Shtarbn vil ikh in der shtil, Az keyner, keyner zol nisht hern, Ikh vil nisht, kind, dayn ru tseshtern, Du zolst fargisn heyse trern.
Host ufgeboyt a nest aleyn Un in dayn nest – tsvey feygl zingen. Zoln in nest nor lider klingen, Ikh vil nisht hern keyn geveyn.
Bald veln oysglaykhn di fliglen, Di kleyne feygelekh di tsvey un flien, Un zoln keyn volkn zey nisht shtern, Zol shtendik zayn der himl bloy. 1992 A shtral fun hofn, Montreal, 2004
GEVIDMET DER MAMEN
Nisht lang hostu geglet mayn kop Nisht lang mayn tsop geflokhtn, Nisht lang farkisheft mit dayn lid, Vi shnel alts iz farfloygn.
Nisht bagleyt in langn vegn, In shvern veg, in “yene teg”, Host nisht gezen, vi kh’bin avek… Nisht gehert host mayn geveyn, Ven geblibn bin ikh aleyn.
Mikh tsu der khupe nisht gefirt, Keyn khupe-kleyd nisht ufgeneyt Bloyz libshaft in mayn harts farzeyt, Tsum yidish lid, fun kleynerheyt.
Un kh’trog dayn lid arum mit zikh, Un ven s’iz kalt, dervaremt mikh, Der ziser nign fun dayn lid. Un vu ikh gey un vu ikh shtey, In vaytn veg, in shvern veg, Bistu mit mir.
An oytser iz far mir dayn lid, Ikh hit es op, Vi an oyg in kop: Dayn lid, dem nign un dayn kol, Vos hot farkisheft mikh a mol. 2000 A shtral fun hofn, Montreal, 2004
Grunia Slutzky-Kohn (1928 –) was born in Grodno, Poland. She received a secular education and went to a Yiddish secular school in Grodno until 1939 . Her mother died of illness during the war when Grunia was 13 years old. Her father perished in Auschwitz. She escaped the Nazis with a group of eight young girls who fled through Belarus to Kazakhstan. In April, 1942 she made her way to Siberia and worked in an ammunition factory in Seversk. In order to study she walked 60 kilometers to the big city of Sverdlovsk, where she was accepted in a technical school at night. In her loneliness she started, at the age of 15, to write poetry in Russian. In 1946 she finished high school and was accepted in the pedagogical Institute for Foreign Languages and received her master’s degree there in 1950. That year she began teaching in a high school in Pervouralsk, Siberia and married. A year later she joined her husband in Rovno, Ukraine where she taught high school and then taught German language and did translations for 16 years in a medical school.
She came to Montreal, Canada in 1977 and started to write Yiddish poetry in 1983. She published 10 books in Yiddish, poetry and prose, three of them for children. The first book, Lider un Proze (Poetry and Prose) received an award from the Central Jewish Committee of Mexico in 1989. Her book Kuk nit troyerik azoy in fenster (Don’t look so sadly in the window) was awarded the Jewish Book Committee’s prize for Yiddish literature in Toronto in 1995. The same year her poem “Zay gegrist, Yerusholayim” (Salut to Jerusalem) was awarded the Yiddish prize in the quadrilingual poetry competition in Quebec, in honor of 3000 years of Jerusalem. Grunia Kohn is active in the Russian-Jewish community in Montreal. She writes poetry and short stories and will soon be publishing her tenth book of poetry and short stories, Der tsvantsikster yorhundert (The twentieth century) in three languages: English, Russian and mostly Yiddish. She has two daughters and two grandsons.
A Mother’s Wish
I would like to die quietly So that no one, no one will hear I do not want to spoil your rest, my child, Or have you shed a tear.
You built a nest all by yourself And in your nest – two birdies sing. No crying do I want to hear Only the sound of songs should ring.
Soon they’ll straighten and spread their wings Those little birds will fly, those two, And may no cloud hinder them May their skies always be blue. 1992 Tr. Sheva Zucker
* * * To Mother
Not long did you caress my head, Not long did you braid my hair, Not long did you enchant me with your song How quickly everything has gone.
You didn’t accompany me on the long road, The difficult road, in “those days,” You didn’t see, how I went away… You didn’t hear my cry and groan, When I was left myself, alone.
You didn’t sew for me a wedding gown Nor lead me to the canopy, Only love did you sow in my young heart For Yiddish song and poetry.
I carry your song around with me, And when it’s cold how warm to me Is the sweetness of its melody. No matter where I go and where I stand On the road so long and hard You are with me.
A treasure is your song for me, And so I cherish it Like something dear: Your song, your voice and melody That in days gone by enchanted me. Tr. Sheva Zucker
איך פֿאַרנעם אירע װערטער, װאָס שטראָמען פֿון האַרצן, װי איר פּשוטע תּפֿילה, װאָס מוטיקט און שטאַרקט זי. פֿון דעמאָלט עד־היום איך שרײַב זײ, די שורות פֿון מײַן פֿריִען באַגינען ביז צו די יאָרן פֿון גבֿורה…
איך פֿאַרנעם אירע שעפּטשען, זײ שטײַגן צום באַשעפֿער. זײ זינגען און קלינגען אין מײַן נשמה אָן אױפֿהער. געלײַטזעליקט זײ שװעבן צו די העכסטע הײכן, װאָס נאָר תּמימים, צו זײ קענען גרײכן.
אױך יעצט אין באַגינען איך זע זײ די װערטער זײ קומען צו מיר פֿון יענע אײביקע ערטער. װי עס קומען די לידער װאָס איך דאַװן אין ייִדיש פֿאַר די ייִדישע מאַמעס װאָס האָבן זײער לעבן צום בורא געקידושט…
צו די הימלען אַרויף, מאָנטרעאָל, ציקאָ,1951
MAYN MAMES YIDISHE TFILE
Mayn mames yidishe tfile, ikh gedenk zi biz itster, Vi dem shtern in himl, vos mit eybikeyt blitst er… Er balaykht mayne oygn un vayzt mir dem khidesh, Vu di zun un levone, voltn redn af Yidish.
Ikh farnem ire verter, vos shtromen fun hartsn, Vi ir poshete tfile, vos mutikt un shtarkt zi. Fun demolt ad-hayem ikh shrayb zey, di shures Fun mayn frien baginen biz tsu di yorn fun gvure…
Ikh farnem ire sheptshen, zey shtaygn tsum bashefer. Zey zingen un klingen in mayn neshome on ufher. Gelaytzelikt zey shvebn tsu di hekhste heykhn, Vos nor tmimim, tsu zey kenen greykhn. Oykh yetst in baginen ikh ze zey di verter Zey kumen tsu mir fun yene eybike erter. Vi es kumen di lider vos ikh davn in Yidish Far di yidishe mames vos hobn zeyer lebn tsum boyre gekidesht…
Tsu di himlen aruf, 1951
Chaim Leib Fox (Fuks) (1897-1984) was born in Lodz, Poland. He developed worldly interests even as a yeshiva student, and was soon involved with founding the Yiddish Writers’ Group in Lodz, engaged with the Bund, and then the Zionist workers movement. He began publishing articles and poems in journals and newspapers at the age of 17, debuting with poems in the Folksblatt and he published extensively after that time. He published his first book of verse Durshtike lemer (Thirsty lambs) in 1926. When war came, he fled with his expecting wife to the Soviet-controlled Bialystok and then to Kazakhstan. In 1946 he returned to Lodz and subsequently moved to Paris where in 1951 he published another volume of verse, Shoh Fun Lid (Hour of song).
