„Mein Dichten ist wie Dynamit“ Curt Blochs Het Onderwater Cabaret

And Goebbels swivels with the wind,
It gets quite rough sometimes,
At times he tells himself: poor soul,
The end is drawing near.

As long as they were scoring wins,
His work was more like play,
Now Tunis, Sic’ly, Stalingrad,
His plate is rather full.

The daily bombs on Germany,
Debris, civilians dead,
And Mussolini’s called it quits,
The situation’s grim.

Back then, after a victory
We’d shout it from the roof,
Declare the war already won
Upon our first attack.

That blissful time is over now,
Our role has shifted too:
To speak about humanity
And sneak behind closed doors.

The bombs were never Germans’ fault,
Who’d do such things? Not us!
And good things come to those who wait
Is our new melody.

Be patient, please, and soon you’ll see
Our luck will start to turn,
Then England will be suffering
Sit tight and keep the faith.

The weapon’s being built right now
What can it be, you ask?
A secret that I mustn’t spill,
Forgive me please for that.

You ask me if we stand a chance
And will this pledge be kept?
I say: the world will shortly see
Our secret weapon’s scope.

This war is now in its fifth year,
Fatigued? No, not a whit!
Our mood is simply marvelous,
Our joy is sterile, pure.

We’ve got the trump card up our sleeve,
The card that wins the round,
We’re simply not revealing it,
Its strength lies in surprise.

This is a game of poker here,
Of bluffing and deceit,
The goal is lengthening the war,
And Goebbels cheats and lies.

The watchword now is patience, please,
Endurance till we win,
The people, mollified for years,
Just want it done, this war.

When will they say enough at last?
When will they catch the trick?
When will they knock all of those cards
Straight from the cheater’s hand?

Zorgvuldig houdt met het verstekt,
Men wenscht niet, dat men het ontdekt
Want vindt men het, vriend geloof het maar,
Dan was men werkelijk de sigaar.

Ja al hetgeen hier wordt gezegd
Bevalt de duitsche heeren slecht
Het OWC vertelt cordaat
Steeds en altijd, waarop het staat,

Is onbeïnvloed door censuur
En onderdaan aan geen bestuur
Staat niet onder Seyß-Inquarts duim
Is vrij van NSBer schuim,

Is onafhankelijk en is vrij
En alles is hem eenerlei,
Gekleurd is het in vrijheidstint,
Ja, het is tamelijk rood gezind,

Is bode van een nieuwe tijd,
Die het met ongeduld verbeidt,
De lezerkring, waarvoor het werkt
Is wel zeer klein thans en beperkt,

Maar men begrijpt, het is geen tijd
Voor alte groote ruchtbaarheid
Doch wie tot nu is abonnée,
Is met het OWC tevrêe.

Men weet het wel, een andere krant,
Waar het ook zij in Nederland
Kan aan zijn lezers bieden niet,
Hetgeen het OWC U biedt.

En toch hoop ik heel binnenkort,
Dat zijn bestaan geëindigd wordt
Want als er eindelijk komt de vreê,
Verdwijnt direct het OWC.

Natuurlijk dus, dat men begeert,
Het worde gauw gelikwideerd,
Gewillig sterft dan met veel pret
Het Onderwater-Cabaret.

Carefully, one keeps it hidden,
One does not wish it to be found
For when it’s found, believe me, friend,
One would truly be in trouble.

All that is said in here, indeed
Does not amuse the noble Germans.
The OWC firmly speaks
Its mind, each and every time

Is free from suppression and control,
Unrestricted by authority,
Seyss-Inquart has no power here
NSB dogs have no business here.

Is independent and free,
And opens its heart to all,
Coloured it is, in shades of freedom,
Indeed, it seems to favour red.

Is a messenger of a new era,
Which it impatiently awaits,
Yet, the readership for which it acts
Is quite small and limited,

But as one knows, these are not
The times for big publicity
Nonetheless, its readers up till now,
Are happy with the OWC.

One knows indeed, a different paper,
Wherever in Holland it may be
Can’t offer its readership,
That which does the OWC.

Yet I hope it won’t be long,
Until its life comes to an end
For when peace finally arrives
The OWC will vanish immediately.

So, naturally, one may desire
Its termination to be quick,
Willingly and full of joy then dies
The Onderwater-Cabaret.

