Journal

by Hélène Berr, Patrick Modiano (Préface)

Préface de Patrick Modiano« J’ai porté la tête haute, et j’ai si bien regardé les gens en face qu’ils détournaient les yeux. Mais c’est dur. D’ailleurs, la majorité des gens ne regardent pas. Deux gosses dans la rue nous ont montrées du doigt en disant : Hein ? T’as vu ? Juif. Mais le reste s’est passé normalement. Je suis repartie pour la Sorbonne; dans le métro, encore une femme du peuple m’a souri. Cela a fait jaillir les larmes à mes yeux, je ne sais pourquoi. »« Pourquoi suis-je si inquiète ? Objectivement, il y a de quoi, parce que j’ai l’impression que nous sommes la dernière fournée, et que nous ne passerons pas entre les mailles du filet. Il ne reste plus beaucoup de Juifs à Paris; et comme ce sont les Allemands qui font les arrestations maintenant, il y a peu de chances d’y échapper, parce que nous ne serons pas prévenus. »D’avril 1942 à février 1944, cette jeune fille française a tenu son journal au jour le jour. Un texte d’une qualité littéraire exceptionnelle, où se mêlent l’expérience quotidienne de l’insoutenable et le monde rêvé des Lettres, où alternent à chaque instant l’espoir et le désespoir.Ses derniers mots, le 15 février 1944, « Horror ! Horror ! Horror ! », sont un pressentiment de l’inéluctable. Arrêtée le 8 mars 1944, elle est déportée à Auschwitz avec son père et sa mère. Elle survit presque jusqu’au bout à l’épreuve, succombant à l’épuisement à Bergen-Belsen en avril 1945, quelques semaines avant la libération du camp. « Une voix et une présence qui nous accompagneront toute notre vie. » Patrick Modiano

Genres: Nonfiction, History, Holocaust, Memoir, Biography, World War II, France

300 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2008

About the author

Jewish Hélène Berr kept a diary during World War II that has been published in French and translated by David Bellos into English.

Reviews

[Katie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Helene Berr’s journal begins in April 1942. She’s an incredibly gifted student studying English literature at the Sorbonne in Paris. Apparently much of her journal was written in English. She’s also a very gifted musician. Her family is Jewish, wealthy and long settled in France.

For the first eighty pages there’s barely a mention of the war or of the Nazis occupying her country. Helene is caught up in the excitements of her student life. She had a boyfriend who has left France to fight for the Free French but is increasingly unsure of her feelings for him. Her journal concentrates on these doubts, on beautiful descriptions of Paris and her second home in the country, her university life, her studies – Shakespeare, Shelley and Keats all very prominent - and her love of playing the violin in music groups. It’s a beautiful unfiltered vivid account of her life. Thus we get to know Helene as a young girl we can all recognise. Then she meets the tremendously handsome Jean Morawiecki, a fellow student at the Sorbonne and gradually falls in love. Probably the most poignant aspect of this journal is the coincidence of her falling in love just at the moment when the horror of Nazi policy towards the Jews could no longer be ignored. On the one hand she couldn’t feel more lucky, on the other she couldn’t feel more unfairly persecuted. This culminates with the first day she has to wear the yellow star. Never has anyone made me feel more keenly what an absolute humiliation that must have felt like.

Eventually Jean too leaves France to fight for the Free French. Helene doesn’t write a word for almost a year afterwards. When she returns to her journal her voice has changed. Now she is writing for Jean and her writing loses a lot of its freshness and immediacy. Her vibrant personality no longer informs her writing. The journal becomes a bit stiff and self-conscious. It’s as if she now knows she is writing for posterity. Now she’s working for a Jewish organisation, supported by the Nazis, which also has a clandestine branch devoted to finding orphan Jewish children safe homes. Helene and her parents now sleep with friends but it’s like a stubborn fatalism has taken hold of her. Perhaps she feels guilty that she is still safe while most of her friends have been deported? It’s at this point that one can’t help wanting to shout at her. For god’s sake save yourself! Instead, despite all the warnings, she and her parents sleep in their own home one night in March 1944 and are arrested. Contrary to the narrative in many Holocaust novels when so often characters seem to know all about Auschwitz as early as 1943 Helene, despite being very well connected in Jewish resistance circles, still knows nothing about the death camps. She survived eight months in Auschwitz and five months in Bergen-Belsen, before being beaten to death for being too weak to attend rollcall only five days before the liberation of the camp.

When Jean read her journal after the war he wrote, “if it made her present, it only emphasised the cruelty of her irremediable absence: a pale and frozen hand stretched out towards me so I could bring it back to life.”

This journal brings Helene back to life with a force that absolutely wrings your heart. It’s one of the most powerful pleas against racism I’ve ever read. Unbelievable and unforgivable that there are still so many people in the world who scapegoat and spew hatred on ethnic minorities. The worst and most dangerous form of self-aggrandising ignorance.

My only minor gripe is that there wasn't an afterward informing us what happened to Helene's friends. I was especially interested in Francoise Bernheim who, by all accounts, was as vivacious and gifted as Helene and her best friend. There's only one mention of her on Google but it would appear she died at Auschwitz. I can't help wondering if they saw each other there.

[Julie · Rating 5 out of 5]

"...I have a duty to write because other people must know. Every hour of every day there is another painful realization that other folk do not know, do not even imagine, the suffering of other men, the evil that some of them inflict. And I am still trying to make the painful effort to tell the story.

Hélène Berr writes these words on October 10, 1943, a year and a half after the opening entry of The Journal of Hélène Berr. This entry marks a profound change in the emotional and intellectual life of a compassionate, smart, sophisticated but sheltered young woman.

Hélène Berr is one of five children of an upper-middle class Parisian family. Although she is raised by an Ashkenazi Jewish father and Sephardic Jewish mother, religion plays far less a role in her life than secular education. She is a graduate of the Sorbonne, seeking an advanced degree as her journal begins. She is an accomplished musician, linguist and scholar of Western literature. Hélène is curious, articulate and like many young women in the bloom of their early twenties, she loves the attention of men, she adores her many female friends; she lives for the pleasure of weekends in the country and discussing literature in Parisian cafés.

But she is a Jew. It is Occupied Paris, 1942. And this remarkable account by a young woman living through the nightmare of Nazi occupation and French collusion is a unique treasure: rarely are we able to hold in our hands, heart and mind the real-time thoughts and actions of a life in drastic transition.

The obvious comparison to Hélène's journal is The Diary of Anne Frank. The difference is that Hélène is free as she writes, she is able to move about her beloved Paris, she has means and a degree of social freedom. For the reader, this holds a particular pain: we know this spirited woman is doomed, yet we rejoice with her as she gathers flowers at the family's country home in Aubergenville, as she contemplates her future with one of two men who may love her, as she practices Bach and trembles at Keats. Reading, I ache to push her south to Spain, west to England. I whisper "Run, run, Hélène, run while there is still time."

