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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…
In the 1970s, Weisel, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, made a series of abstract paintings inspired by her father’s tattoo from Auschwitz. The central rectangle in this painting resembles a…
The years have done their work. After a couple of years I appealed to the wife of Yuta’s son Uri to bring Iza to see her mother before leaving for the army. She is a fine girl from our village who…
Without Jews, no Jewish God.
If, God forbid, we should quit
this world, Your poor tent’s light
would out.
Abraham knew You in a cloud:
since then, You are the flame
of our face, the rays
our eyes…
[…] I want to tell you about my brother’s ghost.
I had so looked forward to seeing him again: my Schorschi, my Czech brother, who had sent us a few postcards from Theresienstadt. But he wasn’t there…
The cartwheels rush,
quivering.
What is their burden?
Shoes, shivering.
The cart is like
a great hall:
the shoes crushed together
as though at a ball.
A wedding? A party?
Have I gone blind?
Who…
Still, still, let us be still.
Graves grow here.
Planted by the enemy,
they blossom to the sky.
All the roads lead to Ponar,
and none returns.
Somewhere father disappeared,
disappeared with all our…
We live in a prison. We have been degraded to the level of homeless and uncared-for animals. When we…