HOLOCAUST CENTER BOSTON NORTH

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Present Memories

Icicles

Bergen-Belsen was a nightmare of the living dead. No food, no blankets, no work . . .

Endless days and nights, either crouching on the damp floor of a barrack or standing on the Appel-Platz being counted and counted . . . . (those precious Jews). Forgotten by the world. . . .

Numb beyond pain, I fantasized . . . Often to escape reality, I wrote poems in my head . . .

The wind is brutal, the rain icy-cold.

I shiver and hold out my empty fists,

My stomach twists with hollow cramps . . .

The hunger – not unbearable,

Its dulls my wits and sets the mind a-swim . . .

My vision dims, most pleasantly,
I tremble, I weep, and quite detached

I watch myself. Am I asleep?

Or do I now belong among the dead?

And yet I know I am alive, I know

Because along my boney cheek

A tear escapes, it quickly turns to ice –

How nice, how nice to remember . . . to see,

I see – icicles . . . and me:

A little girl, a window sill,

And frost upon the pane . . .

(and down the lane, a friend)

My mother’s voice, the smell of food,

My father’s laughter fills the air.

I sigh, I stare . .. the wind has chased

My dreams away and left but emptiness.

The icicles now burn my lips,

They turn to salt – it’s true,

There are no “bitter tears,”

‘cause tears . . . and blood . . . sweat too. . .

They all taste salty, tart –

And bitterness? Ah, bitterness,

THAT dwells within my heart.

I am cold, hungry, I hurt . .

Does anyone know I am here?

Does anyone care?

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