Hélène's journal from April - November 1942 is a slow progression from anecdotes about the impact of war on daily life in Paris to growing indignation and fear at the vulnerability of her Jewish family and friends. The most unspeakable happens - her father is arrested in June 1942 and sent to Drancy, a prison camp just outside the city. Amazingly, he is released a few months later and shortly after that Hélène falls silent, for nearly a year.

It is when she resumes her journal again, in October 1943, that the pretty, flighty girl has become an analytical, hardened woman. The compassion and the appreciation of beauty remain, but Hélène seems resigned to her fate. I found this passage so profound. Who amongst us has not asked how the German people allowed the Holocaust to happen? Could the soldiers of the Occupation all have been monsters? Hélène writes:

'So why do the German soldiers I pass on the street not slap or insult me? Why do they quite often hold the metro door open for me and say "Excuse me, miss" when they pass in front? Why? Because those people do not know, or rather, they have stopped thinking; they just want to obey orders. So they do not even see the incomprehensible illogicality of opening a door for me one day and perhaps deporting me the next day: yet I would still be the same person. They have forgotten the principle of causality.
There is also the possibility that they do not know everything. The atrocious characteristic of this regime is its hypocrisy. They do not know all the horrible details of the persecutions, because there is only a small group of torturers involved, alongside the Gestapo.

Hélène and her parents are arrested in their home in March 1944. Hélène perishes at Bergen-Belsen in November 1944, five days before the camp is liberated by the British.

Hélène regularly gave pages of her journal to a family employee; a surviving family member in turn gave the journal to Hélène's true love, Jean Morawiecki. The translator, David Bellos, shepherded the work to publication in France in 2008 to enormous acclaim. The original manuscript now resides at the beautiful and haunting Mémorial de la Shoah in Paris's Marais district.

Hélène is an extraordinary writer- she has the soul of a poet and the vocabulary of a scholar. Her words are a gift to her readers, her life a sacrifice without sense. We honor her memory by honoring her wish that, by reading what she saw and experienced, we will never forget.

[Ali · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a remarkable book and at times rather unbearable. Helen was writing for herself, she had no future audience in mind when she began her journal in 1942. She talks abiout lunches, studies, music and her new boyfriend as, with her head rather buried in the sand, she carries on her priveliged middle class life. However bit by terrible bit she has to confront the reality of the world around her with increasing fear. She stops writing her journal for a while - resuming it about a year later - intending it as a document for her boyfriend who had by then joined the free French. We only really know about Helen's bravery in rescuing Jewish children because her translator tells us about it. Helen herself refers very little, and quite vaguely about her work.
What I couldn't get past - and I have felt this when reading other biographical accounts of these times - was how human beings, millions of them - by virtue of doing nothing very much, allowed these things to happen. I don't believe human beings are so very different 70 odd years on, although much of our world is different and communications etc are vastly different. Therefore as a race - we have the capacity to allow similar to happen - and that is chilling.

[Jeff · Rating 4 out of 5]

Reading Helene Berr’s journal is, quite simply, a touching, personal, and unexpectedly eye-opening testimony about Paris during World War II. The journal was not meant to be read by a mass audience, per se, so it doesn’t read like a conventional memoir. There are incomplete passages, inexplicable references, and, quite often, page after page of a young woman being … well, a young woman. What is so amazing about this book, though, is (1) to get a first hand narrative of daily life in Paris under the German Occupation, and (2) to see how a young person, filled with such hope and joie de vivre, was emotionally impacted by the ever-increasing restrictions placed on French Jews under the Vichy Government.

Helene was an amazing person – a musical prodigy, a passionate bibliophile, an ardent romantic, and a dedicated daughter. I am so grateful for her words, and so saddened that she never got to fulfill the longevity she so deserved.

[Oscar · Rating 4 out of 5]

La lectura del diario de Hélène Berr es una experiencia de las que dejan huella y dejan el corazón encogido. Es imposible no sentirse conmovido y hechizado por esta joven estudiante, por lo que de su vida sabemos en los breves meses durante los que escribió en su diario, pero sobre todo por ese futuro que le fue arrebatado tan atroz e injustamente.

Hélène es una chica francesa, de veintiún años, que vive en París y estudia en la Sorbona. Empieza su diario en abril de 1942, en plena ocupación nazi. La primera parte de su diario transcurre entre excursiones campestres, ensayos de partituras clásicas (toca el violín) con sus amigos, paseos por París, conversaciones con compañeros, invitados que vienen a comer o cenar, comprando libros. Parece que Hélène es feliz. Hasta conoce a Jean, un chico que comparte muchas de sus ideas, de su manera de ver el mundo.

La verdad es que Hélène se oculta bajo esta rutina. Es cierto que disfruta de esos momentos, pero también está muy preocupada por el porvenir de su familia, ya que son judíos, y amigos. Les obligan a llevar una estrella amarilla cosida en la ropa, y las restricciones se suceden, van a más y peor. Los arrestos van en aumento. Los deportados también. Muchos de estos horrores son cometidos por los mismos franceses, colaboracionistas de los nazis.

Parece que Hélène ya presentía esta barbarie cuando empezó su diario en 1942. Hélène se propone testimomiar todos estos horrores para futuros lectores para que la gente no los olvide. Se siente sola buena parte del tiempo y da rienda suelta a sus reflexiones en su diario.

Hélène Berr fue una chica muy valiente, alguien extraordinario. Y una chica normal, como tú o como yo. Amante de los libros, de la poesía, de las cosas bellas y sencillas, inteligente, sensible, que sufría por los demás, a los que intentó ayudar. Una persona digna de admiración y respeto.

[Maria Carmo · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book is a wonder and at the same time a poignant reminder of how many extraordinary people suffered an ignominious fate, when they were in fact GREAT human beings, writers, artists, or merely PEOPLE OF GOOD HEART. After having reread recently Etty Hillesum's books, I was absolutely taken by this Hélène Berr, this excellent human being who saved 500 children from deportation, who did all the voluntary (dangerous) work she did, who also might have escaped yet decided against it, who was deported and stayed strong enough to survive until April 1945, and ended up dying of typhus not long before the liberation of Bergen Belsen. They call her "the French Anne Franck" because, like Anne, she kept a Diary, was deported to Bergen Belsen and both died of typhus there, just a week or so apart... But I would compare her rather to Etty Hillesum: They age is closer, both kept Diaries and wrote letters that survived them, both had their Diaries published much latter than their deaths, both left a legacy of HUMAN STANDARDS that many friends still follow, both faced the beauty that surrounded them (Etty in Amsterdam or at the country side and Hélène in Paris or at Aubergenville...)that illustrates the exquisiteness of their spirit, which in the midst of the greatest distress manages to soar to the greatest sight of Happiness and Gratefulness, in the sight of Beauty.
Of course, the greatest difference would be in Etty Hillesum's explicit relation to God - which I think exists also in Hélène, but more unconsciously from her.

