Home

Es Brent!
עס ברענט (גיבירטיג)

Es brent! Briderlekh, s'brent!
Oy undzer orem shtetl, nebokh, brent!
Beyze vintn mit yirgozn
Raysn brekhn un tzeblozn
Shtarker nokh di vilde flamen,
Alts arum shoyn brent!

Un ir shteyt un kukt azoy zikh
Mit verlegter hent
Un ir shteyt un kukt azoy zikh
Undzer shtetl brent.

S'brent, briderlekh, s'brent!
Oy undzer orem shtetl nebekh brent
S'hobn shoyn di fartzungen
S'gantze shtetl aygengetzungen
Un di beyze vintn hudzhen
S'gantze shtetl brent!

Un ir shteyt un kukt azoy zikh . . .

S'brent briderlekh s'brent!
Di hilf iz nor in aykh aleyn gevendt
Oyb dos shtetl iz aykh tayer
Lesht mit ayer eign blut
Bavayzt az ir dos kent

Shteyt nit brider ot azoy zikh
Mit farleygte hent
Shteyt nit brider lesht dos fayer
Undzer shtetl brent!

2.  I Once Had A Home
Author: Mordkhaï Gebirtig (1877-1942)
Composer: Emil Gorovets (1926-2001) 

Oh, once I had a home to comfort me
And made a living as a poor man should.
My roots were tightly wound around a tree,
In poverty lived there as best I could.

They came with malice, hatred and with death,
And took the humble house that once was mine.
The years I spent to build it, in one breath
To rubble smashed it in a moment’s time.

Oh, once I had a place to eat, a house.
So quietly lived there for many years,
And there I had good comrades all about,
A house that overflowed with song and cheer.

And then they came along, a plague of pests,
They chased me from my town with wife and child.
And left without a home, without a nest,
Not knowing why or what I had defiled.

Once I had a home, pain’s left for me.
My ruin was their ultimate design.
To find another home how hard to see—
Where I should go and for how long a time.

They came with malice, hatred and with death . . .

Gehat Hob Ikh A Heym
געהאַט האָב איך אַ הײם (גאָראָװעטס)

Gehat hob ikh a heym, a shtikl roym.
A bisl virtshaft, vi bay oreme layt.
Tsugebundn vortslen tsu a boym
Hob ikh mikh mit mayn bisl oremkeyt.

Gekumen zaynen zey mit has un toyt.
Mayn orem shtikl heym vos ikh farmog.
Vos ikh mit mi hob yorn lang geboyt.
Farnikhtet hobn zey dos in eyn tog.

Gehat hob ikh a heym, a shtibl un a kikh.
Un shtil gelebt azoy likh yom lang.
Gehat fil gute fraynd, khaveyrim arum zikh.
A shtibl ful mit lider un gezang.

Gekumen zaynen zey, vi kumen volt a pest.
Aroysgeyogt fun shtot mit vayb un kind.
Geblibn on a heym vi feygl on a nest
Nisht - visndik far vos, far velkhe zind?

Gehat hob ikh a heym, itst hob ikh zi nisht mer.
A shpil geven far zey mayn untergang
Ikh zukh itst a naye heym, nor shver-oy leyer shyer.
Un kh’veys nisht vu-un khveys nisht af vi lang.

Gekumen zaynen zey mit has un toyt.

3.  Geto
Author: Kasriel Broydo (1907-45)
Composer: (unknown)

We stand by the wall,
with our hearts cramped up,
and our hand listless at our side
like a weeping willow tree.
Eyes stare,
and sink deep in the distance;
it remains in them the scar
of endlessness...

And it's hard to see the world
through narrow walls
the stones have closed
the ghetto doors.
But just close your eyes
and you can see everything as if in a dream,
it appears before you:
the great wide world.

Ghetto! I will never forget you, never.
An echo is your heartful, sad song.

I see, there, your tears
your sorrow your pain,
and I hear your lamentation:
"what will happen, what will be?"
Your narrow ghetto streets cramp me,
and my heart is driven away
but nevertheless, though it hurts,
you are still dear to me...

Geto!
געטאָ
 

Mir shteyen bay di vent
Mit hertser mit farklemte,
Mit aropgelozte hent,
Vi bay a veynendiker verbe.
Es kukn oygn shtar
Un zinken ayn tif in der vatkayt
Un s'blaybt in zey der tsar
Di eybikayt.

