Мойсей Фішбейн – визначний український поет і перекладач, лауреат премії імені Василя Стуса, член Українського Центру Міжнародного PEN-клубу та Національної спілки письменників України.
Moses Fishbein is a distinguished Ukrainian poet and translator, winner of the Vasyl Stus Prize, and a member of the Ukrainian Center of the International PEN Club and the National Union of Writers of Ukraine.
АРХІВ САЙТУ (Архів містить, зокрема, аудіозаписи авторського виконання поезій Мойсея Фішбейна).
Мойсей Фішбейн – український поет і перекладач, лауреат премії імені Василя Стуса, член Українського Центру Міжнародного PEN-клубу та Національної спілки письменників України.
Мойсей Фішбейн народився 1946 року в Чернівцях. Працював у Головній редакції Української Радянської Енциклопедії та літературним секретарем Миколи Бажана. 1979 року внаслідок відмови від співпраці з КДБ був змушений еміґрувати. 2003 року повернувся в Україну.
Мойсей Фішбейн є автором книг „Ямбове коло” (1974), „Збірка без назви” (1984), „Дивний сад” (1991), „Апокриф” (1996), „Розпорошені тіні” (2001), „Аферизми” (2003), „Ранній рай” (2006). З-під його пера вийшли переклади з французької (Ш. Бодлер), з німецької (Г. Гайне, Р. М. Рільке, Г. фон Гофмансталь, П. Целан та інші), з івриту (Єгуда га-Леві, Х. Н. Бялік, М. Вінклер) та з багатьох інших мов і авторів.
Про Мойсея Фішбейна пишуть світові енциклопедії.
Мойсея Фішбейна нагороджено орденом князя Ярослава Мудрого V ступеня, орденом Святого Рівноапостольного князя Володимира Великого ІІІ ступеня, орденом "За інтелектуальну відвагу".
Один из основоположников послереволюционной украинской прозы. Один из тех, кого у нас в Украине называют "Расстрелянное возрождение". Подвергался нападкам Сталина. Не выдержал истребления украинских писателей и 13 мая 1933 года в Харькове покончил жизнь самоубийством.
... І солодко від присмаку скорботи,
І затишно у затінку хреста,
І лоскотно намацує вуста
Солодке слово смутку для жеброти,
І всі забули, звідки ти і хто ти,
Сказав-бо Він: „Забудьмо, щó є мста”,
І шалом захлинаються міста,
І юрмище реве тисячороте,
І ти його ведеш, Іскаріоте,
І гучно славиш мертвого Христа.
The land where Judas glorifies Christ
cannot be happy.
The land where Judas preaches Christ
cannot be happy.
M. F.
... Sweetness is the seasoning of sorrow,
And comforting is the shadow of the Cross.
A sweet word of grief is a caress,
A tickle in a beggar’s mouth — from where
You come and who you are, all have forgotten now,
Since His, “Forgive, they know not what they do.”
Cities are stifled in their violence,
A thousand-throated mob howls in the street,
While you, their leader, Judas Iscariot,
Raise your voice and glorify dead Christ.
Munich, July 28-29, 1991
Translated by James Kates and Bohdan Boychuk.
********************
Moses FISHBEIN
APOKRYPH
Kein Land kann glücklich sein, wo Judas
Christus rümt. Kein Land kann glücklich
sein, wo Judas predigt Christi Lehre.
M. F.
… und kostet süß das Angesicht der Schmerzen,
Und fühlt sich wohl im Schatten seines Kreuzes,
Und rundet spitz die Lippen auszureizen,
Das süße Wort für Leiden in der Armen Herzen,
Und so vergaßen alle deine Herkunft, um dich auszumerzen,
Gesprochen hat er: „Rachesoll uns nicht zerreißen“.
Und Städte toben, wollen mit der Wut nicht geizen,
Aus tausend Mündern nun die Menge loht,
Du führst sie an, Ischariot,
Den toten Christus wirst du lautstark preisen.
München, 28./29. Juli 1991 Aus dem Ukrainischen von Friedrich Hitzer.
МУЗИКАНТ. 1942 Хвища вгорнула повісмо бараків, Там, поза хвищею, жевріє Краків, Грай, моя скрипонько, скрипонько, грай, Там, поза Краковом, тиха Равенна, Зграя вовків стрибоне на рамена, Онде пантрує ще тисяча зграй. Знову повіяло кров’ю від Ками, Знову від Ками відгонить вовками, Що ні про нього не знали, ні про Це закривавлене шмаття білизни, Ні про його незагоєні близни, Ні про його незагойний Дніпро.
Нагадуємо: слова "жид", "жидівка", "жидівський" у Галичині (як, зокрема, і в Польщі) ніколи не мали й не мають ані неґативного, ані принизливого відтінку.
МФ
*************************************
I Am Alive Thanks to the UPA
By Dr. Stella Krenzbach
[Originally published in V Riadakh UPA: Zbirka Spomyniv buv. Voiakiv Ukrainskoi Povstanskoi Armii (In the Ranks of the UPA: A Collection of Memoirs by Form[er] Soldiers of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army), ed. by Dr. Petro Mirchuk and V. Davydenko, Prolog Association Library No. 1052, New York: Society of Former Soldiers of the UPA in the USA and Canada, 1957; pp. 342-49].
