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Holocaust Poem Translations Speechless at Auschwitz by Ko Un translation by Michael R. Burch At Auschwitz piles of glasses mountains of shoes returning, we stared out different windows. Published by Brief Poems Original text: Ad Auschwitz pile di occhiali montagne di scarpe sulla via del ritorno ognuno fissava fuori dal finestrino in direzione diversa. (da Fiori di un istante, 2001) Keywords/Tags: Ko Un, Holocaust, translation, speechless, Auschwitz, glasses, shoes, windows, silent, tongue-tied, wordless, mrbholo Primo Levi Holocaust Poem Translations Shema by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and welcoming faces... Consider: is this a 'man' who slogs through the mud, who knows no peace, who fights for crusts of bread, who dies at another man's whim, at his 'yes' or his 'no.' Consider: is this is a 'woman' bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's. Consider that such horrors have indeed been! I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Repeat them to your children, or may your houses crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their eyes. Buna by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mangled feet, cursed earth, the long interminable line in the gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys... Another gray day like every other day awaits us. The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: 'Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous hell of the mud... another day's suffering has begun! ' Weary companion, I know you well. I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness. Life long ago broke what remained of the courage within you. Colorless one, you once were a real man; a considerable woman once accompanied you. But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name. So forsaken, you are unable to weep. So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve. So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear... My once-strong man, now spent, were we to meet again in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun, with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other? Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40,000 'workers' who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the 'slaves of slaves' because the other slaves outranked them. Frantisek “Franta” Bass was a Jewish boy born in Brno, Czechoslovakia in 1930. When he was just eleven years old, his family was deported by the Nazis to Terezin, where the SS had created a hybrid Ghetto/Concentration Camp just north of Prague (it was also known as Theresienstadt). Franta was one of many little boys and girls who lived there under terrible conditions for three years. He was then sent to Auschwitz, where on October 28th, 1944, he was murdered at age fourteen. The Garden by Franta Bass translation by Michael R. Burch A small garden, so fragrant and full of roses! The path the little boy takes is guarded by thorns. A small boy, a sweet boy, growing like those budding blossoms! But when the blossoms have bloomed, the boy will be no more. Jewish Forever by Franta Bass translation by Michael R. Burch I am a Jew and always will be, forever! Even if I should starve, I will never submit! But I will always fight for my people, with my honor, to their credit! And I will never be ashamed of them; this is my vow. I am so very proud of my people now! How dignified they are, in their grief! And though I may die, oppressed, still I will always return to life ... Ber Horowitz Holocaust Poetry Translations Der Himmel 'The Heavens' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These skies are leaden, heavy, gray... I long for a pair of deep blue eyes. The birds have fled far overseas; Tomorrow I'll migrate too, I said... These gloomy autumn days it rains and rains. Woe to the bird Who remains... Doctorn 'Doctors' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Early this morning I bandaged the lilac tree outside my house; I took thin branches that had broken away and patched their wounds with clay. My mother stood there watering her window-level flower bed; The morning sun, quite motherly, kissed us both on our heads! What a joy, my child, to heal! Finished doctoring, or not? The eggs are nicely poached And the milk's a-boil in the *** Broit 'Bread' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why? On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie. Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor, the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore. At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom: 'Mommy, I'm afraid! Let's go home! ' His mother, reawakened into this frightful place, presses her frightened child even closer to her breast … 'If you cry, I'll leave you here, all alone! A little boy must sleep... this, now, is our new home.' Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around, exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground. 'My Lament' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothingness enveloped me as tender green toadstools lie blanketed by snow with its thick, heavy prayer shawl … After that, nothing could hurt me … Wladyslaw Szlengel Holocaust Poem Translation Excerpts from 'A Page from the Deportation Diary' by Wladyslaw Szlengel translation by Michael R. Burch I saw Janusz Korczak walking today, leading the children, at the head of the line. They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray. Some say the weather wasn't dismal, but fine. They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud) , but if they'd been soiled, tell me—who could complain? They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd, five by five, in a whipping rain. The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead, through barely cracked windows—pale, transfixed with dread. And now and then, from the high, tolling bell a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull's torn cry. Their 'superiors' looked on, their eyes hard as stone. So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. Footfall... then silence... the cadence of feet... O, who can console them, their last mile so drear? The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street. Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career. No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I. But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. No one will offer the price of their freedom. No one will proffer a single word. His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord: 'Give them the Sword! ' At the town square there is no intervention. No one tugs Schmerling's sleeve. No one cries 'Rescue the children! ' The air, thick with tension, reeks with the odor of ***** and lies. How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm: Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm! A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand: 'Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you've been spared! ' No use for that. One resolute man, uncomprehending that no one else cared enough to defend them, his choice is to end with them. Ninety-Three Daughters of Israel a Holocaust poem by Chaya Feldman loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We washed our bodies and cleansed ourselves; we purified our souls and became clean. Death does not terrify us; we are ready to confront him. While alive we served God and now we can best serve our people by refusing to be taken prisoner. We have made a covenant of the heart, all ninety-three of us; together we lived and learned, and now together we choose to depart. The hour is upon us as I write these words; there is barely enough time to transcribe this prayer... Brethren, wherever you may be, honor the Torah we lived by and the Psalms we loved. Read them for us, as well as for yourselves, and someday when the Beast has devoured his last prey, we hope someone will say Kaddish for us: we ninety-three daughters of Israel. Amen In 1943 Meir Shenkolevsky, the secretary of the world Bais Yaakov movement and a member of the Central Committee of Agudas Israel in New York, received a letter from Chaya Feldman: 'I don't know when you will get this letter and if you still will remember me. When this letter arrives, I will no longer be alive. In a few hours, everything will be past. We are here in four rooms,93 girls ages 14 to 22, all of us Bais Yaakov teachers. On July 27, Gestapo agents came, took us out of our apartment and threw us into a dark room. We only have water to drink. The younger girls are very frightened, but I comfort them that in a short while, we will be together with our mother Sara [Sara Shnirer, the founder of the Bais Yaakov Seminary]. Yesterday they took us out, washed us and took all our clothes. They left us only shirts and said that today, German soldiers will come to visit us. We all swore to ourselves that we will die together. The Germans don't know that the bath they gave us was the immersion before our deaths: we all prepared poison. When the soldiers come, we will drink the poison. We are all saying Viduy throughout the day. We are not afraid of anything. We only have one request from you: Say Kaddish for 93 bnos Yisroel! Soon we will be with our mother Sara. Signed, Chaya Feldman from Cracow.' Miryam Ulinover Holocaust Poetry Translations Girl Without Soap by Miryam Ulinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch As I sat so desolate, threadbare with poverty, the inspiration came to me to make a song of my need! My blouse is heavy with worries, so now it's time to wash: the weave's become dull yellow close to my breast. It wrings my brain with old worries and presses it down like a canker. If only some kind storekeeper would give me detergent on credit! But no, he did not give it! Instead, he was stiffer than starch! Despite my dark, beautiful eyes he remained aloof and arch. I am estranged from fresh white wash; my laundry's gone gray with old dirt; but my body still longs to sing the song of a clean and fresh white shirt. Meydl on Kam Girl Without Comb by Miryam Ullinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch The note preceding the poem: 'Sitting where the night makes its nest are my songs like boarders, awaiting flight's quests.' The teeth of the comb are broken A comb is necessary―more necessary than bread. O, who will come to comb my braid, or empty the gray space occupying my head? Note: the second verse of 'Meydl on Kam' is mostly unreadable and the last two lines are missing. After that, nothing could hurt me … Yitzkhak Viner Holocaust Poem Translations Let it be Quiet in my Room! by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let it be quiet in my room! Let me hear the birds outside singing, And let their innocent trilling Lull away my heart's interior gloom… Listen, outside, drayman's horse and cart, If you scare the birds away, You will wake me from my dream-play And wring the last drop of joy from my heart… Don't cough mother! Father, no words! It'd be a shame to spoil the calm And silence the sweet-sounding balm of the well-fed little birds… Hush, little sisters and brothers! Be strong! Don't weep and cry for drink and food; Try to remember in silence the good. Please do not disturb my weaving of songs… My Childhood by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch In the years of my childhood, in Balut's yards, Living with my parents in an impoverished day, I remember my hunger; with my friends I would play And bake loaves of bread out of muddy clay… By baking mud-breads, we dreamed away hunger: the closest and worst of the visitors kids know; so passed the summer's heat through the gutters, so winters passed with their freezing snow. Outside today all is gray, sunk in snow, Though the roofs and the gate are silvered and white. I lie on a bed warmed now only by rags and look through grim windows brightened by ice. Father left early to try to find work; In an unlit room I and my mother stay. It's cold, we're hungry, we have nothing to eat: How I lust to bake one tiny bread-loaf of clay… Balut (Baluty)   was a poor Jewish suburb of Lodz, Poland which became a segregated ghetto under the Nazis. It Is Good to Have Two Eyes by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch I. It is good to have two eyes. Anything I want, they can see: Boats, trains, horses and cars, everything around me. But sometimes I just want to see Someone's laughter, sweet… Instead I see his corpse outstretched, Lying in the street… When I want to see his laughter his eyes are closed forever… II. It is good to have two ears. Anything I want, they can hear: Songs, plays, concerts, kind words, Street cars, bells, anything near. I want to hear kids' voices sing, but my ears only hear the shrill cries and fear of two children watching a man as he dies… When I long for a youthful song I hear children weeping hard and long… III. It is good to have two hands. Every year I can till the land. Banging iron night and day Fashions wheels to plow the clay… But now wheels are silent and still And people's hands are obsolete; The houses grow cold and dark As hands dig a grave in defeat… Still it is good to have two hands: I write poems in which the truth still stands. After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man — now, **** he's gone! He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt.. Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, But now it's lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, voluble soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers danced; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart saddens before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great is the pain! There was a man — now, **** he is no more! The music of his life suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him But now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik Holocaust Poem Translations On The Slaughter by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue, my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has been crushed, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here's my neck— rise up now, and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me though we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner! , my blood's a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain down upon your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I've been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your cruel injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries 'Avenge! ' on a maiden; such vengeance was never contemplated even by Satan. Let innocents' blood drench the abyss! Let innocents' blood seep down into the depths of darkness, eat it away and undermine the rotting foundations of earth. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Hear, O Israel! by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch When we were the oppressed, I was one with you, but how can we remain one now that you have become the oppressor? Your desire was to become powerful, like the nations who murdered you; now you have, indeed, become like them. You have outlived those who abused you; so why does their cruelty possess you now? You also commanded your victims: 'Remove your shoes! ' Like the scapegoat, you drove them into the wilderness, into the great mosque of death with its burning sands. But they would not confess the sin you longed to impute to them: the imprint of their naked feet in the desert sand will outlast the silhouettes of your bombs and tanks. So hear, O Israel … hear the whimpers of your victims echoing your ancient sufferings … 'Hear, O Israel! ' was written in 1967, after the Six Day War. What It Is by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch It is nonsense says reason. It is what it is says Love. It is a dangerous says discretion. It is terrifying says fear. It is hopeless says insight. It is what it is says Love. It is ludicrous says pride. It is reckless says caution. It is impractical says experience. It is what it is says Love. An Attempt by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch I have attempted while working to think only of my work and not of you, but I am encouraged to have been so unsuccessful. Humorless by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch The boys throw stones at the frogs in jest. The frogs die in earnest. Bulldozers by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch Israel's bulldozers have confirmed their kinship to bulldozers in Beirut where the bodies of massacred Palestinians lie buried under the rubble of their former homes. And it has been reported that in the heart of Israel the Memorial Cemetery for the massacred dead of Deir Yassin has been destroyed by bulldozers... 'Not intentional, ' it's said, 'A slight oversight during construction work.' Also the ****** of the people of Sabra and Shatila shall become known only as an oversight in the process of building a great Zionist power. The villagers of Deir Yassin were massacred in 1948 by Israeli Jews operating under the command of future Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin's. The New York Times reported 254 villagers murdered, most of them women, children and elderly men. Later, the village cemetery was destroyed by Israeli bulldozers as Deir Yassin, like hundreds of other Palestinian villages, was destroyed. Sabra and Shatila in Beirut, Lebanon were two Palestinian refugee camps destroyed during Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1982. It has been estimated that as many as 3,500 people were murdered. In 1982, an International Commission concluded that Israelis were, directly or indirectly, responsible. The Israeli government established the Kahan Commission to investigate the massacre, and found another future Israeli prime minister, Ariel Sharon, personally responsible for having permitted militias to enter the camps despite a risk of violence against the refugees. Since 1967 the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions has reported more than 24,000 home demolitions... hence the 'kinship' of the bulldozers of Israel to those used to destroy Palestinian homes in Lebanon. Credo by Saul Tchernichovsky loose translation by Michael R. Burch Laugh at all my silly dreams! Laugh, and I'll repeat anew that I still believe in man, just as I believe in you. By the passion of man's spirit ancient bonds are being shed: for his heart desires freedom as the body does its bread. My noble soul cannot be led to the golden calf of scorn, for I still believe in man, as every child is human-born. Life and love and energy in our hearts will surge and beat, till our hopes bring forth a heaven from the earth beneath our feet. “Was gesagt werden muss” (“What must be said”) by Günter Grass loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Why have I remained silent, so long, failing to mention something openly practiced in war games which now threaten to leave us merely meaningless footnotes? Someone’s alleged “right” to strike first might annihilate a beleaguered nation whose people march to a martinet’s tune, compelled to pageants of orchestrated obedience. Why? Merely because of the suspicion that a bomb might be built by Iranians. But why do I hesitate, forbidding myself to name that other nation, where, for years ―shrouded in secrecy― a formidable nuclear capability has existed beyond all control, simply because no inspections were ever allowed? The universal concealment of this fact abetted by my own incriminating silence now feels like a heavy, enforced lie, an oppressive inhibition, a vice, a strong constraint, which, if dismissed, immediately incurs the verdict “anti-Semitism.” But now my own country, guilty of its unprecedented crimes which continually demand remembrance, once again seeking financial gain (although with glib lips we call it “reparations”) has delivered yet another submarine to Israel― this one designed to deliver annihilating warheads capable of exterminating all life where the existence of even a single nuclear weapon remains unproven, but where suspicion now serves as a substitute for evidence. So now I will say what must be said. Why did I remain silent so long? Because I thought my origins, tarred by an ineradicable stain, forbade me to declare the truth to Israel, a country to which I am and will always remain attached. Why is it only now that I say, in my advancing age, and with my last drop of ink on the final page that Israel’s nuclear weapons endanger an already fragile world peace? Because tomorrow might be too late, and so the truth must be heard today. And because we Germans, already burdened with many weighty crimes, could become enablers of yet another, one easily foreseen, and thus no excuse could ever erase our complicity. Furthermore, I’ve broken my silence because I’m sick of the West’s hypocrisy and because I hope many others too will free themselves from the shackles of silence, and speak out to renounce violence by insisting on permanent supervision of Israel’s atomic power and Iran’s by an international agency accepted by both governments. Only thus can we find the path to peace for Israelis and Palestinians and everyone else living in a region currently consumed by madness ―and ultimately, for ourselves. Published in Süddeutschen Zeitung (April 4, 2012). Günter Wilhelm Grass (1927-) is a German-Kashubian novelist, poet, playwright, illustrator, graphic artist, sculptor and recipient of the 1999 Nobel Prize in Literature. He is widely regarded as Germany's most famous living writer. Grass is best known for his first novel, The Tin Drum (1959), a key text in European magic realism. The Tin Drum was adapted into a film that won both the Palme d'Or and the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. The Swedish Academy, upon awarding Grass the Nobel Prize in Literature, noted him as a writer "whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history." Miklos Radnoti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. His often-harrowing bio appears after his poems. The "postcard" poems were written on a death march that ended with him being executed and buried in a mass grave. Postcard 1 by Miklós Radnóti, written August 30, 1944 translation by Michael R. Burch Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders, resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase; the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops; and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos, glowing within my conscience—incandescent, intense. Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever— still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree. Postcard 2 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia translation by Michael R. Burch A few miles away they're incinerating the haystacks and the houses, while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow, the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes. Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl sets the silver water a-ripple while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep seem to swim like drifting clouds. Postcard 3 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 24, 1944 near Mohács, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch The oxen dribble ****** spittle; the men pass blood in their **** Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages, adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench. Published: “Postcard 4” was published by Poetry Super Highway in 2019 as part of their 21st Annual Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) Poetry Issue Postcard 4 by Miklós Radnóti, his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch I toppled beside him—his body already taut, tight as a string just before it snaps, shot in the back of the head. "This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here," I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread. "Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered; I could only dimly hear through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear. Translator's note: "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching." Letter to My Wife by Miklós Radnóti translated by Michael R. Burch This is a poem written during the Holocaust in Lager Heidenau, in the mountains above Zagubica, August-September, 1944 Deep down in the darkness hell awaits—silent, mute. Silence screams in my ears, so I shout, but no one hears or answers, wherever they are; while sad Serbia, astounded by war, and you are so far, so incredibly distant. Still my heart encounters yours in my dreams and by day I hear yours sound in my heart again; and so I am still, even as the great mountain ferns slowly stir and murmur around me, coldly surrounding me. When will I see you? How can I know? You who were calm and weighty as a Psalm, beautiful as a shadow, more beautiful than light, the One I could always find, whether deaf, mute, blind, lie hidden now by this landscape; yet from within you flash on my sight like flickering images on film. You once seemed real but now have become a dream; you have tumbled back into the well of teenage fantasy. I jealously question whether you'll ever adore me; whether—speak!— from youth's highest peak you will yet be my wife. I become hopeful again, as I awaken on this road where I formerly had fallen. I know now that you are my wife, my friend, my peer— but, alas, so far! Beyond these three wild frontiers, fall returns. Will you then depart me? Yet the memory of our kisses remains clear. Now sunshine and miracles seem disconnected things. Above me I see a bomber squadron's wings. Skies that once matched your eyes' blue sheen have clouded over, and in each infernal machine the bombs writhe with their lust to dive. Despite them, somehow I remain alive. Miklós Radnóti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. He was born in Budapest in 1909. In 1930, at the age of 21, he published his first collection of poems, Pogány köszönto (Pagan Salute). His next book, Újmódi pásztorok éneke (Modern Shepherd's Song) was confiscated on grounds of "indecency," earning him a light jail sentence. In 1931 he spent two months in Paris, where he visited the "Exposition coloniale" and began translating African poems and folk tales into Hungarian. In 1934 he obtained his Ph.D. in Hungarian literature. The following year he married Fanni (Fifi) Gyarmati; they settled in Budapest. His book Járkálj csa, halálraítélt! (Walk On, Condemned!) won the prestigious Baumgarten Prize in 1937. Also in 1937 he wrote his Cartes Postales (Postcards from France), which were precurors to his darker images of war, Razglednicas (Picture Postcards). During World War II, Radnóti published translations of Virgil, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Eluard, Apollinare and Blaise Cendras in Orpheus nyomában. From 1940 on, he was forced to serve on forced labor battalions, at times arming and disarming explosives on the Ukrainian front. In 1944 he was deported to a compulsory labor camp near Bor, Yugoslavia. As the Nazis retreated from the approaching Russian army, the Bor concentration camp was evacuated and its internees were led on a forced march through Yugoslavia and Hungary. During what became his death march, Radnóti recorded poetic images of what he saw and experienced. After writing his fourth and final "Postcard," Radnóti was badly beaten by a soldier annoyed by his scribblings. Soon thereafter, the weakened poet was shot to death, on November 9, 1944, along with 21 other prisoners who unable to walk. Their mass grave was exhumed after the war and Radnóti's poems were found on his body by his wife, inscribed in pencil in a small Serbian exercise book. Radnóti's posthumous collection, Tajtékos ég (Clouded Sky, or Foaming Sky) contains odes to his wife, letters, poetic fragments and his final Postcards. Unlike his murderers, Miklós Radnóti never lost his humanity, and his empathy continues to live on and shine through his work. Keywords/Tags: Miklos Radnoti, Holocaust poet, Hungary, Hungarian Jew, anti-fascist, translation, mrbholo Death Fugue by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” O, Little Root of a Dream by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, little root of a dream you enmire me here; I’m undermined by blood― made invisible, death's possession. Touch the curve of my face, that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor, that someone else’s eyes may somehow still see me, though I’m blind, here where you deny me voice. You Were My Death by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You were my death; I could hold you when everything abandoned me― even breath.
