Władysław Szlengel: The Ghetto Poet

1. Names... Ziuta... Asia... Eli... Fanja... Siuma... Do they tell you anything? Nothing. People... unnecessary people. They were thousands of them. In thousands they were driven to the Umschlagplatz, in thousands they were bitten by the whip, torn apart from their families, loaded into the cargo trucks, poisoned by gas. Not important. The Statistics will not mark them , no  commendation will mark them.. Names. Empty sounds. For me they were living people, relatives, tangible, these are human lives whom I have known from events in which I participated. These tragedies intensified by feelings are more important for me than the fate of Europe. They are gone...

2. WładysławSzlengel We Remember What He Read To the Dead 1914 - Ghetto Warszawa 1943

3. A Cry in the NightPoems Written Between July and September 1942 These poems were written between the firstAnd second  upheavals,In the last dying days of agonyOf the largest Jewish community in EuropeBetween July and September 1942,I dedicate it to people on whom I could leanMyself in the hours of blizzard and complete chaosTo those few  who knew in the whirlpool of events,In the dance of fate death and protectionismRemember, that not only family...not onlyConnections... not only money...But also must be saved those few and the last of the Mohicans,Whose entire capital and Entire arms is only the word,To those to whom my cry has reached... My Cry...

4. Władysław Szlengel - The Ghetto Poet, Alive, Dying, FightingByNatan Gross Władysław Szlengel was born at Warszawa in 1914. His father - a painter who made a living from painting boards and announcements for the cinema. He sent his son to school of Commerce but Władysław, who helped his father in his work' discovered already in school his talent for rhyming and he found, very quickly, a way to reach newspapers and weeklies, and another path he took was his access to theaters and "Review Theaters. At the same time Szlengel published poems and satirical prose in the satirical newspaper "Szpilki", "Pins", but also in the Jewish newspaper "Nasz Przegląd" ("Our Review") he published gloomy prophetic poems which foreboded the approaching storm - the Hitlerian danger which threats the whole human kind. Also these poems tended to a publicist style - and they clearly send their message, without metaphors or literary ornaments, see his pessimist poems like "Don't Buy the New Year Calendar" or "A Frightened Generation". The separation from the Polish environment was very painful to Szlengel. We learn about it from his poems full of nostalgia to Warszawa. In one of them, "The Telephone", he tells how while sitting near the telephone, he wanted to speak to one of his Polish friends behind the wall of the Ghetto. To his amazement, he found out that he has nobody to call, as their ways were completely separated during the Ghetto times. This poem was probably among the first ones he wrote after the erection of the Ghetto.

5. The next poems are rather a chronicle of the Ghetto life and its future. His poetry was written to the literary crowd, which had gathered in "Sztuka" (art) coffee-shop on Leszno Street. There Szlengel gave a show on the stage, together with other satirical writers, such as Leonid Fukszanski, "Mecenas Wacus (Waclaw Tajtelbaum), Andrzej Wlast - very well known names before the War - and also Pola Braun, the singers Wera GGran and Marysia Ajzenstadt, the piansit Władysław Szpilman and others. The poems were not written only to the actual crowd of the "living diary", or lovers of his poetry, recited in many parties and special evenings in private homes, Szlengel was aware of the fact that he was writing for history and also to the future reader. For this reason he assembled his poems in files which he distributed in various hiding place in the Ghetto and outside the Ghetto. To mark the 35th anniversary of Ghetto Warszawa's uprising, Irena Maciejewska published all the poems, which she managed to find - excep one: " The key at the Concierge ". This is an ironic poem, aimed at all those who were the first to tathe opportunit given to them by the Germans, to rob the Jewish property and also the first to serve the new Masters. This poem was not included in the collection published in Warszawa, but we learn that Szlengel himself refrained from including it in his collection. And thus he wrote to the "pedants" who would come one day and publish his poetry: "I didn't include my poem "The key at the Concierge" because I wait with publication of this drastic subject (the title should not be taken as simple as it sounds) to days when the nationalist instincts which were inflamed by the brown shirts will fade, and with peace we will make the account with the sins of our neighbors." The poem was published in the anthology of Michal Borwicz ("Piesn ujdzie calo" - The song will sourvive, 1947) and also in the anthology of the satirical Polish poetry of Leon Pasternak and Jan Spiwak (1950).

