Симфония нp. 13 "Бабий Яр" / Symphony no. 13 "Babi Yar" / Sinfonia n° 13 "Babi Yar"
Dmitrij Dmitrievič Šostakovič / Дмитрий Дмитриевич Шостакович| English translation / Aнглийский перевод / תרגום לאנגלית ... | |
באבי יאר עַל בַּאבִּי יָאר אֵין מַצֵּבוֹת, אֵין כְּלוּם מִדְרוֹן תָּלוּל – אַנְדַּרְטָה מֵעַל פֶּצַע אֲנִי יָרֵא. אֲנִי מַרְגִּישׁ קָדוּם כְּמוֹ הַיְּהוּדִים עַצְמָם, כְּמוֹ עַם הַנֶּצַח אֲנִי לוֹחֵשׁ: עִבְרִי אָנוֹכִי. לְאֹרֶךְ הַיְאוֹר אֲנִי פּוֹסֵעַ, שְׁנִייָה אַחַת – וְעַל הַצְּלָב גוֹוֵעַ הַמַּסְמֵרִים עֲדַיִן בְּתוֹכִי נִדְמֶה לִי גַּם שֶׁדְּרַיְיפוּס – זֶה אֲנִי. הַנֶּאֱשָׁם בְּבֵית מִשְׁפָּט שְׂטָנִי מֻצָּג לְרַאֲוָה בֵּין סוֹרָגִים אוֹתִי רוֹדְפִים, עַָלַי יוֹרְקִים, לִי לוֹעֲגִים. גְּבִירוֹת צָרְפָתִיוֹת צוֹוְחוֹת כְּמוֹ חֲזִירִים וּמִטְרִיוֹת תּוֹקְעוֹת לִי בַּפָּנִים בְּבְּיָאלִיסְטוֹק – אֲנִי הוּא יֶלֶד רַךְ. הַדָּם זוֹרֵם, כְּאִלּוּ תְּעָלָה. צוֹהֶלֶת כָּל נִבְחֶרֶת הַפֻּנְדָּק, מְחֻמָּמִים בַּוּוֹדְקָה הַזּוֹלָה. מֻכֶּה, נִזְרָק, אֲנִי – חֲסַר עוֹנִים וּמִתְחַנֵּן לַשָּׁוְא "תַּפְסִיקוּ, דַּי!" "תַּצִּיל אֶת רוּסִיָה, הֲרֹג יְהוּדוֹנִים!" וְהֵם… אוֹנְסִים אֶת אִמָּא מוּל עֵינַי אָחַי הָרוּסִים! יָדוּעַ לִי: כָּבוֹד לְכָל אוּמָה יֵשׁ בְלִּבֵּנוּ אַךְ אֵיךְ קָרָה, שֶׁהַמְּנֻוָּלִים לְכָל מַעֲשֵׂיהֶם נִצְּלוּ אֶת שְׁמֵנוּ? אֶת טוּב הַלֵּב אַרְצִי סִמְּלָה תָּמִיד. אַךְ בְּלִי הִסּוּס, בְּלִי שׁוּם קְרִיצָה אוֹ קֶמֶט בְּשֵׁם יָפֶה "בְּרִית עֲמָמִית רוּסִית" כָּךְ אֶת עַצְמָם כִּנּוּ הָאַנְטִישֶׁמִים! עַל בַּאבִּי יָאר הַדֶּשֶׁא מְרַשְׁרֵשׁ וְהָעֵצִים עוֹמְדִים כְּמוֹ בְּמִשְׁמֶרֶת הַכָּל מָלֵא בָּרַעַם הַחִרֵשׁ אֲנִי מַרְגִּישׁ אֵיךְ שֵׂיבָתִי נוֹשֶׁרֶת וְגַם אֲנִי כְּמוֹ הַצְּוָחָה הַחֲרִישִׁית מֵעַל הָרְבָבוֹת אֵי שָׁם בַּקֶּבֶר אֲנִי – כָּל יֶלֶד שֶׁנּוֹרָה כָּאן, בְּתַחְתִּית וְכָל קָשִׁישׁ, וְכָל אִשָּׁה וָגֶבֶר. שׁוּם מְאוֹרָע אֶת כָּל זֶה לֹא יַשְׁכִּיחַ! וְעוֹד יֻשְׁמַע "אִינְטֶרְנָצִיוֹנָל" שָׁלֵם בָּרֶגַע הַנִּפְלָא שֶׁעוֹד יַגִּיעַ – אַחְרוֹן הָאַנְטִישֵׁמִים יֵעָלֵם! אֵין גֵּנִים יְהוּדִים בְּתוֹךְ דָמִי, אֲבָל שָׂנוּא אֲנִי בָּרֹעַ הָאַרְסִי לָאַנְטִישֵׁמִים, כְּמוֹ כָּל יְהוּדִי וּמִשּׁוּם כָּךְ – אֲנִי הוּא הָרוּסִי! | 1.Babi Yar Adagio Over Babi Yar there are no monuments. The steep precipice is like a crude gravestone. I am terrified. I am as old today As all Jewish people. Now I imagine that I'm a Jew. Here I wander through ancient Egypt. And here, on the cross, crucified, I perish. And still I have on me the marks of the nails. I imagine myself to be Dreyfus. The Philistine - my informer and judge. I am behind bars. I am surrounded. Persecuted, spat on, slandered. And dainty ladies in Brussels frills, Squealing, poke their parasols into my face. I imagine myself the boy from Belostok. Blood flows, running over the floors. The rabble-rousers in the tavern commit their outrages Reeking of vodka and onions, half and half. Kicked by a boot, I lie helpless. In vain I plead with the pogrom-makers. Accompanied by jeers: "Beat the Yids, save Russia!" A grain merchant batters my mother. O my Russian people, I know you Are innately international But often those whose hands were vile In vain used your purest name. I know the goodness of my land. What base lowness - without a quiver of a vein The anti-Semites proclaimed themselves "The Union