Wladyslaw Szlengel




Wladyslaw Szlengel was born in 1914, in Warsaw. His father, an artist-painter, supported his family by painting movie posters. Wladyslaw, while still in school, wrote poems and short stories. A number of them were published in various small magazines. Later, his works continued to appear, mainly in Warsaw publications. He also was a songwriter and produced texts for cabarets. He also wrote satiric poems for the press and stage.

His writings were firmly grounded in reality. After the creation of the Warsaw ghetto, they acquired a singular depth. Emanuel Ringelblum reported that Szlengel's poems "were highly popular in the ghetto and reflected its moods." They passed from hand to hand and were recited at meetings. Szlengel also composed works of prose and poetry for Sztuka (Art), one of the clubs for the emerging elite and the few people of means in the ghetto. Szlengel's became one of the foremost voices of one of the largest European Jewish communities, as these lines from "A Cry in the Night" attest ...

These poems were written between the first
And second upheavals,
In the last dying days of agony
Of the largest Jewish community in Europe ...

Szlengel succeeded in conveying in his writings of that period his views on the occupiers and his misgivings about the running of the ghetto's institutions. When the deportations from the Warsaw ghetto were launched, Szlengel's mood changed. From then on his works emphasized the terror felt in the ghetto and the bitter settling of accounts between men and God. One of his poems is entitled "An Account with God" ...

Do You still expect that
The day after tomorrow like in the Testament
When going to the Prussian gas
I shall still say "Amen" to You?

In the ghetto, each prayer became an "immense plea for mercy, a miracle" as in the poem "Kol Nidre" ...

I've never understood the content and the words,
Only the melody of the prayer.
While my eyes I close, I see again
Reminisces from my childhood
The yellow grayish glow of candle light,
Sad movements of arms and beards,
I hear a cry, wailing
An immense plea for mercy, a miracle ...
Whipping of the chest, clasping hands --
The glory of old books,
Fear of verdicts unknown and dark.
That night I'll never tear off my heart,
A menacing mysterious night,
And the grieved prayer Kol Nidre --

In the poem "Telephone, " Szlengel complains that no one is left whom he can call in the Polish side of the city. In his last poems, which he wrote when he was working in a broom workshop, Szlengel records the decline of the ghetto and its final days. One such poem is "The Little Station: Treblinka" (translation by Yala Korwin):

On the Tluszcz-Warsaw line,
from the Warsaw-East station,
you leave by rail
and ride straight on …

The journey lasts, sometimes
five hours & 45 minutes,
but sometimes it lasts
a lifetime until death.

The station is tiny.
Three fir trees grow there.
The sign is ordinary:
it’s the Treblinka station.

No cashier’s window,
No porter in view,
No return tickets,
Not even for a million.

There, no one is waiting,
no one waves a kerchief,
and only silence hovers,
deaf emptiness greets you.

Silent the flagpole,
silent the fir trees,
silent the black sign:
it’s the Treblinka station.

Only an old poster
with fading letters 
advises:
“Cook with gas.”

Szlengel was apparently a ghetto policeman for a time, but he resigned, since he was incapable of taking part in the roundups of ghetto inhabitants conducted by the ghetto police during the deportations. Even in the final stages of that period, Szlengel continued to recite his poems before small groups in clandestine gatherings. In poems like "Five Minutes to Twelve," Szlengel bids farewell to life, expresses his admiration for those offering resistance with weapons in their hands, and calls for revenge:

Hear, O God of the Germans,
the Jews praying amid the barbarians,
an iron rod or a grenade in their hands.
Give us, O God, a bloody fight
and let us die a swift death!

Szlengel took part in the September of 1939 campaign against the German invaders. The only Jewish writer who was still alive in the ghetto, he became its chronicler. According to surviving evidence, Szlengel was a close friend of Janusz Korczak. 

Szlengel was killed in April 1943. He is known to have been in a bunker during the Warsaw ghetto uprising, but the circumstances and the exact date of his death are not known. 

The Nazis destroyed the Jewish people and their literary works with equal fanatical zeal. Therefore, not much remains of Szlengel’s output. Only part of his poetry and prose writings has been preserved. A collection of his writings in Polish was published under the title Co Czytalem Umarlym (What I Read to The Dead). This slender volume was published in 1977 by Warsaw Publishing Institute. It begins with an introductory essay of the same title, followed by three one-page essays, and around forty poems. The introductory essay is a heart-wrenching account of the ghetto experience. It ends thus:

Do Read it.
This is our history.
This is what I read to the dead …

To read the entire essay, click here.

