MORE than 60 years ago, as she awaited the final horrors of the Holocaust in the Bedzin ghetto of Poland, a 14-year-old Jewish girl named Rutka Laskier committed her thoughts to a diary. Although the journal covers only a few months in 1943, its arresting combination of detail — from Nazi atrocities to adolescent infatuation — has drawn comparisons to the celebrated diary of Anne Frank.
Recovered after the war by a childhood friend of Rutka’s, the document was publicly unveiled last week at Yad Vashem, the Israeli Holocaust museum. It has been published in English as “Rutka’s Notebook,” by Yad Vashem Publications. More information is available at www.yadvashem.org. Excerpts follow.
THOMAS VINCIGUERRA
The 60-page diary’s first entry.
Jan. 19, 1943
I cannot grasp that it is already 1943, four years since this hell began. The days pass by quickly; each day looks just like the previous one. Every day it’s the same frozen and oppressive boredom. There is great excitement in town. A lot of people are about to leave for “the land of our forefathers,” to Palestine. Among these happy people are Syma, Bomek and Ran. I don’t know how to explain the feeling that overcame me when I learned about it. It must have been mixed feelings of joy and jealousy. We too live in the hope of getting papers.
Jan. 27, 1943
I’ll give you a detailed description of my body. Well, I’m tall, thin, with pretty nice legs, very thin at the waist, I’ve got elongated hands but ugly, or more accurately, uncared-for fingernails. I have big black eyes, thick brown eyebrows and long eyelashes, even very long. Black hair, trimmed short and combed back, small but pug nose, nicely outlined lips, snow-white teeth — and there’s my portrait.
Jan. 28, 1943
All right, enough with the writing for now. I notice that I feel very reassured, as if I confessed to someone. I wonder if Jewish women are allowed to confess to a Christian priest. Whom can I ask about it?
Feb. 5, 1943
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. ...
Well, Rutka, you’ve probably gone completely crazy. You are calling upon God as if He exists. The little faith I used to have has been completely shattered. If God existed, He would have certainly not permitted that human beings be thrown alive into furnaces, and the heads of little toddlers be smashed with butt of guns or be shoved into sacks and gassed to death. ... It sounds like a fairy tale. Those who haven’t seen this would never believe it. But it’s not a legend; it’s the truth. Or the time when they beat an old man until he became unconscious, because he didn’t cross the street properly.
Feb. 6, 1943
I think my womanhood has awoken in me. That means, yesterday when I was taking a bath and the water stroked my body, I longed for someone’s hands to stroke me . . . I didn’t know what it was, I have never had such sensations until now. . . .
Oh, I forgot the most important thing. I saw how a soldier tore a baby, who was only a few months old, out of mother’s hands and bashed his head against an electric pylon. The baby’s brain splashed on the wood. The mother went crazy. I am writing this as if nothing has happened. As if I were in an army experienced in cruelty. But I’m young, I’m 14, and I haven’t seen much in my life, and I’m already so indifferent. Now I am terrified when I see “uniforms.” I’m turning into an animal waiting to die.
Feb. 15, 1943,
I had an argument with Tuska but it was for her own good. I saw how jealous she was (though at that time I didn’t understand that). She was afraid to leave me alone in the room with Janek. I made a scene and we fell out. She was basically very pleased with it. And one more thing: I have decided to let Janek kiss me. Eventually someone will kiss me for the first time, so let it be Janek. I do like him.
March 8, 1943
Because of whom or what am I crying? Because of Janek, certainly not. Then because of whom? Probably because of freedom. I am sick and tired of these gray houses, of the steady fear ... This fear clutches on to everyone and doesn’t let go. Today, probably Nica, Jumek, Janek will come to me. Damn it, Janek again. I decided not to think about him, but thoughts about him keep coming back. Have I really lost my head because of him? I don’t know, is this what they call love?
The diary’s last entry. In August, Rutka and her family were deported to Auschwitz, where apparently she was killed on arrival.
April 24, 1943
The town is already empty. Almost everyone lives in Kamionka. We will probably move there this week too. Meanwhile I’m very bored. The entire day I’m walking around the room, I have nothing to do.