Source: Two Poets and a Dividing Wall
Non omnis moriar
Non omnis moriar. My grand estate—
Tablecloth meadows, invincible wardrobe castles,
Acres of bedsheets, finely woven linens,
And dresses, colorful dresses—will survive me.
I leave no heirs.
So let your hands rummage through Jewish things,
You, Chomin’s wife from Lvov, you mother of a volksdeutscher.
May these things be useful to you and yours,
For, dear ones, I leave no name, no song.
I am thinking of you, as you, when the Schupo came,
Thought of me, in fact reminded them about me.
So let my friends break out holiday goblets,
Celebrate my wake and their wealth:
Kilims and tapestries, bowls, candlesticks.
Let them drink all night and at daybreak
Begin their search for gemstones and gold
In sofas, mattresses, blankets and rugs.
Oh how the work will burn in their hands!
Clumps of horsehair, bunches of sea hay,
Clouds of fresh down from pillows and quilts,
Glued on by my blood, will turn their arms into wings,
Transfigure the birds of prey into angels. From Agni Online
“In the mountains one involuntarily hears the query: “Where shall I send you?” And the answer, “Send me to serve the beautiful and good!”
? Hannah Senesh
Eli, Eli (written in 1942 while in the land of Israel)
My God, My God, I pray that these things never end,
The sand and the sea,
The rustle of the waters,
Lightning of the Heavens,
The prayer of Man.
Who was Hannah Szenes and why did she parachute into occupied Europe? WJC
“One, Two, Three,” written in 1944 in her cell, not long after being captured in Hungary and not before she was tortured and murdered.
One – two – three… eight feet long
Two strides aOne – two – three… eight feet long
Two strides across, the rest is dark…
Life is a fleeting question mark
One – two – three… maybe another week.
Or the next month may still find me here,
But death, I feel is very near.
I could have been 23 next July
I gambled on what mattered most, the dice were cast. I lost.cross, the rest is dark…
Life is a fleeting question mark
Long-lost poem by war heroine Hannah Szenes is found (Jewish Women’s Archive)
In the following video, more telling than the video itself are the comments of comments of evil and crazy trolls.
Alas Gem Spa closed in May 2020: Vanity Fair
The Last Jew in Vinnitsa is a photograph taken during the Holocaust in Ukraine showing a Jewish man near the town of Vinnitsa (Vinnytsia) about to be shot dead by a member of Einsatzgruppe D, a mobile death squad of the Nazi SS. The victim is kneeling beside a mass grave already containing bodies; behind, a group of SS and Reich Labour Service men watch. Continue reading on Wikipedia
My father was a Palestinian Jew. Born into am ultra-religious family in barefoot poverty. As were his parents, and theirs before them, and on and on for a while. My mother was one of a handful of Luxembourg Jews to survive the Nazis and anti-semites. Her parents were from Poland, the shtetl of Predzebozh and the city of Lodz, where most of their extended family perished. I come from rabbis and peddlers, horse doctors, scribes, and banjo playing performers of theYiddish Theater. Some were shot (like the man in the photo) after humiliation, torture, and rape. Some died of starvation and/or disease in the Lodz ghetto. Others were worked to death, or struck down resisting, their hands on the throats of their murderers. Some went up the chimney. Some were children and babies.
My ancestors lived, sometimes for centuries, in Poland, Lithuania, Belarus, Czechoslovakia, France, Spain, the Netherlands, and elsewhere, under kings and queens and sultans. I am not an ethnic Pole or a Lithuanian, I’m not Belorussian, Czech, French or Spanish. Where am I from? Who am I? Despite it all, I feel at home in so many places. Just about wherever I go. I really do. The Black Sea is in me. If you look at me, you can see it in my eyes. And the Irish, too. In my laughter and anger. Somehow it’s there. I am at home everywhere I go. Why shouldn’t I be? The blood in the soil is my own. My song is cante jondo. I am American. Look at my boots. And still I yearn for Galilee. And I am American. Look at my boots. Who am I? Don’t try to tell me where my people come from. You don’t get to tell me who I am. No one gets to tell me who I am.