Shver tzu zen di velt
durkh enge moern,
Di shayn hobn farshtelt
Di geto-toyern
Farmakhst di oygn nor,
Dan zestu alts, vi in a kholem,
S'dershaynt vi af der vor  
Di groyse velt.

Geto! dikh fargesn vel ikh ken mol nit.
Eykho—iz dayn hartsike troy’ rik lid.

Kh'ze do dayne trern,
Dayne umet, dayn payn,
Kh'her do dayn gebet:
Vos vet zayn? Vos vet zayn?
In dayne geto geslekh iz mir eng
Dos hartz azoy batribt
Un hotsch kh'farshtey, S'tut vey
Dokh iz mir azoy lib.

4.  The Street Singer of the Warsaw Ghetto
Author: Reuven Lifshutz (1918-75)
Composer: Traditional

I play the barrel organ,
I play with courage and skill,
I play with courage and skill.
Tomorrow Treblinka may beckon,
Oh, there we'll become an ash hill.

A good morning, people passing,
Throw us a crust of bread!
Throw us a crust of bread!
Then God will send his blessing;
And from want you will be shed.

I once had a father, mother,
Three pretty sisters so dear:
Three pretty sisters so dear:
They're gone with smoke and fire,
And I am left all alone here.

Our hunger is our torment,
With the dead the roads are paved,
With the dead the roads are paved,
Oh, Jews, you children of mercy,
One still wants to live out the day.

5.  Treblinka
Author and Composer: (unknown)

In a Polish town at the break of dawn
Is heard a scream, a clamor and a moan,
People half crazy, stirring about,
Suddenly a call—hey, Jew, get out!

Ukrainians, militia, full of police
To murder the Jews, this gives them peace;
There’s fear and there’s panic, they slaughter and maim,
They’re taking the Jews off to the train.

No pen can write how it feels,
The sound, motion of the wheels—
Cars packed, bodies strain.
Jews riding to their death in God’s name.

To Treblinka, to Treblinka.

Our brothers who live across the sea,
Can’t know our pain, our misery.
Cannot know how bitter, how our world’s bereft.
Each hour, each minute we face death.

People’s tears will soon be flowing
From their finding, from their knowing
A grave, largest in the world—
Jews, millions, rest in that soil.

In Treblinka, in Treblinka.

Treblinka
טרעבלינקע

In a klain Shtetl ganz morgen fartug
Es hert zech a Gejummer a Gewain in a Klug
Mentshen, halb nacket, fin di Betten arois
Jiden traibt men tsi di Ban arois!

Nisht bashraiben kenn di feder,
vi es draien zech di Raider!
Di Wagones zenen fill
Dort firt men di Yiden oif Kiddusch haSchem -

nuch Treblinka.

un indzere Brider fin yener zait Yam
Zai veln nisht wissen dem bitteren Tam
Zai kennen nisht wissen di bittere Noit
Az yedem Tug erwartet inds der Toit.

Taichen Treren veln rinnen,
as men vet amul gefinen
dem gresten Kaiver oif der Velt:
Dort ligen Millionen oif Kiddisch haSchem -

In Treblinka

6.  From the Twig a Tree Will Bloom
Author: Kasriel Broydo (1907-45)
Composer: Yankl Trupianski (1909-44)

How hard to believe the passing of winter
enveloped in rags and in cold.
A sunbeam has melted the frost from my window,
The world sends a greeting, behold.
A world bursts in bloom, and white blossoms it brings,
With little birds starting to chirp and to sing.

But for us it’s gray and somber,
Gloom hangs on every wall,
The sun throws us scanty sunbeams
In to our hands they fall.

Warms the tips of our fingers again,
And we take home little rays of sun,
With our spirits somehow lighter,
Time for singing, springing free.

A soft wind while hiding in crack or in crevice,
Confided to me on that day
That under the wood of the loose hanging gateway
The grass has arrived, it is May.
And also it told me, the grass grows so green,
It sends us its greetings and calls us, come in.

But for us it’s gray and somber…

Our father has left us to work in the city,
A pity how far he must go,
He promised o bring home a twig that is blooming
With buds that are white as the snow.
In crystal clear water it will stand in the room
And then from the little twig, a tree will bloom.