The Nazis once did advocate
For ordinary Germans.
Today those Party promises
Are buried and forgotten.

The speeches long have left behind
Their former repertoire,
Except one pledge that they saw through:
The Jews have been wiped out.

Department stores would be shut down,
Or so the Nazis said,
The middle class be lifted up,
But then they broke their word.

Department stores and grocers’ guilds,
Those all were kept in place.
The banks stayed banks, just as before,
And all the policies

Of ending interest slavery
That drew the masses in
Were cavalierly filed away
Into a dusty drawer.

All women would be freed for good
From masculine careers
So they could tend to home and hearth.
That’s what the slogans vowed.

The German wife belongs at home
To cook and raise the kids.
They painted them so perfectly,
Those never-ending lies.

The German men are off at war
And therefore the majority
Of women now do manly work
For Hitler’s German victory.

The peak is reached, it’s plain to see
The men replaced by gals,
As newspapers all illustrate
How ladies build the land.

Those German dames in factories
Assembling aeroplanes,
Do look quite chic in pantaloons.
No doubt you would agree.

A German woman carries mail,
Or checks the streetcar tickets.
She even rides the railway cars
Up front beneath the flags.

They go on searching high and low
For substitutes for men.
With shouts of “Sieg heil!” and “Hurrah!”
They tear old times to shreds.

Let’s say your flue is full of soot.
No need to be concerned.
The German lady chimney sweep
Will sweep your chimney clean.

The old sweep is a soldier now
A gal will climb the rungs
Since not to would be treasonous
While Hitler muddles on.

And since the minister has died,
The preacher is his wife.
The woman playing organist
Has lightly harmed the pipes.

They’re baking bread, they’re smelting steel,
They’re wearing priestly collars,
While Adolf, Deutschland’s number one,
Is waterlogged, neck-deep.

The German woman does it all
And feels quite self-assured:
The weaker sex? Oh no, we’re strong!
Who needs redundant men?

But all that self-sufficiency
Will not impress me much
Until they independently
Learn how to reproduce.

They played the old “Eroica,”
The Egmont overture.
Some concertgoers that grand night
Took home a sneaking sense

That what went wrong back in ’14
Would soon be rendered right
With Deutschland’s rise from deepest dark
To world supremacy.

They honored Great War soldiers who
Died for the German cause
And thus earned, if not victory,
Then glory evermore.

The Führer’s on his box-seat throne
The idol of the land
Surrounded by his privileged few
Elites in nearby seats.

From nobody he rose straight up
To German Dalai Lama
And that’s how destiny played out
And thus began the drama.

First off, the nutcracker physique
Of old August Mackensen,
A mummy in full uniform
Adorned with shiny medals.

And Hermann Goering’s moonlike face
Shone happy and content
For, at the time, he couldn’t know
The fate he’d one day meet.

Then, next to him, decked out in brown,
Sat Adolf’s right-hand man
The celebrated Rudolf Hess
Who’d later fly to England.

Behind them in a corner there
Sat Goebbels, unassuming,
Less ornamental on a night
Of pomp and circumstance.

He looked just like an orphan boy
With such a haggard face
In that resplendent opera house
Among that entourage.

But Joseph Goebbels’ walk-on part
Is more than meets the eye
As the Director of Morale
Behind Herr Hitler’s stage,

The mastermind of myths and lies
Who crafts the Third Reich’s lore.
The people sorely need to see
The future’s rose-gold glow.

In that Berliner opera house
Beside Unter den Linden,
Herr Adolf Hitler slyly thought
Those dreams would still come true.

Yes, Germany’s predicaments
Could still be rightly fixed.
Just watch and see, I’ll lead you yet
From strength to greater strength.

The Reich back then was but a child
Still learning how to walk
But clever minds predicted well
That Adolf would misstep.

Een jaar ging heen, een jaar zonder berichten,
Ik weet vandaag niet, waar U bent
En toch ga ik vandaag iets voor U dichten,
Ik ben nu eens van ouds eraan gewend,

Voor Uw verjaardag een gedicht te schrijven
En daarom doe ik het ook thans,
Al zal ’t voorloopig ongelezen blijven,
Ik hoop nog altijd op de kleine kans,

Dat men elkaar naar afloop dezer tijden
Nog eens in leven wederziet,
Men weet het niet, waarheen ons lot zal leiden
En of het voor ons goedkomt of ook niet.