I attribute the fact that I am alive today and devoting all the energy of my thirty-eight years to a free Israel exclusively to the Almighty and the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA). To the Almighty, for giving me eyes like the cornflowers of the Ukrainian fields and golden hair like the vast wheat fields. That He did not limn on my face the eternal brand of Israel and that I grew up without resembling my ancient forebears, Rachels and Rebeccas. On the contrary: I was no different from Marusia, Orysia, or Olia, the girls of the Ukrainian land. I often wondered why Jehovah had a hankering to create me completely unlike my mother, the red-haired and green-eyed Sarah, or my father, the black-haired rabbi of the town of B. in Western Ukraine, with his Semitic nose and payes, the side curls prescribed by the ancient laws. Today I understand. His Great Holy Will wanted me to work for the glory of Israel, for whose freedom I had prayed my whole life; that Promised Land of Moses to which one-half of my heart belongs, because until my death the other half will remain full of love for the land where I was born, where I grew up.
I was born in that town of B., which lies seventy-five kilometers from Lviv. My father was respected not just by the Jews of that town. He was an extraordinarily honest person, who lived his life in keeping with the Divine Commandments; who loved his own culture but also respected others’. It was nothing out of the ordinary for my father to be on friendly terms with the local [Ukrainian—Transl.] Greek Catholic dean whom he often visited for discussions about the Old Testament. Olia, the priest’s daughter, was my best friend since first grade. After I completed public school, my father sent me to the local Ukrainian high school, even though there was also a Polish state gymnasium in the town. My father said that I would experience less humiliation in a Ukrainian school. But he was very mistaken in using the word “less.” During my eight years of study in the Ukrainian school I did not experience any indignities whatsoever. My girlfriends considered me their equal and they treated me like a Ukrainian girl. In high school I mastered the literary Ukrainian language and became familiar with the spiritual grandeur of Ukrainian literature. Thus, in time I began to hate the enemies of Ukraine and to love its friends. At home I was raised according to the customs dictated by the ancient laws. We did not speak dialect [i.e., Yiddish—Trans.] but pure Hebrew. When I was still a child, my parents began instilling in me a love for Israel, which was the same enslaved fatherland as Ukraine. Once I began delving into the depths of my soul, I saw that my heart was divided into two equal parts. In one part burned a love for Israel and in the other, for Ukraine. Perhaps my statement will strike some people as an absurdity; there can be only one mighty love, they will say. But when I analyze myself again today, now that any weakness is out of the question, I can say boldly that both loves were and are equally great and equally powerful!
I matriculated in 1935 and wanted to enroll in the medical faculty in Lviv. But my application was rejected along with the applications of thirty-eight Ukrainians. I was the only Jew who was not accepted. Then I enrolled for philosophy. That year my parents left for Palestine, and I was supposed to join them after completing my studies. In June 1939 I finished my studies and obtained my doctorate. On 28 September a ship was supposed to sail to Palestine, for which I had a reserved ticket. But the war broke out on 1 September and I was unable to leave Lviv. At first, the new masters—the Bolsheviks—treated the Jews in a friendly manner. I immediately found work in a high school, obviously not revealing my social origins. But no more than a year had passed when one morning militia men [Soviet policemen—Transl.] appeared in my house and ordered me to pack for a journey. What journey? I asked quietly, thinking that there must be some mistake. I showed them my passport and all the required certificates. But there was nothing to be done. The order had come to deport all the Jews to Siberia, and that was that. I began to pack all my belongings, put on my best clothing, and thought about submitting to my fate. Before leaving, I asked to go to the toilet. I was given permission. Salvation awaited me there. I lived on the parterre, and the window in the toilet looked out over the courtyard. I jumped through the window and escaped through the gate to another street. Until the Bolsheviks’ retreat I hid the whole time at the home of my friend Olia, the daughter of the priest from our hometown. Olia was working as a bookkeeper in the food department and was barely able to feed the two of us. She shared the last crust of bread with me and was like a sister to me. In risking her life, she never let me feel the fear that she was experiencing because of me. Just like me, she had no one. She had lost her mother when she was a child. During the war her father had been killed by the Poles, members of the so-called Legion of Death, which consisted of criminals who were sent out to burn down Ukrainian villages and murder politically aware Ukrainians.
When the Germans entered Lviv, I was probably the only Jew who was happy about their arrival. I thought that they would establish a Ukrainian state and fight the Bolsheviks. How painfully I was disappointed! My joy quickly turned to horror. What the Germans began doing to the Jews, and later to the Ukrainians, was nothing more than a continuation of the Bolsheviks’ savagery.
I continued living with Olia and was working as a seamstress in Ukrainian homes. I had documents issued under a Ukrainian name, my face was not suspect, but my nerves were not holding up. Every day I saw huge columns of Jews going submissively to their deaths, escorted by several policemen. Their submissiveness made me furious. I shut my mouth to stop myself from shouting to them: “Go ahead and kill those few policemen. There are more of you. You’re going to die anyway, but die like heroes, not like slaves!” I often talked about this with Olia; she told me that Jews are not capable of heroic feats. At the time I agreed with her.
Oh, Olia! If I could only tell you how the sons of Israel know how to fight and die heroically, but you probably know this already…
Life in Lviv was also becoming dangerous for Ukrainians. After dealing with the Jews, the Germans began arresting Ukrainians. The prisons filled up with young people, intellectuals, and eventually—politically aware peasants. Frequent executions, arrests, and deportations to concentration camps in Germany were part of the daily agenda. But the Ukrainians were not submissive like the Jews; they avenged blood with blood and death with death. News about the UPA in Volyn was already reaching me at this time. I guessed that Olia had links to the UPA because one day a typewriter appeared in our house, on which Olia typed all kinds of propagandistic materials. Sometimes Olia would disappear, always on a Saturday evening, returning at dawn on Monday, often muddied and tired. Boys and girls whom I did not know began to visit us. They sat for a long time in Olia’s room or came only for the drugs that Olia would bring home from the pharmacy, where she worked as a laboratory assistant. The concierge of our building was a Pole. He noticed that a lot of people were visiting us, and he began to watch them. One day his wife blurted to me that our neighbors had their eye on us. I told Olia about this, and the visits to our house became somewhat less frequent. But we were already under suspicion. I felt that one day we would be arrested (perhaps this was a psychosis), and I was overcome by a new wave of nervous fear. I decided to sign up for work in Germany; I though that it would be safer there. I told Olia about my plan. She discouraged me from going, but I insisted, explaining that I had no other choice. Then she proposed that I join the ranks of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army. Olia’s suggestion seemed like salvation to me, and I accepted it with great joy. My entire being was electrified with hatred of the enemy and a desire for revenge. And where could I get revenge better than there? It was 7 November 1943. “How did you describe me—as a Ukrainian woman or a Jewess?” I asked her while we were walking along a path through the fields leading to a meadow near the forest. “Rest assured, they know everything about you, and you can be yourself among them. They do not divide people into races, only into honest people and dishonest ones.” Relieved, I continued walking; Olia’s words had cheered me up. That day I became a member of the heroic UPA.
