Drunk from the Bitter Truth: The Poems of Anna Margolin

BRISK (BREST-LITOVSK)

134 ʷʱʩʸʡ 1 ʨˌʨʹ ʲʨʬˋ ʩʣ , ʩʥʸʢ ʩʠ ʯʩʩʬʷ ʩʠ ʨˌʨʹ ˋ , ʩˌʸʨ ʩʥʥ ʯʥʠ ʯʲʨˋ ʩʥʥ ʣʰʩʶˋ ʨʩʥʨ ʦʩʠ . ʷʩʣʰʡʩʬ ʸˌʰ , ʨʸʲʶʸˋ˦ , ʭʲʨˌ ʯʫʩʩʥʥ ʨʩʮ ʯʨˌʹ ʸʩʠ ʬˌʮ ˋ ʱʩʥʸˋ ʪʩʦ ʯʥ˦ ʪʩʠ ʳʥʹʩ˗ : ʯʬʩʥʥ ʯˌ ʢʰˋʢ ʯʷʩʣʫʲʬʲʮˋ˝ ʯʩʠ ʯʱˋʢ ʩʣ , ʯʬʩʸ˝ˋ ʲʢʰʩʬʶʥʬ˝ ʷʩʡʩʩʠ ʯʥʠ ʲʷʩʷʲʸʹ ʩʣ , ʯʥʦ ʨʩʮ ʬʥ˦ ʱʰʢʲʸ ʩʣ , ʣʰʲˌʸʣ ʢʰʥʨʱʲ˦ ʩʣ - ʭʥʨʹ , ʯʬʩʮ ʲʨʬˋ ʩʩʥʥʶ ʯʥ˦ ʬʢʩʬ˦ ʲʣʩʮ ʩʣ . ʸʲʱʩʩʷ ʯʥ˦ ʱʩʥʸˋ ʯʸʲʣʰˋʥʥ ʱʲʡʮʲʣ ʩʣ - ʣˌʱ , ʪ‫ٷ‬ʨ ʯʸʲʡʩʠ ʨʷʥʶ ʸʲʣʥʸ ʸʲʣ , ʸʲʣ ʨʫʸˌʹ ʸʲʣʥʸ : “ ʣˌʹ ˋ , ʣˌʹ ˋ ” . ʱ ʯʥʠ ' ʯʸˋʥʥʬʥʡ ʲʷʩʣʩʩʬ ʩʣ ʯʶʲʰʲʢ , ʯʸˋʥʥˌʮˋʱ ʲʷʩʣʰʲʹʨʹʩʬʡ ʯʥ˦ ʩʩʨ ʸʲʣ ʨʮˌʸʨʹ ʷʩʨʫʲʮ , ʨʫʩʬʹʨʰʲʡ ʸʲʡʩʠ , ʺʥʰʩʧˢ , ʪʲʬʷʩʰʩʩʠ — ʱʲʡˌʡ ʩʣ ʯʥ˦ ʪʲʬ˦ʩʩʬʹ ʩʣ ʲʩʢʸˌ ʯˋ ʯʩʠ , ʯʥ˦ ʯʲʮʲʰ ʩʣ ʵʬˋ ʯʲʹʨ˝ʲʹ ʯ˝ʩʬ ʲʰʩʣ ʯʥʠ ʺʥˤˌ ʩʣ . ʹ ʸʲʨʹʩʮʲʢ˦ʩʥʠ ʯʥʠ ʣʸʲʡ ʩʣ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʢʰʩ˦ ʯʹʩʨ ʳʩʥʠ ” ʱ ʱ ʯʥʠ ' ʱˋʡ ˋ ʱʨʰʲʣʥʨʱ ˋ ʨʩʮ ʪʩʦ ʯʥʢʩʰ ʸʲʣ ʨʫʲʬ˦ . ʪʲʬʨʸʲʢ ʯʩʠ — ʯʲʮʥʬʡʰʥʦ , ʲʣʲʦʲʸ , ʯˌʮ , ˝ʲʶ ʲʣʰˌʬʡ , ʱʲʣʸˋʷˌʷ , ʯˌʱʣˋʰ ʯʥʠ ʯʩʷʹʥ˝ . ʢʰʥʸʲʮʲʣ ʸʲʨʩʥʸ ʯʩʠ ʯʥʠ , ʲʷʩʣʬ˝ʲʰ ʵʬˋ ʣʩʩʸ ʨʩʮ ʸ , ʸʲʬʩʨʹ , ʬʣʩ˦ ʯʸˋʡʨʫʩʦʮʥʠ ʯˋ ʪˌʰ ʩʥʥ - ʸʲʬʩ˝ʹ 1 135 BRISK (BREST-LITOVSK) 1 The old city, small and gray, is dead now, like Athens and like Troy. But lovingly, painfully, with soft breath sometimes I conjure up her shadow: the streets in slow gait, without will, the scary and always sudden Aprils, the rainstorms full of sun, the fortress menacingly still, the weary wings of two old mills. The oaks wandering out of the emperor’s orchard, the paddle drawing on the river, the paddle whispering: “A pity, a