#EU27Project: Mihail Sebastian: For Two Thousand Years

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I was not aware of this novel by Mihail Sebastian (if I thought about it at all, I thought it was an essay). It is actually somewhat uncharacteristic: most of his other works, which I loved and poured over, were romantic, idealistic, more about the artist’s place in society, avoiding loneliness, finding love. All the things guaranteed to appeal to a teenager. But they weren’t sickly sweet like Ionel Teodoreanu (alas, yes, I have to admit it now, although I loved him at the time too) or Cella Serghi. There was always an element of sharp psychological observation and a few hints of social critique (especially in the plays).

In For Two Thousand Years, the love story plays an entirely secondary role to what is predominantly social critique. The plot hardly qualifies as a plot: it describes key moments in the biography of a young Jewish architect in Romania from 1922 to about 1932, with references to his friends and acquaintances, and how they react during periods of virulent anti-semitism and more relaxed, tolerant periods.

The first few chapters are like diary entries (very similar in fact to Sebastian’s later diary, written in the run-up to the Second World War), so readers may feel somewhat discombobulated as the narrator talks about things that would have been obvious to those living in Romania at that time, but are not widely known nowadays. Anti-semitism was alive and well in Romania at the time (something they had in common with many European countries) and the first constitution of Romania (after the unification of Wallachia and Moldova) in 1866 stated quite bluntly that only Christians could be considered Romanians. The Versailles Treaty in 1918 (which led to Romania’s unification with Transylvania) had a special clause about granting equal political rights to all ethnic groups, but this was often taken to mean the Hungarians and Germans living in Transylvania rather than the Jewish population who was scattered all over the country. In 1922 a numerus clausus was introduced at universities, limiting the number of students from a particular ethnic group (guess which one?) and there were student riots and aggressions against Jewish students.

Mihail Sebastian

The narrator not only witnesses all of this, but also has discussions about the Jewish soul and Zionism with both Romanian and Jewish friends. In a sense, he is forced to discover his Jewish roots, which he hadn’t thought much about hitherto. His own family history shows him that there is no such thing as the ‘Jewish archetype’. His father’s side of the family were strong hulks, workers in the port town of Braila, while his mother’s side from North Bucovina contained sickly intellectuals, but neither were particularly urban or rich.

He has always spoken Romanian and is not sure how he feels about Yiddish or Hebrew, until he meets the elderly book collector Abraham Sulitzer, who has Cervantes, Moliere, Shakespeare and modern authors all translated into Yiddish. Abraham berates the narrator for not appreciating this language:

Jargon! Broken German! Ghetto dialect! That’s what Yiddish is to you. If I tell you, though, that it’s a language neither beautiful nor ugly, but a living language, a language that people have suffered in, sang in, expressed their thoughts and fears in for hundreds of years, you’d stare at me open-mouthed… It’s a living language, with its own nervous system, its veins, its joys and sorrows, with its homeland in the ghetto…

As a student, the narrator is dazzled by one of his professors, Ghita Blidaru (a thinly disguised Nae Ionescu, who wrote that horrible preface). Blidaru is an idealist, all about the cultural heritage of the Romanians, the superiority of the rural traditions, where the true, pure soul of the Romanians lie, harking back to an imagined glorious past. For a while, the narrator buys into his theories, but there are strong hints of his teacher’s thoughtlessness and indifference to those who are different to himself. The narrator’s surprise and disillusionment as he discovers the indifference and apathy of his friends to the plight of minorities, as they tell him that they don’t mean him of course when they launch into anti-semitic speeches, will sound very familiar to those living in Brexit Britain.

So will the desire to protest against the government, to make sure your voice gets heard, even if that is done in a truly destructive and hate-filled way. His friend Stefan Parlea, for instance (likely to be a portrait of his real-life friend at the time, Mircea Eliade, although Sebastian took care to deny that any of the characters in the book were drawn from real life etc.) justifies aggressions of the right-wing Iron Guard against Jewish shops (way before Kristallnacht) thus:

I don’t regret what happened. I regret how it ended: in indifference, forgotten… It’s great to smash windows. Any violent action is good. Of course, crying out ‘Down with the Jews!’ is idiotic, but what does it matter? You need to shake things up in this country. And if that means starting with the Jews, then so be it, it can’t be helped, but it will end with a major conflagration, an earthquake that will spare nothing. That was my ambition, that was my hope.

Camil Petrescu

The narrator survives all this, although getting sadder and sadder in the process. He becomes an architect and works on a project funded by a wealthy American to extract petrol and build a large refinery in a village in the picturesque Valea Prahovei, which leads to the destruction of the natural beauty and traditional way of life, as symbolised by the plum trees that they had to cut down. The narrator cannot help but feel that this time he is not innocent, he is actively contributing to the destruction of a way of life, but not because of his ethnicity. Here he has conversations with another friend Mircea Vieru (most probably a fictionalised version of Sebastian’s great friend and fellow writer Camil Petrescu). This is where the tensions arise, between the rational Western Cartesian values (often associated with urbanism and economic development) and the more emotional Balkanic approach, equated here with rural traditions, being a proud peasant, returning to the ‘soil that made you’, thereby excluding the Jews, because they were never ‘created’ by this soil, but are doomed to be forever migrant.

Funnily enough, when the book was published, the author was hated equally by both the Romanian and the Jewish community. Clearly, for the Romanians, he was showing an aspect of their society that they were not comfortable admitting to, but why was he considered anti-semitic? Not only because of his association with Nae Ionescu, who denounces the whole book with his virulent preface, but because Sebastian is remarkably clear-eyed and unsentimental about the Jewish propensity to be almost complacent in their victimhood. Self-doubt and self-flagellation are very Jewish characteristics, and perhaps the persecution they have suffered over the centuries has added to their feeling that they are the ‘special, chosen’ nation. He is also sceptical about the Zionist movement, and he has characters discussing the pros and cons.

