Audacity

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Audacity Page 4

by Melanie Crowder


  The wealthy families scatter

  like snowflakes

  in a strong wind

  to any country that will have them,

  gone to America

  Australia

  the holy land.

  The rest of us hoard our kopecks

  until we can buy our way out

  of this place that has turned

  against us.

  We wait

  like rabbits

  sniffing at the edge of our burrows

  testing the air

  never sure if it is safe

  to go out.

  The yarid is quiet,

  business is done

  in quick

  curt exchanges.

  I do not visit the wool cart.

  Much as I long

  for another poem,

  I cannot look Anushka

  in the face

  anymore.

  test

  I return to the forest

  only once

  lift the winter wren from her box

  hold her tight to my chest

  so she will not struggle.

  I snip the splint

  lift it away

  stretch her wing wide.

  I close the roof

  of the nesting box

  settle the bird on the branch beside it.

  I turn away

  hurry along the path toward home—

  I cannot bear to wait

  to watch her test her wings,

  to see

  if she will fly

  or fall.

  packing

  Miriam and her family left today;

  just like that

  all the laughter

  has gone out of this place.

  The farm is still

  the stalls empty,

  ragweed clambers eagerly

  over untended furrows.

  By the time Mama closes up her store

  there are hardly any Jews

  left in town

  to buy from her

  anyway.

  I wonder,

  who will the Russians blame

  for their problems

  once we are all

  gone?

  Papa and Marcus

  wrap the holy books

  in linen.

  Mama digs through Benjamin’s sack

  trading toys for stockings

  an extra pair of pants

  a wool vest.

  It takes an eternity to choose

  only one book

  to bring with me.

  I wrap first

  my underclothes

  then my dresses

  then my winter coat

  around a slim volume of poetry

  tuck the bundle

  into a sack

  I can carry over my shoulder

  when we leave here.

  The rest I leave in the attic.

  They have books in America.

  They have schools in America

  even

  (I hear)

  for Jewish girls.

  Hope lives in an uncomfortable

  infrequently visited space

  beneath my ribs.

  I am wicked to think it

  —I know—

  but I wonder

  if on the other side

  of all this anger

  violence

  uprooting

  if America

  is just the place

  for me.

  goodbye

  We ride to the city

  in the back of a wagon

  on top of a load of

  potatoes.

  I sit,

  watching the road behind us

  my feet dangling

  in the dusty air.

  The grasses sway

  in the warm winds

  seedpods flutter

  waving goodbye.

  Barn swallows flit between buildings,

  perch on swaying cattails,

  cheeping and twittering

  as if this were a peaceful

  lovely shtetl.

  I try to fix this picture

  in my mind

  so when I remember this place

  from the other side of the world,

  I have something

  other than terror

  to think of.

  spark

  1904–1905

  mirrored

  The train station is full of people like us

  carrying their whole lives

  on their backs

  like a great army

  of snails.

  Looking into their faces

  is like looking into a mirror:

  the same deep furrows

  shadowed eyes

  pinched lips

  staring back at me.

  The space above the tracks shimmers

  with heat.

  There was no leisure

  in summer’s arrival

  this year; its hot breath

  blows grit in our faces.

  The air carries a sharp smell,

  something I cannot place.

  Mama’s eyes are glassy,

  constantly blinking

  as if she spent the whole day

  looking into the wind.

  the German Empire

  The guards check our papers

  as we cross into this territory

  and out of that one

  their words

  so familiar

  (as if our tongue and theirs

  were not-so-distant cousins)

  their meaning

  so clear.

  (how could it not be

  with all the pointing

  and scowling

  and stomping?)

  We are shuttled into a brick building

  separated, men from women

  stripped down

  hosed off

  dusted with powders

  that burn my nostrils

  my throat

  my eyes.

  Even with our clothes

  on our backs again,

  even in the heat

  Mama shivers.

  I grip her hand

  grit my teeth

  to keep my chin

  from wobbling.

  I will not let fear

  find purchase

  on my skin

  again.

  They wave us past

  once we are clean

  once they are sure

  we are not staying

  only passing through

  once they are sure

  we understand

  what all those pistols will be used for

  if we veer from the route through

  and quickly out

  of their country.

  I fold my papers

  tuck them close to my skin

  let out a long full breath

  once we have left the soldiers

  behind us.

  murmuration

  The whistle blows

  loud

  as a cast of raptors

  shrieking.

  I never heard such a thing!

  In one instant

  the flock of travelers

  heft their bags

  jostle

  to first one door

  then the next.

  Marcus follows close behind Papa,

 
; Mama herds Nathan

  before her,

  I grab Benjamin’s hand

  hold tight.

  This line spills into that,

  everyone vying for space

  trying

  to stay together

  like a cloud of starlings

  swarming over a wheat field,

  re

  group

  ing,

  settling.

  look away

  On board at last,

  we wedge our things under our seats.

  Mothers clasp their children close

  pinch their lips tight

  as if by holding in

  their words

  they could hold their families

  together.

  I am learning to look away

  from the weariness

  hopelessness

  helplessness

  all around me,

  though I cannot ignore

  the way uncertainty

  like a heavy cloud

  rises from the unwashed skin

  of hundreds of bodies

  packed together.

  I lift the corner of my coat

  to cover my nose

  lean into the window

  wait for the great engines

  to carry me away,

  or at least to stir the air

  a little.

  Benjamin’s legs dangle

  inches above the ground.

  When the train jolts into motion

  I tuck him under my arm

  under my wing

  to keep him from slipping.

  I watch

  through smoke-stained windows

  as we chug past

  tidy crops

  lonely towns

  shadowed woods.

  I wonder if Miriam

  or Hanna

  rode these same tired tracks.

  I hope

  they landed

  somewhere safe.

  My brothers open a book

  prop it between them

  one half perched on Marcus’s leg

  the other on Nathan’s

  as if it is the most natural thing

  in the world.

  Jealousy sweats

  like a clammy fever.

  If I pull my own book

  out of my bag

  Papa will toss it out the window

  of the moving train

  like a piece of trash.

  whirligig

  Hours later,

  when the train

  screeches to a stop

  to unload a tower of crates

  onto the platform,

  to trade the empty coal bins

  for full ones

  my head bobs atop my neck

  wooden and wooly

  as if I were one of Benjamin’s toys

  with wheels

  painted eyes

  and whirligig arms

  haplessly dragged

  across the floor

  knocked into chair legs

  and doorposts

  and discarded shoes

  along the way.

  stars

  The train never tires

  though I lose count

  of the hours

  we have spent on board.

  When I wake

  fitfully

  during the night

  it feels as if the whole world

  is passing before me

  with only the unblinking stars

  as my witness.

  Hamburg

  Finally

  the train stops for good.

  We have only a moment

  on the still

  solid earth

  before we are led like cattle

  through the stocks

  scrubbed

  deloused

  discharged onto a steamer

  that chugs

  up the Elbe River.

  It is as if

  they could not get us off their land

  fast enough.

  The boat sends ripples in its wake

  fanning out like a flock

  of geese in formation,

  nipping at the wavelets

  rolling across the water.

  We curve through the heart of

  this green land

  on a murky river

  reluctant to share its secrets.

  Bells toll in high towers

  as we glide under scalloped bridges

  in the rippling shadows cast

  by crenellated walls.

  When the mouth of the river opens

  spills into the North Sea

  we cling to anything

  not buckling

  or bending

  in the face

  of the vaulting waves.

  None of us

  have found our balance

  yet.

  strangers

  I thought the sea

  would smell brisk

  fresh

  full of adventure

  but the salt in the air

  stings my eyes

  and the stench

  burns my nostrils.

  I make my way to the rail

  drinking in

  the slim gray expanse

  where England rests

  just above the waves,

  awaiting our arrival.

  Our third day aboard the steamer

  when the sun climbs

  to its highest point in the sky

  we sidle up to a floating dock;

  by the time we are shuttled

  to the poorhouse

  in the bowels

  of the city

  the moon has taken its place.

  I do not understand a single word

  the officials speak.

  English is no cousin

  to Yiddish

  or Russian.

  We truly are strangers

  in this place.

  gone

  I am tired of the same tinned fish

  and stale matzo—

  kosher food we carried

  on our backs

  from the shelves of Mama’s store—

  and I wish now

  that I had brought all my books.

  We wait

  through the last dregs of summer

  and into the first cool sips of autumn

  for a steamship

  to carry us across the ocean.

  We wait

  in a poorhouse thick with fleas.

  (I think I could forget

  all the places that itch

  if I had something

  to read)

  An angry hum

  rattles the room;

  word has just arrived.

  The trial for the murders

  in Kishinev is over.

  Hardly a witness appeared to testify, so

  hardly a punishment is handed down.

  My tongue turns sour

  in my mouth.

  Of course

  there were no witnesses.

  We are all either dead

  or gone.

  I go out

  during the day

  just to breathe

  unshared air

  to shake the despair

  that falls like dust

  from the rafters

  and settles on my skin,

  the despair of a people

 
too well acquainted with suffering

  to believe

  something better

  waits for them

  on the other side of the ocean.

  thoughts

  The pogrom is fresh

  in our minds

  in our dreams.

  Not one of us is sleeping through the night.

  If Papa’s thoughts

  are black

  as the sludge

  coughing

  from the smokestacks

  at the docks

  then Mama’s

  are gray as the thousands of layers,

  cloud upon cloud upon cloud,

  that never lift from the English sky.

  There is no privacy

  in the poorhouse,

  no space

  for my own thoughts.

  But when I go out

  beyond the endless rows of cots

  (jammed

  together

  like so many

  matchsticks

  in a box)

  beyond the walls

  I find that the very air

  is thrumming with ideas

  whispers

  on wing beats

  pumping

  pumping

  pumping.

  listen

  Every day

  I make my escape

  from Papa and Marcus davening

  Benjamin and Nathan bickering

  Mama worrying

  when

  will we leave this awful place?

  from the poorhouse

  where the noise

  of so many people

  packed together

  clangs against the brick walls

  clamoring for the high windows

  clamoring for a way out.

  I walk to the seaport

  watch the boats come in

  and go out

  grand crafts with billowing sails

  stout steamships belching smoke

  wish for the day

  when our ship will come.

  I feel like a falcon

  tethered

  tied down

  while an eager wind

  beckons.

  On the streets

  I listen to the speakers

  rallying the onlookers

  to their cause

  anarchists

  fundamentalists

  royalists.

  I do not agree

  with everything I hear

  but I am enthralled

  with this place

  where the streets do not clog with mud

  in the autumn rains

  where elegant houses

  line neatly cobbled streets

  where students of every creed

  learn together

 

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