Vandaag zijn ’t geen verjaardags jubelklanken,
De jubel is lang naar de maan,
Ik wensch U, Moeder, heden slechts te danken
Voor al hetgeen U voor me hebt gedaan.

A year went by, a year with no news,
Today I know not, where You are
And yet, I will write a poem for You today,
Since long has it been my habit,

To write a poem for Your birthday
So that’s what I will do once more,
Although it will remain unread for now,
I still hope for that small chance

That once these times come to an end
We will see each other once more in life,
We know not, whereto our fates will lead us
And whether a happy end awaits us, or not.

Today we don’t rejoice with birthday celebrations,
Those belong to times long past,
Today I merely wish to thank you, Mother,
For everything You have ever done for me.

More people die each passing day
More blood is spilled relentlessly
From heroes who defy your will
Who still resist you and your rage.

You keep the planet horrified
So horror’s what you shall receive
For your misdeeds, those stubborn stains,
Are pillars holding up your world.

The people’s panic props you up
The people’s terror is your shield
You put their trembling to use
Atop your grisly, morbid shrine.

You never let the terror fade,
Oh no, you keep it strong, alive,
As you defame the German name.
By now, the world sees Germany

As evil’s land, the headquarters
Of cruelty and tyranny.
The world has seen your German ways,
And what they’ve seen they shan’t forget.

You’ve rounded up the multitudes,
You’ve flushed them out from hiding spots,
From everywhere and all around,
And yet you haven’t reached your goal.

You’ve tortured and you’ve fired your guns,
You’ve wounded, maimed, and massacred.
The world is gushing with red blood
Because of figments of your mind.

Long sprees of theft and butchery,
Of ghastliness and savagery,
Are now, for you, affairs of state.
The murderers became police.

When people fight for liberty
They’re hunted down like criminals
Until you end their misery:
Your rifles have the final say.

They speak in the new German tongue
The cant of Nazi tyranny
And yet revenge won’t pass you by.
No, somehow it will reach you too.

As though alive, the bloodstained earth
Will speak to you vile murderers:
For freedom fighters you may kill,
But liberty shall never die.

De speurhonden van den bezetter,
De honden van de NSB.
Pangermanistisch volgens letter
Dienen ootmoedig en gedwee.

Kijk hoe zij speuren, hoe zij snuffeln,
Zij zitten vol van hondengeest,
Er kan zich aan de jacht verknuffeln
Zulk NSBer hondenbeest.

Zij maken echter jacht op menschen,
Dat trekt hun blijkbaar ten plezier
En is volgens de moffenwenschen,
Hun vaderland scheelt hun geen zier.

Men speurt en snuffelt en geeft poten,
Brengt alle kunstjes handig af
En men verraadt zijn landgenoten
Met spionage en geblaf

Men doet het een en doet het ander,
Deinst niet terug voor blaam en schand
En menig brave Nederlander
Speelt men de Duitschers in de hand.

Zoo werkt men trouw voor de bezetting
En doet alsof men zelf is baas
En is een hond slechts aan de ketting
En dat weet Piet en dat weet Klaas.

Maar daarom zijn zij wel gevaarlijk
En men kijkt angstig voor hun uit,
De meeste menschen beven waarlijk
Thans voor een NSBer snuit.

Aan de Bezetters is verbonden
Hun noodlot en hun wel en wee,
Dat zijn de moffenkettinghonden,
De honden van de NSB.

P.S. Herlees ik wat ik heb geschreven,
Vraag ik excuses aan m’n hond,
Want die is duizend keer verheven,
Boven zulk NSBer-hond.

The sniffing dogs of the enemy,
The dogs of the NSB.
Pan-Germanic to the letter
They serve humbly and with meekness.

Look how they sniff, how they search,
Brimming with canine senses,
In hunting they can find their taste
Those NSB hounds.

But these dogs, they hunt for people,
It seems to bring them thrill and joy
And it’s pleasing to the Brownshirts,
Their fatherland concerns them not.

They search and sniff and offer paws,
They show their well-trained tricks
And betray their countrymen
With espionage and barking

They do one thing and do another,
Not bothered by shame and blame
And many good Dutchmen
Are turned in to the Germans by their hand.

Thus, they loyally work for the occupier
And act like they are themselves the chiefs
While in truth they are in chains
Piet knows that, and so does Klaas.

