Auschwitz with H and C
Seven a.m. and vacuum cleaners
at full throttle. Brum Brum Brum.
Grey curtains against a grey sky
Wall to wall linoleum and the
ashtray nailed to the mantelpiece.
Sacrificing breakfast for semidreams
I remember the days we stayed
at the Albany. Five Ten a night.
I was somebody then (the one on the right
with glasses singing Lily the Pink).
The Dolce Vita.
At 10 o’clock the Kommandant
(a thin spinster, prim as shrapnel)
balls me out of bed. ‘Get up
or I’ll fetch the police. Got guests
arriving at midday. Businessmen.
This rooms to be cleaned and ready.’
i Kleenextissues to be uncrumpled and ironed
ii Dust reassembled
iii Fresh nail in the ashtray
iv Harpic down the plughole
v Beds to be seen and not aired.
In the lounge my fellow refugees
are cowering together for warmth.
No gas fires allowed before 6.30
in the evening. Verboten.
We draw straws. The loser
rings the service bell. ‘Tea! Tea!!
I’ve got more to do than run round
making tea at all hours of the day.
Tea!!!’ She goosesteps down the hall.
A strange quirk of feet.
When the bill comes there is
included a 12½% service charge.
We tell her to stick it
up her brum. La dolce vita.