fetime. The nature-lov ing policeman has gathered his purple bouquet now, perhaps he's off to court some farmer's daughter in the neighborhood. The engine gives a piercing shriek. The whole camp holds its breath; another three thousand Jews are about to leave. There are babies with pneumonia lying in the freight cars. Sometimes what goes on here seems totally unrea l . I haven't been given any particula r job, which suits m e very well . I just wander about a n d fi n d m y own work. This morning I had a brief talk with a woman who had come from Vught, who told me her latest experiences i n

[ 2 7 3 1

three minutes. How much can you really tell in a few minutes ? When we came to a door, and I wasn't a llowed to go any farther, she embraced me and said, "Thank you for being such a help."

Just now I climbed up on a box lying among the bushes here to count the freight cars. There were thirty-five, with some second-class cars at the front for the escorts. The freight cars had

been completely sealed, but a plank had been left out here and there, and people put their hands through the gaps and waved as if they were d rowning.

The sky is full of birds, the purple lupins stand up so regally and peacefully, two little old women have sat down on the box for a chat, the sun is shining on my face-and right before our eyes, mass murder. The whole thing is simply beyond compre­ hension.

l 2 7 4 1

Love Etty

[21 June 1 943]

Dear Mill i,2 7

Later on I ' l l write you a longer letter about this, the h ardest day of my l i fe. My parents and Mischa are being tremendous; I a m amazed . T h e jam-packed freight train d rew into t h e camp this morning. I stood beside i t in the rain . The cars were shut tight, but there were a few small openings here and there high up, where the planks had been broken . Through one of these I suddenly spotted Mother's hat and Father's glasses and Mischa's peaky face. I started to shout, and they saw me.

Now I shall have to share the same torture with them that I went through last night with the Levies and the two small chil­ d ren: registration, hours and hours of waiting, more registration outside in the rain, quarantine. Thanks to the many friends I have here, it'll be possible to make l i fe easier for them i n a l l sorts of small ways. Soon I'll have to take them to the l a rge barracks, where all hell has been let loose. I don't think there are even enough beds for everyone, and there are no mattresses for the men. Still, m y threesome is remarkably fit and cheerful and good-humored.

Now down to business. The Jewish Council thinks it i m pera­ tive that you pursue the Barneveld option strenuously with the Zentralstelle on behalf of Mischa and the family (remember: not m e ! ) , and urges you to do so.2 8 Perhaps you w i l l still be able to get Mengelberg to intervene personally w i th Rauter.

Suddenly i t's all coming to an end.

Etty

{ 2 7 5 1

Westerbork, Monday night [21 june 1 943}

Christine,2 9

They are so indescribably efficient in this utter hell . In the early morning a line of freight cars pulled into the muddy camp. As I stood next to them I spotted my father's crumpled hat and glasses, my mother's hat, and Mischa's narrow face in a small opening high in one of the cars. And now that I am sharing their martyrdom, I am thankful I can take care of all sorts of minor details for them . Although at the moment there is noth­ ing to take care of: what we have now is a complete catastrophe. During the last twenty-four hours the camp has been engul fed by successive tidal waves of Jews. I must tell you: I was shocked by Father and Mother today, and Mischa, too. Father is com­ pletely helpless, and his collar has grown a lot too big for him over the last twenty-four hours, and the gray stubble of his beard is pathetic. But he waved a small Bible about this morning while we waited for hours and hours in the rain, and found a marvel­ ous quotation from Joshua. They are in a big ba rracks now, a jam-packed human warehouse: people sleeping three to a bed on narrow iron bunks, no mattresses for the men, nowhere at all to store anything, children terrified and screaming, the greatest possible wretchedness. I shall try to get through it as best I can, I even feel quite strong and brave, although sometimes I can see nothing but blackness and nothing makes any sense at all.

Now for something practical. We must try to get Father some bread, since he doesn't eat hot food. You can still send registered "letter-parcels" from the provinces weighing up to two kilos. Please see if you can get one of them through to us. You won't think it impertinent of me to ask you straight out l ike this; needs must. Rye bread would be very welcome, too. Don't send cou­ pons here, we can't do anything with them. Mail them to Jacobs, Retiefstraat 1 1 , and tell him that from Amsterdam he can still

r 2 7 6 1

send parcels weighing up to five kilos, preferably registered. I t's safest to add ress them to me: Dr. E. Hillesum, Assistant, Jewish Council, Westerbork Camp, Post Hoog-Halen, 0, Drenthe. Top left: Barracks 34. Write us a postcard if you do send us some­ thing, then I can look out for it-

I hope I'll find a bed tonight, every square m i l limeter is taken. More later. Please pray a little for us.

{ 2 7 7 1

Love, Etty

{undated, around 26 june 1 943}

Well, children, here I am again. The letter I started is back under my orange checked sleeping bag, and now I 'm sitting in another corner of the camp carrying on this chat with you on a bit of paper that's turned up. I have just been with my papa. This is a historic moment for him-he ate a plateful of cabbage, and this morning he even d rank some milk, although he always swore that he'd rather go to Poland than d rink m i l k . An angel of a stalwart Russian in the bed next to him guides him through every clumsy movement and whistles at night when he snores too loudly. Four hundred people from the hospital will appar­ ently have to go on the next transport. Walking through the barracks, particularly the one with most of the old women, is an act of despai r . One after another they clutch at you and implore, "I don't really have to go on this transport, do I ? " and "Surely they won't take us away from here," and then always the same thing over and over-"lsn't there anything you can do for me ? " Yesterday a very old woman, sick, nothing but skin and bones, asked me, "Do you think there will be medical assistance in Poland ? " In the face of something like that, I feel like running away. I t is almost beyond comprehension, the strength with which people whose lives are almost entirely behind them hang on to the wretched bits of carcass that are left. But they all want

to live to see peace and see their child ren and families again, which is perfectly understandable, really-

Just when I was about to descend from my third-story heaven to solid ground this morning, Anne-Marie climbed up to me; she looked like an aviator in her beret and goggles.3 0 She's on indoor duty in the barracks where I was assigned last year. She's doing extremely well; tell Swiep in particular.3 1 She sleeps well, eats well, doesn't have any hard work, and is here on her own. That's very important; I can see in myself the e ffects of worry about the family. It gnaws at you worse than anything else. I

[ 2 7 8 1

haven't seen Mischa and Mother today; I've been in bed, and Mother's been laid up with a bit of an upset stomach . I always have a strong inner resistance to overcome, a k ind of fear, before I can go inside their barracks, where the sour, fetid human reek h its you in the face. Sam de Wolff is in the same barracks as Mischa; I run across him now and then pottering about between the i ron bunks.3 2

We a re expecting a transport from the Hollandsche Schouwburg any day now. 3 3 Everyone thinks it will be sent straight through to Poland. All we know about Jaap is that he is in the Schouwburg, nothing more.3 4 I shall d o whatever I possi­ bly can to hold onto him here, but there's no way of forcing things to happen. Everyone has to accept the fate allotted to h i m ; there's nothing else for i t . J u s t now a w o m a n who cleans for Kormann said to me, "You always look so radiant." But I feel j ust as I always have, wherever I've been. Of course I'm a little weary and worn down, and giddy with worry now and then. But everyone has worries here, so why shouldn't we share them and bear them together honestly ? I am experiencing much that is good here. Each day Mechanicus, with whom I go for walks along the narrow, barren strip of earth between the d itch and the barbed wire, reads me what he has j ust written.3 5 You de­ velop friendships here that are enough for several l ives at once. I still find time every day for a short philosophical conversation with Weinreb, a man who is a private world to h imself with an atmosphere all his own that he manages to preserve no matter what happens.3 6

It's a shame I have so li ttle time to write, there is so much I want to tell you. I ' l l save it up for later, I promise. But now we must concern ourselves with cabbage, a favorite dish in these parts.

[ 2 7 9 1

A little later

The cooking is good here; I won't hear a word against it. Chil­ d ren, I would so much like to know how you all are. Why don't I hear anything from Mari a ? Is it true, Maria, that Ernst is coming to v isit us here ? So Renate told me.3 7 I meet Paul's mother now and then on some muddy l i ttle path or other, and we gossip for a few minutes. There is no time for real "v isits," nor is there a quiet place anywhere to sit down together. People talk to each other in passing, outdoors. Really, one keeps walk­ ing about all day long-

Oh yes, there is something else, something the whole Jewish Council here is so full of that I put it completely out of my mind. The latest news (although it's sure to change again a few times): sixty of us may stay here, the other sixty must go back to Am­ sterdam, where they will get special "exemptions." Because my parents are here, naturally I am one of those who want to stay on, come what may. Most of us do, actually, since almost every­ one has family here whom he can still protect a little by his presence. So you have a paradoxical situation: while each of us would give anything to get away from W., many of us would have to be thrown out before we'd go. People are terribly wound up. Debates, computations, laws of probability, are the order of the day. I keep well out of i t. All this talking takes up energy, and nothing comes of it in the end. I mprobable though it may sound to you, I am really and truly the most taciturn person in the whole JC. People here fritter their energy away on the thou­ sand i rksome details that grind us down every day; they lose themselves in detail and drown. That's why they get d riven off course and find existence pointless. The few big things that matter in life are what we have to keep in mind; the rest can be quietly abandoned. And you can find those few big things any­ where, you have to keep rediscovering them in yourself so that you can be renewed. And in spite of everything you always end

[ 2 8 0 1

up with the same conviction: life is good after all, it's not God's fau l t that things go awry sometimes, the cause l ies in ourselves. And that's what stays with me, even now, even when I ' m about to be packed off to Poland with my whole fam ily.

And now I ' m going to look for Mother and Mischa. ' Bye for now.

Last stage

I am sitting on my suitcase in our little kitchen, it's so ful l in here that not another mortal can enter. Now for a few practical details . . . I n termezzo: A nice man j ust came in who used to be one of Spier's subjects; he sat on another suitcase and sud­ denly we were right in the middle of chirology. I meet quite a few of Spier's clients and pupils here. And we al ways say the same thing: What a mercy it is that he is no longer with us. Now for some business. I am enclosing a few more bread coupons. Would Frans take it badly if you telephoned and asked him to send us some more Sanovite biscuits ? Is Frans still there, any­ way ? Mother eats hardly anything anymore, she cannot stand the bread here, and I should like to be able to give her a l i ttle Sanovi te now and then. Is it a great bore for you, my making such a nuisance of myself? I hope the soap coupons haven't been used up yet; I always forget to send them. I do the washing here myself in a bucket outside the house, and we hang i t u p on a piece of string. A l ittle primitive, but it does the j ob.

This letter is also for Mien Kuyper; I won't have a chance to write her today. Would you be kind enough to tell her that up to now, Sunday, none of her parcels have a rrived ? Her letters have come, so she knows the address. I t would be a pity if anything of h<?.rs went astray; she also wrote that she has sent things twice. Please ask if she'd be kind enough to send tomatoes and other fresh things. Since there is a continuous sandstorm here, people are full of dust and completely d ried up, so that they need fresh

[ 2 8 1 1

things even more than bread. I don't myself have any such craving. That's to be expected; ever since that police-raid trans­ port I haven't been hungry, have had no sleep or anything. But I feel very well , all the same. One concentrates so much on others that one forgets oneself, and that's j ust as well. Ask Mien to give our best regards to Milli Ortmann; as soon as I can I'll write her, too. Let's hope that Mischa gets out of Westerbork; being here won't do him any good in the long run, but I can't d o anything with him while our parents are still at risk here. I shall now break off before I ruin my eyes permanently. Love to everyone dear to me-you know who they are well enough.

'Bye, Etty

Would you be kind enough to send some postage stamps next time ?

{ 2 8 2 1

[postmarked Assen, 26 June 1 943}

C h ristine,

We are sitting j ust now, Father and I , on a kind of stone d rain. A glorious fresh breeze is blowing. In front of us, people with yellow stars are d igging a moat to stop us from running away, and beyond that stretches the barbed wire. To the left, in the corner of the camp, the milita ry policeman stands high u p in his l i ttle hut on posts. We are black with sand ; the breeze is a real s i rocco. I have j ust l i fted Father down from his second-tier bunk, and we are airing it a bit. I am very grateful that he has a bed to himself now; in the big barracks he would have gone to pieces within a week. We shall try somehow to pull each other through. Mother is admirable. I t's almost unbel ievable-she goes about just as spryly and neatly turned out as a l ways. Today, for instance, she d i d a big wash in a bucket and hung the clothes out on a piece of string. Mischa's attachment to them both is touching. He l ives in constant fear that they will have to go to Polan d , and says there's no question but that he'll go with them. However, everything will work out. Until fu rther notice I'm keeping them here for certain. Our greatest worr ies a re for Mischa; we a re afraid that things will soon get too much for him. I t is really beyond comprehension why people don't a l l go mad here.

Anyway. Now to come to the point. This morning a very welcome parcel a rrived from Simon.3 8 Nothing from you; we'll j ust have to wait a l ittle longer. Perhaps it's as well that every­ thing is being sent via the Jewish Council. Mother is looking forward to your shrimp pies. How do you like that ? We're going in for special orders now. This morning she said how wonderful it would be if we could have something spicy to eat for once, and i m mediately Mevrouw de G root from Ceintuur­ baan said that she still had lots of spicy things left. Oh well , I am

{ 2 8 3 1

noting it all down like a dutiful secretary. And do you know, we can again change bread and butter coupons in the canteen here. I f you have any left over, you might be kind enough to send a few. Half the camp has lectured Father about eating something hot, but so far he hasn't managed to.

Now we are right in the middle of a sandstorm; can you read my writing? Everything here is mad and incredible and desper­ ate and comical, all at the same time. Everything I write is all mixed up, too, but that's the way things are. Oh yes: it's quite possible that I will shortly be stripped of my privileged position, because the Jewish Council here is about to be dissolved. Then I won't be able to write as often as I would like. But we'll still have a writing day once every two weeks, so you'll go on hearing from us. And now we must leave our nice stone seat; otherwise we'll develop galloping consumption. Let us hope that a time will come when we'll be able to tell you everything in person, let us truly hope for that. And yes, please pray for us a little. And thank you for everything.

[ 2 8 4 1

Much love, Etty

Tuesday afternoon, 29 June 1 943

Very dea rest M i l l i ,

First for someth ing absolutely crucial: t h e Zentralstelle m u s t tell our camp commandant through official channels that my par­ ents and Mischa are to be kept on here. Otherw ise it won't be any use at a l l .

W e h a v e managed t o survive t h e latest transport night: Mis­ cha has been "deferred" tempora rily, and we've hung on to my parents, too, because they are on the "parents' list" of Wes­ terbork staff. But the list is not something you can rely on. Next week the battle starts all over again. I f they go on sending out one transport a week, it will be im possible to hold my parents back without some intervention from outside. Last night the Hollandsche Schouwburg lot a rrived, and I stood guard all night because we were expecting Jaap. To our utter delight he didn't turn up. We hea rd a vague report that he had been kept back because he was on the Meijer l ist (what sort of list is that, for heaven's sake ? ) . At five o'clock in the morning I forced my way into the hospital to make sure they weren't going to d rag Father off by accident and to tell him the joyful news about J aap. Lots of the sick who were d ue to leave were being d ressed by the male nurses. The long train of d i l apidated boxcars had stood waiting the whole day. Empty cattle ca rs, each with a bucket in the middle. Paper mattresses on the floor for the sick. Afte r I 'd been to see Father I walked right across the camp to Mother's large barracks, where almost everyone was getting ready to leave. The people were dignified, calm, and d isciplined . I saw off a great many good friends. Just now I went back aga in to Mother's. She was lying on her narrow i ron soldier's bed in a state of exhaustion. After a transport night l i ke that, we a l l feel sick and and ready to d rop. Then we take a deep breath and go on with l i fe until the next transport. I keep hoping and hoping

I 2 s 5 I

that there will be some message from the Zen tralstelle. My par­ ents are really bearing up splendidly. Inwardly they are prepar­ ing for Poland. They make few demands and do not complain; I am terribly proud of them. Mischa is the same as ever. He is a bit grubby and now and then gets very worked up, and he never turns up on time for the roll calls. But his wonderful sense of humor hasn't deserted him even here.

I got your letter and the one from Grete and Cor as well. You are all being terribly kind. Many thanks for the parcels. What a nuisance we must be to you, it often weighs on my mind. Any­ way, 'bye for now.

{ 2 8 6 J

Love, Etty

Westerbor� 29 June [1 943}

Little Father H an, Kathe, Maria, Hans,

J ust a telegram-style message for you out of the blue. Stood guard last night to watch out for Jaap. He wasn't in the Schouwburg transport; we were delirious with joy. In the morn­ ing another big transport left. I even went to the hospital a t five o'clock to make sure they hadn't taken Father along by m is­ take-there are plenty of mistakes. Then to Mother's big bar­ racks, where she was lying on her cramped sold ier's bed. She was del ighted by the news about Jaap. My parents are taking things nobly, I am very proud of them. They don't even d read Poland anymore-they say. I hope I can keep them here, but nothing is certain. In a few days you can d rift far from your former moorings. New and powerful forces enter into you. Ac­ cepting your own doom needs inner strength.

I got a letter from Leguit that touched me very much. He is another one of those people who make you want to survive j ust so you can see them again later on. He enclosed a quotation from Dr. Korff: "And yet God is love." I completely agree, and it is truer now than ever. Leguit also wrote: " I t would surprise me if you had enough resilience of spirit left to spare even half an ear for those who have stayed behind. " I have a l l my ears and all my attention to spare for you. I go on l iving with you j u s t as before, and pause with you now and then to rest from all that overwhelms me here. I t is more d i fficult for you to digest the events at Westerbork than for us. I have noticed that in every situation, even the most difficult, man generates new faculties that help him go on liv ing. As far as that is concerned, God is merciful enough . And for the rest: several suicides last night before the transport, with razors and so on. This morning, w h i le I stood at the tub with a colleague, I said with great emotion something l i ke this: "The realms of the soul and the spirit are so

{ 2 8 7 1

spacious and unending that this l i ttle bit of physical d iscomfort and suffering really doesn't matter all that much. I do not feel I have been robbed of my freedom; essentially no one can do me any harm at all." Yes, children, that's how it is, I am in a strange state of mournful contentment. I f I once wrote you a desperate letter, don't take it too much to heart; i t expressed only a brief moment. I t's true you can suffer, but that need not make you desperate. And now I'm going to jump in at the deep end again; I'm off to the hospital with a little tin box for my beloved father under one arm and my official folder under the other. I shall find many empty beds there after this transport. Be of good cheer, my dear good friends. How is Cousin Wegerif? And Kathe, are you being good ? And isn't Father Han being silent to a fau l t ? Hannes's mother did not go to Theresienstadt. Regards to Adri from l ise B.

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'Bye !

