that one day was doubly provided for while other days were empty. Nevertheless, everyone was happy, naturally, if he found an opportunity to sell such an additional
set of free meals advantageously. Now if someone arrived in summer, as Löwy did, at a time when the free board had long since been distributed, the only possible way
to get any was to buy it, as the additional sets of free meals which had been available at first had all been reserved by speculators.
The night in the Yeshivah was unbearable. Of course, all the windows were open since it was warm, but the stench and the heat would not stir out of the rooms, the
students, who had no real beds, lay down to sleep without undressing, in their sweaty clothes, wherever they happened to be sitting last. Everything was full of fleas. In
the morning everyone hurriedly wet his hands and face with water and resumed his studies. Most of the time they studied together, usually two from one book.
Debates would often draw a number into a circle. The Rosh Yeshivah explained only the most difficult passages here and there. Although Löwy later—he stayed in
Ostro ten days, but slept and ate at the inn—found two like-minded friends (they didn’t find one another so easily, because they always first had carefully to test the
opinions and reliability of the other person), he nevertheless was very glad to return home because he was accustomed to an orderly life and couldn’t stand the
homesickness.
In the large room there was the clamor of card playing and later the usual conversation which Father carries on when he is well, as he is today, loudly if not coherently.
The words represented only small shapes in a formless clamor. Little Felix slept in the girls’ room, the door of which was wide open. I slept across the way, in my own
room. The door of this room, in consideration of my age, was closed. Besides, the open door indicated that they still wanted to lure Felix into the family while I was
already excluded.
Yesterday at Baum’s. Strobl was supposed to be there, but was at the theater. Baum read a column, “On the Folksong”; bad. Then a chapter from Des Schicksals
Spiele und Ernst; very good. I was indifferent, in a bad mood, got no clear impression of the whole. On the way home in the rain Max told me the present plan of
“Irma Polak.” I could not admit my mood, as Max never gives it proper recognition. I therefore had to be insincere, which finally spoiled everything for me. I was so
sorry for myself that I preferred to speak to Max when his face was in the dark, although mine, in the light, could then betray itself more easily. But then the mysterious
end of the novel gripped me in spite of all the obstacles. On the way home, after saying good night, regret because of my falsity and pain because of its inevitability.
Plan to start a special notebook on my relationship with Max. What is not written down swims before one’s eyes and optical accidents determine the total impression.
When I lay on the sofa the loud talking in the room on either side of me, by the women on the left, by the men on the right, gave me the impression that they were
coarse, savage beings who could not be appeased, who did not know what they were saying and spoke only in order to set the air in motion, who lifted their faces while
speaking and followed the spoken words with their eyes.
So passes my rainy, quiet Sunday, I sit in my bedroom and am at peace, but instead of making up my mind to do some writing, into which I could have poured my whole
being the day before yesterday, I have been staring at my fingers for quite a while. This week I think I have been completely influenced by Goethe, have really
exhausted the strength of this influence and have therefore become useless.
From a poem by Rosenfeld describing a storm at sea: “The souls flutter, the bodies tremble.” When he recites, Löwy clenches the skin on his forehead and the bridge of