But for us it’s gray and somber…

7.  Quiet, Quiet
Author: Shmaryahu (Shmerke) Kaczerginski (1908-54)
Composer: Alexander Volkoviski (b. 1932)
(Also known as A. Tamir)

Quiet, quiet, let’s be silent.
Dead are growing here.
They were planted by the tyrant.
See their bloom appear.

All the roads lead to Ponar now,
There are no roads back.
And our father too has vanished,
And with him our luck.

Still, my child, don’t cry, my jewel,
Tears no help commands.
Our pain callous people
Never understand.

Seas and oceans have their order,
Prison also has its border.
But to our plight
There is no light,
There is no light.

Spring has come, the earth receives her—
But to us brings fall.
And the day is filled with flowers,—
To us darkness calls.

Autumn leaves with gold are softened,—
In us grow deep scars.
And a mother somewhere orphaned—
Her child—in Ponar.

Now the river too is prisoner—
Is enmeshed in pain—
While the blocks of ice tear through her,
To the ocean strain.

Still, things frozen melt, remember,
And cold winds to warmth surrender—
Future bring a smile—
So calls your child,
So calls your child.

Quiet, quiet, wells grow stronger
Deep within our hearts.
Till the gates are there no longer,
No sound must impart.

Child, rejoice not, it’s your smiling
That is not allowed,
Let the foe encounter springtime
As an autumn cloud.

Let the well flow gently onward,
Silent be and dream . . .
Coming freedom brings your father,
Slumber, child serene.

Shtiler, Shtiler
שטילער שטילער
 

Shtiler, shtiler, lomir shyaygn,
Kvorim vaksn do.
S’hobn zey farflantst di sonim:
Grinen zey tsum blo.

S’firn vegn tsu ponar tsu,
S’firt keyn veg tsurik.
Iz der tate vu farshvundn
Un mit im dos glik.

Shtiler, kind mains, veyn nit, oyster.
S’helft nit keyn geveyn,
Undzer umglik veln sonim
Say vi nit farshteyn.

S’hobn breges oykh di yamen,
S’hobn tfises oykhet stamen,
Nor tsu undzer payn
Keyn bisl shayn,
Keyn bisl shayn.

Friling afn land gekumen,—
Un undz harbst gebrakht.
Iz der tog haynt ful mit blume,—
Undz zet nor di nakht.

Goldikt shoyn der harbst af shtamen, —
Blit in undz der tsar;
Blaybt faryosemt vu a mame:
S’kind geyt af ponar.

Vi di vilye a geshmidte—
T’oykh geyokht in payn, —
Tsien kries ayz durkh lite
Itst in yam arayn.

S’vert der khoyshekh vu tserunen,
Fun der fintster laykhtn zunen—
Rayter, kum geshvind, —
Dikh ruft dayn kind,
Dikh ruft dayn kind.

Shtiler, shtiler, s’kveln kvaln
Undz in harts arum,
Bix der toyer vet nit faln
Zayn mir muzn shtum.

Frey nit, kind, zikh, s’iz dayn shmeykhl
Itst far undz farrat.
Zen dem friling lol der soyne
Vi in harbst a blat.

Zol der kval likh ruik flisn.
Shtiler zay un hof . . .
Mit der frayheyt kumt der tate,
Shlof zhe, kind mayn, shlof.

8. Under Your Starry Heaven
Author: Abraham Sutskever (b. 1913)
Composer: Abraham Brudno (?-1944)

Under your white starry heaven
Offer me your pale white hand,
All my words are flowing teardrops
I would place them in your hand.

Gone the luster from their brightness
Seen through morbid cellar view,
I no longer have my own space to reflect them back to you.
I no longer have my own space to reflect them back to you. 

Unter Dayne Vayse Shtern
אונטער דײַנע װײַסע שטערן

Unter dayne vayse shtern
Shtrek tsu mir dayn vayse hant.
Mayne verter zaynen trern
Viln ruen in dayn hant.

9.  Ani-Mamim (I Believe)
Author: based on the thirteen articles of faith by Moses Maimonides (1135-1204)
Composer: (unknown)

10. Moments of Hope
Author and Composer: Mordkhaï Gebirtig (1877-1942)

Jews, let us be cheerful!
It won't be long, don’t fear.
The war will soon be over,
Their end is very near.

Cheerful, don't you worry,
Don't go around so sad,
Have both hope and patience,
Just bear things and be glad.
Just bear things and be glad.

