Why it was that a native of the township of Polonnoye, Kamyanets-Podolsk region, Liber Rabynovych, chose to write in Ukrainian (and not in Russian, which would make sense) rather than in the Jewish language, is unclear. However, much of his legacy (published extensively in the periodical press in the 1920s and 1930s) deals with Jewish colonists' everyday life and holidays. For some time, he resided in the legendary agricultural colony Seideminukha ("field of rest," Hebrew with Yiddish pronunciation) and Kherson, Kryvyi Rih, and Kharkiv. He never completed his university degree.
The perseverance of this young colonist commands respect: an influential Ukrainian magazine used to publish on the last page of each issue a list of works with authors' names that "could not be accepted for publication" — Liber Rabynovych's name appeared regularly in this section for many months. Rabynovych's first poetic publications came out in 1926, and his name disappeared from the pages of Ukrainian newspapers and magazines after 1932. During this period, he was able to publish some three dozen shorter and longer poems, though he never got to print a collection.
Yuriy Vinnichuk, the editor of the anthology "Rozstriliane vidrodzhennia," brought this forgotten name back into circulation in 2016. However, Rabynovych's most interesting ("Jewish") texts did not make it into the anthology.
On 23.04.1938, Liber Rabynovych, a proofreader and poet at the Kharkiv printing factory, was arrested. 11.05.1938, the Troika heard his case report.
"He stands accused of being a member of an anti-Soviet Zionist spy organization. He knew this counter-revolutionary organization aimed to violently overthrow the Soviet regime. He agreed to recruit new members into the organization and personally recruited one individual. He spread anti-Soviet nationalist propaganda, defaming the activities of the Party and the Soviet authorities.
He smuggled nationalist contraband into magazines. He wrote anti-Soviet slander poems and distributed them to the public."
The ruling was: Liber Chaimovich RABYNOVYCH IS TO BE EXECUTED.. All his property is to be confiscated.
The sentence was executed on 05.06.1938.
Where Feather-grass once
Rustled in the wind,
Collective of colonies
Now there rises.
Hear you, comrade, hear,
Horses don't neigh there.
But whose is this mighty roar,
Not the low of an oxen!
Tractors all around
Disturb the silence.
In the word "tractor"
Lies the power of conquest;
It turns a virgin land
Into rich black crests.
Bearded old Shaya
Drives the mighty tractor.
In his shtetl he knew only
how to repair old junk.
For so many years
He longed to be a peasant,
Believing - the time will come,
When the steppe will meet us!
Back in the shtetl
a gray patch of sky
looks gloomy and depressive;
Just like Rabbi’s face.
The streets are narrow,
The cabins are tattered.
Once you look at it all -
Shame grips the heart.
Shaya cursed it all.
"Do not lose heart, Shaye,
May you wait and hope,
If you still have a soul" —
He consoled himself so
When no one saw,
Shaking his fist reproachfully
at the darkening sky.
Days dash like white horses,
And after them the years,
And at last he saw it,
the Steppe among mighty gears,
Now with three plows
Shaya cuts the soil.
Blue smoke gives off its aromas -
So lovely smells the tractor’s oil.
Over the steppe carries
Free wind the blue smoke,
Yellow flowers
Breathe it in on hilly slopes,
The sun smiles
With all its rays bright,
Shaya drives a tractor,
Shaya is a tractor driver.
Polonne sleeps in waves of pines,
My Bakunivka is quite near...
Sweet womb of the motherland dear,
At least I am with you, I am here!
I greet you, ever-green Volyne!
For I will meet you soon again,
My sweet valley, my home lost
Is sparkling in the morning frost.
Ah, you welcome me, my dear,
Wrap me in your blue and gold!
Spring blooms everywhere,
Buds peek through the cold.
I'm coming... Though I know;
I won’t find a kindred soul,
Mother will not meet me at home,
She is dead. I am all alone.
In Galicia my brother
lies dead... Where are you all?
It’s in vain to seek the others,
Only portraits on the wall.
Yes, I know... But away, sad thinking!
Off all you bad and tired dreams,
Enough. Do stop strumming,
My heart’s restless strings!
May you run, oh, way-the-road,
Carry me to the teal dale,
Take off my heavy load,
All my sadness unspeakable!
On the road, where severe storms walked,
Where the blue sky was kissed by winds.
Dark and silent under silver snows.
In the gloom the squalid hut there sat.
There an old Hanna, blind and widowed,
Waits for a son of her day or night.
Only wind sends her a word,
Only a snowstorm finds her eyes...
- Why didn’t he come? Where is he? Where?
All the boys returned long ago.
- He will come soon, - the neighbors tell her.
— in the cart with Movshe Bal-agolo.
Silence sounds like a harp in a scanty home.
Where sleeplessly awaits the mother,
Fierce hungry mice gnaw at each other
Scurrying from a hole to a hole.
All the walls are tattered and raw,
On the ceiling Frost its patterns draws,
Wraps the glass in transparent silk,
Coats the windows with silver flowers.
Minutes rush like a flock of birds flies South.
All is silent... Not a human sound.
The old widow rubs her hands.
