A. Sutzkever: Selected Poetry and Prose

A. Sutzkever

A. Siitzkever

Selected Poetry and Prode

TRANSLATED FROM THE YIDDISH BY

Barbara and Benjamin Hardbav

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY BENJAMIN HARSHAV

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

BERKELEY, LOS ANGELES, OXFORD

University of California Press

Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press

Oxford, England

Copyright © 1991 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sutzkever, Abraham, 1913-

[Selections. English. 1991]

A. Sutzkever: selected prose and poetry / translated from the Yiddish by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav; with an introduction by Benjamin Harshav.

p. em.

ISBN 0-520-06539-5

1. Sutzkever, Abraham, 1913- —Translations, English.

I. Harshav, Barbara, 1940- . II. Harshav, Benjamin, 1928-. III. Title.

PJ5129.S86A24 1991 839’.0913—dc20 90-29174

CIP

Printed in the United States of America

123456789

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences — Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI

Z39.48-1984 @

Contents

Contents

Sutzkever: Life and Poetry

Poenu Front My Diary

Twin Brother

Blond Dawn

Siberia

From the Forest

from. Ecotaoieo

Epilogue to the Forest

Faced in Swampd

Written in Vilna Ghetto

Three Roses

Partisan Forest

Clandestine City

Resurrection

In the Chariot of Fire"‘

Poemd front tbe Negev

The Cherry of Remembrance

Chorda from the Proud Forest

Elephants at Night

Blind Milton58

Square Lettera and Miracles HYPERLINK \l noteT_63_1 63

Zeykher Le-GhettoM

The Shard Hunters

Ripe Faced

From Old and Young Manu¿crlpt¿

New Poente

Green Aquarium

Where the Stard Spend the Night

PodLícript (1990)

Notes

Abraham Satzkever,

Sutzkever: Life and Poetry

By Benjamin Hardhat

I. Poetry and I ht Contexts

Sutzkever is one of the great poets of the twentieth century. I do not say this lightly. He is not a philosophical poet; there was no sophisticated philosophy in Jewish culture. Nor is he a descriptive poet; the language of Modernism was opposed to description, and the fictional worlds of Sutzke- ver’s poetry are presented through evocation and allusion rather than direct statement. But the language of his poetry—the profound sound orchestration and the metaphorical and mythopoeic imagery—is as dense, unmediated, and suggestive as that in the poetry of Mandelstam or Rilke. And his responses to historical reality are as sharp as any in the verse of Brecht. The paradoxical amalgam of these two extremes of twentieth-century poetry — self-focused poetic language and ideological engagement—is successful in Sutzkever’s work because both are presented through the events of the poet’s own biography. As he himself observed dryly, in a retrospective poem written at the age of seventy-five:

Inside me, a twig of sounds sways toward me, as before. Inside me, rivers of blood are not a metaphor.

(Inside Me)

The twig of sounds is as tangible as the rivers of blood, both are swaying inside him as a budding branch in the spring; there is no ambivalence, but one, entwined, double source of poetic energy.

Three magic circles enclose Sutzkever’s poetry, making it difficult for the contemporary reader to see his greatness: (1) the all but obscured, rich, literary Yiddish language; (2) the misleadingly private Jewish Holocaust; and (3) his terrifying and exhilarating biography. I shall try briefly to evoke all three.

Sutzkever came to Yiddish literature in a moment of populist excitement with the earthy, idiomatic, folksy, often coarse, spoken Yiddish language, idealized in literature at the turn of the century by the satirical realist Mendele and the tragicomic imitator Sholem Aleichem, and reborn in the Expressionist poetry and fiction of the 1920s and in the social realism of the thirties. In this context, he strove to create exquisite aesthetic objects, as refined as music, as colorful and unreal as Expressionist nature painting, as rich and precise as the language of the Vilna Yiddish Scientific Institute. Sutzkever is an incomparable virtuoso of meter, rhyme, strophic forms, and ever-changing dynamic rhythmical patterns, forms that may seem obsolete to the contemporary English ear, but are nevertheless essential to much of Russian or German modern poetry. His is a ° Neo-Classical Modernism, which combines the emphasis on well-designed strophic forms with a Modernist metaphorical poetic language and unreal," mythopoeic fictional worlds.