pity”. And the empty boulevards yawn. Tea streams powerfully from sparkling samovars, amid Sabbath candles, women’s prayer books, grandchildren— in an orgy of ribbons, the bobes, thin-lipped, constantly whisper the names of the oves. Fingering their beards, the sacred books open on tables the melody blends with the basso of a student. In the tiny gardens—sunflowers, rezedas, poppies, blonde braids, beribboned cockades, Pushkin and Nadson.* In the crimson dusk, talk mistier, quieter, couples pair off into the fields. * Russian poet Semyon Yakovlevich Nadson (1862–1887) dedicated one of his poems to raise funds in aid of devastated Jewish communities. 136 ʨʩʰ ʯʢʲʥʥ - ʲʨʥʢ , ʸʲʰ‫ٷ‬ʢʩʶ ʯʢʲʥʥ . ʯʨˌʹ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʣʰʩʷ ʯʲʩʩʨʹ ʢʰˋʬ , ʯʸʲʨˋʬ˦ , ʯ˦ˌʤ , ʸʲʰ‫ٷ‬ʢʩʶ ˋ ʩʩʦ ʨ˦ˋʫ ʣʬˋʡ ʦˋ . ʱʲʸʨˋ˝ˌʲʬʷ ʲʰʩʩʬʷ ʸʲʨʩʥʬ , ʯʶ˦ʥ˦ - ʱʰʩʬ‫ٷ‬ʸ˦ ʲʷʩʸʲʩ , ʯʬˌʱˋʸˋ˝ ʯʥʠ ʱʲʷʹʨʰʲʤ ʨʩʮ ʯʲʩʩʬˋ ʸʲʡʩʠ ʪʲʬʸʩʶ ʯʲʮʩʥʥʹ , ʲʑ ʩʶ ʬˋ˒ʥʥ ʭʲʣ ˝ˌʸˋ ʯʥʠ ʳʩʥʸˋ ʯ , ʸʲʨʸʲʥʥ ʢʰʲʸʨʹ ʯʸʲʤ , ʯʹʥʷ ʱˌʥʥ , ʯʥʠ “ ʥʹʥʣ ʥʩˌʮ ʩʱˌʰʥʠ ʬˋʣ ʥʩ˒ʰʣʥʹʨ ʥʨ ʥʥ ... ” * ʯʢˌʨ‫ٷ‬ʡ ʲʣʰʣʰʲʬʡ . ʯʲʬʮʲʸʣ ʸʲʮʲʸʷ ʲʬˋ . ʯʲʬʮʲʸʣ ʸʲʩʩʢ ʲʬˋ . ʣʬʲ˦ ʯʩʠ ʪʩʦ ʪʲʬʸˌ˝ ʯʲʩʶ . ʸʲʩʥʸʨ ʸʲʷʩʣʢʰʩʬʩʸ˦ ʬʩ˦ ʩʥʦˋ ʵʬˋ ʸʲʡʩʠ ʯʥʠ , ʸʲʮʩʹ , ʦʲʡ ʯʥ˦ ʧʩʸ ʸʲʣ . 2 ʯʲʩʥʸ˦ ʲʢʰʥʩ ʯʬʲʥʥʹ ʩʣ ʳʩʥʠ ʨʫˋʰ ‫ٷ‬ʡ ʲʰʹʨʲʨˋʨʱ ʯʥʠ ʨ˦ʩʨʸˋ˦ ʯʣʲʸ ʣʰˋʬʹʨ‫ٷ‬ʣ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʰʲʮ ʩʣ ʯʢʲʥʥ , 2 137 As if in tune with an invisible fiddler. And over all this springlike sadness shimmers the scent of lilacs. 