Westerbork, 1 july 1 943

Christine, my dear,

I am steal ing a few moments in the sun to scribble to various

friends. I t is a glorious day-how different l i fe suddenly look s ! I am so glad my work is in the hospital a rea; it means I can d rop in on Father whenever I l i ke. And when I can't go inside his barracks, we can have a little chat through his open window, since his bed is right next to it. I have just taken him your letters; he was v e ry pleased . Now I have your note in front of me. I gav e an I n d i a n whoop of j o y over the goggles; without them o u r eyes are completely ruined here. How n i ce of you to send them on your own initiative ! I t's so sweet, the way you look a fter us. I ' m sure you people in t h e outside w o r l d h a v e enough troubles of your own without adding all of ours. Your letter to Mischa was lovely. Father has it now and will hand it on when Mischa v isits him today.

(Half an hour later. J ust now a picturesque interlude: A good friend of m ine from Amsterdam, a talented young musician, came past in filthy overalls with a barrowful of sand . Between the barbed w i re and the little pieces of string on which the d ingy washing has been hung out to dry, we delivered o urselves of philosophical observations concerning the marvels and mysteries of this earthly existence. Let's hope that not too many more friends come past with barrows, since I have a lot more to w rite you.)

An end will come soon enough to all the scribbling. I am only too grateful that I'm allowed to stay on. Have I a l ready told you that of the hundred and twenty people working for the Jewish Council, sixty must go home ? Luckily I am not one of the si xty, so I can keep on protecting my parents as best I can. You see, there is a l ways new cause for satisfaction. In Amsterdam the fight for Barneveld continues. I hope and pray that it will work

{ 2 8 9 1

out. I myself would ten times rather go to Poland or wherever, i f only I am able t o get m y dear ones away from t h i s place first. Well, we must simply have patience-which, indeed, we already do have in plenty.

When I am not allowed to write anymore, I'll still be able to send a postcard following the arrival of a parcel, with the words "Parcel received"-nothing else. So if a meaningless card l i k e t h a t comes, you'll k n o w w h y . And something e l s e : we are per­ m itted to send telegrams to the Jewish Council to ask for things we need-also without further comment.

But we are forbidden to be specific; we can only put some­ thing like "food" in the telegram. So let's agree now on, for example: book = butter, writing = j am, ink = rye bread, shoe­ laces = fruit. (If it comes to the point where I have to send telegrams like that, then you will get in touch with Simon, won't you ? )

D o you know, w e can utter a lot o f "important words" here without turning a hair. I can name fruit, tomatoes, and things like that with no d ifficulty at all. Yet I don't even know if you in the outside world have any of these. You must not think it presumptuous if we ask for impossible things; please remember it is due to ignorance. What Father, for instance, badly needs is fruit and green vegetables. We get so d ried up here because of the continuous sandstorms. The water is not very good either; we are advised not to d rink too much of it because of the "camp sicknesses," and everything else available to d rink is awful. I am pretty sure that Mother has lots of different bottled d rinks in the Deventer house, but it would probably be quite a business to get them over here. I have the feeling that we a re giving you a lot of trouble, but it's all to keep each other alive. Oh Christine, j ust imagine, a time may come once more when we can tell each other everything. And if we survive, we will surely be gratefu l t h a t we were present at one of the many fronts in Europe, where we could share some part of all the suffering. Yesterday the man

[ 2 9 0 1

who regularly cuts Father's hair said to me, "You're the sort of person who makes something of her l i fe in any circumstances."

Father is marvelous, and wonderfully resigned. Yesterday morning all the beds were standing outside his barracks, in the sand blowing about between two great empty hospital build ings. It looked like an open-air sanatorium. Wal king past, I heard Father's hearty laughter ringing out over the entire a rea. He has nice people around him who search over and over for all the little things that, with some grandezza and a certain nonchalance, he loses daily. There is a journalist, Philip Mechanicus, a stylish, strong- minded character, who regularly d rops by and chats with him. Father has also come across many old student friends here. He stud ies the Bible with great concentration, comparing the French, G reek, and Dutch versions. I brought h i m the writings of Meister Eckhart and another couple of books I had here. He doesn't eat all that much; we are able to share out quite a lot of his bread. I t's a good thing, since we a re all beginning to feel the pinch badly now that the outside world, which used to send supplies regularly, has shrunk so much. For all the families and acquaintances of most Jews are here now.

I'm going to abandon my sunny, windy little corner and the well I'm sitting on. I shall walk past Father's window and then go to take pot l uck in my barracks. We are very, very happy Jaap isn't here yet; it's nice that you went to look him up. When the transport from the Hollandsche Schouwburg arrived a few nights ago, I stood watch all night to catch him. Thank God it wasn't necessary. I ' l l write more later; I won't send this letter off until your parcel arrives. Good-bye for now.

5:30 P. M.

I f you only knew what it means here j ust to be able to be in a l i ttle room all by yourself. I am sitting in such a room now and will finally be able to finish answering your letter. A re you still

[ 2 9 1 1

interested in special requests ? It would make me radiantly happy i f you could send paper handkerchiefs. People here have chronic colds, aggravated by the climate, and regular handker­ chiefs get filthier rather than cleaner when you wash them. The hygiene problem is really the most desperate of all. Father com­ plains bitterly that he is the biggest gypsy in Westerbork; he doesn't see that everyone else is in the same boat. Can you still get sanitary napk ins ? And ordinary rol ls of bandages ? An obsti­ nate eczema that I once had for a few years on my right hand has flared up again, and I keep i t bandaged because of the dust. I ask you for all these thi ngs with a heavy heart; for I know they' re not easy to come by, are they ? And oh yes, if there's still one of our little pots of jam there, perhaps it also could make the trip here in the course of time. One should avoid having too many special requests these clays, I think. But that's the difficult part, you see. I wouldn't beg favors for myself, but I would turn the world upside down to get my parents something to lighten their li ves a l i ttle. There you are. We wish you all a very nice holiday. Father's writing day is tomorrow; I think he plans a letter to you. It will take a week to arrive; it's got to pass a special censor. Forgive my saying everything in such a muddle, that's what these surroundings do to one. I hope I can still write you often, but it looks as if that won't be possible much longer. I don't need writing paper yet.

Lots of love, and thanks for everything, Etty

P.S. from Mother: Perhaps you would be kind enough some time to get in touch with Gantvoort, the baker, private add ress c/o Larese, 23 Sweelinckstraat. He once said that he would like to bake something. Sorry and all that, but it isn't for myself.

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Westerbork, 3 july 1 943

Jopie, Klaas, my dear friends,3 9

Here I am on the third tier of this bunk hu rrying to unleash a veritable riot of writing, for in a few days' time it'll be the end of the line for my scribblings. I'll have become a "camp inmate," allowed to write j ust one letter a fortnight, and unsealed at that. And there are still a couple of l i ttle things I must talk to you about. Did I really send a letter that made it look as i f all my courage had gon e ? I can hardly believe it. There a re moments, i t's true, w hen I feel things can't go on. But they d o go on, you gradually learn that as wel l. Though the landscape around you may appear d i fferent: there is a lowering black sky overhead and a great shift in your outlook on life, and your heart feels gray and a thousand years old. But it is not always l i k e that. A human being is a remarkable thing. The misery here is really indescribable. People live in those big barracks like so many rats i n a sewer. There a re many dying children. But there a re many healthy ones, too.

One night last week a transport of prisoners passed through here. Thin, waxen faces. I have never seen so much exhaustion and fatigue as I did that night. They were being "processed " : registration, more registration, frisking by half-grown NSB men, quarantine, a foretaste of martyrdom lasting hours and hours.4 0 Early in the morning they were crammed into empty freight cars. Then another long wait while the train was boarded up. And then three days' travel eastward. Paper "mat­ tresses" on the floor for the sick. For the rest, bare boards with a bucket in the middle and roughly seventy people to a sealed car. A rucksack each was all they were allowed to take. How many, I wondered, would reach their destination a l i v e ? And my par­ ents are preparing themselves for j ust such a journey unless something comes of Barneveld after all.

[ 2 9 3 1

Last time I saw my father, we went for a walk in the d usty, sandy wasteland. He is so sweet, and wonderfully resigned. Very pleasantly, calmly, and quite casually, he said, "You know, I would like to get to Poland as quickly as possible. Then it will all be over and done with and I won't have to continue with this undignified existence. After all, why should I be spared from what has happened to thousands of others ? " Later we j oked about our surroundings. Westerbork really is nothing but desert, despite a few lupins and campions and decorative birds that look like seagul ls. "Jews in a desert, we know that sort of landscape from before." It really gets you down, having such a nice little father, you sometimes feel there is no hope at all.

But these are passing moods. There are other sorts, too, when a few of us laugh together and marvel at all sorts of things. And then we keep meeting lots of relatives whom we haven't seen for years-lawyers, a librarian, and so on-pushing wheelbarrows ful l of sand, in untidy, ill-fitting overalls, and we j ust look at each other and don't say much. A young, sad Dutch police officer told me one transport night, "I lose two kilos d uring a night like this, and all I have to do is to listen, look, and keep my mouth shut." And that's why I don't like to write about it, either. But I am digressing. All I wanted to say is this: The misery here is quite terrible; and yet, late at night when the day has slunk away into the depths behind me, I often walk with a spring in my step along the barbed wire. And then time and again, it soars straight from my heart-1 can't help it, that's j ust the way i t is, l ike some elementary force-the feeling that l i fe is glorious and magnificent, and that one day we shall be building a whole new world. Against every new outrage and every fresh horror, we shall put up one more piece of love and goodness, d rawing strength from within ourselves. We may suffer, but we must not succumb. And if we should survive unhurt in body and soul, but above all in soul, without bitterness and without hatred, then we shall have a right to a say after the war. Maybe I

{ 2 9 4 1

am an ambitious woman: I would like to have just a tiny l ittle

bit of a say. You speak about suicide, and about mothers and children.

Yes, I know what you mean, but I find i t a m o rbid subject. There is a limit to suffering; perhaps no human being is given more to bear than he can shoulder; beyond a certain point we j ust die. People are dying here even now of a broken spirit, because they can no longer find any meaning in l i fe, young people. The old ones are rooted in firmer soil and accept thei r fate with d ignity and calm. You see so many d i fferent sorts of people here, and so many d i fferent attitudes to the hardest, the ultimate questions . . .

I shall try to convey to you how I feel, but am not sure if my metaphor is right. When a spider spins its web, does it not cast the main threads ahead of itself, and then follow along them from behin d ? The main path of my life stretches like a long journey before me and al ready reaches into another world. I t is j ust as if everything that happens here and that is still to h appen were somehow d iscounted inside me. As if I had been through it already, and was now helping to build a new and d i fferent society. Life here hardly touches my deepest resources-physi­ cally, perhaps, you do decline a little, and sometimes you a re infinitely sad-but fundamentally you keep growing stronger. I j ust hope that it can be the same for you and all my friends. We need it, for we still have so much to experience together and so much work to do. And so I call upon you: stay at your i nner post, and please do not feel sorry or sad for me, there is no reason to. The Levies� 1 a re having a hard time, but they have enough inner reserves to pull them through despite their poor physical state. Many of the children here are very d i rty. That is one of our biggest problems-hygiene. I'll w rite again and tell you more about them. I enclose a scribbled note I began to w rite to Father and Mother, but didn't have to send; you might find some of it interesting.

{ 2 9 5 1

I have one request, if you don't think it too immodest: a pillow or some old cushion; the straw gets a l ittle hard in the end. But you are not allowed to send parcels weighing more than two kilos from the provinces, and a pillow probably weighs more than that. So if you happen to be in Amsterdam and should call at Pa Han's (please don't abandon him, and do show him this letter), you might perhaps send it from some post office there. Otherwise, my only wish is that you are all well and i n good spirits, a n d send m e a few kind words from time t o time.

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Lots and lots of love, Etty

[To Father Han and others]

Westerbor� {Monday], 5 july [1943]

I must try to conjure up a letter in haste, for if tomorrow or the day a fter I am not allowed to write anymore, I shall regret not doing it now. I t's a d i fficult day. A transport leaves tomorrow morning, and last night I heard that my parents were on the l ist.4 2 Herman B. whispered it in my ear as I sat on the edge of Father's bed having a cozy chat-Father all unsuspecting. I d i d n ' t say anything and immediately went to see the v a rious authorities. I was told that my parents are still safe, but you can't be certain until the last mi nute. I shall keep as close a watch as I can until tomorrow morning. Ton ight another transport is com­ ing i n from Amsterdam, so I'll be up then in any case. Mechanicus, with whom I have struck up a firm friendship in a short time, is also on the list; we are still trying everyth ing we can. Weinreb was taken away some time ago--by car to The Hague in the care of a couple of VI Ps. You mustn't become too attached to people here.

This morning I worked in the punishment barracks, where people are in special custody, and took news back from the detainees to their relatives in the camp. I have j ust been to see Father again. He was lying down, reasonably content, reading a French novel and unaware that his name still has to be taken off the list. The ha rdest labor camp is better than this suspense every week. It d idn't bother me so much before, because I had accepted the fact that I would be going to Poland. But l i v ing in fea r for your loved ones, knowing that an infinitely long martyr­ dom is in store for them while your own life here stays relatively idyllic, is something few can bear. I sometimes feel like quietly packing my rucksack and getting onto the next transport to the east. But enough; it's not right for a human being to take the easy way out.

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Tuesday morning

I t i s ten o'clock. I am sitting in our empty work room; i t is wonderfully peaceful; most of my colleagues are asleep i n their barracks. A couple of boys are leaning on the windowsill gazing gloomily at the locomotive, which is belching clouds of smoke again. The rest of the train is hidden from v iew behind a low barracks. People have been busy loading the freight cars since six o'clock this morning; the train is ready to pull out. I feel as if I 've j ust gone through labor on my parents' behalf; this time we managed once again to keep them off the train. Otherwise I find i t d i fficult to say honestly how I feel.

Yesterday was a day like no other. Never before have I taken a hand i n "fixing" i t to keep someone off the transport. I lack a l l talent for d i plomacy, b u t yesterday I did m y bit for Mechanicus. What exactly i t was that I did, I'm not sure. I went to all sorts of officials. Suddenly I found myself walking around with a myste­ rious gentleman I've never seen before who looked like a w h i te slave trafficker in a French film. With this gentleman I went to all sorts of camp VIPs who are usually not available, especially before a transport. But this time invisible doors opened: one moment I had an interview with the Registrator, and the next I was appearing before a senile little man who presumably holds a mysterious position of power and can get people off the trans­ port even when all seems lost. There is a sort of "underworld" here i n Westerbork; yesterday I sensed something of it, I don't know how it all fits together, I don't think it's a savory story­ Anyway, I trudged around the whole day, while my parents were entrusted to Kormann's watchful eye and to the staff of the Jewish Council, who assu red me that everything would be all right this time.

As far as Mechanicus was concerned, things were in doubt until the very last moment. I helped him pack h is bags, sewed a few buttons on his suit. He said, "I've grown softer here in this

[ 2 9 8 1

camp, everyone has become the same for me, they are all like blades of grass, bending to the storm, lying flat under the h u rri­ cane." He also said, " I f I survive this time, I shall emerge a more mature and deeper person, and if I die, then I shall die a more mature and deeper one." Later my father said as I patted the top of his head, now almost white, "If I get my call-up tonight, truly I won't be upset, I'll leave quite peacefully." (People usually get their call-up in the night, a few hours before the transport leaves.)

At eight o'clock I walked about with Mother, said good-bye to v arious friends who had to go, then went for a w a l k with Lies! and Werner. At about ten o'clock I sat down with Jopie, who looks gray with fatigue. And after that I really couldn't stand u p any longer. I excused mysel f from n ight work and let things take their course. This morn ing at eight o'clock Jopie came by and told me through the window that m y parents were still here, that Jaap d idn't arrive last night (we were expecting people from the NIZ), and that Mechanicus is not on trans­ port.� 3 And now i t is eleven o'clock and I am going to the hospital, where I shall find a lot of empty bed s . A day like yesterday is a k iller, and next week the same thing starts all over a gam.

Late afternoon

Well, children, here I am again on the top bunk, t hree tiers u p . T h i s a fternoon, for a change, I fainted in t h e middle of a large, stuffy barracks. It serves as a reminder that there a re limi ts to one's physical strength. In addition to the hospital barracks, I have now been assigned the punishment barracks as well. Since half our colleagues have gone back to Amsterdam, there are many j obs to cover. Then Kormann told me that my parents must still expect to be put on transport next wee k . It will be­ come more and more difficult to keep people back-but you

{ 2 9 9 1

never know in advance, and that is precisely what saps you, the uncertainty until the last minute. Then I went to see Mother, who was feeling d izzy and sick herself; and then I felt I had reached the end of my tether and fainted . Tomorrow, things will be better. I suddenly remember that it's the "summer holidays" in the outside world. Do you have any plan s ? You will tell me everything, won' t you ? Maria, thank you for your letter ! It was exactly what a letter from you ought to be. I f I am allowed to write tomorrow, I'll send you another scrawl; otherwise I shall keep quiet for the time being-

We learn everything from the doctors here. What a desperate state of affairs. We have a surfeit of doctors, who are unable to do anything useful. Jan Zeeman's father is here, too !

{ 3 0 0 J

Good-bye ! Be strong ! Etty

Westerbork, 6 July [1943]

Milli d a rling,

J ust a brief cry of d i stress. I did start a letter to you and Mien, but a letter gets out of date here even as you write it. Today my strength fa iled me for the fi rst time, and I fainted right in the middle of a big barracks. This morning yet another transport of 2 ,500 left. I managed with difficulty to keep my parents off it, but thi ngs are getting quite desperate. Good friends of mine here, who have what is called influence, told me in confidence this morning that my parents must make ready for next week's transport. Slowly but steadily the camp is being sucked d ry . Without some miracle from outside, it w i l l all be o v e r in a week or two. What we really want is to get Mischa, who is determi ned to stick w ith his parents and face certa in doom, away from here. Is i t really true that he could have gone to Ba rneveld by himself? And wouldn't it still be possible, even if our parents don't go to B . , for him to get an order tel ling him that he must go ? Even though, to be honest, I know quite wel l that nothing will make him go without his parents. "If they are sent on transport, that'll be the end of me, too," he keeps saying. Between ou rselves, i t's all a long tale of woe. And the worst part is that you a re able to do so much less for your people than they expect. Six months ago it would probably sti ll have been fa i rly si mple to keep them back here and make them feel quite at home, but I am becoming more hel pless all the time. You yourselves know very well what sort of feeling that is. I won't write more now, for I can see this is not going to be a sunny letter.

You are such dears; all the trouble and effort and worry we are causing you weigh heavily on my conscience. I have j ust read Cor's letter to Mischa. A Kuyper-Glassner parcel has a rrived, but no Kuyper-Ortmann parcel. It's sad when parcels you have prepared with so much care and love don't get th rough, but I

I 3 o 1 J

think that everything else has arrived. It's all so welcome, and I often wonder how you manage to bring it off, since things can't be that easy with you either. We have also received a large box of tomatoes and cucumbers without the sender's name. So I don't know who it was, but report arrival in any case.

