וואָס נאַכטהעמד קען ניט פֿאַרשטעלן.
that a nightgown cannot hide.
Work 261 of 440
Page 316. 'Tate-Legende' conclusion. Mother's loneliness 'vos nakhthemd ken nit farshteln' (that a nightgown cannot hide) — visible through poverty's thin garment. The father at the oven 'mit haldz mit geshtrektn' (with neck stretched), 'gorgl fun dorshtikayt trukn' (throat dry from thirst) — the exhausted baker. He 'shtekht' (pokes/stabs) his beard 'vi men shtekht mit an aker' (as one pokes with a plough) into his own body, into the dough, into mother's 'tseknontene fis' (knotted feet) and 'ibergesholene shulter' (swollen shoulders) — the baker's labor as self-crucifixion. 'Kh'hob gevolt — nu iz vos?' (I wanted — so what?) — resignation. The oven and kneading trough remain, but 'tate-mame — nit mayne' (father-mother — not mine) stand at the threshold. He knows where his parents are, 'un fundestvegn freg ikh' (and nevertheless I ask). Only 'a shtumer kuk' (a mute look) and 'a trukener shlung' (a dry swallow) answer. Through 'geselekh shtetlshe' (shtetl alleys) 'bafutste mit fon mit sovetisher' (adorned with Soviet flag), through 'kindishn toyer' (childhood gate), he has come to say: 'tate — nit mes, nor legende' (father — not dead, but legend).
וואָס נאַכטהעמד קען ניט פֿאַרשטעלן.
אָדערלעך.
ווען פֿון אַן עלנט אַזוינעם האָט ווער נאָך געוואוסט?
און דו, אינעם פֿלאַקער,
מיט האַלדז מיט געשטרעקטן,
מיט גאָרגל פֿון דאָרשטיקייט טרוקן,
שטעכסטו דײַן באָרד, ווי מען שטעכט מיט אַן אַקער,
אין אייגענער ברוסט און אין רוקן,
אין טייג און אין מולטער,
אין מאַמעס צעקנאָטענע פֿיס,
און איבערגעשוואָלענע שולטער — — —
כ'האָב געוואָלט —
נו איז וואָס?
דער אויוון איז דאָ,
די מולטער איז דאָ.
אויף הויף־טיר דער זעלביקער שלאָס,
אויף שוועל טאַטע־מאַמע — ניט מײַנע.
און מײַנע וואו זײַנען?
איך ווייס. — און פֿונדעסטוועגן פֿרעג איך.
און ענטפֿערן ענטפֿערט
ניט קיין ליפּ, ניט קיין צונג,
נאָר אַ שטומער קוק פֿון אַן אויג
און אַ טרוקענער שלונג.
איך זאָג:
— אַ גוטן — —
די וועלט — אַ צעלויכטענע,
בײַ דער מיל — אַ צעקנוילטער בית־עולם.
דורך געסעלעך שטעטלשע,
באַפֿוצטע מיט פֿאָן מיט סאָוועטישער,
דורך קינדישן טויער —
פֿון ווײַטע פֿון לענדער,
דורך וואַנדלונג און ענדער,
בין געקומען זאָגן
גוט מאָרגן דיר, טאַטע,
טאַטע —
ניט מת,
נאָר לעגענדע.
Vos nakhthemd ken nit farshteln.
Oderlekh.
Ven fun an elnt azoynem hot ver nokh gevust?
Un du, inem flaker,
mit haldz mit geshtrektn,
mit gorgl fun dorshtikayt trukn,
shtekhstu dayn bord, vi men shtekht mit an aker,
in eygener brust un in rukn,
in teyg un in multer,
in mames tseknontene fis,
un ibergesholene shulter — — —
Kh'hob gevolt —
nu iz vos?
Der oyvn iz do,
di multer iz do.
Oyf hoyf-tir der zelbiker shlos,
oyf shvel tate-mame — nit mayne.
Un mayne vu zaynen?
Ikh veys. — un fundestvegn freg ikh.
Un entfern entfert
nit keyn lip, nit keyn tsung,
nor a shtumer kuk fun an oyg
un a trukener shlung.
Ikh zog:
— a gutn — —
Di velt — a tseloykhtene,
bay der mil — a tseknoylter beys-oylem.
Durkh geselekh shtetlshe,
bafutste mit fon mit sovetisher,
durkh kindishn toyer —
fun vayte fun lender,
durkh vandlung un ender,
bin gekumen zogn
gut morgn dir, tate,
tate —
nit mes,
nor legende.
that a nightgown cannot hide.
Little veins.
When has anyone known of such loneliness?
And you, in the flame,
with neck stretched out,
with throat dry from thirst,
you poke your beard, as one pokes with a plough,
into your own chest and back,
into dough and into kneading trough,
into mother's knotted feet,
and swollen shoulders — — —
I wanted —
well, so what?
The oven is here,
the kneading trough is here.
On the courtyard door the same lock,
on the threshold father-mother — not mine.
And where are mine?
I know. — and nevertheless I ask.
And answering answers
no lip, no tongue,
only a mute look from an eye
and a dry swallow.
I say:
— good day — —
The world — illuminated,
by the mill — a coiled cemetery.
Through shtetl alleys,
adorned with Soviet flag,
through childhood gate —
from distant lands,
through wandering and ends,
I have come to say
good morning to you, father,
father —
not dead,
but legend.
Page 316. 'Tate-Legende' conclusion. Mother's loneliness 'vos nakhthemd ken nit farshteln' (that a nightgown cannot hide) — visible through poverty's thin garment. The father at the oven 'mit haldz mit geshtrektn' (with neck stretched), 'gorgl fun dorshtikayt trukn' (throat dry from thirst) — the exhausted baker. He 'shtekht' (pokes/stabs) his beard 'vi men shtekht mit an aker' (as one pokes with a plough) into his own body, into the dough, into mother's 'tseknontene fis' (knotted feet) and 'ibergesholene shulter' (swollen shoulders) — the baker's labor as self-crucifixion. 'Kh'hob gevolt — nu iz vos?' (I wanted — so what?) — resignation. The oven and kneading trough remain, but 'tate-mame — nit mayne' (father-mother — not mine) stand at the threshold. He knows where his parents are, 'un fundestvegn freg ikh' (and nevertheless I ask). Only 'a shtumer kuk' (a mute look) and 'a trukener shlung' (a dry swallow) answer. Through 'geselekh shtetlshe' (shtetl alleys) 'bafutste mit fon mit sovetisher' (adorned with Soviet flag), through 'kindishn toyer' (childhood gate), he has come to say: 'tate — nit mes, nor legende' (father — not dead, but legend).
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