In 1953 he resettled in the United States . Through the course of his lifetime he published several monographs and ten volumes, including six books of poetry. He considered his literary biography of the city of Lodz, Lodzh shel mayle, (Lodz on high) a paean to the city that nurtured and formed him. Chaim Leib spent his last active years in Montreal, Canada, where in 1980 he produced the literary lexicon, 100 Yor Yiddishe un Hebreishe Literatur in Kanade, (100 Years of Yiddish and Hebrew literature in Canada which serves as a central source of much literary research on this topic to this day. He died in New York.
Thanks to the poet’s son, Michael Fox, for sending in the poem. See Week 11 for a previous posting of a poem by Chaim Leib Fox (Fuks).
My Mother’s Yiddish Prayer
My mother’s Yiddish prayer. I remember it still, Like a star in the heavens, it eternally will Enlighten my eyes with great revelations As if the sun and the moon would hold Yiddish conversations.
I swim in her words, that stream from the heart It’s in her simple prayer that my strength and courage had their start From days past until now, as I write I immerse From my dawning to my twilight I hearken to her verse…
I hear her murmured words. To the Creator they ascend. They sing and they chime in my soul without end Gracefully they soar to the highest places Where only Innocents can leave their traces.
Even now as it dawns, my words come to me From those rarified intimations of eternity. From there come my poems, my Yiddish prayers I offer them to the Yiddish mothers as to the Creator they sanctified theirs… Tr. by Michael Fox
די מאַמע אונדזערע איז אַ שװײַגנדיקע, גרױסע דיכטערין, און װײסט אַפֿילו נישט, אַז זי פֿאַרמאָגט אַזאַ מין הימלישן טאַלענט. און גרױס איז זי, װײַל נאָר אין דער נשמה און אין האַרץ איז זי אַ דיכטערין, און מיר — די זין אירע — זענען שרײַבער נאָר מיט פֿעדערן אין די הענט —
אָבער צוריק צו די בריװ: און נישט אין זעלבן נוסח האָט די מאַמע די בריװ געענדיקט: אונדז, די אױף דער ערד, דעם אײנעם אין צפֿון און דעם אײנעם אין דרום, אונדז צװײ האָט זי געהײסן אײביק דעם טאַטנס נאָמען האַלטן הײליק און שײן, און דעם אױף יענער װעלט: און איצט מײַן זון, נעם אים אױף װי ס’פּאַסט אַ זון, װאָס איז געטרײַ.
אָט אַזױ האָט די מאַמע צעשיקט נאָכן טאַטנס טױט דרײַ בריװ צו אירע דרײַ זין, קײן צפֿון אײנעם, און דעם צװײטן קײן דרום פֿון דעם שטיק אומעט, װאָס רופֿט זיך ערד. און דעם דריטן בריװ אױף דער אמתער װעלט. און פּינקטלעך האָבן די זין די בריװ באַקומען. די קעפּ געבױגן און לאַנג אין דער װעלטנאַכט פֿון זײער געליבטן טאַטן געקלערט. 1941 67 לידער פֿון די לעצטע פֿינף־זעקס יאָר די לידער פֿון מײַנע לידער, 1909־1954
DI MISHPOKHE RAVITSH
Un az du bist yung gevezn, Muter mayne; ver kon dos farshteyn, far vos du bist mayn muter, Du, un nisht keyn andere froy, Un far vos s’iz aza vilder tsar Dikh tsu dermonen. Un tsu gedenken yene nekht on shlof, Ven der tsar fun kinder-hobn hot in dayn layb geshtoysn, Un ven der shray flegt geyn durkh ale hel baloykhtene shtiber, Vi dos hoyzgezind flegt vakh zayn vartndik ful shrek. Di halbe shtot iz af geven, un dray doktoyrim, Un di nayntsik-yorn-alte bobe Sheyndl. Un az far tog hot der rov_ geklapt tsum belzer a depeshe: Hinde bas_ blime gevint, bet rakhmim rakhmem! Hot shoyn bald geveynt on a sof Mit dir in kimpet undzer driter bruder. Mazl-tov! Ver farshteyt dos mazl fun a nay-geboyrn kind, Vos vakst funander vi a zunblum in der zun, Fray tsu ale vintn un tsu ale nekht. Haynt zenen mir shoyn groys, Ale dray, Mit mazoles alerley,Ver af der erd, ver unter der erd.
Muter, Durkh dayne hor glantst es haynt vays, A yede fun zey iz a simen Fun a nakht ful tsar-vartn Af a vaysn tog in fenster. Vider iz nakht, Ikh ken dikh, Bay a fenster shteystu shtar; Vi a shvalb Shlogt on zikh on der shoyb der gefangener tsar, Af di fenster trift der osyen kalt, Arum di koymens fun opgebrente hayzer voyet, vi an eynzamer hunt Der shtetldiker vint. Der tate iz alt, mid, zogt er: – Hindzye gey shoyn shlofn, gey, darfst dokh ufshteyn fri. Geyt er privn, tsi di tirn zenen tsu Un farlesht di likht, Un nor an opgerisn blekhshtik klapt in dakh Ale etlekhe minut. Vi dem groysn zeygers fun der shrek fun der gantser velt Un dos klapn, Un vild loyft um in shtub dem tatns mide, ershte khropen, Mir ober, di zin, di dervaksene Voglen af der vayter velt: Ver af der erd, ver unter der erd. 1921 Nakete lider, 1921 Di lider fun mayne lider, 1909-1954
MAYN KADESH TSUM YORTSAYT FUN MAYN TATN
Un az der tate iz geshtorbn un di shive-teg zenen shoyn avek, Hot zikh di mame undzere fun shive-benkele oyfgeshtelt Tsu shraybn dray briv tsu di zin; eynem keyn tsofn, eynem keyn dorem Un eynem af yener velt.
Tsu ale dray hot zi in zelbn nusekh poshet un prost vi a lid geshribn: – Un vi azoy der kranker tate hot zi a ruf geton in mitn der nakht, Un vi azoy er hot dem toyt krankn kop af ire akslen ongeshpart, Un shtil, vi a kranker, gefalener foygl di shvartse oygn af eybik farmakht.
Un nokh hot zi geshribn: – – Un vi azoy zi hot dem tatns kop fun aksl irn Aropgenumen un afn kishn geleygt, un vi varem s’iz geven zayn toyte hoyt, Un di gekrayzlte hor afn kop, vos zi hot azoy lib gehat, nokh nisht in gantsn groy. Un vi zey hobn alts zikh nokh gekrayzlt din vi zayd, afile nokhn toyt.
Di mame undzere iz a shvaygndike, groyse dikhtern, Un veyst afile nisht, az zi farmogt aza min himlishn talent. Un groys iz zi, vayl nor in der neshome un in harts iz zi a dikhtern, Un mir – di zin ire – zenen shrayber nor mit federn in di hent –
Ober tsurik tsu di briv: Un nisht in zelbn nusekh hot di mame di briv geendikt: Undz, di af der erd, dem eynem in tsofn un dem eynem in dorem, undz tsvey Hot zi geheysn eybik dem tatns nomen haltn heylik un sheyn, Un dem af yener velt: Un itst mayn zun, nem im uf vi s’past a zun, vos iz getray.
