Standing in Appell.
Waiting for the counting.
Barely aware of
gray-red mud seeping
around my wooden shoes
over my feet,
tugging at my ankles.
A Kapo walked through the group
pointing,
pointing,
pointing.
Selecting for a Kommando
work squad.
You.
You.
You.
Five more times.
Then at me.
Mach schnell!
Always a rush.
But the gray-red mud held tight.
Death’s grasp around my foot.
I pulled.
My foot slipped
the shoe did not.
I would die
in the Kommando without a shoe
I would die
in the gray-red mud of Birkenau.
For the first time
since we’d been rounded
into the ghetto,
my cold, hard heart
did not care
if I lived or died.
Death would bring a reunion
with Mama
Lázaro
Necha.
Hold still,
a Yiddish whisper
as someone’s hands dug around my foot.
Another You.
Free from the gray-red mud.
We marched behind the Kapo.