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 ...|
עַל בַּאבִּי יָאר אֵין מַצֵּבוֹת,
מִדְרוֹן תָּלוּל – אַנְדַּרְטָה מֵעַל פֶּצַע
אֲנִי מַרְגִּישׁ קָדוּם
כְּמוֹ הַיְּהוּדִים עַצְמָם, כְּמוֹ עַם הַנֶּצַח
לְאֹרֶךְ הַיְאוֹר אֲנִי פּוֹסֵעַ,
שְׁנִייָה אַחַת – וְעַל הַצְּלָב גוֹוֵעַ
הַמַּסְמֵרִים עֲדַיִן בְּתוֹכִי
נִדְמֶה לִי גַּם שֶׁדְּרַיְיפוּס –
בְּבֵית מִשְׁפָּט שְׂטָנִי
צוֹוְחוֹת כְּמוֹ חֲזִירִים
וּמִטְרִיוֹת תּוֹקְעוֹת לִי בַּפָּנִים
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,
אוֹנְסִים אֶת אִמָּא מוּל עֵינַי
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
אֵיךְ שֵׂיבָתִי נוֹשֶׁרֶת
כְּמוֹ הַצְּוָחָה הַחֲרִישִׁית
מֵעַל הָרְבָבוֹת אֵי שָׁם בַּקֶּבֶר
כָּל יֶלֶד שֶׁנּוֹרָה כָּאן, בְּתַחְתִּית
וְכָל אִשָּׁה וָגֶבֶר.
אֶת כָּל זֶה לֹא יַשְׁכִּיחַ!
בָּרֶגַע הַנִּפְלָא שֶׁעוֹד יַגִּיעַ –
אַחְרוֹן הָאַנְטִישֵׁמִים יֵעָלֵם!
אֵין גֵּנִים יְהוּדִים בְּתוֹךְ דָמִי,
אֲבָל שָׂנוּא אֲנִי בָּרֹעַ הָאַרְסִי
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.
"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!
Tsars, kings, emperors,
Rulers of the world,
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 his hand
They hid humor in cells,
But like hell they succeeded.
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.
He will walk through everything and everybody.
And so, glory to humor!
He is a courageous fellow.
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,
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.
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.
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,
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!