BRONISLAWA WAJS PAPUSZA

I am going to print a wonderful poem by Papusza. 
She is the foremost Romani poet.

This poem was published in the early 1950's

TEARS OF BLOOD
(How we suffered under the Germans in 1943-1944)

In the woods.  No water, no fire--great hunger.
Where could the children sleep? No tent.
We could not light the fire at night.
By day, the smoke would alert the Germans.
How to live with children in the cold of winter?
All are barefoot......
When they wanted to murder us,
first they forced us to hard labor.
A German came to see us.
--I have bad news for you.
They want to kill you tonight.
Don't tell anybody.
I too am a dark Gypsy,
of your blood--a true one.
God help you
in the black forest...
Having said these words,
he embraced us all...

For three days no food.
All go to sleep hungry.
Unable to sleep,
they stare at the stars...
God, how beautiful it is to live!
The Germans will not let us...

Ah, you, my little star!
At dawn you are large!
Blind the Germans!
Confuse them,
lead them astray,
so the Jewish and Gypsy child can live!

When big winter comes,
what will the Gypsy woman with a small child do?
Where will she find clothing?
Everything is turning to rags.
One wants to die.
No one knows, only the sky,
only the river hears our lament.
Whose eyes saw us as enemies?
Whose mouth cursed us?
Do not hear them God.
Hear us!
A cold night came,
The old Gypsy woman sang
A Gypsy fairy tale:
Golden winter will come,
snow, like little stars,
will cover the earth, the hands.
The black eyes will freeze,
the hearts will die.

So much snow fell,
it covered the road.
One could only see the Milky Way in the sky.

On such night of frost
a little daughter dies,
and in four days,
mothers bury in the snow
four little sons.
Sun, without you,
see how a little Gypsy is dying from cold
in the big forest.

Once, at home, the moon stood in the window,
didn't let me sleep.  Someone looked inside.
I asked--who is there?
--Open the door, my dark Gypsy.
I saw a beautiful young Jewish girl,
shivering from cold,
asking for food.
You poor thing, my little one.
I gave her bread, whatever I had, a shirt.
We both forgot that not far away
were the police.
But they didn't come that night.

All the birds
are praying for our children,
so the evil people, vipers, will not kill them.
Ah fate!
My unlucky luck!

Snow fell as thick as leaves,
barred our way,
such heavy snow, it buried the cartwheels.
One had to trample a track,
push the carts behind the horses.

How many miseries and hungers!
How many sorrows and roads!
How many sharp stones pierced our feet!
How many bullets flew by our ears!


Translated from Polish by Yala Korwin.
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Soon to be reviewed
Paul Polansky's three latest books
Dosha by Sonia Meyer
Movies---
Sophie Sholl, the Last Days
The Goebbles Experiment.