Our sincerest thanks to Yala Korwin for the following translations of full-lengths poems by Wladyslaw Szlengel:
 

Christmas Legends

1. Jesus in Krupp's Factory

In the factory of Krupp & Co.,
among jumbles of iron and steel,
in the plant’s blazing hall,
on Christmas Eve, a child was found
near the bullets and bombs.
In Essen’s cradle of death,
those on the evening shift
discovered in a corner
a tiny creature, forgotten or lost.
The first star appeared,
just as in Bethlehem.
Its glow strayed in a tangle
of bombs, bullets, grenades.
And the child was lying
on the heap of grimy clothes,
and everyone wondered …
Someone whispered: “like Jesus …”
Awe took hold of the flock,
and shivers -- as in a hot spell.
All production stopped
for a while.
Silence as huge as a bomb
hung over their heads.
All the chimneys hushed,
all gears, bellows, and mills,
motors, foundries, and forges.
The news of the miracle,
like a strange manifesto,
struck people with fright
Crowds gathered in the hall,
the child saw the people,
and they beheld the marvel.
They implored mercy,
genuflected, beat their breasts,
and cried …
Suddenly news arrived
and reached the human throng.
Toward Essen, toward Krupp’s factory,
three kings were approaching.
Christmas, twilight,
the star’s silvery brightness,
and the kings on their way ...
A miracle, as in Bethlehem.

The dense crowd staggered
like waves against a ridge.
The central loudspeaker
suddenly broke the silence.
The three kings were coming,
according to the speaker,
to the death-making cradle,
for they needed wares.
All the shifts back to work!
The Holiday postponed!
The kings needed bombs,
mines, cartridges, and guns.
The crowd moved swiftly
to the halls, the huts, and the bombs.
All the shifts were at work
at Krupp & Co.
the tapes of steel crackled,
flames of fire rose,
the heat of blood …

Jesus, at the plant of Krupp &Co,
was forgotten.

2. Miracle in the Trenches

Fearful Europe was waiting,
what are those in the trenches going to do? …
All those in the trenches
had tired feet, weary bones, eyes, and blood.
They had stopped counting offensives,
stopped counting days…
The general staff was drawing red lines,
shouting into the field telephones,
while someone bellowed into a broken handset.
Attention! All is ready …
            In the trenches -- stooped backs,
            all watches -- fearfully ticking,
            something flashed at the turn in the road,
            tension grew in the lines.
Veins swelled in all temples,
maps were red hot in palms,
eyes blinked with fury,
pulses quivered and throbbed,
and blood was impatient
for the final outcry: ”Hurrah!” …
            A watch revealed
            hopelessness and gloom,
            in the blink of a flashlight
            disclosed the time was ripe ...
The attack -- soon. Soon they’ll set out
with bayonets, move forward,
soon both enemy lines
will leap toward each other,
sink their teeth into each other,
engage, pry edges into furrows,
eyes will go blind with blood.
Soon butt-ends, blades, and fingers
will crunch into each other,
soon two human waves
will clash in a dark battle.
One army is ready,
the other -- still waiting
for the sign.
Human lines -- two sides.
Close to nightfall now.
Look -- a star shone forth --
for it was Christmas Eve.
Hard fingers were on triggers,
nerves -- greyhounds loosed,
hearts -- crash and pursuit,
Eyes -- bloodshot circles --
Let them scream! Let them go!
Human dogs running forward
toward smiting and pricking,
bloody sowing and thrashing …
Trrrr -- the telephone signal,
a shot drove them from their trenches.
The signal imbedded in their hearts,
they set out toward death …
            Both foes -- running, running,
            for a meeting mid-way.
            All rushing and burning,
            Palms on butt-ends and triggers,
            but on that Christmas Eve
            a miracle occurred on the front.
When they were mid-way,
the human dogs -- human foes --
stopped all of a sudden.
Their thrust restrained by someone,
they looked and contemplated …
Someone dropped the gun from his hand …
When they reached each other,
with the last of their initial drive
they broke, with each other,
Christmas wafers [*] rather than lives.
They shook each other’s hands,
cried in each other’s arms,
spoke, like brothers or sons,
of each other’s homes.

A call came from the general staff:
Again we broke in with a wedge …

[*] The Christmas wafer is a Polish tradition.

Translation by Yala Korwin

To read further English translations of several of Szlengel's poems, click here and here and here.

Yala Korwin

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