Ir farhaltener trot farklemt mir dem otem Dos engshaft fun nisht-dergangene tsiln Shtrekt zikh af shpeter af vartn Af andere morgns un baytogn Teg regnerishe fartunklen nokh Mayne fentstershoybn Un zi Vos veys ikh itst fun ir Tsi redt zi mit vemen Tsi lakht zi fun vemen tsi Iz aropgelozt ir vie vayl Zi benkt nokh mir Vi ikh Tsiendik ir shotn mit zikh Benk nokh ir Un kh’pruv tsunoyfbinen Dos nisht dergreykhte Un blayb oysgeleydikt fort Un kh’vel shoyn azoy tomed blaybn Nokh ir avekforn Benkendik Alts benkendik Nokh ir farhaltenem trot.
LIDER Beyle Shekhter-Gotesman, 1995
Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman’s biography can be found in Week 15.
The Slow Walk For Taybl
Her slow walk breaks my heart. The ache of unrealized goals stretches into the future, waiting for other mornings and afternoons. Rainy days still darken my windowpanes. And she … What do I know about her now? Is she talking with someone? Is she laughing at someone? Are her eyelashes lowered because she longs for me? As I, with her shadow trailing after me, long for her? And I struggle to tie together things not achieved. And still I remain empty. Shall I always be like this after her leaving? – Longing, still longing for her slow walk. Translated by Thomas E. Bird LIDER Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman, 1995
איך שטריק אויף די פֿינגער פֿון מײַן מאַמעס ליבע און טרינק לאַנגזאַם דעם קלוגן װײַן פֿון אירע רײד זי איז די װאָס גיט פֿון מײַן האַנט די נדבות זי פֿאַרשטאַרקט מיך אין מײַן רוקנבײן.
דורך דורות טאַנץ איך מיט אירע חלומות און טוליע זיך אײַן אין איר װאַרעמען שאַל לעבן לאַנג האַלט איך טײַער אירע מתּנות און שװעב לײַכט אין דעם טראַכט פֿון איר קװאַל.
ERSHTE LIBE
Mayn mame iz gegangen tsu kind Af yidish Af yidish ire tfiles Af yidish ire koyles Fun ir moyl un brust iz yidish arayngeflosn tif in mir. Gebodn, gekormet, gelekt Un geputst hot zi mikh Mit ir varemer yidisher tsung.
Mayn tate hot mir af shpatsir genumen af yidish zen di paves Ikh hob zikh ongehaltn in zayn toyre-vayzfinger Un unter rozhinkes mit mandlen falndik dik fun himl af zayn shoys gezesn zen di oysyes fun der goldener paves regn-boygn. Mir hobn yedn os tsuzamen in di hent mit freyd gehaltn vi a nay geboyrn hindele
Ikh bin mekane di vos hobn yungerheyt gehat gelibte zey tsu gletn, reytsn un kushn Af yidish, shprakh fun ershter libe.
Kluginke kepele glantsike herelekh roytinke bekelekh tseyndelekh perelekh es uf di lokshelekh pupikl merelekh
Kum aher ketzele Shpil zik sheyn feygele nisht vild vi a khayele mayn meydele freydele
Lyu lyu lyu oytserl mayn kosher kind eyns in der velt mayns shlof ruik atsind.
MAYN YERUSHE
Ikh shtrik af di finger fun mayn mames libe Un trink langzam dem klugn vayn fun ire reyd Zi is di vos git fun mayn hant di nedoves Zi farshtarkt mikh in mayn rukn beyn.
Durkh doires tantz ikh mit ire khaloimes Un tulye zikh ayn ir varemen shal Lebn lang halt ikh tayer ire matones Un shveb laykht in dem trakht fun ir kval.
Sarah Traister Moskovitz (1927 – is the American born daughter of Jewish immigrants from Poland. Her father was the director of Workmen’s Circle schools in Springfield, MA and Los Angeles. Sarah attended Yiddish schools and spoke only Yiddish at home with her parents. As a young girl she heard of close family who had remained in Poland. By the age of twelve she knew that her parents were waiting for letters that would never arrive. At sixteen she understood from the sadness of her parents that their families had been killed. When she writes in Yiddish she wakens their mute voices and feels their closeness. Traister Moskovitz was a professor of human development and psychology at Cal. State University, Northridge. With Dr. Flo Kinsler of the Jewish Family Service in Los Angeles, she created the first Child Survivor Association in 1982. She married Itzik Moskovitz 65 years ago and they have three children, nine grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. Her publications include: Love Despite Hate: Child Survivors of the Holocaust and Their Adult Lives, Schocken, 1982 and one volume of Yiddish poetry Kumt tsum tish/Come to the Table accompanied by her own English translations. To order the book contact the poet at smoskovitz@csun.edu. She has also found and translated into English all the Yiddish poetry in the Ringelblum Archives preserved in buried milk cans in Warsaw. This poetry can be found at http://www.poetryinhell.org.
