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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required World War II Poems and Holocaust Poems - IV - Primo Levi Shema by Primo Levi translation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable houses, who return each evening to find warm food, welcoming faces... consider whether this is a man: who toils in 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 whether this is a woman: bereft of hair, of a recognizable name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a frog's in winter. Consider that such horrors have been: I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your house, when you walk outside, when you go to bed, when you rise. Repeat them to your children, or may your house crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their faces from you. Buna by Primo Levi translation by Michael R. Burch Wasted feet, cursed earth, the interminable gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys. A day like every other day awaits us. The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: "You, O pale multitudes with your sad, lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous horror of the mud... another day of suffering has begun." Weary companion, I see you by heart. I empathize with your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you carry cold, hunger, nothingness. Life has broken what's left of the courage within you. Colorless one, you once were a strong man, A courageous woman once walked at your side. But now you, my empty companion, are bereft of a name, my forsaken friend who can no longer weep, so poor you can no longer grieve, so tired you no longer can shiver with fear. O, spent once-strong man, if we were to meet again in some other world, sweet beneath the sun, with what kind faces would we recognize each other? Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp. 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 vodka, 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. 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. 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. Keywords/Tags: Primo Levi, Wladyslaw Szlengel, Janusz Korczak, Miryam Ullinover, Saul Tchernichovsky, World War II, Holocaust, Shoah, genocide, ethnic cleansing, race, racism, antisemitism, evil, brutality, inhumanity, Nazi, Nazis, concentration camps, death camps, war, world, truth, horror, mass murder
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