Ayday, Hope and patience,
Bear things and be glad.

Only hope and patience,
Don't let them out of hand,
Our ancient weapons help us
Together band.

Revel, dance, you butchers,
It won't be long, I hope.
Once there was a Haman,
For you, too, waits the rope.
For you, too, waits the rope.

Ayday, once a Haman,
You will get the rope.

Revel, dance, you butchers,
Jews their pain can bear,
Hardest work and strife

Will not our will impair.
Sweep then? We will sweep then!
As long as you may deem,
It’s in vain, the sweeping,
It never will come clean.

Ayday, though we sweep,
It never will come clean.

Wash then? We will wash then!
Cain’s bright red stain,
Washed will still remain.
Chase us from our dwellings,
We cut our beards and yell.
Jews, let us be cheerful,
We'll let them go to hell.

Minutn Fun Bitochn
מינוטן פֿון בּטחון

Yidn! Zol zayn freylekh!
Shoyn nisht lang, ikh hof
S'ekt bald di milkhome,
Es kumt bald zeyer sof.

Freylekh! Nor nisht zorgn
Un nisht arumgeyn trib
Hot geduld, bitokhn
Un nemt alts on far lib

Nor geduld, bitokhn
Nisht lozt aroys fun hant
Undzer alt klezayen,
Vos halt undz nokh baynand

Hulyet, tantst talyonim!
Shoyn nisht lang, ikh hof
Geven amol a homen
Es vart oyf aykh zayn sof.

Hulyet, tantst talyonim!
Laydn ken a yid
S've di shvertse arbet

Undz keyn mol makhn mid
Kern? Zol zayn kern!
Kolzman ir vet zayn,
Uz imzist dos kern
S'vet do nisht vern rayn

Vashn? Zol zayn vashn!
Kayins royter flek Hevls blut fun hartsn
Dos vasht zikh nisht avek
-Traybt undz fun di dires!
Shnaydt undz op di berd!
Yidn! Zol zayn freylekh
Mir hobn zey in d'rerd...

11. It’s One, Two, Three (and Ani Mamin reprise)
Author: Leyb Rozental (1916-44)
Composer: Weber

In the past it was life that beckoned,
A life with bright sunny days.
And so one and all without thought or recall,
Went gaily their own separate ways.

It’s one, two, three, it’s one, two, three,
When walking to work, time would fly,
Ev’ry step ringing strong, ev’ry road has its song,
When you know where you’re going and why.

Forbidden to us now the sidewalk,
Though others go at will, and free,
And we, you must know, on the stone roadway go,
Under whiplash and brutality.

It’s one, two, three, it’s one, two, three.
The roadway is where we pass by.
The step’s far from strong, with a difference in song,
When you’re going without knowing why.

The old people and the young ones
Built lives hoping joy lay ahead.
When a sharp sword was hurled,
Wiping dreams from the world,
And like the poor sheep we were led.

It’s one, two, three, it’s one, two, three.
While treated like sheep, we stood by.
Where’s your child, where’s your wife?
Where’s the reason for life?
No one knows the wherein or why
But brother a new kind of rhythm will bring to your ear a new song.
And the one, who in fear hid, afraid to come near,
Will be marching with us right along.

It’s one, two, three, it’s one, two, three.
To alleys and gateways goodby.
The step ringing strong brings a far different song,
When you go and you know the why!
Ev’ry step ringing strong brings a far different song,
When you go an you now know,
It’s one, two, three,
It’s Eins, Zwei, Drei!

Tsu Eyns, Tsvey, Dray
צו אײנס צװײ דרײַ
 

12.  Drowsing Birds
Author: Leah Rudnicki (1916-43)
Composer: Leyb Yampolski

Birds sit drowsing on the branches,
Sleep, my precious child.
By your cradle in your little nest
Sings a stranger by your side:
Lu-Lu, Lu-Lu, Lu.

Here your cradle had its dwelling
Laced with happiness in store,
And your mother, Oh, your mother,
Will return no more.
Lu-Lu, Lu-Lu, Lu.

Dremlen Feygl Di Tsvaygn
דרעמלען פֿױגל אױף די צװײַגן
 

Dremlen feygl af di tsvaygn.
Shlof, mayn tayer kind.
Bay dayn vigl, af dayn nare
Zitst a fremde un zingt:
Lyu-lyu, lyu-lyu, lyu.

