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The
Return By Ken
Shiovitz Leah Pinsky remembered how happiness happened, In the mornings when she and younger sister Miriam, Had brushed each other’s long brunette locks, Forcing strangers and family friends alike, To pause and ponder which pair of milk chocolate eyes And sable soft cheeks belonged to the prettier sibling. She remembered laughter in the family house in Minsk, A stately hewn basalt mansion right on Lotz Boulevard, Where their father was an important community leader, Their gentle mother, socially prominent and proud, Leah and Miriam attracting hoards of hopeful lovers, When they were known collectively as the Minsky Pinskys. After that time, when the family had both money and hope, Most of their wealth would be stolen or spent on bribes, An eroding shield fronting the unceasing hate of fascism, Until Mr. Pinsky lost both his position and his freedom, And Leah spent most of her stockpile of hope on Miriam, Until one day even that account was completely depleted. Leah had consoled Miriam when the furniture vanished, Lovingly shielded her when they were herded onto trains, Sang quietly to her after they were stripped and raped, Pretended with her that their terrible jobs were secure, Shearing the hair from the doomed at Sobibor, But there was never any happiness to replenish hope. And finally, they were going home, she and Miriam,
together, Among the few who survived escape from a camp, Hiding cold and hungry until the Allies resurrected color, The two emaciated Pinskys trudged all the way to Minsk, Across the pock-holed wooden bridge onto Lotz Boulevard, Standing to face the hewn basalt mansion of family history. For two hundred years, Pinskys had lived in that part of
Poland, The last 75, in that very house, which great-grandfather
had built, |