Ot azoy hot di mame tseshikt nokhn tatns toyt dray briv tsu ire dray zin, Keyn tsofn eynem, un dem tsveytn keyn dorem fun dem shtik umet, vos ruft zikh erd. Un dem dritn briv af der emeser velt. Un pinktlekh hobn di zin di briv bakumen. Di kep geboygn un lang in der veltnakht fun zeyer gelibtn tatn geklert. 1941 67 lider fun di letste finf-zeks yor, 1946 Di lider fun mayne lider, 1909-1954
Portrait by Sylvia Ary
Meylekh Ravitch (1893 – 1976) is the pseudonymn of Zekharye-Khone Bergner, poet, essayist, playwright, cultural activist and world traveller. He was born in Radymno, eastern Galicia into a home where the main spoken languages were Polish and German. He received a general secular education with a limited traditional Jewish education. He studied commerce and went to work at an early age as a bank clerk. As a young man, he lived in Lemberg (Lvov) and Vienna. At the outbreak of the First World War, he was drafted into the Austrian army and wounded at the front. His first volume of poetry, Af der shvel (On the Threshold; 1912) reflected the neoromantic trend that characterized Yiddish poetry in Galicia at that time. Deciding to devote his life to the culture and literature of Yiddish he moved to Warsaw in 1921. Here he miraculously was able to put his skills in finance and bookkeeping to work in the service of Yiddish literature and served for 10 years (1924 – 1934) as the executive-secretary of the Association of Jewish writer and Journalists in Warsaw. Here he was strongly influenced by the writers Peretz Markish and Uri Zvi Greenberg. These three writers were the nucleus of the Yiddish literary group Di khalyastre (The gang), a group at the vanguard of Yiddish expressionist literature that revolted against realism and was devoted to experimental offbeat poetry. The book Nakete lider (Naked Poems; 1921) signaled Ravitch’s turn toward modernism in its expressionist form. He founded several prestigious literary journals and was the author of more than 20 volumes of poetry, memoirs and literary sketches. Along with Israel Joshua Singer, Markish, and Nakhmen Mayzel, Ravitch was a cofounder of the main literary journal in interwar Poland, Literarishe bleter (Literary Pages), which he also coedited from 1924 to 1926. Later he edited the literature page of the Bundist daily Folks-tsaytung. In the period between the two world wars, Ravitch travelled widely throughout the world warning that the Jews of Poland and Eastern Europe must flee to avoid the coming conflict that he foresaw. In 1933 He persuaded a group of Jewish businessmen and intellectuals to send him to Australia in search of a site for a Jewish homeland. This quest took him to the the Kimberley region in Western Australia which seemed to him the furthest and safest place in the world. But despite further interest from the London-based Freeland League and the presence in Australia from 1939 to 1943 of its co-founder, Dr Isaac-Nachman Steinberg, this plan never came to fruition. In addition he travelled to China, Argentina, Mexico and New York before settling in Montreal in 1941, where he became a catalyst for Yiddish literature, education and cultural activities. For many years was the editor of the literary section of the newspaper, Kenader odler (Canadian Eagle). He also wrote a three-volume autobiography, Dos mayse-bukh fun mayn lebn (The Storybook of My Life). He was the father of famed Australian/Israeli artist Yosl Bergner and brother of Yiddish writer Hertz Bergner. He remained in Montreal until his death in 1976.
This poem was written in 1921, the same year Ravitsh’s brother, Moyshe Harari committed suicide, hence the reference to the son “under the ground.”
The Family Poem
and know that you were young and were my mother though wondering still that you should be my mother you and not some other woman and why it should cost me so much pain remembering you – and remembering those sleepless nights the pain of childbirth thrust itself into you body and how the cry ran through all those well-lit rooms where the family waited sleepless and in terror half the town up and three doctors and Sheyndl too your ninety-year-old grandmother and at dawn our rabbi sent a wire to the Belzer rebbe: Hindeh, child of Blume, labors: beg for mercy!
there were tears by then and no end of it you in childbed with a third brother coming – Mazl-tov! but who can measure a newborn’s luck luck of a sunflower out in the sun exposed to all winds and all nights? now we’re grown – three brothers – luck’s gone different ways – above ground or under it mother there’s white in your hair now each hair a token of a night’s waiting in pain for a white dawn to come to your window – now it’s night again and I see you – you’re standing silent at a window – the pain of it beats on the glass like a bird – asian frost melts on the windowpane – like a beaten dog from the chimneys of burned-out houses the shtetl wind’s howling
father’s old, he’s tired, he says: go to sleep, Hindzele, you’ll be getting up early then goes to check if the doors are shut and turns down the light – and there’s only a torn piece of tin beating on the roof every couple of minutes – fear in that sound like the stroke of the great clock that beats for the world – and the wildness of my father’s first, tired snoring breaks through the room
and your sons, all grown adrift now in this monster of a world above ground or under it Tr. by Jerome Rothenberg A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry edited by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg, 1969
Ravitches mother, memoirist Hinde Bergner
The translation by Nathan Halper does not include one verse which deals with Ravitsh’s mother, Hinde Bergner. I have translated it and it appears in red. Bergner herself, encouraged by her sons, wrote a memoir called In di lange vinternekht (On long winter nights) now available in translation by Justin Cammy. Writing for a woman of her time was not a naturally accepted thing. In the forward to the book her sons write, “When her sons suggested – and this quite late, only in the year 1937 – that our mother should write her memoirs, she set herself to it with a fervent spiritual hunger. Finally, her dream was realized. Until now, when her sons sometimes noticed, somewhere hidden in books, her notes and even poems in free verse, she would blush with shame like a small child who had done God knows what. . . ” I hope this background will illuminate the added verse.
Kaddish
When he was dead, when mourning was over, Our mother got up form the mourner’s bench To write letters to her sons: one north, one south, One to the other world. All began the same way: How our sick father called to her in the night, Put his head on her shoulder And, like a fallen bird, silently closed his black eyes.
She lifted his head from her shoulder And put it back on the pillow. His skin was warm. The hair she had always loved – it was not yet entirely gray – Was curly, find as silk, even after he was dead.
Our mother is a silent, great poet, And does not even know that she possesses this heavenly talent. And she is great because only in her soul and in her heart is she a poet, And we – her sons – are writers only with pens in our hands –
But back to the letters: The letters ended in a different way. The living – north, south – Were told to cherish his name. The one in the other world: Greet him in proper fashion!
That is how our mother wrote three letters to her sons. One north, one south, One in the real world.
The sons received them, They bowed their heads. In the night, they thought of their beloved father. Nathan Halper, A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry
און לאָזן אין דרױסן, קינד, מוז איך דיך לאָזן אַלײן. אפֿשר אין העמדלעך פֿון ליבע איז לײַכטער צו לערנען זיך גײן. זיץ איך און שטעך און איך שטעך צװישן שטוביקע װענט און ס’פֿלאַטערט אין מיר דאָס האַרץ און ס’ציטערן בײַ מיר די הענט. אַרױס פֿון גן־עדן, 1965
KIND
A mol hobn blumen geblit Azoy bleykh af mayn shtubikn fenster – Haynt blit af lip fun mayn kind Fun shmeykhlen, der shmeykhl der shenster.
A mol hob ikh lider geshpint Un der nign – a koym, koym geherter. Haynt iz mayn nign – a kind Un mayn shvaygn zingt heler fun verter.
A mol hob ikh freydn gezukht – Un haynt kum ikh freydn tsu gebn Tsum groysn bloy-oygikn likht, Vos shprayzt durkh der leng fun mayn lebn. Aroys fun gan-eydn, 1965
A KLEYD FAR MAYN KIND
Ikh volt dir ufgeneyt a kleyd, mayn kind, Fun loyterer, tyulener freyd Un volt dayn kop batsirt mit a hut Fun tseshmeykhltn, zunikn zayd.