S’iz dayn vigl vu geshtanen
Oysgeflokhtn fun glik,
Un dayn mame, oy dayn mame,
Kumt shoyn keyn mol nit tsurik.
Lyu-lyu, lyu-lyu, lyu.

13. Babi Yar
Author: Shike Driz (1908-71)
Composer: Riva Boyarsky (1894-1967)

Had I fastened the cradle on a rafter,
And rocked it, and rocked
My little son, my Yankl.

But the house has vanished
Into a fiery dome,
How then can I rock
My little son, my own?

Had I fastened
The cradle on a little tree
And rocked it and rocked it
My little son, my Shleyml.

But nothing was left,
Not a thread from a sheet;
Nothing remained
Not a shoestring for my feet.

Had I shorn my long braids
My hair untended,
Upon them the cradle,
The cradle suspended.

But where can I search for
The little bones to find them,
The little bones, the dear ones,
Of both my precious children?

Had I fastened
The cradle on a little tree
And rocked it and rocked it
My little son, my Shleyml.

Babi Yar
בּאַבּי יאַר
 

Volt ikh oyfgehangen dos vigl af a balkn
Un gehoydot, gehoydet
Mayn yingele, mayn yankl.

Iz di shtub antrunen
Mit a flam fayer
Vi zhe ken ikh hoyden
Mayn yingele, mayn tayern?

Volt ikh tsugebundn
Dos vigl af abeyml.
Un gehoydet, gehoydet
Mayn yingele, mein Shleymel.

Iz mir nit farblibn
Keyn fodem fun keyn tsikh,
Iz mir nit geblibn, geblibn,
Keyn bendl fun keyn shikh.

Volt ikh opgeshorn di tsep mayne,
Di lange,
Un af zey dos vigl,
Dos vigl af a beyml. 

Veyz ikh nit, vu zukln
Di bedelekh, atsinder,
Di beyndelekh, di tayere,
Fun beyde mayne kinder.

Volt ikh tsugebundn
Dos vigl af abeyml.
Un gehoydet, gehoydet
Mayn yingele, mein Shleymel.

14.  The Lonely Child
Author: Shmerke Kaczerginski (1908-54)
Composer: Yankl Krimski (?-1943)

Something unknown
Now runs after me.
My mother, dear mother,
Oh where can you be?
Your Sorele is calling,
Sorele, your child . . .
Whose moans cross the fields
As the wind howls so wild.

My father is gone,
Who knows of my loss?
Captured and caught by
A monstrous force,
The night dark and fearsome
When this deed took place,
Yet darker by far
Was my dear mother’s face . . .

Through wandering day,
Through journey of night,
Through her restless sleep
The child’s thoughts took flight:
The dear child imagines her father’s step near,
Her mother’s sweet lullaby,
Loving and dear:

Dos Elnte Kind
דאָס עלענטע קינד
 

“S’yogt mikh ver, s’yogt,
Un lozt nit tsu ru,
O mame, mayn mamele,
Vu bistu, vu?
Es zukht dikh dayn Sorele,
S’ruft dikh dayn kind” . . .
S’yomert un s’voyet
In feld urn der vint.

“Der tate-nito.
Ver veys vu er iz?
Es hot im gefangen
A groyzamer riz,
Di nakht shvarts geven iz
Ven dos iz geshen.
Nokh shvartser dos ponim
Mayn mames geven . . .”

In vogl fun tog,
In vander fun nakht,
In umru fun shlof
Ligt dos kind un es dakht:
“O kind mayns!” Zi hert shoyn Fun tatn di trit.
Di mame farvigt ir
Un zingt ir dos lid:

15.  They Call Me Zhamele
Composer: Bernardo Feuer

They all call me Zhamele,
Oh, it’s hard for me;
I once had a mother dear.
Who knows where she can be?
I once had a father dear.
His love for me was true.
Now I’m just a little rag
Because I am a Jew.

I once had a sister dear.
She is here no more;
Where are you, my Esther dear,
In this hour so sore?
Somewhere near a little tree,
Somewhere near a gate
Sleeps my brother Shloymele,
Killed by German hate.