The author is almost thinking out loud (which explains why I thought this was an essay):

To be persecuted isn’t just a physical misfortune, but above all an intellectual one, because it deforms your thinking bit by bit… I never enjoyed being a martyr, although I do recognise a certain Jewish propensity in myself towards that… For a long time I couldn’t understand Parlea as the enemy territory, because of all the barbed wire separating us. It’s so easy and comforting to think of your adversaries as evil and stupid…

I could go on and on, there are so many juicy quotes, but instead of posting the whole book here (in my own translation), I would urge you to read it. It has been translated into English and published by Other Press in the US and Penguin Modern Classics in the UK. Don’t expect a conventional novel with a satisfying story arc, but do expect a disarmingly patient, honest, puzzled account of the rise of fascism. An inquiring mind that seeks to understand others, even when what they say is indefensible, as well as a scrupulously honest dissection of his own beliefs and blind spots.

Calea Victoriei, one of the main boulevards in Bucharest, in 1930. Sebastian lived for a while in a studio flat on this (long) street.

For me, a complete revelation, adding to the portrait of the talented, dreamy, idealistic young man that I knew from his novels and plays. As a Romanian, I cannot help but be ashamed of the venom that Nae Ionescu spits at him (and compare it with some of the things I have heard lately being spouted about gays in the recent referendum about family and Orthodox values):

It is an assimilationist illusion, it is the illusion of so many Jews who sincerely believe that they are Romanian … Remember that you are Jewish! Are you Iosif Hechter, a human being from Brăila on the Danube? No, you are a Jew from Brăila on the Danube.

17 thoughts on “#EU27Project: Mihail Sebastian: For Two Thousand Years”

  1. Unlike you this is the only experience of Sebastian’s work I have, so it’s fascinating to see your perspective on him. It is indeed an excellent novel and one I’d agree with in recommending to everyone.

    1. With all of my love for Sebastian, I have to admit it’s probably not entirely successful as a ‘plot novel’, but it is certainly a novel of ideas and takes you (and the narrator) on a journey.

  2. Fascinating
    I’ve never heard of this writer, but I’m definitely interested.

    PS: As a name, is Ionescu in Romania the same as Dupont or Durand in France?

    1. Yes, Ionescu is almost as common as Popescu in Romania, definitely in the Dupont range… Eugen Ionescu was good friends with Sebastian but despite his very Romanian name (and a Romanian father), he too suffered some persecution because his mother was Jewish. Currently reading about all that in Sebastian’s diaries.

      1. I happen to know too people named Ionescu, n’est-ce pas?) plus the playwright, plus the name pops up in your billet.
        I guessed it was a common name.

  3. What a fascinating book, Marina Sofia! And what a creative way to weave together history and one’s personal story. That discussion of Yiddish is so interesting, too. It’s a unique language, and I’m glad the topic is addressed here.

    1. I could have gone on, there were some very interesting discussions about going to Palestine or not, learning Hebrew or not, about cultural identity in a debate with a Hungarian Jew who considered himself more Hungarian than Jewish and was determined to go back there and make his mark, although Hungary at the time was persecuting them even more…

  4. This is on my wish list as someone on Twitter mentioned that he loved it. I’ve totally forgotten who. In only remember it was a ‘he’. It does sound excellent. It’s very interesting that both Romanians and Jews had problems with this novel but you explained very well why.
    I wonder though, I never though Jews felt they were chosen because they were being persecuted but rather the other way around. Non-Jews resented that they felt they were chosen. Clearly a complex problem and I don’t know nearly enough.

    1. I do heartily recommend this, Caroline, I think you’d like it. As for the ‘chosen’ complex, it becomes a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy. You start out believing you are special, you get persecuted, which confirms that you must be special because others are so envious of you that they have to attack you. This is the modus operandi of new religious movements, which I’ve studied extensively. Now, of course I’m not saying that the Jews are like new religious movements, but the early Christians were, for example, and they too used persecution to confirm their beliefs.

  5. It’s very interesting. My mother’s parents fled anti-Jewish imperial-Russia-occupied Poland in 1907 and went to New York. Yiddish was their first language, and my mother and her family always spoke Yiddish to each other. And I grew up with a lot of Yiddish. I love the language, the idioms, metaphors, curses. I still think of the commands yelled to my sister and me by our mother in Yiddish or the questions. I scream when I hear anyone say it’s a “gutter language.” It is not. That’s what the Nazis said and banned it. It is a great language.

    Identify is complicated. Of course, my grandparents thought of themselves as Jewish, but also as Polish. But because Poland was occupied by Russia, there was a bit of Russian language and culture thrown into the mix.

    I grew up with all sorts of foods, which I later learned were typical of much of Eastern Europe, of both Jewish and non-Jewish people. But my mother loved foods that were eaten in the poor Jewish villages and so we had them.

    One thing, though, is not Jewish people, even those so persecuted, became Zionists. There wee heated discussions in Jewish circles, about this in the early 1900s, during WWI and in the 1920s. My grandfather was not a Zionist. He believed in unity with all peoples who were persecuted.

    This is today an important distinction, and Jewish people are not a solid bloc, but people with their own opinions, increasingly so among young people.


    1. What a fascinating background! And you are absolutely right, there were all types and kinds of Jews with all sorts of approaches to their cultural identity. Any tendency to lump people all together into one undistinguishable mass is doomed to oversimplification or negligence or worse.

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