Until July 1944 we hid in the forested areas near Lviv. There I completed a six-month medic’s course that was taught by two Jewish doctors and one Ukrainian. In our group I counted twelve Jews, eight of whom were doctors.
In July 1944, when the Bolsheviks returned to Western Ukraine, I received an order to go to the town of R. and work in the local militia. For eight months I worked as a secretary to the head of the militia. He was a Jew, a communist, and a stalwart party member. In his presence I pretended to be a communist sympathizer. Fabricating all kinds of stories about life in the “ghetto,” I called the Bolsheviks my liberators, etc. The head sympathized with me and even made friendly overtures to me. I pretended that I was in love with him, and he was under the impression that our relations were sincere and friendly. Meanwhile, I was in constant contact with the insurgents, informing them about everything of importance that I managed to find out at the militia.
But one day the militia head caught me by surprise at a designated meeting place with a courier. He seriously wounded the courier, and thinking that he had killed him, left the area and drove me to the prison. Meanwhile, the courier regained consciousness and with his last shreds of strength crawled away to his people and told them about my arrest. I sat in the local jail, which had once been a military barrack. The prison was mostly filled with peasants, and elderly ones at that. All the young people were in the UPA. Over a period of five weeks I was interrogated fifteen times. I was tortured and beaten. To this day my body bears the obvious marks of those tortures. I kept silent the whole time. I did not utter a single word, and they began to test me with some sort of horrible apparatus to see whether I had become mute. I could not stand the pain and cried out. My only reply to all the interrogations was yelps of pain and groans. Nevertheless, one day a trial took place and I heard my alleged confession. Sentenced to death, I accepted the verdict with relief. They put me into a cell with condemned prisoners. There were twenty-four of us in a small room that could barely hold twelve people. Among the condemned were a seventy-year-old granny and a twelve-year-old girl. The latter had been sentenced because she had been grazing her cow near the forest allegedly in order to provide milk to the insurgents.
Each of the condemned female prisoners had been indicted on an absurd charge. When the light was turned off in the corridor, the women decided to spend the whole night in prayer in order to meet their death in the morning with dignity. From her neck the old granny removed a small black cross on which glowed the Crucified Christ made of silver. One after the other they kissed the cross and then began whispering prayers. I prayed earnestly with everyone. Although the religion of my parents teaches that Christ is not the Almighty, only a great prophet, that night I became convinced that Christ is the Almighty. I don’t know how much time we spent in prayer when suddenly we heard shooting and a commotion in the corridors. There was an exchange of gunfire and we did not know what had happened, but a kind of hope crept into our hearts. After a time the door to our cell opened and standing there were boys that I knew from the forest. At the time the town of R. was in the hands of the insurgents for four days.
From the day of my release from prison my life became closely linked to the life of the insurgents. With them I moved from one place to another, whenever I received an order. Our group consisted of seventy soldiers, doctors, three nurses, and four other women. In the summer of 1945 we crossed into the Carpathian Mountains, where we joined up with two other groups. At first, the Bolsheviks did not go into the mountains and for a time we lived unmolested. But by late autumn battles began taking place with increasing frequency, and then our hospital filled up and there was a lot of work.
One day—it was 7 January 1946, Ukrainian Christmas Day—the Bolsheviks surrounded us in a triple ring of encirclement. There was no escape. The commander gave each of us a hand grenade so that we could kill ourselves at the last minute. The battle was fierce and unequal; it went on and on. For three hours the chaplain of our hospital, an elderly crippled priest, prayed in front of a wooden cross, and all that time he beseeched: “Help them, Christ! Don’t let our souls perish in vain!” All of us prayed together with him. And then a miracle happened. From the other side of the Carpathians a large group of insurgents came to our assistance, and after attacking the Bolsheviks from behind, they broke through the encirclement. The commander of that group said that they hadn’t known anything about our situation. But a young boy had come to him with a message asking for help. We never found out who that young fellow was, where he had come from, or who had sent him. He couldn’t have been from our group because we were surrounded. Then we began talking about a miracle. I thought about this incident for a long time and finally came to the conclusion that if the Almighty had performed miracles in the days of the Old Testament, why couldn’t He perform them in modern times?