Yeder Ruft Mikh Zhamele
יעדער רופֿט מיר זשאַמעלע

Yeder ruft mikh Zhamele,
Ay, vi mir iz shver.
Kh’hob gehal a mamele.
Kh’hob zi shoyn nil mer.
Kh’hob gehal a tatele,
Hot er mikh gehit;
Itst bin ikh a shmatele.
Vayl ikh bin a yid.

Kh’hob gehat a shvesterl,
Iz zi mer nishto—
Akh, vu bistu, Eslerl,
In der shverer sho?
Ergets bay a beymele,
Ergets bay a ployt—
Ligt mayn bruder Shloymele,
Fun a daytsh getoyt.

16. Motele from the Warsaw Ghetto
Author: Reuven Lifshutz (1918-75)
Composer: Steimakh

In the narrow alleys of the ghetto,
Where the sun with effort sends a beam:
On his fragile body clothes with patches,
The tailor’s youngest son is to be seen.
Every morning looking like a shadow,
On his listless lips, the mark of want.
Through barbed wire steals from out the ghetto
To earn enough for bread—a job he hunts.

Motele, a decent fellow,
Motele, a skillful guy:
Motele, successful also,
Because our Motl, he excels in all he tries.

Jews rebel against the brutal tyrant,
Pools of blood in every ghetto street.
Motl helps in building the entrenchments,
His young face with hate and anger bleak.
In this fire two blue eyes are shining,
Thirst and hunger dry and crack his tongue,
Horror beats in his brave heart so daring,
For his people every bomb is flung.

Motele, a decent fellow...

Dzhike, Pave, Mile, Niske, Genshe—
Streets where names are leaping all about,
The boom of cannon fire shatters Warsaw,
Cries for help are heard through helpless shout.
In the roar of falling bombs and cannons
Motl’s name is heard, it floats so free,
On barricades our hero fell among them,
His Bar-Mitzvah didn’t live to see.

Motele Fun Varshever Geto
מאָטעלע פֿון װאַרשעװער געטאָ
 

In di shmole geselekh fun geto.
Vu es rayst zikh koym arayn di zun—
Afn layb begodimlekh mil lates,
Loyft arum dem altn shnayders zun.
Yedn frimorgn vi a shotn
Mit farshmakhte lipelekh fun noyt—
Ganvet zikh adurkh di geto-drotn,
Tsu fardinen af a shtikl broyt. 

Motele, a voyler bokher,
Motele, a groyser spets,
Motele hol fil hatslokhe,
Vayl undzer Motl iz a yat, a molodyets!

Yidn shteyen oyf kegn barbarn,
Taykhn blut in yeder geto-gas,
Motele helft boyen barikadn
Un dos peneml fun kas toyt blas.
In dem fayer finklen oygn bloye,
Dursht un hunger trikenen dos moyl;
S’klapt zayn heldish hertsele fun groyl;
Far zayn folk shikt er zey yede koyl.

Motele, a voyler bokher . . .

Dzhike, pave, mile, niske, genshe—
Tsungen fayer flakern iber zey.
S’klapn dort harmatn, s’tsitert varshe—
Gevald! hilkht op dos hilfloze geshrey,
In dem roysh fun bombes, kananadn
Motls nomen hot arumgeshvebt.
Vi a held gefaln af barikadn,
Zayn eygene bar-mitsve nisht derlebt.

17. Under the Little Green Polish Trees
Author: Joseph Papiernikov (1899-1993)
Composer: Israel Alter (1901-79)

Under the little green Polish trees growing
No more at play little Moyshelekh, Shloymelekh,
No more at play little Sorelekh, Leyelekh.
Not on the gentle grass, not when it’s snowing.

No more are young Jewish voices heard shouting,
Motelekh, Shimelekh, rascals carousing;
Battered and bruised with their woes so beguiling,
Strutting courageously, daring, delighting.

The little green trees in Poland are mourning.
Gone Jewish homes and their houses and dwellings.
Gone are old alleys, in shambles residing,
Children like little mice, scurrying, hiding.

Dear little children with eyes large and staring,
Black with a dark devastation enfolding,
Eyes full of fear, full of terror conveying
Despair, disaster beyond all comparing.

