This poem was written for the new commemoration day, Jan. 27, by littleoldlady, who often contributes to Little Green Footballs.

Rhonda is an old friend from Philly who has been a dedicated “workerbee” on her local level. She da best, and gave us permission to post.

submitted by Jeanette Friedman.

You can contact Rhonda at the following three email addresses.

iamlittleoldlady@yahoo.com
iamlittleoldlady@hotmail.com
iamlittleoldlady@gmail.com

Grandfather Eliezer was an important man.
Not nearly as wealthy as
Great-grandfather Aaron.
Reggie, my grandmother,
was neither important nor wealthy,
but she was “an angel,”
feeding half the town
even though she could ill afford it.

Importance, wealth, kindness.
None of it mattered. They all perished
in Auschwitz.

My aunt Sarah and her two children,
Eva aged 5, and Moshe aged 3, the sweet babies
also died in Auschwitz.

Mothers and children.
No matter.
All consumed in the fires
of Auschwitz.

Where are they? I have pictures to prove they existed.
Yet some would deny that it happened.

The rich and the poor.
The young and the old.
It didn’t matter.
The Jews were sent to die
in Auschwitz.

One hundred miles away.
Another Aunt Sarah, a great beauty.
Another three children, geniuses all.
And my Uncle Daniel, as handsome as a movie star
in his army uniform.
I know, I have pictures.

The pretty and the plain.
The smart and the simple.
Does it matter?
They were all murdered
In Auschwitz.

Where are they? The aunts and the cousins.
Friends of the family. Uncles and
grandmothers who were angels,
I was never to meet.
I am left with their faces in the photographs.
They are in the pictures and
In a part of my heart I keep safe.
The memory of people I never knew.

There is the number A12311.
Forever a reminder.
A tattoo printed on my mother’s arm
in Auschwitz