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The Germans' Mercenaries

georg von Frundesburg
Georg von Frundsberg

Hey-ho!... we are that shabby lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries,
who do not care if the officers march us
over the mountains or down the plain
to slaughter peasants or lords or priests
for fun or gain or the hangman’s rope.
We have campaigned on all terrains,
laid waste to land and lives and churches,
and torched the city of Breda and chased
its terrified children fleeing the flames
because we are that shabby lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries.

Have you seen an innocent child
raided by marauding soldiers?
That is how we were pressed into service
and kitted out with flags and armour
and trained by the whip that made us fit
for our shameful trade, hey-ho! –
tormenting you while you’re defenceless,
smashing your infant’s skull on your wall,
invading your bed, abusing you in it,
avoiding a fight when we cannot win it,
because we are that shabby lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries.

We’ve devastated seven counties
and climbed the seven hills of Rome
and taken a blood bath in the heat
and taken a mud bath in the autumn
and waded across vast snowbound fields
and quenched our thirst by filthy snow,
and baked to the south of the River Po
and swam like rats across the Meuse
and fed on locusts and fallen horses
and heard and uttered horrible curses
because we are that shabby lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries.

We recognize no father, mother,
we cut down every apple tree
and poison every well we find
and serve any cause that pays us well.
Without a word, or thought or even
hatred, we guzzle up your wine
and seize and cart away your chattels,
and kidnap, rape and sell your child...
and you must thank us before we go
or we shall brain you by your gate
because we are that shabby lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries.

The years march on like mercenaries...
Dismissed from service mercilessly,
one day we’ll doze, old fools, on benches,
too frail to bear old Frundsberg’s blade.*
We’ll drag our ailing hulks in pain
on aging feet beset by gout,
from court to fort and meekly seek
your charity: just a crust of bread
and just a scrap of love to last us
until the final port, where the devil
wonders: Where is that useless lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries?

Hey-ho!... we are that shabby lot,
the Germans’ infamous mercenaries,
who do not care... (Reprise)


György Faludy
Translated from the Hungarian
& Edited by Thomas Land

* Georg von Frundsberg (1473-1528), German warrior, his name adopted by a panzer division of the Waffen SS, the multi-ethnic fighting force of the German Nazi Party. The historical setting of this poem – published anonymously in 1937 in protest against Hungary‘s alliance with Nazi Germany – was intended to deflect the wrath of the authorities.

György Faludy (1910-2006) is a towering figure of European literature, described throughout his prolific writing career as the reigning king of Hungarian poetry. He spent much of his life in political prison or exile. He remains an enduring source of controversy in his homeland, adored by a doggedly loyal public and loathed by the ultra-Conservative government and its servile literary/cultural establishment.

This poem will be published in Survivors: Hungarian Jewish Poets of the Holocaust translated & edited by Thomas Ország-Land, to be released by Smokestack Books, England, in June.

survivors

 
If you have any comments on this poem, or on his translations in general, Thomas Land would be pleased to hear from you.


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