Unter di Poylishe Grininke Beymelekh
אונטער די פּױלישע גריניקע בײמעלעך

Unter di poylishe grininke beymelekh
Shpiln zikh mer nit kayn Moyshelekh, Shloymelekh,
Shpiln zikh mer nit kayn Sorelekh, Leelekh
Nit oyf kayn grezelekh, nit oyf kayn shneyelekh

S'hilkhen shoyn mer nit di Yidishe shtimelekh
Fun di kundeysimelekh, Motelekh Shimelekh
Mit di tzekrelte, tzedrapete tsurelekh,
Funm bavaizan vundoyrim un gvurelekh

S'troyern atzind, di poylishe beymelekh
Toyt zaynen Yidishe heymen un heymelekh
Toyt zaynen geselekh, khorev di hayzelekh
Vu es farshteken zikh kinder, Vi mayzelekh

Yidishe kinder mit groyse eygelekh
Shvartse azoy vi mit khoyshekh fartzoygene
Eygelekh fule, mit pakhad farlofene
Unter dem umglik - dem broynem - getrofene

18.  A Jewish Child
Author and Composer: Khane Kheytin-Weinstein

In a distant townlet small
Stands a house without a wall.
Through a tiny window-pane
To see the world the children strain.
Little boys, minds bright and sound,
Little girls with blond braids wound,
And amid this precious pack
Also peer two eyes so black.

Here, my child, your place will be.
Listen, child, you must hear me.
I have brought you here to hide.
Threatened is your life outside.
With these children you will play.
Still and quiet you will stay, —
No more Yiddish words from you.
You no longer are a Jew.

But the child pleads hard, cries too:
Mother, let me stay with you.
Please don’t leave me here alone.
His crying is a breathless moan.
With her kiss she tries to heal,
Comfort she does not instill.
Child screams—no—in panic tone.
I’ll not stay here all alone.

In her arms she gathers him.
Softly, sweetly hums a hymn;
Sings—oh, little son, don’t weep—
Till she lulls him into sleep.
Then her own tears freely flow,
And she leaves the house to go
Into night with fear and dread,
As she walks—looks straight ahead.

It is cold, the wind blows wild.
A voice is heard; it cries—my child,
You are left in strangers’ care,
I had no choice, —just your welfare,
Mother walks, and speaks out loud,
Cold and late—it’s dark with clouds,
Wind blows in her face so wild, —
God protect my only child!

The house is odd—with people full,
Little boy is mute and still.
Speech nor needs nor will has he,
His smile is seldom there to see.
For him there is no day or night,
No sleep though dark—no play though light.
Vasilco—a name that’s strange
On his shirt—his heart estranged.

19. Hymn of Youth
Author: Shmerke Kaczerginsky (1908-54)
Composer: Bayse Rubin

Our song is filled with grieving,
Bold our step, we march along.
Though the foe the gateway’s watching,
Youth comes storming with their song:

Young are they, are they, are they
whose age won’t bind them,
Years don’t really mean a thing,
Elders also, also, also, can be children,
In a newer, freer summer

Those who roam upon the highways,
Those who step with hope is strong,
From the ghetto youth salutes them
And their greetings send along.

Young are they….

We remember all our tyrants,
We remember all our friends.
And we pledge that in the future
Our present and past blend.

            Young are they…

So we’re girding our muscles,
In our ranks we’re planting steel,
Where a blacksmith, builder marches,
We will join the with our zeal

Yugnt-Himen
יוגנט הימען
 

Undzer lis iz ful mit troyger,
Dreyst is undzer muntergang.
Khotsh der soyne vakht baym toyer,
Shturemt yugntmit gezang:

Yung iz yeder, yeder, yeder
ver is vil nor,
Yorn hobn keyn btayt,
Alte kenen, kenen, kenen oykh zany kinder
Fun a nayer, frayer tsayt. 

Ver es voglt um af vegn.
Ver mit dreystkeyt s’shtelt zany fus
Brengt di yugnt zey antkegn
Funem geto a gerus.

      Yung iz yeder….

Mir gedenken ale sonim.
Mir dermonem ale fraynd.
Eybik veln mir farbindn
Undzer nekht mint haynt.

      Yung iz yeder….

Klaybn mir tsunoyf di glider.
Vider shtoln mir di rey.
Geyt a boyer, geyt a shmider –
Lomir ale geyn mit zey!

20.  Still the Night
Author: Hirsh Glik (1922-1944)
Composer: (unknown)

Still the night and full of starlight.
And the frost—burned on the land;
Do you still remember how I taught you
To hold a revolver in your hand? 

