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Joyous, free, the bird will sing,
Trembles on his throne the king,
Trembling is not good for me—
Like a bird I sing so free,
As winds prance,
In a trance,
Wild and blind, I roam and dance,
One street…
Like every shtetl Medzibosz has a main street, and side streets and back streets. Nowadays the old hunched little huts have mostly vanished, and there are new houses in their place—not everywhere.
Thi…
Not far from Lódz is a small town called Brzezhin. It has been a town of tailors from the beginning of time. When it was under Russian rule, Brzezhin was a center for manufacturing cheap clothes for…
The shtetl, lost here among Polish fields and groves, might be called Turek or Przasnysz, Konin or Maków, yet what one remembers is not the name but the old marketplace reeking of tar and dung where a…
My steps are set down stiffly
on tired, empty paths.
This morning a little town of Jews
called me “Anti-Semite!”
All of them in wrinkles and in rags
out there pointing at me:
“Him! That guy! We…
. . . An empty street. An unfamiliar shack. A tightly shut gate. And hanging over the gate, over the dead street, over us all—a Cossack cap with a raspberry-colored band. A trail of smoke from an…
Pass on, pass on, you lonely grandfathers,
With frightened beards covered with snow,
In the last sorrow, in the final grief
You’re still here, the final witnesses.
Pass on, pass on, you lonely…
On a seasonable Saturday morning, Itchele decided that the time had finally come to get even with the butchers for their bloody triumph before the holiday. He got together a bunch of young toughs and…