Ikh volt dir ongeton a por pantofl Fun durkhzikhtikn, shvebndikn gloz Un volt dikh aroysgelozn fun mayn tir Mit buketn fun tsuzog, fun grin un fun roz.
Iz ober droysn azoy kalt, mayn kind, Un s’loyert af dir droysn a hefkerer vint. Er vet tseflikn dos tyulene kleydl fun freyd, Bakhlyapet vet vern dayn hitl fun zuniker zayd.
Tseshplitern veln di shikhlekh fun dininkn gloz, In blote vet lign der tsuzog fun grin un fun roz. Shoyn her ikh fun vaytn dayn hilfloz, dayn kindish geveyn: Mamele, loz mikh nit iber aleyn!
Volt ikh dir ufgeneyt a kleyd, mayn kind, Fun mayn eygenem tunkeln tsar Un dir ibergenitshevet mayn hut fun derfarung Tsu bashirmen dikh fun der gefar.
Volt ikh dir ongeton mayne eygene shikh, Gekovete mit negl fun shtekhiker payn, Un volt dikh aroysgelozt fun mayn tir Mit a tashlomp fun khokhme, fun visndikn shayn.
Iz ober droysn azoy kalt, mayn kind, Un s’loyert af dir droysn a hefkerer vint. Er vet tseflikn dos faldike kleyd fun mayn tsar, Antbloyzn dayn buzem far pakhed, dayn kop far gefar.
Un zinken veln di negldike shikh in a zumpiker nets. Der tashlomp fun khokhme vet vern dos oyg fun a lets… Shoyn her ikh fun vaytn dayn hilfloz, dayn kindish geveyn: Mamele, loz mikh nit iber aleyn!
Aza shlimazldike neytorin dayn mame, Ken keyn kleyd nit neyen far ir kind. Shtekht un shtekht un tseblutikt bloyz ir eygene neshome Un ir kop farnarisht un ir oyg farblindt.
O, alts vos kh’ken dir ufshtekhn, mayn likhtik goldn kind, Iz a layvnt hemd fun libshaft, gornit mer. Alts vos kh’ken dir mitgebn – iz brokhes In a heyser shol fun mayns a trer.
Un lozn in droysn, kind, muz ikh dikh lozn aleyn. Efsher in hemdlekh fun libe iz laykhter tsu lernen zikh geyn. Zits ikh un shtekh un ikh shtekh tsvishn shtubike vent Un s’flatert in mir dos harts un s’tsitern bay mir di hent. Aroys fun gan-eydn, 1965
Chava Rosenfarb (1923-2011) was a leading figure in post-World War II Yiddish literature. Born in Lodz, Poland in 1923 she completed secular Yiddish school and Polish gymnasium in this center of Jewish life. She loved poetry and began writing at age eight. Like many Jews of the city Rosenfarb was incarcerated in the Lodz ghetto from 1940 to 1944. Here she wrote reams of lyric poems which were wrested from her in Auschwitz. Her first collection of ghetto poems, Di balade fun nekhtikn vald [The Ballad of Yesterday’s Forest], was published in London in 1947. After the liberation she moved to Belgium and remained there until 1950 when she immigrated to Montreal. Finding that neither poetry nor drama could begin to express the range and depth of her feelings about the Holocaust, Rosenfarb turned to fiction. In 1972 she published what is considered her masterpiece, Der boym fun lebn [The Tree of Life], a three-volume novel about the Lodz ghetto. Whether in poetry, drama, short story or novel, all of Rosenfarb’s work speaks from her experience during the Holocaust. As she herself said in an interview for CBC Radio (2001), “The ghetto was the soil on which I really grew,… What I saw, what I learned there gave me my outlook on the human condition, on how people are, on life in general.”
Among the many awards and honors Rosenfarb has received are the I.J. Segal prize, 1993, the Manger Prize,1979, and an honorary PhD from the University of Lethbridge, in the Canadian city by the same name, in which she resided until her recent death. The poems featured here and many more will soon be available in English translation in the forthcoming volume, Exile at Last to be published by Guernica Editions of Toronto/Montreal. The League for Yiddish is also producing a film about her under the direction of Josh Waletzky.
To learn more about Chava Rosenfarb go to: chavarosenfarb.com
Child
Once flowers would glimmer thin and pale On the windowsill in my room. Today on the lips of my child Glow smiles like the brightest blooms.
Once I would spin languid songs with a lilt of barely heard chords. Today my best poem’s a child. My silence sings brighter than words.
Once I would follow delights— Today I supply them and gather The blue-eyed light shining bright From one end of my life to the other. Tr. by Chava Rosenfarb
A Dress for my Child I would sew a dress for you, my child, out of tulle made of spring’s joyful green, and gladly crown your head with a diadem made of the sunniest smiles ever seen.
I would fit out your feet with a pair of crystal-like, weightless, dance-ready shoes, and let you step out of the house with bouquets, bright with the promise of pinks and of blues.
But outside it is cold and dreary, my child, the wanton winds lurking unbridled and wild. They will mangle the dress of joy into shreds And sweep the sun’s smiling crown off your head,
Shatter to dust the translucent glass of your shoes and bury in mud the dreams of pinks and of blues. From far away I can hear you call me and moan: “Mother, mother, why did you leave me alone?”
So perhaps I should sew a robe for you, my child, out of the cloak of my old-fashioned pain and alter my hat of experience for you to shelter you from the ravaging rain?
On your feet I would put my own heavy boots, the soles studded with spikes from my saviourless past and guide your way through the door with a torchlight of wisdom I’ve saved till this hour of dusk.
But outside it is cold and dreary, my child. The wanton winds lurking unbridled and wild will rip up the robe sewn with outdated thread, bare your chest to all danger, to fear bare your head.
The heavy boots will sink in the swamp and will drown, the light of wisdom mocked by the laugh of a clown. From afar I hear you call me and moan: “Mother, mother, why did you leave me alone?”
What a wretched seamstress your mother is— Can’t sew a dress for her child! All she does is prick her clumsy fingers, cross-stitching her soul, while her eyes go blind.
The only thing that I can sew for you, my sweet, my golden child, is a cotton shift of the love I store in my heart. The only thing I can give to light your way are my tears of blessing; I have nothing more.
So I must leave you outside, my child, and leave you there alone. Perhaps dressed in clothing of love you will learn better how to go from home. So I sit here and sew and sew, while in my heart I hope and pray— my hands, unsteady, tremble; my mind, distracted, gone astray. Tr. by Chava Rosenfarb Bridges 15.2 (Autumn 2010)
איך װײס דעם ניגון פֿון מער װי אײן ליד נאָר איצט בין איך מידער װי מיד, און װיל װײַט און װיל שטילקײט און רו, קום: מאַך די אױגן מיר צו. נײַע לידער, מאָנטרעאַל, 1941
IKH GEHER
Ikh geher tsu yene froyen, Vemens man iz nit keyn held: Nit baym yadg in velder, Nit in geyeg nokh gelt.
Ikh geher tsu yene froyen, Mitn lebn aynfartroyt Tsu a man vi ale mener, Vos zukhn shver dos broyt.
Ikh geher tsu yene froyen, Fun yokh un hoyzgezind; Vos tsirn zeyere heldzer, Mit di orems fun a kind. Naye lider, Montreal, 1941
VI A KIND
Kh’bin a mame fun kinder shoyn groyse, Un bin nokh aleyn vi a kind: keseyder ikh boy zikh nokh turems, Keseyder tseblozt zey der vint.
