Phil Alexander finds contemporary echoes in the poetry of Avrom Radutski.
At the beginning of 2020, recently embarked upon a British Academy fellowship exploring Scottish-Jewish musical encounters, I was looking forward to days spent leisurely mining the Garnethill Synagogue Archives, the National Library of Scotland, the British Library, and so many other physical treasure chests.
These plans have of course changed, at least for the time being, and a couple of months ago the rich online resources of the Yiddish Book Center brought me to the life and poetry Avrom Radutski. Although I am neither a poet nor a Yiddishist, the absence of English language material about this unusual man persuaded me to take on a couple of his poems.
Avrom Radutski (1873-1928) was born in Rzhyshchiv, Kiev gubernia, to preacher stock. The eldest of ten children, he was apprenticed as a teenager to a locksmith, at the same time firing his own literary dreams with Ponson du Terrailโs heroic adventures of Rocambole. In 1890, the seventeen year-old Radutski emigrated to Glasgow (his younger brother Chaim had made the same move a year earlier) to work in Mitchellโs Cigarette Factory. It was here that his romantic, reflective sensibilities met head-on with the harsh working conditions and social deprivation of late 19th century industryโturning the lyrical, introspective poet into an activist and political organiser. He helped found Scotlandโs first cigarette workers union and led a number of strikes before automation forced him and many of his co-workers into unemployment. Like his better-known friend Morris Winchevsky, many of Radutskiโs poems addressedโthrough a mixture of the sardonic and the wistfulโthe systemic inequalities and daily hardships of urban working-class life. His poems and sketches were published in the radical London paper der arbayter fraynd, Glasgowโs idishe tsaytung, and other UK Yiddish journals such as der vanderer and dos fraye vort, often under the pen-names ish bโglazgo or a glazgover idene. Throughout 1905, he also contributed a semi-regular briv fun shotland to St Petersburgโs daily newspaper der fraynd, in which he documented increased migration to and through Glasgow, as well as the ongoing struggle for workersโ rights.
Radutski emigrated to the US in 1906, his family following a year later, where he found work as a poet, sketch writer and journalist with a large number of Yiddish newspapers. His poems were also published in anthologies by Mani Leyb, Morris Basin and others. After losing his eldest daughter Rebecca to the 1927 influenza epidemic, Radutski became increasingly unwell, his depression compounded by worsening asthma. He died on March 21, 1928.
These two poems come from either end of Radutskiโs output. Di gelt-zek was his first published poem, appearing in der arbayter fraynd in the 1890s. The second was one of several written after Rebeccaโs death, towards the end of Radutskiโs own life. Both poems were reprinted in N.B. Minkoffโs Pionern fun Yidisher poezye in Amerike, vol.2 (Grenich, New York, 1956), which is where I found them, along with the biographical material given here. I have taken several liberties with the first text, opting for a looser and slightly tongue-in-cheek version of Radutskiโs originalโwhich remains disappointingly relevant today. The second is more faithful to the Yiddish: its pandemic-framed themes of loss, sadness and solitude need little updating for our Covid-19 times.
