Lost Homeland Poems of Pain
was translated, designed, printed, and bound by Tyler Kliem in the February of 2023 with the support of the University of Pennsylvania Stuart Weitzman School of Design
Set in Raphaël Bastide’s Avara and Bitstream’s Iowan Old Style typefaces Printed on
newsprint,
is copy of 50 Philadelphia
in color variants of navy blue (25) and black (25) This
“Tremblingly, I dedicate this book, with longing and sadness, to the ones I’ve lost through the Nazi beasts: parents Dov and Beyle Akerman and my dear sister and brother Khane and Menakhem—all of them exterminated in the horrible years of 1941 to 1943.” Rivke Akerman, 1957, for Poemen un lider fun payn
Tremblingly, I dedicate this zine to Rywka, the esteemed author, and her bygone family. May their memories always be a blessing.
Original Introduction
Ipresent and introduce to our world a new talent and, with it, praise for her extraordinary debut— which has not been an easy thing because of precautions. And this sort of responsibility I take on myself. The whole Yiddish literary world will know the name of Rivke Akerman, who has quickly become renown everywhere where Yiddish letters form words, which enter the heart. And the name Rivke Akerman will become renown in all of our homes. As has not yet been written, in reference to the poet Grillpartzer: “It won’t be hard for someone to get used to the name!”
For the last few years, our Holocaust literature has taken on a large expansion. It’s been hardly a month, or even a week, since a work has not been published. But this relates to the “Yizkor” books, which are appointed a great necessity. In the Yizkor books, there are collections of many, many testimonies, extraordinary lyrical creations, which communicate the feelings of those who physically saw the death with their own eyes, which alone don’t know how to justify the miracle of their survival. And Rivke Akerman belongs to those individuals, to this bunch, to those who can only count with several fingers on one hand. The great tragedy of our Holocaust has inspired poets, which didn’t find themselves in that fiery hell. All the more so … and should I allow myself to emphasize a personal mood: When I made myself known to Rivke Akerman’s poems, I, in the course of many days, couldn’t soothe or love my surroundings. I had a similar feeling one winter night in France, when, in front of my house, where I so-called “lived,” I stopped to see a vehicle
4
from the Gestapo. My heart had also stopped for this brief moment, beating no more …
Through generations of persecutions, we have formed near us a “far-vos” chord. And in searching through the poems by Rivke Akerman, an echo from such chords, which I feel, in my opinion, sits beside Rabbi Amnon of Mainz in his Unetaneh Tokef, where his poem reflects the uncertainty and torments of the Crusades epoch … this is not a protest, but, conversely, Akerman accepts her punishment, God’s punishment, because she believes that the punishment will intensify in our souls. That is more of an improvement from the humane act of searching … and what has specifically become of Yiddish. A “far-vos” which has existed in “far-dem” — for this.
Paris, July 1, 1956
Yosef Milner
5
Contents Original Introduction 4 Poems Torah 7 My Heart, Forever Crying Inside 9 Israel, You Victim-Mother 10 There A Bird Cries 13 This Longing 14 About About the Author 16 About the Translator and Designer 17 6
Torah
Torah, oh, Torah, you splendid Torah, how much knowledge and doctrine, how much boundless good how much beauty and greatness, clear and grateful I find myself with you.
Oh Torah, you godly gift, oh, can one even appreciate your word and your splendor? Within you radiates the light of our holy defender.
Torah, you beauteous light, Uncountable pearls, boundless treasures louder spring, refreshed from my heart — I find myself with you.
You are yet gifted to people from God, for His good, His life rod. So that His body should follow from His supreme commandment, His call to go and through His good body, from His soul, good is the Torah from God, the best gift from old.
Threw down were all of my shackles. Escaped to the gloom of your brightness and glimmer, for a moment, I free myself from all debacles, for Torah disperses the clouds of my simmer.
7
Oh Torah! Torah, you forever Torah most magnificent gift from our Creator, forever should you grace your children along the way, and forever should you burrow yourself in hearts everywhere, and blessed should be your followers’ days.
8
My Heart, Forever Crying Inside
I once thought, as the years rush away, would I forget all sadness from Doomsday. From these new times arrive brisk gusts as my old pains sprawl in the dust.
I once thought, as the years rush away, would they take with them this agony, this misery and in affliction, would they take enough, as my bright moments return for me to see.
I once thought and thought, as the years rush away would they ever flee from their abyss of fate, as my sorrow evaporates at some time of late.
I once thought and thought, I once believed, it seemed to me that it should be in this vein. My heart of joy, ruined, to revive and rip apart my web of pain.
