[Cols. 441-442]

Figures

 

Figures Shimon Kants The people of Sventzian did not write the life stories or biographies of famous Torah scholars and well-known pious rabbis in their burning desire to immortalize the close figures of their town. These are no more than brief life sketches of simple Jews, sincere and honest, whose virtues and comportment were like pieces of heaven on Sventzian land, and that is why they etched themselves so deeply in the memories of the surviving Sventsyaner Jews. They were sharp minded Torah scholars and G-d-fearing religious people, modest mothers and grandmothers. Lively merchants and artisans, old-time musicians and young workers, who sang of spring, of love, and in their Internationale[1] one could hear the weeping of kol-nidre and the longing of the “Bney Heykhala.”[2] Today, their whole lives would be considered no more than a tale that disappeared. But the yearning for beauty that they carried within themselves and left as a legacy for the survivors will never be silenced. And every indication [is important], even if it is no more than dry dates and [descriptions] of ordinary events recounted in quiet words issued from choking throats hidden deep in a living spring. This is the spring from which the surviving Jews of Sventzian draw their special individuality and the full rivers of longing for Jewish and ever-lasting human beauty. Just as we use wood to feed a fire, the Jews of Sventzian, now scattered to all corners of the world, use the memory of these extinguished and murdered figures to feed the burning fire in their hearts. The beauty of these figures, who are described here, did not derive from gold or silver, not from steel and iron, but from the deep humanity, from warm human actions, [that serve as] examples for future generations.

1. That is, their anthem. [Trans.] Return
2. “The Sons of the Divine Temple,” a song usually sung at the third Sabbath meal. [Trans.] Return

And the suffering––– The children were taken from Badan And Sventzian Carried away on lost roads; Alone during nights filled with terror She hears Each of her children – hungry wolves roaring. She hugs Yosinke in his sleep And speaks of sick dreams: Oy, who shall I, who shall I lament first? The children of Badan wandered, On separate roads – lost roads, During starry nights and dark nights. The children of Badan wandered––– Among echoes of shooting, Among far away cries of wounded soldiers. Each one searching for lost luck: Bread, bread, B–R–E–A–D!!

Mentke packed the wagon with cushions And fastened himself as a horse, With Blumke by his side – for prosperity, He led her by her thin hand. Through hidden paths, through crowing fields, These two wandering children Measured the distance with the cushions in the wagon––– Perhaps he will exchange a cushion For a piece of bread. Mentke thought, Blumke would help push the wagon– But when Mentke cried, Blumke only helped him wail. The evening accompanied them – Through swampy meadows, Next to quacking ponds, And suddenly the children were shown: A Jew hung from his Tefilin on a tree His hands crucified, speared through a cross. Around him the wind Blew pages from a torn prayer book, And in the Pentateuch––– The blood moaned The prayers of Moses our teacher. Blumke moaned with all her limbs To the setting sun: This is Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, The assistant beadle of the Hasidic Shul. Hirshe Leyb Tarshish on the tree, Rocking in a prayer like prayer Like he used to do––– When on rainy nights, He would sit at distressed Jewish graves, And with blessing chase away all the thunder and lightening And with greatest intention mumble: –Oh God, You be more of a Lord, and me more of a slave. Menke Katz

[Col. 459-460]

Mentke caressed the hanging toes And kissed the damaged Tefilin; Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, Who will now, during the month of Elul, Would fight the first cold winds And intoxicate his thin body ––– With prayers and tasty wine. –––Who will now understand as you do, The confessions of the dying that are humming ––– end of summer flies; When the mossy houses in the Shul court yard Shine in the gold of autumn. ––Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, When will hunger stop, like a worm– Crawling through our bones, I would break the strong tree in a moment And in my wagon filled with cushions–––I would make you a soft bed; I would run with you back to Sventzian, Place on the purification board of the dead And then among the finest graves––– Lay you to sleep peacefully… In the evening the fire played a prank On Hirshe Leyb. His dead beard, Now smelled of April's blossoming flowers. The hanging tree, With all its leaves ––– A scented dust turned And Hirshe Leyb Like a scarecrow, chased the bids from the tree. Late in the quiet evening, Mentke and Blumke wailed; Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, Hirshe Leyb Tarshish, The assistant beadle of the Hasidic Shul.

For whom––– Does the July night get dressed up, Who can still enjoy her haunting beauty––– If not Mentke and Blumke, Who are now coming From the nearby hill And see ––– now not in a dream, The starry rooftops of Sventzian. Around the mountain – juicy sorrel is blooming. Every leaf is washed by the purest dew. On Pashmen Street –––the frightened homes Are tugged toward the strong mountain. Behind the locked shutters, Everyone's hearts are racing––– As if they were being chased. In the Shul court yard. –the empty shambles, Chaim Meir from Svir blessed the new moon With his own prayers, With a kerchief with fringes–––instead of a prayer shawl, Wearing one girl's and one boy's shoe, Like half girl and half boy––– He does not tire of praying: –OH moon, moon, Give me a piece of bread– You will be blessed in the world to come, as you are blessed in this world… Ishieh the blinker blessed the new moon In a moaning Kol Nidre melody: Ay –Ay– Ay–, Ay, Ay–, Oy –Oy, His eyes a disaster, his eyes a lament. If man had not seen God's shine The blindness alone would be day; If there were no eyes anywhere, There would not be any tears––– Ay– Ay–Ay, Ay –Ay, Oy–Oy–Oy.

Eltzik stated Am I the only one from the entire human race that remained? Did the whole world die And I alone was fated– To live for the sins of all generations? And maybe, They already brought me to my burial place And I am dreaming – the world is a grave? He wanders– He tries to pull at a limb In order to ask himself, if he is alive– A red stream freshens his dusty skin. He shouts over the shouting wind, As if suddenly every stone attacks him: I'm alive–––I'm alive–––––I'm alive! And as if with a stranger's voice, These familiar words resound: Mama, Berke, Mentke, Blumke, Yoske, And Dvoyreke? She shines with a frightened smile: Oy, Elinke, Eltzik, Eltzik, For you – The blue little flowers in my blond braids; For you– The raw scent of my 15th of April. Eltzik– Pieces of names are floating by, With a golden sunset in every letter. The names break and rise with the wind, As if looking for their lost God. The names flicker from the destruction of the Holy Temple And find their way back, Through the broken, green sills And lay like patches on the torn tablets. The silent names are said in prayer: Oy, burdened God, Let at least Eltzik – the last man, Remain in our angry dream.

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