of the Russian People!" I imagine myself as Anne Frank, Transparent as a sprig in April, And I love, and have no need for phrases, But I do need for us to gaze into each other. How little one can see, or smell! Leaves - we cannot have, Sky - we cannot have, But there is so much we can have - To embrace tenderly in a darkened room. "They're coming!" "Don't be afraid, those are the booming sounds Of Spring itself. It's coming here. Come to me, Quickly, give me your lips!" "They're breaking the door!" "No, it's the ice breaking..." Over Babi Yar the wild grasses rustle. The trees look sternly as if in judgement. Here everything screams silently and, taking off my hat I feel I am slowly turning grey. And I myself am one long soundless cry. Above the thousand thousands buried here. I am every old man here shot dead. I am every child here shot dead. Nothing in me will ever forget this. The "Internationale" - let it thunder When forever will be buried The last of the anti-Semites on earth. There is no Jewish blood in mine, But I am adamantly hated By all anti-Semites as if I were a Jew. That is why I am a true Russian!  Belsen Mary Kessel, 1945 - London, IWM 2.Humor Allegretto Tsars, kings, emperors, Rulers of the world, Commanded parades But humor - humor they could not. To the palaces of the eminent Who, well groomed, all day reclined. Came the vagabond Aesop And before him all appeared impoverished. In homes where a hypocrite left traces Of his puny feet, And this banality Hadji Nasr-ed-Din Swept aside with his jokes like a chessboard. They wanted to buy humor. Only he cannot be bought! They wanted to kill humor. But humor thumbed his nose. To battle him is tough business. They executed him endlessly. Humor's severed head Was stuck on a warrior's pike. Just when the buffoons' pipes Would start their tale He would brightly cry: "I'm here." And would break into a dashing dance. In a threadbare scanty coat, Crestfallen and as if repenting, Caught as a political prisoner He would go to his execution. His appearance displayed obedience, Ready for his life hereafter, When suddenly he would slip out of his coat Waiving [1]his hand And bye-bye! They hid humor in cells, But like hell they succeeded[2]. Iron bars and stone walls He would pass right through. Cleaning his throat from the cold, Like an ordinary soldier He marched as a simple ditty With a rifle for the Winter Palace. He is used to stern glances, But it does not hurt him. And humor looks upon himself At times with humor. He is everlasting. He is smart. And nimble. He will walk through everything and everybody. And so, glory to humor! He is a courageous fellow.  One of the death pits ,1945 Leslie Cole - London, IWM 3. In the Store Adagio Some in shawls, some kerchiefs, As if to a heroic feat or labor Into the store one by one Women silently enter. Oh, the clanking of the cans, The clanging of the bottles and saucepans. The smell of onions and cucumbers, The smell of "Kabul" sauce. I shiver queuing for the cashier But as I keep moving closer From the breathing of so many women It gets warmer in the store. They wait silently, The family's kind gods, As they clutch in their hands The hard-earned money. These are women of Russia, They are our honor and our conscience. They have mixed concrete And ploughed and reaped. They have endured everything. They will endure everything. Everything on earth is possible for them, They have been given so much strength. It is shameful to short-change them. It is sinful to short-weigh them. And, shoving dumplings into my pocket, I look, solemn and quiet, At their weary-from-shopping, Saintly hands.  