6. Szlengel does not explicitly to these subjects. There is no exact key to the chronology of Szlengel's poems. But we can assume according to the contents of the poem, when they were written. So is the poem "Things", which is a rather living history of the deportations and decreasing the Ghetto's space, or "A Page from the Diary of the Actions" which describes the heroic expel of Janusz Korczak and his orphan children to the Umschlagplatz - a rare document of an eye-witness - and "Kontratak", (Counterattack) a giant testimony page to the Jewish armed uprising on 19 April 1943. Władysław Szlengel lived all the Ghetto period and he perished during the Warszawa Ghetto uprising in April, in the bunker of Szymon Kac on 36 Swietojenska Street, and with his sharp brilliant pen, he brought into expression the tragedy which occurred there. He didn't refrain from attacking the masters from the Jewish Police, by writing names and incidents. Szlengel erected a memorial to the simple man and he left a very unique description of the Jewish revolt. He writes under all circumstances and see himself as the diarist in a sinking ship, the poet of the dying and the murdered. His opening lines to the collection of his poems - "What I Read to the Dead" is so shocking and explain the situation of the Ghetto's prisoners,in such truthfulness that compared to it, thousand of papers written about the subject since then become pale.

7. A Talk with a Child Translated by Halina Birenbaum and edited by Ada Holtzman Year thousand nine hundred forty two Mother and a child. workshop – bloc… The child has a lilac face, Mother‘s hair is white as milk, tell, me mother – the little one asked – what does it mean: afar... Afar means beyond the mountains whistle the forests and the rivers… Afar means railway… Afar means a voyage in the sea, ships and livid spaces, and mountains in the purple sun… Afar means golden islands and winds smelling blowing of the wind, that is juicy greenery and soft dry sand. But how to explain it to a child, what does it mean the word: afar while he does not know what is a mountain, and he does not know what we call a river… and he has not like mother… and has not like me the images under the eyelids, then how to explain it to a child, what does it mean the word: afar. Afar – my beloved child (and a tear waves on the eye-lashes), afar means from our bloc till the bloc of Töbens*…

8. And tell me, beloved mother, what does it means: long ago… Long ago is an urban evening, shining lamps, neon lights... it is a silent peaceful apartment and a well heated oven… Long ago – are cakes from Ziemianska, long ago is dinner nearby the radio, long ago is the morning newspaper “Nasz Przeglad”, and an evening in the Palladium cinema. Long ago - means a month near the sea, long ago - means pictures from excursion and wedding pictures with a veil and white bread without straw… But how explain to a child that past bright and glorious. When nothing… he knows nothing... how to explain: long ago… You see, my beloved child, old and sad in your youth, long ago – means a long time ago… when they did not ration us honey… And tell me, mother, tell, what do I hear at nights… a whistle so long… so far… what is whistling and what for…

9. How to explain to a child, which example or a source to bring to explain the nightly, far whistles of locomotives… how to explain railways and a long path into the spaces, the joy of traveling in a sleeping car and in riding mad expresses. Railways stations, signs, crossroads, new cities, streets, tickets, passages, luggage newspapers, refreshment room, a porter. sparkle of glimmerings lights at night and the lilac traces of smoke. How to explain… and what for, that somehow afar there is still a world?... This world means – my little boy, who twisted your little hands with sadness, that it can be farther than Toebens… and farther than the honey… ** * Töbens – the German owner of workshops where Jews men and women were engaged in forced labour, producing shoes and uniforms for the German military. At the time of the deportation actions, it was promised that the worker in thse workshops will not be included, and they have to live in certain houses called "blocs". The promise was not kept by the Germans and all the Jews were deported to Treblinka like the others who were not employed . * *In the Warsaw Ghetto they distributed from time to time portion of artificial honey… Halina Birenbaum   "A child in the ghetto with a flower which grows "afar"... Miri Shalem age 6, Moshav Rinatya, April 19, 2004

10. The Window to the Other Side Translated to English by Katarzyna Naliwajek, November 2012 I have the window to the other side, impudent Jewish window to the beautiful Krasiński park, where autumn leaves are drenched... And I am not allowed to stand in the window  (a very right ruling indeed), Jewish worms... moles... should and are to be blind. Towards the grey-lilac evening branches make a bow and Aryan trees stare into my Jewish grey-lilac window… Let them sit in their pits, burrows... eyes fixed on work and away from looking at their Jewish windows... And me... when the night is falling... to straighten and blur everything, I am reaching the window in darkness and I stare... voraciously stare... and I am stealing the extinguished Warsaw, its distant rustles and whizzes, outlines of streets and houses, stumps of its towers crippled… I am stealing the City Hall’s silhouette, Theatre Square is at my feet, moon Wachmeister permits Sentimental smuggling a bit... As blades in night’s chest buried, Voraciously my eyes strike, the silent Warsaw evening,  my city blackouted throughout... And when the stock is sufficient for tomorrow and maybe more... I pay farewell to the silent city, Magically I raise my hands... I close my eyes and whisper: – Warsaw... speak... I am waiting... Soon pianos in the city are lifting their silent lids... raising themselves to the command heavy, somber, fatigued... and from hundred pianos drifts into the night... a Chopinian polonaise... The clavichords are calling me, in anguish swollen silence chords over the city are floating from underneath dead-white keys... The end... I lower my hands... the polonaise is turning to chests.... I return and think that it is bad to have the window to the other side...

