Konstantin Simonov
The Blind Man

On an accordion which had seen plenty,
Moving his fingers over husky keys,
In an unfamiliar car the blind man played
The song “Along the Highway.”¹

Blinded near Molodechno,
Back in that other, different war,
Straight from the clinic, he had set out, crippled,
His eyes shut tight, across the land.

Russ itself distractedly had placed
Beside him the accordion,
And given him possession of
Her own long roads.

Walking on, he got used to his bereavement,
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
A blind man’s heritage forever,
The highway wound in front of him.

All Russian people wanted to protect him,
To see that he came to no harm,
The peasants giving him rides on horse carts,
The women weeping when they looked at him.

The guards on slow trains would always let him
Make his way across Siberia,
There were dry stripes from the tears
Across his dark cheeks.

He’s blind, what did it matter to anyone
What his personal sorrows might be?
Then his accordion would start to sing,
And they fell silent at once.

And right away on human hearts
The sorrow that can drive one mad
Descended as if Russia herself
Had suddenly grasped them by the hand.

And let them, to these strains,
There where all is turned to ash,
Where women wring their hands
And someone tolls the bells.

Through villages, among the smoldering ruins,
Among the shadows bending low,
“What are you searching for?” — “We’re searching
For our children, for our children ..

Over the bleak, the lifeless plains,
By the light of yellow wolfish flares,
In the smoky glow of raging fires,
Over endless, snowless steppeland wastes,

Where, with a bayonet stuck in his bared chest,
In the open field beside the willows,
His corpse unwashed by any kin,
The son of a Russian mother lies.

Where, if there’s still to be revenge,
Along our path, now here now there,
Unburied children from the earth
Will spring up as red carnations.

Where nothing blacker than was here
Can be foretold...
. . . . . . . . . . .
“Stop, accordionist! What do you want?
Why are you dogging every step?

“My wounded body I’ve already borne
Into the fire of the attack.
Did Russia tell you you should sing?
I won’t betray her anyway.

“Tell her of me: the soldier
Will not lie here in vain,
As soon as the wounds have begun to close,
He’ll go into battle again.

“Tell her, never seeking rest,
The soldier will cover the whole bloody track.
And now play something that will make
My heart itself feel rested...”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The blind man’s fingers skim over the keys,
He’s just an old, blind man again.
The wounded soldier wipes away a tear
And cuts his bread in equal halves.

____
1. A folk variant of a line from the poem “Troika” by F. N. Glinka (1786—1880), which became a popular song.

Translated by Lubov Yakovleva