Paper Bridges: Selected Poems of Kadya Molodowsky

V. Strike

V Strike Like horses after heated battle, the machines Stand silently in a row, Caught in the last run of thin needles. A pedal waits for the touch of a foot. The seamstresses with feverish eyes, Their shoulders in shawls. The door is—expecting. The window—lurking. The day is weird, Irksome And gray. Sheyndl Kanarey speaks loudly: (Her beret's blackness Sharpens the paleness of her face.) —Someone needs to stand guard here at night, That cross-eyed Pshenytsa Might devise some plan. Pshenytsa does not enter the cellar. He comes and goes through the yard (His loose cloak flapping like a flag), As if he had figured it all out by heart, And as if he had something to do here. Bright and early in the morning, Sheyndl Kanarey Confronts the cellar all locked up. A white note scalds: "For Rent."111 Pshenytsa has moved his factory to Lodz, (And Pshenytsa's wife meanwhile has travelled off to Nalentshov.)112 301 nynVxn x ]^x^tr; x ] ^ f p px W J ''itx DID " j y aTOXD]ix) D ]tr» t?xn no D^ lyVyp px i^-nx rx px nyars JTTX ]ixn DJ; H »a x •BS x 1 113 CTIX 302 A wagon arrived in the dark just before dawn, And took away the heads of the machines. Through the window panes, Where flies buzz and doze, Sheyndl Kanarey sees The feet of the machines, dust and mould. For a while, Sheyndl Kanarey looks. Across her lips passes a half-smile, half-grimace. —Well, look at that! Our Pshenytsele's stolen our machines. She shoves the beret higher on her head, And takes a slender locksmith's crowbar (And although this is not done in refined poems— Sheyndl Kanarey does this) She pries off the lock from top to bottom. The seamstresses pour toward her, To watch. Sheyndl Kanarey Gives the door a kick with her foot And enters the cellar with calm, ordinary steps, Exactly as if she were the proprietress. She sits down at her machine. Her fingers, swift and thin, Work at the pedals. She unscrews them, meditates a while As if she were saying something to them, Settling an account with them, Balancing the books. After that she slowly, without haste, Disconnects the pedal of Pesl's machine. And then, of Sarah the blonde's machine— Freydke prepares her own machine More excitedly, Faster— And both come out of the cellar. 303 "ixixp Vwti; t?xn'D ^ 3 inxn ]nK n S rx n DXH ^EX^XD s x •m x •'n x mix * - f yiys x ^na pnsiw px •pyayn: nynixt?xp H Tins DID IX 304 Sheyndl Kanarey carries the twelve pedals Lightly with straight, young steps. Her face is white. Her eyes glow blue. She leaves the yard. The women who ran the machines poke after her. Penetrating with feverish gazes. Then cross-eyed Pshenytsa races Across the yard. His gray cloak fans out Like a wing, Like a noose. —He will smash her! Such things don't happen in factories. He will—he will have her deported— Three days later Sheyndl Kanarey With seven gildens, And a slice of black bread— Crosses the Katovitz border on foot. 305 pa ,7X px H nytnjni n pn&yx sxn y oxn ,iTfin x p^px Dyix^n ojr p§ nya^w pS§ 7X )jrr~n pnynn* ^ITX px px nyTmyi Ta rx oy px 7Ta DIIX ^ny^ oxi ps x ^n xpixiy^ nyi "prr tj^iV ma ppT^snKS px 306 ...