I must cut this short, dearest friend. I am feeling a bit down­ hearted, but things are bound to be better tomorrow. Regards to

Grete and Cor.

Love, Etty

Sooner or later I won't be allowed to write more than once every two weeks, so if you suddenly stop getting any signs of life from me, you'll know there was nothing I could do about it.

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[To Father Han and others]

Thursday afternoon, [8 july 1 943}

Hello ! I've been tell ing myself for the past half hour, half asleep, to w rite some more to you. Every writing day is an event: there's been nothing definite said yet about having to stop writing. And so I scribble on.

A few things before I forget them. Leo Kri j n � � has been sent th rough; leaving won't matter very much to him. His brother, who is still here, said to me yesterday, "He has the naive hope that he will find his wife and son again over there."

Herman B . is worried; for a whole week he has heard noth­ ing from Wiep4 5 and his mother. Is anything the matter ? H e is as well as always. He doggedly feeds my father cucumbers and tomatoes all day long. I pity Father sometimes because he's not allowed out of the barracks, but it doesn't seem to bother him very much, the clouds of dust outside hold no attraction for h i m .

I took Swiep's parcel to Anne-Marie. S h e w a s so n i c e t h a t I ' v e a r ranged to meet h e r o n e evening; s h e wants to introduce me t o a sociable Russian professor s o we c a n h a v e a bit of a chat.

My right hand is bandaged up because of the eczema, and that's why I am writing even less legibly than usual . Now you'll have to retouch even more letters, dear Fa ther Han. Thank you for your lovely letter. I would find i t hard to bear if Kathe really went away. Is it i rrevocable? Please don't let i t be !

At the moment I am lying in the midd l e of a battlefield of sick women. The wrong kind of bacillus is raging th rough our barracks, we have all got the "runs," as it is poetically termed. I am quite pleased to be immobilized; it gives me a chance to w r i te to you. I gather from Grete Wendelsgelst's latest report,4 6 which I got this morning, that my family will be able to stay here after a l l . Yesterday i t appeared that they had to go.

After I had fainted twice on the same day, I made u p my

{ 3 0 3 1

mind to start a new l i fe without all these tensions. I was also beginning to suffer from "stampitis": they stamp your papers w i th red , green, and blue identification marks; you can talk about them for twenty-four hours at a stretch-it is an inex­ haustible subject. Jopie is really sick of stampitis-when he hears the word stamp, he wants to vomit. At the moment feelings are at fever pitch: all stamps, all colors, have been suspended; there is to be a regrouping. What the next transport will look like no one knows-the l ists still have to be made up, and in the process all kinds of things are bound to go on behind the scenes. They are playing a game with us, but we allow them to do so, and that will be our shame for generations to come. I told you a few days ago something about a senile little man for whom closed doors mysteriously opened. He's really a pleasant little man; he served as a courier in the Great War and among other things was a friend of Archbishop Soderblom.4 7 He is the only person al­ lowed to call unannounced on the commandant-who even re­ turns his v isits, which is a very great honor here, God help us. Yesterday I walked with him and Mechanicus for a couple of hours, and he came up with reminiscences about Poincare and the queen; no lesser person would do for him. But he also said something very much to the point: "In Westerbork there is only one service that's equitable: the water supply. It provides water for 1 0,000 Jews, and each one gets the same amount."

You don't mind my writing everything a bit m ixed up, do you ? It's because I am so sleepy. You see, I keep striking the same chords even here. Experience has shown me forcibly: if you allow yourself to get involved i n all the tensions here each week, then in three weeks you're done for, absolutely done for. And when it's finally your turn to go off in the Moscow d i rec­ tion, you're j ust not able to make it anymore. So I am trying to live my life away from all the green, red, and blue stamps and transport l ists.

Now and then I join the gulls. In their movements through

[ 3 0 4 1

the great cloudy sk ies one suspects laws, eternal laws of another order than the l aws we humans make. This a fternoon Jopie, who feels thorough ly sick and all in, stood together with h is sister-in-arms Etty for at least a quarter of an hour looking up at one of these black-and-silver birds as it moved among the mas­ sive deep-blue rain clouds. We suddenly fel t a lot less oppresse d .

One should b e able to write fai ry stories h e r e . I t sounds strange, but i f you wanted to convey something of Westerbork l i fe you could do i t best in that form. The m isery here is so beyond all bounds of reality that it has become unreal. Some­ times I walk through the camp laughing secretly to myself be­ cause of the completely grotesque ci rcumstances. One would have to be a very great poet indeed to describe them; perhaps i n about t e n years I might get somewhere n e a r i t .

In the evening

I have to stop right in the middle of the fai ry tales-

Next morning

People live an episodic life here; I have a quarter of an hour to spare, so another few words. Yes, really, it's true, there are com­ passionate laws in nature, if only we can keep a feeling for their rhythm. I notice that afresh each time in myself: when I am at the l i m i ts of despair, unable, I am sure, to go on, suddenly the balance s h i fts over to the other side, and I can laugh and take l i fe as i t comes. After feeling really low for ages, you can sud­ denly rise so high above earthly misery that you feel l ighter and more l iberated than ever before in your l i fe. I am now very well again, but for a few days I was quite desperate. Equilibrium i s restored t i m e a n d again. A h , children, we l i v e in a strange world-

I t is a complete madhouse here; we shall have to feel ashamed

[ 3 0 5 1

of it for three hundred years. The Dienstleiters themselves now have to d raw up the transport lists.4 8 Meetings, panics-it's all horrible. I n the middle of this game with human lives, an order suddenly from the commandant: the Dienstleiters must present themselves that evening at the first night of a cabaret that is being put on here. They stared openmouthed, but they had to go home and d ress in their best clothes. And then in the evening they sit in the registration hall, where Max Ehrlich, Chaya Gold­ stein, Willy Rosen, and others give a performance.� 9 In the fi rst row, the commandant with his guests. Behind him, Professor Cohen.5 0 The rest of the hall ful l . People laughing until they cried-oh yes, cried. On days when the people from Amsterdam pour into the camp, we put up a kind of wooden barrier in the big reception hall to hold them back if the crush becomes too great. During the cabaret this same barrier served as a piece of decor on the stage; Max Ehrlich leaned over it to sing his little songs. I wasn't there myself, but Kormann just told me about it, adding, "This whole business is slowly d riv ing me to the edge of despair."

I will have to put an end to this letter, otherwise I won't be able to send it off. I must just think what else I should add. I received a cigar box ful l of tomatoes from Gera;5 1 please thank her if you see her; I can't write as many letters as before. Mevrouw Nethe's Jim is also here from Mien's house, so I know the latest news.5 2 Oh yes, Father Han, please send me ten guil­ ders in a letter; even now money can sometimes come in very useful, however silly that may sound. They are still work ing on getting a short leave for us in order "finally" to settle our affairs. I f i t comes off, i t w i l l be a lovely extra gift, but I don't count on i t any longer. I f I am allowed to write tomorrow, I'll send another scribble; otherwise you must have a l i ttle patience-

However improbable it may sound: I am more saddened by what happens in the outside world than by events on the battle-

l 3 0 6 ]

field here. I remember a lunch with J ohannes Brouwer; he was a sensitive man5 3 . . . now they're making me move from here, too.

[ 3 0 7 1

Good-bye ! Etty

Westerbork., Thursday n ight, 8 July [1943]

Dearest Ch ristine,

I am on night duty now, so if no great panic occurs at my little table, I can scribble one or two words between business. I n any

case I want to send off a letter this evening so that your sister gets it in time. Do forgive me if this is all somewhat incoherent.

Christine, that Groningen cak e ! I t was princely . Altogether it was such a magnificent parcel. I immediately gave Father a few small slices and half a bar of chocolate. It's marvelous, I just run over to him, five minutes from my barracks, pass him something through the window, and run back again. By holding on to one's people here, you can look after them and keep them going­ with the help of the outside worl d . Mischa was there when I unpacked the parcel; he beamed. You had prepared it with such care and love, it sustains us-not just the contents, but also the thought that there are people who so much want to help us. Meanwhile another parcel has arrived from the Jewish Council in Deventer with glorious rye bread from Gantvoort. I al ways give half to Mother, who shares it with Mischa, and keep the other half for Father.

Tense and sti rring days behind us. Father was on the trans­ port list. We were able to get him off once again. I must explain that the call-ups for the transport come in the middle of the night, a few hours before the train leaves. I f people are still needed at the last minute to fill the quotas, then Jews a re seized here and there at random from the ba rracks. And that's why the days before the transport are so nerve-racking. The day after­ ward I fainted twice, but I'm fine again now-until the next transport. Sunday evening while I was sitting talking on the edge of Father's bed , an acquaintance suddenly whispered in my ear: "Your father is on the list." People are afraid on such occa-

[ 3 0 8 j

swns to tell you the truth. And all Monday that long row of unpainted freight cars stood there, about seventy people-men, women, invalids, babies-squashed into each one, the doors slammed shut, a l ittle air coming through the a i r holes and the broken planks, paper mattresses on the floor for the sick; for the rest only a h a rd floor, a bucket in the middle, and a th ree-day jou rney ahead. Can you imagine what that mea n s ? I have got used to the idea that I'll have to go myself one day. Above a l l else in the world I wish I could spare m y parents and my broth­ ers. But you can't play the ostrich here; a transport leaves every week , and the quota must be filled. J ust a l i ttle while longer, and all our turns will come. My father takes i t very quietly. "What all those thousands before us have borne, we can also bear," he says. I a m grateful to have him here sti l l , but on Monday the misery starts all over again. However-according to a report I received today from a good friend who is working on our be­ half-it seems that something is being done for us from The Hague a fter a l l .

Father and Mother g i v e m e a great d e a l of pleasure, for they are coping in their own ways; I admi re them tremendously. Father now has two pupils in his hospital barracks, one boy who is not too ill and one who is very sick. Both want to learn a little Greek and Latin as a d istraction, and he takes pleasure in giving them lessons for two hours a day, going through Homer, Ovid, and Sallust. For the rest, he reads a great deal, philosophizes with ancient rabbis and old student friends, and now and then strolls with his daughter through the d usty sand of the hospital grounds. Oh C h ristine, i f only they could stay here in case noth­ ing comes of Barneveld. There might be a chance of getting through here with the help of the outside world, however d i ffi­ cult everything may be. But once they're on the train, then I expect nothing but an endless martyrdom-We shall j ust have to wait and see-

[ 3 0 9 1

A little later

Oh yes, the soap powder-I 'd love it. Something l ike that is almost more important than food, the crowding has compelled such a poor state of hygiene. We wash our clothes often enough, in a variety of buckets obtained with difficulty. The clothes don't get much cleaner, it's true, but the idea that you have done a wash makes you feel a bit better-

I don't answer your letters as regularly as you answer mine because it's almost impossible here. Mischa's barracks is number 62.

The end of my duty; I shall rush over to my barracks. I have a fever and something poetically termed the runs; half the camp has got it at the moment, but I never like staying in bed, I prefer making myself useful.

What did I tell you ? A messy, incoherent letter. Writing will really be coming to an end soon. I've heard that we're no longer allowed to acknowledge private parcels from the provinces with a postcard. If I write "Parcel received" to Simon, then I mean a parcel from the Jewish Council, but if I write "Little parcel," then I mean it's from you-although it would be more appro­ priate the other way around, as far as the size is concerned.

Much, much love from us all. We got a nice letter from van Kuyk.

Have a good holiday.

{ 3 I 0 }

'Bye ! Etty

Westerbork [8 July 1 943]

M i l l i , my priceless Milli,

I could fl ing my arms around your neck ! Poor lamb, I keep sending you such terrible letters. Today the report from G rete, in which she says that the papers are on their way. We had heard nothing about i t. Now there are high hopes that we'll be able to keep m y parents here. All stamps have been decla red invalid, everyone is due for transport except those whose a ffairs are still being considered in The Hague. And oh, M i l l i , I 'd much sooner not see them in the freight cars, though I don't mind for myself. Well, we'll have to wait and see. In great haste. At the moment I'm not all that well : temperature, d iarrhea-but half the camp has it. I ' l l send Wegerif a fuller letter tonight meant for you all. Hug Grete for her lovely letter. All of you are so k i n d even though you have worries enough yourselves. I am on the trail of your Aunt Hermine; I'll call on her tomorrow. It's all very well , but they ought to have left the old people in peace. How are all of you ? Just think, Cor now lives so close to you ! No, there's no chance that you might be able to come here. Thanks for everything. Won't you please ask Wegerif to reim ­ burse y o u for a l l the expenses you have had ? Although what you have done for us is really beyond price ! In haste. More later, if it's still allowed.

{ 3 1 1 1

' Bye, Etty

Friday night [9 July 1 943]

Poor Milli,

I am so sorry for you, you have done so much running about and worked so hard. Barneveld is off, and off for Mischa, too. Father and Mother are on transport; Mischa has permission to stay but doesn't want to. It's getting very d ifficult to keep him quiet. He says: ''I'm going to go and tell the commandant he i s a murderer." We have to watch out that he doesn't do anything dangerous. Rauter's secretary is here in the camp at the moment, and Mother was specially summoned to be given the news. She was told expressly that they are now due for transport on Tues­ day. Whether anything can still be done from here, I don't know, I'll have to see. Our "parents' list" is unreliable right now; I don't even know whether my parents still come under that heading after the orders from The Hague. I j ust hope that some luggage will reach us from Amsterdam in time, although-we are more and more certain of this-everything is taken away from you anyway.

Let me a r range with you now something I 've already written to Nethe. If Mother and Father leave next Tuesday and I am no longer allowed to write, then I shall wire Nethe. (We can still send certain specified telegrams to Jews in mixed marriages; they are delivered by courier.) My message will say, "Send two winter coats." If Mischa has gone as well, then I'll w i re, "Send three winter coats." I n the same way that Mischa wants to go out of love for his parents, I won't be going-out of a d i fferent kind of love. Perhaps it is a more cowardly love, but I myself feel strong. I believe that i t is easier to pray for people from a dis­ tance than to see them suffer right next to you.

Should you get one of those telegrams, then please pass the news on to our friends in Amsterdam and also to Mej uffrouw J. C . J . C. van Nooten, Noorderbergersingel 7, Deventer, and to

[ 3 I 2 }

Mevrouw M. Gans, Roodenburgerstraat 60, Leiden. I f i t is at all

possible I shall write again. I f they are stil l here and I a m not allowed to write, then I shall wire, "Send handkerchiefs." All righ t ? Alas, one more sad bit of news: your Aunt Hermine is no longer here. I am so sorry, Milli my dear, that I have nothi ng but gloomy news.

{ 3 1 3 1

Good-bye. Love, Etty

10 July 1 943

Maria, hello,

Ten thousand have passed through this place, the clothed and the naked, the old and the young, the sick and the healthy-and I am left to l ive and work and stay cheerful. It will be my parents' turn to leave soon, if by some mi racle not this week, then certainly one of the next. And I must learn to accept this as well . Mischa insists on going along with them, and it seems to me that he probably should; if he has to watch our parents leave this place, it will totally unhinge him. I shan't go, I just can't. It is easier to pray for someone from a distance than to see him suffer by your side. It is not fear of Poland that keeps me from going along with my parents, but fear of seeing them suffer. And that, too, is cowardice.

This is something people refuse to admit to themselves: at a given point you can no longer do, but can only be and accept. And although that is something I learned a long time ago, I also know that one can only accept for oneself and not for others. And that's what is so desperately difficult for me here. Mother and Mischa still want to "do," to turn the whole world upside down, but I know we can't do anything about it. I have never been able to "do" anything; I can only let things take their course and if need be, suffer. This is where my strength l ies, and it is great strength indeed. But for myself, not for others.

Mother and Father have definitely been turned down for Barneveld; we heard the news yesterday. They were also told to be ready to leave here on next Tuesday's transport. Mischa wanted to rush straight to the commandant and call him a m u rderer. We'll have to watch him carefully. Outwa rdly, Father appears very calm. But he would have gone to pieces in a matter of days in these vast barracks if I hadn't been able to have h i m taken t o the hospital-which h e is gradually coming t o find j ust

[ 3 1 4 1

as i n tolerable. He is really at his wits' end, though he tries not to show it. My prayers, too, aren't going quite right. I know: you can pray God to give people the strength to bear whatever comes. But I keep repeating the same prayer: "Lord, make it as short as possible." And as a result I a m paralyzed. I would like to pack their cases w i th the best things I can lay m y hands on, b u t I know perfectly well that they will be stripped of every­ thing; about that we have been left in no doubt. So w h y bother ?

I have a good friend here.5 4 Last week h e was told t o keep himself in readiness for transport. When I went to see h i m , he stood straight as an a rrow, face calm, rucksack packed beside his bed . We didn't mention his leaving, but he did read me v a r ious things he had written, and we talked a little philosophy. We d i d n ' t make things hard for each other with grief about having to say good-bye. We laughed and said we would see each other soon. We were both able to bear our lot. And that's what is so desperate about this place: most people a re not able to bear their lot, and they load it onto the shoulders of others. A n d that burden is more l ikely to break one than one's own.

Yes, I feel perfectly able to bear my lot, but not that of m y parents. T h i s is t h e l a s t letter I'll b e allowed to w rite for a while. This a fternoon our identity cards were taken away, and we became official camp inmates. So you'll have to have a l i ttle patience waiting for news of me.

Perhaps I will be able to smuggle a letter out now and then. Have received your two letters.

{ 3 I 5 }

' Bye, Maria-dear friend , Etty

[From a letter to Maria]

{July 1943]

First thing in the morning, before six o'clock, I walk across to Father's barracks, fetch his thermos bottle, then take it to the boiler house: fou r hot-water taps along the outside wall; a long row of people with bowls, buckets, and coffeepots; a gentleman with a professorial appearance who controls the traffic. I wait my turn-that l ittle packet of tea from Swiep always in my left­ hand coat pocket-burn my fingers at the tap, and the tea has d rawn by the time I 've walked back . Then to Mother in the hospital (with bronchitis and some exhaustion), fetch her ther­ mos flask, and begin the same pilgrimage. Then to Mischa (who lies three bunks up under a sloping beam in the big barracks, like a prince in disguise) to see if he needs anything.

All the parcels come to me. I try to act fairly as the family rations-distribution center. I walk about with little tin boxes from one person to the other and get real pleasure out of doing it. I simply have no words for the way our friends, including Father's colleagues, are caring for us; sometimes it weighs al­ most too heavily on my mind. Father is an imperturbable gypsy-j ust occasionally a decline, during which he would l ike to step into the freight train and be rid of the whole mess-but he always pulls himself out of it again. He passes his days here with half a dozen little Bibles-Greek, French, Russian, etc.­ and keeps surprising me with particularly apposite texts. He is modest in his demands, and lives mainly on bread. On the day before the transport that he was firmly convinced he would be j oining, he was as cool as a cucumber, read Homer with his sick boys, and gossiped with former student friends who have turned into gray-haired rabbis.