First Love
My mother went into labor in Yiddish in Yiddish her prayers in Yiddish her screams From her mouth and breast Yiddish flowed deep into me I was bathed, fed licked and prettied with her warm Yiddish tongue.
My father took me walking in Yiddish to see the peacocks. I held on to his Torah pointing finger And from the sky raisins and almonds fell while I sat on his lap to see the letters of the golden peacock’s rainbow. We held each letter in our hands with joy as if it were a new born little chick.
I envy those who in their youth had lovers caressing, teasing, and kissing them in Yiddish Language of first love.
Mother Tongue
Little Sarah, sweet little beautiful mamele, dear little angel, sweet little crown, little doll, little beloved, little heart, little sweetness, little goodness
Bright little face, dear little eyes, capable little hands, shapely little legs clever little head, shiny curly hair, little red cheeks, little pearl teeth eat up all the little noodles, the little gizzard and little carrots.
Come here little kitten, play nice little bird not like a little animal, my little girl joy. Lyu, lyu lyu little treasure, my kosher child one in the world mine, sleep peacefully now.
My Inheritance
I knit on the fingers of my mother’s love and sip slow the wise wine of her words I carry her strength in the bones of my spine It is she who gives alms from my purse.
Down decades of time I dance with her dreams and rejoice in the warmth of her cloak So long as I live I will cherish her gifts and float safe in the womb of her hopes.
די פֿרעמדע פֿרױ געדענקט נאָך די לװיה פֿון מײַן מאַמען, און איך געדענק איר לעבן. איר ליבשאַפֿט ריזלט אין מײַן װעזן. אַ יונגע און אַ שײנע. ניטאָ אַ מאַמע װאָס געװעזן פֿאַראַן — און אײנע, די פֿרעמדע פֿרױ געדענקט נאָך די לװיה פֿון מײַן מאַמען, און איך געדענק איר לעבן. די שטילקײט ברענט, ישׂראל־בוך, תּל־אָבֿיבֿ, 1992
DERMONT MEN MAYN MAMEN
Dermont men mayn mamen Ver ikh a kind. Un s’makht nit oys di groye hor, Un nit di fertsik yor. A kind!
Oykh shpiglen vern mid Fun vayzn ale sho an ander blik. Vil ikh gedenken Dem kern, Vos hot baym vern Tsegrint a kind Mit zun in oygn, – yene rege, Vos hot mit zun mikh oysgezoygn. Bleter fun vegn, Yisroel-bukh, Tel-Oviv, 1967
MAYN MAME
Di fremde froy gedenkt nokh Di levaye fun mayn mamen, Un ikh gedenk ir lebn. Ir libshaft rizlt in mayn vezn. A yunge un a sheyne. Nito a mame vos gevezn Faran – un eyne, Di fremde froy Gedenkt nokh Di levaye fun mayn mamen, Un ikh gedenk ir lebn. Di Shtilkayt Brent (Yisroel-bukh, Tel Aviv, 1992)
Rivka Basman Ben-Hayim (1925- was born in Wilkomir (Ukmerge), Lithuania. She survived WWII for two years in the Vilna ghetto and then in concentration campls. After the war she met her husband, the painter “Mula” Shmuel Ben Hayim in Belgrade helped him run the Belgrade Berihah (Heb. “flight”) stations for moving Jews out of Eastern Europe towards their illegal immigration to Palestine. They immigrated to Israel in 1947 and took part in the War of Independence. They lived in Kibbutz Hamapil for sixteen years where Basman worked as a teacher. She was a cofounder of the literary group”Yung-Yisroel” (Young Israel). From 1963 to 1965, while her husband was the Israeli cultural attache to the Soviet Union she taught the children of diplomats in Moscow. At the same time she furthered clandestine contacts between the Soviet Yiddish writers and the outside world. She has resided in Herzliah since 1982. She has published ten volumes of poetry, all in Israel, and all illustrated and graphically designed by Mula Ben-Hayim: Toybn baym brunem (Doves at the Well, 1959), Bleter fun vegn (Leaves of the Paths, 1967), Likhtike shteyner (Radiant Stones, 1972), Tseshotene kreln (Beads in Shadow, 1982), Onrirn di tsayt (To Touch Time, 1988), Di shtilkayt brent (The Silence Burns, 1992), Di erd gedenkt (The Earth Remembers, 1998), Di draytsnte sho (The Thirteenth Hour, 2000) and Af a strune fun regn (On a String of Rain, 2002). In 2006 her collected works were published in tso volumes, Lekoved ikh un du (In honor of Me and you). Her poems have been translated into hebrew, English, French, Polish, German and Flemish. She is the recipient of a number of literary prizes, among them the Manger Prize, the Dovid Hofshteyn Prize and the Pollack Prize of the Beyt Sholem-Aleykhem. For a more comprehensive biography and a chance to read many of her poems along with English translations visit the website of the translator Zelda Newman. There you can also hear Basman Ben-Hayim reading her poems. http://yiddishpoetry.commons.gc.cuny.edu
Remind Me of My Mother
Remind me of my mother And I become a child. And neither grey hair Nor forty years Matter at all. A child!
