I hear a lot, and so does Ellen.

Too much.

Everyone is talking

about yesterday,

Friday,

when German police burst into homes

before the sun even rose in the sky,

looking for Jews,

specifically, Jews from Poland,

here in Hamburg and everywhere in Germany,

taking them to police stations,

marching them to railroad stations,

putting them on trucks,

sending them away.

I hear so much,

but say little.

I do not say aloud

what I think inside,

which is

why, why,

with my Polish father

and my Polish mother,

was my family not roused before dawn?

But I will heed Ellen’s advice,

and I will not speak of this.

I will not complain

of the fear in my stomach,

so cold and sharp.

I will try to remain steadfast

in misfortune and good fortune—

but it is hard,

so hard,

when I hear the footsteps

of the Nazi police

on the marble staircase

going to someone else’s apartment,

click-clack-click-clack

click-clack-click-clack.

Click-clack-tick-tock—

as the clock ticks,

and the boots clack,

Father works.

He has traded our tickets

on the beautiful ship Aquitania,

for tickets on another ship,

the Queen Mary,

which sails much sooner,

in just two weeks,

out of Cherbourg,

in France.

I hear much—oh, too much!—

but also too little.

Where will we be in two weeks?

On a boat with a royal name?

On a truck filled with unwanted Jews?