I learned in good time from an unforgettable friend5 5 -for whose death I still give thanks every day-the great lesson from

[ 3 I 6 }

Matthew 24: "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." This is the only attitude that allows you to carry on at Westerbork.

And so every night, with sure peace of mind, I lay down my many earthly cares at the feet of God Himsel f. They a re often trivial cares-for instance, how I am going to finish the family

wash. The big worries are worries no longer; they have all merged i n to a fate to which one has been j oined . The Puttkam­ mer story has filled me with shame . 5 6 It shows you j ust what mad antics people in need will get up to.

But I'm sure there are limits. And a money business like that is certainly not for us. Don't in heaven's name worry your head about it any longer. What tens and tens of thousands be­ fo re us have borne, we can also bear. For us, I think, it is no longer a question of living, but of how one is equipped for one's extinction.

{ 3 1 7 J

{card postmarked 25 july 1943]

Dearest Christine,

Your choice collection of goggles is already in place protecting our eyes from the dust, and the other good things of l i fe have also arrived safely. The little sponge cakes were unsurpassed. I am putting some of them by in a tin so I can gladden my father's heart with a couple each day. It's wonderful to be able to bring him something really delicious from time to time. Please tell Hansje Lansen when you have a chance that Father isn't able to write back to her. She sent a moving letter which was very much appreciated; do please tell her. Have a good time in Groningen.

More later.

[ 3 1 8 1

'Bye, Etty

7 A ugust {1 943]

Maria, dear friend,

This morning there was a rainbow over the camp, and the sun shone in the mud puddles. When I went into the hospital bar­ racks, some of the women called out, "Have you got good new s ? You look so cheerful." I considered saying something about Victor Emmanuel, about a popular government, and about peace being on the way.5 7 I couldn't fob them off with the rainbow, could I ? -even though that was the only reason for my cheerfulness.

" I t's going to come to an end soon, it's all going to come tumbling down," chanted a l ittle old wrinkled professor opposite me at the wooden table. People's spirits are high. I talian sounds blossom between the i ron bunks and the rags. There must be a modicum of t ruth in the reports repeated in conversations here as if through d i s torting mirrors. An "Aryan" with bullet wounds was brought i n to the camp and put in a separate corner of one of the hospital barracks. Not long after, a police car with detectives came d riv ing down our muddy little paths, the polo-shirted commandant bicycling in front to show the way. They say that the man with the bullet wounds was interrogated nonstop for hours. But otherwise he was treated with great respect, they say. The commandant fetched from his own house a little cushion for the man. They say that he is a Dutch resistance fighter. They also say that he is the mayor of Beilen. They say that several more Aryans have been brought into the camp, all with bullet wounds. They say that there is great unrest in Drenthe. A few evenings ago a fire blazed against the gray sky over our steppe; I stood watching it for a long time in the rain. The next morning a Jew in green overalls mounted guard in front of the barracks opposite the orphanage, where the children play on a small piece of sandy ground sur­ rounded by barbed wire. Green Overalls was guarding twenty non-Jews: men, women, children, picked up in the middle o f the

[ 3 1 9 ]

night from their beds in Drenthe as hostages because of the fire. (Privately, resentment was expressed by some inmates that we should have to keep watch over non-Jews in a Jewish camp.) But that very same day, the twenty all vanished again.

Yesterday we had a general come to v isit us. We were d riven from our beds at the crack of dawn. A fever of spring-cleaning burst out in the camp; for a few hours I wandered homeless through the mud. The patients in the hospital had to keep to their beds, the food appeared to be somewhat better than usual, the patients in the large barracks had to have stars sewn on their pajamas, and no one was allowed to wear a loose star. A fat toad in a green uniform-surely the general-s huffled about between the barracks. They say that he came because there is so much unrest in Drenthe. Spirits here are very high. For a few weeks now no transports have left, and it looks as if no more will be leaving.5 8 So they say. This place will be turned into a labor camp with a concentration camp as an annex. The people in the punish­ ment barracks, whose number is growing every day, will have to have their heads shaved and wear prison uniform. They don't know what to do with the old people and the children; no ruling has been made about them yet. The commandant has decided that they will be allowed to stay on. So they say. My father is lying sick in a shed with 1 30 people. "The Lower Depths,"59 he chuckles. He chuckles a great deal. Little Bibles in various languages and French novels are strewn all over his untidy blankets. His suit, his winter coat, all his worldly goods, are lying crumpled i n a heap behind his pillow. The men's beds have been put right next to each other. The "brothers"-the male nurses-walk quickly past; God forbid you should ask them anything. "You have to be as fit as a fiddle to survive in this hospital," says Father, "if you're sick you haven't a hope." For a few days he was really ill, with a temperature of about 1 04oF and diarrhea. I toast bread for him at Anne-Marie's and keep running to the boilerhouse to fetch hot water for tea. I barter rye bread for rusks and other easily digesti-

{ 3 2 0 1

ble things; I ' m doing a roaring trade in rye bread. Yeste rday a kind lady brought him a royal gift: a roll of toilet paper. She is the w i fe of a leading rabbi who works here in the charity department. Father thanked her w i th extreme courtesy. I often slip in to see him; it always means a m inor battle with the doorkeeper, who is a stickler for the rules. Father once forgot himself to the point of calling him a Feldwebel. 6 0 Almost bursting into tears, the man said i n a strong German accent, "But look, m ister, I've been liv ing in Holland for the past ten years." "And I for three hundred," Father answered tersely. But next day he wanted to make it up: he said, " I didn't mean to insult you or any Feldwebel. " Anyway, that doorkeeper takes up too much of my cunning and energy. We chuckle together a lot, Father and I; you can't real l y call i t laughing. He h a s a primitive sense of humor, w h i c h becomes more profound and sparkling as the grotesque process of his reduction to poverty assumes ever more wretched d i mensions.

They still do not realize, my God , that apart from You, everything here is quicksand. That just slipped out.

I'm sitting in one of the big barracks at a wooden table, three bunks behind my back, three bunks in front of me. The barracks is like some colorful, sultry back street in the Orient. People shuffle along the narrow pathways between bunks. A l i ttle old woman asks, "Can you tell me where So-and-So lives ? " "At number so-and-so," says Mechanicus, who is sitting next to me and writing, a sort of tramp's trilby hat on his head against the flies. Every bunk here has a number, and someone lives at every number. Though it resembles an Eastern bazaar, when I walk between the beds and look out of the open window I see gray Dutch rain clouds, potato fields, and far in the d istance, two Dutch trees. Opposite me sits Jo Spier's seventy-year-old father, eternally youthful; he d raws rust-brown barracks i n a sketchbook.6 1 Beside him somebody mutters prayers over a book with Hebrew letters.

{ 3 2 I }

A raw wind blows through the barracks, several windowpanes are broken, yet the air is stale and foul-smelling. Like an agile monkey, Mechanicus has j ust clambered up onto his third-tier bunk and triumphantly reappears with a tin of pea soup. A small space has become free on the stove in the washhouse. I t is half past twelve; I am invited to stay on in this Eastern back street on the Oren the heath to eat pea soup. I have a good l i fe, indeed !

Sunday morning, eight o' cloc� 8 A ugust

I've had a wash at the tap in our tiny kitchen and crept back into bed . A huge pan of endives is bubbling away on the l i ttle hot­ plate; the ten of us in our small barracks have a few hours of cooking time first thing this morning. My roommates are do­ mestic women whose l ives revolve around that one small hot­ plate. With comical results, sometimes; mostly enough to make you weep. I am hardly ever at home. We have three books in our little house: Quicksilver by Cissy van Marxveldt, The Divorce by Henri van Booven, and Conversations with Sri Krishna. People almost come to blows for browsing rights to Cissy van Marxveldt. When I last took out the Bible, one of my roommates said smugly, " I 've h idden my own Bible away somewhere safe ! " The rain beats against our small windows, i t is cold , i t looks a s if summer is definitely over. From my bunk I can see gulls in the d istance moving across the flat gray sky. They are like free thoughts in an open mind.

Last night I went with Mechanicus to see Paul's mother. She found a louse, so for the past few days she has been in the quarantine barracks. Not only did she have the louse; at the same time she had an inoculation and a back tooth pulled. And now she must sit on a narrow little bench and peel potatoes every day for hours. "Slave labor," she says. She is in a bad way. The quarantine barracks looks like a house of correction, with­ out a single object that provides home comfort. The three of us

{ 3 2 2 1

talked about the many parentless child ren, some of them a l ready like little old men and women, who are herded together outside in the rain every morning, while the barracks are cleaned. We talked about the soul-destroying work of picking peas and beans, about the danger of letting go and becoming demoral­ ized, about a l l the d reary and grotesque details of camp l i fe. "You can never describe things l ike that, you can only suffer them," said Mechanicus grimly. He is leaning with his elbows on the wooden table; he has fleas, holey socks, and cold shivers. He remarks with good-natured self-mockery, "This evening I feel j ust l i k e a very small boy afraid of the wolf." Later I saw him back to his own barracks and took his holey socks home with me. Paul's mother went with us part of the way through the night, a l arge woolen shawl around her shoulders, her gray hair loose in the wind. Do you still remember that musical afternoon when Paul played the flute in the bay window and his mother sat w i th such stately dignity in the m iddle of the room ?

Many feel that their love of mankind languishes at Westerbork because it receives no nourishment-meaning that people here don't give you much occasion to love them. "The mass is a hideous monster; individuals are pitiful," someone said . But I keep d iscov­ ering that there is no causal connection between people's behavior and the love you feel for them. Love for one's fellow man is like an elemental glow that sustains you. The fellow man h i mself has hardly anything to do with it. Oh Maria, it's a little bit bare of love here, and I myself feel so inexpressibly rich; I cannot explain it.

I n your reply, please don't let it slip that you received this letter outside my writing day-there is strict censorship on i ncoming mail at the moment. Love to you all.

Etty

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8 A ugust 1 94 3

Dear Ch ristine,

Best, warmest greetings from us all. I thought I would send this letter, meant for a girlfriend, to you first. Much that is in it might easily have been written to you, and this way you'll have more news of us. And when you've read the enclosed pages, will you please forward them to Sister Maria Tuinzing, c/o Heer Wegerif, 6 Gabriel Metsustraat? One Sunday morning she brought you a cup of coffee when you were sitting by my bed, and we spoke about the Stundenbuch, do you remembe r ? 6 2 That Stundenbuch now lies under my pillow, together with my small Bible. And yes, the words from Isaiah are magnificent and com­ forting and time and again give one the secret inner peace that passes all understanding. And what was magnificent as well­ and now I am taking a huge jump down to earth-was the l i ttle tin of crabmeat and the toast and all the other precious things. We suspect that you gave us not only the best but the last things from your own supplies, and the feeling that arouses in us can't be expressed in words. The parcels from your mother were so sweet, too. And the apples were wonderful-! can't mention everything or I shall run out of paper. We got a very nice letter from Kraak with lots of music in it. We hope you've had a good rest and are going back to work refreshed. Father is a l ittle better, though he's still not allowed to eat much. He is patient enough, the good man, and yet you know, I hope for him (and for so many, many others, too) that things won' t go on for much longer-

! must bother you again with some mundane requests; I feel awful, but there's no help for it. What we need urgently for Father is rusks and things like that. He hasn't eaten for days and must be helped back to his usual form slowly; the camp bread is terrible. And we have no suga r-we finished what we had, and

[ 3 2 4 1

we don't get any sugar at all here. Is it still possible to get hold of some, down a dark al leyway ? At the moment we have no butter either, but i t's possible that some will arrive any d ay from Deventer; you can never tel l . That half pound of yours from Amsterdam came exactly when it was needed. Wel l , the truth is out again: long live material things. We shall all of us bear up, on both sides of the barbed wire, won't we ? Things a re going well, they say. The rest is in the enclosed letter. Thanks for your goodness and love, dear child. Love to Hansje Lansen.

[ 3 2 5 1

' Bye, Etty

[Letter to Maria Tuinzing]

II August I 943

Later on, when I no longer have to sleep on an iron bunk in a camp surrounded by barbed wire, I shall have a little lamp above my bed so that I can have light around me at night whenever I want. When I l ie d rowsing, thoughts and little stories often whirl through my brain, as random and transparent as soap bubbles, and I would so like to be able to capture them on paper.

I n the mornings when I wake up, I l ie cocooned in these stories; it is a rich awakening, you know. But then I get twinges of pain; the ideas and images simply demand to be written down, but there is nowhere for me to sit in peace. Sometimes I walk around for hours looking for a quiet little corner. Once a stray cat came in d uring the night. We put a hatbox for it on the

WC, and it had kittens inside. I sometimes feel like a stray cat without a hatbox.

Tonight Jopie's son was born. His name is Benjamin, and he sleeps in a d rawer. They have now put some sort of madman beside my father.

You know, if you don't have the inner strength while you're here to understand that all outer appearances are a passing show, as nothing beside the great splendor (I can't think of a better word right now) inside us-then things can look very black here indeed. Completely wretched, in fact, as they must look to those pathetic people who have lost their last towel; who struggle with boxes, trays of food, cups, moldy bread, and d irty laundry, on, under, and around their bunks; who are miserable when other people shout at them or are unkind, but who shout at others themselves without a thought. Or to those poor aban­ doned child ren w hose parents have been sent on transport, and who are ignored by the other mothers-who have worries enough with their own brood, what with the d iarrhea and all

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the other complaints, big and small, when nothing was ever

w rong with them in the past. You should see these poor mothers sitting beside the cots of their wailing young in blank and brute despair.

I have visited ten different places in order to fi l l this one sheet of paper: my makeshift l i ttle table in our workshop; a wheelbar­ row opposite the laundry where Anne-Ma rie works (standing for hours in the heat surrounded by child ren whose thoughtless screaming she finds very difficult to cope with right now; yester­ day I d ried her tears but d i d n ' t tell her that I was writing it all down-these scribblings to you are meant for Swiep as well); a lecture given last night in the orphanage by a long-winded pro­ fessor o f sociology; a windy bit of "dune" under the open sky this morning-each time I add another few words-and now I am sitting in the partitioned-off hospital canteen, which I have only j ust discovered, a place to which I shall be able to withdraw now and then for a l ittle while.

Tomorrow morning Jopie leaves for Amsterdam. For the first time in the months I have been here, I feel a small stab in my d isciplined heart. Why am I being left behind ? But still-every­ one's time will come. Most people here are much worse off than they need be because they write off their longing for friends and family as so many losses in their lives, when they should count the fac t that their heart is able to long so hard and to love so much among their greatest blessings. Well, dear Lord , I thought I had found a quiet little spot, but it is suddenly ful l of k i tchen staff with clattering pans of stew and hospital staff sett l i ng down a round the trestle tables to eat. I t is past noon, a nd I am off to look for somewhere else.

Had a stab at philosophy late at night, with eyes that kept closing with fatigue. People sometimes say, "You must try to make the best of things." I find this such a feeble thing to say. Everywhere things are both very good and very bad at the same time. The two a re in balance, everywhere and always. I never

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have the feeling that I have got to make the best of things; everything is fine j ust as it is. Every situation, however misera­ ble, is complete in itself and contains the good as well as the bad. All I really wanted to say is this: "making the best of things" is a nauseating expression, and so is "seeing the good in everything." I should like to explain why in greater detail, but if you only knew how tired I feel-I could sleep for fourteen days a t a stretch. Now I ' m going to take this to Jopie. Tomorrow morning I'll go with him to the police station, and then he is off to Amsterdam, and I back to the barracks.

Well, my children, good-bye ! Etty

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12 A ugust 1 943

C h ristine,

Today you really were a guardian angel, never have I watched so desperately for a parcel as this wee k . And now one has come a t last, and what a parcel ! I took the rusks and rolls straight to Father. The poor soul is thin as a rake after a l l the fasting; he has an abscess on his eye and a bullying doorkeepe r . I t's rather sad, but one mustn't d well on it too much. And yet he is consid­ ered the m i racle of the barracks: the only person there who can read w i th concentration-Hebrew, French, Dutch, w hatever you l ike, he goes on reading. No one can understand how any man can do i t in such surroundings. You won't mind too much, will you, if I mix things up a bit ? I am on night d u ty again­ have to attend to people now and then , and I'm giddy with fatigue. I hope you have heard from me twice: a piece from my letter to Amsterdam and a note enclosing a letter to Sister Tuinzing. I think you must have got the last one, because I'm almost sure that your lavish parcel was a d i rect response. I am so glad that I can get a short message through, thanks to some brave people. It looks as if our official letters are being held back for the time being. We aren't receiving incoming mail anymore either, it would seem. But keep on writing, please; sooner or later i t will get through to us again.

I ' m curious to know whether the Jewish Council in Deventer is still functioning. I have heard nothing from them recently. The Gelder family is here. You know that packets can be sent by letter post from the provinces up to a maximum weight of two k i los-best not registered, since the registered parcels are way­ laid. There's always a new rule here. Should they forbid all contact w i th the provinces, then it would probably be best for you to get in touch with Mevrouw M. Kuyper, 6 1 Reynier Vinkeleskade, Amsterdam, who looks after all sorts of luggage

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for us v ia the Amsterdam Jewish Council. We are causing you a lot of trouble, aren't we ? Oh Christine, I mustn't even think about it, this week I really saw what a misery it all is. I was so touched to get the tea, and the butter was a gift straight from heaven. We had run out of it for a few days; that's not such a d ramatic event in itself-after the war began, I often ran out of butter for a few days in Amsterdam-but everything is so much worse here, particularly since people are so debilitated by ill­ nesses and minor complaints and the bad climate. Physically Father isn't all that well at the moment, and by way of a change, Mother is beginning to suffer with bladder trouble.

Will you think badly of me if I make more requests ? Could you get some little Antifones at a chemist' s ? They're the things you put in your ears to block out noise. In Mother's barracks it is very noisy at night, with a lot of small children who are sick­ really there's nowhere here that isn't noisy-and now she wants to try sleeping with earplugs.

And again: do you know a product called Reformite ? It's something like Marmite, and you spread it on bread. I t has helped to keep Mother's appetite up. There is a peculiar k ind of disease here: for days on end a person feels not the slightest need for food. It's a mad place, this. And now one more thing: it appears that there may still be some of our lard left at Brian's. I f you could send u s a small chunk now and then, I could probably fry some potatoes on a hotplate belonging to some friends. And that's enough requests; they're making me feel ill.

Now I ' m going to send you something nice, too, something I ' v e j ust read about Paula Modersohn-Becker: "A deeply unexpectant attitude toward life was in her blood, something that was, in fact, a genuine expression of a supreme expectation: d isregard of all things external thanks to an instinctive percep­ tion of one's own riches, and a secret, not entirely explicable, inner happiness."