A mirror too becomes tired Of showing a different glance every hour. So I want to remember That kernel, Which in becoming Vitalized a child With sun in its eyes, – That moment, Which nourished me with sun.
Tr. Zelda Newman
My Mother
The unknown woman still remembers My mother’s funeral, But I remember her life. Her love courses in my being. Young and lovely. The mother that was is gone She exists– and is unique, The unknown woman Still remembers My mother’s funeral. But I remember her life.
Yermiahu Ahron Taub grew up in an orthodox (non-Hasidic) yeshivish community in Philadelphia. He began his formal study of Yiddish when he was in his 20s although the language was very much present in his childhood. Currently he lives in Washington, DC where he works as a Senior Librarian in the Israel & Judaica Section at the Library of Congress. He is the author of three volumes of Poetry, The Insatiable Psalm, What Stillness Illuminated/וואָס שטילקייט האָט באַלויכטן and Uncle Feygele. His Yiddish poems have been published in a Der bavebter Yid, Yugntruf, Forverts and Tsukunft among others. You may learn more about him at his website: yataub.net.
צוגרײטנדיק זיך צו טאַנצן
זי זיצט אויף אַ בענקל אין אַ ים פֿון דער בלײכסטער ראָזקײט, שװימענדיק. דאָס שײטל (בלאָנדער װי דער איצט פֿאַרטונקלטער צאָפּ באַהאַלטן אינעם שופֿלאָד), אַן אָפֿענע פֿויסט. די מאַמע קוקט אינעם גלאָז, לאַנג. אָן אַ זיפֿץ, לײגט זי צו דאָס רויט און בלוי, בשׂמים-ריח פֿון אַן אומבאַצײכנט פֿלעשל, קאַמופֿלאַזש פֿאַר זאַכן אומבאַװוּסטע. די פּערל אין אָרדענונג, לאָזט זי אַראָפּ דעם קאָפּ אויפֿן טיש, מיט צידערדיקע אַקסלען, נישט אין שטאַנד אַ ריר צו טאָן דעם מאַנס װערטער פֿון אונטן. און דאָס קלײנע ייִנגל פֿאַרקוקט זיך אַדורך די שפּיצן מיט אָפּשײַ. [דער אומזעטיקלעכער מיזמור] The Insatiable Psalm
TSUGREYTNDIK ZIKH TSU TANTSN
zi zitst af a benkl in a yam fun der bleykhster rozkeyt. shvminendik. dos sheytl (blonder Vv der itst fartunklter tsop bahaltn inem shuflod), an ofene foyst. di mame kukt inem gloz, lang. on a zifts, leygt zi tsu dos royt un bloy, bsomim-reyekh fun an umbatseykhnt fleshl, kamuflazh far zakhn umbavuste. di perl in ordenung lozt zi arop dem lop afn tish, mit tsiterdike akslen, nisht in shtant a rir tsu ton dem mans verter fun untn. un dos kleyne yingl farkukt zikh adrukh di shpitsn mit opshay.
preparing to dance
she sits on the chair in a sea of the palest pink, floating. the sheytl (blonder than the now darkened braid packed away in the drawer), an open fist. mother looks into the glass, long. without a sigh, she applies the red and the blue, scent from an unmarked bottle, camouflage of things unknown. the pearls in place, she lowers her head onto the desk, her shoulders shaking, unable to budge the man’s words from below. and the little boy stares through the lace in awe. The Insatiable Psalm (Wind River Press, 2005)
18 װאָס פֿאַר אַ נסיעה! נעם אַרויס דאָס ברויט. גײ איצט אַרויף; נעם די פֿלוימען מיט. איך װעל אויסטאָן דאָס שײטל … אָט בין איך. טאַטעלע, דו מוזסט זײַן שטיל.
Vos far a nesiye! Nem aroys dos broyt. Gey itst aruf; nem di floymen mit. Ikh vel oyston dos sheytl… Ot bin ikh. Tatele, du muzst zayn shtil.
What a trip we took! Take the bread out. Go up now; take the plums. I will take off my wig … here I am. Little one, you must be still.
Bleykher trafik hot geshtromt durkhn bapintltn film fun Detsember-shlof. Koyles fun der shtil; kh’hob gehert efenen di tir. Di mame hot gezamlt mayne brenendike forems. Af ir haldz hob ikh arayngeotemt dem zikorn fun parfum. Durkhn nepl hobn mir gezen a roytn shirem geyn a vals iber nase brukshteyner.
Pale traffic streamed through the grainy film of December sleep. Voices from the quiet; I heard the door open. Mother gathered my burning shapes. Against her neck I breathed the memory of her perfume. Through the fog we saw a red umbrella waltz over wet cobblestones.
