p Finland,
          country of seagulls
                    and cliff’s,

p fishermen,
          timbermen,
                    stoney earth!

Shall I ever forget,
          how,
                    greeting our ship,
the landing-stage sparkled
with a handkerchief surf,
how strong
          rang the song of the young
                    as we
passed through the welcoming crowd,
                    row by row
shaking strong hands,
          that smelt of the sea,
car-grease
          and well-tarred tow!
There are no bad nations.
                    But without false mercy
I’ll tell you—
          no blame on my hosts—
every nation
          has its own vermin.
So I’ll talk about vermin.
                    Here goes.

I hope
          I’ll be forgiven by Finns
for calling a spade
                    a spade.
I’d learnt about fascism
                    from books and films
but here
          I saw it alive,
                    in full play.
It stood,
          breathing whiskey
                    into my face,
fascism,
          near the Blacksmiths’ statue,
drunken yells
                    all over the place
flying
          like clots of spittle
                    at you.
They swigged new courage
                    from whiskey flasks,
munched chewing gum
                    with demented gusto,
hurled empty bottles
          and stones at us
as we drove by
          in festival buses.
Yet they feared us,
          for all their wolf-pack
                    audacily,
the snivelling,
          warty,
                    dirty beasts,
their hatred switched on
                    to full capacity,
hiding dead rats
          their raincoats beneath.
The drooling,
          unkempt
                    and sweat-faced ruffians
grabbed at girls,
          lunged about
                    with a hullabaloo,
jeering
          at Malis
                    and Ghanaians,
at Frenchmen,
          at Germans,
                    at you, Finns, too,
howling,
          their would-be prowess flaunting.
hiding
          how much they were really afraid,

with rock-n-roll
          and twist contorting,
girt with transistors,
                    U.S.-made.
Now, Blacksmiths,
          tell me,
                    why were you silent?
The hoodlums raged on,
                    but you kept mum:
you ought to have lifted
                    your great bronze hammers
and hammered them flat,
                    the fascist scum.
They ranted and raved
          all decorum scorning,
dead-set
          to bring shame
                    on their nation’s head.
I’m told,
          all Finland
                    that day was mourning
in sad solemnity
          for her dead.
But in those scoundrels,
                    though only lads,
came alive
          the Hitlerjugend of old—
the well-known butchers’ creche
                    which our dads
had taught a lesson
          worth its weight in gold.
"Heil Hitler!”
          echoed in their drunken yells.
So that’s who they honoured
                    on Remembrance Day!
We know
          who their ancestors were
                    jolly well,
a marvellous lineage,
                    I must say.
Yet I’ll never forget, too,
                    how firmly stood
our Russian boys,
          to their fathers true,
at the Sputnik club
          resolved to stay put,
not to let
          the shadow of fascism through.
“No—festival!”
          rose
                    the hoodlums’ roar.

p “No—Communism!”
          came the outcry
                    dirty.
I swear,
          if I hadn’t done so before,
that night
          I’d have joined the Party,
                    for certain!

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg