They said, "We are going to meet a friend.
Her family died in a Concentration Camp."
"Are you nuts?" I said. “You want her
to meet me, your German friend?"
"We’ll ask," they said.
They asked. "Yes," she said.
I went.
It was a Sunday in Holland.
It was in the big old hotel.
Huge columns of old marble
that looked like freshly cut meatloaf.
A small, old woman, slightly bent, white hair,
her legs formed an inverted triangle.
She slowly walked towards us, looked at me.
She stretched out her arms, her open hands.
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (Kelsay Books, December 2022) are available on Amazon. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
This poem reminded me of our year studying in Gottingen and Tubingen Germany in 1958. My husband had a Fulbright, and I had a German Government Grant. We were welcomed so heartily by the academic community - who felt like Pariahs and would not travel out of the country because of war shame. We were entertained for dinner nightly, showered with gifts, and they were eager to thank us for the American Airlift and get news of the rest of the world. Our host's father was a Nobel Prize Winner, and we were only in our early twenties - an unforgettable year.
ReplyDeleteYes, it's a heavy burden to carry. And our generation were babies when it all started. We were the ones who later asked the questions: what were you doing, Dad, during...
ReplyDeleteSimply lovely.
ReplyDeleteSimply beautiful...that gesture
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