In the summer of 1946 our group was completely smashed. There were ten times more Bolsheviks than us. My friend Olia died in a battle at this time. Our hospital was very well concealed in a huge mountain crevasse and despite thorough searches, we were never found. Eight of us survived: the hospital doctor, the old priest, two invalids each missing an arm, two without an eye, one with a smashed jaw, and I. For three weeks no one came to us, and we didn’t know what was happening. We had no communications. This meant that no one knew about us. We began running out of food, although I managed it very frugally. One day I was horrified to see that there was only half a sack of flour in our pantry. Another week and we would be facing death by starvation, and we were still cut off from everyone. Then our Rev. Volodymyr announced that he was going to contact someone. We did not stop him, although no one believed that this seventy-seven-year-old man with a stiff leg would reach his destination. After he left, two more weeks passed. The potatoes were gone, and we had not eaten anything for two days. The doctor, a native of Kyiv, poked fun at himself, saying: no one can hide from death. His parents had starved to death, but he had fled to the city and saved himself. Yet thirteen years later death had come for him all the way over here. That very afternoon we were visited not by death but by a courier, who brought us food, money, and an order to go to the West. Father Volodymyr had reached a group and sent help to us. We left the very next morning. We had already covered some distance when I remembered something and went back. The doctor was angry at me, saying that our trip would be unlucky. But our journey went miraculously well. The article that I had gone back for was the wooden cross that had saved our hospital so many times. Who knows whether without this cross we would have crossed three borders, which were already very well guarded?
On 1 October 1946 we reached the British zone of Austria. There I said goodbye to my friends. How I reached Palestine is not part of my reminiscences. But I must mention my reunion with my elderly father, who, after hearing my stories, asked me in a trembling voice:
“Did you, perhaps, convert to Christianity?”
From this question I clearly understood that my old-law father would have taken the news of my death easier than my change of religion. But I still think a lot about Christ’s religion, and I cannot banish Christ from my heart. But neither do I have the strength to be my father’s murderer.
After ending up in a new homeland, I promised myself that I would inform the world about the Ukrainians and their heroic UPA. However, for a long time there was no opportunity to do this; I was an obscure individual and the world does not listen gladly to such people. But now that I have begun working in the ministry and my name is well known to many diplomats, I am doing my duty. In concluding these short reminiscences, I appeal to the freedom-loving international community with a warning not to underestimate the Ukrainian question and not put it on the backburner, because only a free UkrainianState will be a guarantee and proof of a just peace in the world.
Яка там гривня? Через дорогу – бундесвер, під нами – багатодітні турки, а бабисько – німкеня з верхнього поверху.
– Wie bitte? – Що, прóшу? – чемно запитав я.
– Вас ту-ту-ту? – суворо повторила німкеня.
Либонь, вона каже „Was tut tu-tu?” – „Що робить ту-ту?” – второпав я. Теж непогано. Теж гарне запитаннячко. Надто після десятої вечора.
– Не знаю, – кажу, – що робить ту-ту.
– Nein, das ist bei dir! Das ist bei dir! Was tut tu-tu? – Ні, це в тебе! Це в тебе! Що робить ту-ту? – Anruf? Aus Russland? – Дзвоник? Із Росії?
– Ми не з Росії. Ми з України.
– Це одне й те саме, – відрубало бабисько.
– Галюцинація, – кажу, – робить ту-ту. У вас.
Я зачинив двері.
„Ту-ту, ту-ту, ту-ту”, – торочила за дверима німкеня.
Не гривню б тобі дати, а по сраці. За наші міста і села.
Мені раптом закортіло вигукнути щось на кшталт „За родіну, за Сталіна!”
Потім я довго картав себе за бажання вигукнути цю фразу.
Того вечора наш телефон справді німував. Як і цілу добу. До нас ніхто не дзвонив. З України й поготів. З України до нас майже не дзвонять. На Україну дзвоню я. Це послідовно й невблаганно штовхає мене на шлях жебрацтва. Вже багато років. Телефонна наркоманія.
Кілька днів по тому я не виходив із хати. Перекладав Рільке. Намагався писати щось своє. Час до часу визирав у вікно, дивився на огорожу, вивершену колючим дротом. За огорожею бундесверівська військова частина. Аби розважитися, уявляв себе розвідником, який оселився тут, у чорта на рогах. Щоб вербувати. Щоб прослуховувати й стежити.
Багатодітний турок, помітивши мене за шибою, гукнув:
– Рýсен! – І показав на миґах, як „русен” перехиляють чарку й одразу на боковеньку. Чарку – й на боковеньку. Чарку – й на боковеньку.
Я прочинив вікно. Традиційно зауважив, що ми не „русен”. І додав:
– Тобі вітання від Назима. Хікмета.
– Назим? – Турок замислився. – Це твій друг?
– Еге ж. Хочеш, познайомлю?
– Та ні, – знітився турок. – Маю багато роботи... Родина... Діти...
– Ну, як знаєш, – сказав я.
Наступного дня прийшов один із його хлопчиків. Простягнув мені нову жовту краватку:
– Тато просить зав’язати.
– Куди ж це тато збирається?
– На весілля. Він не вміє зав’язувати краватки.
Я зав’язав. Вузол вийшов якийсь дженджуристо-вишуканий.
– Я не маю коркотяга. Скажи татові, що в нашій країні коркотягами не користуються. Бо не п’ють. Узагалі. Скажи татові – в Україні не п’ють. Не забудь – У-кра-ї-на.
Відтоді багатодітний турок із нижнього поверху запопадливо й дещо багатозначно всміхається мені. Ще б пак – я знаю його таємницю. Позичавши коркотяга, він хотів порушити закони ісламу.
Кілька днів поспіль я виходив із помешкання лише до поштової скриньки.
Я вже давно помітив: поштові скриньки здебільшого містять у собі якусь неприємність. Навіть коли вони порожні – це обіцянка неприємності. Питома вага дружніх листів мізерна. Пересічний вміст поштової скриньки – відомчі листи, що відгонять садизмом. Садизм німецьких відомчих листів посилюється останньою фразою – „З дружнім вітанням...” Навіть коли тобі погрожують банкрутством, судом, ув’язненням, депортацією – наприкінці: „З дружнім вітанням...”
На денці нашої поштової скриньки – типовий відомчий конверт. Байдужий німецький садист повідомляє: мені належить з’явитися до його відомства, попередньо виповнивши долучений формуляр. „З дружнім вітанням – Адельсберґер”.