2 Young women on the doorsteps in the evening speak with solemn intensity about their men in Germany, about ghosts, about gypsies. Children stand a long time in the shadows, aflutter and hoping that soon a gypsy will spirit them away. Innocent little Cleopatras, fifteen-year-old frauleins with gloves and parasols glide ornamentally along the avenues, raising and lowering their veils, listening to strong words that kiss and “carry off my soul to the bright distance.” * Dazzling days. Storekeepers drowsing. Passersby drowsing. 138 ʭʲʸʥʨʹ ˋ ʩʥʥ ʬˌʮ ˋ ʷʩʣʶ ˋ ʪʩʦ ʨʢˌʸʨ ʯʲʮʲʸʡ ʲʣʰ˦ˌʸʨʹ ʨʩʮ . ʪʩʦ ʯʢʩʩʰ ʯʱˋʢ ʩʣ ʭʩʸʥʧʡ ʩʣ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʠ ʭʲʨˌ ʭʲʣ ʯʨʬˋʤ . ʨʰʥʸʢʸʲʨʰʩʤ ʯʩʠ ʯʨˋʣʬˌʱ , ʯʸʩʶʩ˦ˌ ʲʩʬˋʷ ʯʫˋʮ ʨ˦ˋʹʣʰˋʬ ʲʹʩʣʑ ʩʩ ʩʣ . ʩʩʱˌʹ ʯʨˋʡʸˌʤ ʯ˦ʩʥʠ ʨʸʲʰʥʣ ʩʩʥʥʡˌʱ ˋ ʩʥʥ ʷʩʹʨʹˌʥʥʦʩʠ ʸʲʮˋʦʰʩʩʠ ʯˋ . ˌ , ʨˌʨʹ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʮ ʯʥ˦ ʯʣʮˋʦ ʲʫʩʩʥʥ . ʯʦʩʥʸʩʩʨ ʯʥʠ ʱʲʡʮʲʣ . ʨʩʥʸʡ ʹʩʸ˦ ʯʥ˦ ʧʩʸ ʸʲʣ ʩʥʥ ʨʩʥʸʡ ʹʩʸ˦ ʯʥ˦ ʧʩʸ ʸʲʣ ʩʥʥ ʯʢʸˌʮʩʸ˦ ʯʣʲʩ ʦʩʠ ʯʱˋʢ ʲʬˋ ʯʩʠ ʸʲʡʩʨʹ ʯʥʠ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʣ “ ʯʢʸˌʮ ʨʥʢ ! ” * ” ʸʲʷʩʨʫʩʬ ʯʩʠ ʤʮʹʰ ʯ‫ٷ‬ʮ ʷʲʥʥˋ ʢˌʸʨ ʨ‫ٷ‬ʥʥ ” . 139 Sometimes, a pious Jew storms along with chastising eyebrows. Streets sway, young men hold their breath. In the background soldiers and officers despoil the Jewish landscape. On the rutted highway a lonely coach thunders like a subway. Oh, soft sands of my city. Oaks and tea roses. Like the smell of fresh bread every day in all the streets and houses is your “good morning!” bobes—grandmothers oves—Biblical patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob ...