The Online Treasury of Yiddish Poetry


דער „אױפֿן־װעב“ אוצר פֿון ייִדישע לידער

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A Bisl Backgroundאַ קלײנער פֿאָן

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire is to this day the deadliest industrial fire in the history of New York City, killing 146 workers. The doors that should have opened up to the stairwells and exits were locked in order to prevent the workers from taking breaks. As a result, many chose to jump from the windows. In the photo presented here, police officers are looking up as workers descend to their deaths.

Morris Rosenfeld had already firmly established himself as the voice of the proletariat and the face of the sweatshop poets by March 25, 1911, the day of the fire. It was therefore in his line of duty to publish a poem (accompanied by an article) just a few days later on the front page of Forverts, mourning the loss of the many workers, protesting the evil of the deadly "locked door," and ultimately, calling on his comrades to break it open.

Read by Michael Yashinsky

The Locked Door

די פֿאַרשלאָסענע טיר

Translated by Raphael Halff

The flames rage on, more and more
Hell awakes to the smoke amassed.
Try, push towards salvation's door—
"No use, oh, no! It is shut fast."

They scream, they scramble, and they fall,
in the Devil's bloody dwelling.
They sink in his damned shriek, in thrall,
each exit blocked and unrelenting.

They run, but no one knows whither,
and their every hope comes to naught.
Too heavy is Hell's door hither,
oh, Ashmedai has jailed this lot.

"Don't curse Hell till your throat is sore!"
"Not worth the trouble—he is right..."
"But no! Let's try, lean on that door,
And all, as one, break it with might!"

They're captive to the Hellish blaze
while the lock, to t'Devil, stays true…
"Come everyone quick, your hands, raise!
Break the door, let freedom ensue…"

This Hell is only a hell whilst
the Devil's lock we don't resist.
Its flame is strong and perilous
if we let its door seal our abyss.
דער פֿײַער בושעוועט אָן אַ שיעור
עס זעצט דער רויך, די העל דערוואַכט.
מען שפּאַרט זיך צו דער רעטונגס־טיר,
אומזיסט! אָ, וויי, זי איז פֿאַרמאַכט!

מען שרײַט, מען ראַנגלט זיך, מען פֿאַלט,
אין טײַוולס בלוטיקן געצעלט.
מען בלײַבט אין זײַן פֿאַרפֿלוכטן גוואַלט,
אַיעדער אויסגאַנג איז פֿאַרשטעלט.

מען לויפֿט, מען ווייס אַליין ניט וווּ,
און יעדע האָפֿענונג איז גענאַרט.
די שווערע גיהנום־טיר איז צו,
דער אַשמדאַי האָט איר פֿאַרשפּאַרט.

ניט רופֿט דעם שוואַרצן שד צום דין!
אַ שאָד די מי, ער איז גערעכט...
צו דער פֿאַרמאַכטער טיר אַהין!..
און אַלע, פּונקט ווי איינער, ברעכט!

מען בלײַבט אין דעם גיהנום־בראַנד
כּל־זמן דער שלאָס איז אים געטרײַ...
קומט אַלע גלײַך, לייגט צו אַ האַנט!
ברעכט אויף די טיר און איר זײַט פֿרײַ...

די העל איז נאָר אַ העל ווי לאַנג
דער שלאָס פֿון טײַוול הענגט אויף איר.
געפֿערלעך איז איר פֿלאַם, איר צוואַנג
נאָר בײַ אַ צוגעמאַכטער טיר...

5 April, 1911
5 אַפּריל, 1911

The Poetדער דיכטער

One is inclined to read the poetry of Morris Rosenfeld as overdramatized proletariat verse--it is bitter, angry, and overwhelmingly sad--but to do so would be an unjust offense to not only his poetry but to Rosenfeld himself, who personally experienced nearly every misfortune and hardship he writes of. Since his first visit to America in 1882, he was wedded to poverty. After fully immigrating to America in 1886, he worked in the Lower East Side sweatshops as a presser. He became ill from the wretched work conditions, ultimately becoming paralyzed in half his body. He buried several children, including his only son at fifteen years of age.

Morris Rosenfeld was born in 1862 in Boksze in Russian Poland. He received a traditional Jewish education. At fifteen, he began writing Yiddish poetry. Around the age of twenty, as a tailor in London, he began writing labor poems. At twenty-four, in the U.S. he began writing socialist poems as well. He became famous both in an out of the Jewish realm--in 1898 a Harvard professor translated a book of his poems into English. Over ten thousand people attended the funeral of the "Sweatshop Poet" in 1923.

Resources

More on the poet:   Guide to his papers; More on the poem:   Forverts republish "The Locked Door"; Group reading of My Resting Place; Another poem by Rosenfeld on the Fire, translated; Rosenfeld on the Fire victims' funeral march, translated; The Sweatshop; More on context:   Sweatshop Poets; The Forward's Triangle Fire Coverage;

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