All in all, a book that I loved reading and that moved me. The writing is luminous as only Paris can be in certain Autumn days. Hélène is beautiful, vivacious, hard working, an intellectual and an artist who revels in playing Beethoven, Mozart, Shubert, etc.. Her violin and her Diary seem to be, alongside with her multifaceted reading, the great driving forces in her too short life.

Maria Carmo,

Lisbon, 4 November 2014.

[Doria · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book hurt to read. In part because Berr's writing - even in translation (tho' not entirely, since apparently much of the journal was written in English, in which she was fluent) - is beautiful and lucid. But even more because of the sickening and inescapable knowledge which haunts the reader throughout the duration of this book, of what was to come, and what would ultimately befall her.

The book itself is not long, but the sense of awful waiting and knowing seemed to slow the process of reading down so that, at times, it almost felt as tho' I was experiencing Berr's life in real time. I think this effect was more pronounced because I tended to read it in small sections. I needed time to digest/process much of what she recounted, I simply couldn't "devour" this book like a novel. I was grateful for some of the explanatory material that accompanied Berr's writing - footnotes, forward and afterword - which elucidated a lot of potentially obscure details which otherwise would have escaped me entirely.

Needless to say, this is an important book, a rare first-hand account of what happened under Nazi rule, written by a young woman who, surrounded by injustice and inhumanity, wrote "I still believe that good is superior to evil."

[María Greene F · Rating 4 out of 5]

Una tragedia y, todavía más fuerte, una tragedia elocuente. Este diario simplemente me rompió el corazón.

Empieza súper suave y hasta medio fome, la vida cotidiana de una francesa cualquiera, llena al principio de nombres, datos, anotaciones, cosas específicas valiosas para el que escribe y soberanamente aburridas para casi todo el que no, pero después su vida se embauca en el terrible canal convergente de la mayoría de los judíos que vivieron en ese tiempo y espacio y la cosa se pone DEL TERROR.

Lo más triste, quizá, es ver cómo de a poco la autora va dejando atrás lo que eran sus propios anhelos personales y se aferra a la mera sobrevivencia. También cómo, de pasar a no querer hablar de algo para quitarle poder... la aceptación para al menos dejar un testimonio.

Es una pena saber que al final fue la única que murió de sus hermanos y que más encima lo hizo cinco días antes de ser liberado su campo (de concentración). Pero a cuántas otras personas les pasó también.

Es horroroso también volver a pensar en lo que pasó pero desde la perspectiva de ella, porque una cosa es verlo hacia atrás y otra "visitar" un mundo donde ESTÁ PASANDO, TODOS LO SABEN y NADIE (en el poder) HACE NADA POR EVITARLO. Y esto durante AÑOS.

En fin, que muy recomendado. Mucha gente vive vidas interesantes (aunque en el caso de Helene, contra su voluntad, en el sentido de que probablemente hubiera preferido tener una vida muy normal y con pocos eventos traumáticos que contar), pero pocos saben expresarlo con la habilidad con la cual lo hace ella.

Uno quisiera creer que, luego de suceder acontecimientos así, se exilie para siempre la barbarie en el mundo pero a mí me pasa al revés, que mientras más leo cosas como estas, más pienso que el ser humano, en las circunstancias "adecuadas", tiene un potencial increíble para el exterminio, la guerra y el horror :(

Ojalá esté equivocada, eso sí.



Destaqué varias citas, no puse fechas en la gran mayoría de ellas porque cada entrada era muy extensa y era muy largo recuperar el día exacta, pero son todas de 1944. En 1943 su diario todavía era en general ese mejunje de detalles seudo normales y felices, y en 1945 simplemente no escribió más.


1. *Una de las cosas que hace Helene en su vida es cuidar y apoyar a niños del orfelinato, muchos de ellos con padres deportados y muchos de ellos destinados a correr la misma suerte :(

El pequeño Bernard me cuenta su historia, tartamudeando con su voz infantil. Su madre y su hermana han sido deportadas, y me suelta esta frase que parecía tan vieja en su boca de bebé: "Estoy seguro de que no volverán vivas". Tiene aspecto de ángel.


2. *Jean es el novio de Helene, que se va para unirse a las fuerzas de resistencia anti nazi.

Tengo miedo de no estar ya aquí cuando Jean vuelva. Sólo desde hace poco tiempo. Todavía logro imaginar su regreso y pensar en el futuro. Pero cuando estoy de lleno en la realidad, cuando la percibo claramente, entonces la angustia se apodera de mí. Pero no es miedo, porque no tengo miedo de lo que pudiera sucederme (...). No temo por mí sino que por lo bello que habría podido ser.


3. *¨Francoise era una de las mejores amigas de Helene, que fue deportada a los campos.

A menudo, en la calle, el recuerdo de Francoise me atrapa, aunque no paro de pensar en ella y una gran parte de la tristeza que se ha convertido en mi estado de ánimo se debe a su ausencia. Ella, que no estaba preparada para esto, que no lo quería, que tenía tantos lazos aquí, que parecía amar tanto la vida; pienso en ella independientemente de mí, de mi congoja, y me digo que debe ser desgraciada, que debe sufrir mucho este desgarramiento. No sé por qué estoy convencida de que se esperaba esto menos que yo, y que se habrá rebelado más que yo.

¿Me rebelaré yo un día contra mi suerte? No es el fatalismo el que me hace soportarlo, sino más bien la vaga impresión de que cada nueva prueba tiene un sentido, que me está destinada, y que estaré más purificada, más digna que antes frente a mi conciencia y probablemente frente a Dios. Es una sensación que siempre he tenido: siempre me he desviado con una especie de confusión del personaje que yo era antes, un año o seis meses antes.

Es extraño, el recuerdo de Francoise se divide en dos elementos que predominan por turnos: la idea de su dolor físico y moral, y mi congoja, la sensación de haber perdido algo muy preciado, porque realmente di todo mi afecto a Francoise y yo sabía que ella también me apreciaba. Ahora estoy en el desierto.

Nadie sabrá nunca lo que han sido para mí este verano y este otoño. Nadie lo sabrá porque he seguido viviendo y actuando, pero no ha habido ni uno solo de mis pensamientos profundos, de esos pensamientos en que me sentía realmente yo misma, que no haya sido una fuente de dolor. Todavía no lo he sufrido en mi cuerpo, y sólo Dios sabe si esta prueba me espera, pero en mi alma, en mis afectos y, desde el punto de vista general, he vivido y vivo en una aflicción perpetua.

Nadie lo sabrá, ni siquiera los que me rodean, porque no hablo de ello, ni a Denise ni a Nicole ni tampoco a mamá. Hay demasiadas cosas de las que no se puede hablar.


4.
De aquella partida del 27 de marzo del 42 (la del marido de la señora Schwartz) no se ha vuelto a saber nada. Se ha hablado de las primeras líneas en el frente ruso, ¿emplearían a los deportados para hacer estallar las minas? Se ha hablado también de los gases asfixiantes con los que habrían rociado los convoyes de la frontera polaca. Estos rumores deben tener un origen verídico.

