Shadows follow me, from graves at the farm
In Uzbekistan to the snow covered soil of Germany
And the sun dried deserts of Arizona.
The cossack sits on the tractor that turns the plow
Turns the earth over and over
The bones of my dead baby boy…
The bones of my dead parents…
Where I left them behind in shallow graves
While I watched hidden in terror
Fist in my mouth to silence the sobs
Tortured and guilty leaving behind sisters
Afraid they will keep us all if they know the truth
The Communists, the Cossacks
Whom do you turn to when life has ended at 24?
Whom do you rage against when everyone hurts?
How do you continue breathing?
Whom do you pray to?
When everyone has died and God is gone?
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
*My parents, Holocaust survivors, were never sent to a Concentration Camp in Poland or Germany. They ran South and East spending WWII in Uzbekistan (Southern Russia) with my Grandparents, Aunts, Cousins. In 1944, there was a great famine and most of the family died prior to my birth. This poem is in the voice of my Mother who lived the experience of losing her first born son, Alex and her parents Hershel and Sara. As happened to most of her generation of Holocaust survivors, she was unable to speak of the horror, the hurts, so I speak for her now, though she’s gone.