Mallarme said that a poet is not one who invents new words but one who invents new places for words. Sutzkever both invented words and found new places for them, new word-and-sound combinations. But the unmistakable precision and freshness of Sutzkever’s Yiddish verse require a reader who would both know the rich, multilingual, and multilayered context of juicy Yiddish and could, at the same time, savor the effects of Modernist poetry. This great poet is only great as a poet can be: in the context of his own language. This is especially true for Modernist poetry, intensely invested in language innovation, rhythm, and sound orchestration.

The Holocaust seems to erect a barrier between Jewish writers and many non-Jewish readers, as if it were a private business of the Jews. But actually, in Sutzkever’s poetry, it can be read as a focused close-up, a parable of the unbelievable times of this century, of human nature and dignity, of the inexplicable puzzles of existence and the palpable reality of extinction, and— through all this —of the beauty of observation, consciousness, and language.

The Holocaust dyes all of Sutzkever’s writings but by no means does it absorb him entirely. From his very beginnings, the poet was marked by a curiosity about nature, a wish to merge with the vis-a-vis, as only a truly narcissist poet may have. His eye and ear for the colors and sounds of the icy blue roads of his childhood Siberia, the forests and swamps engraved by glaciers in the Lithuanian north, and the sand dunes and craters of the Israeli Negev, never let go.

Sutzkever wrote obsessively throughout the darkest times, hiding in a chimney or fighting in the swamps. Yet, his Holocaust theme gained depth with time, precisely because he was able to confront it from the base of another alternative of Jewish existence. Sutzkever is, at the same time, one of the great poets of Israel, of its nature and revival. Writing in Yiddish rather than Hebrew, he perceives the Israeli landscape as an intimate outsider, through the discourse of biblical scenes from his childhood imagination. A similar historical perspective marks his perception of the Holocaust, indeed of the totality of annihilation of a millennium-old European Jewry, as symbolized in the demise of its northern capital, Vilna, the ° Jerusalem of Lithuania. In his world, the Holocaust is part of personal memory, steeped in those two years of hell, but it is never cut off from the larger view of Jewish past and future, as it is with some assimilated writers. The omnipresent, explicit or tacit, coexistence in his poetry of the alternative domains of Jewish history— Vilna, the Bible, Israel, the Destruction, and rebirth— places each theme in a multiple perspective. They seem to be mirrored in one another. And then, all are reflected again in the other, intimate mirroring between his lyrical I and his imaginary Twin Brother" (see the poem by this name), his slaughtered self over there and his unbelievably surviving writing self now.

II. Jerusalem of Lithuania

The myths and meanings of Jewish culture and beliefs are not embodied in godlike persons but are anchored in space. The moral and narrative story of the Bible focuses on the relationship between a people and their God, as dramatized in the recurrent loss of and return to their promised land. The prophets predict and mourn the downfall of Jerusalem, the Faithful City that became like a whore. And the most family-oriented holiday, the Passover Seder, produces a narrative performance symbolizing the myth of exile and return to the land as the very essence of Jewish existence. It concludes with the wish to be ° Next year in Jerusalem. Jerusalem became the spatial metonymy for the ethical, cultural, and spiritual being of the people and their link to an abstract, all-encompassing God. By calling a city in Northeastern Europe Jerusalem of Lithuania," they assigned to it the symbolic locus, the spatial base for a transformed Diaspora culture and consciousness.

Jews appeared in central Europe at the beginning of the Christian Era. Others moved up from the Byzantine Empire to Eastern Europe and apparently spoke Slavic languages. We do not know when individual Jews migrated to or through Lithuania but their settlements there are documented from the fourteenth century on. In the sixteeenth century, an influx of Jews from Germany enlarged the Jewish population and spread the Yiddish language.