A girl, a sheepskin and a beret,
In her hands she holds a gun.
A girl with her face as smooth as velvet
Keeps watch of the enemy’s caravan.

An aim, a shot right on the target,
Her small pistol had reached its mark.
An auto filled high with ammunition
Her shot had stopped it in the dark.

Shtil Di Nakht
שטיל, די נאַכט איז אױסגעשטערנט
 

Shtil, di nakht iz oysgeshternt.
Un der frost—er hot gebrent;
Tsi gedenkstu vi ikh hob dikh gelernt
Haltn a shpayer in di hent.

A moyd, a peltsl un a beret,
Un halt in hant fest a nagan.
A moyd mit a sametenem ponim
Hit op dem soynes karavan.

Getsilt, geshosn un getrofn
Hot ir kleyninker pistoyl.
An oyto, a fulinkn mit vofn
Farhaltn hot zi mit eyn koyl.

21.  Itsik Vitnberg
Author: Shmerke Kaczerginski (1908-54)
Composer:

Somewhere the enemy
Lies hidden like a beast
The Mauser in my hand is alert
But suddenly - the Gestapo -
Leading our Commandant in chains
Through the darkness

Night in the Ghetto
Was torn by lightning
"Beware!" shrieks a buidling, a wall
Faithful comrades
Freed from chains
Vanished with the Commandant

Night has flown by
Death hovered before us
The Ghetto is shaken as with fever"
Restless the Ghetto
As Gestapo threatens:
"Your commandant, or Death!"

Itzik then spoke up -
Words that struck like lightning
"I do not want that because of me
Your lives are to be put in the hands of the foe..."
Proudly to his death went our Commandant!

Itsik Vitnberg
איציק װיטנבערג
 

S'ligt ergets fartayet
Der faynt, vi a khaye,
Der mauzer er vakht in maynt hant;
Nor plutsem - gestapo!
Me firt a geshmidtn
durkh fintsternish dem komendant

Di nakht hot mit blitsn
Dos geto tseshnitn:
"Gefar!" Shrayt a toyer, a vant
Khaveyrim getraye
Fun keytn bafrayen
Farshvindn mit dem komendant...

Di nakht iz farfloygn
Der toyt- far di oygn
Dos geto es fibert in brand;
In umru dos geto -
Es drot di gestapo:
"Toyt, oder dem komendant"

Gezogt hot dan Itsik
Un durkh, vi a blits iz:
-"Ikh vil nit, ir zolt tsulib mir
Darfn dos lebn
Dem soyne opgebn!"...
Tsum toyt geyt shtolts der komendant

22.  Never Say This is the Final Road for You
Author: Hirsh Glik (1922-44)
Composer: Dimitri and Daniel Pokras

Never say this is the final road for you,
Though leadened skies may cover over days of blue.
As the hour that we longed for is so near.
Our step beats out the message—we are here!

From lands so green with palms to lands all white with snow.
We shall be coming with our anguish and our woe,
And where a spurt of our blood fell on the earth,
There are courage and our spirit have rebirth.

The early morning sun will brighten our day,
And yesterday with our foe will fade away.
But if the sun delays and in the east remains--
This song as password generations must remain.

This song was written with out blood and not with lead,
It's not a little tune that birds sing overhead,
This song a people sang amid collapsing walls,
With grenades in hands they heeded to the call.

Zog Nit Keynmol az Du Gayst dem Letzten Veg
זאָג ניט קײן מאָל
 

Zog nit keynmol az du gayst dem letzten veg,
Ven himlen blayene farshteln bloye teg;
Vayl kumen vet noch undzer oysgebenkte shuh,
Es vet a poyk tun undzer trot - mir zaynen do!

Fun grinem palmenland biz land fun vaysen shney,
Mir kumen un mit undzer payn, mit undzer vey;
Un voo gefalen iz a shpritz fun undzer blut,
Shpritzen vet dort undzer gvure, undzer mut.

Es vet di morgenzun bagilden undz dem haynt,
Un der nechten vet farshvinden mitn faynt;
Nor oyb farzamen vet di zun in dem ka-yor,
Vi a parol zol geyn dos leed fun door tzu door.

Geshriben iz dos leed mit blut und nit mit bly,
S'iz nit keyn leedl fun a foygel oyf der fry;
Dos hut a folk tzvishen falendi-ke vent,
Dos leed gezungen mit naganes in di hent.