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Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 3:27 AM UTC
Holocaust Poem Translations
Holocaust Poem Translations Speechless at Auschwitz by Ko Un translation by Michael R. Burch At Auschwitz piles of glasses mountains of shoes returning, we stared out different windows. Published by Brief Poems Original text: Ad Auschwitz pile di occhiali montagne di scarpe sulla via del ritorno ognuno fissava fuori dal finestrino in direzione diversa. (da Fiori di un istante, 2001) Keywords/Tags: Ko Un, Holocaust, translation, speechless, Auschwitz, glasses, shoes, windows, silent, tongue-tied, wordless, mrbholo Primo Levi Holocaust Poem Translations Shema by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and welcoming faces... Consider: is this a 'man' who slogs through the mud, who knows no peace, who fights for crusts of bread, who dies at another man's whim, at his 'yes' or his 'no.' Consider: is this is a 'woman' bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's. Consider that such horrors have indeed been! I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Repeat them to your children, or may your houses crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their eyes. Buna by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mangled feet, cursed earth, the long interminable line in the gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys... Another gray day like every other day awaits us. The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: 'Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous hell of the mud... another day's suffering has begun! ' Weary companion, I know you well. I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness. Life long ago broke what remained of the courage within you. Colorless one, you once were a real man; a considerable woman once accompanied you. But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name. So forsaken, you are unable to weep. So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve. So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear... My once-strong man, now spent, were we to meet again in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun, with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other? Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40,000 'workers' who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the 'slaves of slaves' because the other slaves outranked them. Frantisek “Franta” Bass was a Jewish boy born in Brno, Czechoslovakia in 1930. When he was just eleven years old, his family was deported by the Nazis to Terezin, where the SS had created a hybrid Ghetto/Concentration Camp just north of Prague (it was also known as Theresienstadt). Franta was one of many little boys and girls who lived there under terrible conditions for three years. He was then sent to Auschwitz, where on October 28th, 1944, he was murdered at age fourteen. The Garden by Franta Bass translation by Michael R. Burch A small garden, so fragrant and full of roses! The path the little boy takes is guarded by thorns. A small boy, a sweet boy, growing like those budding blossoms! But when the blossoms have bloomed, the boy will be no more. Jewish Forever by Franta Bass translation by Michael R. Burch I am a Jew and always will be, forever! Even if I should starve, I will never submit! But I will always fight for my people, with my honor, to their credit! And I will never be ashamed of them; this is my vow. I am so very proud of my people now! How dignified they are, in their grief! And though I may die, oppressed, still I will always return to life ... Ber Horowitz Holocaust Poetry Translations Der Himmel 'The Heavens' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These skies are leaden, heavy, gray... I long for a pair of deep blue eyes. The birds have fled far overseas; Tomorrow I'll migrate too, I said... These gloomy autumn days it rains and rains. Woe to the bird Who remains... Doctorn 'Doctors' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Early this morning I bandaged the lilac tree outside my house; I took thin branches that had broken away and patched their wounds with clay. My mother stood there watering her window-level flower bed; The morning sun, quite motherly, kissed us both on our heads! What a joy, my child, to heal! Finished doctoring, or not? The eggs are nicely poached And the milk's a-boil in the *** Broit 'Bread' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why? On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie. Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor, the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore. At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom: 'Mommy, I'm afraid! Let's go home! ' His mother, reawakened into this frightful place, presses her frightened child even closer to her breast … 'If you cry, I'll leave you here, all alone! A little boy must sleep... this, now, is our new home.' Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around, exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground. 'My Lament' by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothingness enveloped me as tender green toadstools lie blanketed by snow with its thick, heavy prayer shawl … After that, nothing could hurt me … Wladyslaw Szlengel Holocaust Poem Translation Excerpts from 'A Page from the Deportation Diary' by Wladyslaw Szlengel translation by Michael R. Burch I saw Janusz Korczak walking today, leading the children, at the head of the line. They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray. Some say the weather wasn't dismal, but fine. They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud) , but if they'd been soiled, tell me—who could complain? They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd, five by five, in a whipping rain. The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead, through barely cracked windows—pale, transfixed with dread. And now and then, from the high, tolling bell a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull's torn cry. Their 'superiors' looked on, their eyes hard as stone. So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. Footfall... then silence... the cadence of feet... O, who can console them, their last mile so drear? The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street. Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career. No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I. But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. No one will offer the price of their freedom. No one will proffer a single word. His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord: 'Give them the Sword! ' At the town square there is no intervention. No one tugs Schmerling's sleeve. No one cries 'Rescue the children! ' The air, thick with tension, reeks with the odor of ***** and lies. How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm: Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm! A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand: 'Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you've been spared! ' No use for that. One resolute man, uncomprehending that no one else cared enough to defend them, his choice is to end with them. Ninety-Three Daughters of Israel a Holocaust poem by Chaya Feldman loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We washed our bodies and cleansed ourselves; we purified our souls and became clean. Death does not terrify us; we are ready to confront him. While alive we served God and now we can best serve our people by refusing to be taken prisoner. We have made a covenant of the heart, all ninety-three of us; together we lived and learned, and now together we choose to depart. The hour is upon us as I write these words; there is barely enough time to transcribe this prayer... Brethren, wherever you may be, honor the Torah we lived by and the Psalms we loved. Read them for us, as well as for yourselves, and someday when the Beast has devoured his last prey, we hope someone will say Kaddish for us: we ninety-three daughters of Israel. Amen In 1943 Meir Shenkolevsky, the secretary of the world Bais Yaakov movement and a member of the Central Committee of Agudas Israel in New York, received a letter from Chaya Feldman: 'I don't know when you will get this letter and if you still will remember me. When this letter arrives, I will no longer be alive. In a few hours, everything will be past. We are here in four rooms,93 girls ages 14 to 22, all of us Bais Yaakov teachers. On July 27, Gestapo agents came, took us out of our apartment and threw us into a dark room. We only have water to drink. The younger girls are very frightened, but I comfort them that in a short while, we will be together with our mother Sara [Sara Shnirer, the founder of the Bais Yaakov Seminary]. Yesterday they took us out, washed us and took all our clothes. They left us only shirts and said that today, German soldiers will come to visit us. We all swore to ourselves that we will die together. The Germans don't know that the bath they gave us was the immersion before our deaths: we all prepared poison. When the soldiers come, we will drink the poison. We are all saying Viduy throughout the day. We are not afraid of anything. We only have one request from you: Say Kaddish for 93 bnos Yisroel! Soon we will be with our mother Sara. Signed, Chaya Feldman from Cracow.' Miryam Ulinover Holocaust Poetry Translations Girl Without Soap by Miryam Ulinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch As I sat so desolate, threadbare with poverty, the inspiration came to me to make a song of my need! My blouse is heavy with worries, so now it's time to wash: the weave's become dull yellow close to my breast. It wrings my brain with old worries and presses it down like a canker. If only some kind storekeeper would give me detergent on credit! But no, he did not give it! Instead, he was stiffer than starch! Despite my dark, beautiful eyes he remained aloof and arch. I am estranged from fresh white wash; my laundry's gone gray with old dirt; but my body still longs to sing the song of a clean and fresh white shirt. Meydl on Kam Girl Without Comb by Miryam Ullinover loose translation by Michael R. Burch The note preceding the poem: 'Sitting where the night makes its nest are my songs like boarders, awaiting flight's quests.' The teeth of the comb are broken A comb is necessary―more necessary than bread. O, who will come to comb my braid, or empty the gray space occupying my head? Note: the second verse of 'Meydl on Kam' is mostly unreadable and the last two lines are missing. After that, nothing could hurt me … Yitzkhak Viner Holocaust Poem Translations Let it be Quiet in my Room! by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let it be quiet in my room! Let me hear the birds outside singing, And let their innocent trilling Lull away my heart's interior gloom… Listen, outside, drayman's horse and cart, If you scare the birds away, You will wake me from my dream-play And wring the last drop of joy from my heart… Don't cough mother! Father, no words! It'd be a shame to spoil the calm And silence the sweet-sounding balm of the well-fed little birds… Hush, little sisters and brothers! Be strong! Don't weep and cry for drink and food; Try to remember in silence the good. Please do not disturb my weaving of songs… My Childhood by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch In the years of my childhood, in Balut's yards, Living with my parents in an impoverished day, I remember my hunger; with my friends I would play And bake loaves of bread out of muddy clay… By baking mud-breads, we dreamed away hunger: the closest and worst of the visitors kids know; so passed the summer's heat through the gutters, so winters passed with their freezing snow. Outside today all is gray, sunk in snow, Though the roofs and the gate are silvered and white. I lie on a bed warmed now only by rags and look through grim windows brightened by ice. Father left early to try to find work; In an unlit room I and my mother stay. It's cold, we're hungry, we have nothing to eat: How I lust to bake one tiny bread-loaf of clay… Balut (Baluty)   was a poor Jewish suburb of Lodz, Poland which became a segregated ghetto under the Nazis. It Is Good to Have Two Eyes by Yitzkhak Viner loose translation by Michael R. Burch I. It is good to have two eyes. Anything I want, they can see: Boats, trains, horses and cars, everything around me. But sometimes I just want to see Someone's laughter, sweet… Instead I see his corpse outstretched, Lying in the street… When I want to see his laughter his eyes are closed forever… II. It is good to have two ears. Anything I want, they can hear: Songs, plays, concerts, kind words, Street cars, bells, anything near. I want to hear kids' voices sing, but my ears only hear the shrill cries and fear of two children watching a man as he dies… When I long for a youthful song I hear children weeping hard and long… III. It is good to have two hands. Every year I can till the land. Banging iron night and day Fashions wheels to plow the clay… But now wheels are silent and still And people's hands are obsolete; The houses grow cold and dark As hands dig a grave in defeat… Still it is good to have two hands: I write poems in which the truth still stands. After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man — now, **** he's gone! He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt.. Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, But now it's lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, voluble soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers danced; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart saddens before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great is the pain! There was a man — now, **** he is no more! The music of his life suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him But now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik Holocaust Poem Translations On The Slaughter by Chaim Nachman Bialik translation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue, my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has been crushed, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here's my neck— rise up now, and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me though we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner! , my blood's a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain down upon your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I've been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your cruel injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries 'Avenge! ' on a maiden; such vengeance was never contemplated even by Satan. Let innocents' blood drench the abyss! Let innocents' blood seep down into the depths of darkness, eat it away and undermine the rotting foundations of earth. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Hear, O Israel! by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch When we were the oppressed, I was one with you, but how can we remain one now that you have become the oppressor? Your desire was to become powerful, like the nations who murdered you; now you have, indeed, become like them. You have outlived those who abused you; so why does their cruelty possess you now? You also commanded your victims: 'Remove your shoes! ' Like the scapegoat, you drove them into the wilderness, into the great mosque of death with its burning sands. But they would not confess the sin you longed to impute to them: the imprint of their naked feet in the desert sand will outlast the silhouettes of your bombs and tanks. So hear, O Israel … hear the whimpers of your victims echoing your ancient sufferings … 'Hear, O Israel! ' was written in 1967, after the Six Day War. What It Is by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch It is nonsense says reason. It is what it is says Love. It is a dangerous says discretion. It is terrifying says fear. It is hopeless says insight. It is what it is says Love. It is ludicrous says pride. It is reckless says caution. It is impractical says experience. It is what it is says Love. An Attempt by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch I have attempted while working to think only of my work and not of you, but I am encouraged to have been so unsuccessful. Humorless by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch The boys throw stones at the frogs in jest. The frogs die in earnest. Bulldozers by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch Israel's bulldozers have confirmed their kinship to bulldozers in Beirut where the bodies of massacred Palestinians lie buried under the rubble of their former homes. And it has been reported that in the heart of Israel the Memorial Cemetery for the massacred dead of Deir Yassin has been destroyed by bulldozers... 'Not intentional, ' it's said, 'A slight oversight during construction work.' Also the ****** of the people of Sabra and Shatila shall become known only as an oversight in the process of building a great Zionist power. The villagers of Deir Yassin were massacred in 1948 by Israeli Jews operating under the command of future Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin's. The New York Times reported 254 villagers murdered, most of them women, children and elderly men. Later, the village cemetery was destroyed by Israeli bulldozers as Deir Yassin, like hundreds of other Palestinian villages, was destroyed. Sabra and Shatila in Beirut, Lebanon were two Palestinian refugee camps destroyed during Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1982. It has been estimated that as many as 3,500 people were murdered. In 1982, an International Commission concluded that Israelis were, directly or indirectly, responsible. The Israeli government established the Kahan Commission to investigate the massacre, and found another future Israeli prime minister, Ariel Sharon, personally responsible for having permitted militias to enter the camps despite a risk of violence against the refugees. Since 1967 the Israeli Committee Against Home Demolitions has reported more than 24,000 home demolitions... hence the 'kinship' of the bulldozers of Israel to those used to destroy Palestinian homes in Lebanon. Credo by Saul Tchernichovsky loose translation by Michael R. Burch Laugh at all my silly dreams! Laugh, and I'll repeat anew that I still believe in man, just as I believe in you. By the passion of man's spirit ancient bonds are being shed: for his heart desires freedom as the body does its bread. My noble soul cannot be led to the golden calf of scorn, for I still believe in man, as every child is human-born. Life and love and energy in our hearts will surge and beat, till our hopes bring forth a heaven from the earth beneath our feet. “Was gesagt werden muss” (“What must be said”) by Günter Grass loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Why have I remained silent, so long, failing to mention something openly practiced in war games which now threaten to leave us merely meaningless footnotes? Someone’s alleged “right” to strike first might annihilate a beleaguered nation whose people march to a martinet’s tune, compelled to pageants of orchestrated obedience. Why? Merely because of the suspicion that a bomb might be built by Iranians. But why do I hesitate, forbidding myself to name that other nation, where, for years ―shrouded in secrecy― a formidable nuclear capability has existed beyond all control, simply because no inspections were ever allowed? The universal concealment of this fact abetted by my own incriminating silence now feels like a heavy, enforced lie, an oppressive inhibition, a vice, a strong constraint, which, if dismissed, immediately incurs the verdict “anti-Semitism.” But now my own country, guilty of its unprecedented crimes which continually demand remembrance, once again seeking financial gain (although with glib lips we call it “reparations”) has delivered yet another submarine to Israel― this one designed to deliver annihilating warheads capable of exterminating all life where the existence of even a single nuclear weapon remains unproven, but where suspicion now serves as a substitute for evidence. So now I will say what must be said. Why did I remain silent so long? Because I thought my origins, tarred by an ineradicable stain, forbade me to declare the truth to Israel, a country to which I am and will always remain attached. Why is it only now that I say, in my advancing age, and with my last drop of ink on the final page that Israel’s nuclear weapons endanger an already fragile world peace? Because tomorrow might be too late, and so the truth must be heard today. And because we Germans, already burdened with many weighty crimes, could become enablers of yet another, one easily foreseen, and thus no excuse could ever erase our complicity. Furthermore, I’ve broken my silence because I’m sick of the West’s hypocrisy and because I hope many others too will free themselves from the shackles of silence, and speak out to renounce violence by insisting on permanent supervision of Israel’s atomic power and Iran’s by an international agency accepted by both governments. Only thus can we find the path to peace for Israelis and Palestinians and everyone else living in a region currently consumed by madness ―and ultimately, for ourselves. Published in Süddeutschen Zeitung (April 4, 2012). Günter Wilhelm Grass (1927-) is a German-Kashubian novelist, poet, playwright, illustrator, graphic artist, sculptor and recipient of the 1999 Nobel Prize in Literature. He is widely regarded as Germany's most famous living writer. Grass is best known for his first novel, The Tin Drum (1959), a key text in European magic realism. The Tin Drum was adapted into a film that won both the Palme d'Or and the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. The Swedish Academy, upon awarding Grass the Nobel Prize in Literature, noted him as a writer "whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history." Miklos Radnoti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. His often-harrowing bio appears after his poems. The "postcard" poems were written on a death march that ended with him being executed and buried in a mass grave. Postcard 1 by Miklós Radnóti, written August 30, 1944 translation by Michael R. Burch Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders, resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase; the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops; and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos, glowing within my conscience—incandescent, intense. Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever— still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree. Postcard 2 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia translation by Michael R. Burch A few miles away they're incinerating the haystacks and the houses, while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow, the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes. Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl sets the silver water a-ripple while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep seem to swim like drifting clouds. Postcard 3 by Miklós Radnóti, written October 24, 1944 near Mohács, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch The oxen dribble ****** spittle; the men pass blood in their **** Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages, adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench. Published: “Postcard 4” was published by Poetry Super Highway in 2019 as part of their 21st Annual Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) Poetry Issue Postcard 4 by Miklós Radnóti, his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary translation by Michael R. Burch I toppled beside him—his body already taut, tight as a string just before it snaps, shot in the back of the head. "This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here," I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread. "Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered; I could only dimly hear through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear. Translator's note: "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching." Letter to My Wife by Miklós Radnóti translated by Michael R. Burch This is a poem written during the Holocaust in Lager Heidenau, in the mountains above Zagubica, August-September, 1944 Deep down in the darkness hell awaits—silent, mute. Silence screams in my ears, so I shout, but no one hears or answers, wherever they are; while sad Serbia, astounded by war, and you are so far, so incredibly distant. Still my heart encounters yours in my dreams and by day I hear yours sound in my heart again; and so I am still, even as the great mountain ferns slowly stir and murmur around me, coldly surrounding me. When will I see you? How can I know? You who were calm and weighty as a Psalm, beautiful as a shadow, more beautiful than light, the One I could always find, whether deaf, mute, blind, lie hidden now by this landscape; yet from within you flash on my sight like flickering images on film. You once seemed real but now have become a dream; you have tumbled back into the well of teenage fantasy. I jealously question whether you'll ever adore me; whether—speak!— from youth's highest peak you will yet be my wife. I become hopeful again, as I awaken on this road where I formerly had fallen. I know now that you are my wife, my friend, my peer— but, alas, so far! Beyond these three wild frontiers, fall returns. Will you then depart me? Yet the memory of our kisses remains clear. Now sunshine and miracles seem disconnected things. Above me I see a bomber squadron's wings. Skies that once matched your eyes' blue sheen have clouded over, and in each infernal machine the bombs writhe with their lust to dive. Despite them, somehow I remain alive. Miklós Radnóti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. He was born in Budapest in 1909. In 1930, at the age of 21, he published his first collection of poems, Pogány köszönto (Pagan Salute). His next book, Újmódi pásztorok éneke (Modern Shepherd's Song) was confiscated on grounds of "indecency," earning him a light jail sentence. In 1931 he spent two months in Paris, where he visited the "Exposition coloniale" and began translating African poems and folk tales into Hungarian. In 1934 he obtained his Ph.D. in Hungarian literature. The following year he married Fanni (Fifi) Gyarmati; they settled in Budapest. His book Járkálj csa, halálraítélt! (Walk On, Condemned!) won the prestigious Baumgarten Prize in 1937. Also in 1937 he wrote his Cartes Postales (Postcards from France), which were precurors to his darker images of war, Razglednicas (Picture Postcards). During World War II, Radnóti published translations of Virgil, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Eluard, Apollinare and Blaise Cendras in Orpheus nyomában. From 1940 on, he was forced to serve on forced labor battalions, at times arming and disarming explosives on the Ukrainian front. In 1944 he was deported to a compulsory labor camp near Bor, Yugoslavia. As the Nazis retreated from the approaching Russian army, the Bor concentration camp was evacuated and its internees were led on a forced march through Yugoslavia and Hungary. During what became his death march, Radnóti recorded poetic images of what he saw and experienced. After writing his fourth and final "Postcard," Radnóti was badly beaten by a soldier annoyed by his scribblings. Soon thereafter, the weakened poet was shot to death, on November 9, 1944, along with 21 other prisoners who unable to walk. Their mass grave was exhumed after the war and Radnóti's poems were found on his body by his wife, inscribed in pencil in a small Serbian exercise book. Radnóti's posthumous collection, Tajtékos ég (Clouded Sky, or Foaming Sky) contains odes to his wife, letters, poetic fragments and his final Postcards. Unlike his murderers, Miklós Radnóti never lost his humanity, and his empathy continues to live on and shine through his work. Keywords/Tags: Miklos Radnoti, Holocaust poet, Hungary, Hungarian Jew, anti-fascist, translation, mrbholo Death Fugue by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” O, Little Root of a Dream by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, little root of a dream you enmire me here; I’m undermined by blood― made invisible, death's possession. Touch the curve of my face, that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor, that someone else’s eyes may somehow still see me, though I’m blind, here where you deny me voice. You Were My Death by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You were my death; I could hold you when everything abandoned me― even breath.
#holocaust#translation#speechless#auschwitz#glasses#shoes#windows#silent#tonguetied#wordless
Written by
michael-r-burch
62/M/Nashville, Tennessee
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 3:27 AM UTC
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