Verses and More: Lola Ridge's Antipodean Poems
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ka mate ka ora: a new zealand journal of poetry and poetics Issue 14 July 2016 WAR POEMS for Ka Mate Pekelkist: Some poets’ responses to war. Ricci van Elburg The following poems all refer to the Second World War, specifically as it was experienced in the Netherlands. Brief historical context. At dawn on May 10 1940 German troops invaded the Netherlands from the east in several places. At the same time a large airborne force landed in the western provinces. Their aim was to secure airfields and major bridges over the rivers in the southwest of the country, and to invade the harbour at Rotterdam from the west. After three days of fighting on several local fronts Germany issued an ultimatum on the 14th: surrender or we will bomb Rotterdam like we bombed Guernica and Warsaw. Not stated in those terms of course. While negotiations over details were still being held, the bombers arrived, the centre of Rotterdam was bombed with the result that about 900 people were killed, 25.000 houses were destroyed and fires had started everywhere. Any hesitation about surrendering was cut short by another ultimatum threatening the same treatment for Utrecht, and after that no doubt The Hague and Amsterdam. On May 15 the Netherlands capitulated and became occupied territory, except the southern province of Zeeland, where the French army was for the moment holding its ground. Almost immediately a network of resistance fighters and subversives was started, contacts being made mainly by means of word of mouth or chainmail letters. Part of the ‘small resistance’ was the use of cartoons making fun of the Germans and encouraging civil disobedience. At the end of the text I have added a few samples of the kind of images that were distributed through unofficial channels. One way of putting up posters was for one person to barely pause in their walk and quickly spread paste on a wall or a post, for a second one to come along, slap a poster on to the wet paste and walk away. The posters were made with large letters so they could be read in passing. Images at verzetsmuseum plakken The Dutch royal family belonged to the House of Oranje, so wearing orange costume jewellery was also part of the ‘klein verzet’, small resistance. No doubt people with gardens delighted in planting marigolds. 100 All illegal work was of course dangerous, there were members of the Dutch National Socialist Party who worked for and with the occupying forces and might betray you. Probably not yet realising how careful one had to be, nor how hard it was to know whom to trust, members of one of the earliest resistance groups were overheard in conversation, and a collaborator informed the Germans. Many were arrested, some were tortured, and on 13 March 1941 the first mass execution was carried out: 18 resistance fighters and Communist Party members were shot. The following poem was written in 1941, in the voice of one of those waiting to be executed. A list of their names can be seen on the website of the Dutch resistance museum, at www.verzetsmuseum.org. The execution ground, the Waalsdorpervlakte, an area of sand dunes near The Hague, is now a war memorial site. During the war at least 250 people were shot there, for being in the resistance, for publishing or distributing anti-German material, or for other infringements of German orders. In the translations I have not tried to create rhyme where the original poem rhymes but aimed to keep the cadence of the originals. Where there are end-rhymes in the original they are easily seen without being familiar with the sounds. Jan Campert, Het Lied der Achttien Dooden Een cel is maar twee meter lang en nauw twee meter breed, wel kleiner nog is het stuk grond, dat ik nu nog niet weet, maar waar ik naamloos rusten zal, mijn makkers bovendien, wij waren achttien in getal, geen zal den avond zien. O lieflijkheid van licht en land, van Holland’s vrije kust, eens door den vijand overmand had ik geen uur meer rust. Wat kan een man oprecht en trouw, nog doen in zulken tijd? Hij kust zijn kind, hij kust zijn vrouw en strijdt den ijdlen strijd. Ik wist de taak die ik begon, 101 een taak van moeiten zwaar, maar ‘t hart dat het niet laten kon schuwt nimmer het gevaar; het weet hoe eenmaal in dit land de vrijheid werd geëerd, voordat een vloekbre schennershand het anders heeft begeerd. Voordat die eden breekt en bralt het miss’lijk stuk