S.L. WISENBERG 109
them and in light and shadow we stared at them and they stared back.
And we waited for the images to leave. Then it was time for music, for
Marlene Dietrich and Louise Brooks, it was time for sparkly gowns and
reddened lips that showed up black and shiny in the movies that we paid
to see projected in front of us. They showed us what could happen to us
under certain circumstances in certain parts of certain cities, and we
watched with open eyes, excited, allured, disgusted and frightened to
death. Here is danger.
And five years later we are here, they say it's Poland, what used to be
Poland, but it's an endless sea of boards and mud, that sums it up, all of
it, mud and cold and wisps of rags, and in the next barrack the Mussulmen stare, sitting or standing, waiting for their turn to be herded to the
Waschraum, that's what it's called, on the way to the Cremo. They no
longer check themselves for lice, they no longer speak. We're supposed
to have contempt for them, they've let the life force fly through their fingers, they have let go.
At night we clutch our memories. We lie on our sides, feet to head, feet
to head, remembering, reciting recipes for tortes, layer cakes, knishes
and knaidlach, scones-from the woman who had the English cookhoping this keeps us from becoming Mussulmen, this will keep something at bay. But I think the Mussulmen are the wise ones, they've given
their bodies over to fate, their souls already flying up, their souls already
pure. These are the husks of angels we are watching. If we could see
what they let go of, we would be so wise.
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