Di mame iz geven farlibt in der skripendiker muzik fun der karusel. Zi hot zikh ongelent afn plastishn oger beshas er hot galopirt Durkh volkns kokozhes un tsuker-vate un eplpay. Volt zi gekent a mol gevinen a bloye stenge? Kin kind hot nisht oysgerufn ir nomen. Lider 18, 19 un 24 fun Vos shtilkayt hot baloykhtn, 2008.
The mother adored the tinny music of the carousel. She leaned against the plastic stallion as it galloped through clouds of popcorn and cotton candy and apple pie. Could she ever win a blue ribbon? No child called her name. What Stillness Illuminated/Vos shtilkayt hot baloykhtn (Parlor Press, 2008; Free Verse Editions series)
Mayn mame hot lib gehat an andern Un iz gevorn dos vayb fun mayn tatn – S’hot yemems bild fargelt, farblast fun lange yorn Geshmeykhlt fun ir album sametenem, altn.
Ven zi hot oysgeneyt a hantekh, a servet, In roytn zayd arayngeshtikt ir benkshaft, ir bager, Flegn loyfn di shtekh, vi shmole ritshkes blut Bazilberte, bazoymte mit ir shtiler trer.
Mayn bobe – ver ken haynt farshteyn dos lebn fun a boben – Kh’gedenk bloyz tsiterdike hent un shmole, bloe lipn. Ver ken es visn haynt, tsi s’hot mayn zeyde Shaye zi gelibt, Vi shver es iz geven ir glik un vos zi hot gelitn.
S’iz fun ir nisht farblibn kin briv, kin shtik papir, Nor tep fardrotevete afn boydem, eydes shtume fun gevezner vor – Ven s’iz ir man geshtorbn iz zi geblibn an almone yunge Mit finef kinder, der yingster zun a yoseml fun knape zibn yor.
Hot zi ayngeflantst a sod, a sod, gedikht un breyt, Beymer in shures glaykhe eyns ba eyns, gereyt, Kedey arumtsunemen s’naye, naketike hoyz Un ir eygne, groyse eynzamkeyt.
Un ikh – mayn tokhter iz itst alt gevorn zekhtsn yor, Genoy vi ikh in yenem tog fun yenem khoydesh may, Ven s’hot a shtile sho arayngeflantst in mir dos vunderlekhste vort, Un s’hot geshmekt mit vaysn bez, mit friling un mit shpil fun vaytn solovey.
A pekl briv in shank, a shmolink bendl lider Ot dos alts iz dos ash fun mayn lebn – Itst ze ikh genoy – kh’bin gevezn tsu noent fun mayn glik, Bin ikh gelofn alts foroys, alts foroys – un dernebn.
Kh’volt mayn tokhter gezogt – nite, nite, nit yog, Loz dikh firn fun der oysgeneyter, royter ritshke blut, Horkh, vos s’royshn di beymer in der bobns sod Un vos s’flistert fartrakht un fartroyert mayn lid.
Nor vi kenen banemen ire zekhtsn yor Fun fargangene lebns dem tsiter un troyer? S’heybt zikh on bay ir alts oyf s’nay, alts oyf s’nay –
Zi geyt un s’geyen di shotns ir nokh un kushn ir shpur, Un ergets oyf a tsvayg fun vaysn bez Fibert oys zayn lid der vayter solovey. Bashertkeyt: Lider 1928-1948, Montreal, 1949
Rokhl Korn’s biography can be found in Week 13 along with her poem “To My Mother”.
Generations
For my daughter
Loving another, yet she married my father. That other portrait faded with the years. From her album paged in musty velvet Shimmered forth his paling, yellowing smile.
To watch her embroider a towel or tablecloth: She pricked the vivid silk with her *longing and desire. The stitches flowed like narrow streams of blood. The seams were silvered with her silent tears.
And my grandmother – how little I know of her life! – Only her hands’ tremor, and the blue seams of her lips. How can I imagine my grandfather’s love of her? I can will myself to believe in her suffering.
No letter remains, no, not a scrap of paper Did she will us; only pots in the attic Crudely patched: tangible maimed witnesses To a dead life: the young widow, the mother of five.
So she planted a luxuriant garden That would embrace the newly barren house And her new barrenness. So the trees grew, Obedient to her will, in perfect rows.
Now my daughter is just sixteen As I was on that quiet day in May When I became pregnant of a single word Scented with lilac, the remote song of a bird.
A few letters, and what is called “a slender volume”: These are the relicts of my life. I lacked perspective On happiness, so I ran even faster To escape the happy boundaries of my fate.
Listen, my daughter, never go in pursuit! It all lies there, in the woven strands of blood. How the straight trees whisper in grandmother’s garden! Only listen! these dim echoes in my poem…
But what can sixteen years conceive of sorrow? And pensiveness? the tremor of old lives? For her, only the eternal beginnings.
Where she goes, old shadows kiss her footprints. Somewhere, in white lilac, the nightingale Gasps out his fragile song.