Contro il filo, Auschwitz Jerzy Adam Brandhuber - Drawings from Nazi Concentration Camps 4. Fears Largo In Russia fears are dying Like the ghosts of yesteryears. Only on church steps here and there like old women They are begging for bread. I remember fears being in power and force At the court of triumphant lie. Fears like shadows slithered everywhere, Infiltrated every floor. Gradually they tamed the people And on everything affixed their seal. Where silence should be, they taught screaming, They taught silence, where shouting would be right. This, today, has become distant, It is strange even to recall it now. The secret fear at someone informing, The secret fear at a knock at the door. Then, a fear to speak to a foreigner; Foreigner - nothing, even with one's own wife. And unaccountable fear, after marches, To remain alone with silence, eye to eye. We did not fear to build in snowstorms, To march into battle under fire. But we deathly feared at times To talk to ourselves We did not get demoralized or corrupted, And it is not without reason That Russia, having conquered her own fears, Spreads even greater fear in her enemies. I see new fears arising, The fear of being insincere to the country, The fear of degrading the ideas That are truth in themselves. The fear of bragging until stupor, The fear of repeating someone else's words, The fear of belittling others with distrust And to trust oneself excessively. In Russia fears are dying. As I write these lines, And at times unwittingly hurry, I write them with the single fear Of not writing at full speed.  Human Laundry ,1945 Doris Zinkeisen - London, IWM 5. Career Allegretto The clergy maintained that Galileo Was a wicked and senseless man. Galileo was senseless. But, as time demonstrated, He who is senseless is much wiser. A fellow scientist of Galileo's age Was no less wise than Galileo. He knew that the earth revolved. But - he had a family. And he, stepping into a carriage with his wife, Having accomplished his betrayal, Considered himself advancing his career, Whereas he undermined it, For his assertion of our planet Galileo faced the risk alone And became truly great. Now this To my mind, this is a true careerist! Thus - salute to the career! When the career is similar To Shakespeare and Pasteur, Newton and Tolstoy, And Tolstoy. Leo? Leo! Why was mud flung at them? Talent is talent, brand them as one may. Those who cursed them are forgotten. But the accursed are remembered well, All those who yearned for the stratosphere, The doctors who perished fighting cholera, They were pursuing a career! I take as an example their careers. I believe in their sacred belief. Their belief is my courage. I pursue my career By not pursuing it! |
[1] Israeliano: traduttore, artista e matematico
[Riccardo Gullotta]