Kh’derfrey zikh mit yedn frimorgn, Ver umetik yedn farnakht: Un shpil zikh arum mit mayn mazl, Vi a kind mit di oygn farmakht.
Kh’hob moyre bay nakht in der finster, Un benk nor nokh alts vos iz groys: Kh’hob azoy moyre far umglik, Un keseyder nor zukht es mikh oys.
Kh’bin a mame fun kinder shoyn groyse, Un bin nokh aleyn vi a kind: keseyder ikh boy zikh nokh turems, Keseyder tseblozt zey der vint. Vaksn mayne kinderlekh, Montreal, 1954
A GEBET FUN A FROY
Got, nem mikh tsu fun der velt, Tsu dayn beserer ruiker velt, Vu s’vart greyt in der tif mayn getselt, Fun zorgikn tuml farshtelt.
Genug mikh gefirt bay der hant In tsirk fun dayn lebndik land, Mikh shvindlt der umgeyn oyf shtrik, Genug shoyn – ikh vil shoyn tsurik.
s’iz mer lekherlekh vi es iz shver, Un az ikh veys shoyn dem tam fun mer vi eyn trer? Fun veytik un freyd, fun boy un tseshter, Genug zol zayn, kh’vil shoyn nit mer!
Ikh bin a froy vos ken ir shtam Un halt vi mit tseyn arum zikh dem tsam Khotsh es shpringt dos harts vi a tseshrokene lam, Ikh lesh mit trern durkh nekht dem flam.
Mir hobn banand undzer elnt gezeyt, Ikh in der heym hinter shtekhikn ployt, Er iber vegn krum un fardreyt, Vi a blinder geyer, zukht zayn broyt.
Ikh bin a mame vos hot geboyrn, Lebn gegebn un tsurik farlorn, Es hot mikh yene grub bashvorn; Biz ikh bin mit im, eyns gevorn.
s’hot dayn hant azoy bafoyln, shtel avek a vig in heyln, Vest dayn kind dort kenen vign, Vet dir heymlekh zayn dos lign.
Ikh veys dem nign fun mer vi eyn lid Nor itst bin ikh mider vi mid, Un vil vayt un vil shtilkayt un ru, Kum: makh di oygn mir tsu. Naye lider, Mntreal, 1941
R-L: Montreal writers Rokhl Korn, Maza and Kadya Molodowsky
Ida Maza (1893 – 1962) was born Ida Zukovsky in the village of Ogli, Belarus, near Kapulye, Minsk region. Her family was related to Mendele Moykher Sforim (S.Y. Abramovitsh), the grandfather of Yiddish literature, who was born there. Before the age of twelve, when she immigrated to America (New York) with her family, Ida had had approximately one year of schooling in a kheyder-style establishment, but was otherwise an autodidact who amassed a wealth of knowledge of classical English, European, American and world literature. She and the family settled in Montreal when she was fourteen. In 1912 she married Alexander Massey (Elye-Gershn Maze) who was a traveling salesman. Maza began writing lyrical poems in Yiddish while still in her teens, and in particular, poetry for young people. Her first work, published in book form as A mame (A Mother: Children’s Songs; Montreal, 1931), was composed in the wake of the death of her firstborn son, Bernard.This was followed by another four books of poetry: – Lider far kinder (Songs for Children, Warsaw; 1936), Naye lider (New Songs, Montreal; 1941) and Vaksn mayne kinderlekh (My Children Grow: Mother and Children’s Songs; Montreal; 1954) – and in 1970 by the posthumous publicaiton of Dina, an autobiographical story. Her work appeared in J. I. Segal and A. S. Shkolnikov’s short-lived journal Kanade and in Heftn, of which she was a coeditor, (1935 – 1937), and in publications such as the Kanader Odler, Der Yidisher Zhurnal, Bay Undz (Toronto) and Zukunft, Kinder-journal, Kinder-velt and Kinder-tsaytung in New York, as well as Goldene Keyt, Heimish and Folksblat in Israel and Far undzere kinder in Paris. Maza was known as much for her activism in Yiddish cultural life as for her writing. She was nicknamed “di mame” (the mother) by Yiddish writers many of whose works she helped publish. During and after World War II, she, together with writer Meylekh Ravitsh and cultural activist Hirsch Hershman, was active in obtaining Canadian entry visas for Jewish writers and cultural leaders whom she helped settle in Montreal. Her home became an informal literary salon where ideas and food flowed freely. She died in Montreal in 1963.
I Am Among Those Women
I am among those women Whose husbands can not succeed: Not in heroic hunts in the woods, Nor in chasing the money we need.
I am among those women Who place their confidence and trust In a man, like many men, Who must battle for a crust.
I am among those women Tied to home and family care; Where the clinging arms of a child Are the only necklaces we wear. Tr. Hinde Ena Burstin
Like a Child
I’m a mother of full-grown children, But it seems that a child I’ll remain; I’m still building up castles, And the wind blows them all down again.
I feel happy with each sunny morning, And am sad at the coming of night; I play with my fate in my blindness Like a child with its eyes shut tight.
I’m fearful at night in the darkness And wish more adults were about; I have such a terror of trouble And it’s always finding me out.
I’m a mother of full-grown children, But it seems that a child I’ll remain; I’m still building up castles, And the wind blows them all down again. Tr. Irving Massey
A Woman’s Prayer
God, take me away from this world to a better and quieter world, where a tent is prepared for me in deeps hidden from care and confusion.
You have led me by the hand in this circus of living lands, my dissolution hanging by a thread. Enough. I want to return.
It has become more laughable than hard. What if I know the taste of tears of all kinds, of hurt and joy, building up and disruption? Enough. I no longer want any of it.
I am a woman who knows her origin and has kept the bit tight between her teeth. What if the heart leaps up like a frightened lamb? At night my tears put out the flame.
I am a married woman. My husband and I together drag the yoke. I behind a barbed fence at home, he like a blundering ship at sea.
Each of us sows his own isolation. One at home behind the menacing fence, the other on the winding roads, earning his bread like a blind wanderer.
I am a mother. I have given birth. Life came out of me and I lost it, and the grave bound me to itself until I became one with it.
But the will of your hand was: “Set a cradle in the deeps, you will rock your child there when you lie there, and it will be like home.”
I know how to sing more than one song. But I am more tired than tired now. I want to be far away and I want silence and rest. Come close my eyes. Tr. Seymour Levitan, Outlook, Vol. 49 No. 2 Mar/Apr 2011
בשעת דער מלחמה איז סוצקעװער געװען נישט נאָר אַ שרײַבער און אַ פּאַרטיזאַנער, נאָר אַ צענטראַלע פֿיגור אין װילנער געטאָ. ער האָט אָרגאַניזירט טעאַטער־רעװיוען, אױסשטעלונגען, רעפֿעראַטן און פּאָעזיע־פֿירלײענונגען. ער איז געװען אַ טײל פֿון דעם אײנזאַצשטאַב־ראָזענבערג װאָס האָט זיך אַלײן גערופֿן “די פּאַפּיר־בריגאַדע”, אַ גרופּע פֿון אַ פֿערציק ייִדישע אינטעלעקטואַלן װאָס די נאַציס האָבן אָנגעשטעלט אױסצוקלײַבן קולטורעלע אוצרות װאָס די דײַטשן האָבן געװאָלט שיקן אין פֿראַנקפֿורטער מוזײ פֿאַר דער שטודיע פֿון אָריענטאַלישע פֿעלקער; דאָס איבעריקע האָט מען פֿאַרקױפֿט פֿאַר פּאַפ. סײַ במשך און גלײַך נאָך דער מלחמה האָט סוצקעװער אָנגעפֿירט מיט דער אַרבעט צו ראַטעװען פֿאַר די ייִדן אַלץ װאָס מע האָט געקענט ראַטעװען, צו ערשט פֿון די נאַציס און דערנאָך פֿון די סאָװעטן. זײַנע באַמיִונגען זײַנען נישט געװען אומזיסט: טױזנטער ביכער און דאָקומענטן האָט מען געראַטעװעט און סוף־כּל־סוף צורקגעגעבן דעם ייִװאָ אין די 1980ער און 1990ער יאָרן.
