DMITRI SHOSTAKOVICH : BABI YAR

To Babi Yar είναι ένα φαράγγι στην Ουκρανική πρωτεύουσα, το Κίεβο και τόπος σφαγών που πραγματοποιήθηκαν από τις δυνάμεις της ναζιστικής Γερμανίας κατά τη διάρκεια της εκστρατείας της κατά της Σοβιετικής Ένωσης στον Β’ Παγκόσμιο Πόλεμο. Ακούμε το πρώτο μέρος από τη Συμφωνία Νο.13 σε Σι ύφεση ελάσσονα, op.113 του Dmitri Shostakovich, “Babi Yar”. Ποίηση του Yevgeni Yevtushenko. Στο βίντεο χρησιμοποίησα έναν από τους “Χαρακτήρες” μου, που ήταν εμπνευσμένος από αυτό το έργο. Την Concertgebouw Orchestra & Gentlemen from the Choir of the Concertgebouw Orchestra διευθύνει ο Bernard Haitink. Εξαιρετική εκτέλεση και εξαιρετική ερμηνεία από τον Marius Rintzler [μπάσο] M.K.

Babi Yar, a ravine in the Ukrainian capital Kiev and a site of massacres carried out by Nazi Germany’s forces during its campaign against the Soviet Union in World War II. We listen to the first part of Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony No 13 in B flat minor, op.113, “Babi Yar”. Poetry by Yevgeni Yevtushenko. In this video I used one of my “Characters”, inspired by this work. Concertgebouw Orchestra & Gentlemen from the Choir of the Concertgebouw Orchestra directed by Bernard Haitink. Extraordinary performance and exceptional interpretation by Marius Rintzler [bass] – Μ.Κ.


Μεταγραφή & μετάφραση της Valeria VlazinskayaTransliteration & translation adopted from Valeria Vlazinskaya

Over Babi Yar there are no monuments.
The steep precipice is like a crude gravestone.
I am terrified.
I am as old today
As all Jewish people.
Now I imagine that I’m a Jew.
Here I wander through ancient Egypt.
And here, on the cross, crucified, I perish.
And still I have on me the marks of the nails.
I imagine myself to be Dreyfus.
The Philistine – my informer and judge.
I am behind bars. I am surrounded.
Persecuted, spat on, slandered.
And dainty ladies in Brussels frills,
Squealing, poke their parasols into my face.
I imagine myself the boy from Belostok.
Blood flows, running over the floors.
The rabble-rousers in the tavern commit their outrages
Reeking of vodka and onions, half and half.
Kicked by a boot, I lie helpless.
In vain I plead with the pogrom-makers.
Accompanied by jeers: “Beat the Yids, save Russia!”
A grain merchant batters my mother.
O my Russian people, I know you
Are innately international
But often those whose hands were vile
In vain used your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
What base lowness – without a quiver of a vein
The anti-Semites proclaimed themselves
“The Union of the Russian People!”
I imagine myself as Anne Frank,
Transparent as a sprig in April,
And I love, and have no need for phrases,
But I do need for us to gaze into each other.
How little one can see, or smell!
Leaves – we cannot have,
Sky – we cannot have,
But there is so much we can have –
To embrace tenderly in a darkened room.
“They’re coming!”
“Don’t be afraid, those are the booming sounds
Of Spring itself. It’s coming here.
Come to me,
Quickly, give me your lips!”
“They’re breaking the door!”
“No, it’s the ice breaking…”
Over Babi Yar the wild grasses rustle.
The trees look sternly as if in judgement.
Here everything screams silently and, taking off my hat
I feel I am slowly turning grey.
And I myself am one long soundless cry.
Above the thousand thousands buried here.
I am every old man here shot dead.
I am every child here shot dead.
Nothing in me will ever forget this.
The “Internationale” – let it thunder
When forever will be buried
The last of the anti-Semites on earth.
There is no Jewish blood in mine,
But I am adamantly hated
By all anti-Semites as if I were a Jew.
That is why I am a true Russian!

