They Don'T Know
I walk in a busy street, happy faces everywhere
Coats buttoned tight against the cold,
Stomachs full, warm shoes on their feet.
They don't know.
My grandparents limped through the streets
Cold, starving, wearing tattered coats.
Barefoot in Germany in winter, for a crime of birth
Convicted by fear, jealousy and hate.
It is autumn, and all around me the colors explode
As if a giant splattered paint from his brush
On the landscape, his canvass, until sated.
He didn't know.
My family endured colorless years
The only hue the yellow stars they were forced to wear
To mark each as something less than a person,
Exempt from even the most basic human rights.
There's a chill in the air this time of year
Smoke billows from the chimneys of dozens of homes
And bonfires litter the neighborhood like cinders
They don't know
My mother can't see a chimney without crying
Reminders of the chimneys at the camp
Where her friends, relatives and nameless Jews
Were released as grey smoke to hover and signal release.
Everyday I see people covered in tattoos.
Tattoo shops pop up offering expensive artwork
Anywhere on the body, some covering every inch.
They don't know.
My mother had a tattoo way before they were popular.
She did not choose it -- it was forced upon her by her jailers.
A number tattooed in black on the inside of her arm
Her only hope of being identified if she survived.
The children born today have choices,
And must never allow a "Holocaust" again;
Choices to wear, eat, watch, think, and love what and who they want.
Make sure they know.
Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2016
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