Reasons

There are so many reasons to stay here































I just can't think of them right now

Sanctity

Sanctity, sanctity
Wherefore art thou, sanctity?

Hidden behind the cross
where underneath the priest
went beyond your bounds
and under the shirt of a little boy
that cried for sanctuary
in the comfort of the Word,
but was denied by him
and by your empty promise?

Sanctity, sanctity,
wherefore art thou, sanctity?

Lost in the crossfire
of a thousand young soldiers
fighting for "freedom" and "country"
over the irreversible mistake of a man
too ignorant to foresee the penalties of such
actions as you had wished him to take
in your sake, in your honor, to protect you?
Sanctity in the hellfire and damnation
of so many innocent lives on either side
of border and brother and kind?

Sanctity, ha!
I laugh in the name of sanctity.

Your provocation of righteousness
in the land of the unholy sickens and taunts
As I fearfully strive to reach thee and thine.
But this kiss of death upon his lips end it tout suite.
We somehow violate your definition and tramp upon tradition
by wanting some bit of joy and unity that they have but we haven't.

Sanctity, sanctity,
Wherefore art thou sanctity?

Behind the sacred traditions long kept under steeple
Where happy couples march toward doom and despair
For hours after the final bell tolls, the wedding unfolds
and the veil unravels to show something lurking deep within.
A five hour marriage, yet we're the bigger sin?

Sanctity, sanctity
How does love taint thee?
How can we who love the same
Be the ones to kill you, the ones to blame?

Sanctity, sanctity,
wherefore art thou, sanctity?
You've been gone too long to blame us anymore.

Leaving

Every time I look at you,
I somehow see tomorrow.
The look hidden behind your cheerful eyes
still weeps of your sincerest sorrow.

It isn't so easy,
keeping my mind at bay
As the months fade to weeks
and weeks turn into days.

We have but a limited time
left 'til I am leaving this place for good
But we'll make the most of it,
I want that clearly understood.

Today is our moment,
tomorrow our promise,
and the future is so very far away.
So let's embrace the time,
the magic, the memories,
the promise of each remaining day.

I'll hate myself tomorrow
but today, I'm enjoying it as it is.
Today, I'm leaving it all behind.

Not Poetry

This is not poetry, but it's my only completed short story.

"The Death Camp Chronicles" was a history project in 10th grade. Here's the story:

August 18, 1943

Each morning, I wake up to the same hell: I see the same miserable faces, the same drab grey walls, the same disease, the same camp: Auschwitz. I have been here for what seems like a thousand days, an interminable stay in my own hell on Earth. This is what my life is. I live only for an absolution that will never come. I am Wilhelm Pilecki, a prisoner with the pink triangle branded beside the Star of David on my sleeve. I am physically 17, but hell ages the mind rapidly…

Each morning, as the roll call sounds as the sun rises over my prison, I ponder the rhetorical question: will I survive; will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare? We, as men, are all lined up and demoralized anew every morning before we are sent to our separate chores. This morning, I am to accompany men into the woods to chop wood for the fires of Auschwitz. This morning, I am going to stoke the fires that will kill my childhood friend. This morning, I am going to murder hundreds.

We return to the main camp as the sun beats down directly overhead and as the sweat drips down our tired, worn faces, the Meisters continue to push us towards the camp as they leisurely walk behind us. We are on our way to lunch, to molded bread and disgustingly inadequate soup. Now, I’ll be able to see my mother for the first time today. We’ll possibly be able to talk. Well, we would be able to if she could. Ever since my aunt was taken from us, she hasn’t been the same.

We arrive in the tightly packed barracks and are allotted our spoonful of soup, our piece of bread, and what water was brought up by the prisoners here. I scan the room for any missing faces; at least 100 have gone to Birkenau today, I would be sorting their belongings by tomorrow. I find my mother in the crowd but I cannot get to her. The rest of my family is gone. My father was sent to another camp as was my older brother. I am here alone with a despondent parent, therefore, I am alone.

I sit beside people I do not know, new faces that will soon also fade from my memory as all else has. We do not talk much and if at all, only in hushed tones. We do not reminisce on our old lives, they are gone, we cannot have them back. It’s all small-talk in Auschwitz: “At least the weather’s good,” “At least I have someone I know here,” “What’s your name?” “Am I going to survive?” It’s monotonous, it’s quiet, it’s forbidden, and all too soon, it’s over and the little comfort of the day we had in each other is now gone and we are each once more lined up and divided into different workforces.

