Do You Know . . .

Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger Translated from the German by Carlie Hoffman
April 16, 2026
Paul Lovichi Photography / Alamy

When the Romanian poet Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger wrote “Do You Know . . .” in January of 1941, she was just shy of her 17th birthday. About six months later, German troops would invade her hometown of Czernowitz; they soon forced her family, along with the rest of the city’s Jews, into a ghetto before deporting them to the Michailowka labor camp, where she would die of typhus. Prior to all this, though, the young poet living in a nation on the edge of human-wrought catastrophe trained her gaze not on the cruel dramas of human beings, but on the brutal realities—and expansive possibilities—of the natural world. As Meerbaum-Eisinger attunes us to the shrieking raven, the weeping rain, “the night, pale with fear,” we find ourselves in a habitat devoid of certain respite. Yet even while we confront a haunted environment, a sliver of something approaching hope shines through. In the act of careful noticing, the speaker finds a kind of companionship: Like the forest and the raven, she is frightened, and like them, she wonders, “Is this my kingdom, is this not my kingdom?” Their collective condition may indeed be one of terror, but through a series of questions—which, after all, resist fixity in their very syntax—Meerbaum-Eisinger leverages the resources of this damned world toward an opening, the possibility of a fundamentally different future.

Carlie Hoffman

(English follows the German, below.)

Du, weisst du . . .

Du, weißt du, wie ein Rabe schreit? Und wie die Nacht, erschrocken bleich, nicht weiß, wohin zu fliehn? Wie sie verängstigt nicht mehr weiß: Ist es ihr Reich, ist es nicht ihr Reich, gehört sie dem Wind oder er ihr, und sind die Wölfe mit ihrer Gier nicht zum Zerreißen bereit? . .  Du, weißt du, wie der Wind schrill heult und wie der Wald, erschrocken bleich, nicht weiß, wohin zu fliehn? Wie er verängstigt nicht mehr weiß: Ist es sein Reich, ist es nicht sein Reich, gehört er dem Regen oder der Nacht und ist der Tod, der schauerlich lacht, nicht sein allerhöchster Herr? Du, weißt du, wie der Regen weint? Und wie ich geh’, erschrocken bleich, und nicht weiß, wohin zu fliehn? Wie ich verängstigt nicht mehr weiß: Ist es mein Reich, ist es nicht mein Reich, gehört die Nacht mir, oder ich, gehör’ ich ihr, und ist mein Mund, so blaß und wirr, nicht der, der wirklich weint . . . ? 4.3.1941

Do You Know . . .

Do you know how a raven shrieks? And how the night, pale with fear, does not know where to hide? How, frightened, she no longer knows: Is this or is this not her kingdom, does she belong to the wind or the wind to her, and are the greedy wolves waiting to tear her apart? Do you know how the wind howls shrilly? And how the forest, pale with fear, does not know where to flee? How the frightened forest no longer knows is this or is this not her kingdom, does she belong to the rain or the night and is death, laughing grimly, her almighty lord and master? Do you know how the rain weeps? And how I walk, pale with fear, and don’t know where to flee? How I, frightened, no longer know: Is this my kingdom, is this not my kingdom, does the night belong to me, or do I belong to her, and isn’t my mouth, so pale and confused, the one crying? March 4th, 1941

I’m Arielle Angel, editor-at-large of Jewish Currents. Before you go, there’s something I need to ask.
 

We’ve seen over and over how the mainstream media falters in telling stories on our beats—whether it’s antisemitism, Israel/Palestine in American politics, Jewish identity, or the American left. At Jewish Currents we’re committed to uncompromising analysis and longform reporting on these issues and more—stories you won’t find anywhere else. In a media landscape that obscures injustice and flattens discussion, we’re changing the conversation. But we need you.
 

If you believe in this work, please consider making a donation—or even better, a recurring one—to ensure that we are able to keep publishing stories like this one. We can’t do it without you.

Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger (1924–1942) was a Jewish, German-language poet from Bukovina. On December 16th, 1942, she died of typhus in the Michailowka labor camp. She is the author of Blütenlese (Harvest of Blossoms).

Carlie Hoffman is the author of This Alaska (Four Way Books, 2021), the founder and editor-in-chief of Small Orange Journal, and a Lecturer in Creative Writing at Purchase College, SUNY. Her second collection is also forthcoming with Four Way Books in 2023.