11. We Remember Treblinka! This site is dedicated to Yankel Wiernik of blessed memory, the hero who fought and survived and cried the cry of the Jewish victims, in Ghetto Warsaw, where he returned. His detailed testimony "A Year In Treblinka" was published in New York already y in 1944(!) but the world refused to listen... We remember Yankel Wiernik who later dedicated the rest of his life to bear witness to the Germans' crime committed in Treblinka. The model he built of the death camp Treblinka is exhibited in the Ghetto Fighters' House Holocaust and Jewish Resistance Heritage Museum, Israel.Yankel Wiernik was a brave, pure and conscientious man whose heritage should be remembered for eternity! Yankel Wiernik: A Year in Treblinka, New York 1945 Eddie Weinstein: Quenched Steel, The Story of an Escape from Treblinka, Yad Vashem 2002

12. A Small Station Called Treblinka* On the line between Tluszcz and WarsawFrom the railway station Warsaw - East You get out of the stationand travel straight… The journey lasts sometimes 5 hours and 45 minutes more and sometimes the same journey lasts a whole life until your death … And the station is very small three fir trees grow there and a regular signboard saying here is the small station of Treblinka... here is the small station of Treblinka... And not even a cashiergone is the cargo man and for a million zloty you will not get a return ticket And nobody waits for you in the station and nobody waves a handkerchief towards you only silence hung there in the air to welcome you in the blind wilderness. And silent are the three fir trees and silent is the black board because here is the small station of Treblinka... here is the small station of Treblinka... And only a commercial board stands still: "Cook only by gas" * Translated from Polish to Hebrew by Halina Birenbaum and from Hebrew to English by Ada Holtzman. Yehuda Poliker, son of an Auschwitz Holocaust survivor from Thessaloniki wrote music to the poem and it is in his album: "Ashes and Dust".

13. An Account with God May be it was a dream - (although not)And may be a drink had blurred me,We sat together - me and God And settled an account...             God was an elderly man,            His look was full of grace             He had a grey long beard             And he walked without the arm band 1) on his sleeve... He did not possess a "Kenkarte",2)Because He arrived straight from Paradise,But He had the citizenship of Uruguay...             I took out a large book            And God - a Waterman pen...            I opened an account - a faith,            And I said... please SirI am 32 years old,I had years of satiety and years of poverty But until now, God,I had an open credit,             They said: you should pray,            I prayed            They said: you should fast            - I fasted... Through hard days of fastWithout a drop of water in mouthFor Your grand gloryAnd Your imagined laws...             In the exhausted beams of candle light             In the murmur of synagogues rooms            I prayed, so You could            count my deeds...

14. They said: Thou shalt not steal!I did not steal,They said: do not eat pork...(I like) - I did not eat...They said: God wants so...They said: This is the way of God...They said: Thou shalt not commit adultery...             I abstained... for God...            They said Thou shalt not kill!                         I did not kill                        Thou shalt have none other gods before Me...                        - I had not... There are many pleasant feastsThere are various difficult ones,Ten times a yearI was commanded to remember them...             I was commanded to sit in a succah...             I was commanded to drink bitterly, to eat the matzah ...             To have repentance various of times             And to neglect the work. With stripes of phylacteries I shaked handsI devoured books at nightsAnd killed the body, Pardon, I ask - what for?            I have said: God will help,            I have said: God will save,            I have had faith: God is with me,            I have said: and so on...                        Please look, observe the book                        It is clear, obvious,                        Look! The page of Your deeds                        In relation to me - is clean...

15. They hit me in the face            - I do not escape            Like a trapped animal from hole to hole            I wait... but You... nothing...                        I am hungry, I am freezing and longing                        The way becomes wilder, more and more distant,                        Emptiness - death all around,                        But I am not crying... I am waiting...             Blown in the winds are             The begging, the fast, the lamentation            And hundred thousand prayers            And half a million "Amen"...            What do You give me today?             For all my deeds            The Block... the tin tablets3), The Umschlagplatz.            The "bony" 4) , The Treblinkas?Do You still expect thatThe day after tomorrow like in the TestamentWhen going to the Prussian gasI shall still say "Amen" to You?             So say something, please, speak up -             Take out the account from the hiding,            The books are open, - look! -            Partner of my life...And the gentle, elderly Man With whom I drank at the same tableTook a pencil in the hand and said... And here I awoke up...             Was it but an ordinary dream? -            Or did the drink just blur me?            But till this day I do not know how             The account has ended.