**Which ends always with the note of eternal beginning. Tr. Carolyn Kizer, A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry, edited by irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg, Holt, Rhinehart and Winston, 1969.
* Kizer translated the line as, “She pricked the vivid silk with her nostalgia.” I changed it to longing and desire to be closer to the Yiddish benkshaft un bager.
** This line has no correlate in the Yiddish text.
Mame, Mayn yidishe mame, Men hot nit gelozt Dir dayn Yidishkayt veynen, Du host iber mir Vi a toyb nit gevorket, Mit breklekh fun moyl Opgerisene, mikh nit gekormet. Dos leymike broyt – A por bisn Mir hobn vi kinder Af tsvey glaykhe teyln tserisn Mit pinktlekhe mosn – Oygn ful hunger. Af vegn fun shreklekhe vunder Mit blayener sine baregnt, A zak iber lendn dare bahongen, A mame yesoyme Bam zayt fun dayn kind bistu gegangen, Vos hot zikh geeltert in shoen, Mame kind Fun der breyter Vilie, Bagazlt Fun yungn kholem In shpete teg Gezunt zolstu zayn. 1970 Tsvaygn-tsiter, 1971
MAYN MEYDELE
Mayn meydele hot shtil geveynt, Gemeynt ikh vel nit hern, Hob ikh fun ir farklemt gezikht, Vos iz geshnitst mit vey un likht Aropgekusht di trern.
Mayn meydele hot shtil gebenkt, Gemeynt ikh vel nit visn, Bin ikh antrunen fun ir blik Un fun ir benkshaft kh’hob mayn glik Mit zikh avekgerisn.
Mayn meydele hot nit gemont, Nor tif un shtil geshvign, Af ire lipn kh’hob derfilt – Mayn dorsht, farshnurt, nit ayngeshtilt Vet eybik dortn lign. 1963 Tsvaygn-tsiter
Asya (1932-2009) Asya Kuritsky-Guy was born in Vilna. Her father was a painter who wrote plays that were never produced. During the Second World War she and her parents fled to Soviet Russia. At the age of eight she began writing poetry in both Russian and Yiddish. When she was repatriated to Poland after the war she worked in an orphanage and created literature – poems and plays – for the children. In 1951 she emigrated to Israel and studied in a drama school there. For a brief time, from 1956-1856, she acted in the Habimah theatre. From 1948 on her poetry was published in a number of publications, in Poland, America and Israel. None other than the great poet Yankev Glatshteyn wrote the foreword to her debut volume Tsvyagn-tsiter (The tremble of Branches). In israel she published the books Tsvaygn-tsiter, 1972 and Nit kin albatros (Not an albatross), 1981.
If anyone can tell me if Asya’s parents survived the war I would greatly appreciate knowing. Thanks.
Mother
Mother, My Jewish mother, They didn’t allow you to Cry your Yidishkeyt, You didn’t coo over me Like a dove, Didn’t nourish me with Scraps, torn from your mouth. The claylike bread – A few bites Like children We tore into two equal parts Measuring it out exactly – Eyes full of hunger. On roads full of terrible wonders Leaden hatred raining down upon you, A sack covering your slender loins, A mother orphan You walked alongside your child Who had so aged within hours, Mother child Of the wide River Viliye, Robbed Of your young dream In later days May you be blessed. 1970 Tr. Sheva Zucker
My Little Girl
My Little girl cried quietly, She thought I wouldn’t hear, So from her downcast face Carved from pain and light, I kissed away a tear.
My little girl yearned quietly, She thought I’d not discern, So I vanished from her gaze And took with me my joy Leaving her to yearn.
My little girl did not demand, Her silence, still and deep, – On her lips I sensed My thirst, entwined, not stilled Would forever keep. Tr. Sheva Zucker
S’LETSTE BLETL (Iberklapndik der mames zikhroynes)
S’letste bletl funem letstn heftl Shoyn farmakht. Di shures dayne, ufgetreyslt, Klapn oys mayn nakht. Vorhaftik Vi durkhzeevdik Opgetseykhnt bistu mir. Ikh bin haynt di mame fun dayn fri’r.
Tener gildikn – dayn bild nisht vaykht. S’falt avek der ovnt, Kilblekh, roy un faykht, Ful mit nokhklangen. Tsit zikh Vi er volt keyn mol Nisht fargangen. Sharey, 1980
MAYN KIND
Mayn kind, Di zumer-feygl ale shoyn avekgefloygn. Der himl hot di lodns tsugemakht. Zitsn mir bam tish un kloybn krishkes, Vi shoyn nokh der sude – un far nakht. Shotns – moyredik groys af di vent. Mir farbeygn di kep mit zukhndike hent. Pruvn a funk in a brekl gefinen. Mayn kind, Mit a farrisenem shtern Kh’hob dir di yerushe farshribn. Vey, vos s’iz derfun geblibn! Zay mir moykhl, dikh nisht-vilndik genart.
