The so-called “Diary of Justina,” an extract from which appeared in the July COMMENTARY, is the work of Gusta Davidson, one of the leaders of the Jewish underground in Cracow during the German occupation, who was executed with her husband in 1943. She is “Justina,” writing of herself in the third person, and her husband, Simon Dranger, is “Marek.” First published in Poland in 1946, but put out in Israel in 1953 in a corrected and edited Hebrew edition, the “Diary” has not yet found a publisher for the English version. The original Polish manuscript is now in the possession of the Ghetto Fighters House in Haifa, where the archives of the Polish Jewish underground are collected. The excerpt last month described a dramatic episode in the underground movement. Here “Justina,” awaiting “Marek’s” return from a mission, abandons narrative to tell in simple terms what life in occupied Poland meant for the freedom fighters—if they were Jews. The two selections, presented here for the first time in English, were translated from the Hebrew by Jacob Sloan.—Ed.
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Days passed, and Marek did not return. The hours of waiting were dreadful, literally terrifying. Lying in bed, thinking that he should be back by now, Justina for the first time realized how heavy the burden was which they had assumed. True, they weren’t the first revolutionaries in history, they weren’t the first to take arms in defiance of an old order. . . .
They were young, and it was almost in the nature of things that they should choose the revolutionary path. . . . But they were Jews, too, and there was the thorn in the rose. That was the source of the tragic difficulty of their mission.
One had to go back to the Middle Ages to appreciate the mutilation of personality involved in being kept out of every area of life, isolated from world culture, to understand what it meant to a human being to be imprisoned in a cage and told: “Sit here and wait. We are getting your death ready.” Perhaps even the Middle Ages had no idea what it was like to have a noose pressing tighter and tighter against your neck, hanging, but not choking you, till you gradually choked yourself with the full knowledge that the world would never intervene. For where was there ever a legal code as full as this one was of prohibitions, limitations, decrees, enforceable by the death penalty, with no appeal? . . .
For passing outside the ghetto walls—the sentence was death. For appearing in the street without a blue and white armband on your right arm—death. For trying to conceal your Jewish origin—death. Entering a street car, wagon, train, automobile—all punishable by death. There was no need to be a revolutionary—it was enough simply to be what you were, to take one false step, to fall into the trap laid for you—because you were a Jew.
If you stayed in the ghetto it was impossible to do anything except sit with folded hands waiting for deportation and the gas chamber. Anyone who wanted to act had first of all to leave the ghetto—and that was a step which already constituted warfare.
It’s so easy to say, “Run away!” But how do you get through a barbed wire fence guarded by police? How, for that matter, do you take one step across the street to the free side? They’d see the armband—and here’s a bullet in your head! Stand and remove the essential geegaw—someone is sure to notice, and hand you straight over to the police. Take it off surreptitiously and even in the darkest doorway there will always be an eye to observe that you went into the doorway a Jew and came out—what? Yes, what?
For you could remove the armband a thousand times, but you could not jump out of your skin and become someone else. Become, simply, a Jew without an armband. Every unquiet movement, every uncertain step, the slave’s stoop, the scared look of the quarry, everything about you—your entire stance, face, eyes, all bear the print of the ghetto, testify that you’re a Jew. You are a Jew, simply, not so much because of the color of your eyes, hair, skin, the shape of your nose, et cetera, but because of your insecurity, your lack of dignity, your intonation, language, behavior, and the devil knows what other signs. And you have betrayed your Jewishness ultimately because everyone was looking for it in you; they were all looking for a chance to attack you, they couldn’t bear the thought of your escaping death. At every step they’d stare into your eyes, brazenly, suspiciously, provocatively, to unnerve you, send the blood rising to your cheeks, make you lower your eyes. You would have lost—you could not conceal the fact that you were a Jew.
And so, even before you gained the nearby railroad station you had behind you many eye battles, dumb struggles with the enemy hidden in every passerby. Frequently, you had adventures with extortionists that left you with just enough money to take you to the next town. Then, after eventually reaching the station, you came within firing range of the men in uniform. For there were many policemen specially trained to uncover disguised Jews—secret Polish, German, Ukrainian agents. There were also detectives, many of them of your own faith. How much coolness was needed to pass erect through the waiting room, shrugging off confidently the probing looks of secret agents. . . .
Once on the train you were at the mercy of the lowest class of human being. There was no way of escaping their eyes; they had no sense of delicacy, they shot glances like bullets into the most private parts of your heart, smelling the Jew everywhere, eager to hand him over to the police, or, in any case, torment him, blackmail him, threaten him. . . .