Y pensar que cada persona que fue detenida ayer, hoy, ahora mismo, está sin duda destinada a sufrir ese horrible destino. Pensar que no se ha acabado, que esto continúa todo el tiempo con una regularidad diabólica. Pensar que si me detienen esta noche (lo cual tengo presente desde hace mucho), estaré en la Alta Silesia dentro de ocho días, quizá muerta, que toda mi vida se apagará de golpe, con todo el infinito que siento dentro de mí. Y que esto es lo que le espera a cada individuo que ha pasado ya por esta prueba, y que es también un mundo.


5.
¿Cuál es la solución? Quizá los que son parciales son más felices porque encuentran una solución, por errónea que sea, tienen un objetivo: un objeto de odio es mucho menos angustioso que no tener odio.


6.
Viernes 12 noviembre 1944

Después de comer, la señora Agache llega como una loca porque acaba de enterarse de que a la joven Bokanowski, ingresada en el hospital Rothschild con sus dos bebés mientras deportaban a su marido a Drancy, también la habían llevado a este campo. Agache le preguntaba a mamá: "¿Cómo deportan a los niños?". Estaba desquiciada.

Es imposible expresar el dolor que he sentido al ver que ella sólo comprendía ahora porque se trataba de una conocida. Mamá le ha respondido, sin duda invadidad por el mismo impulso apasionado que yo: "Hace un año se lo dijimos, pero usted no quería creerlo". No saber, no comprender, incluso cuando lo sabes, porque una puerta en ti permanece cerrada, la puerta que al abrirse te permite asimilar al fin lo que simplemente sabías. Es el drama inmenso de esta época.


7.
Ayer se llevaron del hospital a cuarenta y cuatro enfermos, entre ellos a un tuberculoso en fase terminar, dos mujeres que tenían aún tubos de drenaje en el vientre, una paralizada de la lengua, una joven a punto de dar a luz y a la señora Bokanowksi. ¿Y por qué? ¿Por qué estas deportaciones? No tienen sentido. ¿Para hacerles trabajar? Morirán en el camino. ¡Dios, Dios, qué monstruosidad! Qué oscuro es todo esta noche, no veo salida. Estoy abierta a todos los relatos de horrores, recojo todas las tristezas, pero no veo solución, es demasiado.

***

Ahora ya no encuentro esta sensación porque la he recahazado, como si no tuviera derecho a existir. Pero antes de la cena me he preguntado si estaría mal querer hallarse por fin en un remanso de ternura y amor. Que te mimen, te acaricien, que se funda esta armadura que la soledad ha creado contra la tormenta. No, no hay nada que fundir, pero habrá profunidades inmensas que despertar.

¿Podré algún día no estar sola, captain of my soul [dueña de mí misma], y tener derecho a estar ternura maternal que le pediría a Jean, por paradójico que pueda parecer? Quisiera que me acunasen como a un niño. Yo, que me ocupo de otros niños. Quisiera después tanta y tanta ternura. Porque ahora sin duda no tengo derecho.


8.
Hay en este momento una ola de pesimismo. ¿Es por el invierno, el tercero de estos largos inviernos sin esperanza? ¿Es realmente porque no podemos más? La resistencia humana tiene recursos increíbles.

Nunca hubiéramos creído que soportaríamos lo que soportamos. ¿Cómo la señora Weill, por ejemplo, la madre de la señora Schwartz, a la que vi ayer por la mañana, no se vuelve loca? ¿Cómo no se vuelve loca la anciana señora Schwartz, con dos hijos deportados, una nuera deportada, un yerno deportado, una hija internada y un marido chocho?


9.
La abuela murió anteanoche de repente, cuando mamá acababa de irse. Estoy tan cansada que no puedo pensar. Además, no lo asimilo todavía. Lo haré cuando todo haya acabado.

Lo que ocurre actualmente, estos velatorios en la habitación, el espectáculo de su cuerpo tendido en la cama, todo esto es una prueba más (...). Todo es infinitamente simple, su cara no ha cambiado mucho, parecía que dormía, ha adquirido el tono del marfil viejo.

Cuando entré por primera vez, ayer por la mañana, lo que más me impresionó fue esta inmovilidad de mármol. Desde hace tres días, duerme, duerme todo el tiempo, nada puede ya molestarla. Pero sé muy bien que no es eso lo que me apenará de la muerte de la abuela. No consigo asociar eso al recuerdo vivo que conservo de ella. (...)

Me llena de ternura este cuerpo de marfil que parece dormido. Es una bendición que haya cambiado tan poco. Nicole dijo, ayer por la mañana: "Es como una llama que se apaga, estaba al final de la vida". Es cierto, no puede haber rebeldía. Es incluso más suave y apacible que la realidad que nos rodea.


10.
La única experiencia de la inmortalidad del alma que podemos tener con certeza es la que consiste en la persistencia del recuerdo de los muertos entre los vivos. De la otra nadie puede afirmar nada porque nadie sabe nada. En el caso de muchos, la creencia en la vida futura no es más que un subterfugio para disfrazar la idea de la muerte y, por desgracia, el catolicisimo ha explotado estos sentimientos y los ha desarrollado.

Quizá haya personas que saben, gracias a una iluminació. Pero la mayoría de la gente que cree en el paraíso y en el infierno, cree porque se lo han dicho desde que eran pequeños, como los alemanes de hoy creen que los judíos son unos bandidos. En realidad es un misterio insondable y en ese punto me pongo en las manos de Dios.


11.
Cuando escribo "judío" no traduzco mi pensamiento, porque para mí no existe esa distinción: no me siento diferente de los demás, nunca llegaré a considerarme parte de un grupo humano segregado, quizá por esto sufro tanto, porque ya no comprendo. Sufro al ver la maldad humana. Sufro al ver cómo el mal de abate sobre la humanidad, pero como siento que no formo parte de ningún tipo racial religioso, humano, sólo me sostienen mis luchas y mis reacciones, mi conciencia personal.

Me acuerdo de lo que dijo Lefschetz en la rue Claude-Bernard, cuando su alegato al favor del sionismo me había sulfurado: "Ya no sabéis por qué sois perseguidos" y es verdad. Pero el ideal sionista me parece demasiado estrecho, todo agrupamiento exclusivo, ya sea el sionismo, la horrible exaltación del germanismo que estamos presenciando, o hasta el chovinisimo, contienen un orgullo desmedido. Nada puedo hacer a este respecto, pero nunca me sentiré a gusto dentro de grupos así.


12.
La monstruosa imposibilidad de comprenderlo, lo ilógico de todo esto te tortura. Sin duda no hay que reflexionar. Porque los alemanes no buscan siquiera razones ni utilidad. Tienen un objetivo: exterminar. ¿Por qué, entonces, el soldado alemán con quien me cruzo en la calle no me abofetea, no me injuria? ¿Por qué muchas veces me sujeta la puerta del metro o me dice perdone cuando pasa antes que yo? ¿Por qué? Porque son gente que no sabe o, más bien, que ya no piensa; están para cumplir el acto inmediato que les ordenan.

