By Janusz Korczak
Korczak’s grimly inspiring ghetto diary is now to be had in paperback for the 1st time, observed via a brand new advent via Betty Jean Lifton, the writer of the biography of Korczak.
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Extra resources for Ghetto Diary
I shall read Diderot’s Jacques le fataliste. Probably for the first time I have forgotten that I am living through my tenth sevenyear life stage, 7x9. Tensely, I waited for 2x7. Perhaps it was precisely then that I had heard of this for the first time. The Gypsy’s seven, seven days of the week. Why not the victorious ten of olden days (the number of fingers)? I remember the tense feeling as I waited for the clock to strike midnight. The change was supposed to take place just at that instant. There was some scandal with a hermaphrodite.
Now the only people left were half-beasts, all others have perished. How minutely, to the last detail I planned everything—the best proof that my own person was completely excluded from this peculiar system. By a mere turn of the micrometer screw of my “microscope” I could have taken my own life. What then? I confess with some embarrassment that I return to this theme today, too, on the more difficult nights. Nights in prison have produced the most interesting chapters of my tale. There was about a dozen of these daydreams in the workshop to choose from.
Perhaps it is. Yet you cannot do without it. There are the editorials, and a novel in installments, obituaries and theatrical reviews, reports from the courts. The movies—a new film. A new novel. Small accidents. Classified advertisements. Not really so interesting as rather offering a choice. Someone killed under the streetcar, somebody has invented something or other, someone’s fur coat was stolen, and here a five-year prison sentence. Somebody wants to buy a sewing machine or a typewriter, or has a piano for sale or is looking for a three-room apartment with all modern conveniences.