Nayntsn hundert eyn un fertsik
tsenter, tsenter, zeyger akht
in a fraytik af der nakht
hot men plutsem umbarmhertsik
fun mayn shtot evakuirt
ale yidn, un tsu shand
nor mit peklekh in der hand
fun dem land avekgefirt.
In Ataki ba dem dnyester
bestye-mentshn alts vos mer
say soldat, say ofitser —
vi der klenster, vi der grester
oysgeplindert un geshendt
un gegazlnt on rakhmones
un der dnyester mit karbones
hot farshikert zikh on end.
Vokhn in konvoy getribn
vu getogt nit mer genekhtikt
halb derfroyrn, halb onmekhtik
zaynen toyzenter geblibn
af di shvartse felder lign
tate-mames, kinder, vayber
nokh mit toyte, toyte layber
mukhn shoyn far velf un flign.
Toyznt mol gekemft mit toyt,
toyznt mol derkemft dem lebn
eydus nokh der velt tsu geyben
fun fashizm un yidn noyt —
zol pogrom un hungeryor,
tifus-toyt farshoynen mikh,
vet avade loynen zikh —
s’vart af mir a nayer dor.
Shushke, vintl, mir in oyer
fun der alter tsayt.
zog, s’iz nokh fun langer doyer
dos transnistre layd?
Nor dem emes vil ikh hern
zol er zayn oykh shvarts,
gib a kuk af mayne trern
kuk nit af mayn harts.
Es fargeyt mayn harts in engshaft
vert fardart mayn moyekh,
tropns blut farshlogn di benkshaft
un se shvind der koyekh.
Shver in fremdkayt tsu dertrogn,
In ergets di eyd’le hent,
nito keyn novi vos zol zogn
ven es nemt an end.
Shpilstu, vintl, mit di kveytn
af mayn mames keyver
zog ir, zog ir, zi zol beytn
krank mayn yeder eyver.
khotshe toyt, dokh nit farshteynt
shtendik zikh gemit,
az ikh hob far ir geveynt
— mayn harts ir oysgehit.
Kh’volt aheym zikh itzter lozn
mayn lib shtetl zen,
vider nokh in zayne shtrozn
in zayn veldl geyn.
iz dos ober nokh nit meglekh —
gris dervayl mayn vint,
un dertseyl fun mayn tog-teglekh
fun mayn lebn do atsind.
Mir darfn freylekh, freylekh zayn, farshteyt zikh,
mir geyen dokh aheym, aheym tsurik;
keyn lager mer, me traybt nit, fray se geyt zikh,
fil iberlebt tsulib dem oygnblik!
Nor freylekh, freylekh lustik zayn un tantsn,
s’iz vider fray, s’iz vider mentsh der yid!
yo, emes, dokh se vil zikh nit in gantsn,
s’iz shver dos harts un epes glist zikh nit...
Vos vart af mir? O heym, o khorve shtot
nor fremde mentshn mit a kaltn blik?
vos noent un varm, vos lib un tayer grod,
— loz ikh in masngriber do tsurik.
Nineteen hundred and forty-one
The tenth of the tenth month, eight PM
Friday after dark,
Suddenly and ruthlessly
All Jews were evacuated
From my town in disgrace,
With only bundles in their hands,
And driven out of the country.
In Atachi on the River Dniester
Human beasts, more and more,
Both soldier and officer alike —
As to the smallest, so to the biggest,
Plundered and violated,
And pillaged without mercy,
And the Dniester ceaselessly
Got ever drunker with the victims.
Herded in convoys for weeks,
Where the day broke, the night never fell,
Half frozen, half unconscious
Thousands remained
Lying on the black fields
Parents, children, and wives
With their dead, their dead flesh
Ready, waiting for wolves and flies.
A thousand times, fought with death
A thousand times, struggled for life
To bear witness for the world
Of Fascism and Jewish despair —
May pogrom and famine,
And typhus-death spare me,
It will be worth the effort —
For me a new generation waits.
Whisper, wind, in my ear
Of the times gone by.
Say, will this time last much longer,
This Transnistrian sorrow?
I want to hear only the truth
Bleak as it might be,
Take a look at my tears
But do not look in my heart.
My heart languishes in these straits,
My mind withers,
Drops of blood muffle my longing
And my strength fades.
A heavy load for my gentle hands
To bear, somewhere so far away,
There is no prophet who can say
When this will come to an end.
Play, wind, with the blossoms
On my mama’s grave
Tell her, tell her please to pray,
My every limb is ill.
Although she is dead, she is not stone,
And always strove for me
When I wept before her
And for her, my heart cried itself out.
Now I want to head back home
And see my dear town,
To walk yet again in its streets
And in its little woods.
But as that is not yet possible,
Send my greetings instead, my wind,
And tell them of my day-to-day
Of my life here now.
We should be happy, happy of course,
We’re going back home, back home;
No more camp, no more hounding, freely as we go,
To experience this moment!
Only to be happy, joyful and to dance,
Free again, human again is the Jew!