Pero ni siquiera ven la incomprensible falta de lógica que hay en sujetarme la puerta en el metro y quizá mañana enviarme a la deportación, y sin embargo yo sería la misma y única persona. No hay duda de que tampoco lo saben todo.

El sello atroz de este régimen es la hipocresía. No conocen todos los detalles horribles de estas persecuciones porque sólo está implicado un pequeño grupo de verdugos y de la Gestapo. ¿Lo sentirían, si supieran? ¿Sentirían el dolor de esas personas arrancadas de sus hogares, de esas mujeres separadas de su carne y de su sangre? Están demasiado embrutecidos para eso. Y además no piensan en ello.

Vuelvo siempre a lo mismo, yo creo que es la base del mal y la fuerza que sustenta al régimen. El primer paso del nazismo consiste en aniquilar el pensamiento personal la reacción de la conciencia individual.

[Joanna · Rating 5 out of 5]

I just finished The Journal of Helene Berr, and I have to say that everyone should read it. Like The Diary of Anne Frank, it is an unbelievably moving first-hand account of a Jewish girl's perspective on the war, occupation, and genocide.

I cannot even begin to express how this book has made me feel. Also like Anne, Helene died only days before her camp was liberated by the British, which is just such a cruel, heartbreaking thing. She was arrested on the one night her family decided to sleep in their own home. She was found beat to death after her typhus prevented her from rising from her bunk that day.

The kind of courage that this girl expressed in her journal is just about the most inspiring thing I have ever read. The things she went through... She risked her life to save orphaned Jewish children from deportation. She is also my age exactly, so I understand so much of her feelings and the way she thinks. I feel such a strong kinship with Helene, and it absolutely breaks my heart that her life was ended so early, and in such a horrific manner. I feel like I've lost a friend.

Having a personal portrait of the tragedies of the Holocaust, being able to pick out a single face in the devastatingly large crowd, has taught me more about what it was like than anything else ever has. First Anne, now Helene. In her diary she explicitly states that she writes not for pity, but to impart understanding to those that read it.

If only everyone in the world could reach such an understanding of the horrors of inhumanity and injustice, and on the specific effects it has on a person. This terror has not been wiped out from the heart of men. How could anyone ever do this to another human being?

[Susan Poling · Rating 5 out of 5]

It has taken me forever to read this book because it is so heart-wrenching. The Diary of Ann Frank was the this story of a young girl. THIS is the story of a young woman living in Paris during the German Occupation. As a 21-22 year old attending the Sorbonne who becomes more and more mature, Helene eloquently tells of the expeience of living during this period. She writes of her thoughts and beliefs, talking about the blindness of the German population to what the Nazis are doing and the horrors her friends and aqauintances are going through as she and her family wait to be picked up as well while going about their daily routines. She talks of the similarities between the Christian and Jewish faith and how insane it is for someone to hate one without hating the other. She tells this with more and more sadness and anger, feeling that somewhere there must be a narrative of unjust horrors she sees around her. It is quite "a read" and well worth any depression or sorrow you may encounter along the way.

[Miche · Rating 4 out of 5]

Some people compare this one to The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, but I found them completely different.

Anne was 13 and her diary is mostly from the time she was hiding in the old office building.

Hélène's starts when she was 21 and attending English Literature at Sorbonne. The first hand narrative of the daily life in Paris during the German occupation was very insightful. Her prose is beautiful and powerful.

[Núria · Rating 4 out of 5]

El Diario de Hélène Berr empieza contando como ha ido a casa de la portera de Paul Valéry a buscar un libro dedicado que se atrevió a pedirle al famoso poeta y termina con las palabras "Horror, Horror, Horror..." Al principo parece que escribe sólo por ella pero poco a poco va cambiando y acaba escribiendo para dejar constancia de las atrocidades que pasan a su alrededor.

El diario empieza la primavera de 1942 y París está ocupado pero sigue siendo precioso. Hélène va a la universidad, lee, queda con sus amigos, va de pícnic al campo con su familia, disfruta de la música, se enamora. Es una chica llena de vida y leemos sobre su felicidad con el corazón encogido porque sabemos lo que vendrá después. El primer golpe es la obligación de todos los judíos de llevar la estrella amarilla y todo empeora cuando detienen a su padre. Ella sigue intentando llevar una vida tan normal como sea posible, pero el cerco se va estrechando cada vez más hasta hacerse irrespirable.

A finales de 1942 deja de escribir en su diario y prácticamente pasa un año antes que vuelva a escribir. Cuando lo vuelve a hacer ya todo ha cambiado: ya no hay esperanza, ha visto demasiadas veces como le han arrebatado personas que quería, ahora sólo le queda esperar a que vengan a detenerla también a ella. Este hiatus marca claramente las dos partes del diario: la primera es descriptiva y está llena de vida, la segunda es mucho más reflexiva y está llena de dolor.

Confieso que he llorado. Con el epílogo. Conocía su final, pero ha sido ver escrito que murió en un campo de concentración y empezar a llorar, porque después de tantas páginas he llegado a conocer a Hélène. Hèlene es una chica llena de vida, inteligente, apasionada, valiente, lúcida y que lee un montón y que escribe que es una delicia. Es imposible no llegar a querer a Hélène. Y al fin y al cabo es de esto de lo que trata el Diario: de que no podemos cerrar los ojos ante el sufrimiento, ni siquiera es aceptable compadecernos de los que sufren, porque la compasión no lleva a nada, lo único aceptable es sufrir con los que sufren.

[Kirsty · Rating 3 out of 5]

As Journal has been on my to-read list for quite some years now, I'm so pleased that I've finally had the opportunity to read it. It is undoubtedly an intelligent and well written work, but I do not feel as though I was able to connect with it as I have done almost every single World War Two journal which I've read to date. I'm unsure why; it's not as though it was impersonal on Berr's behalf, but it just didn't have the same power to it as works by the likes of Eva Schloss, Anne Frank, Clara Kramer, etc.. Perhaps it was due to the sheer amount of what I imagine to be friends and acquaintances who were mentioned but never introduced. Whilst Journal is a fascinating and harrowing record of wartime life, I am a little disappointed that it didn't quite live up to my expectations. It is wonderful, however, that Berr's journals have been published at last. I must admit that this is more of a 3.5 star read than a 4.

[Cathy · Rating 3 out of 5]

I wasn't really in the right headspace to read this journal at this time, but I did manage to finish it. I continue to be completely appalled and saddened by what millions of people had to live through and at the same time knowing that there could be thousands of journals like this one out there, for all of the people who didn't live to tell their tales.

