Archive > Vol. 22 no. 1

Jacob Glatshteyn

Translated from the Yiddish by Marc Kaminsky

My Brother Benjamin

Send me words that have not yet been wept out —
God, I don't have the strength to curse —
and I'll use them to cry
for Your worlds that disappeared in smoke. 

Why did You need him
to spin around in the world —
my brother Benjamin?
Is this the way You marked him
as one of Your chosen —
always neglecting and rejecting him?

He tailored, he wove,
and from this he made what he called
a living. For what?
So that You could clothe a poor weaver
in the outfit of the concentration camp
and lead him without a shroud or a gravedigger
to the chimney?
And on the right side You granted him pleasure,
you made his road heavy with the one
dream of his dreams,
his laughing little piece of joy
with the pitch-black suns.
And on the left side —
his heavy-fleshed wife
from a neighboring village,
who sought him, found him,
and occupied herself with sharing bite by bite —
poverty. 

Why did You need this foolish joke?
You discharged a lightning-bolt and created a piece of misfortune.
You were forever stingy with him.
You were always slapping him, shaming him,
not recognizing him.
But You kept him alive
because You needed him very badly
to incinerate him in his forty-fourth year.
Dear Holy Name,
what was the meaning of my brother Benjamin?
Why did You create him
and not give him a crumb of good fortune?
Why did you ruin his whole life?
Did You really want him
and his wife to live
to see the day
that they would lead their only son
to the wedding-canopy of the chimney,
and there You cremated all of them.