Father wants to write to you on his writing day, but it may

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not be sent through. Oh well, the bonds that exist between

people can't be broken by small setbacks. Start your new course in good heart, and think of us now and then.

We send you our love.

Etty

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Westerbork_, 18 August [1 943]

Darling Tide,

I thought at fi rst I would give my writing a miss today, because I'm so terribly tired, and also because I thought I had nothing to say j ust now. But of course I have a great deal to write about. I shall allow my thoughts free rein; you are bound to pick them up anyway. This afternoon I was resting on my bunk and sud­ denly I j ust had to write these few words in my d iary, and I now send them to you:

"You have made me so rich, oh God, please let me share out Your beauty with open hands. My life has become an uninter­ rupted dialogue with You, oh God, one great d ialogue. Some­ times when I stand in some corner of the camp, my feet planted on Your earth, my eyes raised toward Your heaven, tears some­ times run down my face, tears of deep emotion and gratitude. At night, too, when I lie in my bed and rest in You, oh God, tears of gratitude run down my face, and that is my prayer. I have been terribly tired for several days, but that too will pass. Things come and go in a deeper rhythm, and people must be taught to listen; it is the most important thing we have to learn in this l i fe. I am not challenging You, oh God, my l i fe is one great d ialogue with You. I may never become the great artist I would really like to be, but I am already secure in You, God. Sometimes I try my hand at turning out small profundities and uncertain short stories, but I always end up with j ust one single word: God. And that says everything, and there is no need for anything more. And a l l my creative powers are translated into inner d ialogues with You. The beat of my heart has grown deeper, more active, and yet more peaceful, and i t is as if I were all the time storing up inner riches."

Inexplicably, Jul has been floating above this heath of late.63 He teaches me something new every day. There are many mira-

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des in a human l i fe. My own is one long sequence of inner miracles, and it's good to be able to say so again to somebody. You r photograph is in Rilke's Stundenbuch, next to Jul's photo­ graph. They lie under my pillow together with my small Bible. Your letter with the quotations has also arrived. Keep writing, please, and fa re you well , my dear.

Etty

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[Fragment to Father Han and others6 4 ]

[undated, after 18 A ugust 1 94 3]

Now, that is something I can't say to the young mothers with their babies, women who will probably be riding straight to hell in a bare freight train. They would reply, " I t's easy for you to

talk, you haven't got any child ren," but that really has nothing to do with it.

There is a passage in the Bible from which I always draw new strength. I think it goes something l ike: "He that loveth me, let him forsake his father and mother." Last night I had to struggle again not to be overwhelmed by pity for my parents, since it would paralyze me if I gave in to it. I know that we must not lose ourselves so completely in grief and concern for our families that we have l ittle thought or love left for our neigh­

bors. More and more I tend toward the idea that love for every­ one who may cross your path, love for everyone made in God's image, must rise above love for blood relatives. Please don't misunderstand me. I t may seem unnatural-And I see that it is still far too d ifficult for me to write about, though so simple to l ive-

This evening Mechanicus and I will visit Anne-Marie and her long-standing host, the barracks leader, who has a l i ttle room of his own. We shall be sitting in what passes in Westerbork for a large apartment, with a big, low window that stands open; and the heath outside the window is as vast and rolling as the sea. I t's where I wrote my letters to you last year. Anne-Marie will no doubt make the coffee, and our host will talk about camp l i fe in the early days (he has already been here five years), and Philip will write short stories about it all. I shall delve into my l ittle tins to see if there is anything good to eat with some coffee; and who knows, l i ttle Etty, perhaps Anne-Marie will have made another

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pudding, like that unforgettable almond pudding she served up last time. It was hot today; i t will be a lovely summer evening in front of that open window and the heath. Later on, Philip and I will leave and find Jopie. A peaceful trio, we shall then go for a walk around the great gray Bedouin tent that rises up from a broad stretch of sand. They used to put people with lice in i t; now it houses stolen Jewish household goods that w i l l u l timately adorn the commandant's house or go to Germany as "gift par­ cels." A d i fferent sunset is staged every night in the sky behind the tent. There a re many landscapes in this camp on the Drenthe heath. I believe the world is beautiful all over, even the places that geography books describe as barren and dull. Most books are no good, really; we shall have to rewrite them all-

I wrote my fortnightly letter to Tide; we a re only a llowed to write on one side of the page now-

My c h i l d ren, how did you manage to come by something as princely as that half-pound of butte r ? I got the fright of my l i fe, it was colossa l . Please forgive this materialistic ending. I t is half past six. Now I must go and pick up the fa mily's bit of food.

My fondest, fondest love to you a l l .

Etty

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[Postcard to Christine van Nooten, 1 9 August]

Many thanks for multifarious parcel !

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Etty

[To Father Han and others]

Sunday morning, 22 A ugust 1 943

A pampered n ine-month-old baby, a little girl, lies in the mater­ n i ty ward here. Something very sweet, blue-eyed, and beautiful. She arrived here a few months ago with a "criminal record," for the police had found her abandoned in a clinic. No one k nows who or where her parents are. The baby has been in the mater­ n ity ward here for so long that the nurses have become very fon d o f her, and treat her like a l i ttle plaything. But what I wanted to tell you is this: when she first came, the baby was not allowed out. All the others were put out in the fresh a i r in prams, but this one had to stay inside, for after all, she had a criminal record. I checked this with three d i fferent n urses, be­ cause I found it so hard to believe, even though the strangest things happen here all the time, and they all confirmed the story.

I met a sl ightly built, undernourished twelve-year-old girl in the hospital barracks. I n the same chatty and confiding manner in which another child might talk about her sums at school, she said to me, "I was sent here from the punishment block; I am a c r i m in a l case."

A l ittle boy of three and a half who broke a windowpane with a stick got a h i ding from his father and began to howl noisily, crying, "Ooooh, now I'll be sent to 51 (= the prison), and then I'll have to go on the transport all by myself. "

W h a t c h i l d ren here s a y to each other is appalli ng. I heard one l i ttle boy say to another, " You know, the 1 20,000 stamp isn't really any good; it's much better to be half-Aryan and half­ Portuguese ."65 And this is what Anne-Marie heard one mother say to her c h i l d ren on the heath: "If you don't eat your pudding u p straightaway, then Mummy won't be with you o n the trans­ port ! "

This morning the woman who has the bunk above my

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mother d ropped a bottle of water. Most of it landed on Mother's bed. I n this place something like that is like a natural d isaster of scarcely imaginable proportions. The nearest thing i n the out­ side world would be a flooded house.

I am getting quite fond of this hospital canteen. It is just like a Wild West log cabin. A low, rough-hewn wooden hut, rough­ hewn tables and benches, small rattling windows, nothing else. I look out on a barren strip of sand with unkempt grass, bounded by a high bank of sand thrown up from a ditch. A deserted railway track curves along in front. During the week, half­ naked sunburned men push trolleys about out there. From here the view of the heath is quite unlike anything you can see from any other spot in this hole of a place. Beyond the barbed w i re is an area of billowy, low shrubs: they look like young spruce. This pitilessly barren landscape, the rough cabin, the sand, the small, stinking d i tch-it's all reminiscent of a gold-mining camp some­ where in the Klondike. Opposite me across the rough wooden table, Mechanicus is chewing at his fountain pen. We look at each other now and then over our l i ttle scraps of scribbled-on paper. He records everything that happens here most faithfully, almost officially. "It's too much," he says suddenly. "I know I can write, but here I am face to face with an abyss-or a moun­ tain. It's too much."

The place is begi nning to get crowded again as people with threadbare hand-me-downs and the right stamps sit down to eat turnips out of enamel bowls.

Later

Elly dear, your letter made me very happy and said a great deal to me.

Jopie brought a vivid reminder of you all back with him. It was doubly welcome because hardly any mail has been allowed through recently. As fa r as letters are concerned, we are j ust

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about cut off-one of the worst vexations of a l l . But we m ustn't let i t depress us; we must try to remain inwardly strong.

Anne-Mar ie was deliriously happy with Swiep's scribbles. To my regret, the rye bread from Leonie ended u p in the

wrong stomachs. Our bread position, so to speak, was favorable when i t arrived, so I hastily distributed it among people whose situation was less favorable. The next day I could hardly ask for perishable goods like that back again; but next time, at least, I ' l l k n o w who i t ' s for.

So touching, the grapes and pears. Parcels a l ways leave me at a loss; I never can say much. I am, as always, overj oyed with the Sanovite. I save i t mainly for Father and Mother, to make a change from the camp bread, which quickly goes moldy. Thank you for the loan of your flashlight, Father Han; i t's extremely useful i n the dark, what with all the puddles and barbed wire.

J opie told me a breathtaking story about Hans. Each one of us still lives under his own star, it appears. Jopie also said that he kept coming across me i n all sorts of nooks and crannies in the old house-that I was with you still.

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[Probably to Father Han and friends6 6 ]

24 August 1 943

There was a moment when I fel t in all seriousness that after this night, it would be a sin ever to laugh again. But then I reminded myself that some of those who had gone away had been laugh­ ing, even i f only a handful of them this time . . . There will be some who will laugh now and then in Poland, too, though not many from this transport, I think.

When I think of the faces of that squad of armed, green­ uniformed guards-my God, those faces ! I looked at them, each in turn, from behind the safety of a window, and I have never been so frightened of anything in my life. I sank to my knees with the words that preside over human life: And God made man after His likeness. That passage spent a difficult morning with me.

I have told you often enough that no words and images are adequate to describe nights like these. But still I must try to convey something of it to you. One always has the feeling here of being the ears and eyes of a piece of Jewish history, but there is also the need sometimes to be a still, small voice. We must keep one another in touch with everything that happens in the various outposts of this world, each one contributing his own little piece of stone to the great mosaic that will take shape once the war is over.

After a night in the hospital barracks, I took an early­ morning walk past the punishment barracks. And prisoners were being moved out. The deportees, mainly men, stood with their packs behind the barbed wire. So many of them looked tough and ready for anything. An old acquaintance-! d idn't recognize him straightaway; a shaven head often changes people completely-called out to me with a smile, "If they don't man­ age to do me in, I 'l l be back ."

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But the babies, those tiny piercing screams of the babies, d ragged from their cots in the middle of the night . . . I have to put it all down quickly, in a muddle, because if I leave it until late r I probably won't be able to go on believing that i t really happened . It is l i ke a v ision, and d rifts further and further away. The babies were easily the worst.

And then there was that paralyzed young girl, who d i d n ' t want to t a k e her d inner plate along a n d found it so h a rd to d ie. O r the terrified young boy: he had thought he was safe, that was his m istake, and when he realized he was going to have to go anyway, he panicked and ran off. His fellow Jews had to hunt h i m down. I f they didn't find him, scores of others would be put on the transport in his place. He was caught soon enough, h i d ­ i ng in a tent, but "notwithstanding" . . . "notwithstanding," all those others had to go on transport anyway, as a deterrent, they said. And so, many good friends were d ragged away by that boy . F i fty v ictims for one moment of insanity. O r rather: he d i d n ' t d rag them away-our commandant d i d , someone of whom it is sometimes said that he is a gentleman. Even so, will the boy be able to live with himsel f, once it dawns on him exactly what he's been the cause of? And how will all the other Jews on board the train react to him ? That boy is going to have a v e ry h a rd time. The episode might have been ove rlooked, perhaps, i f there hadn't been so much unnerving activi ty over our heads that night. The commandant must have been affected by that, too. "Donnerwetter, some flying tonigh t ! " I heard a guard say as he looked up at the stars.

People still harbor such childish hopes that the transport won't get through. Many of us were able from here to watch the bombardment of a nearby town, probably Emden. So why shouldn't i t be possible for the rail way line to be hit, too, and for the train to be stopped from leaving? I t's never been k nown to happen yet: But people keep hoping it will, with each new trans­ port and with never-flagging hope .

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The evenmg before, I had walked through the camp. People were grouped together between the barracks under a gray, cloudy sky. "Look, that's just how people behave after a disaster, standing about on street corners discussing what's happened," my companion said to me. "But that's what makes it so impossi­ ble to understand," I burst out. "This time, it's before the d isas­ ter ! "

Whenever misfortune strikes, people have a natural instinct to lend a helping hand and to save what can be saved. Tonight I shall be helping to d ress babies and to calm mothers-and that is all I can hope to do. I could almost curse myself for that. For we a l l know that we are yielding up our sick and defenseless broth­ ers and sisters to hunger, heat, cold, exposure, and destruction, and yet we d ress them and escort them to the bare cattle cars­ and if they can't walk, we carry them on stretchers. What is going on, what mysteries are these, in what sort of fatal mecha­ nism have we become enmeshed ? The answer cannot simply be that we are all cowards. We're not that bad . We stand before a much deeper question . . .

I n the afternoon I did a round of the hospital barracks one more time, going from bed to bed. Which beds would be empty the next day ? The transport lists are never published until the very last moment, but some of us know well in advance that our names will be down. A young girl called me. She was sitting bolt upright in her bed, eyes wide open. This girl has thin w rists and a peaky l ittle face. She is partly paralyzed, and has j ust been learning to walk again, between two nurses, one step at a time. "Have you heard ? I have to go." We look at each other for a long moment. It is as if her face has disappeared; she is all eyes. Then she says in a level, gray little voice, "Such a pity, isn't i t ? That everything you have learned in life goes for nothing." And, "How hard it is to die." Suddenly the unnatural rigidity of her expression gives way, and she sobs, "Oh, and the worst of it all is

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having to leave Hol land ! " And, "Oh, why wasn't I allowed to die before . . . " Later, d u ring the night, I saw her again, for the last time.

There was a little woman in the washhouse, a basket of d rip­ ping clothes on her arm. She grabbed hold of me; she looked deranged. A flood of words poured over me: "That isn't right, how can that be righ t ? I 've got to go, and I won't even be able to get my washing d ry by tomorrow. And my child is sick, he's feverish, can't you fi x things so that I don't have to go ? And I don't have enough things for the child, the rompers they sent me are too small, I need the bigger size, oh, it's enough to d rive you mad. And you're not even a llowed to take a blanket along, we're going to freeze to death, you d idn't think of that, did y o u ? There's a cousin of m i n e here, he came here t h e s a m e time I d i d , b u t he doesn't h a v e to go, he's got t h e right papers. Cou l d n ' t you help me to get some, too ? Just say I don't have to go, do you think they'll leave the children with their mothers, that's right, you come back again tonight, you'll help me then, won't you, what d o you think, would my cous in's papers . . . ? "

I f I were to say that I was in hell that night, what would I really be telling you ? I caught myself saying it aloud in the n ight, aloud to myself and quite soberly, "So that's what hell is like." You really can't tell who is going and who isn't this time. Almost everyone is up, the sick help each other to get d ressed. There are some who have no clothes at all, whose l uggage has been lost or hasn't arrived yet. Ladies from the "Welfare" walk about doling out clothes, which may fit or not, it d oesn't m a tter so long as you've covered yourself with something. Some old women look a ridiculous sight. Small bottles of milk are being prepared to take along with the babies, whose pitiful screams punctuate all the frantic activity in the barracks. A young mother says to me al most apologetically, "My baby doesn't usu­ ally cry; it's a l most as if he can tell what's happening." She picks up the child, a lovely baby about eight months old, from a

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makeshift crib and smiles at it. "If you don't behave yourself, Mummy won't take you along with her ! " She tells me about some friends. "When those men in green came to fetch them in Amsterdam, their child ren cried terribly. Then their father said, ' I f you don't behave yourselves, you won't be allowed to go in that green car, this green gentleman won't take you.' And that helped-the children calmed down." She winks at me bravely, a trim, dark little woman with a lively, olive-skinned face. She is d ressed i n long gray trousers and a green woolen sweater. " I m a y b e smiling," s h e says, "but I feel pretty awful." T h e l i ttle woman with the wet washing is on the point of hysterics. "Can't you hide my child for me ? Go on, please, won't you hide him, he's got a high fever, how can I possibly take h im along ? " She points to a little bundle of misery with blond curls and a burn­ ing, bright-red l ittle face. The child tosses about in his rough wooden cot. The nurse wants the mother to put on an extra woolen sweater, tries to pull it over her d ress. She refuses. ''I'm not going to take anything along, what use would it be ? . . . my child." And she sobs, "They take the sick children away and you never get them back."

Then a woman comes up to her, a stout working-class woman with a kindly snub-nosed face, d raws the desperate mother down with her on the edge of one of the i ron bunks, and talks to her almost crooningly. "There now, you're j ust an ordinary Jew, aren't you? So you'll just have to go, won't you . . . ? "

A few beds farther along I suddenly catch sight o f the ash­ gray, freckled face of a colleague. She is squatting beside the bed of a dying woman who has swallowed some poison and who happens to be her mother . . .

"God Almighty, what are You doing to us ? " The words j ust escape me. Over there is that affectionate l ittle woman from Rotterdam. She is in her ninth month. Two nurses try to get her d ressed. She j ust stands there, her swollen body leaning against

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her child's cot. Drops of sweat run down her face. She stares i n to the d istance, a distance into which I cannot follow her, and says in a toneless, worn-out voice, "Two months ago I volunteered to go with my husband to Poland . And then I wasn't a l lowed to, because I always have such d ifficult pregnancies. And now I do have to go . . . just because someone tried to run away to­ night." The wailing of the babies grows louder still, fi l ling every nook and cranny of the barracks, now bathed in ghostly l ight. It is almost too much to bear. A name occurs to me: Herod .

On the stretcher on the way to the train, her labor pains begin, and we are allowed to carry the woman to the hospital instead o f to the freight train-which, this n ight, seems a r a re act of h u m a nity . . .

I pass the bed of the paralyzed girl. The others have helped to d ress her. I never saw such great big eyes in such a l i ttle face. " I c a n ' t take it a l l i n , " s h e whispers t o me. A few steps a w a y stands my l ittle h unchbacked Russian woman; I told you about her before. She stands there as if spun in a web of sorrow. The paralyzed girl is a friend of hers. Later she said sadly to me, "She doesn't even have a plate, I wanted to give her mine, but she wouldn't take it. She said, 'I'll be dead in ten days anyway, and then those horrible Germans will get it.' "

She stands there in front of me, a green silk k i mono w rapped around her small, misshapen figure. She has the v e ry wise, bright eyes of a child. She looks at me for a long time in silence, searchingly, and then says, "I would like, oh, I really would l ike, to be able to swim away in my tears." And, " I long so desper­ ately for m y dear mother." (Her mother d ied a few months ago from cancer, in the washroom near the WC. A t least she was left alone there for a moment, left to die in peace.) She asks me with her strange accent in the voice of a child that begs for forgive­ ness, "Surely God will be able to understand m y doubts in a world like this, won't He ? " Then she turns away from me, in an almost loving gesture of infinite sadness, and t hroughout the

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night I see the misshapen, green, silk-clad figure mov ing be­ tween the beds, doing small services for those about to depart. She herself doesn't have to go, not this time, anyway . . .