[Jean · Rating 5 out of 5]

In 2002 Helene Berr’s niece Mariette Job donated Helene’s journal to The Archives of the Holocaust Memorial in Paris. It was published in France in 2008. David Bellos of Princeton University translated the journal into English for American publication. Helene Berr’s journal is an account of living in profound fear, day by day, in German occupied Paris during the Second World War. The journal covers two years recording what happened to the Jews under the Vichy government. Berr’s father was a WWI veteran and a prominent industrialist. Helene tells the how she felt the first day she had to wear the yellow star. She was a student of English at the Sorbonne, and a gifted violinist. Berr tells the story of her friends, neighbors and family being set off to the concentration camps and how the people rushed into their homes to steal everything. Helene was sent to Auschwitz on her 23 birthday and after 8 months she was moved to Bergen-Belsen. She survived in Bergen-Belsen for 5 months; she was beaten to death five days before the British liberated the camp. Her writing is simple and sometimes uses enchanting prose telling a story of monstrous events. Guila Clara Kessous a French actress did a great job narrating the book.

[Bap · Rating 4 out of 5]

My niece, an editor for Weinsten books has recommended this one, a journal kept by a Jewish college student in Paris during the German occupation in WW 2. Heartbreaking. I am stunned anew by the evil of the third Reich and the complicity of the occupied countries in facilitating the final solution.
When the journal begins there is still some normality but as it continues the terror and the evil of the germans and their collaborators become overwhelming and pervasive. The final solution was so utterly evil and senseless. Who could justify the destruction of an entire people including the old, the lame, and babies. And too many frenchmen collaborated with the Germans by informing on their neighbors or by professing to believe that "they would have been arrested if they hadn't done anything."

In some ways more powerful than Anne Frank's diary.

[Marilyn · Rating 3 out of 5]

Journal of a young, 20-something Jewish-French woman in Paris during World War II. Began like a current blog--parties, shopping, school, meals--with family and friends--self-centered, self-conscious, revolving around people the reader neither knows nor cares about. Half-way in, the journal becomes more serious, more reflective, as the circumstances for Jews in France change. The most compelling thing about this book is what is not in it. There is the over-arching sense of terrible irony. The reader knows all too well what will happen;the writer does not. We want her to escape; we know she will not.

"I fear that my beautiful dream may never be brought to fruition, may never be realized. I'm not afraid for myself, but for something beautiful that might have been." p. 169

[Magdelanye · Rating 5 out of 5]

June 1942 Up to that point the future had remained undecipherable. But it had unfolded, and we knew what lay in store....Just twelve days went by, and another piece of the future lost its aura of mystery and impenetrability, and turned out to be sad and squalid. p73

It was not the best time to be young and in love, especially in Paris after the arrival of the Germans. In 1942 Helene Berr was still a brilliant student of literature and philosophy at the Sorbonne with a large circle of friends drawn to her winsome personality and no doubt her musical talent. Her father held a prestigious position as a scientist and business executive; Helene grew up in a large house filled with music, warmth and visitors. They were French first and incidentally Jewish. Yet intimations of unspeakable horror lurked even as the post continued to be delivered and visits to the cobbler and the seamstress and the doctors were still routine chores, and there were weddings and births to celebrate.

We don't have the right to think only of poetry on this earth. It is magic, but it is utterly selfish. p29

People were coping. Many fled. Many refused to leave. Many had to leave in a hurry; many against their will. For Jewish people, a flurry of tightening restrictions. Helene began to keep a journal to record what was happening. What was happening was insane. It was easier to avoid, deny, and minimize what could not be grasped. The arrest of Helene's father jolted the family out of its fragile sense of security. Some of her family was already in the free zone but Helene chose to stay home with her parents, even when she was denied the right to sit for her exams; even facing to the probability of deportation.

Friday 12 Nov 1943 Not knowing, not understanding even when you do know, because you have a closed door inside you, and you can only realize what you merely know if you open it. This is the enormous drama of our age. Everyone is blind to those being tortured. p204

At he hospital yesterday they took away 44 patients, including one with terminal TB, two women who still had abdominal drips still attached...a young woman at the outset of labour and Mme Bokanowski.....Why? Why deport them at all? Are they going to put these invalids to work? p205

I appear normal to her, just a busy person doing a lot of things. My appearance is deceptive....I should give up the modesty and the pride that forces me to carry on behaving like other people, and also refuse their pity.....Often I feel that I am play-acting, and that my duty ought to be to appear not normal, to reveal it, to display the real gulf separating us from other people instead of trying to ignore it or even avert my gaze...out of respect, so others are not aware of my reproach. p205

To wear the yellow star as a badge of courage rather than shame. To bring a little kindness and cheer to those in despair, especially the lost children. Every day a risk and a respite. Helene Berr was not a heroine of the resistance. She did not work, as far as we know, for the underground. She volunteered for an organization that was seen as some to be tainted by its official designation, but she worked hard travelling around Paris visiting hospitals and refuges, placing orphans whenever possible with good homes, taking them on excursions; expanding her perspective, holding fast to her ideals.

Fri June 12, 1942 There is beauty in the midst of tragedy. As if beauty were condensing in the heart of ugliness. p61

HB was studying Keats. She played Schumann and Mozart and most thrillingly she was discovering the difference between real love and polite affection. Ironically, both of her suitors had left to join the Free French and despite the poor odds, both survived. Helene and her parents did not. They were deported to Auschwitz on March 27, 1944 where both her parents were killed. Helene survived until the march to Bergen Belson, succumbing at last to typhoid and exhaustion and starvation, five days before the end of WWII.

Lest we believe that this is ancient history, barely relevant today, look around. They may not be coming for you, but alert yourself. Do we wait for our Armageddon or do we do everything we can to stop it?

Feb 1, 1944 Does the conscious effort to suppress hatred in any way mitigate the evil that has been done? p252

A concise summery of how that evil grew into a precise killing machine is provided in an appendix in addition to several moving letters, a bibliography, and a long list of names referred to.

Fri 12 Nov, 1943 God, God, what a monstrosity! All is so dark tonight, I can't see any way out. I am alert to all the horror stories. I gather up all the miseries, but I can no longer see any solution, it is all too much. p203

[Eliza Whalen · Rating 4 out of 5]

very special...the first time i think i have been very moved by a book that i read in french!! ive enjoyed my other foreign language reads but i dont think any others were the right fit both in terms of content and my personal skill level at the time of reading.

i think i just relate a lot to helene. 22 year old literature lover who definitely enjoys a bit of melodrama and documenting her daily life in a way that tells me she wants to prove her self-awareness to herself. many of these entries--especially the ones before the shift to a more historical account about a third of the way through--feel like they could have come straight from my own diary. i think we would have been good friends, which was a very cool feeling to have because it reminds me just how /human/ humans really remain across the separation of time / space / language / experience. it made me feel much closer to the past, basically

also just a unique perspective i dont think we often consider when talking about the european jewish experience during the holocaust (i.e. wealthy family in paris who continued to live their lives "normally" well into the occupation). it is always interesting to read war books and remember that people continued to deal with personal and interpersonal dramas, and that those regular problems (completely separate from the war) could feel just as pressing

i wish i had more to say but i finished this a bit ago and many thoughts have left my head. 4 stars because there were some moments that dragged a little, some mundane information that could be bothersome. but also... its a diary....... so no personal penalty to helene of course, just something that made the process of reading marginally less enjoyable

"Et pourtant, je suis jeune encore, c’est une injustice que toute la limpidité de ma vie soit troublée, je ne veux pas « avoir de l’expérience », je ne veux pas devenir blasée, désabusée, vieille. Qu’est-ce qui me sauvera ?"

