It’s not the girl who first kissed me I remember most vividly, but she is the most pleasant among my memories. The Nazi sergeant who kicked the hunched back boy is the most painful memory I often recall. The boy’s small deformed body was pulled towards the ground as he limped under the weight of the two pails of water he carried in his hands. Water, in the scorching heat of the sun is vital for the sweating railroad workers; prisoners from the forced labor camp. The bombarded ground made his suffering body to stagger, leaving a trail of spilled water behind him.

             “Goddamned Jew! Yelled the sergeant and pranced towards the boy. To emphasize the severity of his business he raised his tenor and snapped his polished riding boots with his bamboo cane. “Do you want to sabotage the army?”

            “No sir,” the boy whispered in fear, “they are heavy and the bombs…”  He never finished his sentence. The first kick choked the hunchback and felled him on top of a broken railroad tie. The two pails of water felled out of his hands, and their spilled contents were soaked up by the thirsty ground. The next kick shifted the crumpled body, face down, into the mud. A red line and a faint painful whining marked the body’s progression under the repeated attack, enforced by the whipping cane. At the end of the attack, there was no more cry of suffering anymore, only the thud of the small body reverberated as it hit the bottom of a bomb crater.


                        Silence fell

                        upon the land

                        of the captives.

                        Inner tears.

                        Is there tomorrow?


“Get moving you sons of bitches!”

                                                                                                He was swept away

                                                                                                by history.

                                                                                                His memory

                                                                                                is still alive.


You my friend of the pen celebrate this poetry month. You must sometimes dedicate your art against human cruelty to humans. I remember my liberator, the Red Army soldier, in the darkness of the night; muddy high-boots, bandaged forehead. Maybe he died in the war. I never repaid him my personal debt.


                        I remember

                        the darkness

                        and the red star

                        the fading ray of hope.              

                                                                                    I remember

                                                                                    another night,

                                                                                    another escape,

                                                                                    my child upon my shoulders.

                                                                                    But again, wars…                                            

                        Free at last! – Canada,

                        am I ever be?