Zbigniew
Herbert (1924-1998) makes his first appearance in Leopold Tyrmand’s Diary 1954 (trans. Anita Shelton and
A.J. Wrobel, Northwestern University Press, 2014) in a sort of walk-on part, a
bit player, twenty-nine years old, under-employed and not yet a world-class
poet:
“Zbyszek
[Polish diminutive of Zbigniew] Herbert is not yet thirty; he’s slim and frail,
with excessively broad hips. He has the cheerily upturned nose of a schoolboy
and suspiciously mild eyes. In their soft blueness there is guile and
stubbornness. He is polite, calm, and friendly, but in his cordiality there
lurk a strong will and obstinacy and some kind of sensitive subversiveness that
it’s better not to ignore. He is soft-spoken, has interesting things to say,
and knows what he’s talking about. His erudition, large and disinterested,
transmutes readily into wit and charm. He cultivates moral purity, an
uncompromising attitude, and fidelity to himself – a little ostentatiously, but
so honestly that one cannot find fault with him, nor pay him anything less than
the deepest respect.”
Tyrmand’s
journal is a day-by-day account of his life in Warsaw during the first three
months of 1954, that interval between Stalin’s death in March 1953 and
Krushchev’s “Secret Speech” to the 20th Party Congress in February 1956,
signaling the start of the so-called “thaw.” Tyrmand (1920-1985) is
thirty-three, a journalist and wit, a fixture of the city’s literary scene,
inspiration to its bikiniarze (hipsters)
and former president of the Warsaw Jazz Club. In 1941, while working in the
Polish underground, Tyrmand was arrested by the NKVD and sentenced to
“corrective labor” in the Gulag. During the Nazi bombing of Vilnius, he escaped
his eastbound prison transport and headed west. A Jew, he survived the
Holocaust by acquiring French papers and going to work in Germany. (Tyrmand was
nothing if not brazen.) In 1944 he took a job peeling potatoes in the hold of a
German transport ship. He jumped ship in Norway, was recaptured and held in a concentration
camp near Oslo, where he survived the war. Tyrmand returned to Warsaw in 1946,
published a collection of stories recounting his Norwegian adventure and went
to work for a satirical weekly.
Tyrmand
revels in all this grim absurdity. He’s a misfit and contrarian, never quite
fitting in anywhere. His account of life in Stalinist Poland recalls not
Solzhenitsyn and Nadezhda Mandelstam but Gogol and his spiritual descendent,
Andrei Sinyavsky (aka Abram Tertz).
On the first page of his diary, dated Jan. 1, 1954, he says: “A diary is an
auscultation of all the fine details that define a life. That’s how a subtle
and sensitive writer would put it. I have no idea how I came up with this
line.” Admirers of Zbigniew Herbert will appreciate the rare glimpses of the would-be
poet, whose first collection, Chord of
Light, was published in 1956. In the same diary entry quoted above, dated
Jan. 7, Tyrmand writes:
“Of
course, he suffers poverty. He earns a few hundred zlotys per month as
timekeeper in a cooperative that produces paper bags, toys, and boxes. The
serenity with which Herbert endures this drudgery after completing three
degrees is straight out of early Christian hagiography. His serenity is a
carefully crafted mask: it conceals the despair of a man who fears that he has
gambled his life away in a frivolous poker game of history in which the stake
was ideological loyalties and laurels. As a result of his ruinous gambling
habit, he is in no position to help his aged, ailing parents, or to escape
other worries. He’s like a man who leans over the well of life only to be hit
by a dreadful stench, but who drinks from the edge anyway, gripping the rim
tight so as not to recoil and not, at any price, to shift his dreamy gaze to the
sugar coated landscape.”
Like
the jazz soloists he admired, Tyrmand riffs metaphors. That last one is
particularly prescient and pungent. In 1966, Tyrmand immigrated to the United
States, where he founded the journal that became Chronicles. Despite frequent visits to the West, including the U.S., Herbert
remained in Poland, “gripping the rim tight.” Each was stubborn and
uncompromising. In the Feb. 2 entry, Tyrmand tells us Herbert has taken a job
with the Central Peat Bog Administration, a name worthy of Kafka. Three days
later he paints an utterly unexpected portrait of Herbert:
“Zbyszek
has many problems in his life. He’s pretty, with a cute mug of a face and a
skin that Helena Rubinstein would pay a fortune to use in advertisements, if
only she could see it. That’s his main problem because everyone takes him for a
faggot, which he’s not, but explaining this to everyone is a burden. It’s no
doubt hardest to explain to the faggots, who must feel understandably bitter
about his contrariness to nature.”
Tyrmand
also tells us that Herbert, just after the war, was the only Polish journalist
to interview Rita Hayworth, and that the poet considers this “his greatest
achievement.” Tyrmand asks: “What can you do with that sort of ambition in
Warsaw, anno 1954? The closest thing we have here to Rita Hayworth is the prime
minister Józef Cyrankiewicz, the one person in the regime who’d like to be sexy.”
Herbert
often visits Tyrmand after his day at the Central Peat Bog Administration. Now
we get a picture of the young poet at work, adapting to the conditions imposed
by the sterility of socialism:
“It
seems that his job in the peat bogs has a fertilizing effect. He has nothing to
do at work, and it won’t do to read newspapers in the office, so Zbyszek sits
at his desk and writes poetry and fairy tales. Everyone thinks he’s exemplary
and zealous, while he’s actually obsessing over his wasted life, which—as everyone
knows—is the best artificial fertilizer for poetry. In his poetry he expresses
distress and fear that he won’t leave a trace of himself behind. The quagmires
of the human condition horrify him. I told him that’s a natural feeling on the
bogs. He has to change his job to something in concrete or cement mixing.”
And
this from Feb. 22: “In the evening Herbert came by. We talked about Rubens.
Apparently not without reason. And also about suicide and heroism. We wondered
if God is only engaged in rewarding and punishing individuals, or does he also
intervene in social issues? We concluded that he does not.”
In
a 1994 interview, Herbert said of the diarist: “Tyrmand and I were very good
friends. He used to treat me with a bit of condescension, posing as an older
colleague and mentor. He loved to provoke me. Once we walked together on Nowy
Swiat and he told me: `I have finally decided who you are: you are a rag under
the table on which beer has been spilt.’ I said nothing. He repeated louder: `A
rag under the beer-stained table.’ He was very unhappy that I did not lose my
temper. That's typical Tyrmand.”
1 comment:
"I have no idea how I came up with this line" Priceless
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