Yes, truly, yet I don’t fully want to,
For the heart is heavy and has no real desire...
What awaits me, oh home, oh my ruined city —
Only strangers with a cold glance?
All that was close and warm, once kind and dear,
— I leave behind in mass graves.
PDF: Gura_Humora_Elegy-sample.pdf
These three poems are intensely personal to me. Gura Humora (now Gurahumorului) is my father’s ancestral town in South Bukovina, where he lived most of his early childhood before emigrating to Minneapolis in 1912 at age seven. The province of South Bukovina was then part of the Hapsburg Empire, but became part of Romania under the Treaty of Versailles.
Gura Humora has a long history going back to the 15th century. By 1941 its population was nearly 5,700, almost half Jewish. For most of that time it had seen relative prosperity, and relations between Jews and their Gentile neighbors, mostly ethnic Germans and Romanians, were mostly peaceful.
After Hitler came to power, antisemitic behavior increased, but life for Jews was still bearable. That changed in an instant on Oct. 10, 1941. SS troops entered the town, rounded up the Jewish population and force-marched them some 200 miles across the Dniester River, the southwestern border of what is now Ukraine, to the province of Transnistria. Many thousands from Gura Humora and other areas perished from exhaustion, exposure, starvation, typhus fever or other diseases, or murder at the hands of the Germans or Romanians.
The exiles were placed in various locations in Transnistria and subjected to forced labor and the most appalling conditions. The death rate was high — in spring 1944, only 100 returned to their ruined town. They were not welcomed by their erstwhile neighbors, who had taken over most of the Jewish homes. Almost all the surviving Jews emigrated from Romania, the majority to what would soon become Israel.
The bonds forged during the pre-war years and the exile remained strong. The Israeli former residents of Gura Humora and environs formed, as did those formerly of other European districts, an association that for many decades organized biennial reunions and other events. From this came a volume of Gura Humora history and recollections of its former Jewish citizens, self-published in Hebrew in 1992.
The association sent my father a copy, which he proudly showed me. I almost jumped out of my skin. My family had little connection with Judaism and Jewish culture, but as an adult I enthusiastically embraced my Jewish identity. “Dad,” I declared, “someone has to get this translated into English.”
And so it happened — at his initiative and expense. I read every word of the book and was left both with sadness at what the Gura Humora Jews suffered, and pride in the resilience and perseverance of the survivors.
For decades I had been drawn to composing music about the Holocaust, but haunted by fears I could not handle such a vast and terrifying subject. The Gura Humora history volume offered a way to approach a small portion of the Holocaust. I resolved to set texts from it and even received permission from the association to do so, but kept putting it off, letting the rest of life intervene.
Just before the COVID-19 pandemic closed everything down, I read Michael Hirsh’s The Liberators, a book of recollections by American G.I.s who participated in liberating the Dachau concentration camp complex. This led to my setting five poems by Dee Eberhart, one of those soldiers. The work, Memories of Dachau, was completed in April 2020.
Now I was completely out of excuses, but it took another eight months to return to the Gura Humora history. From it I selected three poems by Shilu Ellenbogen and began work in late December. I completed the work on Feb. 18, 2021.
Shilu Ellenbogen, according to his cousin Israel Ellenbogen, was born in Gura Humora in 1898. His family moved to Austria during World War I, and Shilu served in the Hapsburg army. An explosion impaired his eyesight and disfigured him. He returned to Gura Humora and died of cancer in 1955.
Ellenbogen wrote his poems in Yiddish, giving me an issue to confront. I’m uncomfortable composing to non-English texts, especially in a language in which I have no fluency. However, Ellenbogen writes in mostly strict rhyme and meter, and even the best translation would not capture these. They are as integral to the poetry as the words themselves.
And I have the best translation. Prof. Robert Peckerar graciously took time to edit and translate the poems, for which I am deeply and forever grateful.
I am likewise grateful to Dr. Robert Shafer for looking the piece over and wisely suggesting that I add piano accompaniment to the second movement. Which I did.
Ellenbogen begins 1941 with the sudden uprooting and forced emigration, with ever-increasing misery, but at the very end strikes an optimistic note of hope for the next generation. The trochaic meter made 6/8 the obvious time signature. In the third stanza the basses take over the melody with a modulation from D minor to A minor; the fourth stanza modulates back to D minor, ending in a triumphal D major chord.
Shushke, vintl is not a narrative like 1941, but rather a deep-felt expression of despair and homesickness. Key signatures progress by stanza: G minor, C minor, D minor, back to G minor. Ellenbogen’s last line contains an extra trochaic foot, which serves as the basis for the coda.
The piano sets a merry dance rhythm for Se vil zikh nit in gantsn. The exile is ended; the Jews are free to go where they please, be who they please. But in the middle of the second stanza Ellenbogen slams on the brakes. There has been too much loss, and the future is bleak. The tempo slows abruptly, D major gives way to D minor. Ellenbogen again departs from the iambic meter at the last line, providing a basis for the final coda.