Відклавши перекладуваного Рільке, я почав укотре нагадувати їм, коли й де я народився, коли зареєстровано мій шлюб, як звуть мою дружину, як звуть моїх дітей...
Я вкотре нагадав їм, що не маю коштовностей, цінних паперів та земельної ділянки.
Я вкотре нагадав їм свій фах і своє громадянство.
Я вкотре нагадав їм, коли вперше прибув до їхньої країни.
Я хотів нагадати їм іще дещо. Але це було поза межами отримуваних формулярів.
Пішов на відвідини.
Адельсберґер підвів на мене безбарвні очі. Потім я почув його безбарвний голос. Потім побачив під столом його ноги в домашніх капцях. Колір шкарпеток той самий, що колір очей та голосу. А може, й навпаки – очі й голос кольору безбарвних шкарпеток.
– Ви неточно виповнили пункт дев’ятий, – сказав Адельсберґер. – Коли ви вперше прибули до Німеччини? Точна дата?
– Це було понад двадцять років тому, – кажу. – Як я можу пам’ятати точну дату?
– В пункті п’ятому – „фах” – ви написали „письменник”. Чому ж ви не розумієте запитань, чітко сформульованих німецькою?
– Я не німецький письменник.
– А який?
– Український.
– Який? – перепитав він.
– Український.
– Якою ж мовою ви пишете?
– Українською.
– Це не те саме, що російська?
– Ні, – кажу, – не те саме. Маєте ще запитання?
– Чому ви не виповнили пункту шостого – „місце роботи”?
– Згідно з пунктом п’ятим я письменник.
– Де ви працюєте письменником?
– Ніде.
– Не можна працювати ніде, – зауважив Адельсберґер. – Ви працюєте письменником у якійсь газеті?
– Я працюю письменником ніде.
– Ніде?
– Ніде, – потвердив я.
– І ви справді знаєте... цю... українську мову?
– Трохи, – кажу. – Трошечки.
У недовірливому погляді Адельсберґера світився первісний, нескаламучений ідіотизм.
– Українською пишуть справа наліво? – зненацька поцікавився він.
– Знизу вгору, гер Адольфсберґер.
– Адельсберґер.
– Не виключено, – кажу.
Я вийшов із кабінету.
За дверима залишався він. Адельсберґер. Молекула інтеґрованої Європи.
Ідучи відомчим коридором, уявив собі, як я інтеґруюся до Адельсберґера. До горла почав підкочуватися клубок. Він нагадував зіжмаканий Адельсберґерів формуляр. Нестерпно захотілося блювонути.
Вертаюся додому. На наших дверях – чергова прокламація.
Колись листівки клеїли їм. Наші підпільники. А вони за це влаштовували облави. Хапали заручників. Часом кожного третього розстрілювали.
Я облав не влаштовую. Заручників не беру. І не розстрілюю. Я збираю те, що вони чіпляють до наших дверей. Унікальна колекція.
А втім, може, й справді коти, бува, починають дзявкати? Коли збожеволіють, наприклад. Дисертабельна тема. Для якогось там ветеринара-психіатра. Трапляються ж у житті перевтілення?
Колись один мій київський приятель розповідав:
„Увечері Леся назвала мене котиком. А вранці я зловив мишу”.
– Реінкарнація! Реінкарнація! – пояснював він.
– Незворотна? – поцікавився я.
– Багато ти в цьому петраєш... – пробубонів мій приятель.
Леся за нього заміж так і не вийшла. Через моє коротюсіньке запитання?
Це було років понад двадцять тому.
І ось – розгортаю місцеву газету. Звичайний собі „Вохенблеттер” – тижневе видання, заповнене оголошеннями. У рубриці „Він шукає її” читаю:
„Велелюбний котик шукає романтичну, повну гумору мишку 26 – 38 років, аби ласувати нею й для всього, що може розважити двох...”
Невже ж, думаю, той мій приятель переїхав до Німеччини? Невже й справді реінкарнація була незворотна? Мене потішила амплітуда котячої велелюбності: від двадцяти шести – до тридцяти восьми.
Перевтілення – справа така... Можна, наприклад, не самому перевтілитися, а перевтілити когось.
В моєї київської сусідки Нінки був коханець. Ім’я – Бун. Студент нашого харчового технікуму. Сам із Лаосу. Нінка всім казала, що він японець. Японець – престижніше.
Нінці не вірили. А Лаос чомусь поплутали з Непалом.
– Нінусику, – кепкували з неї, – скажи чесно – не палець?
– Самі ви непальці, – реаґувала Нінка. – Бун – японець.
– Та ні, – казали їй, – там не палець?
Або й так:
– Нінусю, якщо ти за нього вийдеш – буде не палка?
– Самі ви непалки, – ображалася Нінка. – Я буду піддана японського імператора.
– Яппонсскій гарадавой! – удавано захоплювалися незлобиві кривдники. – Заміж – і не палка!
Тимчасово перевтілений у японця Бун повернувся до Лаосу. Нінка, кажуть, працює в „Гастрономі”. На Воскресенці.
Перевтілити лаосця в японця – це що... Лаосець азієць. Японець азієць. Обличчя в обох азійські. І в душі в кожного – Азія.
От на нашому поверсі – казашка, що геть перевтілилася в німкеню. Не просто в німкеню – в баварку.
Казашка репатріювалася до Німеччини кілька років тому.
„Катрін”, – відрекомендовується вона.
Її чоловік теж казах. Наполовину. На другу половину він „етнічний німець”. Їхні діти з лиця типові казахи. Зіґфрід, Фрідріх і Вольфґанґ.