bestond en Holland’s landen binnenvalt en brandschat zijnen grond; voordat die aanspraak maakt op eer en zulk Germaans gerief ons volk dwong onder zijn beheer en plunderde als een dief. De Rattenvanger van Berlijn pijpt nu zijn melodie, – zoo waar als ik straks dood zal zijn, de liefste niet meer zie en niet meer breken zal het brood en slapen mag met haar – verwerp al wat hij biedt of bood die sluwe vogelaar. Gedenkt die deze woorden leest mijn makkers in den nood en die hen naastaan ‘t allermeest in hunnen rampspoed groot, gelijk ook wij hebben gedacht aan eigen land en volk – er daagt een dag na elke nacht, voorbij trekt elke wolk. Ik zie hoe ‘t eerste morgenlicht door ‘t hoge venster draalt. Mijn God, maak mij het sterven licht – en zoo ik heb gefaald gelijk een elk wel fallen kan, schenk mij dan Uw genâ, opdat ik heenga als een man als ‘k voor de lopen sta. From Jan Campert, Verzamelde Gedichten 1922 – 1943, pp. 219-20. 102 The Song of the Eighteen Dead A cell is just two meters long and a bare two meters wide, still smaller is the piece of ground, that I do not yet know, but where I, nameless, will be laid, as my comrades will be too. There were just eighteen in our band, not one will see tonight. O loveliness of light and land, of Holland’s seashore free, once by the enemy overrun I could not be at rest. What can a man honest and true decide at such a time? He kisses both his wife and child and fights the hopeless fight. I knew the task that I took on, a task heavy with cares, but the heart that could not help itself will never fear the risk; it knows how once throughout this land all freedom was revered, before the cursed destroying hand decided otherwise. Before the braggart who breaks oaths revealed his terrible nerve, invading Holland’s motherland and ravaging its ground; before he, laying claim to honour and such Germanic worth, forced all of us under his might and plundered like a thief. Now the Pied Piper from Berlin plays a tempting melody, – as sure as I will soon be dead, no longer see my love and no more break my bread with her or ever sleep with her – 103 reject all he may offer you that sly catcher of rats. Remember you who read these words my comrades in their plight and most of all their dear ones left in this hour of their need, as we have thought in what we did of our people and our land – a day dawns after every night, each cloud must drift away. I see how early morning light creeps in the window high, My God, may my dying not be hard – and if in life I failed as any one sometimes may fail, be merciful to me, so that I face it like a man when they train their guns on me. Jan Campert, 1902 – 1943, was a journalist, poet, drama critic and short story writer. Campert himself was arrested in 1942 for helping Jewish people to escape via Belgium; he was taken to the concentration camp at Neuengamme in Germany, where he died on January 12, 1943. No details about his death or possible grave are known. The official cause given was pneumonia. The poem appeared in two illegal newspapers, about a month after Campert’s death. From there it was made into a pamphlet to raise funds for the Committee for Children, which had been started by students in Utrecht with the aim of rescuing Jewish children. Several reprints brought the total to about 15 000 copies, raising during the war some 75 000 guilders. Some of the money helped to publish, also underground, more resistance literature by the group which became the co-operative publishing house De Bezige Bij. The poem is still recited at yearly commemorations when on May 4 there is a silent procession to a cemetery or a war memorial in every town in the country. Bertus Aafjes, De laatste brief De wereld scheen vol lichtere geluiden En een soldaat lag op zijn overjas. Hij droomde lachend dat het vrede was 104 Omdat er in zijn droom een klok ging luiden. Er viel een vogel die geen vogel was Niet ver van hem tusschen de warme kruiden. En hij werd niet meer wakker want het gras Werd rood, een ieder weet wat dat beduidde. Het regende en woei. Toen herbegon Achter de grijze lijn der horizon Het bulderen – goedmoedig – der kanonnen. Maar uit zijn jas, terwijl hij liggen bleef, Bevrijdde zich het laatste wat hij schreef: Liefste, de oorlog is nog niet begonnen. From Dichters van dezen tijd, p. 270. The last letter The world seemed full of lighter sounds And on his overcoat a soldier slept. He dreamt smiling that there was peace For in his dream a church bell tolled.