Songs of Children Songs of Children Only take heed, and keep your soul diligently lest you forget the things which your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your hearts all the days of your life; make them known to your children and your children's children. Deuteronomy 4:9 The Garden A little garden, Fragrant and full of roses. The path is narrow And a little boy walks along it. A little boy, a sweet boy, Like that growing blossom. When the blossom comes to bloom, The little boy will be no more. Franta Bass (Franta Bass was born on September 4,1930, deported to Tereinon December 2, 1942, and dies in Oswiecim on October 28,1944). At Terezin When a new child comes Everything seems strange to him. What, on the ground I have to lie? Eat black potatoes? No! Not l! I've got to stay? It's dirty here! The floor - why, look, it's dirt, I fear! And I'm supposed to sleep on it? I'll get all dirty! Here the sound of shouting, cries, And of, so many flies. Everyone knows flies carry disease. Oooh, something bit me! Wasn't that a bedbug? Here in Terezin, life is hell And when I'll go home again, I can't yet tell. "Teddy" 1943 On A Sunny Evening On a purple, sun-shot evening Under wide-flowering chestnut trees Upon the threshold full of dust Yesterday, today, the days are all like these. Trees flower forth in beauty, Lively too their very wood all gnarled and old That I am half afraid to peer Into their crowns of green and gold. The sun has made a veil of gold So lovely that my body aches. Above, the heavens shriek with blue Convinced I've smiled by some mistake. The world's abloom and seems to smile, I want to fly but where, how high? If in barbed wire, things can bloom Why couldn't l? I will not die! 1944 Anonymous (Written by the children in Barracks L 318 and L 417; ages 10-16 years) The Little Mouse A mousie sat upon a shelf, Catching fleas in his coat of fur. But he couldn't catch her- what chagrin! She'd hidden 'way inside his skin. He turned and wriggled, knew no rest, That flea was such a nasty pest! His daddy came And searched his coat He caught the flea and off he ran To cook her in the frying pan. The little mouse cried, "Come and see! For lunch we've got a nice, fat flea!" Koleba, 1944 Terezin That bit of filth in dirty walls, And all around barbed wire, And 30,000 souls who sleep Who once will wake And once will see Their own blood spilled. I was once a little child, Three years ago. That child who longed for other worlds. But now I am no more a child For I have learned to hate. I am a grown-up person now, I have known fear. Bloody words and a dead day then, That's something different than bogie men! But anyway, I still believe I only sleep today, That I'll wake up, a child again, and start to laugh and play. I'll go back to childhood sweet like a briar rose, Like a bell which wakes us from a dream, Like a mother with an ailing child Loves him with aching woman's love. I low tragic, then, is youth which lives With enemies, with gallows ropes, I low tragic, then, for children on your lap To say: this for the good, that for the bad, Somewhere, far away out there, childhood sweetly sleeps, Along that path among the trees, There o'er that house Which was once my pride and joy. There my mother gave me birth into this world So I could weep. . . In the flame of candles by my bed, I sleep And once perhaps I'll understand That I was such a little thing As little as this song. These 30,000 souls who sleep Among the trees will wake, Open an eye And because they see A lot They'll fall asleep again. . . 1944 Hanus Hachenburg (Hanus Hachenburg was born in Prague on July 12, 1929, and deported to Terezin on October 24, 1942. He died on December 18, 1 943, in Oswiecim). The Closed Town Everything leans, like tottering, hunched old women. Every eye shines with fixed waiting and for the word, "when"? Here there are few soldiers. only the shot-down birds tell of war. You believe every bit of news you hear. The buildings now are fuller, Body smelling close to body, And the garrets scream with light for long, long hours. This evening I walked along the street of death. On one wagon, they were taking the dead away. Why are so many marches have been drummed here? Why so many soldiers? Then A week after the end, Everything will be empty here. A hungry dove will peck for bread. In the middle of the street will stand An empty, dirty Hearse. Anonymous Terezin The heaviest wheel rolls across our foreheads To bury itself deep somewhere inside our memories. We've suffered here more than enough, Here in this clot of grief and shame, Wanting a badge of blindness To be a proof for their own children. A fourth year of waiting, like standing above a swamp From which any moment might gush forth a spring. Meanwhile, the rivers flow another way, Another way, Not letting you die, not letting you live. And the cannons don't scream and the guns don't bark And you don't see blood here. Noting, only silent hunger. Children steal the bread here and ask and ask and ask And all would wish to sleep, keep silent and just to go to sleep again. . . The heaviest wheel rolls across our foreheads To bury itself deep somewhere inside our memories. Mif, 1 944 Birdsong He doesn't knovr the world at all Who stays in his nest and doesn't go out. He doesn't know what birds krtow best Nor what I want to sing about, That the world is full of loveliness. When dewdrops sparkle in the grass And earth's afloc with morning light, A blackbird sings upon a bush To greet the dawning after night. Then I know how fine it is to live. Hey, try to open up your heart To beauty; go to the woods someday And weave a wreath of memory there. Than if the tears obscure your way You'll know how wonderful it is To be alive. 1941 Anonymous To Olga Listen! The boat whistle has sounded now And we must sail Out toward an unknown port. Well sail a long, long way And clreams will ttlrn to truth. Oh, how sweet the name Morocco Listen! Now it's time. The wind sings songs of far away, Just look up to heaven And think about the violets. Listen! Now it's time. Alena Synkova