The
Ghetto Poets -- Translations from the Polish by Yala Korwin
The
poems below were first printed by Warsaw’s Jewish-Polish underground
press, and reached London’s
organization of Polish Jewry, in the form of a microfilm. In 1945 they were
published in New York by the Association of Friends of Our Tribune, in a
tiny anthology containing 12 poems, titled The Ghetto Poems – From the
Jewish Underground in Poland. The Nazis were destroying, with equal zeal,
Jewish literary treasures and their creators. Here and there a poem survived,
unsigned, or provided with an initial. The names of the poets perished with them.
One poem by an unidentified Ghetto Poet.
Translated from the Polish by Yala Korwin.
A Night in the Hut
You come at night, the hut spins
On waves of stench, dream, musing,
Your shadow wears a delicate scent
Of perfume, climbs the ladder.
Be careful, Love! The mattress is filthy,
The air foul, and all these people
Sprawled around, wrapped up in nightmares…
You brush it off: Don’t think of it,
One can be alone in a crowd.
Your blue eyes shine…I shudder
And take your hand in mine.
…Love, I wouldn’t have invited you
To such strange bachelor’s quarters.
From my plank-bed, through the grate-like panes,
You can see the roll call square…
There, each stone offends us…each stone…
But do not tremble at the sight,
And do not rush to Paris in your thoughts.
The Germans are raging in the Quartier Latin.
The moon laughs stupidly in the sky,
As in a grotesque modern play.
It shone like that, once…stop, my Love,
Don’t exhaust your memory…no, don’t!
The Germans are getting drunk in Montmartre.
In Kraków, our most beloved city,
Chestnuts are blooming, and acacias.
In the Planty,[*] then, after we talked…
Do you remember? But enough…Also there
Prussian boots trample the acacias.
Put your arms round my neck,
Don’t think of anything, my Love,
Be as you used to be, when tired,
But lively and strong, you were coming
To disarm, with kisses and talks,
The steep rampart of questions
Constructed in your head by books,
Microscope, and passion.
And now I will take you in my arms,
Slowly carry you down to the floor,
Softly lead you out of the hut.
Before you go your way, we will tarry
At the threshold. With a glance
You will open your heart to the night.
The distance will call you by your name,
Wind will ruffle your tawny hair.
You will leave with trust lighting up your face
That in Kraków, Paris, and everywhere else
Streets will blast with the dynamite of freedom,
Though
you are no more, and I will be no more.
* Public gardens in Cracov
Two
poems by M.B., an unknown ghetto poet. Translated
from the Polish by Yala Korwin. My
Heart's Wall of Concrete My
heart’s wall of concrete hardened, Thoughts
weigh each detail without self-pity. Do
not expect to see a tear in my eye, I
will not bribe death with a single spasm. Driven
to “the sands” [*] from the camp’s plank-beds, My
dearest friends’ fiery outcry is silence. Their
naked bodies, which no one will count, Cover
stratum of torments, like a leaden stone. And
when my turn comes, I firmly believe The
tyrant will deny me burial in vain – In
my funeral cortege will walk my young visions, My
unwritten song will strike at heaven. To
repel the nightmare of bloody crimes, I
will be faithful to my dreams till the end. None
will restrain them, tear them away, Not
death the harlot, sadism the pimp, not the pack of menials.
