somewhere under the sky

Hanus Hachenburg

Terezín is a small town outside of Prague, Czech Republic. it was originally founded as a military fortress in the 18th century by king somebody. during WWII it was turned into a ghetto - a model Jewish city - by the Nazis.

at the ghetto life mainly revolved around labor camps but to a certain extent, intellectual and artistic life was allowed to develop, since the Nazis needed to allow them some expression for purposes of propaganda. if you are in the Czech Republic, i highly recommend visiting this town because the museum houses an amazing collection of the artwork and literary work of the people who lived there. in the ghetto there were writers, artists, actors, singers, etc. several of the houses were boys houses, and some of the artistic ones published a secret magazine called Vedem, or We Are Leading.

Hanus Hachenburg was a boy who was taken to Terezín and lived there for several years. on 18 December 1943, he and his mother were taken to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where he was last heard of. presumably he died in 1944, when he was 15.
at the age of 14, he wrote this poem:

Terezín

A little dirt within the dirty walls
and round about a little bit of wire
And thirty thousand sleeping there,
who will awake one day
And see their life blood
Spilled around them.

I was a child once - two short years ago
My youth was longing for another world
I am a child no longer - I saw things to make me blush
Now I am adult and have known terror,
Bloody words and murdered days,
That is no longer just a bugaboo!

But I also believe that I am only sleeping
That I shall see my childhood once again
Childhood like a wild, wild rose
Like a bell to wake me from my dreams
Like a mother who with womanly intuition,
loves the naughty child most
How terrible my youth that watches only
For the enemy, the rope

How terrible a youth, that to itself
Must say: this one is good, and that one is evil.
Somewhere in the distance, childhood sweetly sleeps.
Along the narrow paths of Stromovka park,
There, from that house, someone leans out,
Where only contempt is left for me,
Where long ago, in gardens full of flowers,
My mother brought me into the world to weep.
In candlelight I sleep on my hand pallet,
And one day perhaps I shall understand
That I was just a tiny creature,
As small
as that chorus
of thirty thousand.

posted by leah v @ 2:18 AM