Breindel Lieba Kasher, IL

 

 

Free Verse   The Survivor   Barbed wire Smoke and fire Nothing comes close He said Come close No one can know There are No words     Hanging the Wash   Hanging the wash, the water is hard A fiery wind whips across my face Clothes blow stiff, color drenched. In slow motion, a black scorpion Lifts her tail like a Japanese dancer     Father   Wrapped up in white Sticks and bones Flesh of my flesh, Don’t leave me Your trembling bamboo branches     Her Alone ness   Her alone ness Was endless Silence filling spaces Resting on every surface, Invisible and deadly……     I See Your Face   I see your face It rolls in On the hush of night Through the holes in the screen Your last breathes Vapors of death Your eyes keep watching With no time remaining     Another Bomb   Another bomb, Another bus Blood runs On rainy streets The Chevra Kadisha Pick up With plastic gloves Into plastic bags Limb by limb Skin and bone Ambulances hurry away Hurry away June 2003     Gas Masks   Time to check Your gas masks The notice Came in the mail, Like it was normal Or something! January 2003     Jedwabne*   A wooden barn once stood in this empty space. Before the barn door opened, Before the Jews were forced inside, Before the door locked, before the kerosene, Before the match, before the fire, Jews and Poles of Jedwabne lived side by side. In this valley of destruction, I hear the echo of my people. The boarders of time are fading. Rain falls off and on. The Polish president welcomes the delegation, Huddling under umbrellas, blowing. I am part ghost, a Jewish woman, returning. What are they thinking, the people of Jedwabne, Standing behind the barricade. It was here in the old market The Poles were waiting, With axes and clubs, raping, Jewish mothers and daughters drowning, In a river of blood overflowing. In their eyes I am searching, But they have no answers to give me. Some look back at me, Some look down, some are laughing. Some were killers, Others peeked out behind curtains, Everyone heard the screaming, Church bells are ringing. Sixty years ago today, on July 10, l941, The Polish half of Jedwabne, Murdered its other half, the Jews. 1,600 Jewish men, women, and children, Killed in one day. Antonia Wyrzykowska, a Polish woman Who lived outside of town, Hid seven Jews. We are walking in silence To the site of the old barn. These hills, so open, protected no one. I wish I had someone to hold on to. A wooden barn once stood in this empty space. Before the barn door opened, Before the Jews were forced inside, Before the door locked, before the kerosene, Before the match, before the fire, Jews and Poles of Jedwabne lived side by side. Rabbi, Jacob Baker is speaking. His family ran the flourmill. Born in Jedwabne, He learned in the great Lomza Yeshiva, And left for America, A year before the war. "The spirit of the Jews is still here," he says. "On this very holy ground, The people of Jedwabne should pray, And beg forgiveness," We say Kaddish. We light candles. "Let’s go drink hot tea," she says, "That will warm us." She, who they call a Pole of Jewish origin, Discovered her Jewish ness During the purges of 68’. "Don’t worry," she says, "it’s safe." We walk to the local café. I am uneasy, Two women in a place like this, Packed with men, drinking. An old man, with his finger, Signals us to join him. Behind a long wooden bench, We slide in. "Where are you from," he asks? "From Warsaw," "And her," pointing to me? "She’s from Israel." "Israel? A Jude," He says, slow and evil "Du bist a Jude? Heil Hitler, Jude!" Everyone is laughing. What should I do? I have no idea. I have no fear, but I am shaking. I stand up, with the hot tea in my hand. Can I throw it in his face? I cannot. I walk out the door, Into Jedwabne’s putrid air. "He was drunk," she says. "He didn’t know what he was saying." "He is old," I say. "He was there. He knows everything." We are walking, back to the bus. I have stepped out of my body. Polish flags are waving. Coming towards us, A group of men, shouting, "Poland for Polish People!" "We came to show solidarity With the People of Jedwabne." They are glad There are no more Jews here. Antonia Wyrzykowska saved seven Jews. After the war, When the people discovered her righteousness, They drove her out of Jedwabne, Out of Poland. She settled in Chicago. Returning to Krakow, I need to wash the day off. I want to sleep, But sleep does not come. I remember some lines from a poem, Elgy, by Antoni Slonimski: "No more, no more Jewish townships in Poland They sprinkled sand over the blood, Swept away the footprints White washed the walls with bluish lime, Like after a plague They are no more, these townships, They passed like a shadow…………" July 10, 2001     *On July 10, 1941 during World War II in German Nazi occupied Poland, the mass murder of hundreds of Jewish residents of Jedwabne took place. The Polish Institute of National Remembrance investigation confirmed that approximately 40 non-Jewish ethnic Polich men from around the town of Jedwabne participated in the mass murder.     About Breindel Lieba Kasher   I am a poet, writing my whole life, published in many different books and magazines. Born in New York City, I was a child of the sixties, during a time of art and anarchy. I moved to Israel, half a life ago, and raised four children in the country. I traveled throughout Eastern Europe, filming and documenting the last remnants of Jewish life. From my travels, I made a documentary film in Yiddish with English subtitles entitled, "Der Letzter Lubliner,"  (The Last Jew From Lublin.) The film is shown all over the world, and taken up by Boston's Facing History,  teaching the legacy of the holocaust inAmerican schools. I wrote three books: Oral Torah from the Warsaw Ghetto, Who Robbed The Moon, and Wandering Stars.