Hryts'ko Kernerenko was one of the first figures in the Ukrainian-Jewish literary tradition.
Hryts'ko Kernerenko (his real name was Hirsch Kerner) came from a well-to-do Jewish family controlling several economic sectors in Gulyaypol (near Zaporizhzhia). He had the reputation of a lone Jewish Ukrainophile, a stranger both to the wealthy Jews and to the Russified Ukrainian intelligentsia.
In his native Gulyaypol, Kerner was active in the amateur theater operating out of the agricultural tools factory owned by the "Boris Kerner and Sons" trading house, where Nestor Makhno performed in his younger years.
Hirsch Kerner's wife, Revekka, was involved in charity. She founded and patronized the Jewish girls' school in Gulyaypol, and during World War I, she helped at the local infirmary and assisted Jewish families who had lost their men in the war. Hirsch and Revekka had three sons — twins Yakov and Victor, born in 1897, and Emil, born in 1899.
Kernerenko extolled (or, more often, bemoaned) his love for Ukraine, which he portrayed as the Promised Land, and bowed before Shevchenko as Ukraine's messiah.
Brilliantly educated both in Russia and abroad, he wrote poems, short stories, and plays in Ukrainian at a time when it was, to put it mildly, discouraged. He translated into Ukrainian Sholom Aleichem, Frug, Nadson, Heine, and Pushkin. He published five books, including four books of poetry. He appeared in various anthologies.
Also, he played a considerable part in the anarchist movement's history — it was from him that Nestor Makhno expropriated the funds he used to print the very first Makhnovist leaflets. (Kerner remained on good terms with Makhno even after both of them had emigrated).
Hirsch Kerner died at his Paris apartment in November 1941. His sons were deported, and only Revekka survived the war. The burial places of Hirsch and Revekka are unknown.
O, farewell, my Ukraine,
For I have to depart,
Though I would give for you
My soul and my heart.
But - I am a stepson of yours,
Alas, I know this.
And amongst your other sons
I do not live - I agonize.
O yes, I have to stand insult
And spend my days in tears
Only because the faith of mine
Is not the same as yours.
But I will love you, my Ukraine,
Until my breath is gone.
Though you are my stepmother,
But I am still your son!
I saw again the steppes of Ukraine
I saw again the dark green grove,
where I spend my happiest days,
which passed by in peace and love.
My first tears were tears of joy,
When I sang these songs of mine.
Here I grew up as a boy,
And knew the happiest time!
Yes, I was crying with happy tears,
They were sweet and gay,
The tears I cried were precious pearls,
The roses that faded away.
And there was such relief, as I cried,
And the song poured - so easy and plain…
But there are no more tears, for they dried,
Like dew on the Sun and came never again.
I sang in the grove; I sang in the house -
For I was a youth then and hot was my blood,
And everything I saw seemed a merry carnival,
I thought there was true love in the world.
Yes, so I thought then... Why now
I miss you, oh, my tears so pure?
And pain and pity make the heart to sough,
And my anguish I cannot cure?
But now at last I am here again,
singing my greeting song!
So, embrace me, my mother, my dear Ukraine
For I am your loving son!
Many poets are here among us
And everyone sings as he can,
But the best of all songs is
Yours, oh, my dear friend!
So honest, so true and sincere
Like an angel’s or like a dove’s.
And everybody, who hears it
Is touched by its truth and love.
This song encourages those
who lost their God and Faith.
Who buried in dirt their best proposes,
Who threw their hopes away.
No medicine is as salutary
As those words of yours.
They make a friend of an adversary
And a fallen soul revive.
So sing, my eagle, to your brothers,
Join the brothers and pray:
And maybe not soon, but it will come
The time of the Messiah someday!..
So sing, my eagle, my mighty one!
For your brothers do not know you so far.
They didn't know your beautiful songs,
They don't know yet who you are!
Who would believe that such a thing is possible,
How miserably noble families did fall!
All our nobles now run watering holes -
And interest in the interest all in all.
The nobles drank away all their possessions!
Banks opened them credit, and came to their aid.
But all was lost - their land and zhupans*,
Nobles full and half, they drank it all away.
But their blood is blue - still noblemen they are,
Not Jude unsheltered - poor forsaken wretches.
Their clothes are clean, their trousers are striped,
Their silver buttons shine and clasps are etched.
For such pure blood, alas, to be in need!
And the Zhid** sits in his Shinok*** and earns his money.
So let them take pub running from the Zhid,
And give it to the nobles - let nobles do their running!
The nobles run the pubs or drink there indoors.
Who really can say - time will discover.
But now the Zhid does not sell aquavit any more.
And nobody says to him “Shinkar”!****
*Zhupan - a traditional coat of Polish Nobles
**Zhid - contemptuous appellation to Jude
***Shinok - a tavern, a watering hole
****Shinkar - a tavern keeper, sometimes synonym to Zhid