* Place of executions in Lwów
Resettlement It
was dark and cold; the pain froze to icicles When
the train carried you into terror’s storm. Despair
battered the walls. Large wormwood drops, Like
hailstones, pounded hope laid to sleep. Again
and again thoughts poisoned themselves With
memory of greening emotions, of unplayed parts… Venomous
is the taste of such remembrance. Be
calm, my love, I know it wounds. You
were lonely in that disheartened crowd, Though
the same thoughts tormented all. You
were silent knowing that, fenced in a circle Of
suffering, none would understand you. So
much defeat in each of these shadows, So
much crushing injury towering. Bandaged
by a burning tape of venom, Blood
flows, cries howl in helpless silence. I
don’t know where you are, but if you are – You
are still traveling on the same train, As
we all are; exhausted, sad, Hopes
shattered, heart sinking low. Be
calm, my love! Wipe your blue eyes. Throw
away despair, do not scold fate! It’s
so simple: we are all sacrificed To
mean times, the stupid avalanche. Silence
your aching heart; others are dying with us, Condemned
to destruction in rigid rows… …Morituri…as
we know…must not lie. Therefore
I will not console you with easy words. Be
calm, my love! What if in our cradles Fate
marked us for a particular destiny? In
our day, the grave and life are near neighbors. Stop
frowning, stop worrying, my love. Into
the pyramid of such immense crimes The
future breaks: listen carefully! Tears
will shine in the eyes of those Who
come after us, think of us in silence. The
day of reckoning will come! Fire burns the hand – Not
for us despair, not for us empty weakness. We
will die, or survive, but without tears or moans. So,
take heart, my love, be brave. Translated
from the Polish by Yala Korwin. A
Funeral The
coffin – a crematorium furnace, Lid
– transparent, made of air, Human
body turned into smoke, Blown
through the smokestack of history. How
shall I honor your passing, Walk
in your funeral procession? You,
homeless handful of ashes Between
the earth and heaven. How
to cast a green garland On
the grave dug high in the air – An
ark of the world’s four corners Under
the invader’s fire. Your
coffin, which is not, Will
not slide from roaring cannons, And
only the column of air Illumines
your death with sunrays. And
here is such a great silence On
earth, like a trampled banner, In
the mourning smoke of corpses, In
the crucified outcry. You
saw blood of the homeless and innocent. You
heard the voices mocking them. You
saw a beast jumping out of the crowd, Heard
the laugh, looked into living eyes When
smoke enveloped the silence Of
other voices. You
came back to your homeland, As
one comes back to life. You see a flower Growing
in the fertile, too-fertile earth. Traces
of smoke become sky-blue, like a remorse, The
smell of burning disperses, Even
the shadows pale. In
the air – an aroma, like anticipation Of
new growth, of unknown words. Chestnuts
bloom, grasses are busy repairing the web In
the earth’s red wound. Buds
are sticky, water sinks into the bushes And
roars again. Like
tokens of pleasure and strength, The
nightingale raves in thickets of young trees. Its
song rises and bursts like fountains of light Beating
the sky. The earth’s beauty is unfriendly, More
indifferent, than inhuman mass-graves. And
if you become lost in the beauty of words, As
in an unseen face, their clean sound, Too
clean, will be outweighed by a mixture Of
earth and blood. Beholding
a burned down place, I
read in the black book of ashes A
law, subhuman, resurrected From
a mighty dusk of steppes. What
if today’s empires vanish, Empty
like gutted passageways? Hachette
will glisten many a time, I’ll
always die a stranger, alone. What
private shame will be revealed, What
music blackened with curses, What
words of insults invented, Slanders
from inflexible beast-like jaws? What
people will the future claim? Whose
homeless blood will flow again In
the gutters of streets repaved With
ancient cemetery stones? To
feed the hope with grandsons’ wisdom? But
generations are not like progressions Of
perfect numbers. History is bitter. Anew
they learn what’s a foot and hand. Like
children they acquire the words, But
in hate they are older than rocks. In
their frail hands a gravestone weighs No
more than their shadows. Here
Also, as in Jerusalem Here
also, as in Jerusalem, Is
a gloomy wailing wall. Those
who stood against it, Will
not see it again. Empty
night, empty home, deaf edifice. From
there they dragged them out, Left darkness, fright, And
dwellings – wombs of death. Buildings
in a procession of stones Under
inexorable sky, Seemed
to be following a funeral Of
families, thousands. Christians
thrown to lions Knew
for what cause they were dying. But
you? – Behold your empty home Taken
over by that blind tenant, the fire. No
one cast a handful of dirt On your mass grave. Greeted
by a silence, Delivered
from words of treason. When
thirsty, you implored, Called
out with wound-like lips, No
one brought water To
the wire-sealed wagons. The
earth was fleeing from under the damned, Warsaw
was sinking in the smoke of trains When
in the upper-floor window-panes The
sun announced it was dawning.
Four
poems by M.J., a Warsaw ghetto poet.
Remembrance
Burned Down
"Imprisoned
behind ghetto walls and barbed wire fences, these poets continued writing
till their hands, pens and breath were stopped forever, but never their
words! In their verses we can read extreme
bitterness, a feeling of abandonment, loneliness, and emptiness. Yet, also
hope and presentiment of a new dawn." -- Yala Korwin