Enormous.
Red brick.
Windowless,
But for skylights.
Surrounded,
Like everything else,
By a tall barbed-wire fence.
Inside,
Air thickened by
Thrumming machines,
No windows,
Hundreds of workers.
Stifling noises
Pulsed off the walls,
Pushed against my body,
Pressed me until I barely existed at all.
Yellow dust
Lingered in the air
Coated every surface.
Sweat-soaked men
In blue-gray uniforms
Worked the Pressen,
With heavy pistons
That rose and lowered
Every three minutes
Spitting out yellow dust.
The Weichsell Union Metallwerke
Did not make buttons,
Bowls,
Or bicycles.
We made armaments.
Weapons.
Bullets.
Shells.
Grenades.
I’d volunteered
Thinking I’d be safe.
Now I worked
Making weapons
To fight those who
Tried to free us.
We are no better than the
Sonderkommandos.
I said,
Doing dirty work for the Germans.
No! Zlatka was firm.
We are surviving.