Nad Babim Yarom pamyatnikov nyet.
Krutoi obryv, kak gruboye nadgrobye.
Mne strashno.
Mne sevodnya stolko let,
Kak samomu yevreiskomu narodu.
Mne kazhetsya seichas – ya iudei.
vot ya bredu po drevnemu Egiptu.
A vot ya, na kreste raspyati, gibnu.
I do sikh por na mne – sledy gvozdei.
Mne kazhestya, shot Dreifus – eto ya.
Meshchanstvo – moi donoschik i sudya.
Ya za reshotkoi. Ya popal v koltso,
Zatravlennyi, oplyovannyi, obolgannyi,
I admochki s bryusselskimi oborkami,
Vizzha, zontami tychut mne v litso.
Mne kahzetsya, ya – malchik v Belostoke.
Krov lyotsya, rastekayas po polam,
Beschinstvuyut vozhdi traktimoi stoiki
I pakhnut vodkoi s lukom popolam.
Ya sapogom otbroshennyi, bessilnyi.
Naprasno ya pogromshchikov moyu.
Pod gogot: “Bei zhidov, spasai Rossiyu!”
Labaznik izbiyavet mat moyu.
O russki moi narod, ya znayu ty
Po sushchnosti internazionalen.
No chasto te, chi ruki nechisty
Tvoim chiteishim imenem bryatsali.
Ya znayu dobrotu moyei zemli.
Kak podlo, shto i zhilochkoi ne drognuv.
Antisemity narekli sebya
“Soyuzom Russkovo Naroda!”
Mne kazhetsya ya – eto Anna Frank,
Prozrachnaya, kak vetochka v aprele,
I ya lyublyu, i mne ne nado fraz,
No nado, shtob drug v druga my smotreli.
Kak malo mozhno videt, obonyat!
Nelzya nam listyev
I nelzya nam neba,
No mozhno ochen mnogo – eto nezhno
Drug druga v tyomnoi komnate obnyat.
“Syuda idut!”
“Ne bosa, eto guly
Samoy vesny. Ona syuda idyot.
Idi ko mne,
Dai mne skoreye guby!”
“Lomayut dver!”
“Nyet, eto ledokhod…”
Nad Babim Yarom shelest dikikh trav,
Derevya smotryat grozno, po-sudeiski.
Zdes molcha vsyo krichit, i, shapku snyav,
Ya chuvstvuyu, kak medlenno sedeyu.
I sam ya, kak sploshnoi bezzvuchnyi krik,
Nad tysyachami tysyach pogrebyonnykh.
Ya – kazhdyi zdes rasstrelyanni starik.
Ya – kazhdyi zdes rasstrelyanni rebyonok.
Nichto vo mne pro eto ne zabudet.
“Internatsional” pust progremit.
Kogda naveki pokhoronen budet
Posledni na zemle antisemit.
Yevreiskoi krovi nyet v krovi moyei,
No nenavisten zloboi zaskoruzloi
Ya vsem antisemitam, kak yevrei.
I potomu ya – nastoyashchi russki!

M.K.

4
(Visited 100 times, 1 visits today)

6 Comments

  1. Laura Bloomsbury February 23, 2022 at 5:26 pm

    in these highly charged times of today, your Babi Yar post is a timely reminder of who also participated in this horror – the poem and music accompanying Marina’s figure painting are the best of monuments

    Reply
    1. marina kanavaki February 23, 2022 at 9:09 pm

      Oh, yes…. Thank you, my dear Laura. This music actually inspired many paintings and it’s been imprinted in my cells from the first time I ever listened to it. It felt like an appropriate contribution to the host’s war theme.

      Reply
      1. Laura Bloomsbury February 23, 2022 at 10:14 pm

        you really are a musical painter – a magical hybrid of sight and sound

        Reply
        1. marina kanavaki February 24, 2022 at 12:19 pm

          😊😊😊😊😊…. (blushing!)
          musical painter sounds right though! 😘😉😉😊

          Reply
  2. Resa February 23, 2022 at 8:36 pm

    Heavy Duty!!!!
    Thank you for the artistic presentation with the music, which feels sad and terrifying..
    I feel sad, sadder, saddest for the Ukraine at this moment.

    trump called putin a genius today. 😩

    Reply
    1. marina kanavaki February 23, 2022 at 9:59 pm

      Heavy duty and sad indeed… as war is. This is one of my most favorite pieces of music. Thank you, my sweet friend. xoxoxo

      Reply

Leave a Reply