Lithuania, the last pagan country in Europe, was a grand duchy ruling over a vast area of forests, rivers, and swamps, stretching from Prussia to the periphery of Moscow and from the Baltic almost to the Black Sea, including what are today Lithuania proper, all of Byelorussia, southern Latvia, parts of Russia and Poland, and the Ukraine (later ceded to Poland). In 1322, Grand Duke Gediminas (in Polish, Giedymin) built his new capital Vilnius (in Polish, Wilno) on the banks of the river Vilya. In 1386, Giedymin’s grandson married the Queen of Poland and merged the two dynasties. Lithuania accepted Christianity and eventually entered into a formal union with Poland in 1569. Lithuanian aristocrats and intellectuals assimilated to Polish culture and a Polish language university was founded in Vilna in 1803. The great Polish Romantic poet, Adam Mickiewicz, and the Nobel Prize Laureate, Czeslaw Milosz, both ° Lithuanians " by origin, were connected with the city and the area (see Milosz’s memoirs Native Realm). Vilna became both a Polish and a Jewish cultural center.

The Jews of Poland and Lithuania created an autonomous state within a state. The Council of the State of Lithuania was a kind of Jewish autonomous parliament. The four Principal Cities of Jewish Lithuania, Vilna among them, had jurisdiction over dozens of smaller towns, and those, in turn, ruled over Jews scattered in many villages. They dominated the entire Jewish population, imposed religious rules, and collected taxes for the Jewish communities and for the king. A network of social, cultural, and religious institutions — schools, synagogues, printing houses, books, professional synagogues or unions, hospitals, and philanthropies — covered all aspects of life (except for power and territory). The Jews were the only ethnic group in Europe not divided into official classes, or castes. The social and linguistic gaps between Byelorussian peasants, Polish magnates, and the German- or Polish-speaking citizens, and between all of them and Western Europe, did not exist among the Jews. They belonged to one extraterritorial network, speaking and writing their private two languages — Hebrew of the texts and Yiddish for daily life. It was a network reinforced by a private universe of discourse with an intensive code of beliefs, behavior, and texts, dominated by the totality of a separate religion. Hence it was natural for the Jews to move between those tightly closed classes and nationalities — from the countryside to the small towns, to the cities, and overseas, and vice versa—facilitating trade and spreading crafts and artifacts. It was a network with no boundaries and the ties of Vilna to all corners of the empire as well as to Western European communities were manifold.

Vilna became a famous center of learning, first rabbinical, then secular. Lithuanian rabbis and teachers spread throughout the Jewish world. In the eighteenth century, this central role was symbolized by the towering figure of the Vilna Gaon (genius) (1720-1797). He dominated all of Lithuania and stopped the spread of the Hassidic movement in the name of the Misnagdim, who based their Jewishness on learning. Religious academies (Yeshivas) were founded in small Lithuanian towns, such as Volo- zhin, Mir, Slobodka, and Navaredok. In 1795, after the second partition of Poland, Vilna was incorporated into Russia. When only two rabbinical seminars were allowed in all of Russia, one was established in Vilna and later became a teacher s seminar. Of the two permitted Jewish printing houses, one was in Vilna, the famous house of Rom, which executed the formidable task of printing the whole Babylonian Talmud (in highly complex page designs) as well as hundreds of books in Hebrew and Yiddish.

We must remember that the population numbers throughout the period were small. It is estimated that in 1650, about 350,000 Jews lived in all of Eastern Europe. In 1765, 3,887 Jews were counted in Vilna proper. At the outbreak of World War II, in 1939, only 60,000 Jews lived in the city (in a general population of 200,000). With the refugees coming in from Poland at the beginning of the war, they amounted to 80,000. To the contemporary reader, this may seem a small city. But the point is that the structure of the population was different from what we know in modern urban societies. Jewish Vilna was small, but the area it dominated was immense. It was, as it were, the shopping center and learning campus of a huge hinterland, which in the twentieth century reached several million. People would come from surrounding towns and villages to trade or study and return to their hometowns or move to the West, and still be proud of their Vilna origins. The parents of the Vilna Gaon; the Haskalah historian of Vilna, Rashi Fin; the founders of the YIVO (Yiddish Scientific Institute), Max Weinreich and Zelig Kalmanovich; the Yiddish poet Sutzkever and the Hebrew poet Abba Kovner; and the Polish poets Mickiewicz and Milosz were not born in Vilna itself, though their names are linked with that cultural center. Jerusalem of Lithuania was the symbolic focus and aristocratic pride of a vast, extraterritorial Jewish empire.

