The House On Vingree Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

Nation often! With due consideration,
Folye distributed our functions here:
To carry out precisely, till the hour
Of our release from sewers will appear.
'You, Gdalye, Teacher, write a chronicle
For future generations, day by day.
You, Lippman, Doctor, guard us if you can from
All illness, you are good at that, they say.
Make sure that we all wash, keep up our will.
Make sure the drinking water does not kill.'

'And you who are about to be a mother,'
So Folye mumbled into Kreyne's ear,
'You feed the baby that my mother brought
The other day. Get used, it will endear
Itself to you. I'm sure the doctor will
Help you. A cradle we will shortly get,
A primus, and a sheet, a lamp of oil,
I'll bring a jar of milk, rely on that.
It's said and done. The worries of a child
Need mother's hand, caressing, firm, and mild.'

'And you,' he went on, 'Mister So-and-So,'
To the blind man who didn't give his name —
'You'll guard the entrance, and you must assure
That sudden torrents do not come and maim
Our hiding place. And you may sleep at night,
When we are all awake, you'll be alert
In daytime, guard our house, hold in your hand
The pulse of sewers, hear their noise and dirt.
If a suspicious sound you hear, beware
And pull the hanging cord I shall prepare.'

The refugee Arona, trained in finance,
Folye appointed to become the master
Of gathering money from us all and hiding
Our state treasury somewhere in plaster.
Aside from that, he's crowned to be the guard
Of the larder. We'll try to get some bread
And nimbly he'll distribute it to all
So that the hunger will not strike us dead.
At first the refugee was skeptical a bit
But then, no questions asked, accepted it.

'And you,' Foyle appealed to Rabbi Nathan,
'Decide your task.' But the old hermit, gray,
Still wrapped around in his tin parchment,
Invisibly crept closer up, to say:
'My friends, allow me to become your cobbler,
I want to help with something, good and sound.'
We heard his words as a refined example
Of human loyalty not to be found.
We looked with joy and fear, with awe and rage,
With admiration for the hoary sage.

'And you will wash our clothes, our dirty shirts,'
Folye has whispered in young Debby's ear;
'If difficult, I'll gladly help, we must.
You comrade poet, come light up our drear
With poetry. A nation of just ten
Is still a nation. Food is Mama's task.
And I will bring the warm hard bread of vengeance,
The victim never must forget his ax.'
This is how Folye, with his reasoned gait,
Divided for each one his share of fate.

Written in Moscow-Lodz-Paris, 1945-1947