The Song Remains

People of the Warsaw Ghetto merged with a map of the Nazi occupation of Poland

דאָס ליד איז געבליבן

Welcome to our collection of Yiddish poems with English translations from Nazi German occupied Poland. We’ll be publishing one new poem per week into 2027, so be sure to subscribe to get free weekly updates.

  • Y L Kohn

    My “shul” is my poor home
    the yard, the streets of the city;
    the streets surrounding were like stone tablets
    like stone tablets marked with blood

    In its busy yards I understood the fate
    of tuberculosis diseases and early death
    my poor home painted for me
    the naked truth of day in – day out poverty

    And between its walls of crowded workshops
    understood the battle of the working class
    my “shul” was my poor home
    the yard, the workshop, and the stones of the streets

    (more…)
  • Miryem (Miriam) Ulinover

    Good night to you my little village
    and a good forever…
    Does a leaf rustle on the tree?
    Or does sorrow sing everywhere?

    (more…)
  • Motl Kozlovski

    Sirens cut the air in two
    a late whore hurries down a side street
    weary bodies wake from here to China
    and homeless streetcars ring in the day

    So how, in what way can I praise you
    sadness lives long in your street miles
    clouds hang gray over your red gates
    from chimneys smoking up the sky

    Seldom a ray sneaks in from somewhere
    people run, rushing as if chasing someone
    pale women – sick birds lurk on side streets
    and days of wrath arrive in convoy

    Łódź you’re called the Polish Manchester
    you brag about your factory streets
    while in your cellars and your attics
    your sons and daughters choke
    with worry and defeat

    (more…)
  • Motl Kozlovski (1910-1944?) was born in Przysucha (Pshiskhe). He had a traditional education, and worked as a tailor. He published poems in a number of journals. He was deported from the Łódź ghetto, and died in Auschwitz.

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  • Khayim Semiatitski (Chaim Semiatitsky)

    Don’t cry child
    autumn will not live long in our land
    he is like a poor man who is blind
    the wind leads him by his hand
    Give the autumn like a good coin away
    to sorrow
    He will cry for joy
    until he comes to the frosted wintry door
    The summer has bright eyes
    by day the sun and by night the moon
    The winter – a beautiful faced old man
    with a white beard spread out over his knees
    So give the Autumn a gift of your sadness

    (more…)
  • Khayim Semiatitski (1908-1943) was born in Tykocin into a rabbinic family, and was ordained as a rabbi, but never assumed an official position. He moved to Warsaw, and began to write poetry, poems, stories, and critical reviews which were published in a number of newspapers and literary journals.

    His book Tropns Toy (Dewdrops) won the Y L Peretz award of the PEN club of Yiddish writers in Warsaw. He believed that the task of the artist is to polish the Creator’s work.

    When the Nazis occupied Warsaw, he fled to Białystok, and later to Vilnius. He was murdered during the liquidation of the Vilna Ghetto in September 1943.

    (more…)
  • Sholem Zhirman

    Feygele woke up from sleep
    and cried,
    she saw her Khayim in trouble
    heard her mother cry

    A full house of police
    like animals people cried and were wild
    one patted his dream-book
    someone else spits and curses

    (more…)
  • Miryem (Miriam) Ulinover

    “Whoever is too lazy to braid challahs
    will have to weave her old grey braid” –
    Bobe told me in the kitchen
    and I grab my head

    (more…)
  • Dr Sarah Traister Moskovitz died on Sunday 1 September 2024. She went peacefully, surrounded by her family.

    Sarah had nearly completed translation of this collection when she died. We will continue to publish her translations every week. Miri Koral has offered to step in as editor, and complete any unfinished work. We extend our profound thanks to Miri for helping to complete this work.

    Sarah was born on 18 August 1927, in Brooklyn, New York. She grew up speaking Yiddish in the home and only learned English when she went to school. She was one of the last native secular Yiddish speakers alDr Koralive before her death in September 2024.

    Sarah would later gain her doctorate from Yeshiva University in Psychology while raising children with her husband, Itzik Moskovitz. After attaining her Ph.D, she would teach at California State University Northridge at a time when very few women were in academia. 

    As part of her work, she set up a network of support groups for child survivors of the Holocaust. This idea would spread globally as a way for child survivors to work through their shared trauma together.

    Sarah was an avid poet herself and has published several collections of her work: Kumt Tzum Tish / Come to the Table, the separate Holocaust anthology Poetry in Hell, and her translation of The Song Remains

    Sarah credited The Song Remains translation project with extending her life for several years before her death on 1 September 2024, at age 97, a year after Itzik’s death in 2023. Both are remembered by their children; Debrah, Ruth, and Dave, by the many child survivors and others whose lives she touched, and by Sarah’s project; The Song Remains. 


    Sarah was a poet, and this is a poetry site, so we thought it only fitting to include one of her last poems, “Hands”.

    Hands

    Sarah Traister Moskovitz

    I was standing at the sink peeling garlic when I remembered
    the smell of garlic on my mother’s hands when I was small,
    hands that brushed the hair back from my forehead with a light touch
    that held my face up as she looked into my eyes,
    and called me “boobaleh”,
    that took my spoon to coax me
    to eat just one more “far dayne zise beindelakh
    for your sweet little bones.
         Her hands were soft and small
         never forcing, never threatening,
         warm sepals around the bud of me.

    My father’s hands held threat;
    a yank, a pull, a slap, a fist were always possible.
    The same long fingers pointing out the world,
    the beauty of clouds, sunsets, plants and animals,
    the magic of picture books and alpha-bet
         could turn to iron pliers
         ripping, shaming, hurting
         crushing the bud of me.

    My mother did laundry by hand.
    She stirred mushroom-barley and chicken noodle soup
    lifted the cover on pot roasts, cored apples, peeled potatoes
    chopped herring in a wooden bowl.
    On Fridays she mopped the kitchen floor and got down on her knees
    to scrub the bad spots and thank God for a home,
    then got up to make a path of Yiddish newspapers full of blood and death from overseas
    for us to step on as we walked safe across the wet, clean floor.
    And if my father wasn’t home she listened to Stella Dallas, another orphan
    reassured that Stella’s troubles were worse than hers.

    I married a guy with hands more powerful than my father’s;
    Itzik has the golden hands that can fix and build anything.
    He built our first television set, a trailer to go camping in with young children,
    years later a room for grown-up married kids.
    His hands have endless patience and dexterity to unravel knots
    fasten clasps, put keys on rings and unjam anything that’s stuck under a hood.
    His hands are safe and good to me… like my mother’s;
         making soup,
              making love,
                   making a garden… making life.

  • M Goldshteyn

    Every evening we meet on a busy street
    as he scurries along like a beggar along walls
    and his eyes carry sorrow
    and heavy it weighs in his silent hands

    (more…)