Songs of Russia/The Jewish Soldier
THE JEWISH SOLDIER
(From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld)
Not far from Plevna, fifty and a hundred steps away,
There is a grave, but where it lies no passer-by could say.
The place is all forsaken, a dreary spot and lone;
No wreath lies on that sepulchre, there stands no marble stone;
There grows no grass, no flower, no leaf—yet there in death’s embrace
A hero rests, a soldier brave who came of Jewish race.
Upon the spot where erst he fell in battle he doth lie,
Where Russia celebrates with pride her greatest victory.
A deep, dead silence reigns around; all things have fallen asleep;
But when the clock upon the tower at midnight boometh deep,
A strong east wind begins to blow; it thunders, it appals,
It clamors, storms and rattles, it roars and loudly calls;
And ’neath the storm the silent earth cleaves and doth open stand;
The hero rises from his grave, his drawn sword in his hand.
He stands upon the fortress, grim courage in his frown,
And from the wound within his heart the blood is flowing down.
His pure blood wells forth freely, his heart’s deep wound is wide;
He lifts his sword, and cries in tones that ring on every side:
“My comrades of the war, arise to judgment! Speak and say!
Tell me, did I fight faithfully upon the battle day?
Say, did I fall upon this spot with an heroic band,
And die for Russia’s honor, die for the Russian land?”
And then in wrath a countless host awakens suddenly,
As many as the sands that sleep beside a silent sea.
For swiftly the whole army arises at his call;
From near and far, with heavy tread, they gather, one and all.
There is a trampling and a clang, a marching and a hum,
A galloping and whirling, as in a cloud they come;
And of that phantom army each soldier lifts his hand,
And swears, “You died with honor, died for your native land!”
Soon all again is quiet, the night is still as death,
And all that countless army has vanished in a breath.
But still the Jewish soldier on the fortress stands alone,
And every word he utters like a hot grenade is thrown:
“O Russia! from my wife and child you reft me without ruth,
And to defend your honor I perished in my youth.
Why now my wretched family drive forth their bread to find
In distant lands? A heavy curse I send you on the wind!”
Scarce has the curse been uttered—full fraught with pain, alack!—
When into the cold grave again the tempest sweeps him back;
And every night at midnight this scene is acted o’er.
The soldier’s curses, deep and dread, are gathering more and more.
They grow and grow; the tempest’s wings on to Gatschina bear
Those curses keen, and scatter them upon the palace there.