Poor thing, she still expects her son.
All day long near the stove she sits
(All day long in her lap a pussy basks)
all day long she whispers with blue lips;
"Oh, reboino shloilom, bring my Izik back "
What fear you inspire, almighty one!
May you scare, but don’t punish, I plead.
I am still alive, though I look dead,
I can hardly see your sun.
How have I sinned, God Almighty?
Why do you punish the blind?
All my strength has fled forever,
Who will help me, who will do me right?
Dreams at night, by day - endless strife.
Always sick without relief,
Lying here all alone, sad and quiet,
In silence I endure grief...
Almighty, I am blind with tears,
For neither health nor wealth I beg,
Only one good word I want to hear,
That my dear son is coming back!
Thus, poor Hana talks to the Almighty one,
Surely he must join her now,
No, just the whistling wind that blows,
The blizzard that envelops windows…
The winter blizzard pounds the door,
Hanna rushes to open it, the widow poor.
Out of her clouded eyes tears of joy pour
She can see again; so, it seems to her.
She swung it open... But no one’s there,
No sight of her dear.
Just the crying, howling, whistling blizzard,
Just pure whiteness everywhere.
By the stove she sits again, poor thing,
Weeping bitterly through her prayers,
"Oh, reboino shloilom" she whispers,
Like stones drop her heavy tears.
Darkness looms. The coming night
In the yard its black coat unfolds,
Whirlwind stopped and all is quiet.
Stars twinkle with their eyes of gold.
Poor Hanna, tired of expectations,
falls asleep in her bed of sorrow.
Darkness in her eyes, with aching heart,
Maybe, she whispers, he will come tomorrow!
Hanna sleeps and her tears sleep with her,
Frozen door creaks and someone enters -
Dvoira from her chores for the snipper
Came in with the frost of Winter.
Silence... Mom! It’s me! Good evening, Mama!
Mother sleeps and Dvoira lights a gas lamp,
Carefully takes a pot from the oven,
Sits for her supper all alone.
All the hut is sleeping now, even mice,
Only Dvoira, in tears on the sofa,
looks at the image of her brother,
Killed in Zvyagli by the Sokolovs.
Hesitation and doubts from the heart - away!
Don't look back to black yesterday...
A sea of wheat waves around,
calling: march forward! To the dale!
Like the reed wheatears bend.
Where there once feather grass fanned,
Now a jolly tractor caracoles
Plowing up the virgin land.
A whirlwind pierced the field. Wheatears
Hammer gently like a chord,
All over steppe the song is heard,
You, colonist, join the mighty choir!
To you a family of new people as equals came.
The Jewish Peasant now is your proud name!
c. Krivy Rig.
Where the sun plays with silvery waves,
And in the wind the sleepy willow sways,
Under a willow she lies in a grave,
Mother of mine.
Here I range with my thoughts every day,
Longing to visit that place far away,
Where she peacefully lies in the grave,
Mother of mine.
Silvery waves gently murmur to her,
All there is dead, but the dead is all dear,
For she lies in the grave under the willow,
My gentle mother.
Oh, Ukraine, fields and steppe,
Fertile land everywhere sprawls,
Fanned by poplars,
Fringed by groves.
Like a palm the steppe is flat,
Sky is like a dark blue rock.
Horses run along the steppe,
Runs ahead a rolling roar.
Joy floods my heart,
And songs pour like a stream,
Here is the Dnipro anthem...
Is it a fairy tale or a dream?
Caw-caw-caw go the crying crows,
Off to a meeting of their own,
And the horizon glows
osculate the sky and wind.
Close to colony a roar,
Is heard of a horse...
Hey, hurry up, you, bal-agalo*,
Let them show their force!
The Sun is setting.
Mist is rising,
The summer sky is blue and dark,
Neither a hawk, nor a lark.
Whoa! And the cart stopped its roll,
Sweating horses made a bolt,
The Steppe darkens.
Wind is cold,
Like a mountain stands the cart,
The night is falling like a dart.
*The coacher
Oh, steppe, you are so green and sunny,
What mighty vibrant winds you blow!
In summer, radiant and shining,
You warm my soul with a glow.
The Land! — a cry of inspiration,
A cry of joy that calls and leads.
The hearts are bursting with elation -
We’ll pass it to the fertile fields.
The endless grief of bygone years
melts in my memories... I beg
Come on, oh tractor, bold and cheer,
Take ages from my frail legs!
I’ll go by the shining paths,
That all my great-grandfathers passed,
And soon the newest hymns will ring
Of showers that are golden-green.
In this upcoming blessing rain
The sweet songs will be sung again,
On the fertile and fruitful fields
From the lips of Esthers, Shulamits.
Not to a Yeshivot and a synagogue
A renewed Jew will go —
To a golden road he will be led
By the gray-haired farther steppe.
And neither Thora I’ll carry there,
Nor the dark Bible in a cover dark,
But strength that overcomes and cheers,
The Flame that in ancestors sparked….
The endless grief of the fathers’ road,
It lost it strength and is on the knees,
Thus let the tractor brim and roar -
You are the winner Just like me!
