Marinus van der Lubbe

Poem by Willem Elsschot (1882-1960)

Willem Elsschot (born Alfons Josef de Ridder) is one of the most distinguished twentieth century Flemish writers. His novels are mainly characterized by a laconic and often cynical style, but are full of insight and humor. Unfortunately few of his writings are available in English translation. For full details of his ancestry and a complete bibliography, see the Willem Elsschot page of Michiel Meeuwissen. The same page also gives details of translations of Elsschot's work.

Translator's Note: Marinus van der Lubbe, born in Leiden 1909, confessed in 1933 to setting fire to the Reichstag building in Berlin. He was beheaded in Leipzig on 10 January 1934. The treatment of van der Lubbe made it quite clear to observant outsiders such as Elsschot exactly what kind of regime the new Nazi government of Germany was.

The two contrasting translations that follow are by two different writers. The first translation is my own. It is a free translation that tries to keep the indignant and vivid spirit of the original, without departing too far in the use of words. The second (by a native Dutch speaker) is more literal. The notes attached to the second translation are by the author of that translation, Bart Roozendaal.

To Simon Vestdijk

English translation © Peter J. Large

Before the trial you were good as dead,
the hangman knew he'd have your head
while you sat in gaol your death to await,
I wept beside you at your fate.

The operetta was protracted
grimly was the farce enacted,
court to gaol and back again
in the handcuffs of the Hun.

To forty hearths you dared set fire,
their vengeance a thousand would require,
your gaolers stood deprived of breath
as you went in silence to your death.

Doctors, judges, lawyers came,
body healthy, mind quite sane:
since they found no trace of ill,
your neck was ready for the kill.

The Queen would've pleasurably received
your application to be reprieved,
but from such a common man
such requests are not insisted on.

Man has for years employed his mind
the most degrading death to find,
hanging, burning, drawing, quartering,
cutting the throat like a pig for slaughtering.

Maximum dishonour to achieve,
the knife was chosen for the deed;
a live performance, shedding blood
always does a Nazi good.

Dear lad, to crown this last disgrace,
Dutch soil won't be your resting place,
greedy Hitler's last profanity -
not e'en your corpse deserves humanity.

From Holland comes the cry pathetic,
Did they use an anaesthetic?
But for this vile cowardly killing,
they wouldn't spend an extra shilling.

Tromp, de Ruyter and Piet Hein,
Holland's heroes maritime
may she choke on all of these,
as on her currants, pence and cheese.

May your ghost haunt Leipzig till the time
that vengeance comes for this grim crime,
till your gaolers, small or great,
at Russian hands have met their fate.

Antwerp 1934

Aan Simon Vestdijk

Jongen, met je wankel hoofd
aan den beul vooruit beloofd,
toen je daar je lot verbeidde
stond ik wenend aan je zijde.

De operette duurde lang:
van bet wraakhof naar 't gevang,
van 't gevang weer naar bet hof
in de boeien van den mof.

Veertig haarden dorst je onsteken,
duizend haarden zou men wreken,
maar je beulen stonden paf
toen je zweeg tot in je graf.

Dokters, rechters, procureuren,
allen zijn je komen keuren,
allen vonden je perfect,
en toen heeft men je genekt.

't Had de Koningin behaagd
dat je gratie werd gevraagd,
maar voor zulk een viezen jongen
wordt meestal niet aangedrongen.

Lang heeft men geprakkezeerd
wat een mens het meest onteert,
hangen, branden, vierendelen
of gewoon als varken kelen.

Toen heeft men het mes gekozen
om je toch eens te doen blozen,
want zo'n gala met wat bloed
doet een hakenkruizer goed.

Jongenlief, zoals je ziet.
Leiden krijgt je resten niet
Hitler laat zich niets ontrukken
want hij houdt van die twee stukken.

Holland vraagt nu onverdroten
of je niets werd ingespoten,
maar die vuige, laffe moord
vindt het minder ongehoord.

Laat het stikken in zijn centen,
in zijn kaas en in zijn krenten,
in zijn helden, als daar zijn:
Tromp, De Ruyter en Piet Hein.

Moog je geest in Leipzig spoken
tot die gruwel wordt gewroken,
tot je beulen, groot en klein,
door den Rus vernietigd zijn.

Antwerpen 1934

To Simon Vestdijk

English translation © Bart Roozendaal, 1998

When you, with the wobbly head,
to your executioner were led,
when you were abiding your fate
I stood beside you at the gate.

The operetta without fail:
lasted from court to city jail,
from city jail they moved you out
in the fetters of the kraut.

Forty fires you dared to light,
a thousand were avenged that night,
but your headsman stood like a knave
when you kept silent like your grave.

Doctors, judges, magistrates,
all came to check and excogitate,
none considered you a wreck,
then they cut your boyish neck.

Now it might have pleased the Queen (1)
to prevent the murder scene,
but for your average communist
Royalty will not insist.

Now what might disgrace a man the most -
Hanging, quartering or a good long roast ?
Long did they scratch their German wigs
Then they cut your throat like a pig's.

So finally they chose the knife
to end your miserable life,
for a blood-soaked prison lawn
pleases German nazi spawn..

Then, my boy, to greater pains,
Leyden (2) went for your remains.
Trophies Hitler won't release
for dead he loves his enemies.

Holland is asking without shame:
were you drugged in Hitler's name ?
But that filthy, brutal murder
it does not seek to question further.

Let it rot in all its pennies
in its cheese and in its jennies,
in its heroes big and fine:
Tromp, De Ruyter and Piet Hein.(3)

May your ghost in Leipzig taunt
those who killed you, may it haunt
all your torturers, large and small,
till under Russian fire they fall.

Antwerp 1934

1. The Queen here is the Dutch Queen Wilhelmina

2. Leyden: meant is the University of Leyden in Holland which had a reputation for medicine

3. Tromp, De Ruyter and Piet Hein: three famous 17th century Dutch sealords