I ' m sitting here squeezing tomato juice for the babies. A young woman sits beside me. She appears ready and eager to leave, and is beautifully turned out. I t is something like a cry of l iberation when she exclaims, arms flung wide, ' ' I 'm emba rking on a wonderful journey; I might find my husband ." A woman opposite cuts her short bitterly. ''I'm going as well, but I cer­ tainly don't think it's wonderful." I remembered admitting the young woman beside me. She has been here only a few days, and she came from the punishment block . She seems so level-headed and independent, with a touch of defiance about her mouth. She has been ready to leave since the afternoon, d ressed i n a long pair of trousers and a woolen sweater and cardigan. Next to her on the floor stands a heavy rucksack and a blanket roll. She is trying to force down a few sandwiches. They are moldy. ' ' I ' l l probably get quite a l o t of moldy bread t o eat," s h e laughs. " I n prison I d idn't e a t anything a t all for days." A b i t of her history in her own words: "My time wasn't far off when they threw me into prison. And the taunts and the insul ts ! I made the mistake of saying that I couldn't stand, so they made me stand for hours, but I managed it without making a sound ." She looks defiant. "My husband was in the prison as well . I won't tell you what they did to him ! But my God, he was tough ! They sent h i m through l a s t month. I w a s in my third day of labor and couldn't go with him. But how brave he was ! " She is almost radiant.

"Perhaps I shall find him again." She laughs defiantly. "They may d rag us through the d i rt, but we'll come through all right in the end ! " She looks at the crying babies all around and says, ''I'll have good work to do on the train, I still have lots of m i l k . "

"What, y o u here a s well ? " I suddenly c a l l o u t in dismay. A woman turns and comes up between the tumbled beds of the poor wailing babies, her hands groping around her for support.

[ 3 4 6 1

She is d ressed in a long, black, old-fashioned d ress. She has a noble brow and white, wavy hair piled up high. Her husband d ied here a few weeks ago. She is well over eighty, but looks less than sixty. I a l ways admi red her for the aristocratic way in which she reclined on her shabby bunk. She answers in a hoarse voice, "Yes, I'm here as well . They wouldn't let me share my husband's grave."

"Ah, there she goes again ! " I t is the tough little ghetto woman, who is racked with hunger the whole time because she never gets any parcels. She has seven children here. She trips pluckily and busily about on her l i ttle short legs. "All I know is, I've got seven children and they need a proper mother, you can be sure o f that ! "

With n imble gestures she is busy stuffing a j u te bag ful l of her belongings.

' ' I ' m not leaving anything behind; my husband was sent through here a year ago, and my two oldest boys have been through as well . " She beams. "My children are real treasures ! " She bustles about, she packs, she's busy, she has a kind word for everyone who goes by. A plain, dumpy ghetto woman with greasy black hair and l ittle short legs. She has a shabby, short­ sleeved d ress on, which I can imagine her wearing when she used to stand behind the washtub, back in J odenbreestraat. And now she is off to Poland in the same old d ress, a three-days' journey with seven children. "That's right, seven children, and they need a proper mother, believe me ! "

You can tell that the young woman over there i s used to luxury and that she must have been very beautiful. She is a recent arrival. She had gone into hid ing to save her baby. Now she is here, through treachery, like so many others. Her husband is i n the punishment barracks. She looks quite pitiful now. Her bleached h a i r has black roots with a greenish tinge. She has put on many d i fferent sets of underwear and other clothing all on top of one another-you can't carry everything by hand, after

{ 3 4 7 1

all, particularly if you have a little child to carry as well. Now she looks lumpy and ridiculous. Her face is blotchy. She stares at everyone with a veiled, tentative gaze, like some defenseless and abandoned young animal .

What will this young woman, already in a state of collapse, look like after three days in an overcrowded freight car with men, women, children, and babies all thrown together, bags and baggage, a bucket i n the middle thei r only convenience ?

Presumably they will be sent on to another transit camp, and then on again from there.

We are being hunted to death all through Europe . . . I wander in a daze through other ba rracks. I walk past scenes

that loom up before my eyes in crystal-clear detail, and at the same time seem like blurred age-old v isions. I see a dying old man being carried away, reciting the Sh'ma to h i mse l f 6 7 • . .

Slowly but surely six o'clock in the morning has arrived. The train is due to depart at eleven, and they are starting to load it with people and luggage. Paths to the train have been staked out by men of the Ordedienst, the Camp Service Corps.6 8 Anyone not involved with the transport has to keep to barracks. I slip into one j ust across from the siding. "There's always been a splendid view from here," I hea r a cynical voice say. The camp has been cut in two halves since yesterday by the train: a depress­ ing series of bare, unpainted freight cars in the front, and a proper coach for the guards at the back. Some of the cars have paper mattresses on the floor. These are for the sick. There is more and more movement now along the asphalt path beside the train.

Men from the "Flying Column" in brown overalls are bring­ ing the luggage up on wheelbarrows. Among them I spot two of the commandant's court jesters: the first is a comedian and a songwriter. Some time ago his name was down, irrevocably, for transport, but for several nights in a row he sang his lungs out for a delighted audience, including the commandant and his

{ 3 4 8 1

retinue. He sang "Ich kann es nicht verstehen, dass die Rosen bliihen " ("I know not why the roses bloom ") and other topical songs. The commandant, a great lover of art, thought it all quite splend i d . The singer got his exemption. He was even allocated a house, where he now lives behind red-checked cu rtains with his peroxide-blonde wife, who spends all her days at a mangle i n the boiling-hot laundry. Now here he is, d ressed in khaki overalls, pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with the luggage o f his fellow Jews. H e looks l i ke death warmed over. And over there is an­ other court jester: the commandant's favorite pianist. Legend has it that he is so accomplished that he can play Beethoven's Ninth as a jazz number, which is certainly saying some­ thing . . .

Suddenly there are a lot of green-uniformed men swarm ing over the asphalt. I can't imagine where they have sprung fro m . Knapsacks a n d guns o v e r thei r shoulders. I study t h e i r faces. I try to look at them without prej udice.

I can see a father, ready to depart, blessing his wife and child and being h imself blessed in turn by an old rabbi with a snow­ w h i te beard and the profile of a fiery prophet. I can see . . . ah, I can't begin to describe it all . . .

On earlier transports, some of the guards were simple, k i n d l y types w i t h puzzled expressions, w h o walked about t h e c a m p smoking t h e i r pipes a n d speaking in some incom prehensible d ialect. One would have found their company not too objection­ able on the j ourney. Now I am transfixed with terror. Oafish, jeering faces, in which one seeks in vain for even the sl ightest trace of human warmth. At what fronts did they learn their business ? I n what punishment camps were they trai ned ? For after all, this is a punishment, isn't i t ? A few young women are a l ready sitting in a freight car. They hold their babies on their laps, their legs dangling outside-they a re determined to enjoy the fresh a i r as long as possible. Sick people a re carried past on stretchers. I almost find mysel f laughing; the d i s parity between

f 3 4 9 I

the guards and the guarded is too absurd. My companion at the window shudders. Months ago he was brought here from Amersfoo rt, in bits and pieces. "Oh, yes, that's what those fel­ lows were like," he says. "That's what they looked like."

A couple of young children stand with their noses pressed to the windowpane. I listen in to their earnest conversation. "Why do those nasty, horrid men wear green; why don't they wear black ? Bad people wear black, don't they ? " "Look over there, that man is really sick ! " A shock of gray hair above a rumpled blanket on a stretcher. "Look, there's another sick one . . ."

And, pointing at the green uniforms, "Look at them, now they're l a ughing ! " "Look, look, one of them's already d run k ! "

More and more people are filling u p the spaces i n the freight cars. A tall, lonely figure paces the asphalt, a briefcase under his arm. He is the head of the so-called Antragstelle, the camp Appeals Department. He strives right up to the last moment to get people out of the commandant's clutches. Horse trading here always continues until the train has actually pulled out. It's even been known for him to manage to free people from the moving train. The man with the briefcase has the brow of a scholar, and tired, very tired shoulders. A bent l i ttle old woman, with a black, old-fashioned hat on her gray, wispy hair, bars his way, gesticulating and brandishing a bundle of papers under his nose. He listens to her for a while, then shakes his head and turns away, his shoulders sagging j ust a l i ttle bit more. This time it won't be possible to get many people off the train in the nick of time. The commandant is annoyed. A young Jew has had the effrontery to run away. One can't really call it a serious attempt to escape-he absconded from the hospital in a moment of panic, a thin j acket over his blue pajamas, and in a clumsy, childish way took refuge in a tent, where he was picked up qui.:kly enough after a search of the camp. But if you are a Jew you may not run away, may not allow yourself to be stricken with panic. The commandant is remorseless. As a reprisal, and

[ 3 5 0 1

w i thout warning, scores of others are being sent on the transport with the boy, including quite a few who had thought they were fi rmly a t anchor here. This system happens to believe in collec­ tive punishment. And all those planes overhead couldn't have helped to improve the commandant's mood, though that is a subject on which he prefers to keep his own counsel.

The c a rs a re now what you m ight call full. But that's what you think. God Almighty, does all this lot have to get in as well ? A l arge new group has turned up. The children a re still stand­ ing with their noses glued to the windowpane; they don't miss a thing. "Look over there, a lot of people are getting off, it must be too hot in the t ra i n . " Suddenly one of them calls out, "Look, the commandant ! "

H e appears a t the end of the asphalt path, like a famous star mak ing his entrance d uring a grand finale. This near-legendary figure is said to be quite charming and so well disposed toward the Jews. For the commandant of a camp for Jews, he has some strange ideas. Recently he decided that we needed more v ariety in our d iet, and we were promptly served marrowfat peas-j ust once-instead of cabbage. He could also be said to be our a rtistic patron here, and is a regular at all our cabaret nights. On one occasion he came three times in succession to see the same per­ formance and roared with laughter at the same old j okes each time. Under his auspices a male choir has been formed that sang "Bei mir bist du schiin" on his personal orders. It sounded very moving here on the heath, it must be said. Now and then he even inv ites some of the artistes to his house and talks and drinks with them into the early hours. One n ight not so long ago he escorted an actress back home, and when he took his leave of her he offered her his hand; just imagine, his han d ! They also say that he specially loves children. Children must be looked after. I n the hospital they even get a tomato each day. And yet many of them seem to die all the same . . . I could go on quite a bit longer about "our" commandant. Perhaps he sees himself

[ 3 5 1 1

as a prince d ispensing largesse to his many humble subjects. God knows how he sees himself. A voice behind me says, "Once upon a time we had a commandant who used to kick people off to Poland. This one sees them off with a smile."

He now walks along the train with military precision, a rela­ tively young man who has "arrived" early in his career, if one may call it that. He is absolute master over the life and death of Dutch and German Jews here on this remote heath in Drenthe Province. A year ago he probably had not the slightest idea that it so much as existed. I d idn't know about it myself, to tell the truth. He walks along the train, his gray, immaculately brushed hair j ust showing beneath his flat, light green cap. That gray

hair, which makes such a romantic contrast with his fai rly young face, sends many of the silly young girls here into rap­ tures-although they dare not, of course, express their feelings openly. On this cruel morning his face is almost iron-gray. It is a face that I am quite unable to read. Sometimes it seems to me to be like a long thin scar in which grimness mingles with j oyless­ ness and hypocrisy. And there is something else about him, halfway between a dapper hairdresser's assistant and a stage­ door Johnny. But the grimness and the rigidly forced bearing predominate. With military step he walks along the line of freight cars, bulging now with people. He is inspecting his troops: the sick, infants in arms, young mothers, and shaven­ headed men. A few more ailing people are being brought up on stretchers. He makes an impatient gesture; they're taking too long about it. Behind him walks his Jewish secretary, smartly d ressed in fawn riding breeches and brown sports jacket. He has the sporty demeanor yet vacuous expression of the English whisky d rinker. Suddenly they are joined by a handsome brown gundog, where from, heaven knows. With studied gestures the fawn secretary plays with it, l ike something from a picture i n an English society paper. The green squad stare at him goggle­ eyed. They probably think-though think is a big word-that

[ 3 5 2 1

some of the Jews here look quite different from what their propaganda sheets have led them to believe. A few Jewish big

shots from the camp now also walk along the train. "Trying to air their im portance," mutters someone behind me. "Transport Boulevard," I say. "Could one ever hope to convey to the outside world what has happened here today ? " I ask m y companion. The outside world probably thinks of us as a gray, uniform, suffering mass of Jews, and knows nothing of the gulfs and abysses and subtle differences that exist between us. They could never hope to understand.

The commandant has now been j oined by the Oberdienstleiter, the head of the Camp Service Corps. The Oberdienstleiter is a German Jew of massive build, and the commandant looks slight and insignificant by his side. Black top boots, black cap, black army coat with yellow star. He has a cruel mouth and a power­ ful nec k . A few years ago he was still a digger in the outworkers' corps. When the story of his meteoric rise is w r itten u p l a ter, it w i l l be an i m portant historical account of the mentality of our age. The light green commandant with his m i l i tary bea ring, the fawn, i m passive secretary, the black bully-boy figure o f the Oberdienstleiter, parade past the train. People fal l back around them, but all eyes are on them.

My God, are the doors really being shut now ? Yes, they are. S h ut on the herded, densely packed mass o f people inside. Th rough small openings at the top we can see heads and hands, hands that will wave to us later when the train leaves. The commandant takes a bicycle and rides once again along the entire length of the train. Then he makes a brief gesture, like royalty in an operetta. A l i ttle orderly comes flying u p and defer­ entially relieves him of the bicycle. The train gives a piercing whistle. And 1 ,020 Jews leave Holland .

This time the quota was really quite small, all considered: a mere thousand Jews, the extra twenty being reserves. For it is a l ways possible-indeed, quite certain this time-that a few w i l l

[ 3 5 3 1

die or be crushed to death on the way. So many sick people and not a single nurse . . .

The tide of helpers gradually recedes; people go back to their sleeping quarters. So many exhausted, pale, and suffering faces. One more piece of our camp has been amputated. Next week yet another piece will follow. This is what has been happening now for over a year, week in, week out. We are left with just a few thousand. A hundred thousand Dutch members of our race are toiling away under an unknown sky or lie rotting in some un­ known soil. We know nothing of their fate. I t is only a short while, perhaps, before we find out, each one of us in his own time. For we are all marked down to share that fate, of that I have not a moment's doubt. But I must go now and lie down and sleep for a little while. I am a bit tired and d i zzy. Then later I have to go to the laundry to track down the facecloth that got lost. But first I must sleep. As for the future, I am fi rmly re­ solved to return to you after my wanderings. I n the meantime, my love once again, you dear people.

[ 3 5 4 1

1 September 1 943

C h ristine,

My dear, considerate friend, I am sending you one of the two postcards we are allowed. The family is still together so far . Father and Mother a r e n o w housed in a large barracks again, so l i fe has become much more difficult. You cannot imagine what such a barracks is like. Father is child ishly happy if he is not actually trampled underfoot. He sits on his wooden bench and ,

while small children crawl all over his back , reads about King Solomon and about love. Me you know about. Mischa is stamp­ ing tickets in the bathhouse, with a musical score lying open under the bath tickets. Mother looks after her a w k ward menfolk and will thank heaven if they are allowed to remain. I f. None of the Adelaars is left here now. Will you tell Simon that he doesn't have to send things to the Frank family anymore ? And will you thank him for the careful pac king and dispatch o f so m a n y good things ? W e voice o u r wishes and y o u ful fi l l them. Please give our warm regards to kind Hansje Lansen. We only wish we could thank everyone personally for everything; it would be so very nice if we could .

I t won't be long, perhaps, before you hear something from Maria Tuinzing again. The griddle cakes were lovely and fresh ! And to continue on this theme: it's a very good thing that the bulk of the bread and butter arrives at the end of the week here, or at the very latest on Monday, so that we are prepared for any eventuality each time a transport is assembled. The greatest re­ cent family d rama: Father's only pair of shoes were missing (to avoid the word stolen) one bad night, and now he walks about in a borrowed pair that's too big. I t's really pitiful, but never mind, we'll get over that, too. We could get over everything here, actually, if only we were allowed to remain in this small country. Oh well. It's gradually becoming quite empty here. And are you

{ 3 5 5 1

taking classes of eager young students again ? Father still reads Sallust and Homer with a bright boy who digs ditches in the daytime. Luckily Father has been exempted from picking beans and similar edifying labor; physically he's in no state for that sort of work. There isn't much to tell you this time, my friend. I t's an oppressive, gray day. I am sitting on an upturned bed on a patch of grass behind the hospital barracks. Your sister sent us a dream of a G roningen cake. The response to Father's longing for rusks has been touching. The need is no longer so urgent; rye bread would be as welcome again-and perhaps easi e r ? My God, what a lot of trouble we are. Sometime I will write you nothing but lyrical outpou rings with never a word on the subject of food, which in fact I find odious. How glorious the Psalms are. Do you think that there is a spare blanket anywhere in Deventer ? At the end of a card ful l of nonsense I send you my love, dearest

friend , until the next time. We all send you our love. And best wishes too, please, to Father's colleagues.

Your Etty

E. Hillesum, Bar. 4 1 , Westerbork

[ 3 5 6 1

2 September { 1 94 3}

My l i ttle Maria,

I sent the fi rst half of this letter to Father Han; I hope they both arrive at the same time. The fi rst part is just some j ournalism, not for you, really. Hello, dear child, how are things ? I am longing for a few words. Letters are beginning to get through again. If they are registered, we get them without fail. Please be sure to tell Swiep: he can pass it on to people who know Anne-Marie, who is under a lot of strain because she hasn't heard from any of her friends for some time. Hans's scribble made me happy. Took the note for Reb straight to his parents, since I am not allowed to visit him myself. A t the moment he is in the big ba rracks with my papa, who is back from the hospital again. Spi rits go u p and down, but humor keeps breaking through. For the old people here, though, it's a macabre business. We have managed to get through another Tuesday. If there is a transport next Tuesday, the chances of keeping them here will be slight. One is consumed worst of all by this tension-tension for others, of course.

When I went into our little office this morning, i t was in a terrible mess; it had been requisitioned as a d ressing room for the revue. The revue is taking over the whole camp. There are no overalls for people on outside duty , but the revue has an "overal l ballet"-so d a y a n d night, people sewed overalls w i t h l ittle puffed sleeves for the dancers. Wood from the synagogue in Assen has been sawed up to make a stage. One of the carpenters exclaimed, "What would God say if He knew what His syna­ gogue was being used for ? " Marvelous, isn' t it: God's synagogue in Assen. Oh, Maria, Maria-Before the last transport, the people who were d ue to leave worked all day for the revue. Everything here has an indescribably clownish madness and sadness.

