The Sole of A Child

Everyday without fail or tardiness,
I played with my little boy
He’d jump on my shoulders, spin me round;
Such days were filled with joy

I was his pride just as he was mine
At his side for a good two years
I’d heard I’d replaced a smaller friend;
I pray that he ne’er reappears

We ran and hopped along cobbled roads
Our footsteps always in time,
But there were often glares in his direction
As if the star on his chest was a crime

He’d worn it for longer than he’d had me
On the edges it was tattered and frayed
“Jew” was sewed at the center in black
Made to label and degrade

But time still passed, the days and months
All merged into a happy life.
Just me and my boy romping in play,
With never a cause for strife.

One day however, his mood was gray,
His laughing seemed quite diminished.
The last I was with him, his parents had been too,
Speaking in rapid Yiddish.

“The Haimowitz family was taken last night.”
His mother sounded so scared
“They can’t take us, our business is honorable,”
Said his father, not as easily despaired.

Their words continued to depict quite a scene
Of a family stolen away
One who was Jewish just like them
Sent to Jasenovac to decay

My little boy only quietly listened
As the three of them and me walked along.
Did he truly understand the fullness of the problem?
Or only knew that something was wrong?

The next day he didn’t take me outside at all,
Not even to take out the trash.
I scowled in my cubby, ignoring the talk:
“Son, stay inside. Don’t do anything rash.”

“We can’t go outside, unless covered by night.
Our safety it will guarantee.”
His mother wrung her hands with fright
It’s foolproof-ness she could not foresee.

Safety? From what? That’s not what matters:
He didn’t play with me for two weeks!
I called him betrayer, fake friend, and a heel,
But that was just my angry streak.

Finally the day came when he met me again,
I was more than ready to comply.
But he was silent, why? A little frightened;
What had happened in the days gone by?

I was quite irked when he didn’t jump or play,
But stayed silent and anxious instead.
In fact it was night, what was up with that?
We followed the path father lead.

Where were we going and why?
I longed to express my frustration.
After a while, it was answered by sorts
When sirens began their vibrations.

My little boy, for all his practice
In the great art of escaping bath time,
Was caught by barks and shouts in German
It was anything but sublime.

Our “adventure” then took a downhill turn
I could smell the stench of the hounds.
The aroma of gunpowder was also there
But had not yet been followed by sound.

I soon felt the rumble of trains on tracks,
My boy kept me close.
When the jostling stopped and doors were opened,
We were greeted by barbed fences and posts.

First steps were gravel and second were dirt
Then concrete hard under my soles.
He held to his parents the entire time
Though they were too scared to console

I heard an order from a harsh sounding voice.
What it was I couldn’t make out.
But my family followed the barked command:
No longer could they be stout

They took off their hats, their coats and ties.
Next came the skirt, pants and belt.
My little boy bent to take me off as well,
You can imagine how I felt.

“What are you doing?” I cried out to him,
But my voice was knotted and clumped.
Though his fingers trembled he tossed me away,
With other loafers, boots and pumps

I watched through my eyelets as he was shuffled away,
And his parents in a different direction.
No tears, no cries, no struggles, no more,
Surrendering to silent dejection.

The parents were lead back outside towards the light,
But my boy was lead towards a door.
It was an entrance to some white clay room;
What in the world was it for?

My apprehension began to grow:
That wasn’t a safe place, not for him.
I wanted to grab him and rush him away,
But my treads didn’t work on my whim.

Without him I was powerless.
He walked inside and was gone.
I heard the German and made out one phrase:
“Gas the Jewish spawn”

That was it, it was done, I knew the result,
I could only wait to see.
His cold little body, devoid of life,
Cut short by the harsh referee

I waited for minutes then hours,
Then the children appeared, carried out.
I caught a glimpse of my boy’s face:
White and pale throughout.

He and his comrades were piled into a grate,
With a fire lit under their backs.
The blaze consumed them, with no traces left,
The ashes stuffed into a sack.

The rest of my story is sad and dull.
I was passed from person to person.
I carried many feet, smelly with hair
My mind they could not worsen.

For I had seen my little boy killed
In a fire fueled by hate.
But because I was made of leather and string
To watch and remember was my fate.