Ironically, it is the Jews who preserved the boundaries of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which was six times the size of the present-day Lithuanian state (though they did not speak Lithuanian, which never was the common language of that empire). Lite (pronounced Leé-tab), as the area is called in Yiddish, and its Jews, theLitvako, are marked by a separate Yiddish dialect, cooking traditions, typical mentality, and the passion for learning. In the mid-nineteenth century, Lite became the center of modern Hebrew literature: works of fiction and poetry, historical scholarship, and translations of world literature were written and published in Hebrew. And in the twentieth century it became a center of Yiddish education, publishing, and scholarship.

The Jewish secular movement in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries revolted against traditional orthodox society and tried to create a Jewish culture and society molded upon European models. But it, too, adapted the glory of Vilna —the city of the Vilna Gaon—as a center of learning and culture. The modern Jewish myth of Jerusalem of Lithuania took over the vacant seat of the long-abandoned Lithuanian capital and combined it with the biblical discourse of Jerusalem, which, like Vilna, had hills all around her. In 1897, the Jewish Socialist party of Russia and Lithuania, the Bund, which became a major supporter of Yiddish culture, was founded here. In the twentieth century, the city became a microcosm reflecting all the Jewish ideologies and cultural trends of the time. Between the two World Wars, the city belonged to Poland (1920-1939). At that time, there were in Vilna: a Hebrew, a Yiddish, and a Polish-Hebrew teachers’ college, each supplying teachers for the vast hinterland of Eastern Europe and for Eretz Israel; secular schools in Yiddish, in Ashkenazi Hebrew, and in Sephardi Hebrew; religious schools in traditional Yiddish for teaching Hebrew texts, or in Polish for modern Jews observing the Sabbath; Yiddish theater; several Yiddish newspapers; major publishers; Yiddish journals for linguistics, economics, and children’s journals; the Union of Female Glovemakers and other trade unions; health organizations; youth movements; and political parties of all shades. In the privately endowed Strashun Library, young and old, gymnasium students and scholars, read the Talmud along with the writings of Herzl, Moyshe-Leyb Halpern, and Karl Marx. Young Jews went to the Polish University, to the universities in the West, or snuck across the nearby border to the Communist paradise. All those cultural and political options lived in constant dialogue with each other; they conducted a multidirectional argument on one stage. It was the epitome of a new Jewish secular culture as a galaxy of interrelated and competing possibilities.

Like Prague, located between the empires —between Russia and Poland and close to the cultural and trading roots with Germany—Vilna remained a strong Jewish center, where both intellectuals and the masses spoke Yiddish. At the same time, the links with the outside world were open: Vilna emigres lived in South Africa and America; one could encounter Vilna students and tailors in Paris, Liege, and Berlin; there were intimate cultural ties with Eretz Israel and all major Jewish centers in the world; and Sigmund Freud was a member of the YIVO Board.

Vilna was proud of its literary tradition. Zalman Reyzen, a prolific translator and author, who single-handedly wrote an eight-volume Lexicon of Yiddish Literature, published and edited the daily newspaper Vilner Tog, in which he promoted Yiddish literature and published budding writers, including the first poems of Abraham Sutzkever. (Reyzen perished in a Soviet prison.) Russian, Polish, German, and world literature were read and translated. The Jews were powerless, poverty was rampant, but Culture was everything. And above all, ° Jerusalem of Lithuania" was a symbol of the Second Jerusalem, the Jewish national and cultural life that subsisted in Europe for a millennium. This is the atmosphere in which Sutzkever grew up.

