Zlata Razdolina
The Song of the Murdered Jewish People
After the Poem by Itzhak Katzenelson

The Moravska Filharmonie Olomouc (The Czech Republic)
Victor Feldbrill (Conductor / Canada)
Antonin Hradil (Violin)
Zlata Razdolina (Vocal and Synthesizer)
see http://razdolina.hypermart.net//page1.htm
Part I
  1. Introduction
    Tempo giusto
  2. I Play
Part II
  1. Introduction
    Lento dramatico
  2. O My Agonies
Part III
  1. Introduction
    Andante e rubato
  2. The Train Wagons
    Andante con moto
  3. Vocalize
    Andante sostenuto
  4. To the Heavens
    Adagio doloroso
Part IV
  1. Introduction
    Adagio sostenuto
  2. Warsaw
Part V
  1. Introduction
    Lento expressivo
  2. Too Late
Part VI
  1. Introduction
  2. The Synagogues Are on Fire
    Allegro moderato; Andante
Part VII
  1. In the Beginning of the End
    Lento e rubato; Lento
  1. Introduction
    Marcia (moderato assai)
  2. The Uprising
    Lento e rubato (recitativo); Marcia
Part IX
  1. Prayer
    Lento espressivo
Part X
  1. Rise Up, My People!
    Lento (quasi marcia funebre); Lento
Sing! Take you light, hollow harp in hand,
Strike hard with heavy fingers, like pain filled hearts
On its thin chords. Sing the last song.
Sing of the last Jews on Europe's soil

How can I sing? How can I open my lips?
I that am left alone in the wilderness
My wife, my two children, alas!
I shudderŽ Someone's crying! I hear it from afar.

Sing, sing! Raise your tormented and broken voice,
Look for him, look up, if He is still there Sing to Him
Sing Him the last song of the last Jew,
Who lived, died unburied, and is no more.?

How can I sing? How can I lift my head?
My wife, my Benzionke and Yomele a baby deportedŽ
They are not with me, yet they never leave me.
O dark shadows of my brightest lights, O cold, blind shadows!

Sing, sing for the last time on earth.
Throw back your head; fix your eyes upon Him.
Sing to Him for the Last time, play to Him on your harp;
There are no more Jews! They were killed, they are no more.

How can I sing? How can I lift my head
with bleary eyes? A frozen tear
Clouds my eye It struggles to break loose,
But, God my God, it cannot fall.

Sing, sing! Raise your eyes towards the high, blind skies
As if a God were there Beckon to him, -
As if a great joy still shone for us there!
Sit on the ruins of the murdered people and sing!

How can I sing My world is laid waste.
How can I play with wringed hands?
Where are my dead? O God, I seek them in every dunghill,
In every heap of ashes O tell me where you are.

Scream from every sand dune, from under every stone,
Scream from the dust and fire and smoke
It is your blood, your sap, the marrow of your bones,
It is your flesh and blood! Scream, scream aloud!

Scream from the beasts entrails in the wood, from the fish in the river
That devoured you. Scream from furnaces. Scream, young and old.
I want a shriek, an outcry, a sound, I want a sound from you.
Scream, O murdered Jewish people, scream scream aloud!

Do not scream to heaven that is as deaf as the dunghill earth.
Do not scream to the sun, nor talk t that lamp If I could only
Extinguish it like a lamp in this bleak murderers cave!
My people, you were radiant more than the sun, a purer, brighter light!

Show yourself, my people. Emerge, reach out
From the miles-long, dense, deep ditches,
Covered with lime and burned, layer upon layer,
Rise up! Up! from the deepest, bottommost layer!

Come from Treblibka, from Sobibor, Auschwitz,
Come from Belzec, Ponari, from all other camps,
With wide open eyes, frozen cries and soundless screams,
Come from Marshes, deep sunken swamps, foul moss

Come, you dried, ground, crushed Jewish bones.
Come, from a big circle around me, one great ring
Grandfathers, grandmothers, fathers, mothers carrying babies.
Come, Jewish bones, out of powder and soup.

Emerge, reveal yourselves to me. Come, all of you, come.
I want to see you. I want to look at you. I want
Silently and mutely to behold my murdered people
And I will sing yes Hand me the harp I will play!

(October 3-5th, 1943)