perspectives on the second world war

i 



            it is a terror

in the closet   her knees

are limp     eyes straining to see 

every object glows with a 

private halo     pulling down

her skirt       the trickle 

of urine along her thigh and calf

she wipes it carelessly with her hand

biting her lips she fixates on

pebbles and rusty nails along 

the path to the truck            it is an oblivion

seen in matter-of-fact gestures

wiping the child’s nose with her fingers

she says     blow     his eyes shine     as she 

feels the pressure of the doorknob        palms 

wet slipping out of her grasp            she whispers

not now        not yet       we’ve been so careful

he’s a good child         just a little more time

she pleads with them       we will not be 

careless anymore         this time the knob falls 

into the glare of lights        voices scream

orders she does not understand    but obeys

blow    she tells him pulling down her skirt

and wiping his nose with her fingers     later

it is still over      has been over 

since the knob slipped from her hand

like the wet fish that jumped while she tried

to scale it      later after the not yet

not now       the walk nude across the yard

she glimpses the meaning of the order

allows her eyes to widen for one

moment and see the path             it is a coldness

never before felt or imagined       she clutches 

her hands tearing at her thighs    wailing 

to the others she tries to lean on them

to explain the mistake    the small error

nothing is irrevocable     she screams     nothing 

to them trying to lean      they push her away

and her hands cup the knob     for a better hold

to keep out the light        her world is cement

stone    iron 





ii



listening to conversations        over brandy

i am always amazed at their certainty

about the past      how it could have been

different      could have been     turned around

with what ease       they transport themselves

to another time/place      taking the comfort

confidence of an after-dinner drink



                       it would be too impolite

of me to say       my mother hid with me

for two years among ignorant peasants    who

would have turned us in      almost at once      had 

they known who we were      who would have watched 

with glee while we were carted off      even though

grandad had bounced me on his knees and fed me 

from his own spoon      and my mother is a frightened 

woman 



                        it would be too impolite 

to say     you do not know yourselves     you do not know 

others