Where the Train Tracks End
I walk in silence along grass covered train tracks
with teenagers, Holocaust survivors, chaperones.
We are a sea of blue. Our jackets boast
MARCH OF THE LIVING. Butterflies flutter
onto the wildflowers, birds chirp in sparse
trees. We shade our eyes from bright sunlight,
stare out at the expanse of 17,000 stone markers
with names of towns and villages no longer in
existence. Two of the teens help me on my
fruitless quest to find my great-great grandparents
birthplace. We stop to rest, sit on the ground,
our backs against the smooth stones, close our eyes.
For a moment we join with those who are gone.
At dusk, young lovers stroll hand in hand,
in the shadow of a new moon, hug,
make love, ignore the ghosts of Treblinka.
~
Bella
1.
On the uncrowded, speedy train from Cracow
to Oswiecim boys in their phylacteries
leisurely chant their morning prayers.
2.
As we walk from the station to the assembly
area, members of our group stoop to light candles
in memory of those who perished here.
3.
We pass under a rusted sign, Arbeit Mach Frei,
and line up with 10,000 Jews from around the
world to march from Auschwitz to Birkenau
4.
The shofar sounds, and we walk arm in arm
in silence, past the barracks where our friend
Bella huddled with ten other women on a hard palette,
5.
past the staging area, where Bella was pushed
and shoved with her family, Women to the right,
Men to the left. She never saw them again.
6.
Tears in our eyes do not freeze on our faces
from standing in the cold as we pass the showers
and 1.1 million mass graves.
7.
In her apartment on Jabotinsky Street in Tel Aviv,
a wisp of white hair escapes from Bella’s neat bun.
She flits around her tiny kitchen, hums a Chopin melody.
8.
Tonight we light Sabbath candles, sing off key, tear into
the crusty braided bread, eat fluffy matzah balls, laugh,
chat, with Bella, and don’t mention the number on her arm.
~
Zayda’s Kiddish Cup
The small silver cup was stowed
in steerage as it sailed across
an ocean to a new home. It
overflowed with red wine
every Friday night. Zayda’s
hand never trembled as he
mumbled the blessing to usher
in Shabbat. Now I hold it in my
hand carefully, as the wine spills
over to the sixth generation.
__________
Janice Alper is an active octogenarian who writes poems, personal essays, and memoirs. Her work
has appeared in The Jewish Writing Project, The San Diego Poetry Annual, and California Bards.
In another life Janice was a Jewish communal professional in the U.S., Israel and Australia. She is
currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry at San Diego State University. Her memoir,
Sitting on the Stoop: A Girl Grows in Brooklyn: 1944-1957 is available on Amazon. Follow her here.