In my dreams,
a land of plenty—
far away,
safe.
In reality,
warehouses—
stuffed with worldly possessions
from cardboard suitcases
leather satchels
canvas bags.
Mountains of
clothing
jewelry
food
blankets
shoes
treasured favorites
toy trains
and drawing sets.
Sorted by large-fisted Aryans
and shipped to Germany.
Kanada was verboten!
But goods could be had
for a price.
Pieces of a normal life
traded for bread.
How much for that pretty purple blouse?
I asked.
Too much for a dirty Jew,
answered a broad-faced Aryan girl.
How much for that pretty purple blouse?
I asked,
Again.
Why do you want it?
Bronia asked.
Why take the risk?
Guta wondered.
Why pay the price?
Giza said.
I answered.
I paid the price,
a day’s ration of bread.
And didn’t mind
when my stomach growled
all night.
Fania passed me her bread.
I’m not really hungry,
she said with a wink.
When I dressed in the morning
a whisper of silk
lay hidden
between my skin
and the coarseness of my
striped uniform.