the smack of hands meeting before a quick embrace
fills the little square of the Old Town of Lublin.
two men grin at each other.
“dzień dobry!”
“dzień dobry!”
their smiles are bright, familiar,
Everything is angles here.
The sign, stairs, barracks,
Offices, even the name itself:
Majdanek—sharp in letter.
like the morning sun that hangs over
these cotton-candy-colored houses and flowery lampposts.
the men linger a moment before they continue on their way
down cobblestone streets and around
umbrella-lined cafes.
The camp is full of neat
Little rows of neat
Little buildings along neat
Little paths. Everything is
Exact in its planning.
“German ingenuity,”
Isn’t that right?
Isn’t that Reich?
on you walk, pointing out the tight-rope walking statue,
a record shop, and murals of lords and ladies.
the heartbeat of the old town is fast, strong—a thrum of enthusiasm
from locals and tourists alike.
your favorite kind of town. this is why
people go to Europe.
But nobody who visits now
Can so neatly tie it up.
Thoughts and feelings bleed
Out of you: tension, tears,
Sighs—all take up space between
Rusted iron, creaking floors, and
Hot bodies baking in the summer
Sun. You wonder if this is how they
Felt in summer. You hate yourself
For comparing the experiences.
There is nothing that can compare.
accordion music, rich and reedy, floats around under the bridge
luring your group back to the start, enticing the students
to let loose. they grasp hands, spin.
their laughter and pleas for friends to join melds with the busker’s song,
and all must stop to watch such a perfect union.
A man inhales sharply, stealing
The sighs of you and the others—
And of the ghosts—out of the air,
Giving them a new space in his lungs.
He steps outside. (He will not look
At shower heads the same.) You watch
Him go. You do not go. What would
You say? What could you say?
Nothing. There are some things people
Must do alone.
“yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…”
their curls, ribbons of golden brown, fly as they turn
round and round at the music’s call.
as their parents, grandparents, teachers, and strangers watch in awe. youth
is not wasted on the young here. these children do not hesitate.
It’s quiet in the camp. Nobody tells you
To be quiet. It’s something you simply
Know, like you do right from wrong, up
From down—but do you anymore? Did they?
They were quiet, too, next door in town.
They were quiet, too, across the Channel
even with Turing’s Enigma in hand.
“now it looks as though they’re here to stay.
oh, I believe in yesterday…”