16. IT'S ABOUT TIME It's about time! About time! He has frightened us for so long with the day of reckoning! Now we have had enough of prayers and penances. Today you shall face our judgment And shall await the verdict humbly. With a mighty stone we'll throw onto your heart The blasphemous, horrendous and blood stained accusation. – With the edge of a battleaxe, with the blades of sabres It shall burst into the heaven like the Tower of Babel. And you, up there, the great convict, You up there in the horrific interstellar silence, Will be able to hear every word of ours, How the chosen people are bringing charges against you – No pay back, no pay back!!! This that once you, so many years ago, Had led us out from Egypt into our land, Will change nothing! It will change nothing! Now we shall not forgive you any longer That you have been turning us in into the hands of thugs – That, for the millennia, We have been to you like faithful children. With your name each of us was dying In the arenas of the Caesars, in Nero's circus. On the crosses of the Romans, on the stakes of Spain We, the beaten and reviled, the manhandled. And you turned us in to the Cossacks Who ripped your Holy Covenant to shreds.

17. For the agony of the Ghetto, for the spectre of gallows We the humiliated, we the tormented – For the death in Treblinka, we the bent under the whip, We will pay back! We will pay you back! – Now you will not escape your end! When we bring you to the slaying place, You will not be able to bribe the bathhouse guard With a 100-dollar golden disc of sun. And when the hangman will have driven and forced you And dragged, pushed you into the steam chamber And hermetically closed the hatch behind you, The hot steam will begin to suffocate, to suffocate you, And you will scream, you will try to escape – And after the torture of dying will have ended They will drag your body along and throw it into a monstrous pit, They will pull your stars out – the gold teeth out of your jaw – At the end they will burn you And you will become but ashes. Warsaw, The Ghetto, December 1942.

18. The Monument Ttranslated from Polish by Halina Birenbaum, edited by Andrew Kobos To heroes – poems, rhapsodies!!! To heroes the descendants will pay homage, their names engraved on the plinths and to them a monument of marble. To valiant soldiers – medals! To soldier’s death – a cross! Bewitch the glory and suffering Into steel, granite and bronze! Legends will remain after the Great Ones, That they were such Enormous, The myth will coagulate and – become The Monument. But who will tell you, the Future Generations, Not about the bronze or the myth’s theme - But that hey took Her – killed Her And that She is no longer … Was She good? – Not even so – She often quarreled after all, Slammed the door, reprimanded… But – She was. Pretty? She was never pretty, Even before her hair silvered. Wise? Well, quite ordinary, not stupid… But… She was. .

19. You see: She was, and now when She is not, Every corner looks on with evil eyes And you can see at once She is not here. Even not for such a big word: Home, My God, was it a true household?! (they were not from Warsaw) The husband spent whole days in his workshop The son – also had somewhere his own doings The little room was often not cleaned (for She had to bring water from the downstairs), Yet in a way all the implements were at hand The clock kept smiling, So - She was She was. And what? A human being? No – it’s unimportant – no statistics will mention Her, for the world, for Europe She was less than a grain of dust. Big deal all her efforts! But when you only neared the entrance, before you’d held the door-handle, before you’d pushed the door something smelled in the air perhaps a warm soup, or a white towel, a kind of warmth would have wrapped around you, so… She was.  And they took Her. She left as She stood. From near the kitchen stove. They had no time for the soup… They took Her, She went – she is no longer, they have killed her.

20. Her husband will return from the workshop, he will sit heavily on the stool, his hands will drop on his lap, he turns his head all around and looks. No fire under the stove range – the dish-cloth fell on the floor, a plate on the table – it’s all dirty around. He does not rise. He leans. He thinks. Too bad. She is no longer. He would eat the bread and soup from the workshop The workshop food – alien to him and miserable. He eats and looks: on the shelf a silent, cold and dead Her pot. He will not return to the workshop, the son will come back hungry from the city, into the undone bed he will throw himself with his mud-covered boots on. He will not fall asleep. He will look and will not forget… There, it is Mother’s cooled down pot – Her Monument…

21. Am I allowed to tell Szlengel? Am I allowed to tell Szlengelthe poet of Ghetto Warszawato wait more and more with his poemsin the drawer Endless ruins cover himand his creationshe cannot request or he cannot protestor he cannot complain Is it fair to postpone himbecause he is silentsilence of eternity And who will listen to the deadburied in a foreign landunder clods of earth I have many comfortsI have life and children and memoriesand his poems from there Am I allowed to be silentand not transmit them onward?! Halina Birenbaum 7.5.1985Translated by Ada Holtzman

22. All the poems in this presentation were translated by Halina Birenbaum. We would like to thank Halina Birenbaum and Ada Holtzman, who created the memorial website for Władysław Szlengel. We highly recommend you to visit the website where dozens of his poems were published in Polish, the original language they were written in translated into English and Hebrew: http://www.zchor.org/szlengel/poems.htm#nine Clarita-Efraim pps: www.clarita-efraim.com chefetz@clarita-efraim.com