I am once again sent to retrieve firewood, but now my newest ‘friend,’ Tadeusz (Tad, as I call him), accompanies me. It is his first day and he, too, is all alone though he still caries the fantastical hope of his family waiting on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. Yet, I do not have the heart to tell him that the adjacent camp is not as friendly as this hell-whole.

We work side-by-side for the remainder of the evening, not daring to speak to one another, but always watching so that the other doesn’t mess up. We cannot afford to mess up here; we cannot afford to be sent to the Kapo; we cannot afford to be beaten with the chains, the hoses, the bars. I have not suffered the abuse. Yet, I see every night next to me, two boys, younger than I, who sleep on their stomachs to ease the pain of their backs. Hell is hard enough without back-aches.

As dusk begins to descend, Tad and I silently heave a sigh of relief at surviving another day. We head back to camp, herded down the fenced-in lane like cattle, beaten if we begin to drag. As we walk down the iron alley, Tad and I exchange nervous glances. I have been here for over a year now, yet the barbed wires still make chills run down my back and the hairs on my neck stand up.

Tonight, we have final roll call after a dinner exactly the same as our lunch and we are forced to retire to our barracks as the sun sets. I am stuck, once more, against the wall yet I find comfort in that my new bunkmate is none other than Tad. It is the only comfort I have as I drift into another restless slumber, knowing not what tomorrow would bring.

August 24, 1943

My eyes flicker open and for a moment; I still live in the land of my dreams; I am at home: free. But the steady drill of the SS Guard’s morning roll call wakes me from my fantasy and I come to the realization that I am still here, still facing death.

Tad stirs beside me, he is tired. His eyes fail to open even as I nudge him to get up. He groans as I elbow him in the rib cage but still doesn’t have the strength or will to wake fully. Suddenly, his eyes blink open and he stares up at me, the piercing blue orbs looking through my scarred face and into my soul. He sees the genuine concern I feel for him and finds new hope in my dim light.

Today is the same as any other, but it is warmer. I feel as though I now have a reason to live past Auschwitz, past the death that surrounds me. I have a friendly face every day to act as my beacon, I have someone to talk to before a fall back into my fantasy land.

Today, we sort through the clothes of the new arrivals, common Poles with lives and histories that I will never know. I once would have shed a tear for them but my tears are gone, my sympathy disappeared when none was given unto me.

I sorted through piles of clothes, watches, glasses, and shoes looking for the best and discarding the others. Somehow, Tad had managed to be assigned in the same group as I am we managed a feeble conversation when the guards weren’t around.

”At least it’s not hard labor,” he said to me, managing a weak smile. His eyes were worn and tired and the bags under them hinted to his transformation. His once beautiful face was now fallen and worn. Five days in hell is an eternity. Five days…just five days have done so much.

“You’re not sad?” I asked him.

“What is there to be sad about? I have seen this every day, I have lost all my family to the flames that now pollute the air we breathe. I have seen one thousand go in before me and only 20 come out alive. I have seen the death on the battlefront, I was a soldier of the Soviets, drafted. I have seen a hundred lives dead on the battlefield. I have seen my father’s last breathe leave him as he clings to my dead brother. My tears are dried, my sorrow is too deep to show. I am stone, I am dead.”

We did not speak for the rest of that day. We did not have anything else to say. We ate in silence, we worked in silence, and we were finished.

September 1, 1943

I wake up next to him again yet we have another bed mate. He is small, he is young, and he is sick. We sleep as close to the wall as we can, keeping him on the edge to prevent the spread of his flu. A sickness in a death camp means death, a sickness is the ultimate weakness. It will soon spread if he is not disposed of.

“Is it his fault?” Tad asked me, his eyes piercing mine once more, a look of concentration on his face.

“Do you want to die or do you wish to survive? Do you wish to be beaten while sick, do you wish to work while sick?”

“I am already sick. I am already infected,” Tad retorted, anger crossing his face. “We are not worthy of the decision to kill someone. God will let him die when it is his time. God will see us through.”