Oh, it’s hard to carry a child enrobed in chains. It’s only harder to carry this unending torment, which wears no pity for the people that have waned, and no cure is brought for these times I lament.
9
Israel, You Victim-Mother
Israel, Holy Land, you woke up by demand, lifting the hard and heavy from their slumber, you scoured all sides, yet you’re still somber.
What are you looking for, mother? Who calls you now? Who is this orphan, this broken child anyhow? Did you sleep for long? Were you sick for a while? And the first of your questions What’s wrong, my child?
Someone uproots my children from me, scattered and spread, each distinctly? I hear them. Their whispers reach me. This mother is in anguish. Anguish is in me.
And she extends her wings, quicklier so suddenly comes a wonder! What’s wrong? Yet only was it weak, the aim of her song.
But now, potent like an eagle in motion, her voice belts over rivers and oceans. She calls the orphaned, weaving them together, and the children hear their mother’s sounded feathers, as they bolt over to her waters, her divine aethers.
Limitless joy, such full happiness — tearful joy, in their suffering, she comforts them. Delivering her promise, she calms her children.
10
No force in the world could remove me from you! Because there’s still no such mother like me and what you’ve been through.
And they returned to kiss the ground, slip at the walls, and grip the gated halls. Upon each and every pebble, they kiss — they, the punished, are miserable kids.
Yet their cup is not yet filled with tears? Roaring finally like a wild tiger, they wish to uncover their happy years. Their teeth, they grind, working to prepare for attack on all sides combined.
And the mother’s voice — someone hears it again, across oceans: Your burden is too much to ignore, I can’t take it anymore! Stand for your suffering and shame! Be on guard, positioned all the same. Shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, construct an iron wall from your band to protect and guard this Holy Land!
Firm and strong is my children’s war. Now they fight, brave and heroic ashore. In battle they saunter with cheerful verse, not allowing our people and land to be enslaved or dispersed.
11
Hear to the callings of this victim-mother, an end must come upon our Jewish smothers! Raise your hands and promise together to fight and protect your holy mother.
12
There A Bird Cries
Hoisted from a smoky whirl from the white-dazzling snow the outside freezes into sad as the twilight is to go.
There cries out a bird from afar, in forgotten field, then sinking into silence in mystery from that dreamy world.
A gust of fury takes shape into faraway, distant lands the wheel beats them with monotony the air becomes torn with light then lulling each symphony
The pain dominates all alone emerging with suffocating desires pieces of life rip freezing in the shimmer of the snow, my heart wanders into rooms — deep are the lonelies of woe!
13
This Longing
Not this bright, blue sky, not this dozing star up high, not these wide oceans, not these deep seas, not these lilies, not these roses, not this water, which spews bubbles, not this silver-pearl dew — digging, always, into my heart, this spear.
Not this beauty from new moon, not these secrets of spring, not this sparkle from a star — my eyes, always, tears ajar.
Everything has already glittered … my heart has confided in the quiet, why is today ever so muddled? Oy, it all remains with me, much of it.
14
15
About the Author
Rywka Braun-Nyman, née Akerman, was born in Bekheve, a shtetl in Congress Poland of the Russian Empire, on September 26, 1918. A Holocaust survivor, she wrote some of her poetry while in hiding during the war. After the war ended, she relocated to Katowice, finding herself soon in Paris, and then in Toronto, where she died in 2000 at the age of 82. Her parents and siblings did not survive the war.
Under the maiden name Rivke Akerman, her wistful (and sole) collection of poetry in Yiddish was published in Paris by Imprimerie de la Harpe in 1957, titled Poemen un lider of payn (“Poems of Pain”). These selected poems, set in translation, portray younger Rywka’s various states of being — throughout and following the Holocaust: of loss, of survival, and of reminiscence.
Enduring
Rywka is survived by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
and witnessing the death and destruction around her, Rywka signals to us the varied challenge of living through chaos that never seems to end.
16
Sketch of Braun-Nyman by Henryk Berlewi for Poemen un lider fun payn
About the Translator and Designer
Tyler Kliem is a junior at the University of Pennsylvania studying comparative literature and design, with interests in Yiddish, graphic design, typography, and print culture.
His work has appeared in In geveb: A Journal of Yiddish Studies, and his forthcoming written and artistic works are to appear in Havurah’s Verklempt! and the University of California, Berkeley’s Vagabond Multilingual Journal.
He is currently researching avant-garde Yiddish art and literature with the support of the Wolf Humanities Center and the University of Pennsylvania’s Jewish Studies Program.
In his free time, he enjoys playing crosswords, collecting ephemera, walking, hiking, writing poetry, and grabbing coffee with friends.
17
ןעמעאפ ןוא רעדיל
ןייפ ןופ