At times—through a powerful tensing of muscle—you were able to wipe out your footsteps. But it was impossible to escape the most painful situation—the conversations on the train that froze the blood in your veins. For what did people talk about? About the Jews, of course. “Good for them. They finally got what they deserve. They tried to run away, but, our luck, they got caught. They planned to take their gold with them—it was confiscated in time.” Slander, rumors, disgusting lies—and worst of all, the animal joy at the murder of hundreds of thousands of old men, women, and children. They hung around waiting to grab up Jewish property, like hyenas waiting for a man to die. . . . While here, in a corner of the train, sat a human being whose heart was twisted with pain over the loss of those dearest to him. But he dared not show his agitation with the tremor of a muscle—for that would betray him as a Jew. . . .
Anyone who’s been through a single experience of that kind and come out alive is entitled to write an epic. If you’re not a Jew you can travel anywhere in relative comfort. But if you’re a Jew every movement outside the barbed wire fence is an incursion into enemy territory, under cross fire. Here only accident can protect you. Accident, and inner strength—the most desired weapon. That was what the youngsters achieved.
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But first you had to purge yourself in a powerful mental crucible. You came out of the inner fire psychologically either refined or debased. The distinction between the two is narrow and slippery; the abyss threatened. It was the easiest thing in the world to succumb to self-disgust. For he who begins by denying himself ends by despising himself. He who imitates others is bound to resemble them in time. He who conceals his true personality degrades it. He who degrades himself outwardly is degraded inwardly.
Who would ever have believed that they would sink to the level of concealing their Jewishness—they, who had been proud of it for years and had maintained their dignity in the face of insult? They, who had dedicated their carefree youth to Jewishness, in which they saw their personal renascence, the meaning of their lives? How could they deny themselves even for an instant, concealing their origin like cowards?
But this was necessity, compulsion, an ineluctable act, without which they could not move a step. So, having suppressed their inner rebellion, the voice that commanded them to fling a cry for battle into the face of the inert masses—they decided to put on a mask. No, there wasn’t a thing they wouldn’t do to reach their goal. Every means to their end became holy. It did not matter if on the surface they seemed to be denying themselves. That very denial strengthened their essential feeling of self a hundred times—their personalities expanded. As the debasement forced on them from the outside grew, their inner pride in being Jewish increased. Compelled to hide their Jewishness, they delighted in it, resolved to stand by it to their last breath. Never, not for a fleeting instant, did the thought flash across their minds that if they were not Jews they would not be standing on the brink of this abyss. They would not have given up their identification with their people for all the money in the world. They were full of bitterness because they could not make an open fight, as Jews. That was the only thing that could have contented them. They believed their hour would strike, soon; meanwhile, they worked in the underground with that consoling expectation.
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Could anyone ever understand them—this group of madmen who had long been deprived of the right to live, because they were Jews, yet who insisted not merely on living, but on taking arms, as well? Could their fear be understood—the revolutionary’s fear of failing before he had accomplished what he had set out to do? Could anyone possibly understand their fear of dying before they had done anything for the cause? Not a man of them feared death; they all feared to fall into the enemy’s hands, prematurely, being picked up by the authorities for some inconsequential matter. . . .
Hence, their first efforts were concentrated on the problem of disguising themselves. Characterization, costume, posture—these were their daily concerns. Facial makeup, outward appearance, became matters so serious that every other criterion for judging people became relatively unimportant. Courage could have no decisive meaning if it was not accompanied by the prerequisite of a successful outward appearance. Eventually, they learned to overcome that obstacle. Youth and self-esteem came to their aid. The ghetto was unable to stamp their fresh faces with the mark of slavery. They left the ghetto with heads raised, proudly, striding with an assurance that made others give way for them. No one sensed that they were persons in flight, no one dared to insult them. And yet their personal security hung by a hair. It was enough for one terrible memory, one tragic thought, to hang a cloud of anxiety across their forehead, their eyes to darken—and they betrayed their Jewishness. At such a moment nothing could save you—neither blond hair, nor blue eyes, nor a straight nose. . . .
Nor was there any lack of occasion for such betrayals. How many wonderful girls attracted attention simply because of their beauty! In vain they dyed their hair blonde—their black eyes never lost their native charm. At every street corner, in every street car, danger lurked! Here an old friend, there an extortionist, there a secret agent, an over-observant policeman, a body search—the path to freedom was beset with obstacles that made it as impenetrable as a dense forest.
And then, this was all new to them. Never in their lives had they played any role but themselves; they had always, everywhere, been completely natural. Now, before engaging in the activist operation, they had to wage an inner battle with themselves, where defeat meant death. They had to play their role to the bitter end. How often, even after you had fallen into the hands of the police, you had to deny you were a Jew—and to the last. What strength was needed!
Very often, your nerves couldn’t hold out, and at the decisive moment they snapped like a string. In such moments of despair the thought would seize you: “I have lived as a Jew, I will die as one!” The confession rises to your lips; but suddenly, your mind clears and commands you to save yourself, to look for another way out, for the sake of the cause. The nerves tense again, finally under control. But mostly, it’s a matter of luck, so it’s really hard to talk about a personal victory. . . .
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