– Дивні імена для казахів, – зауважила моя дружина.
– Нічого дивного, – кажу. – Я знав хлопчика на ім’я Ярополк. Типовий єврейський хлопчик.
У Кустанаї казашка Катрін була казашка Катя. Викладала „науковий комунізм”. Її чоловік Вальдемар викладав те саме. Там він був Владіміром.
Наприкінці 1991 року „науковий комунізм” помирав у них на руках.
Нічого іншого вони викладати не вміли.
Казахські адепти „наукового комунізму” стали добропорядними баварцями. Відвідують кірху. П’ють пиво. Вивішують на дверях різдвяні віночки з позолоченими янголятами.
– Ким ви працювали в Казахстані? – запитують їх.
– Палеонтологами, – кажуть вони.
– М-м-м-м, – шанобливо кивають німці, почувши майже містичне слово.
Вальдемар нарешті опанував нормальну людську професію. Малярує.
Катрін безробітна. Каже, що кілька місяців працювала за фахом. У якомусь загадковому музеї шкіри.
За яким таким фахом? – думаю. – Що спільного між шкірою й „науковим комунізмом”?
– Абажури в тому музеї є? – питаю.
– Є, – каже.
– Абажури з людської шкіри?
– Там була інвентаризація... – непереконливо відповіла Катрін, геть позбавлена почуття гумору. Зокрема чорного.
„У нас у Німеччині...” – цей зворот казашка Катрін уподобала щонайбільше.
... Я знову перечитав їхнє прокламаційне твориво.
Наш неперевтілений кіт Макс лагідно куняв на стільці.
З-поза шиби лунало несамовите ревище.
Опасиста німкеня на всю горлянку вичитувала багатодітному туркові. Турок виправдувально жестикулював, час до часу притуляючи долоню до грудей.
Я вихилився у вікно.
Німкеня влучила в мене поглядом блискавично.
– Beobachtest du mich? – Ти спостерігаєш за мною? – загорлала вона.
– Яволь, – кажу. – Іх бін фьолькішер беобахтер. – Я народний спостерігач. (Була в них колись така газета – „Völkischer Beobachter”. Гітлерівська „Правда”.)
Відчувши, що напрямок головного удару змінився, турок улесливо завсміхався до німкені й, тицьнувши в мій бік пальцем, почав показувати, як „русен” перехиляють чарку: чарку – й на боковеньку, чарку – й на боковеньку.
Я зачинив вікно.
Знову заходився коло Рільке.
„Herr: es ist zeit”. „Час, Боже”.
По десятій вечора – дзвоник у двері.
– У вас гучно співають! І гучно танцюють! – гаркнула добряче поцицькована істота кáзна з якого поверху. – У вас ціле збіговисько! Гуп-гуп-гуп!..
– Та ні, – кажу, – нікого в нас нема. Хіба що Райнер Марія...
– Отож бо! Райнер, Марія...
– Рільке.
– І Рільке. Це вони гучно співали?
– Так, – кажу. – Спочатку „Дойчланд, Дойчланд юбер аллес...”, а тоді „Плач Ізраїлю”.
– І гучно танцювали!
– Точно. Спочатку „Фрейлехс”, а тоді гопака.
– Гуп-гуп-гуп...
– Гуп-гуп, – кажу. – Добраніч.
За кілька днів – знову дзвоник у двері. По десятій вечора.
Вони стояли втрьох. Опасисте бабисько, поцицькована істота й Катрін. Дві німкені й казашка. Уособлення євразійського простору.
„Це все антени! Це все антени!” – переконує мене дружина.
Неподалік нашого будинку – на даху якоїсь зачуханої дискотеки – стоять два металеві стовпи. Це антени. Вони ширять сиґнал для мобільних телефонів. Випромінюють неабияке електромагнітне поле. Нібито шкідливе для психіки.
– Треба тікати звідси! – каже дружина. – Ми живемо тут кілька місяців, а вони всі – роками. Вони вже антенóїди!
– Куди тікати? – питаю. – Цих антен скрізь понапхали. Куди ж тікати?
А й справді – куди можна тікати в цьому світі? Куди?
In that country suicide was forbidden. Suicide attempts were punishable by death.
M.F.
Someone rang our doorbell after 10:00 p. m.
Half-asleep, stupefied by the combination of translating Rilke and listening to the radio news, I went to open the door.
“Was tu-tu-tu?” The fat old crone inquired.
Tu-tu-tu? I think to myself. We are always tu-tu-tu.
“Was tu-tu-tu?” the fat woman repeated.
It’s all over, I think. I’m played out. I’m read out, written out, and listened out. I’m crazy as a loon. Schizo.
“Was tu-tu-tu?” The dishevelled fat wench persisted. “Tu-tu, tu-tu, tu-tu,” she added, glaring at me fiercely.
I’ll give her a hryvnia and shut the door. Then off to bed. If I can sleep.
“Was tu-tu-tu? Was tu-tu-tu? Was tu-tu-tu? ” the obese old woman kept on.
I should fling some curses and give her a hryvnia. Maybe she’ll shut up.
A hryvnia? Ukrainian currency? What am I thinking? The Bundeswehr is right across the street. Below us lives a Turkish family with lots of children, and the huge woman is a German from the upper floor.
“Wie bitte?” I beg your pardon? I asked politely.
“Was tu-tu-tu?” repeats the German woman severely.
Maybe she’s saying, “Was tut tu-tu.” WHAT is making the tu-tu? I finally got it. That’s not a bad question. A fine little question. Especially after 10:00 p.m.
“I don’t know what is making the tu-tu,” I say.
“Nein, das ist bei dir! Das ist bei dir! Was tut tu-tu?” No, it’s in your place! It’s in your place! That is making the tu-tu. “Anruf aus Russland?” A phone call from Russia?