אין 1947 האָט סוצקעװער עולה געװען קײן ישׂראל. דאָרט האָט ער אַרױסגעגעבן אַ צאָל װערק פּאָעזיע און פּראָזע און רעדאַקטירט דעם ליטעראַרישן זשורנאַל די גאָלדענע קײט, ביז זי האָט זיך פֿאַרמאַכט אין 1995. איבערזעצונגען פֿון זײַנע װערק אױף ענגליש נעמען אַרײַן Burnt Pearls: Ghetto Poems of Abraham Sutzkever tr. by Seymour Mayne, 1981, The Fiddle Rose: Poems 1970-92, tr. by Ruth Whitman, 1990 and A. Sutzkever: Selected Poetry and Prose, tr. by B. and B. Harshav, 1991.
Mame, Kh’bin krank. Mayn neshome iz kretsik. Un efsher nokh mer: S’iz a geler shigoen. Un der zalb fun dayn kush Iz tsu heylik, er zol Mir bahoykhn tsu mol Mayne vundike dnoen.
Nor oyb dos iz vor, Az du libst mikh vi shtendik Dem tsveytn nokh Got – Iz mayn letster gebet un gebot: – Dershtik mikh! Dershtik mit di mamishe finger Vos hobn geshpilt Af mayn verbenem vigl.
Vet meynen: Dayn libshaft iz shtark vi der toyt. Vet meynen: Du host mir dayn libshaft fartroyt. Un ikh vel farkern In eyder-mayn-vern Un zayn un nit zayn Vi a shtern In vaser. Vilner Geto Lider fun yam-hamoves, 1968
MAYN TATE
My tate iz a krie oyf di taykhn fun Sibir, – Mayn mame iz a shayter-hoyfn lebn der Vilie, Nor beyde zenen zey in mir, Der shayter-hoyfn un di krie.
Mayn kind, zey veln zayn in mir Oykh hinter mayn farhakter vie – Der shayter-hoyfn un di krie. In midber sinay, 1957, Avrom Sutskever: Poetishe Verk, Band 2, 1963
FUN ZINT MAYN FRUME MAME
Fun zint mayn frume mame hot gegesn erd Yom-kiper, Gegesn um yom-kiper shvartse erd gemisht mit fayer, A lebediker, muz ikh esn shvartse erd Yom-kiper, Un bin aleyn a yortsayt-likht getsundn fun ir fayer.
S’farzinken umderbaremdik fun zunfargang di mastn, A shtern tsu a tsveytn shtern foyglish tut a hiper, Nor zint mayn mame est Yom-kiper erd onshtot tsu fastn, Fun yemolt muz ikh esn erd Yom-kiper nokh Yom-kiper.
A heysherik hot nit gelozn mer oyf mayne lipn, Vi zangene tsvey zilbn fun a vort an eyntsiks: mame. Bazunder fun mayn layb-un-lebn shvimen zey, di lipn, Tsum kinigraykh vu s’hot gefast a mol mayn frume mame.
Di shtilkeyt tsvishn undz vert shtiler. Biz tsum dno a shtile. Un di vos est Yom-kiper erd farnemt ir zuns gedanken Un tfile tut zi, az im zol bashiremen ir tfile Beshas di yortsayt-likht vet nemen tsanken. Tsviling-bruder: lider fun togbukh, 1974-1985, 1986
Avrom Sutzkever (1913 – 2010 ) was born in Smargon, Byelarus. In 1915 the family fled to Siberia to escape the invading Germans. His father died there. In 1920 the family returned to Vilna where Sutzkever was educated. He attended the University of Vilna and studied literary criticism. Influenced by intellectual thought at the YIVO Institute, he became associated with Yung Vilne (Young Vilna), a group of aspiring Yiddish writers living in that city. A romantic poet who celebrated nature, beauty, and language, he was artistically and ideologically at odds with this group whose work reflected a more urban, leftist orientation. His first published collection Lider (Songs; 1937) received critical acclaim and was praised for its innovation in imagery and poetic landscape, language, and form. His collection Valdiks (Sylvan; 1940) celebrates nature. Di festung (The Fortress; 1945) reflects his experiences during the Holocaust as a partisan. The prose volumes Fun Vilner Geto (From the Vilna Ghetto; 1946) and Griner Akvarium (Green Aquarium; 1953-54; 1975) and the poetry collections Lider fun Geto (Songs from the Ghetto; 1946), Geheymshtot (Secret City; 1946), Yidishe Gas (Jewish Street; 1946) and Lider fun Yam-Hamoves (Songs from the Sea of Death; 1968) are based on his experiences during WWII. His mother was murdered with the Jews of Vilna, probably in Ponar, and his newborn son, born in 1942, was poisoned by the Germans because giving birth to Jewish children was forbidden. During the war, in addition to being a writer and a partisan, Sutzkever was a central cultural figure in the Vilna Ghetto, organizing and inspiring theatrical revues, exhibitions, lectures, and poetry readings. He was a member of the Alfred Rosenberg Squad, nicknamed the “Paper Brigade,” a group of some 40 Jewish intellectuals chosen to select cultural artifacts to be sent by the Nazis to the Frankfurt Museum for the Study of Oriental Peoples; the remainder was sold for pulp. Both during and immediately after the war, Sutzkever led the effort to save for the Jews whatever could be saved, first from the Nazis, then from the Soviets. His efforts were not in vain, thousands of volumes and documents were rescued and finally reclaimed by the YIVO Institute in Vilna and New York in the 1980s and 1990s. In 1947 Sutzkever settled in Palestine where he published several volumes of poetry and prose and edited the Yiddish literary journal Di Goldene Keyt (The golden chain) until its demise in 1995. Translations of his work into English include include Burnt Pearls: Ghetto Poems of Abraham Sutzkever tr. by Seymour Mayne, 1981, The Fiddle Rose: Poems 1970-72, tr. by Ruth Whitman (1990) and A. Sutzkever: Selected Poetry and Prose, tr. by B. and B. Harshav (1991).
From a Lost Poem
Mama, I’m sick. My soul is a leper.
Translation by B. and B. Harshav
And maybe more: Yellow madness. The balm of your kiss – Too holy To breath Into my wounded abyss.
But if it is true that you love me as ever, Next to God – My last pleas and commandment: – Strangle me! Strangle me with your Mama fingers That played On my willow cradle.
It will mean: Your love is stronger than death. It will mean: You trusted me with your love. And I will go back To before-my-becoming And be and not be Like a star In water. Vilna Ghetto Tr. Barbara and Benjamin Harshav, A. Sutzkever: Selected Poetry and Prose, tr. from the Yiddish by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav with an introduction by Benjamin Harshav, 1991.