Nonetheless, they pose a danger
And fearfully we watch out for them,
Most people truly tremble
When an NSB hound sniffs.

To the occupier is connected
Their fate and their well-being,
They are the chained dogs of the Nazis,
The dogs of the NSB.

P.S. Reread what I have written,
I offer my apologies to my dog,
For it rises above and beyond,
Such an NSB hound.

Other than their bogus slogans
German cooks are busy cooking
Rather odd, peculiar rumors
So we’re forced to hold our noses

Thinking of the Danish kingdom
In which Hamlet duly noted
There was likewise something fishy
Giving off a putrid odor.

Unity, once celebrated,
Looks pretend on second viewing,
Proves to be a clever costume;
Underneath, decay is rampant.

People’s trust and their affection
Do not lie in Adolf Hitler
All he has as a foundation
Is the power of the weapon

SS troops and the Gestapo
Murdering as much as ever
In a reminiscent echo
Of the Night of the Long Knives.

Once again the heads are rolling.
Officers, lieutenants, generals,
Who won’t march to Hitler’s trumpet
Lose the spirits from their bodies.

In the west they fight his battles
In the east they fight his battles
In the south, at battle stations
Kesselring has got the scraps.

War abroad and war domestic
Hitler-hatred growing rampant
But they only mock the setback
Still believe in German vict’ry.

I must say the German people
Seem ambivalent and iffy
Save for several stubborn Nazis
Anti-Hitler scorn seems total.

Twenty-six full moons have waned
Still we’re captive prisoners
Menaced by our enemies
Heartbeats drumming with our fear.

Will salvation never dawn?
Will these horrors never end?
Years of carrying this fright,
Will we ever see the sun?

Won’t they ever rescue us
Long-lost captives at long last?
Just like poor Prometheus,
Liver gnawed by vultures’ beaks,

Time gnaws harshly at our spleens
As it nibbles at our souls,
Sitting here like mice in traps
We feel razors at our throats.

Every echo makes us flinch,
Thinking we will soon be caught
Fear and dread our daily bread.
So, in caves and crevices

Cautiously we keep concealed
In the shadows, crouching low,
Waiting for our freedom’s dawn,
Long since promised, not yet here.

Like Prometheus, whom the gods
Chained to rocks then left alone,
Here I sit and curse and rage,
Weary with each passing day.

Standing guard is a rare privilege
But I’m truly bored to tears
Feeling gloomy, haven’t chuckled
In at least six months or more.

Standing guard outside this building
Where the Commandant lives
Bigwigs flaunt their silk and velvet
As I scratch my itchy head.

Feel a tickle, want to scratch it
But a guard must stand up straight
With these Nazi lice out crawling
I could really use a comb.

So I’m standing with my musket
Somewhere in a foreign land,
And the Reich is deep in trouble
Wildfires burning it to bone.

My poor wife in Buxtehude
Writes that our apartment’s wrecked
Now she’s sleeping in a shelter
Shivering disgracefully.

But who cares about the weather?
For the Führer, she would sleep
Under heaven’s tabernacle,
Hitler’s star lights up her eyes.

Britain, she writes, will surrender,
Then life shall be beautiful,
Victory’s around the corner,
See you then! It shan’t be long.

Won’t she soon begin to realize?
If she knew what I now know!
Gullible is my old lady
Thinking that this war is won.

Standing guard, I start to chuckle
For the first time in a year.
She believes that Adolf Hitler
Still can end this agony.

He pretends it’s in his power
But in truth he’s impotent.
Soon she’ll get a widow’s pension,
If she doesn’t get a bomb.

So I’m standing with my rifle,
Without reason, without rhyme,
As the Führer drags the wagon
Deeper into muck and mire.

We’re spit out by the earth
And ostracized and lost,
Condemned to wander on
As though born just to drift.

Without a safe retreat,
Chased off and driven out,
First here and later there,
And no place ours for good.

And thus, like Ahasver,
It’s time to pack our bags,
I ask: where will fate lead
For all of you and me?

Perhaps someone will think
To let us through their gate
Some place we can survive
Though we know not for what.

Is this life such a prize
And such a wondrous thing
For them to take such pains
To burden us with fear?

Let life go as it will
And yes, let come what may,
A random roll of dice.
A happy man will see

That when this era ends,
These worries are bygone,
A brand-new day will dawn
And leave all pain behind.