“We’re not from Russia. We’re from Ukraine.”
“It’s the same thing,” the old woman retorted.
“It’s a hallucination that is causing the tu-tu in your head,” I say.
I shut the door.
“Tu-tu, tu-tu, tu-tu,” the German woman droned on behind the door.
I should give you a kick up the arse, not a hryvnia—for our plundered cities and villages.
Suddenly I felt like shouting something along the lines of “For the motherland, for Stalin!”
For a long time afterwards I reproached myself for wanting to shout this phrase.
That evening our telephone was silent, just like it had been the entire day. No one called us, especially not from Ukraine. Hardly anyone calls us from Ukraine. I am the one who calls Ukraine. For many years this telephone addiction has been consistently and inexorably propelling me toward beggary.
A few days later I stayed in the house. I was translating Rilke and trying to write some of my own work. From time to time I looked out the window, gazing at the fence topped with barbed wire. Behind the fence was the Bundeswehr’s military division. To entertain myself I imagined that I was an intelligence agent who had settled here, in the middle of nowhere, to recruit people. To eavesdrop and spy.
The Turk with the pack of children, spotting me at the window, shouted:
“Russen!” And he mimed how “Russians” gulp booze and instantly nod off. A glass and then they nod off, a glass and they nod off.
I opened the window a crack, made my traditional comment that we are not “Russen,” and added:
“Greetings from Nazim. Hikmet.”
“Nazim, the famous Turkish poet?” The Turk grew pensive. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Of course. Do you want to meet him?”
“Ah, no,” replied the Turk apprehensively. “I’ve got a lot of work…a family…kids.”
“As you wish,” I said.
The next day one of his little boys came over and handed me a new, yellow tie.
“Daddy asks if you can knot it.”
“Where’s Daddy going?”
“To a wedding. He doesn’t know how to knot a tie.”
I knotted it. The knot came out pretentiously show-offish.
I gave the tie to the little Turk.
“Daddy asks if he can borrow a corkscrew.”
“I don’t have a corkscrew. Tell Daddy that we don’t use corkscrews in our country. Because we don’t drink—at all. Tell your Daddy that people in Ukraine don’t drink. Don’t forget: Uk-rai-ne.”
“Uk-rai-ne…Uk-rai-ne,” the boy repeated. “Are you Muslims?” he asked.
“Almost,” I say.
Since then the Turk with many children from the lower floor has been giving me solicitous and meaningful smiles. No wonder, I know his secret.
“Give my best to your friend Nazim!” he says.
“OK,” I say, “I will.”
For a couple of days I left the house only to go to the mailbox.
A long time ago I noticed that mailboxes mostly contain some sort of unpleasantness. Even when they are empty, they hold the promise of unpleasantness. The specific weight of friendly letters is measly. The average mailbox contains official letters that smell of sadism. Normally the sadism of official German letters is reinforced by the closing phrase: ‘With friendly greetings…’ Even when they threaten you with bankruptcy, litigation, imprisonment, deportation, at the end they say: ‘With friendly greetings…’
A typical official letter is lying at the bottom of our mailbox. An indifferent German sadist informs me that I must appear in his office, but not before filling out the attached form. ‘With friendly greetings, Adelsberger.’
Shoving aside the Rilke translation, I began to remind them for the nth time when and where I was born, when I registered my marriage, the name of my wife, the names of my children…
For the nth time I reminded them that I don’t have any valuables, priceless papers, or plot of land.
For the nth time I reminded them of my occupation and my citizenship.
For the nth time I reminded them when I arrived in their country.
I wanted to remind them of a few other things. But that was beyond the scope of the forms.
I went to the appointment.
Adelsberger raised his colourless eyes at me. Then I heard his colourless voice. Then I saw his slippered feet under the table. The color of his socks was the same as the color of his eyes and voice. Or maybe it was the reverse—his eyes and voice were the color of his washed-out socks.
“You didn’t fill out Point 9 correctly,” Adelsberger said. “When did you first arrive in Germany? The exact date?”
“It was more than twenty years ago,” I say. “How can I remember the exact date?”
“In Point 5 under ‘Occupation’ you wrote ‘writer.’ Why don’t you understand questions that are written in clear German?”
“I am not a German writer.”
“What kind are you?”
“A Ukrainian writer.”
“What kind?” he asked.
“Ukrainian.”
“What language do you write in?”
“Ukrainian.”
“Isn’t that the same thing as Russian?”
“No,” I say, “it’s not the same thing. Do you have another question?”
“Why didn’t you fill out ‘Place of Work’ in Point 6?”
“According to Point 5, I am a writer.”
“Where do you work as a writer?”
“Nowhere.”
“You can’t work nowhere,” Adelsberger commented. “Do you work as a writer for some sort of newspaper?”
“I work nowhere as a writer.”
“Nowhere?”
“Nowhere,” I repeat.
“And you really know…this…Ukrainian language?”
“A bit,” I say, “a tiny bit.”
In Adelsberger’s disbelieving glance glimmered a primal, unsullied idiocy.
“Is Ukrainian written from right to left?” he suddenly asked.
“From the bottom up, Herr Adolfsberger.”
“Adelsberger.”
“That’s also a possibility,” I say.
I left the office.
He remained behind the door. Adelsberger, a molecule of integrated Europe.
Walking down the office corridor, I imagine myself integrating with Adelsberger. A lump began to form in my throat. It reminded me of Adelsberger’s crumpled forms. I had a desperate urge to vomit.
I come back home. The latest proclamation is stuck on our door.
Long ago our insurgents used to glue leaflets to their doors. And for this the Germans organized roundups. Grabbed hostages. Sometimes they shot every third person.
