It was in February.
The sun had not yet cracked
The horizon.
Papa and Leybl
Were working the night shift.
Mama, Mushke, and I
Slept.
It was the sound of footsteps
Trying to be silent—
But hundreds of soldiers
Moving through the streets
Cannot be quiet—
That woke me.
It was Mama who said,
To the basement,
And shooed Mushke and me
Down the rickety steps
To the damp stone basement
Where even Mushke had to duck
So as not to hit her head.
It was the begging
That frightened me
More than the gunshots
Or the screams,
Heavy boots on the floors
Above us.
It was the begging
Of husbands,
Wives,
Mothers,
Fathers
That was not heard
By the soldiers,
Or by God,
But was heard by
Mama,
Mushke,
And me
As we cowered in the corner
Of the basement.
It was dark again
When Mama sent me to find Papa
And Leybl.
I did not want to go.
Still, I climbed the rickety steps
Only to rush back down and beg
Mama to let me stay.
Please, Fania. Be a good girl,
She said,
And sent me up again.
It was the stench of blood,
Bodies,
Gun smoke,
Death
That filled the cold winter’s night air.
It was the frozen stares,
Open eyes,
White faces,
Broken bodies
Crumpled on the cobblestone street.
It was the crows,
Human scavengers,
Pecking at the bodies,
Searching for a loved one,
A morsel of food,
Something of value
That made my footsteps quicken,
Stepping over corpses
To find if my loved ones
Were still alive.