I am fine, doing my Russian again every day for an hour, reading the Psalms, and talking with hund red-year-old women

{ 3 5 7 1

who attach great importance to telling me their entire l i fe stories. Really I live here just as I used to with you in Amsterdam: in a community, but also very much for myself. This is possible even when one lives with other people, on them, under them, over them, in the middle of them.

Do you know what I would still love to have here ? The blue woolen d ressing gown that I got from Hesje and my blue felt hat, which is the most comfortable thing I have for my head. It might be good if I had my blue knitted d ress as well ; it's fairly cold here sometimes, and in case I should suddenly be put on transport-you never know what will happen. Please don't think me too much of a nuisance-

! would l ike to make another arrangement with you: each Tuesday I'll send the Nethes a short telegram, "Food for fou r persons" (nothing to do with hunger); if Father a n d Mother have gone, then, "Food for two persons." Many of us here will never get over the fact that we allowed our old and our sick to go first. This is a del iberate policy based on the "self-preservation in­ stinct." Father asked a male nurse from the last transport, "How can people who are near death in the hospital be forced to go ? Surely that's against all medical ethics." And the nurse answered solemnly, "The hospital gives up the corpses in order to hang on to the living." He wasn't trying to be facetious, he was perfectly senous.

Do you see Tide to talk to, sometimes ? Tell her about the registered letters, too. I am writing everything in a j umble again and not making much sense. People here often feel strangely tired, and I happen to be so myself this morning. But the letter has to be sent off in a little while, so I'm scribbling away. Please would you be kind enough to mail on or hand on the enclosed letters from Mechanicus ? It's thanks to him that I 'm able to get this off. Jopie's whole family is now in the hospital; the littlest boy is being kept alive with great difficulty.

How terribly young we were only a year ago on this heath,

[ 3 5 8 1

Maria ! Now we've grown a little older. We hardly realize it ourselves: we have become marked by suffering for a whole l i fetime. And yet life in its unfathomable depths is so wonder­ fully good, Maria-I have to come back to that time and again. And if we j ust care enough, God is in safe hands with us despite everything, Maria.

I myself fail to measure up in every way, of course. I can't cope with the many people who want to involve me in their affai rs; I am often much too tired. Please give Kathe a cheerful look from me-and press your cheek to Father Han's for me, too ? And do you still get on well together? And please will you give my love to my dear desk, the best place on earth ? And to Swiep and Wiep and Hesje and Frans and the others? I can see you in front of me, my dear, and I don't have to say any more.

Etty

I have j ust heard from Hilde Cramer that registered letters aren't coming in anymore either, so save yourselves the bother. But now and then a small postcard or something still manages to filter through.

And how is Erns t ? This morning one of my colleagues said, referring to all sorts of awful practices here: "Each moment of your l i fe that your courage fa ils is a lost moment." And now I am going to the hairdresser. And it's possible that next we shall have to move from our little house into one of the big bar racks; five m i nutes is all the warning you get for anything. This morning I spoke to Lies! Levie; she suffers from dizziness all the time, and says, "/ch schwindle mich durch . "6 9 Werner's mother has been sent through.

[ 3 5 9 1

' Bye, my dear, Etty

{postmarked 15 September 1 94 3}

Christine,

Opening the Bible at random I find this: "The Lord is my high tower." I am sitting on my rucksack in the middle of a full freight car. Father, Mother, and Mischa are a few cars away. In the end, the departure came without warning. On sudden spe­ cial orders from The Hague. We left the camp singing, Father and Mother firmly and calmly, Mischa, too. We shall be travel­ ing for three days. Thank you for all your k indness and care. Friends left behind will still be writing to Amsterdam; perhaps you will hear something from them. Or from my last letter from camp.

Good-bye for now from the fou r of us. Etty

[This card, thrown out of the train by Etty on 7 September, was found

by farmers outside Westerbork camp and posted by them.]

[ 3 6 0 1

September 6- 7, 1 943

Dear Mr. Wegerif, Hans, Maria, Tide, and everyone else I don 't

know quite so well,

It is not going to be easy for me to tell you this. It all happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Strange that it should have felt so unex­ pected and sudden, since we have all been ready and waiting for such a long time. And when the time came she, too, was ready and

waiting. And, alas, she, too, has gone. The news from The Hague came quite late on Monday: Mischa 's

exemption has been turned down, and he and all his family would be put on transport on 7 September. Why? Well, that is the kind of question no one can answer. To start with, we all hoped and believed

it would never happen. And then we were certain that the notice would be deferred for her at least, particularly since it was agreed only today that the former staff of the jewish Council, sixty in all,

would be allowed to stay on for a while. It became clear quite quickly that while nothing much could be done for Mischa and the old people, Etty might stand a very good chance.

So we concentrated on the rapid packing of bags for three people. Oh, they took it all very well, they had known for such a long time it

was bound to happen one day, and anyway the parents, a l l the parents of people with red stamps without exception, are due to leave next week. And Mischa had already decided to go along, to f01jeit all his privileges to be with his parents. And now it was happening one

week earlier, a bit suddenly, but . . . it was only a difference in time. However, for Etty it was a complete sU1prise-she had decided that she was not going to travel with her parents and would have much preferred to go through these experiences without the pressure

of family ties. For her it was a slap in the face, which did in fact literally strike her down. Within the hour, however, she had recov­ ered and adapted herself to the new situation with admirable speed. We went together to barrack 62 and were kept busy for hours with

[ 3 6 1 1

the picking out, parceling up, hunting out, and sorting of all kind of articles of clothing and food.

Etty's father hid his nervousness behind a string of humorous

remarks, which never Jailed to make Mischa cross-he thought the old man wasn't taking things seriously enough. Mischa could not understand why the deferment that had seemed so certain had sud­ denly been canceled and continually asked me to intercede with all

sorts of more or less important "connections. " He simply did not

realize that German orders cannot be changed by anyone here and

that all such efforts are bound to be futile. He remained quite composed, however, and took things tolerably well. Having to leave all his music behind was what upset him most. I managed to squeeze

Jour scores into his bag, and the rest (including the food parcel that

had just arrived) now fills a suitcase that will have to be sent back to Amsterdam at the first possible opportunity.

Mother H., bustling as ever, saw to everything and displayed an admirable peace of mind.

During earlier transport nights, the family had often been kept awake by all the noise and excitement such preparations invariably

produce in a large barracks. This time they were all fast asleep when Etty and I went in at three o'clock to see if any more packing had to

be done. Before that we had gone once more to find out what chance there was of Etty still getting an exemption. It was then that it was

finally brought home to us that her chances, too, were nil. While she

herself had been occupied with looking after her parents and her

brother, Etty's girlfriends had expertly packed everything for her, down to the smallest detail.

Even when the leaders of the jewish Council declared that noth ­ ing could be done for her, we still rushed off a letter to the first Dienstleiter (duty officer) asking him to intervene.

We felt that something might still be able to be done even on the train but only if everything was ready for departure, so her parents and Mischa went to the train first. Then I trundled a well-packed rucksack and a small hamper with a bowl and mug dangling from it

{ 3 6 2 J

to the train. And there she stepped onto the platform she herself had

described only a fortnight before in her own unforgettable way. Talking gaily, smiling, a kind word for everyone she met on the way,

full of sparkling humor, perhaps just a touch of sadness, but every inch the Etty you all know so well. "I have my diaries, my little

Bible, my Russian grammar, and Tolstoy with me and God knows what else. " One of the camp leaders came to take his leave of her and told her that he had used every argument he knew to plead her case

but in vain. Etty thanked him very much. I only wish I could

describe for you exactly how it happened and with what grace she and her family left!

So here I sit now, a little sad, certainly, but not sad for something that has been lost, since a friendship like ours is never lost, it is and it endures.

That is what I wrote down, too, on a slip of paper that I pushed

into her hand at the last moment. Then I lost sight of her for a bit and wandered around the platform. Tried again to find someone who

could still do something for her but in vain. I saw Mother, Father

H., and Mischa board wagon no. I. Etty finished up in wagon no. I2, having first stopped to look for a friend in wagon no. I4 who was pulled out again at the last moment. Then a shrill whistle, and

the thousand "transport cases" were moving out. Another flourish from Mischa, who waved through a crack in wagon no. I, a cheeiful

"bye" from Etty in no. I2, and they were gone.

She is gone. We stand bereft, but not with empty hands. We shall find each other soon.

It was a hard day for all of us. For Kormann, for Mech, and for all who had been in such close contact with her for so long. Being with a dear person in spirit is not the same as having her near you, in person. You feel quite drained at first. But life goes on even while I write this and while she herself moves closer and closer to the East, where she once wanted to travel so much. I think she really quite preferred to share the experiences they have prepared for us all. And we shall see her back again. On that we (her special friends here) are

[ 3 6 3 1

all agreed. After her departure I spoke to a little Russian woman and various other proteges of hers. And the way they felt about her leaving speaks volumes for the love and devotion she had given to them all.

Please forgive this inadequate scribble. You, who have been so spoiled with much better accounts, much better put. I know that

many questions must remain, and one above all: Couldn 't it have

been avoided? To that I can answer unequivocally: No! That's the

way it obviously had to be. If the opportunity arises, I shall try to send you some of Etty's books. I would have liked to send her typewriter to Maria, she told me just this week that's what she wanted me to do. But I don't know if it will be possible.

I shall send you news from time to time. I enclose a few letters for Etty opened by the censor. Please give them back to the senders.

Be strong. We shall all be back one day, and people like Etty are able to hold their own in the most difficult situations. My thoughts

are often with you.

Jopie Vleeschhouwer

[ 3 6 4 1

Etty H i llesum d ied in Auschwitz on 30 November 1 94 3 .

{ 3 6 5 1

Notes

An Interrupted Life: The Diaries, / 94 1 - 1 943

I. Etty had fel t for some time that her life needed to be sorted out and given a clear direction. I n February 1 94 1 she consulted Julius Spier,

who appears as S. in these diaries.

2 . Adri Holm ( 1 9 1 0- 1 970). She is said to have had a major influence on

Spier's religious beliefs and his understanding of Christianity.

3. This young girl was Lies! Levie, who would become Etty's close

friend .

4. Albert Verwey ( 1 865-1 937), the Dutch poet.

5 . Etty's fellow residents at 6 Gabriel Metsustraat, in the order she l ists

them, are Kathe; Maria Tuinzing ( 1 906-1970); the owner of the house,

Han Wegerif ( 1 879-1946); Bernard Meylink ( 1 9 1 1 - 1 952), and Han's

son, Hans Wegerif ( 1 9 1 9- 1 983).

6. It was still possible to send letters outside Holland. Mail traveled via

Switzerland and Spain.

7. Frans van Steenhoven, painter and economist. Reijnders is a cafe on

the Leidseplein.

8. Willem Adriaan Bonger was a well-known sociologist and criminolo­

gist. Ter Braak , Du Perron, and Marsman were the most important

antifascist writers in Holland. Pos and Van den Bergh, professors at

the University of Amsterdam, were both active anti-Nazis. 9. A women's magazine.

1 0. In spring 1 9 4 1 the Germans conducted the first roundup of Dutch

{ 3 6 6 1

Jews. The general strike that was called in response was met with

waves of reprisals, including arrests and deportations. Another

roundup occurred on June 1 1 , shortly before this d iary entry.

1 1 . Leonie Denney-Snatager, Etty's good friend, now lives in Washing-

ton, D.C.

12. Etty was visiting her parents' home.

1 3 . This was where Spier lived.

1 4. Etty' s brother.

15. Annie Romein was the wife and collaborator of Jan Romein ( 1 893-

1 962), a Dutch historian. Carry van Bruggen ( 1 8 8 1 - 1 932) was a Dutch

novelist.

16. Hertha Levie was the woman Spier intended to marry. She lives in

the United States.

1 7. Henny Tideman ( 1 907-1 989), whom Etty generally calls Tide.

1 8. Swiep van Wermeskerken ( 1 907- 1 992), to whom Etty taught Russian.

19. Gera Bongers married and lived in South Africa for many years. She

now l ives in Berl in. (She has no connection with Professor Bonger.)

20. Aleida Schot was a Slavic scholar.

2 1 . Jaap Hillesum, Etty's brother.

22. Max Geiger, a pianist from Bern, Switzerland.

23. Spier's daughter, Ruth Busse-Spier, lives in Berl i n .

24. A cousin of Han Wegerif.

25. A student friend of Etty.

26. Cultura was a bookshop that specialized in sel ling Communist l i tera-

ture.

27. Veluwe is a heavily wooded part of Holland.

28. The Austrian composer ( 1 860-1903).

29. The Nuremberg Laws were gradually extended to the Netherlands;

parks and gardens were henceforth forbidden to Jews, i n order to

"protect the health and pleasure of Aryans."

30. Evaristos Glassner, a friend of Mischa. He became a n organist and

piano teacher in Amsterdam after the war. He died i n 1 988. 3 1 . Lippmann, Rosenthal & Co. were the bankers appointed by the Ger­

mans to liquidate all Jewish assets.

32. A t the time, the blackout regulations were not severe. 33. Werner and Lies! Levie, both originally from Berl in, emigrated to

Amsterdam i n 1 939. Etty met them through Spier, and they became

her close friends. Werner, an opera d irector and a comm i tted Zionist,

had helped various artists and musicians to emigrate to Palestine.

r 1 6 7 1

34. Amsterdam's Jewish district, of which little remains, was located on

the eastern edge of the historic city center. During the winter of 1 94 1-

1 942, the Germans planned to turn it into a ghetto for Dutch Jews,

surrounding it with barbed wire and starting the transfers that cre­

ated the overcrowding that Etty mentions. The project was never

completed.

35. The laws prohibiting Jews from buying fruit, certain fresh vegetables,

and fish-except in stores "reserved for Jews" (where produce was

rarely fresh)-and from riding bicycles or trains or visiting non­

Jewish homes were imposed in May 1 942 and completed the applica­

tion of the Nuremberg Laws to the Netherlands.

36. Jews were forbidden to leave the city and sometimes the quarter

where they lived.

37. Lies! and Werner Levie's two daughters.

38. Because of the law prohibiting Jews from entering the houses of non­

Jews. Etty constantly flouted this regulation and was also guilty o f

Rassenschande ("intimate relations with non-Jews"), a "crime" punish­

able by immediate deportation.

39. Dicky de Jonge, a woman of twenty-one, lived with the Nethe fa mily

in the same house as Spier. She was the youngest of the Spier group.

40. Etty i s referring to her expectation that, because she lives in a house

owned by a non-Jewish family, she'll either be transferred to the

Jewish quarter or deported.

4 1 . Mien Kuyper ( 1 898-1957), pianist and patron of the arts, held concerts

and recitals in her house in Amsterdam, at which Mischa H i llesum

often played, especially after Jewish artists were forbidden to perform

in public. It was probably at one of these evenings that Etty first met

Julius Spier.

42. The name is indecipherable in the handwritten diary.

43. Leo de Wol ff, the son of Sam de Wolff, an influential economist and politician, was deported to Bergen-Belsen, where he died.

44. This undated fragment entry, apparently written in the summer of

1 942, as Etty was preparing to leave Amsterdam, was recorded on a

loose sheet and inserted into her notebooks on 22 July 1 942. This was

probably the day Etty volunteered at the Jewish Council to go to

Westerbork.

45. Etty's pass was subsequently extended because of her illness. 46. Jopie Vleeschhouwer, a close friend from Westerbork, was in Amster­

dam when Spier died. He returned to Westerbork the same day.

[ 3 6 8 1

47. Klaas Smelik, Sr. ( 1 897-1 986), a Communist and an author, first met

Etty i n Deventer i n 1 934. They remained friends, and he and his

daughter Johanna ("Jopie") Smelik repeatedly tried to persuade Etty

to go into hid ing and offe red her various places to stay. She always

refused.

48. The headquarters of the so-called Central Office for Jewish Emigra­

tion.

49. Johanna Smel i k . Not to be confused with Jopie Vleeschhouwer. (Jopie

is a nickname given to both sexes.)

50. Maria Tuinzing, her close friend at Han Wegerif's house.

Letters from Westerbork

I . Joseph and Hedwig Mahler were German Jews who fled to Holland i n 1 935. Both were printers and members of a Jewish resistance group

i n Holland, and both were killed by the Nazis. Eichwald is unidenti­

fied.

2 . "My dear people" were Etty's former housemates at Han Weger i f's

house. Her letters were often passed around the larger circle of

friends.

3. Joseph lsodoor Vleeschhouwer, known as Jopie, was a close friend of

Etty's; his long letter describing the Hillesum fa mily's last day i n

Westerbork is reprinted at the end o f this volume. He too was de­

ported; h e d ied on 23 April 1 945 at Treubitz, after the Germans

evacuated Bergen-Belsen. His wife, Cato Cahen, also died at Treubitz.

4. Werner Sterzenbach managed to escape from Westerbork at the end

of 1 943 and joined the Resistance. Several times he begged Etty Hil­

lesum to follow him, but she refused. Sterzenbach and his w i fe , Alice

Sterzenbach-David, survived the war and are l i v i ng i n Germany.

5 . Max Witmondt, who had previously held an important position with

a n insurance company in Amsterdam, was married to a Ch ristian woman-a union that, though illegal, saved him from deportation.

I m prisoned first i n Amersfoort, a camp for political prisoners, h e was

subsequently moved to Westerbork. Etty often served as messenger

between him and his wife.

6. Ellecom was the site of a training center for the Dutch SS. Approxi­

mately 150 Jews were used to build new sports fields. Their work

completed, they were sent to Westerbork.

{ 3 6 9 1

7. Paul Cronheim ( 1 892- 1 875), member of the Jewish Council, was a

wel l-known musician and Wagner specialist.

8. Eduard Spier ( 1 902-1980), was one of the leaders of the Jewish Coun­

cil in Westerbork. Deported to Theresienstadt, he survived the war.

9. This is one of the two letters that were illegally published by the

Dutch Resistance in 1 943. The two women to whom it was sent were

the sisters of the Dr. K. mentioned in the first paragraph-probably

Dr. Herbert Kruskal, who survived the war and now lives in Israel .

Dr. K. asked Etty to send his sisters her im pressions of Westerbork;

she used his request as an opportunity to detail life in the camp. These

letters, published under the false title Three Letters by the Painter f. B.

van der Pluym (1843-1912), were the only writings of Etty Hillesum to be published prior to 1 98 1 .

1 0. Westerbork was built i n 1 939 by the Dutch Ministry o f Justice to

house refugees from Germany. Its earliest inmates included Jews who

had been incarcerated in Buchenwald and Dachau. As of I July 1 942, it came under the jurisdiction of the German authorities.

1 1 . The SS St. Louis, carrying nearly a thousand Jews to Cuba, made its

unfortunate voyage in 1 939. The ship was finally allowed to dock i n

Antwerp. Belgium accepted two hundred passengers; t h e rest were

divided among England, France, and the Netherlands.

