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B.A English Literature
3rd
Year 6th Semester
Elective
Paper – BEN-DSE2C
Literatures from the Margin
Unit - 1 : Poetry
1.7 “Tears of blood” - Polish Gypsy named
Bronislawa Wajs
[known
as Papusza, the Romani word for “doll.”]
About
Author:
Bronislawa
Wajs (1908-1987) was born one of the Polska Roma, or Polish Romani, and was
known by her Romani name Papusza, meaning doll. She became a singer and was an
eye witness to the genocide or Porajmos which literally means devouring.
Indeed, she is the earliest known Romani to have written on the subject having
been encouraged by Jerzy Ficowski to write her songs down as poems in 1950
which were published as Pieni Papuszi (Papuszas Songs).
Bronislawa Wajs (1908-1987), also
known as Papusza (Romani word for "doll"), was an unusual child and young
Polish Gypsy, to say the least. Born sometime between 1908 and 1910, she was
raised as part of a great kumpania, a band [company] of families who traveled
throughout Poland and Lithuania in horse-drawn caravans until the mid-1960s
when the Polish government, like most others, put an end to their wandering
life.
She
learned how to read and write by stealing chickens and trading their corpses
for books and lessons! In the summer of 1949, Jerzy Ficowski heard Papusza
performing her songs and, recognizing her talent, urged her to write them down
as poems, so that he could publish them. The song "Tears of Blood"
(translated below) along with several others, was published by Ficowski in the
early 1950s in a book titled Pieśni Papuszi (Papusza's Songs).
About
Poem:
Papusza’s
Romani-language narrative poem, Tears of Blood is the earliest known witness
account of the Kali Trash (‘Black Fear’), Samudaripen (‘Mass Killing’),
Porajmos (‘Devouring’), Pharrajimos (‘Destruction’), or the Roma Holocaust,
perpetrated by Nazi Germany during World War II. It deals with the Romani and
how they suffered at the hands of the German soldiers at Voly (Volhynia) in
1943 and 1944 and this has become the centrepiece of the event at St Andrews.
The poem was recently translated by writer Hamish MacDonald into both English
and Scots.
The Roma
poet, Papusza’s, Romani-language narrative poem Tears of Blood
Text:
(How we suffered under the German
soldiers in Volyň from 1943 to 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 two 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 women 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!
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