The House at Vyazma

In Vyazma is an ancient house Which once one night was home to us. That night we ate whatever came, The source of drink was much the same. At dawn, we went away to fight And one of us lived not till night. But this I know, that as he died, We and the house were in his mind. That night, as we prepared to die We had forgotten how to lie, How to betray, how to be mean, How to cling on to what is mine. That night it was revealed to us That life is sharing, bread and house. In Vyazma is an ancient house We'll search for it in days of peace We'll find the traces of it there Where stoves and bricks are burned and bare. And putting all we have in one, We'll build again that ancient home With the same table, stove and pipe And broken window patched with tape In every detail just and right As on that memorable night. And if there's one who at the end Won't give his shirt up to his friend, Who will not share the bread he has Who lies to us or who betrays, Or reaching the exalted ranks Of former friends no longer thinks, We'll make a court to judge his case And send him back into the house There let him sit alone as if Tomorrow battle comes and death, And if tonight a lie has passed His lips, it yet may be the last. As if he will not share his bread With one who shortly will lie dead, Or point his finger at and laugh At him who yet will save his life. Instead of us, let bitter shame Sit with him there in our old home. And when we see him, we shall know Whether he has been there or no. And if he has not, then the mass Of friends, will be by one the less. But if he has, then not a thing We'll say about it more to him. Once more till death he will be dear, If once he tells us "I was there."