With faith in our good star,
We each must go our way,
And hope that before long
We’ll meet again with joy.

How will the film of Hitler’s life
Proceed after the current war?
Will he, like Emp’ror Willy once,
Acquire a manor house abroad?

Somewhere with scenic, rustic charm,
A Berchtesgaden substitute,
In Sweden or in Switzerland
Will he be lounging in the sun?

Will he live there, a pensioner,
Perhaps like Wilhelm felling trees?
Play Patience in the afternoons
With Goebbels and his friend Darré?

Assuming he should lose the war,
Will he be left to age in peace,
Protected and secured from his
Resentful, bitter enemies?

Or exiled to St. Helena
Just like Napoleon Bonaparte?
St. Helena is much too close,
As any map will demonstrate.

Oh what to do, oh what to do?
This bloodhound is a tricky case.
Where can we put the beast away?
Perhaps in deep Siberia?

Yet sending such an “honored” guest
To Russia would be quite unfair.
They’ve borne plenty of burdens there
And shed more than their share of blood.

Or what about the Devil’s Isle?
Cayenne, the place where peppers grow!
If I can gauge my readers right,
They’d likely authorize that choice.

Cayenne is far too hot to bear
No wonder Satan loves the place
So Adolf’s brow would shine with sweat
In beads and streaming rivulets

Till, bit by bit, the man would melt
Into a little nothingness
If Adolf thus should disappear
Our flames of joy would rise sky-high.

What shall transpire? I do not know,
St. Helena? Cayenne?? Or Hell??
I dearly hope that the World Court
Will choose a fitting punishment.

Fast fünf Jahre mussten wir warten,

Für viele Männer kamt ihr zu spät,

Meine geliebten Alliierten Streitkräfte,

Aber dennoch ist es ein glücklicher Tag,

Die Hunnen weg, die Hunnen weg

Mit Autos und Rädern und Pferden.

Die Hunnen weg und wir sind frei,

Es tut uns leid, es gibt keinen Tee

Es gibt keinen Gin und keinen Wein,

Die Deutschen haben alles weggenommen,

Aber dennoch ist es ein glücklicher Tag,

Ihr habt die Siegfried-Linie durchbrochen.

Mit Patton und Montgomery

Nehmt ihr Westdeutschland ein.

Es ist kein Märchen,

In wenigen Tagen schüttelt ihr Hände

In Berlin mit unseren russischen Freunden,

Die deutsche Nachtigall,

Herr Hitler, singt heute nicht,

Er fühlt nach einiger Verzögerung

Um seinen Hals eine Schlinge.

Er wird aufgehängt werden, das macht ihn traurig,

Doch wir sind froh, ja wir sind froh,

Die Nazi-Bande wird sterben.

Und es wird eine Zeit des Friedens geben,

Es wird Butter, Zucker, Käse geben

Und ... Freiheit für uns alle.

Ihr habt diese Freiheit mit euren Panzern gebracht

Und deshalb schreie ich heute: Danke.

Der geheime Musiksaal

My child, the Secret Service is
The smallest rag in all the world.
It's published by one journalist,
And one man holds it in his hands.

You’re my subscriber singular
Receiving it for free,
You also pen the one review
As the sole audience.

So I revise from dusk till dawn,
And working lifts my mood.
You see, I take the greatest pains
For quality and taste.

I hope the readership can grasp
The writer’s messages
For that would give me strength and joy
And elasticity.

My audience, my very world,
This echoes through each line,
I hope sincerely that you like
What “Secret Service” brings.

We hardly see each other now
(Most recently three weeks ago)
In my imagination, though,
I’m with you every waking hour.

We talk about my latest poem,
We talk about the daily news,
And then I do not feel the chains
That weigh us both down heavily.

The horrors of the present day
Can be escaped in brilliant ways,
And in my mind I still can draw
You close, beloved one, to me.

In spirit I can feel the kiss
That recently you gave to me,
I feel that momentary joy
Abiding there inside my heart.

Regrettably, we’ve lacked much time
Together forming memories
Apart from the sporadic bout
When our two spirits harmonized.

The rest all came by envelope,
In letters growing into love
That moved from cautious to profound
And we both felt that this would last.

And we both hope the day will come,
That out of letters life will grow,
A splendid new reality,
A gift that someday soon we’ll share.