CHOCOLATES FOR TWINS
Auschwitz, 1943
Crows circle the skies above the rails,
searching for splattered remains
of those who ask too many questions,
or bits of a small child’s chocolates.
From crowded boxcars pour
the newest visitors to Camp Auschwitz.
Josef Mengele stands on the platform.
His hat is cocked, his boots shine like mirrors.
He surveys his prey, conducts the order of their fate.
With a bronze tipped cane he waves most to the right
to be cleansed by cyanide showers,
directs the fittest to the left, for various tasks.
Uncle was the first to welcome us,
with bright eyes and shining smiles
for me and my twin sister Yael,
he made us feel so special,
giving us each a chocolate treat,
he whisked us off in his private car.
He said our parents would visit soon—
though they were shown to the left,
we had no clue what that meant.
So Yael and I settled in,
glad to be safe in a place
for Hebrew pairs like us.
Very soon our world became a window
into Uncle Mengele’s orchestrated Hell,
yet in our innocence, we tried to please.
Amir and Miriam were injected with smallpox;
the nurses made us drink their blood while
Uncle Mengele supervised, a glitter in his eyes.
With special chocolates for twins!
To Yankel and Yoel,
he injected certain chemicals
to change the color of their eyes
from brown to blue; he didn’t stop
until they both went blind.
More chocolates as rewards.
Ezra and Emmanel
were sewn together,
unnatural Siamese twins,
but their hands got infected
and they were put to death
in a certain room he used
for duteous dissection.
Chocolates to celebrate.
He pricked Shaindel’s eardrums
until she could barely hear
snapped her sister Moira’s legs,
and crushed her feet
to study if they cared
about each other’s fate
before they died.
We didn’t want the chocolates.
Johan’s story was as sad,
Uncle operated on his brother’s spine,
so his legs were paralyzed,
and removed his sex parts—
probably some other things as well.
Death came the fourth time.
He didn’t see his brother after that.
He wouldn’t eat the chocolates.
Uncle switched the heads
of Joprie and Shoshanna,
we saw them on the cart.
No chocolates for them.
Such tests went on with
Uncle Mengele’s special treats
in between the operations
for those of us still living,
and if we knew what befell
the ones who never returned
we dared not speak of it.
So when the day came,
to save gas, and still alive,
we were thrown into the ovens,
it didn’t matter.
We knew enough,
we’d had enough
of Uncle Mengele’s chocolates.