LIDER Beyle Shekhter-Gotesman, 1995
Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman (1920 – was born in Vienna, her mother was a remarkable traditional folksinger and her father, a passionate Yiddishist. She and her family left to settle in Czernowitz, Ukraine (then Romania), when she was a young child. Thinking she wanted to be an artist, Schaechter-Gottesman went to Vienna to study art but was forced to return to Czernowitz when the Germans invaded Austria in 1938. In 1941 she married a medical doctor, Jonas (Yoyne) Gottesman, and together they lived out the war in the Czernowitz Ghetto along with her mother and several other family members. She, her husband and daughter settled in New York in 1951.
Schaechter-Gottesman’s first book of poetry, a children’s book, Mir Forn (We’re Travelling) appeared in 1963. Her books, nine in total, have appeared regularly since then. They include poetry for adults, children’s books and song books. Her most recent book is Der tsvit fun teg: Lider un tseykhenungen (The Blossom of Days: Poems and Drawings), 2007. She has recorded three CDs of her songs and one recording of folk songs. Beyle has played a central role in reviving and inspiring interest in Yiddish song and poetry among a new generation of artists, and her songs have been performed by many of the major names in Yiddish music. She is the only Yiddish poet ever to be awarded a National Heritage Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, the top honor for folk arts in the United States.
Schaechter-Gottesman discusses her life and work (and sings) in the film, Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman: Song of Autumn, 2007, in the series Worlds within a World: Conversations with Yiddish Writers produced by the League for Yiddish: www.leagueforyiddish.org
The poet did, in fact, type and help edit the memoirs of her mother, Lifshe Schaechter-Widmanwhich were published in 1973.
The Last Page (On Typing My Mother’s Memoirs)
The last page of the last notebook is finished. Your lines, stirred up, keep typing through my night. So deft, so transparent, you sketched yourself for me. Now I’m mother to your past. Tones that turn to gold. Your picture doesn’t fade. Evening comes, cool, raw, moist, full of echoes, and takes hold as if it never will let go.
Sharey (Dawn), 1980 Translated from the Yiddish by Seymour Levitan Copyright Seymour Levitan c 2012
My Child
My child, the birds of summer have all flown away, the sky has closed the shutters, so we sit at the table and pick crumbs, as if the party were over and dusk has come, shadows – awesomely huge on the walls. We bend our heads and with searching hands we look for a spark in the tiniest morsel. My child, with upward-turned brow, I willed you the legacy. Woe, what remains of it! Forgive me for deceiving you, I didn’t mean to. LIDER Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman, 1995 Translated by Gabriel Preil
איך שפּין אױס אַ צירונגשנור פֿאַר דיר, פֿון אַלע מײַנע טעג און יאָרן. מאַמע מײַנע, איך שפּיגל זיך אין דיר, װי זון אין אַ קװאַל אַ קלאָרן.
װען מײַן טאָכטער אין װעג זיך גרײט, שטײט דײַן פּנים איר צוקאָפּנס. איך זאַמל אײַן דײַנע רײד, װי זאַנגען גאָלדענע אין סנאָפּעס.
דײַן יעדעס װאָרט אין מיר פֿאַרפֿלאַנצט, דורך יאָרן רײַפֿע, טיפֿער זײ באַנומען. דאָס װאָס איך האָב נישט דערגאַנצט — אין מײַנע קינדער אַרײַנגעשפּונען.
דײַן גוטסקײט, דײַן שײנקײט פֿון דײַן זײַן, אין מײַנע אָדערן געפֿלאָסן — האָב איך, װי גוטן רױטן װײַן, אין כּלים גאָלדענע איבערגעגאָסן. אין ליכט פֿון דורות, 1961
MAYN MAMEN
Ikh shpin oys a tsirungshnur far dir, Fun ale mayne teg un yorn. Mame mayne, ikh shpigl zikh in dir, Vi zun in a kval a klorn.
Ven mayn tokhter in veg zikh greyt, Shteyt dayn ponem ir tsukopns. Ikh zaml ayn dayne reyd, Vi zangen goldene in snopes.
Dayn yedes vort in mir farflantst, Durkh yorn rayfe, tifer zey banumen. Dos vos ikh hob nisht dergantst – In mayne kinder arayngeshpunen.
Dayn gutskeyt, dayn sheynkeyt fun dayn zayn, In mayne odern geflosn – Hob ikh, vi gutn roytn vayn, In keylim goldene ibergegosn.
In likht fun doyres, 1961
from In likht fun doyres
Malka Lee (1904-1976) (pseudonym of Malka Leopold-Rappaport) was born in Monastrikh, Eastern Galicia into a Hasidic home. During the World War I she and her family fled to Hungary and then to Vienna where they lived until 1918. She studied in a Polish elementary and high school. She began writing poetry in German but in 1921, the year she emigrated to New York, she turned to Yiddish. In 1922 she made her literary debut in Di feder, NY, and after that she contributed poems, stories and memoirs to many newspapers and magazines including: Fraye arbeter shtime, Frayheyt, Tsukunft, Tog-morgn-zhurnal, Idishe kemfer, Di goldene keyt and Kinder-zhurnal.
