A little while ago, I decided to take a break from the fiction that I normally read. I have always loved reading biographies and autobiographies; getting to know the person on a more intimate level. I love hearing stories from my friend's and family's lives and even stories from stranger's lives. I think it is why I love to blog and love to read the blogs of people I don't even know. Stories connect us.
When I read the blog of another twenty-something girl, I can relate and understand her struggles. Being in your twenties is an awkward age. You embrace the freedom of being an adult and being on your own, but at the same time you long for the days when people took care of certain things for you: bills, groceries, extra spending money, laundry, etc.
When I decided to read more biographies and autobiographies I immediately wanted to read The Diary of Anne Frank again. I was in 7th grade when I read her book (so 12 or 13 years old depending on the time of year) and I think I was too young to really appreciate it. That was also 12 or 13 years ago (holy cow) and so I've forgotten the details and wanted to read it again. Unfortunately, when I went to the library Monday, my branch did not have the book so I had to request it online to be shipped to my branch. (I swear my branch NEVER has the books I want and there is just something about going to the library, searching the bookcases, finding that book, and checking it out).
So, in order to request the book, I had to search the online catalog for it and in doing so the catalog brought up similar books to my Anne Frank search. I was looking down the list and saw, "Rutka's Notebook: A Voice from the Holocaust." The young girl, Rutka Laskier whose notebook had been published, was described as "The Polish Anne Frank" so I figured that would be a nice read as I wait for The Diary of Anne Frank to be at my library.
Before I get into what I am really wanting to say, here's some back story on Rutka Laskier. She was Jewish and her family (dad, mom, brother, and grandma) lived in Poland. Her diary is written in 1943, more than three years after the Germans conquered Poland. At this point, she is 14 and is aware that the severity of what the Germans were doing to Jews was way beyond harassing, embarrassing, and demeaning them. At this point in history, some 2 million Polish Jews had already been sent to camps, where Jews once labored as slaves, to be killed.
I began to read this 14 year old's diary and I was just so impressed at the level of her writing for only being 14 years old. I then thought of 14 year old girls I know and the 14 year old girl I was and all I could think of was, "Thank God no one is reading my diary." Her writing is way beyond that of a 14 year old in this day and age. It was rather sad actually to think of how my writing was at that age. What was so interesting though was even though she wrote with more maturity and eloquence, her problems were just the same as 14 year old girls today. (Obviously, aside from the fact that her people were being mistreated, tortured, and killed). Amazingly, she does not focus on that part of her life as much as I would have thought.
What were her problems? What were your problems as a 14 year old girl? Boys, catty girls, and parents. 1943 Poland provides the same teenage issues as 2002 USA. Here are a few excerpts from her diary.
Jan. 25, 1943
"Nothing. As usual. Every day is the same, except that Mom gets more upset and screams at me because of [my brother]."
Jan. 26, 1943
"Micka came again with loads of news. Somebody told her I had cut my hair in order to please Janek, that I had put on silk stockings for Janek, and so on. That's a total lie. As if I even cared about him."
Jan. 27, 1943
"I would like to pour out on paper all the turmoil I am feeling inside, but I'm absolutely incapable. And now I'll describe my spiritual side as well. They say I'm smart, educated--that could be, although I never studied, that is I didn't do my utmost. I have my nuttiness. Sometimes I am so depressed, that when I open my mouth it's only in order to sting someone. I love stinging people very much but I do it moderately, because as they say, physical bruises close up, but emotional wounds keep on bleeding.
Other days, like today for instance, I am bursting with joy and could laugh all day long. Besides, I'm probably eccentric because I like telling people in the face exactly what I think about them, something not recommended to do in public. I also sometimes like to dress in a crazy manner; for instance, I once went outside in pants. Basically, I couldn't care less. I am who I am and nothing could possibly change that. See you later, my diary. "
Jan. 28, 1943
"I am stupid, terribly stupid. Yesterday evening, when Nina and I walked by the old Market Square, I met Micka. She was walking with Rozka and Minda. I said 'Micka," and although she clearly heard me, she didn't respond and kept on walking. I cannot forgive myself for calling her. Now, between her and me, it's over--finito."
In her problems, you can tell she is a 14 year old girl. This is where I can relate. I was once a 14 year old girl and often still feel like one when my insecurities creep up. 1943 and 2002 were not that much different, right? Wrong. There are things in her diary that she writes about that brought me to tears and that I literally cannot even imagine.
Boys, I get. Catty girls, I get. Parental issues, I get. Being sent to the gas chambers at Auschwitz with my mother and my brother to die, I don't get. Watching a soldier grab a few month old baby from it's mother's arms and smash it's head against an electric pylon, I don't get. Worrying about going outside my home at times for fear of what might happen, I don't get. Most of all, I don't understand this:
"The town is breathlessly waiting in anticipation, and this anticipation is the worst of all. I wish it would end already! This is torment; this is hell. I try to escape from these thoughts, of the next day, but they keep haunting me like nagging flies. If only I could say, it's over, you die only once . . . But I can't, because despite all these atrocities I want to live and wait for the following day. That means, waiting for Auschwitz or labor camp." (February 20, 1943)
I read that, and re-read that a few times trying to put myself in her heavy shoes. She lives every day knowing that her fate is Auschwitz or a labor camp and somehow she still wants to live. I do not understand that. Is she hopeful that something will happen and that will not be her fate? Is she wanting to live it up, be a teenager while she still (somewhat) can? If it were me and I was a Polish Jew in 1943, I would think that I would not want to live knowing the options I had. It seriously pains me to think of what so many Jews went through. Not just the end of their lives where they were brutally murdered in such inhumane ways; but also the day to day fear of walking down the street or not knowing when you'd be sent away from your family.
On February 5th, 1943 Rutka writes, "The rope around us is getting tighter and tighter. Next month there should already be a ghetto, a real one, surrounded by walls. In the summer it will be unbearable. To sit in a gray locked cage, without being able to see fields and flowers. Last year I used to go to the fields; I always had many flowers, and it reminded me that one day it would be possible to go to Malachowska Street without taking the risk of being deported. Being able to go to the cinema in the evening. I'm already so 'flooded' with the atrocities of the war that even the worst reports have no effect on me. I simply can't believe that one day I'll be able to leave the house without the yellow star. Or even that this war will end one day . . . If this happens, I will probably lose my mind from joy."
(Malachowska Street was a main street in Rutka's town, Bedzin, that the Germans forbade the Jews to use and it was later used as part of the deportation route for the town's Jews)
I cannot and will not ever understand this time in history. It breaks my heart to know that this happened.
April 24, 1943 was Rutka's last dated entry. Months later, the Germans liqudated Kamionka (where she and her family had been moved to) and sent its residents to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Rutka, Henius (her brother), and Dorka (her mother) were immediately sent to the gas chambers. Her father, Yaacov, was sent to labor and was eventually liberated by American Allied troops.
Feb. 5, 1943
"Those who haven't seen this would never believe it. But it's not a legend; it's the truth."
Xoxo,
Nicole
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