Chaim Grade

1910–1982
A novelist and poet, Chaim Grade is considered one of the giants of Yiddish literature, particularly in the postwar period. Born in Vilna, Grade was educated in the yeshivas of the moralist musar movement, which emphasized extreme ethical piety and harsh introspection. Although he left this milieu at the age of twenty-two, the religious ideology of his early years left an undeniable imprint on his later work. A member of the literary group Yung-Vilne (Young Vilna), Grade achieved quick success both as a poet with a distinctive, prophetic voice and as an award-winning novelist. After the war, Grade settled in the United States, where he published his most famous works, both poetry and novels. These explored themes such as survival and guilt, rage and remembrance, the sacred and the profane, and the failure of both secularism and religion to respond adequately to the Holocaust. He is perhaps best remembered for his later novel-length portrayals of Vilna Jewry, richly described in all its complexity and color.

Entries in the Posen Library by This Creator

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Lullaby

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Hush little baby. Forty-six years now the night has rocked itself in my empty cradle Now a gray head is rocked to sleep with the same tune: Standing at the cradle’s head No angel with two white wings…

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The Weeping of Generations

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On the white garments of my great-grandfather the cross of the middle ages flames anew. My great-grandfather sits at the seder, holding a staff from a wild almond tree to rouse the forefathers. Not…

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A Child

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I have a friend, a teacher, with shaggy hair black as pitch. He has a child (his wife is still a child too) and when he comes home, difficult and gloomy, she runs to meet him, like a quivering wave:…

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Fall in Vilna

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Yom Kippur, when the narrow alleys of the shulhoyf cradle the small shtibls, pious and scared, householders hurry with their taleisim and old men shuffle along in their socks— I feel the narrow…

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My Mother

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The cheeks collapsed and the eyes half-shut, My mother listens as her knees sigh: The whole morning under the winter sky She ran about to every market. So let us now at the gate of the wall Sleep…

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My Quarrel with Hersh Rasseyner

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“Reb Hersh,” I finally said, “as I sat here listening to you, I sometimes thought I was listening to myself. And since it’s harder to lie to yourself than to someone else, I will answer you as though…

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Elegy for the Soviet Yiddish Writers

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I weep for you with all the letters of the alphabet that made your hopeful songs. I saw how reason spent itself in vain for hope, how you strove against regret— and all the while your hearts were…