My Father
My father is a floe on rivers of Siberia, My mother is a bonfire on Viliya’s mire, But both are inside me, The floe and the bonfire. My child, they will stay inside me, Behind the eyelids of my eyes – The bonfire and the floe of ice. Tr. B. and B. Harshav
Ever Since My Pious Mother
Ever since my pious mother ate earth on Yom Kippur, Ate on Yom Kippur black earth mixed up with fire, I, alive, must eat black earth on Yom Kippur, I am myself a yortsayt candle kindled from her fire.
The masts of sunset mercilessly sink, mast after mast. Like little birds, one star hops over to another. But ever since my mother eats earth and doesn’t fast, I eat black earth on every Yom Kippur, like my mother.
A locust has left nothing on my lips But two thin stalks of syllable: Ma – ma. Separate from life-and-body, they swim, my lips, To the kingdom where she used to fast, my pious Mama.
The silence between us grows deeper. To the dregs. And she, who eats Yom Kippur earth, she sees her son’s thoughts sprout: Oh, that her prayer should guard his steps, she begs, When her one yortsayt candle flickers out. Tr. B. and B. Harshav
Illustration to Sutzkever’s ghetto poems by Samuel Bak
Ven es heybt zikh on der tog Un di kinder mayne Geyen eyntsikvayz Fun hoyz aroys Tsu di gefarn Fun dem tog, Fun der shtot – Shtey ikh far der tir Un bet tsu dir: Breng zey, Got, Tsurik tsu mir, Umbashedikt Fun dem tog, Fun der shtot.
Un ven es geyt avek der tog, Un es kumt di nakht, Un du host mayne kinder Mir tsurikgebrakht: Umbashedikt Nokhn tog – Dank ikh, Got, dir Far der gantskeyt Fun mayn yedn glid, Far der ru fun mayn gemit. Lider, Nyu-york,1935
Berta Kling (?1886 – 1978) was born in Noworodek, Byelarus and grew up without parents. In 1898 she left for Berlin and in 1899 she emigrated to America. In 1916 she made her literary debut in L. Miller’s Vorhayt and after that published in various publicatons, among them: in Shriftn, Vaynper’s Bam fayer and Der onheyb, Di feder, Frayhayt, Literarishe heftn, etc. She is also represented in E. Korman’s anthology Yidishe dikhterns (Yiddish poetesses; 1928) and Rozhanski’s Di froy in der yidisher poezye (The woman in Yiddish poetry, 1966). She published the following books: Lider (Poems;1935), Vi ikh shtey un gey (As I stand and walk; 1939) and Fun mayne teg: lider (From my days: poems; 1952). She was also a very popular singer of Yiddish folksongs. She and her husband, Dr. Yechiel Kling, were well known for their literary salon for poets, prose writers and painters which they held in their home in the Bronx.
When Day Begins
When day begins And my children Leave the house One by one To the dangers of the day, Of the city – I stand at the door, And I pray to you: Bring them, God, Back to me, Unharmed From the day, From the city.
And when the day departs And night descends, And you have brought my children Back to me: Unharmed After the day – I thank you, God, For my limbs Which remain whole, for the stillness of my soul. Tr. Sheva Zucker
בײַ נאַכט קוקן אױף מיר מײַנע שיך מיט מײַן מאַמעס מידע בליקן ― די זעלבע נישט־דערגאַנגענקײט און אױסגעמיטענע גליקן. איך קלעטער אױף װאָלקן־קראַצערס זינק אַראָפּ אין די טאָלן ― בײַ נאַכט קום איך צוריק אין מײַן מאַמעס שיך באַדעקט מיטן געדולדיקן שטױב פֿון יאָרן. האַרבסטיקע סקװערן: לידער, 1969
MAYN MAME UN DER OYVN
Vos hot mayn mame Gevolt aroyskishefn fun undzer oyvn? Zi hot im ibergeshtelt Ayedn harbst. Geshlept im fun vant tsu vant, Fun vinkl tsu vinkl, Gemakht im hekher, Klener, Der kafl-oyvn iz geshtanen Bleykh, shtum. Der goy hot getrunken bronfn Fun a flash Un gezungen lider slavishe, troyerike, Der leym hot geshaynt in zayne groyse hent – Mikh geshrokn hot zayn shotn af di vent Un der vayser shotn fun dem oyvn. Shvaygndike tirn, 1962
AN EMER VASER
“Reyzl breng an emer vaser” – Zogt di mame Un ikh folg. Shoyn yorn vi ikh trog dos vaser – Fun der mame iz gevorn roykh. Der brunem iz shoyn lang farshotn. Di zmanim baytn zikh: S’iz vinter, Vintn raysn mayne glider, Ikh halt zikh on in emer vaser. Shvaygndike tirn, 1962
SHTARBT DI MUTER
Shtarbt di muter – Trogt der zun ir ponem vayter, Horiker, Troyeriker, Ayngeshparter. Shtarbt di muter Trogt der zun ir ponem vayter. Harbstike Skvern: Lider, 1969
MAYN MAMES SHIKH
Ba nakht kukn oyf mir mayne shikh Mit mayn mames mide blikn – Di zelbe nisht-dergangenkeyt Un oysgemitene glikn. Ikh kleter af volkn-kratsers Zink arop in di toln – Ba nakht kum ikh tsurik In mayn mames shikh Badekt mitn geduldikn shtoyb fun yorn. Harbstike Skvern: Lider, 1969
The biography and an earlier photo of Rajzel Zychlinski can be found in post no. 3. Other poems by her can be found in post 3, 4 and 9.
My Momma And The Oven
What magic was my momma working with our oven? She moved it every fall, dragged it from wall to wall, from corner to corner, raised it, lowered it. The tile oven stood pale, silent. The peasant drank vodka from the bottle and sang sad Slavic songs. The clay glistened on his big hands— I was frightened by his shadow on the walls and the white shadow of the oven. Tr. Seymour Levitan, copyright Seymour Levitan c 2012
A Pail Of Water
“Rajzel, fetch a pail of water,” momma says, and I obey. I’ve carried that water for years. Momma’s turned to smoke, the well is silted over. The seasons change: it’s winter, the wind tears my limbs, and I cling to that pail of water. Tr. Seymour Levitan, copyright Seymour Levitan c 2012
When a Mother Dies
When a mother dies her son perpetuates her face, hairier, sadder – stubborn. When a mother dies, her son perpetuates her face. Tr. Barnett Zumoff God Hid His Face: Selected Poems of Rajzel Zychlinsky, translated by Barnett Zumoff, Aaron kramer, Marek Kanter and others
My Mother’s Shoes
At night my shoes look at me with my mother’s tired eyes – the same goals unachieved and happiness missed. I climb skyscrapers, sink down into valleys – at night I come back in my mother’s shoes, covered with the patient dust of years. Tr. Barnett Zumoff God Hid His Face: Selected Poems of Rajzel Zychlinsky
Mayn shtam: Mender in atles un samet, Penemer lang un bleykhzaydn, Farkhaleste glutike lipn. Di dine hent tsertlen fargelte folyantn. Zey redn in tifer nakht mit got.
Un sokhrem fun Laypsk un fun Dansk. Blanke manketn. Eydeler sigarn-roykh. Gemore-vitsn. Daytshe heflekhkeytn. Der blik iz klug un mat, Klug un iberzat. Don-zhuanen, hendler un zukher fun got.
A shiker, A por meshumodem in Kiev.
Mayn shtam: Froyen vi getsn batsirt mit brilyantn, Fartunklt royt fun terkishe tikher, Shvere faldn fun satin-de-leon. Ober dos layb iz a veynendike verbe, Ober vi trukene blumen di finger in shoys, Un in di velke farshleyerte oygn Toyte lust.