"Mais c’est étrange : cette douleur physique me donne l’impression de concentrer en elle toute ma méchanceté et mon malaise moral. Elle me débarrasse, elle est salu- taire. Elle correspond à un grand changement. Je ne sais pas si j’aime Gérard ou non ; mais toute méchante pensée à son égard a disparu de moi. Lorsque je pense à lui, c’est presque comme à une chose sacrée que je ne veux plus toucher."

[Michael Joe Armijo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Reading The Journal of Helene Berr was both haunting and illuminating. At first, her entries felt almost mundane — filled with daily coming and goings, social gatherings, and small details that, in hindsight, seem almost ordinary. In many ways, it reminded me of my own journaling, where some days feel “boring.” But as her story unfolds, those very details become profoundly heartbreaking.

What makes this journal so extraordinary is that Helene herself had no idea what was coming — her own tragic murder at Auschwitz. There’s an almost unbearable poignancy in reading her words, knowing her vibrant life would be cut short. It made me think not only of the world she would have enriched through her work, but also of the children and grandchildren she never had — generations of goodness and beauty forever lost.

One passage struck me deeply in its timelessness:

“If only you could manage to make bad men understand the evil they are doing.”

Reading this line, I couldn’t help but think of today’s world. It resonates painfully with the current situation in Pakistan, where Afghan people who have lived there their entire lives are now being forced to return to Afghanistan — a country ruled by the Taliban. History’s lessons, it seems, are still being ignored.

Helene’s journal is filled with insights that feel just as urgent today as they did then. Some of my favorite passages include:
1. “The most beautiful things that happen are those I don’t foresee.”
2. “Each of us in our own small sphere can do something.”
3. “We are on a tightrope that is getting tighter hour by hour.”
4. “Writing the way I want to requires constant effort.”
5. “The excellence of every art is in its intensity.” — quoting John Keats

The book’s power lies not just in its historical context but in Helene’s humanity. Her observations of love, art, and beauty run parallel to a world spiraling into horror. She was only 23 years old, brimming with life and intellect, when her story was silenced.

I give this book four stars because the early sections, though important, can feel slow as they describe her everyday life. But by the end, those very ordinary moments become unbearably precious. This is a must-read for anyone seeking to understand not only the tragedy of the Holocaust, but also the enduring resilience of the human spirit.

[Alarie · Rating 5 out of 5]

This memoir by a Jewish student at the Sorbonne in Paris during the German occupation of WWII can’t help but recall The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. We get to know the author’s intimate life, dreams, and heart during a time when it was difficult to believe anything good could be possible. There are obvious differences due to the young women’s ages, countries, and circumstances, but readers will still find themselves holding their breath, hoping “not today.”

In many ways Berr had things easier. She retained much of her freedom, went to school, went shopping, worked for a children’s relief organization, saw her friends. She even seems to have eaten well enough. She was also a gifted student of literature and music. Much of her social life was spent listening to Classical records or playing her violin in duets or trios with friends. It was surprising how long she avoided being deported by the Nazis, yet all the more sad that she got through most of the war only to be trapped. Because she is smart and has witnessed the murders and roundups of so many, the fear and foreboding grow stronger and stronger throughout her diary. She is an accomplished writer and has fascinating things to say about books, music, human nature, nationalism, and Christianity. Her discussion of the teachings of Jesus versus the hate carried out in His name bring the point home. It’s surprising that this book wasn’t published until 2008. It’s an important insider’s view of the price of bigotry and hate.

[Joules]

"The only immortality of which we can have certain knowledge is the immortality that consists in the continuing memory of the dead among the living."

I don't feel right providing a rating for work like this, as Carmen Callil writes, "there are some books that are great, not because their writers were born for literary success, but because circumstances force upon them the writing of a truly great book." This is one such work. Hélène was a brilliant writer and soul, it was haunting to hear her account, knowing what was coming for her but not being able to dismiss her hope and plans for the future all the same. Her clinging to the words of Keats, Shelley, and Shakespeare renew and make prescient these works in seemingly disparate historical circumstances.

Her fiancée wrote of reading the diary, "it... emphasized the cruelty of her irredeemable absence: a pale and frozen hand stretched out towards me so I could bring it back to life..." reading this indispensable account brings her back to life in our memories, gives her immortality. A must read.

[Paige · Rating 4 out of 5]

The allusion throughout Helene's writing is beautiful, as well as her writing itself. Though, her journal is rather.. uneventful? Her musings about Jean are interesting though rather got dull after awhile. And her entries are philosophy were fascinating to read, even if I disagreed with many of them.
A beautiful life and sad to be taken so early. The impact she would have had on the world would have been incredible.

[Callie · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5
it's absolutely astounding, how much of this woman's life was left out of her diary. though i certainly struggle with the ethics of publishing diaries post-mortem (especially as, in Hélène's case, she states she does not want it published) this record is so precious.

[Scott]

“But it must never be forgotten that while it was happening, the human beings who suffered all these tortures were completely separated from people who did not know about them, that the great law of Christ saying that all men are brothers and all should share and relieve the suffering of their fellow man was ignored.”

“I do not want to grow blasé, worldly-wise, and old. What will save me?”

[Karine Mon coin lecture · Rating 4 out of 5]

Devoir de mémoire. Impossible de ne pas être complètement retournée.

[Sandra · Rating 4 out of 5]

Si esto ocurriera, si estas líneas son leídas, se verá claro que esperaba mi destino; no que lo haya aceptado de antemano, porque no sé hasta qué punto puede llegar mi resistencia física y moral bajo el peso de la realidad, sino que me lo esperaba.

Y quizá el que lea estas líneas tendrá también una conmoción en este momento preciso, como siempre he tenido yo leyendo en un autor muerto hace mucho tiempo una alusión a su muerte.

Así escribe Hélène Berr tras analizar el poema Esta mano viva de John Keats en su diario. Corre el año 1943 en la Francia ocupada por los nazis, lo que implica que la señorita Berr, de 20 años y de origen judío, debe llevar la insignia amarilla, no puede viajar en ciertos vagones de metro y tiene prohibido presentarse a una oposición. Es licenciada en Inglés por la Sorbona y tiene un título de enseñanza superior de lengua y literatura inglesas que no le sirve para nada. Su frustración es evidente:

Hoy he pensado en el metro: ¿mucha gente se dará cuenta de lo que habrá sido tener 20 años en este horrible tormento, la edad en que estás preparada para recibir la belleza de la vida, en que estás dispuesta a confiar en los humanos? ¿Se dará cuenta del mérito (lo digo sin vergüenza, porque soy perfectamente consciente de lo que soy), del mérito que habrá tenido conservar un juicio imparcial y una dulzura de corazón a través de esta pesadilla? Creo que nosotros estamos un poco más cerca de la virtud que muchos otros.

