My Mother’s Cupboard.

She grabbed at the rail,

Fought with everything she had against

Him. Der Arzt von Auschwitz. (1)

With vicious intent.

All would be lost.

Her pride, her dignity. Her peace. Her religion, her future.

“Might” was a word worn old by dry mouths and cracked lips.

“You might survive. You might see life again. You might have a future, if you keep your belief. Yahweh will always protect you.”

Scratching at my face,

kicking at my stomach.

All of me is slammed against sharp metal,

teeth grinding so violently, one snaps,

and nie wiem jak uwierzyć. (2)

Nails clamber for a grip,

and Boże, chciałbym wiedzieć, jak wierzyć. (3)

Managed to breathe, but barely.

To hold still, one’s Elohim (4) close in a life like this, to know my

dear Elohim had imposed beings so horrid upon my world, they hold fast to their faith all the same.

Scrambled wildly toward my life, I hadn’t given up.

Backed away from the blinding light we remark all too often.

To hold still, my faith, is a labor too great.

The will to live has become a labor too great.

“Open a door, only if you're prepared to close the one behind.” 

My mother always told me. Und so schließt sich der (5)

Schrank. (6)

(1) Der Arzt von Auschwitz- the doctor of Auschwitz. (German)

(2) Nie wiem jak uwierzyć- I don’t know how to believe. (Polish)

(3) Boże, chciałbym wiedzieć, jak wierzyć- God, I wish I knew how to believe. (Polish)

(4) Elohim- God (Hebrew)

(5) Und so schließt sich der Schrank- And so, the cupboard closes (German)

(6) Schrank- cupboard (German)