She and her first husband, the Yiddish write Aaron Rappaport, owned and operated a bungalow colony in High Falls, New York which became a haven for Yiddish intellectuals based in New York. According to Jewish Women in America: An Historical Encyclopedia, Lee’s work “is representative of an entire generation of Jewish women born and educated in Eastern Europe at the beginning of the twentieth century who found a very different life in America. Her early poetry intertwines the memories of shtetl life in a Hasidic family with the realities of the secular immigrant experience. Her volumes published between 1945 and 1950 reflect the personal pain of observing the Holocaust, with its destruction of family and childhood home, from the safety of distance in America. Her later work expresses a love of nature and attachment to America, as well as her Zionist devotion to the State of Israel.”
Lee published 6 volumes of poetry: Lider (Poems), 1932, Gezangen (Songs), 1940, Kines fun undzer tsayt (Lamentations of our times), 1945, Durkh loytere kvaln (Through pure springs), 1950, In likht fun doyres (In the light of generations), 1961, Untern nusnboym (Under the nut tree), 1969 as well as her memoirs Durkh kindershe oygn (Through childish eyes), 1955 and a children’s book Mayselekh far Yoselen (Stories for Yosele), 1969.
To My Mother
I spin a string of jewels for you Of all my days and years. My mother, I am mirrored in you Like sun in a clear spring.
When my daughter prepares for her journey Your image stands before her. I gather in your words Like sheaves of golden stalks.
Your every word is implanted in me, The ripening years deepened my perceptions. That which I did not complete I wove into my children.
Your goodness, the beauty of your being, Flowed through my veins – And so, as with good claret, I decanted it into golden goblets.
Translated by Ana Berman and Bella Sanderson on the occasion of their mother’s funeral.
MAYN MAMEN Onshtot a matseyve af ir umbakantn keyver
Zint du bist mer nishto, bin ikh gevorn hemshekh Fun ale dayne nokh nisht oysgelebte teg, Un du bist azoy shtil in mir arayngeflosn, Glaykh kh’volt geven fun lang far troym daynem der breg.
Un kh’bin itst kliger un basheydener, mayn mame, Glaykh kh’volt dem gantsn harbst in zikh arayngenumen Un durkh dem bleterfal fun mayne mide teg Zikh ayngehorkht in leyd, vos darf tsu mir nokh kumen.
Ikh veys shoyn, az fun ale rayzes tsu dem glik Darf men zikh umkern tsurik tsu ershter kinder-trer, Vi tsu an eygener shvel, dort ergets, tsvishn khurves, Vos vart nokh alts getray, ven s’vart shoyn keyner mer.
Un kh’veys shoyn, az tsulib der kargshaft funem harts, Ven emets vart umzist af blik, af vort, af klang, Blaybt men shteyn ba dem rand fun der eygener nakht, Vi in mitn fun zumer a leydike zang.
Ikh veys shoyn, az mayn vort iz bloyz a shtile shpur, Di shpur nokh toesn, vos odern zikh ayn In roy-erd funem zayn – un s’iz mayn vort a ziveg, Der ziveg, vos farbindt mikh mit der mindster shayn.
Kh’veys shoyn a sakh, a sakh, glaykh durkh di faldn erd, Voltst ongerirt mayn kop mit dayne shtile hent – Nor s’shteyt nokh alts mayn visn orem un farshemt Far ot der pashtes, vos du host durkh zikh aleyn derkent.
Es iz nor dir geven bashert di khokhme funem harts Derfirn azoy gants tsum rand fun eygene lipn, Az vern zol dos vort, vi heym, vi teglekh broyt Far yedn, vemen s’hot di libe oysgemitn.
Nor dir iz es geven bavilikt, mame mayne, Zikh onfartroyen azoy gants der eyg’ner, shtiler trer, Zi zol dikh tsufirn tsum same onheyb tsar, Vos ken fun zikh aleyn shoyn nisht antrinen mer.
Un bloyz ba dir, ba dir hot es gekent geshen, Az der krayz fun dayn blik, vi a dakh, vi a vant, Zol arumnemen alts, vos iz eynzam un hefker, Fun kranker shvalb biz a farshemter, ufgeshtelter hant.
Fun ale rayzes tsu dem glik, ker ikh zikh um tsurik Tsum same tifstn, letstn ur-zin funem leyd, Un tsu der groyser tmimes fun dayn libshaft, Vos iz shtarker fun toyt un fun eyg’ner eynzamkeyt. Moskve, Elel, 1944
Korn inscription to my parents
Heym un heymlozikayt, Buenos Aires,1949A copy of title page of Korn’s book Home and Homelessness with an inscription to my parents. It reads: “Your words brought back the fragrance of our old home, dear Mr. Tsuker. It was good to meet with you and your dear wife Miriam. Yours, Rokhl Korn, Winnipeg, 14/V/1949.
