AT THE HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL — A TRUE STORY

The old man turns around and says: you left your bag
there on the bench. I noticed. I watched it for you.
Thank you, I smile into the young terror in his eyes.
I didn’t expect a thief in this crowd! No calm in his eyes. 

His heart a bright red hibiscus color
of blood, expecting to die at any moment.
I was watching, he repeats. I cannot light
candles or talk about it. His terrorized eyes fill
suddenly with tears. He turns away.
I pick up my book. He turns to me again. 

I smile. He begins to tell me. Small scenes first. One
sentence stories. Memory in staccato. Each scene
isolated. Often interrupted. I cannot talk about it.
I am afraid. Seventy-one years of living fear. 

I wait and nod. You left your purse, he says, and tells
me about the women and children. His brothers.
The years in the camps, the quarry, the guards,
the brutality. One bitter drop at a time. A rain of lye
made from ashes, eroding time and distance. Present
now. The killed. How can I tell you? I don’t want to
talk about it. They took them away. We never saw
them again. I will tell you! But don’t share
my story. Here, you can read it, but only you, don’t
give it to anyone. I read the brief three pages
about his four years of hell. I give him back
his story. Your bag, he says, don’t abandon it
again. I watched it. Eyes of a survivor.  

In my bag, perhaps, did he see himself
and all the memories came spilling out
into that bag left by a stranger on a bench?
I put my hand on his shoulder: what is your native
tongue? He shakes his head. Your first language?
Polish. Not even Yiddish, you see,
came from a big city.  I must stop here.

NIXES MATE REVIEW. Issue 23. Spring 2022