“Shifrele’s Portrait”

Above my bed, to the left,
hangs my daughter Shifrele’s portrait.
Often, in the middle of the night,
when I miss her and become lost in reverie,
I see her, how she looks at me,
I hear her, how she speaks to me ...
—Papa, I know you miss me.
But the war won’t last long.
Soon, I’ll come back to you.
Spring is knocking at the door.
—Oh, how it smiles sweetly and speaks to me,
Shifrele’s portrait ...

His eyes glistened with tears. Seated now at the table, both daughters looked directly at their father and listened to his recital with their full attention and reverence. His wife was occupied in the kitchen. Gebirtig stood up and brought over one of his books. He held it the way one holds a baby bird. “You see, Bryks, my friend, these are my poems that YIVO ^{5 5} Founded in 1925 in Vilna, Poland (now Vilnius, Lithuania), YIVO (Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut, or Yiddish Scientific Institute) became the leading institution for scholarship in Yiddish and about the history and culture of East European Jews and their emigrant communities. —YIVO in Vilna—published.” He said “YIVO” with pride and nobility.

“Your poems are written simply, in the language that people speak,” I said, taking the book, published in 1938, from him. I turned a page and read from the introduction by M. Kipnis. ^{6 6} Menakhem Kipnis (1878-1942), singer, critic, photographer, and ethnographer of Yiddish song. Died of an aneurism in the Warsaw ghetto.

“Each generation has its own folk singer and poet. But most singers and poets sing for themselves. Their song lacks the power to cross over into the street. While they’re alive, they do their singing; but when they die—their poetry and folksong dies with them. Mordechai Gebirtig is the genuine folk singer and poet who sings, creates, and weeps his poem at home. But then his poem throws the door and windows wide open, filling the street with song. He sings of distinctively Jewish life. Gebirtig’s poems tug at the heartstrings, fill the Jewish soul with sweet melancholy and shivers of delight. And should you require further proof that his work is authentic—true folk poetry and song that never strikes a false note—consider this: the more one hears it, the more it lifts one’s spirits, warms, and moves. That, too, is the strength and secret of Gebirtig’s lyrics. His body of work has become the corpus of an entire people.”

I thought to myself: this is the highest praise that can be given to genuine art, to folk poetry.

I read several poems. Each poem was accompanied by musical notation.

“Mr. Gebirtig,” I said, “I’ve heard performers in the Yiddish theater, street singers in the courtyards and streets, and laborers in workshops all sing your songs. Mothers rock their children to sleep with your songs. I myself take great pleasure from singing your songs. The youth in Jewish organizations sing your songs. Wherever Jews live, they sing your songs. You’ve given us the Eastern European Jew from birth to the grave: the way of life of all social classes—even the thief—but always with compassion. And the unemployed proletarian, too. You come from the people, draw strength from the people, and create for the people. You don’t write poems using techniques you’ve learned. A bear can be taught to dance, but your poems and music rush from your heart like the current from a spring—authentically, naturally.”

Gebirtig tried to deflect my praise and said, “You know what? I write as simply as I can—a simple, small poem and there you have it. But Mr. Bryks, they’ve stolen my entire life’s work. The Yiddish actors made money from my songs and didn’t pay me anything, not a single groschen. You can see for yourself what kind of luck I’ve had. The “Sirena” company in Warsaw made records with my songs without my knowledge. When I found out, I brought an indictment against them. The court sentenced them to pay me fifty thousand zlotys! The company appealed, and the appeals courts upheld the sentence. The company then appealed to the Supreme Court in Warsaw. I had a winning case— “sprawa”—as they say in Polish. Imagine: fifty thousand zlotys! That appeal trial was supposed to take place on September 8th, but then war broke out on September 1st,” Gebirtig concluded dejectedly.

“That’s the artist’s fate,” I said.

“I read the short essay that my friend L.M. Petshenik ^{7 7} M.L. Petshenik/Moyshe-Leyb Pitshenik (1895-1941). Yiddish writer and journalist born in Złoczew, eastern Galicia; director of the Jewish school in Lowicz from 1923 on. Author of poetry, stories, and articles published in the Polish Yiddish press. The Yiddish PEN club in Poland awarded Pitshenik’s translation of Homer’s Odyssey into Yiddish (Warsaw, 1937) a prize. The Nazis murdered Pitshenik near Chelmno. Bryks uses the form L.M. Petshenik. wrote about you. He’s an honest person and a scholar. Erudite. He lives in Łowicz, but we summered together every year in Rabka, near Kazimierz Dolny. ^{8 8} Bryks only cites Gebirtig as mentioning a Kazimierz near Rabka. I thank Ela Pelish for confirming that this was Kazimierz Dolny. Many Jewish artists came there,” he said, taking out a photograph and showing me, “You see, that’s Petshenik and me. This picture was taken last summer in Rabka-Zdrój.”

“A fine essayist, Petshenik,” Gebirtig continued, “a real expert on classical Greek literature. He’s also a linguist. He published a small book on Old Yiddish; I didn’t understand more than two words of it. Jews spoke such a different Yiddish hundreds of years ago. It grew into a beautiful language, a rich language.”

I gave an excuse and declined Gebirtig’s invitation to stay for a meal, but accepted his invitation to return the following Sunday for lunch.

I kept my word and arrived at the appointed time, following an earlier meeting with the young writer Josef Wulf, who also lived in Kraków. But more about that later.

After we finished a simple lunch, Gebirtig told me that Wulf had been at his apartment earlier that day. “He told me about your recital of Moses Schulstein’s poem ‘Trains.’ He said your recital was better than Malvina Rappel’s.” ^{9 9} Malvina Rappel, reknowned Yiddish actor, a member of “Di yidishe bande” (The Jewish Band), star of the film Motel the Operator (1940). I thank Ellen Elias-Bursać and Amanda (Miryem-Khaye) Seigel for their assistance in locating more information on Malvina Rappel.

Gebirtig recited several poems by heart for me, including the celebrated “Undzer shtetl brent” (“Our Shtetl is Burning”). Although variations on this song later emerged, I believe it’s worthwhile to present here the text I heard from Gebirtig himself that day.

“Our Shtetl is Burning”
It’s burning, dear brothers, it’s burning!
Oh, our poor shtetl is burning!
Hostile winds, in all of their fury,
are shredding, splitting, and fanning
the wild flames with ever greater force.
Everything in sight is now burning!

And you just stand there and stare
with your arms crossed,
and you just stand there and stare—
Our shtetl is burning! …

It’s burning! Dear brothers, it’s burning!
Oh no, our poor shtetl is burning!
The flames’ tongues
have swallowed the shtetl whole—
And hostile winds are howling,
All of the shtetl is burning!

And you just stand there and stare
with your arms crossed,
And you just stand there and stare—
Our shtetl is burning! …

It’s burning! Dear brothers, it’s burning!
Oh no, God forbid, the time might come:
Our shtetl and we along with it
will go up in flames, vanish into ash.
All that will remain, like after a battle,
will be hollow, black walls!

And you just stand there and stare
with your arms crossed,
And you just stand there and stare—
Our shtetl is burning! …

It’s burning! Dear brothers, it’s burning!
Only you can be be relied on to help:
if the shtetl is precious to you,
take the buckets; put out the fire,
put it out with your own blood—
Show that you can do it.

Don’t just stand there that way, brothers
with your arms crossed.
Don’t just stand there, brothers, put out the fire!
Our shtetl is burning!

Gebirtig read simply, with such depth of feeling and fine diction that you could hear him pronouncing every letter. The poem shook me to the core: Gebirtig, the man of the people, in middle age, had an eye that could see far into the future. With his intuition, he sensed what was creeping up on the Jews of Poland. He was a prophet of his people, like Vladimir Jabotinsky, ^{10 10} Vladimir (Ze’ev) Jabotinsky (1180-1940), Revisionist Zionist leader, author, poet, and founder of the Jewish Self-Defense Organization in Odessa. who predicted the destruction of the Jews in Poland. Itzhak Katznelson ^{11 11} Itzhak Katznelson (1886-1944), teacher, poet, and dramatist, author of “Dos lid funem oysgehargetn yidishn folk” (“Song of the Murdered Jewish People”), perished in Auschwitz. had to experience the Warsaw Ghetto in order to come up with the slogan: “Jews, take your weapons! Jews, learn how to shoot!” As early as 1938, Gebirtig foresaw and foresang it all.

Jewish partisans and members of the resistance movement in the Warsaw Ghetto and other ghettoes and camps heeded Gebirtig’s call to action. This song, although it hadn’t been previously published, spread among the people by word of mouth, from ghetto to ghetto, from camp to camp. It became a national hymn, and the folk poet Mordecai Gebirtig became the prayer leader for Polish Jewry. In his songs, he gave voice to the heart and soul of his people.

But I couldn’t agree to Gebirtig’s pessimism. I was an optimist, as much in 1940 as in the later years of the Second World War.

I later wrote an optimistic poem as a kind of response to Gebirtig’s “Shtetl,” and I dedicated it to him. I sent it to him in the care of my cousin Moyshe-Hersh who lived in Kraków. Moyshe-Hersh reported back to me that my poem greatly impressed Gebirtig, and that he said: “It’s a folk poem, and literary to the core.” This is the poem I wrote.

Don’t Despair

It’s only a fleeting wind—
Don’t despair, my child.
We are old trees, deep and expansive,
rooted in the earth
with grand crowns
that grace the world;
strong storm winds
can only tear
the leaves from us,
break the branches,
but not the crowns.
Winds cannot tear,
cannot uproot
strong, deeply-rooted trees!
We are eternal trees
that bear fruit for the world to eat.
We will be here for all of time!
It’s only a fleeting wind—
Don’t despair, my child ...

My poem was recited in the Łódź Ghetto. It helped bolster people’s trust in God and gave them faith that they would survive. Today, I see that both sides are correct. Both of our words came to fruition.

I said goodbye to Gebirtig’s wife and their two daughters. When I went over to the youngest daughter, she firmly pressed my hand. I reciprocated. She bashfully lowered her eyes and blushed. I wanted to kiss her, but I was too shy. But I did kiss Gebirtig heartily. His last words to me were: “For the sake of God, remember. Describe everything you’ve gone through.”

I took my love and grief for this family with me. Throughout the duration of the war, I never forgot the Gebirtigs. I fantasized that when the war ended, I would visit them in Kraków and their youngest daughter would then become my betrothed.

No one from the Gebirtig family survived. People said that when the Germans liquidated the Kraków Ghetto, Mordecai Gebirtig was sitting on a stone in the street and writing a poem when a German shot him. No one knows his final resting place. But his poems remain and are sung by his people all over the world. The more they are sung, the more they lift the spirit. Gebirtig’s Holocaust song will endure for generations.