The Gift and Shadow by the Water
THE GIFT
They asked no questions,
brown-sleeved knuckles pulled us
out of houses, lives and loves,
Truck-loaded us behind high walls,
jail-like walls of factory barracks.
We stood on broken-edged tables
cleaning metal parts of sewing machines—
so we were told.
A sharp-voiced bell summoned us to the
eating room to get one ladle of soup,
one slice of bread.
But we were in heaven.
We only had refused to join the party
but were still good enough to work in
cold, windowless factories.
The imported Ukrainian women did much
dirtier work, had much oilier hands,
received only half a ladle, half a slice.
We were also allowed to sing. We didn't.
We had lost our voices.
Only the siren's voice was alive,
understood by all, summoning the gray
crowd to the underground shelter.
A thin wall separated us from the Ukrainians.
We knew their whispering voices were talking
about a hut in the snow, a wrinkled
grandmother at a spinning wheel, her old
foot pushing a cradle to and fro,
a newbom child in pink cushions
whose mother had been grabbed and
loaded on a westward train.
Olga, a teacher from Odessa, had
left two sons behind. She held on to
Vera, a young, round-faced half-child woman
with blondish hair. Vera's skirt was long
and wide, beautified by a hand-stitched
green border around the hem.
I met her on the stairway. She moved aside
to let me pass. I felt the apple in my
pocket, the one I had bartered for my last
hand-made handkerchief. Protecting
ownership I closed my hand around it.
Perhaps too hard. It dropped to the floor,
rolled down the stairs. Vera's wooden shoes
pounded after it. I saw her holding my apple
to her breast. It was mine, mine, my own hunger
told me. Silently Vera opened her hand and
held it out to me. And this strange,
senseless hand of mine, the one I had never
known before—could not take it.
A few steps apart we stood, shy, looking at
each other like lovers after the first touch.
Vera went on pushing her heavy cart,
transporting metal parts from hall to hall;
her dark-ringed eyes getting bigger,
her movements slower.
One sleepless night a large shadow
ghosted over the flat roof of the
main building. A thump, the watchman's
running boots, awakening voices, a
frightened crowd, forgetting all rules.
On the glittering crystals a shapeless
mound, coloring the virgin snow dark-red.
Beside it the still warm body of a newbom
boy wrapped in a wide skirt with a green border.
Olga, next to me, voiceless, except for telling
eyes, pressed something into my hand:
a family of apple seeds. I meant to plant
them in my garden—some day.
But I was wearing my old, old coat,
and we had no thread to mend pockets with.
Perhaps the wind—perhaps the wind.
SHADOW BY THE WATER
He walks alone, shoes crunching
over pebbles; a wide-brimmed hat
of long forgotten days covering
the yellow of his bony face.
His walking stick is fastened to
his sleeve; there are no fingers
on his stubby hands to hold
a golden wedding band.
He walks alone—a fragment
of a broken world.
I knew him once, way back when gas
was only used for cooking, before
the stench of hatred filled the streets.
I knew him in his white, starched coat,
a stethoscope around his neck.
I saw him being led away, his tender
wife beside him, praying, "Let us stay."
And now he stands, hoping to be welcomed
by the river's tender hands.
Is it the cry of skeletons, unheard by
God and Man, still living in my soul,
that forces me to hold him back?
"Where do you live?" I ask.
"I do not live, my child, I'm only
here to find my glasses in that big,
big pile to see if Ruthy's mouth has
healed. You see, they tore her golden
teeth and left a bloody ring where once
her kisses smelled of violets and spring.
They stripped us naked in the cold
and made us dig that monstrous hole
all through the night—before they
let the pistols loose.
When bones came raining down on me
I raised my hands to heaven, and see,
white shadows came to lift me up through
blood and chalky lime. They spoke in
tongues that were not mine. White-gloved
humanity let deep me glide to tender
nothingness, bandaged my hands, but
hadn't found my Ruthy yet. Oh, how I
want to share her bed for one last time."
And so he spoke, that shadow in the night,
before I saw a crumpled hat floating on
its out-of-fashion brim; turning, turning,
taking one last spin, then disappearing
in a growing, watery ring.
