“Never tell Zayda you're hungry.”

 

"Never tell Zayda you're hungry."

I was told very long ago

By Mama, his daughter, who made him so happy,

When I wasn't  very old.

 

I loved going to visit him;

Each time was filled with joy.

I've loved going to see him,

Ever since I was a little boy.

 

In his apartment,

There would be a feast,

Prepared just for us,

With more than enough food for each.

 

Bubbie and him made the Jewish foods,

Made by their parents before them.

They also made the American foods,

Known to no one  but them.

 

Zayda's eyes

Shone with delight

As he served us everything.

Little did I know

That there was a time when this wasn't so-

A time when he was starving,

A time when he  had nothing.

 

"Never tell Zayda you're hungry," advised Mama.

It was one of the first things I remembered.

"Why," I asked curiously?

Mama shook her head,

Trying, but failing,  to forget something she remembered.

 

Zayda was old and good;

Bubbie was old and sweet.

"Was Zayda good,

And was Bubbie sweet,

When they were young like me?"

 

"What were they doing,

So long ago?"

"Where were their families?"

"Did they love their Bubbie and Zayda so?"

 

I would be much older,

Before I found the answer.

 

In school,

Our teacher showed us pictures

Of people with numbers.

The pictures were of skeletons,

And they were behind a fence.

They looked like they had never seen bread,

And that they were about to be dead.

 

"Who were they?"

"What had they done?"

"Why were they there?"

"Why did they look like they couldn't run?"

"Who put them there, behind those tall fences?"

"Why were they not being fed?"

"Was this a movie set, or a real event?" 

 

"If it was real, why did it happen?"

"If it was real, what was the purpose of it?"

"If it was real, who would be so bad, that they would want people to "live" like that?"

"If it was real, where were the other people- the people not behind the fences?"

"If it was real, why were there people, just letting it happen?"

 

"If it was fake, why would people make it look so real?"

"If it was fake, what was it for, a movie, about war?"

"If it was fake, who were all the people?"

"If it was fake, when was it supposed to take place?"

"If it was fake, would it ever happen for real?"

 

Our teacher told us that,

If we wanted,

We could go home

And ask our parents to tell us more about it.

 

He said we didn't have to;

He knew that this was a horrible subject,

Especially for those of us,

Who were Jews.

 

My parents never talked history;

It was of no interest.

I wanted to know more about the pictures,

So I decided to ask my grandparents.

 

With permission,

I brought a few in

When we went

To Bubbie and Zayda's apartment.  

 

It was only then that I remembered

That Zayda had a number,

Just like the people in the pictures.

 

I had no words,

But I wanted to know more.

 

Once things got quiet,

I took the pictures out of my pocket.

 

Zayda's eyes grew dark;

The transformation from jovial to mournful was stark.

 

His eyes grew troubled.

He tried, but could not, keep the memories from bubbling up.

 

He went inside his mind.

His head sagged low.

In his mind,

He saw real visions of of that place long ago.

 

For him,

The warm apartment disappeared.

As vivid as ever,

The camp reappeared.

 

The soldiers began to yell,

And their dogs began to bark.

"Schnel schnel,"

They shouted again and again in the dark.

 

He saw the train,

His mother's face.

He saw the Angel of Death,

Heard the different directions-

Left, right, left, right,

Die, live, die, live.

 

His mother's tears

Glistened on her beautiful face

As they tore them apart.

A flick of his baton sealed her fate.

 

With millions of others,

She went to the gas chambers.

Her soul disappeared in smoke.

 

His body shook with the weight of his memories,

And with the labor he was forced to perform.

I didn't know that memories

Could make you cold, not warm.

 

Tears fell in streams from his deep, dark eyes.

"Mama, Mama, I want Mama," he cried!

"Please, sir, do not take her away."

"Why can she not stay?"

"Mama," he screamed

To him, this was no! dream.

 

Much later,

He would tell me some,

But not all.

I had to get older

Before he would tell me more of it all.

 

He was born in Germany,

Not that different from anyone else.

However, the Nazis

Believed that he was completely different from everyone else.

 

Things got harder,

But not all at once.

 

"It can not get any worse,"

Was said as a means of comfort.

 

It could get worse.

 

It did get worse.

 

One day,

No one wanted to play.

Another day,

They had to wear bracelets.

Then,

The school closed its doors to him.

Next

Was the Synagogue-

Their place of worship.

The soldiers pillaged, broke, ripped, and burned.

The hateful words written on their sacred building hurt

More than bullets,

More than bombs,

 

Yet,

The worst pain was yet to come.

 

One day,

They were forced out of their home.

That day,

They had to move to the Ghetto.

Soldiers forced them in;

With guns, whips, clubs, and evil,

They knew they would win.

 

The Ghetto was very bad;

Everyone in his family was sad.

They all had to live together in one room,

With other families, too.

There was not much food.

The soldiers were very cruel.

 

There was nowhere else they were allowed to be.

 

"Why am I behind a wall and a fence, just for being me?"

"What did I Do?"

"Why is it so bad that I am a Jew?"

"When will we get to leave?"

"When will we be free?"

"Why are they so mean?"

"Why do they not give us enough to eat and drink?"