Al principio, en el 42, sus reflexiones son algo superficiales. Tiene novio pero está empezando a enamorarse de Jean Moriawecki, al que dedicará muchas páginas de su diario en una especie de diálogo en el tiempo. Su padre es detenido y enviado al campo de Drancy, y cuando le liberan, Hélène enmudece un año. A su regreso algo ha cambiado. Ya no cree que si los otros comprendieran todo el asunto se solucionaría. Ahora tiene dudas. A medida que las deportaciones aumentan, ese odio que siempre ha querido evitar también lo hace. Poco a poco, sus reflexiones dan paso a simples testimonios de lo que ocurre, como si sintiera que su tiempo se acaba. Las últimas palabras que aparecen en el diario son las famosas: ¡Horror! ¡Horror! ¡Horror!

A Hélène Berr la detienen junto a sus padres en marzo de 1944. A su padre lo envenena un médico en Monowitz en septiembre. Su madre muere en la cámara de gas un mes después. Ella es evacuada de Auschwitz a Bergen-Belsen y muere de tifus unos días antes de que los ingleses liberen el campo. Su resistencia física la ayudó, de la moral no sabemos nada. Tal y como vaticinó, sus palabras causan conmoción en quien las lee, pero no solo por el augurio de su muerte, sino por su acierto:

Tenía una necesidad absoluta de contarle a alguien El osito Winnie. Cuando he empezado he visto que no le interesaba a nadie. Y he continuado, aun a sabiendas de que forzaba la atención ajena, consciente de que les aburría. He vencido la repugnancia que me producía la sensación de ser aburrida. Pero no comprendía que los demás desprecien El osito Winnie. Es el problema eterno: compartir con alguien mi entusiasmo, para mí no existe alegría si no puedo comunicarla a otro. Ahora estoy privada de todos aquellos con los que podía hacerlo, ante todo Jean.

Querida Hélène, aunque tú no llegaste a saberlo nunca, no estuviste privada de compartir el entusiasmo. Lo hiciste unos cincuenta años después, por siempre y con millones de personas que sí comprenden. Aunque quizá demasiado tarde…

[Siv30 · Rating 5 out of 5]

בגיל 22, הלן בר סטודנטית לתואר שני לספרות אנגלית בסורבון, מתחילה לכתוב יומן. השנה 1942, אפריל 1942 האביב בשיאו, השמים תכולים והלן בר מתלבטת בחיבוטים של אישה צעירה המצוייה במערכת יחסים שלא נהירה לה עד הסוף.

אבל עד מהרה ביוני 1942 היומן מקבל תפנית עם פרסום הגזרות הקשות ניתכו על יהודי צרפת כמו ברד ביום גשום במיוחד. הלן מתמודדת עם הצו לענוד טלאי צהוב. ההתמודדות הזו תולשת פיסות מנשמתה העדינה. הקשיים שלה להסתגל למצבה החדש, ממלאים את דפי היומן, ועם התרחבות הגזרות והתחלת רדיפות יהודי צרפת באופן אקטביסטי, היומן מקבל צביון ברור של מסמך תיעודי לא פשוט.

באופן סופי הלן מאמצת עמדה תיעודית, עם מעצרו של אביה, רמון בר, ב -23.06.1942. ב- 24 ליוני היא כותבת ביומן :

"רציתי לכתוב את הדברים האלה אתמול בערב. אבל הייתי גמורה, לא הייתי מסוגלת לעשות את המאמץ הזה.

הבוקר אני מכריחה את עצמי, כי אני רוצה לזכור את הכל" (יומן, עמ' 66)

אביה נשלח למחנה דראנסי, כך שבמשך 3 חודשים עד שחברת קולמן שילמה כופר לשיחרורו, האיום הממשי של גירוש מרחף קונקרטית בחייה. בסוף יוני 1942 החלו הגירושים ההמוניים מצרפת לאושוויץ. הלן, שחבריה ועמיתיה היהודים הולכים ונעלמים, חשה בסכנה אולם עדין לא ברורה לה מטרות הגירוש.

היא תוהה בקול רם על מטרות הגירוש, תהיות שמקבלות ציביון דוחק בקול צורם. ב- 28 לאוקטובר 1943 היא כותבת:

"שאלתי על גברת סמואל. בסוף היא גורשה. בתור יהודייה למחצה ואישה בהריון היא נשארה בפריז, אבל לקחו אותה מבית חולים וגירשו אותה בקרון מרפאהף זה נשמע לי כמו בדיחה, מה עושה קרון מרפאה ברכבת של קרונות בקר? אבל מה מוכיח באופן ניצח יותר את אפסותה המפלצתית של המדינה הנאצית, מאשר גירושם של אנשים בקרונות מרפאה?

מה התועלת בזה? אני תופסת את ראשי ולא מבינה. תשובה: זה מנגנון מזוויע שהם מפעילים בלי לחשוב.

בכל פעם הוא מתנפל וטורף אנשים מוכרים יותר. בימים אלה יוצאת רכבת מידי שבוע." (יומן, עמ' 178)

בסוף היומן ב- 15 לפברואר 1944 הלן מפוכחת. מה שהחל בשמים כחולים אביביים מסתיים במילים "זוועה, זוועה", היא לא ממשיכה לתעד את שעובר עליה ואת שרואות עיניה עד יום מעצרה ב- 08.03.1944. גם לא נמצא המשך תיעודי לזוועות שראתה באושוויץ (היא היחידה ששרדה מבני משפחה את אושוויץ ולמעשה היא נפטרה בברגן בלזן מטיפוס מספר ימים לפני השיחרור).

אחד המסמכים המפעימים שיצא לי לקרוא בתקופה האחרונה. מתחיל כיומן של נערה ומסתיים כיומן של אישה, בשלה המודעת למציאות שבה היא חייה. בנחישות חסרת פשרות מתעדת הלן את הכאב, התיסכול, הזוועה. מבין השיטין הקורא למד שהיא מתגייסת לסיוע לילדים שאיבדו את הוריהם בשילוחים הגדולים.

אני חושבת שזה ממש בגדר ספר חובה. הלן מצטיירת מבין הדפים כהומניסטית גדולה, כאדם עשיר, אינטיליגנטי, מוסרי, אוהב. לקרוא את הדפים האלה שכתבה ומבין הזוועות האנושיות שעולות, לקרוא שיר הלל לחיים, לחופש האנושי, לחופש התודעה.

[Tracey · Rating 4 out of 5]

A beautiful talented young woman at the beginning of her adult life. It’s important that we read the words of those who were there.

[Madelein]

I don't think you can rate this kind of book- it wasn't created to be read, and it is just Berr's account of her life and what she wanted to write about.

Powerful and chilling.