The Fat Cats (di gelt-zek) As long as workers turn the wheels, And farmers sow the fields, Unskilled labour works for pennies, While we keep on grabbing coal, Keep the brickies on our payroll โ Weโre the boss As long as we can win elections, Let reformers bicker corrections, In trendy jackets and no hat, While others look to those on high, Sending prayers up to the sky โ Weโre in charge Long as the polls dance to our drum, And we drop an occasional crumb, For the waiting press to snap, To show we care, to share our tears, From our screens to Godโs ears โ Weโre alright Just as long as no one feels That in their will, in their ideals Lies the power to be free, And silently turn the keys That lock the chains of hunger, of disease โ Weโre in the moneyโฆ
ืื ืืขืืโืืขืง ืืึธ ืืึทื ื ืื ืึทืจืืขืืขืจ ืืืขืื ืื ืจืขืืขืจ ืืจืืืขื, ืืื ืื ืืืืขืจื ืื ืคืขืืืขืจ ืืืืขื, ืืื ืืฉืจืชืื ืืื ืขื ืืจืื, ืืื ืื ืืืื ืขืจ ืคืื ืืจืณืขืจื ืงืืืื ืจืืืขื, ืืื ืื ืืจืืงืืขืจ ืคืึทืจ ืืื ืื ืืืืืขืจ ืืืืขื, โ ืงืขื ืขื ืืืจ ืืขืจืฉื ืคืจืื. ืืึธ ืืึทื ื โืฉืืืืงืึทืกืืโ ืืืขื ืขืงืกืืกืืืจื, ืืื ืจืขืคืึธืจืืขืจ ืจืขืคืึธืจืืืจื, ืืืืื ืจืขืงืืขื ืืืื ืคืจืื, ืืื ืืึธืก ืคืึธืืง ืืื ืืืืขื ืืืืงื, ืืขื ืคืื ืืืืื ืืืืขืก ืฉืืงื, โ ืงืขื ืขื ืืืจ ืืขืจืฉื ืคืจืื. ืืึธ ืืึทื ื โืฉืืืืงืึทืกืืโ ืืืขื ืขืงืกืืกืืืจื, ืืืขืื ืืืจ ืฆืืืืืึทืจืคื ืึท ืฉืืืงืขืืข ืืจืืื ืืื ืื โืคึผืจืขืกโ ืืขืจืืื ืืืขื ืืื ืื ืฉืืืืืืขื, ืืืขื ืืื ืื ืืืืื, ืืื ืืืขืจ ืืืืกืงืืื ืืืื ืืืืขื ืืืืื, โ ืงืขื ืขื ืืืจ ืืขืจืฉื ืคืจืื. ืืึธ ืืึทื ื ืืขืจ ืึทืจืืืืืขืจ ืืืขื ื ืื ืคืืื, ืึทื ื ืึธืจ ืืื ืืืื ืืืืื ืืืืื ืืืื ืื ืืึทืื ืฆื ืืขืจืฉื ืคืจืื, ืืื ืืืขื ืฉืืืืืื ื ืื ืงืืืื ืืจืึธืื, ืืืืื ืืื ืืขืจ, ืืืืื ืคึผืืึธืื, โ ืงืขื ืขื ืืืจ ืืขืจืฉื ืคืจืื...
Alone with my grief and sadness, Alone with my corners four, No one knocks at my gate, No one comes to my door. As if I were a leper, A hideous, terrible pest, People shun with fear, My lonely, desolate nest. Oh misery, vast and all mine, Death that is gruesome! Youโve robbed my life of light, Wrecked my peaceful home.
ืึทืืืื ืืื ืืืื ืืืืืืืง ืืื ืืจืืืขืจ, ืึทืืืื ืืื ืื ืืืื ืงืขืืขื ืคืืจ, ืขืก ืงืืึทืคึผื ื ืื ืงืืื ืืขื ืืฉ ืืื ืืืื ืืืืขืจ, ืกืณืงืืื ื ืื ืงืืื ืืขื ืืฉ ืฆื ืืืื ืืืจ. ืืื ืืขืืืขืื ืืืึธืื ืืื ืึท ืืฆืืจืข, ืึท ืืจืืืืึทืืข ืฉืจืขืงืืขืืข ืคึผืขืกื. ืกืณืืืืืื ืื ืืขื ืืฉื ืืื ืืืจื ืืืื ืืืื ืืึทื ืคืึทืจืืึธืืขื ืขื ื ืขืกื. ืึธ, ืืืืืืืง ืื ืืืื ืขืจ, ืื ืืจืืืกืขืจ, ืื ืืจืืืืึทืืข ืืืื, ืืืึธืก ืื ืืืกื! ืืึธืกื ืคืึทืจืืึธืฉื ืกืณืืืื ืคืื ืืืื ืืขืื: ืืืื ืคืจืืืืขืืข ืฉืืื ืืืจ ืคืึทืจืืืืกื...
