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From Hoza Street and Marszalkowska
carts were moving, Jewish carts:
furniture, tables and chairs,
suitcases, bundles
and chests, boxes and bedding,
suits and portraits,
pots, linen and wall…
This urn will be made of fired clay
Of native soil, from Poland, my country
In it are lodged the ashes of my parents
My brothers, daughter, and wife.
The urn will be simple, like a jug
With a small…
And so its pain is unremitting, like an amputated leg
This ash and feathery void chafes at us,
They say two willows were seen in Mazowsze
wearing green prayer shawls also a market stall
in the middle…
Among the illegal publications that appeared in Poland during the Nazi occupation, one can find a small anthology of poems entitled Z otchlani, from the Abyss. This modest volume, published by the…
19 August 1943
Today, dear Anka, is the anniversary of your Golgotha, tomorrow the anniversary of your death. A year has passed since I last saw you. You see, Anka, I do not believe in God and never…
[ . . . ] We have nooses fastened around our necks; when the pressure abates for a moment, we utter a cry. Its importance should not be underestimated. Many a time in history did such cries resound…
Where shall I start? My thoughts are in turmoil. There is an overpowering desire burning in me to put in writing as speedily as possible all that has happened to us in these years of war, especially…
While imprisoned by the Nazis and awaiting her death, Gusta Dawidsohn-Draenger recalls her last supper with other resistance leaders in the Vilna ghetto.
When macabre reality gnaws at a person’s soul, it is hard to devote oneself to psychological investigation, even of very pressing subjects. The event also seemed cut off from life, entirely academic…
Over the wall, through holes, and past the guard,
Through the wires, ruins, and fences.
Plucky, hungry, and determined
I sneak through, dart like a cat.
At noon, at night, at dawn,
In snowstorm…