Poem
Petra Müller
ON WAR AND EXCITEMENT
Harald tells me: We were lads then, Shrumf and I, welived in burnt-out tanks outside Hamburg. We
each had our own tank. By day we clambered about, by night
we slept in pitch-dark bunkers, with no thought of home.
My mother was already dead and dad was a soldier on a front.
We ate with our hands what we could find on the fields,
potatoes we dug from the ground, and doves we’d grill
on an open fire just like your farm boys here, and with our teeth
tore the meat from the bones. It was tough, and good.
There were more of us, underfed, agile and sly.
Authority was no more – we were altogether almighty
where we were. And mechanised – coated
in a rusty scabbiness, from the old metal.
We ate war. We knew: whose aeroplanes were overhead,
what type of bomb . . . we had code names for ourselves
gleaned from a half-burnt history book. There was a Jewish
amongst us – who understood Russian. Verbissen we called him
but his code name was Titan. After the war
he became a metalsmith. One day
with a whitehot iron he burnt
the Star of David into his arm,
lest he ever forget.
© Translation: 2008, Petra Müller and Charl-Pierre Naudé
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2008
Verbissen: the stubborn one
Rather than a direct translation, this rendition of \'Na die Opwinding van Oorlog\' is a collaboration between Petra Müller and Charl-Pierre Naudé.
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2008
VAN DIE OPWINDING VAN OORLOG
VAN DIE OPWINDING VAN OORLOG
Harald vertel: Ek en Schrumf het as knape buite Hamburgbedags oor skroot van uitgebrande tenks geklouter
– ons het elk ons eie tenk gehad – en snags in swart bunkers
geslaap sonder dink aan huis toe gaan;
my ma was reeds dood en my pa ’n soldaat aan ’n front.
Ons het met ons hande geëet wat ons op die hoewes
kon vind, aartappels uit die grond gegraaf, duiwe gebraai
nes julle boerseuns hier, en die vleis met ons tande
van die beentjies afgetrek. Dit was taai en goed.
Daar was meer soos ons, ondervoed, rats en slu.
Gesag was daar nie meer nie – ons was heeltemal almagtig
waar ons was. Eng gemeganiseerd – ons had ’n roeserige skurfte
oor ons, van die ou metal.
Ons het ook alles geweet: wie se vliegtuie oorkom,
watter soort bom . . . Ons het kodename vir onsself bedink
uit ’n halfverbrande geskiedenisboek. Daar was ’n Joodjie
tussen ons – hy kon Russies verstaan. Verbissen het ons
hom genoem. Maar sy kodenaam was Titaan. Hy het,
ná die oorlog, metaalsmid geword. Eendag het hy
met verhitte yster ’n Jodester
op sy eie arm ingebrand,
om nooit te vergeet.
© 2008, Petra Müller
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Poems
Poems of Petra Müller
Close
ON WAR AND EXCITEMENT
Harald tells me: We were lads then, Shrumf and I, welived in burnt-out tanks outside Hamburg. We
each had our own tank. By day we clambered about, by night
we slept in pitch-dark bunkers, with no thought of home.
My mother was already dead and dad was a soldier on a front.
We ate with our hands what we could find on the fields,
potatoes we dug from the ground, and doves we’d grill
on an open fire just like your farm boys here, and with our teeth
tore the meat from the bones. It was tough, and good.
There were more of us, underfed, agile and sly.
Authority was no more – we were altogether almighty
where we were. And mechanised – coated
in a rusty scabbiness, from the old metal.
We ate war. We knew: whose aeroplanes were overhead,
what type of bomb . . . we had code names for ourselves
gleaned from a half-burnt history book. There was a Jewish
amongst us – who understood Russian. Verbissen we called him
but his code name was Titan. After the war
he became a metalsmith. One day
with a whitehot iron he burnt
the Star of David into his arm,
lest he ever forget.
© 2008, Petra Müller and Charl-Pierre Naudé
Publisher: 2008, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2008, First published on PIW,
ON WAR AND EXCITEMENT
Harald tells me: We were lads then, Shrumf and I, welived in burnt-out tanks outside Hamburg. We
each had our own tank. By day we clambered about, by night
we slept in pitch-dark bunkers, with no thought of home.
My mother was already dead and dad was a soldier on a front.
We ate with our hands what we could find on the fields,
potatoes we dug from the ground, and doves we’d grill
on an open fire just like your farm boys here, and with our teeth
tore the meat from the bones. It was tough, and good.
There were more of us, underfed, agile and sly.
Authority was no more – we were altogether almighty
where we were. And mechanised – coated
in a rusty scabbiness, from the old metal.
We ate war. We knew: whose aeroplanes were overhead,
what type of bomb . . . we had code names for ourselves
gleaned from a half-burnt history book. There was a Jewish
amongst us – who understood Russian. Verbissen we called him
but his code name was Titan. After the war
he became a metalsmith. One day
with a whitehot iron he burnt
the Star of David into his arm,
lest he ever forget.
© 2008, Petra Müller and Charl-Pierre Naudé
Publisher: 2008, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2008, First published on PIW,
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère