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Brest-Litovsk
1.
The old city, the little gray city
astride the Mukhovets river,
astride the borders of Russia and Poland both,
its nationality precarious;
when the smoke of World War One had cleared
my Brest-Litovsk was lost,
as gone as classical Athens, as Troy—
But sometimes, in a whisper of painful love,
I conjure up its shade,
its twisting narrow streets,
alleys indirect, in no hurry to lead somewhere.
Its Aprils, somehow always unexpected,
startling rainstorms from a sky full of sun;
the old fortress on its island in mid-river,
rising silent, turrets looming seriously grim;
a couple of old windmills, their quadrate wings
still wearily uplifted;
oak trees that have loitered for centuries
outside the Kaiser Orchards;
the sound of oars in the Mukhovets river,
their sad little splashes
like someone saying “hush, hush.”
It’s sabbath. The boulevards are empty,
yawning wide on this day of rest.
Strong tea pours in steaming rivers
from sparkling samovars.
A kaleidoscope of paired sabbath candles,
women saying prayers in Yiddish;
grandchildren, grandmothers kerchiefs on their heads
like peasants, women with elegant bonnets,
an orgy of silk ribbons,
thin-lipped elegant elderly ladies
praying, invoking the patriarchs
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
Present-day patriarchs,
sit at the table, fingers in their beards,
pondering their way through the maze
of Talmud page (a square of text
older than Babylon, encircled
by a thousand years of squabbling commentaries,
the one by Rashi’s on the inside of the page,
by the folio’s spine, roofbeam of the edifice.)
The scholars chant their text aloud
like scripture: old men’s high voices
interwoven with the bass of a student soon to marry.
In the little gardens beside the houses,
sunflowers, white annual rezedas,
poppies; girls’ blond hair in braids;
cockades of cadets; lines from Pushkin
quoted by young men
with an air of Russian sophistication.
Rosy grows the twilight sky,
quiet the talk, indistinct the voices.
Evening mist, couples stray off
towards the fields as if following the music
of an invisible fiddler. Springtime overspreads
the town with a vague shimmer
of sorrow, and the smell of lilacs.
2.
Early evening, young women at the doorstep
talking, absorbed and serious,
about their men working in Germany,
about bad luck, sickness caused by demons,
about gypsies who steal little children.
Children stand in the shadows listening,
excited, wishing some of those gypsies
would come steal them.
Innocent little Cleopatras,
fifteen year old frauleins with gloves and parasols,
glide splendidly along the street,
briefly lifting their veils
for a better look at the boys,
listening to teenage admirers
who throw in a phrase or two
of poetry in Polish
so beautiful it leaves you tipsy
as would a kiss.
Sunny afternoons make the shopkeepers drowsy,
passersby are lazy and dazed with the warmth.
Here comes a Hassidic rebbe,
a holy man, black hat and long black coat,
like a storm-cloud, bristling eyebrows tufted up
over eyes afire at the sight of we heathen.
The street reels beneath this prophet’s feet,
yeshiva boys who see him, themselves still unseen,
hold their breath.
In the background, gentile soldiers and officers
disrupt the Jewish mood of this vignette.
On a highway about as even
as a hunchback’s back, a lone coach bangs and rattles
loud in the stillness as a subway train.
O soft sandy banks of my riverside city,
tea-roses and oak trees,
the way the sight of your streets and houses
met me every morning early,
comforting as the smell of fresh bread!
_________________
Mildred Faintly, poet and translator, holds a doctorate in Classics from Brown University, and taught Classics and History of Religions at Haifa University. She is a contributor to The Jewish Women’s Archive, and reviews books for 96thofoctober.com.