Boris Slutsky
The Bathhouse

You've nor been co the local bathhouse
In a small provincial town!
Tubs bulk like boars, and the splashing
Is like a summer day s river outing.

Medals are handed in.
While into the soap room arc born
The weals and the scars — all those things
I trust a good deal more.

There, two one-armed men cheerfully
Rub each other’s backs.
Scrawled over each one’s body,
The marks of war and hard work.

There, on Tuesdays, I construe
From the pattern of each injury
Novels without falsification.
Plays without fraud or flattery.

There, the sailor back on dry land
From an ocean-going cruise
Has brought his broad chest covered
With purple tattoos.

Bursting with pride and excitement there,
And forgetting the boiling water,
I read: “We’ll not leave you, mother,”
On the arm of a Partisan.

You hear screams and female laughter there,
Behind the wooden partition.
And a feeling of utter euphoria
Sweeps over you in the steamroom.

There, they discuss the games of soccer,
And with lifted head.
The tailor suffers his callouses,
The furnace worker his scalds.

But the years of disaster and battle
Have not been able to bend
This big-boned race of men,
These sons of my great land.

You’ve not been to the local paradise,
Between the cinema and sports stadium?
You’ve not sweated in the bathhouse?
Two roubles it costs to get in.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort