RUSSIAN TRANSLATIONS

Rimma Fyodorovna Kazakova (1932–2008)

Under the Roof in My House

Under my roof in my house

in the same green city street

a man killed in the war

lives out his years beside me.

5 This war ended long ago

the man was finished too,

he still gets up in the morning,

shaves, walks, eats, and drinks.

He chews his cutlet carefully,

10 he lives but has no life,

the doctors are ruthless, they say

they can do nothing.

His eyes are transparently empty

they light on his uniform

15 where the medals shine like ikons

the only things war left to me.

He was such a fine Cossack,

with native shrewdness in his eyes,

he had the firm grip of a soldier

20 and the soft cheek of a father.

Dear father, dear comrade,

you are not old yet—

we could have had good times together

played foolish games,

25 done all sorts of things.

But in that sad war in a

foreign land so faraway now,

in an anonymous battle

you died for your country.

30 What will comfort me? Nothing,

let me do up your coat for you,

let me help you downstairs, let me

find you a bench in the park.

My father takes leave of me,

35 he stares after me for a long time:

I know

     what to do

       how to live;

I know

40     what to hate

       what to love.

(1975)

Robert Ivanovich Rozhdestvensky (1932–1994)

Springtime Girl

If I could just be

       on a boat with her

just go on a journey

       long and leisurely

5 if I could just take her arm

firmly and if we could

       just once

take an ordinary walk together.

But instead

10       here I sit

asking her questions and

putting on my most

       businesslike

cut-and-dried expression:

15 have you tightened the operations and

when was this decision

       arrived at?

Figures

       nothing but figures

20 they leap at us

       like acrobats in a circus

whatever you had in mind comrade

       forget it

just remember

25       you’re at work now.

Outside

       on the other side of the window

the tree drips

       drips with melting snow

30 but the thaw cannot melt

       my inner turmoil and

She sits and sighs

my springtime Valya my

       springtime girl

35 and the spring

       doesn’t give a damn

for her precious job;

       I suppose in spring

we should expect

40       stocktakings, annual reports

and besides

       there are all those orders

which keep rolling in

and piling up

45       like hail

from Omsk

       from Biysk

from Leningrad

       Krasnoyarsk, from

50 Varna from

       Karlsbad and from

where not?

And all for Valya:

       all these orders

55       for Valya,

with here a fancy signature

and there a crabbed handwriting

and of course

       the better you work

60 the more orders

       you get;

odd isn’t it?

       not really:

just the same

65       these orders

don’t make life

       any easier.

Will fame

       ever burden

70 Valya’s shoulders?

such fame

       would burden

shoulders less fragile:

and what if suddenly

75 she became too famous?

Proud

       overworked

              and indispensable;

what if she started saying:

80 you there

       don’t tell me what to do and

just leave me alone!

But I don’t believe it

       it could never

85 happen I believe

       something

quite different.

With any and in whatever

              rank

90 Valya will remain

the same joyous

springtime girl

she will remain

              Valya

95 whom people trusted

in Tashkent

       in Varna

in Kharkov

       and in Weimar

100 What we need friend

       is clear sky

and a fresh wind

       that blows

not from the north:

105 what we need comrade

is a true wind

       honest

like Valya

       warm and

110 like Valya

       springlike.

(1975)