Poems Ashley's great-aunt Sonia Weitz wrote a number of poems while she was in the concentration camps. These are some of Ashley's favorites. From I Promised I Would Tell by Sonia Weitz (Brookline, MA: Facing History and Ourselves, copyright 1993) In Memory to My Mother Where is your grave? Where did you die? Why did you go away? Why did you leave Your little girl That rainy autumn day? I still can hear The words you spoke: “You tell the world, my child.” Your eyes as green As emeralds Were quiet and so mild. You held my hand Your face was white And silent like a stone, You pressed something Into my palm . . . And then . . . then you were gone. I suffered, but I didn’t cry: The pain so fierce, so deep . . . It pierced my heart And squeezed it dry. And then, I fell asleep. Asleep in agony And dreams . . . A nightmare that was true . . . I heard the shots, The screams that came From us, from me and you. I promised I would Tell the world . . . But where to find the words To speak of Innocence and love, And tell how much it hurts . . . About those faces Weak and pale, Those dizzy eyes around, And countless lips That whispered “help” But never made a sound . . . To tell about The loss . . . the grief, The dread of death and cold, Of wickedness And misery . . . O, No! . . . it can’t be told. My Black Messiah A black GI stood by the door (I never saw a black before) He’ll set me free before I die, I thought, he must be the Messiah. A black Messiah came for me . . . He stared with eyes that didn’t see, He never heard a single word Which hung absurd upon my tongue. And then he simply froze in place The shock, the horror on his face, He didn’t weep, he didn’t cry But deep within his gentle eyes . . . A flood of devastating pain, his innocence forever slain. For me, with yet another dawn I found my black Messiah gone And on we went our separate ways For many years without a trace. But there’s a special bond we share Which has grown strong because we dare To live, to hope, to smile . . . and yet We vow not ever to forget. Icicles The wind is brutal, the rain icy-cold. I shiver and hold out my empty fists, My stomach twists with hollow cramps… The hunger-not unbearable, It dulls my wits and sets my mind a-swim… My vision dims, most pleasantly, I tremble, I weep, and quite detached I watch myself. Am I asleep? Or do I now belong among the dead? An yet I know I am alive, I know Because along my bony cheek A tear escapes, it quickly turns to ice- How nice, how nice to remember…to see, I see-icicles …and me: A little girl, a window sill, And frost upon the pane… (and down the lane, a friend) My mother's voice, the smell of food, My father's laughter fills the air. I sigh, I stare…the wind has chased . My dream away and left but emptiness. The icicles now burn my lips, They turn to salt-It's true, There are no "bitter tears," 'Cause tears…and blood…and sweat too… They all taste salty, tart- And bitterness? Ah, bitterness, That dwells within my heart. I am cold, hungry, I hurt… Does anyone know I am here? Does anyone care?