 

"Why do they hate us?"

"Why do they beat us?"

"Why do they work us?"

"Why do they starve us?"

"Why do they move us?"

"Why do they hurt us?"

"Why do they corral us?"

"Why do they kill us?"

 

"What did we do to them?"

"What did we do to deserve this Hell?" 

 

"Where are our friends?"

"Where are our neighbors?"

"Why do they not care?"

"Why do they not dare?"

"Why do they not stop this evil? "

"Is it the soldiers, the Police, or maybe even them?"

"Who is truly the devil?"

"Why do they let the devil- whoever he is- win?"

 

"Where is the rest of the world?"

"Do those leaders not have boys and girls?"

"Why do they only care about stopping military might?"

"Why do they not care more about helping those called slight?"

"Why will they not help the people who can not fight?"

 

"Why does someone not do something?"

"Why does everyone do nothing?"

 

"What about us, inside these walls?"

"Have we become as lifeless as dolls?"

"What happened to us?"

"What happened to who we were? "

"What happened to our Spirit? "

"Has this constant hunger turned us into ghosts?"

"Has what we used to stand for, who we used to be, gone up in thick smoke?"

"Why do we let those soldiers and our own hurt us so badly?"

"Why do we do nothing to the bully?"

"There are so many more of us than there are of them,

But then again,

What would happen?"

"Would anything change,

Or would we forever be locked in chains,

Chains of hate,

Chains of pain?"

 

"Why did this happen?"

"Will it always be like this,

Until I die and fade away,

Or until I am taken away,

Or until there is a "Liquidation?""

 

Unlike those old words of comfort,

Things did get worse,

Much worse.

 

Soldiers and Police and big dogs came

In day and night alike.

Every time,

They took things and people,

Never putting up with any kind of fight.

 

One day,

He saw them take 

Some of his family.

Another day,

They came back for more,

And another day more,

And another day more,

Until his parents and him were the only ones left of all his family behind the Ghetto walls.

 

One day,

They came back and took them away,

On a truck,

Then a train,

To a place,

Far away,

Of unknown name. 

 

Once arrived,

They saw their lives,

And a lie.

"Arbeit macht frei."

Work makes you free.

What a lie.

 

"Will I ever be free?"

 

An evil man sat watching,

As the soldiers forced the people off the train.

Many did not survive;

For the moment, the train was where their bodies lied.

 

The rest were told what to say

To the man without a hair out of place.

With a flick one direction or the other,

He tore family members from each other,

Deciding for himself

Who would die then,

And who would be worked to death.

 

Flick, flick,

Live, live.

His Papa and him were sent to the right.

Flick,

Die.

His Mama was sent to the left.

 

Soldiers and Kapos pulled them apart.

From that point on, he would have a broken heart.

He would never see his Mama again.

She went to the gas chambers,

Then to the crematorium,

Burning and going up in thick smoke,

With the millions of others, who never awoke.

 

Still in his mind

He turned his face up to the sky,

And began to cry,

Wishing more than anything in the world that his Mama was still alive.

She did not deserve to die.

She would never harm a fly.

O, how he pleaded for her to have been sent to the right.

 

While he continued to cry,

In his mind,

He scanned the sky,

Searching for something,

Something he could not explain.

 

There were no bones left;

All was destroyed.

Everything of value was taken from them;

Nothing was left unturned. 

Everything was void.

 

He would survive,

But Papa would not be so lucky.

While he would barely stay alive,

His Papa was murdered by the Nazis.

 

One day,

Everything was silent,

Until they saw soldiers coming up the road.

Some tried to hide;

Others stood their ground,

Too terrified or weak to move,

Or maybe just wanting to look around.

 

These soldiers were not those he was used to seeing;

They were Russians, their powerful flag waving.

 

That same day,

The Russians came in,

And saw for themselves,

How far the world had fallen.

 

Those sights

Could not be removed from their eyes,

No matter how hard they tried.

They took photographs and film to bring these visuals to life,

So that those in the world outside

Could better understand, "Why We Fight."

 

Almost immediately, they began giving care,

Of food, blankets, and medicine.

However, despite the good will they shared,

Things do not happen always out of good intentions.

 

Not everyone would survive;

More people died.

However,

They were remembered,

And not just a number on a record.

 

Zayda managed to survive,

And led a relatively long and happy life.

However,

No matter how far he got from the places in his mind,

The memories would follow him.

 

The thing to do,

He realized that day,

Was to talk to students,

And tell them about one day.

 

It was incredibly difficult,

But he got much fulfillment

From seeing the emotions

And the attempted comprehension.

 

As painful as the memories were,

There was something about telling others of the horrors that made it a little bit better.

Although I was the first child he told,

He knew that I would not be the last.

He began to feel that he had a new soul,

A soul unmasked.

 

He is my Zayda,

And I love him more than I could love any other Zayda in this world.

I am so proud of my Zayda,

More than I could be proud of any other Zayda in this world.

 

I let him talk;

I do not ask.

It feels better for me to listen.

Now,

Though,

I feel closer to him,

Close enough to occasionally say,

"Zayda, I'm hhungry."

"What wonderful things did you make for us today?"