“God has abandoned us! We are in hell!” I yelled, disturbing the quiet of our barracks. We were alone during the mealtime; it was our special place to get away from everyone. It was our bunk but it has been contaminated. “There is no God in hell! There is no God on this earth! Heaven has forsaken us and we must make the decisions. We must have some control on what Satan does to us!”

“Do not blasphemy, do not forsake the Lord!”

“Why? Has he not forsaken us in the prison? Where was your Almighty God when your troop was captured? Where was the Exalted One when the fires lit in the furnace and the gas poured from the showers?”

“In our hearts, giving us hope!” Tad said, grabbing me and pulling me close to him.

“NO!” I said, snatching myself from his grasp. I ripped the Star of David from my arm, leaving my Small Pink Triangular mark still intact. “The light of David has faded. God has faded. All we have is each other. All we have is hell.”

Tad didn’t have anything to respond to that, but I knew that he was beginning to doubt the power of God. I knew that it would not be too long before he, too, blasphemed and cried out the rhetorical “why?” to the heavens, not expecting or receiving answers.

Our bunkmate died that night while we slept. IT was a terminal illness of which there was an easily gotten cure if the SS Guard had wanted it, but they didn’t because they didn’t care whether we died or lived. We were numbers, merely the numbers tattooed on our arms. I had fallen asleep that night looking at Tad then to his number, then mine. One number off.

September 23, 1943.

We are still alive but I begin to see the effects of the disease on Tad. I see this new virus, this epidemic. It’s what each prisoner fears in their darkest nightmare.. It’s what I call the Grim Reaper. Tad is sick and pale. His eyes are slowly fading to a dull gray and his words are short. He works in the factory with as much effort as he can manage but it is not enough.

He was beaten 25 lashes by the Kapo today. I knew he would not sleep nor gain rest that night. He needed the rest. He needed the painless slumber, the dreams of better times. Yet, they would not come to him so I stayed awake with him to offer what comfort I could.

We were still alone in our bunk. We were the fortunate of the camp. I laid my hand across his chest and gently brushed the sweat from his brow. “Get better for me. Don’t leave me in hell.”

“I….won’t….leave you…” Tad struggled to say. “I…..love….”

I pushed a finger to his lip a whispered the same in his ear. I could see the life leaving him and I gently leaned to kiss his forehead. “I will always…”

We did not sleep that night but the next day, fortunately, we were once more in the clothes factory sorting. I allowed Tad to nap as I worked and woke him if I heard a soldier coming.

It was the same day as it always was, a redundant cycle of hell and each day faded into the next and I lost count of the days. The only thing that kept me on track is this journal. I write the dates in the back, I tick off the days as they pass and mourn the loss of all hope.

October 6, 1943

Tad has gotten a little better, but not much and I have slowly digressed to his state of misery. The disease that has been breaking my immune system down slowly has now taken over and I write these last words with the last of my sleep.

My breathing is heavy, it is midnight. Tad’s is fading fast and I cling to him even as I write.

”I’ll never let you go, Tad,” I said to him. “I’ll never let you go.”

“Never…” he said feebly.

“Do you remember the clean waters? Do you remember proper showers and Water Closets? Do you recall the sounds of birds, the taste of real meat? Do you remember the gentle caress of your mother and father? The happy embrace of a lover?”

“Never…” he repeated.
”Will we ever make it out alive?”

“Never…”

“Will you ever forget, will you ever leave me alone?”

“Never.”

And he died on that final parting word. He died in my arms as I clung to his scrawny, feeble body. I felt his final breathe brush across my face and as I smelled his last bit of life leave him, I closed my eyes and watched as the scenes of my life flashed before me. I remembered the trees of my little Polish town, of the small pond that I used to swim in. I remembered how it felt to be free, how it felt to believe in a greater good, in God.

And I know I will go to a better place than this. I know I will awaken somewhere better, even if it is in hell, it will be better than this. I open my eyes to the broad ceiling and gaze out a hole above our bunk.

“God,” I said feebly, “please forgive me. Forgive me.”

And whether he heard me or not, I shall never know. I have not the strength to write, nor the will to live. I will part from this earth before the dawn breaks and I will cling to Tad’s limp frame until the sun rises and the carts come to carry our bodies to the furnace.

“Goodbye, my love. Goodbye, my life,” I said. “Goodbye, my hell: Auschwitz.”