Rokhl (Haring) Korn 1898-1982) was born near Podliski, East Galicia on a farming estate. Her love and knowledge of nature is reflected both in her poetry and prose. She was educated in Polish and started writing poetry at an early age in Polish. At the start of the First World War, she and her family fled to Vienna, then returned to Poland in 1918 and lived in Przemysl until 1941. Korn’s first publications were in Polish in 1918 but pogroms against the Jews of Poland after the war led her to write in Yiddish, though she had to be taught to speak, read and write the language by her husband Hersh Korn whom she married in 1920. Her first Yiddish poem appeared in the Lemberger Tageblatt in 1919.
In 1941 Korn fled to Uzbekistan and then to Moscow, where she remained until the end of the war. Her husband, her mother, her brothers and their families all perished in the Holocaust. She returned to Poland in 1946 and in 1948 immigrated to Montreal, Canada where she lived and remained creative until her death. She was a major figure in Yiddish literature and in 1974 she won the prestigious Manger Prize.
Korn was extremely prolific. Her works include: Dorf, lider (Village, poems). Vilna: 1928; Erd, dertseylungen (Land, stories).Warsaw: 1936; Royter mon, lider (Red Poppies, poems). Warsaw: 1937; Heym un heymlozikayt, lider (Home and Homelessness, poems). Buenos Aires: 1948; Bashertkayt, lider 1928–48 (Fate, poems 1928–48). Montreal: 1949; Nayn dertseylungen (Nine Stories). Montreal: 1957; Fun yener zayt lid (On the Other Side of the Poem). Tel Aviv: 1962; Di gnod fun vort (The Grace of the Word) Tel Aviv: 1968; Af der sharf fun a rege (The Cutting Edge of the Moment). Tel Aviv: 1972; Farbitene vor, lider (Altered Reality, poems). Tel Aviv: 1977. The wonderful bilingual edition Paper Roses: Selected Poems of Rokhl Korn, A Bilingual Edition, ed. and trans. Seymour Levitan. Toronto: 1985 offers a fine selection of her work in English translation.
To My Mother, in place of the stone that would have marked her grave
Now you are gone and I live all the days that were taken from you. You flow into me so peacefully, as if I long ago became the shore to your dream.
I am more modest and discerning, mother, I have all of autumn in me, and in the leaf-fall of my days I hear the sorrow destined to me.
I know that every journey to good fortune ends with our return to childish tears, our doorway in the ruins, true to us when nothing else is.
And I know the heart’s withholding, how we wait for a glimpse a word a sound and are left at the edge of our darkness like an empty stalk in the summer sun.
And I know the word is only the spoor left by errors that root themselves in the untilled ground of our being, and the word is my bridegroom, mated to me, binding me to the least light of day.
I know a great deal now, as if through folds of earth you laid your hands on my head, but even now, all I know stands poor and shamefaced before your innocence.
Only you were fated to guide the wisdom of the heart whole to the threshold of the lips, so that the word would be home and daily bread for all who were turned away by love.
Only you trusted tears to lead you to the very start of pain no longer able to hide from itself.
And only you, only you were given the encircling gaze, like a roof, like a wall, that took into itself everything abandoned and alone, from a sick swallow to a shamed, outstretched hand.
I have turned back from all my journeys to good fortune to the deepest, the ultimate source of sorrow and to the great innocence of your love: it is stronger than death and my own loneliness.
Moscow, Elul 1944
Moscow, Elul 1944
Translated from the Yiddish by Seymour Levitan English translation copyright Seymour Levitan, Paper Roses / Papirene royzn, 1985.
A biography of Celia Dropkin can be found in post 10.
IKH VEL ANTLOYFN
Ikh vel antloyfn fun aykh alemen Tsu mayn kleynem yingele, Fun aykh alemen Mit dorshtik heyse, Mit kalte blikn, Mit penemer fun fraynt un fun sonim Tsu zayn likhtikn ponem, Im farvign, Shtil im tsudekn Oder gor, Shtil im ufvekn Koym, barirndik mit kushn. _ Mama! – Dayn, dayn, dayn mama… In a shtiln tunkeln disk Bay der vig fun mayn kind Vel ikh mikh rateven Fun aykh alemen! 1922 In heysn vint, 1935, 1959
I Will Run Away
I will run away from all of you To my little boy, From all of you With your glances, Thirsty hot and cold, With your friendly and hostile faces To his bright face, Rock him to sleep, Quietly cover him Or perhaps Quietly wake him Barely brushing him with kisses. “Mamma!” “It’s your, your Mamma. . . “ In a quiet dark disc By the cradle of my child I will set myself free From all of you. 1922 In heysn vint, 1935, 195
ביילע שעכטער-גאָטעסמאַנס ביאָגראַפֿיע געפֿינט זיך אין וואָך 15.