III. Childhood in Siberia

Abraham Sutzkever was born in 1913 in Smorgoń, then a middle-sized industrial city southwest of Vilna. In 1915, during World War I, the Russian high command expelled a million and a half Jews from their hometowns, as potential spies for the Germans. All Jews of Smorgoń were ordered to leave within twenty-four hours and the city was plundered and burned. Today the Holocaust has overshadowed the events of World War I, but then too a large Jewish population was uprooted from places were they had lived

Tbe poetad parents, Herz and Reine Sutzkever.

for centuries. The two Vilna Holocaust poets, Sutzkever and Abba Kovner, were among them; exile was their childhood experience.

On the roads, the Sutzkevers met a rich merchant, who helped them move to his town, Omsk, a central city of western Siberia on the Irtysh River, far from the Jewish Pale of Settlement. Sutzkever lived there until he was seven years old. In Omsk, his father died of heart failure at the age of thirty; typhus and civil war ravaged the city; but the enchanted world of Siberia, as perceived in a child’s imagination, became the first fictional space of his poetry. The symbol of Russian oppression and exile, the haunting name itself, became inverted in his classical poem Siberia (which attracted Marc Chagall to illustrate it from his own childhood imagination). The beauty of the white expanses, the power of the ice breaking on the Irtysh, the music of father’s violin, all merged in images of the palpable, lasting nature of the nonmaterial world: wonder-woods sway wide on windowpanes, snow-sounds falling on my head when father played his violin — and a wolf peeping in the window to sniff the music’s flesh.

The world of his Siberian childhood is unattainable, beyond the boundaries of normal reality, hence eternally beautiful as evoked in imagination and poetry. A key image of the poem is the snowman, left behind in the Siberian winter: enclosed in a hut of sounds, it can never melt. The snowman is a monument to his childhood, but the poet himself is a snowman in a cloak of skin, an unreal, imaginary being, and the sounds of his masterful strophes will remain a monument to him. The poetic topos of human images preserved in a sculpture (as in poems by Pushkin or Keats), which are endowed with eternal life precisely because they are dead, frozen in the spring, and remain forever young—this poetic paradox is enhanced here in a manifold additional unreality. In Sutzkever s poem, the spring is a winter, and only winter can keep the young snowman intact; the sculpture is made not of bronze but of melting snow, and only freezing time can keep it alive; it is not a sculpture present to the eyes of a meditating poet but placed in a distant space, present only in memory; and, in its unmelted form, it lives only in the magic sounds of poetry. And today, a new dimension is added: to most readers, the sounds of Sutzkever’s Yiddish words themselves are as inaccessible as the Siberian snowman.

All this is relevant because the same pattern, formed in Sutzkever’s childhood imagination, became a key to his post-Holocaust poetry. The poet’s belief in the real existence of the nonexistent — or their dubdiitence (as Bertrand Russell would say) in some distant, unattainable world — is transformed later into Sutzkever’s evocation of the no-longer-existent Vilna from the landscapes of Israel. The dead who disappeared in the Holocaust must be alive in some realm because they are vividly present in imagination and recalled in poetry. The power of a child’s fantasy becomes the poetic myth of the mature Sutzkever.

Among his Siberian recollections, he tells that once, when the Tsar and his family were killed in the Urals (not far from Omsk), a soldier brought a huge stolen diamond that had belonged to the Tsar and sold it to the watchmaker Berger. Berger was afraid to keep it in town and brought it to Herz Sutzkever who hid it in his house. The father, ill and frail, showed the treasure, the mysterious emperor’s diamond, glimmering blue in the rays of the sunset, to his beloved youngest son, Abrasha. This rare intimacy with father and the magic light emanating from the diamond, amid the shadows of the dark hut, made an indelible impression on Sutzkever and became the glimmering essence of his later poetry (see, for example, the poem What Did You Expect to See, Prying). His father died