1 2 . Limburg was a predominantly Roman Catholic province. The refer­

ence here i s to a public gesture of support for the departing Jews.

13. A group of nuns and priests of Jewish origin. After a protest against

the persecution of the Jews by Archbishop Johannes de Jong on

1 August 1 942, the Nazis held a roundup among the cloistered Jewish

Catholics. They captured about three hundred nuns and priests. On

2 August, sixty-three Jewish Catholics came to Westerbork; Etty de­

scribes them in this letter and in her diary. One of the nuns described

Edith Stein, a well-known mystic writer and philosopher, with whom

Etty has often been compared. Stein was killed in Auschwitz on

9 August 1 942.

1 4 . The roundups on the 2 and 3 of October 1 942 brought more than

twelve thousand people to Westerbork.

1 5 . The Herengracht is a fashionable street in Amsterdam; its bocht

(curve) is the most exclusive stretch.

1 6. Max ("Osias") Kormann survived the war and rejoined his fam i ly in

America i n 1 946. He died in 1 962. His son, Professor Gerd Korman,

has kindly provided this note:

[ 3 7 0 1

During the Weimar Republic, Max 0. Kormann, the son of a Hasidic family from Narol in Galicia, became an active Zionist

and in 1 927 married Rosa Laufer, a German-born daughter of

Jews who migrated from Galicia to the Rhineland a t the turn of

the century. The couple took their place among Weimar's many

westernized Zionist families who still remained loyal to

rabbinic Judaism. When they settled in Hamburg, they j o ined

the orthodox congregation of joseph Carlebach. Here the rebel

from Narol, now a traveling shoe salesman, cultivated his inter­

est in Freud and, perhaps influenced by Rabbi Carlebach, be­

came a devotee of Maimonides. Although Max spoke Yiddish

and Hebrew, the language of the home was German. By the

time Hitler became Chancellor of the Republic, there were two

sons, who were being reared as modern religious Zionists.

The sons called him Pappi. To everyone else h e was Max­

to everyone, that is, except officials, who insisted on using the

name represented by his middle initial. From the moment he

illegally crossed the Polish frontier, his papers identified him as

Osias Kormann, the name he had taken from an older brother

who had fallen during the war. Polish, German, and Dutch

authorities insisted on Osias, a name without meaning to those

who loved him and among whom he lived and worked. It was

the name used by the Hamburg policeman who awoke Max

and his family on the morning of 28 October 1 938, to inform

h i m that h e must leave Germany in twenty-four hours. And by

other officials-the German who authorized his deportation to

Poland; the clerks who approved his one-month return to

Hamburg; the shi pping-line employees who, while he was sepa­

rated from his fam i ly, helped him embark on the SS St. Louis

for its vain journey to Cuba and, when Cuba refused to accept

the Jewish passengers, back to Europe; the Dutch officials who

accepted the ship's refugees for internment in Holland; the Westerbork authorities who in 1 939 turned him into a founding

i n mate, and then into a minor official of a new kind of prison;

and the German occupiers who assumed direct com mand over

Westerbork i n 1 942, the year Etty Hillesum arrived as a repre­

sentative of Amsterdam's Jewish Council.

She dared to call him Osias, and he accepted this use of the

name as a term of endearment. Thus they gave new meaning to

{ 3 7 1 1

a name that had been only official. Together they marked a

friendship in a Holocaust that had cut him off, apparently for­

ever, from the ties that bound him to a devoted family desper­

ately waiting in America, now also at war. Before she returned

to Westerbork for the last time in 1 943, Etty could not have seen

him very often. After her initial stays in Westerbork she re­

turned to Amsterdam for several months. There my father,

who could obtain permission to leave the camp, visited her,

perhaps only once for a few hours, while she was entertaining

some friends. During this winter and the spring of 1 943, most

of her letters to him, and some of his to her, were written,

sustaining the moment when their souls had suddenly touched

between the barracks and the barbed wire.

1 7. Rosenberg was Kormann's barracksmate and close friend. Unfortu­

nately, nothing more could be found out about him, but he was

liberated by the Canadians in April 1 945.

1 8. V stands fo r Verzorging ("Care"), an organization providing material and food for the camp inhabitants.

19. Osias Kormann gave lessons on Jewish history and rituals at the

Westerbork camp school.

20. The Zentralstelle fi.ir J i.idische Auswanderung (Central Office for

Jewish Emigration) was set up by the Germans.

2 1 . Het Leven is Amsterdam's red-light district.

22. A t Vught, there was a concentration camp for Jews as well as non­

Jews. For the Jewish prisoners, it was both a work camp and a transit

camp, since all were transferred to Westerbork sooner or later, and

from there, to Poland. On 6 and 7 June 1 943, two transport convoys

arrived, carrying 1 ,288 women and 1 ,266 children. These are the

transports to which Etty refers. As of 8 June all the new arrivals were sent to Sobibor, where they were exterminated.

23. NIZ: the Nederlands-Israelitisch Ziekenhuis, or Netherlands-Israelite

Hospital.

24. Etty's father, Dr. Louis Hillesum, a classicist, had been headmaster of

the Stedelijk Gymnasium in Deventer.

25. The man is probably Herman Boasson ( 1 908- 1 98 1 ), one of Etty's

friends in the Westerbork hospital, a scholarly man with whom she often had discussions. Finally deported to Auschwitz, he managed to

survive by securing a position with the camp orchestra.

{ 3 7 2 1

26. The green police, or griine Polizei, were the special German police

forces, mostly used to round up Jews.

27. Etty's friend Milli Ortmann, wife of the renowned painter Theo Ort­

mann and member of Amsterdam's intellectual and artistic circle.

Jewish herself, she managed to escape persecution thanks to false

papers. After Theo's death in 1 942, she married a non-Jewish man to

avoid deportation.

28. There was a camp i n a castle in Barneveld for a supposed elite of

"cultural Jews." Most of those known to have been interned there

survived the war. Mischa-the older of Etty's two brothers, a musical

prodigy and one of Holland's best pianists-was an obvious candidate

for the "Barneveld option." Milli Ortmann, through the influence of

Willem Mengelberg, the Dutch conductor, secured permission for

Mischa to go to Barneveld, but he refused unless his parents could

accompany h i m .

2 9 . C h ristine v a n Nooten taught Latin a n d Greek at t h e Stedel i j k Gym­

nasium in Deventer and was Etty's teacher. A very close friend of the

Hi llesums, she did much to sustain them during their time in Wes­

terbork. She contributed a number of Etty's letters to this volume.

30. As a journal ist in Paris, Anne-Marie van den Bergh-Riess had worked

with the Russian writer Ilya Ehrenburg, whom Etty admired. I n 1 933

she moved to Amsterdam, where she married and divorced Herman

van den Bergh, a well-known Dutch poet. Arrested at the end of June

1 943, she was sent to Westerbork and ultimately to Bergen-Belsen,

where she was freed by the Russians. Etty refers to the goggles Anne­

Marie wore to protect her eyes from the sand and dust omnipresent in

Westerbork.

3 1 . Swiep van Wermeskerken, mutual friend of Etty and Anne-Marie.

32. Sam de Wolff ( 1 878-1 960), father of Leo de Wol ff, was a n economist

and politician. A leading socialist and one of the pioneers of Zionism

i n the Netherlands, h e was able to leave for Palestine i n 1 944.

33. The Hollandsche Schouwburg was the assembly point for the depor­ tation of Jews from Amsterdam.

34. Jaap H i llesum, Etty's younger brother, was a doctor working a t the

Hollandsche Schouwburg. He was not transferred to Westerbork un­

til September 1 943, a fter Etty, Mischa, and their parents had already

been deported.

35. Philip Mechanicus ( 1 889-1944), one of the most renowned Dutch

journalists of the time, arrived in Westerbork in November 1 942 and

{ 3 7 3 1

managed to stay there until March 1 944, when he was deported to

Bergen-Belsen. In October 1 944 he was sent to Auschwitz, where h e

d i e d . His diary of t h e events in Westerbork, t h e most complete por­

trait of l i fe in the camp, was published after the war as In DepOt. He

was very close to the Hillesum family, particularly to Etty.

36. Friedrich Weinreb, born in 1 9 1 0, was a well-known economist and

Old Testament scholar. His actions during the war gave rise to one of

the most complex legal cases in Dutch history. I n the hope of avoiding

deportation, he pretended to put himself in the service of the Ger­

mans. I n fact, h e was probably manipulated by them and, intention­

ally or not, may have caused the death of several Jews. Condemned

for treason in 1948, he was pardoned shortly thereafter. The ambigu­

ity of his case has never been fully resolved .

37. Renate Laqueur was the daughter of professor Ernst Laqueur, a

chemist who had helped the German army develop poison gas i n

World War I a n d h a d therefore enj oyed some degree of special pro­

tection. He was the companion of Maria Tuinzing, Etty's friend.

Renate Laqueur was eventually deported to Bergen-Belsen along with

her husband, Paul Goldschmidt.

38. Jul ius Simon, born i n 1 906, was the main contact for the Jews from

Deventer who were brought to Westerbork. Simon organized the

food parcels and distributed as many as two hundred a week for an

extended period. He escaped to Switzerland in 1 943.

39. Klaas and Johanna Smelik.

40. NSB: the initials of the Dutch Nazi party, which apparently provided

supplementary manpower for a number of German police actions.

4 1 . The Levies, Etty's close friends, had arrived in Westerbork on 2 0 June

1 943 and were transferred to Bergen-Belsen in 1 944. Werner d ied of

typhus i n the last days of the war; Lies! and her children survived and

emigrated to Israel. 42. This list was usually assembled in the forty-eight hours preceding the

departure o f each transport and could be modified up to the very last

moment.

43. Al though Mechanicus's departure was delayed, h e was eventually sent

to his death i n Auschwitz.

44. Leo Krijn was Julius Spier's brother-in-law. His wife and son had in

fact already died at Auschwitz. Krijn and his brother would die a week apart in Sobibor.

45. Wiep Poestra, the fiancee of Herman Boasson.

{ 3 7 4 1

46. Grete Wendelsgelst was Milli Ortmann's sister. Like Milli, she fre­

quently interceded for the Hillesums.

47. Lars Soderblom ( 1 866- 1 93 1 ), Swedish theologian, was awarded the

Nobel Peace Prize in 1 930.

48. Dienstleiters, or section leaders, who were Jewish.

49. Max Ehrlich, Clara (Chaya) Goldstein, and Willy Rosen were famous

cabaret entertainers before the war. Ehrlich and Rosen died at Ausch­

witz; Goldstein owed her survival to her marriage to a German cam­

eraman.

50. Professor David Cohen was copresident with Abraham Asscher o f the

Jewish Council.

5 1 . Gera Bongers was one o f Julius Spier's students.

52. Mevrouw Nethe had been Julius Spier's landlady a t 27 Courbetstraat

i n Amsterdam. "Jim" was the nickname of Simon van Gelder, who

had l i ved in hiding at the Nethe's house, and then at Mien Kuyper's.

53. Dr. Johannes Brouwer, a scholar of Spanish l i terature and member of

the Dutch Resistance, was shot on 1 July 1 943.

54. Philip Mechanicus; see notes 35 and 43 above.

55. The friend was Julius Spier. The lesson Etty learned from him is not

found in Matthew 24 but at Matthew 6:34, which Etty quotes from

the Dutch Authorized Version.

56. E. A. P. Puttkammer, German functionary o f a Dutch bank, served

du ring the war as an intermediary between the Nazis and wealthy

Jews who wanted to emigrate. A high sum in foreign currency would

buy a spot on "Puttkammer's list," which the German authorities

would then consider. Needless to say, none of the Jews thus tricked

emigrated. Etty's parents had tried unsuccessfully to get themselves

included on the list through the intervention of Christine van

Nooten.

57. On 2 5 July 1 943, King Victor Emmanuel II accepted Mussolini's res­

ignation, bringing fascism to an end in Italy.

58. In reality, the hiatus was fa irly brief; the trains only stopped running for a short time, from 20 July to 24 August 1 943. I t was their destina­

tion that changed, from Sobibor to Auschwitz.

59. Maxim Gorky's play The Lower Depths is set in a crowded Moscow

flophouse.

60. Feldwebel is a German rank equivalent to sergeant.

6 1 . Joseph ("Jo") Spier, a Dutch illustrator, was deported to Theresien­

stadt and emigrated to the United States in 1 95 1 .

[ 3 7 5 1

62. Stundenbuch (The Book of Hours), by the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke, Etty's favorite author.

63. "Jul" is Julius Spier.

64. The first part of this letter is lost, which explains its abrupt beginning.

It probably consisted of four pages (on two sheets), since the first page

here bears the number 3. But the other side is not numbered, so this

page may have been preceded by two sheets, or four pages.

65. The stamps that protected against deportation-temporarily-were

numbered. Stamps bearing the number 1 2 0,000 were reserved for

those who could pay considerable sums (approximately 20,000 to

40,000 florins in precious stones or currency). The 1 ,300 Dutch Jews in

possession of that number were supposed to be exchanged for German

prisoners. I n reality, they were deported to Bergen-Belsen.

As for the Portuguese Jews, who formed one of the oldest settle­

ments i n the Netherlands, they were originally meant to be not de­

ported but "repatriated" to their "country of origin," that is, Spain or

Portugal , which they had left about four hundred years before. In

1 943 they were instead transferred to Westerbork, then to Theresien­

stadt in spring 1 944, and from there to Auschwitz, where almost all

died.

66. This is the second of the two letters (along with the one dated 1 8

December 1 942) published i llegally by the Resistance in 1 943.

67. Sh'ma: "Hear, 0 Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one." This i s a line of prayer said when death is approaching.

68. The Service Corps, made up of Jews, was started in March 1 942. It

was their job to maintain order during the departure of transports.

They were held personally accountable for all escapes and at times

showed themselves to be as zealous as their persecutors.

69. In German, "/ch schwindle mich durch " is a pun meaning both ''I'm

dizzy" and 'Til wangle my way through."

{ 3 7 6 1

The Hillesum family,

1 93 1 . From l e ft to right: Etty, Rebecca

Hillesum -Bernstein,

Mischa, Jaap, Louis

Hillesum .

"In Deventer the

days were like great

sunny plains, each one

a Long, uninterrupted

whole. " Deventer,

about 1 925.

Etty, 1 93 7.

Gabriel Metsustraat 6, about 1 938. Etty's room is above the street Lamp, slightly to the Left.

In the house; Etty is

on the Tight.

"One day when there is no

more barbed wire left in

the world, you m ust come

and see my ?"OOm. It is so

beautiful and peaceful. I

spend half my night at my

desk reading and writing

by the light of my small

lamp. I have about 1,500 pages of a diaty from last

yem; and one of these days

I shall read it through.

What a rich life leaps out

at me fi'om evety page. To

think that it was my life­

and still is " [September 28, 1 942].

Maria Tuinzing in her room, about 1 939.

"The man who is closest to me":

julius Spie1; 1·eading hands.

Han Wegerif

("Father Han "), 1 943.

Klaas Smelifv S1:

Werner Levie, director of the

jewish Theata

Henny ("Tide ") Tidemann.

Lies! Levie, Etty 's best friend.

At julius Spier's house. From l e ft to right: Henny Tideman, Adri Holm,

Etty, julius Spier.

Julius Spie1:

Etty, taken by Han Wegerif.

... :·.� . :·

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-1:!:[)[' Eight exercise books closely written

in a small, hard-to-decipher hand:

the diaries of Etty Hillesum.

Roundup: the Jews summoned for Westerbork gather in Amsterdam -South.

Official notification of Etty's new address in Westerbork.

B E R I C H T V A N A O R E S W� J Z I C I N G I N JI • U -.t£ t YOCRU!flE"I· f: • " r k.. l i . � - 8 C AO C P W W A L t • E n _.._ �o..t.-,� ·n

OUO A O R E S S T R A A 'f £ H HUL$.�VWt.I(_R NA.AU 0£R Y,O()NPl..U.TS

N I E U W A D R E S STP'o\A T ll tl ttUtSHVa.lilfi:R ...¢ � �- _y_. J... :..!:L!_ ' !.. o1()t" � t ;, I ll I .... "" i f l (.F, . .. POSi OOSNit ; l i\ . L...... � l ,. O S I A t: K t' t.( t N 0 Hft. - f " " � ..... � - '-i -'· · _n .... . J 't H ll • U OEIIt WOONPl,A AT$ 1 � - l..... �< .

� · I " i I 1't .. , .. , ,. .. 00-1<\J - . .. . . � ... ,., .. ... �··� .... . . ..... ., ' .. . . . . . . · · - O A T U \1 Y " "" t N C A H O ''I U-k/ 1-t- �-> E N H A N O T f C:: tC. I! H l H O 7

"A village of wooden banacks, set between heath and sky, a gla,-ingly yellow

lupin field in the middle a11d barbed wiTe all around. "

Facing page, top: 011e of the 1 0 7 ba,-racks i11 Westerbo,-k: "those jam -packed hangaTs of drafty

slats whe,-e, under a. lowe,-ing sky made up of

hundreds of people's d,-ying laund,-y, the imn

bunks are stacked in tTiple decks " [December

1 942}.

Facing page, bottom: Administration

barracks in Westerbork. At night, the place was

used as a theate1:

Rebecca Hiltesum. Louis Hillesum.

Mischa Hiltesum.

Ch ristine van Nooten.

;, J U.:. l 1 } U <:: ::a.:;en

:Ju i t s chlo.nd YREEMDOl · ,.:;

·:�· tr.:r:::!'l!'l , T J :

�� L. 6 AUG. 1941 AMSTERDAM

2 � _rt 4 1

Above l e ft: Johanna ( "]opie") Smelik.

Above right: Osias Kormann.

Left : Philip Mechanicus,

author of I n Depot, a memoir of

Westerbork. He told Etty, "If J survive this time, I shall emerge a more mature and deeper person,

and if J die, then J shall die a more mature and deeper one. "

Below: Milli Ortmann.

"Slowly but sur·ely six o'clock in the morning has arrived.

The train is due to depart at eleven, and they are starting to load

it with people and luggage. . . . The camp has been cut in two

halves since yesterday by the train: a depressing series of bare,

unpainted freight cars in the front, and a proper coach for the

guards at the back. Some of the cars have paper mattresses on the

floor. These m·e for the szck" [A ugust 24, 1 943}.

JJ. -4 �' 1) . If -. . . . . . . :'l·-···(·· · · · · · · · · ... . .... � .. :.r-. .... O ... O .. L.� .il�-:�:.

· .:·:�-I��-

· ·:···. -�:· .. -::: · ·:·:

....... . .... � 1& �1� �- � ......... ·-·· · ·-��h.W.� . .. ....... .. .. . . . . . . . .

"We left the camp singing . . . " Etty 's last postcard, thrown ji-om the train; it was found and mailed on September 15, 1 94 3.