Un grand-damen in tsits un in layvnt, Breytbeynik un shtark, un baveglekh, Mitn farakhtelkhn laykhtn gelekhter, Mit ruike reyd un umheymlekhn shvaygn. Far nakht baym fentster fun oremen hoyz Vaksn zey vi statues oys Un es tsukt durkh di demernde oygn Groyzame lust.
Un a por, Mit velkhe ikh shem zikh.
Zey ale, mayn shtam, Blut fun mayn blut Un flam fun mayn flam, Toyt un lebedik oysgemisht, Troyerik, grotesk un groys Tramplen durkh mir vi durkh a tunkl hoyz. Tramplen mit tfiles un kloles un klog, Treyslen mayn harts vi a kupernem glok, Es varft zikh mayn tsung, Ikh derken mit mayn kol – Mayn shtam redt. Lider, 1929, 1991
Anna Margolin (1887 – 1952) was born Rosa Lebesnboym in Brest-Litovsk (Brisk), Lithuania, the only child of Menakhem and Dvoyre-Leye Lebensboym. She was much more attached to her father who was a maskil (proponent of the Enlightenment), an intellectual and a merchant, and whom she saw as a very dashing figure than to her mother who was very beautiful but uneducated. Her father saw to it that Rosa receive a good Russian and Hebrew education. She immigrated to America twice. She came first in 1906, stayed for several years, returned to Warsaw where her father lived, married the Hebrew poet Moyshe Stavsky, moved to Palestine with him, gave birth to a son, left her husband and was forced to give up her son whom she never saw again. She arrived in America in 1914, this time to stay. In New York she worked as a journalist, editing the woman’s page “tIn der froyen Velt” (In the women’s world) of the newspaper Der tog under her own name. One of the few women to ever serve as a full member of the editorial staff of a Yiddish newspaper, she continued in that position until 1920. AFter 1920 she continued to write weekly columns for Der tog under the name “Clara Levin” until several years before her death. She claimed to hate journalism, and particularly hated editing the women’s page, which she felt degraded her personally and women in general, yet it was this writing that sustained her financially. She began writing poetry in 1922 under the pseudonym “Anna Margolin” and in 1929 she published Lider, her only book. From 1929-1934 she wrote about 20 poems, of which 5 or 6 were published and the same number (20) of fragments. These poems are permeated by a feeling of shame. In 1934 her poetic voice fell silent and she spent the last eight years of her life, from 1944-1952, beset by fears and depression and this feeling of shame. In those years, according to her third husband, the poet Reuven Iceland, she left the house only 12 times and that often against her will. She was apparently so afflicted by self doubt and depression that 8 years before she died she had this poem (of which this is a fragment), engraved on her tombstone. She with the cold marble breasts And with the slender luminous hands. She dissipated her life On rubbish, on nothing.
The poem “Mayn shtam redt” (My ancestors speak) is, to my mind, one of the great poems in Yiddish literature. In an article in Der Tog, July 27, 1952, shortly after Margolin’s death, the poet Itsik Manger called it “one of the great poems in world poetry,” and compared her to some of the great female poets. Although Margolin does not directly mention her mother or her father in this poem it is clear that the men in the second stanza, the merchants from Leipzig and Danzig, are modeled after her father, the dashing intellectual and merchant, and the “Women bejewelled in diamonds like icons” are reminiscent of her mother. All of the women bequeath to her a legacy of sorrow and silence, suggesting why she does not “know my [her] own voice” and perhaps helping to explain why that exquisite voice fell silent later in life.
My Ancestors Speak
My ancestors: Men in satin and velvet, faces long and silky pale. faintly glowing lips and thin hands caressing faded folios. Deep into the night they speak with God.
Merchants from Leipzig and Danzig with clean cuffs, smoking fine cigars. Talmudic wit. German niceties. Their look is clever and lacklustre, clever and self-satisfied. Don Juans, dealers and seekers of God.
A drunkard, a pair of converts in Kiev.
My ancestors: Women bejewelled in diamonds like icons, darkly crimsoned by Turkish shawls, and heavy folds of Satin-de-Lyon. But their bodies are weeping willows, the fingers in their laps like withered flowers, and in their faded, veiled eyes lifeless desire.
Grand ladies in calico and linen, broad-boned, strong and agile, with their contemptuous, easy laughter, with calm talk and uneasy silence. At dusk, by the window of the humble house they sprout like statues. And coursing through their dusky eyes cruel desire.
And a pair I am ashamed of.
All of them, my ancestors, blood of my blood, flame of my flame, dead and living mixed together, sad, grotesque, immense. They trample through me as through a dark house. Trampling with prayers, and curses, and wailing, rattling my heart like a copper bell, my tongue quivers, I don’t know my own voice – My ancestors speak. Tr. Shirley Kumove Drunk From The Bitter Truth: The Poems Of Anna Margolin, edited, translated, and an introduction by Shirley Kumove, 2005.
Ven der vokhediker umet Minyet in November-groy, Ruft aroys mayn benkshaft Fraytik-tsu-nakhtsn vayte, Ven di mame fleg a forkhtike Ontsindn di Shabes-likht.
Nit azoy di likht, leman-hoemes, Ruft aroys mayn benkshaft, Vi der mames bentshndike hent, Vos hobn frum getsoybert Un geflatert iber zey, Iber di flemlekh Geshpiglt in glants Fun laykhter, zilberne.
Dergeyt tsu mir atsind Der heyliker geflater Fun der mames hent, Un tut a blend In mayn vokhedikn umet fun November-groy. Afn Shvel, Harbst-Zumer, 2010, num’ 348-349
Alexander Spiegelblatt (1927 – ) was born in Kimpelung, Bukovina. He went to a traditional kheyder (school) and then to a Romanian gimnazye (high school). He survived the war in concentration camps in Romanian Transnistria. After the war he studied in The University of Bucharest and became a lecturer in Russian literature. In 1964 he emigrated to Israel and settled in Petach Tikvah where he still resides. From 1971 until it closed in 1995 he was editorial-manager of the magazine, Di goldene keyt, a Yiddish literary periodical of the highest order. There he worked closely with the editor and legendary poet Avrom Sutzkever. In 1984 Spiegelblatt won the Manger Prize.
He is the author of eleven book of poetry and prose, among them six published in this millenium: Durkhn shpaktiv fun a zeyger-makher (Through a watchmaker’s spyglass; 2000), Bloe vinklen – Itsik Manger: lebn, lid un balade (Blue corners – Itsik Manger, life, song and ballad: 2003), Krimeve – an altfrenkishe mayse (Krimeve – an old-fashioned story; 2005), Griner umet: lider (Green sorrow: poems; 2007), Durkh farreykherte shayblekh (Through smoky windowpanes; 2007) and Getunken in honik-tsar (Dipped in honied sorrow; 2009).
When the workaday sorrow Glistens in the November-grey My longing summons forth Far-off Sabbath eves When my mother, full of awe, Would light the Sabbath candles.
It is not so much the candles, truth to tell, That summon forth my longing, As my mother’s blessing hands, That quietly worked magic And fluttered over them, Over the tiny flames Reflected in the gleam Of silver candlesticks.
Now the holy flutter Of my mother’s hands Finds it way to me, And sends a dazzle of light Into my week-a-day sorrow of November grey. Tr. Sheva Zucker
גרוניאַ סלוצקי־קאָהן ( 1928 —)