I don’t organize roundups. I don’t take hostages. I don’t execute people. I gather what they stick on our door. A unique collection.
Their inventiveness is tediously dim-witted:
‘Your chairs creak! Stop the creaking of your chairs!’
Or:
‘Your clock is clanking! Stop the clanking of your clock!’
And then:
‘Your cat yelps! Stop your cat’s yelping!’
I removed the piece of paper from the door.
Not bad, I think: ‘Your cat yelps!’ That’s an improvement to the genre.
But maybe cats do yelp—when they go crazy, for example. A topic fit for a dissertation by some veterinary psychiatrist. Do reincarnations occur in real life?
One day a friend of mine from Kyiv told me:
“Yesterday evening Lesia called me a pussycat. And this morning I caught a mouse. It’s reincarnation! Reincarnation!” he explained.
“Permanent?” I asked.
“A fat lot you know about these things,” my friend muttered.
Lesia never married him. Was it because of my little question?
That was more than twenty years ago.
Recently, while leafing through the pages of our local newspaper, an ordinary Wochenblätter, a weekly publication filled with advertisements, I came upon the column “He Seeks Her” and read:
‘A loving tomcat seeks a romantic mouse aged 26-38 with a sense of humor, for tasty bites of her and everything that can entertain the two of them…’
Is it possible that my friend had moved to Germany? Had the reincarnation really been permanent? I was gratified by the amplitude of the tomcat’s capacity for love: from 26 to 38.
Reincarnation…It seems to work like this. You can, for example, transform someone else, not just yourself.
On our floor lives a Kazakh woman who was completely transformed into a German woman. But not simply a German woman: a Bavarian.
This Kazakh woman was repatriated to Germany a few years ago.
She introduces herself as “Katrin.” At every opportunity the Kazakh woman repeats her favourite expression: “In our country, Germany…”
Her husband is also half Kazakh and half “ethnic German.” By facial appearance their children are typical Kazakhs: Ziegfried, Friedrich, and Wolfgang.
“Strange names for Kazakhs,” my wife commented.
“Nothing strange about it,” I say. “I once knew a little boy named Yaropolk, after the Grand Prince of Kyivan-Rus’. A typical Jewish boy.”
In Kustanai, in northern Kazakhstan, Katrin was known as Katia the Kazakh woman. She taught “scientific communism.” Her husband Waldemar taught the same subject. Then he was called Vladimir.
In late 1991 “scientific communism” was dying in their arms.
They didn’t know how to teach anything else.
The Kazakh adepts of “scientific communism” became respectable, church-going Bavarians. They go to the kirche. They drink beer. On their doors they hang little Christmas wreaths with gilt angels.
“What was your occupation in Kazakhstan?” people ask them.
“We were palaeontologists,” they say.
“H-m-m,” the Germans nod respectfully upon hearing this almost mystical word.
Waldemar has finally mastered a normal human profession. He is a house painter.
Katrin is unemployed. She says that she worked in her occupation for a few months, in some mysterious museum of skins.
As what? I wonder. What do skins have to do with “scientific communism?”
“Are there lampshades in this museum?”
“There are,” she replies.
“Lampshades made of human skin?”
“They were doing an inventory there,” Katrin replies without conviction; she has absolutely no sense of humor, especially the black kind.
…I reread the proclamational creation of our neighbours.
Our non-reincarnated cat Max was dozing gently on a chair.
There was an unbelievable racket outside our window.
At the top of her lungs the fat old German woman was lecturing the Turk with the pack of kids. Justifying himself, the Turk was gesticulating, from time to time placing his hand on his heart.
I leaned out of the window.
The German instantly pierced me with a look.
“Beobachtest du mich?” Are you observing me? She yelled.
“Jawohl,” I say. “Ich bin völkishcher Beobachter.” I am the people’s observer. (The Germans used to have a newspaper called Völkischer Beobachter, the Hitlerite version of Pravda).
Sensing that the direction of the main attack had shifted, the Turk smiled flatteringly at the German woman and, poking his finger in my direction, began showing the old woman how the “Russen” guzzle booze: a glass and then they nod off, a glass and they nod off.
I shut the window and began working on my Rilke translations.
“Herr: es ist Zeit.” “Lord: it is time.”
The doorbell rang after 10:00 p.m.
“There’s loud singing coming from your place! And people are dancing noisily!” barked a generously breasted creature from the devil knows which floor. “There’s a whole crowd in here! Hoop-hoop-hoop!”
“Ah, no,” I say. “There’s no one here, except for Rainer Maria…
“That’s it! Rainer, Maria…”
“Rilke.”
“And Rilke. Are those the ones who were singing loudly?”
“Yes,” I say. “First, ‘Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles...’ and then ‘A Lament of Israel.’”
“And they were dancing too?”
“Exactly. First, a Yiddish freilachs and then a Ukrainian hopak.
“Hoop-hoop-hoop…”
“Hoop-hoop,” I say. “Good night.”
A few days later the doorbell rings again. After 10:00 p.m..
There were three of them standing there. The fat old bag, the busty creature, and Katrin: two German women and a Kazakh woman—the embodiment of the Eurasian space.
“Was tu-tu-tu?” They asked, one after the other. “Was tu-tu-tu? Was tu-tu-tu? Was tu-tu-tu?”
“It’s the antennas! The antennas!” my wife says with conviction.
On the roof of a crappy discotheque near our building stand two metal antennas. They send signals for mobile telephones. They emit a strong electromagnetic field, supposedly bad for the brain.
“We have to get away from here!” says my wife. “We’ve been living here only a few months, but they’ve been here for years. They’ve turned into antennoids!”
“Go where?” I ask. “They have stuffed antennas everywhere. Where can we escape?”
It’s true: where indeed can one escape in this world? Where?
Мыкола Хвылевый 
