Sara Arizona » Holocaust

God Doesn’t Throw Dice

Sara Fryd — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 18:11:06 +0000

“God doesn’t throw dice,”*

Rabbi answered when asked why

and why again.

So many questions

So few answers

Why…the Romans, the Greeks, the Syrians

Why and why again

Why…the Egyptians the Inquisition, the Germans

The world against us ‘Why’?

What to say the Rabbi thought

To bring a little peace

A little peace at Rosh Hashanah

And so…

He smiled at the voice in the back row.

“God doesn’t throw dice,” Rabbi answered.

A little less certain with voice cracking

During days that should be filled with joy

And wonder.

The boy in the back of the shul (synagogue)

Would not be tamed, would not be sated.

“Why Rabbi, why?

Why does my Zadeh (Grandfather) have a number on his arm?

How can this happen? Why?”

“I don’t know,” the Rabbi finally whispered.

A pin dropped no one heard.

Except the little boy.

* quote by Albert Einstein

Nusha’s Guilt

Sara Fryd — Mon, 16 May 2011 18:11:13 +0000

Shadows follow me, from graves at the farm

In Uzbekistan to the snow covered soil of Germany

And the sun dried deserts of Arizona.

The cossack sits on the tractor that turns the plow

Turns the earth over and over

Turning…

The bones of my dead baby boy…

The bones of my dead parents…

Where I left them behind in shallow graves

While I watched hidden in terror

Fist in my mouth to silence the sobs

Silent…

Tortured…

Tortured and guilty leaving behind sisters

Afraid they will keep us all if they know the truth

The Communists, the Cossacks

Whom do you turn to when life has ended at 24?

Whom do you rage against when everyone hurts?

How do you continue breathing?

Whom do you pray to?

When everyone has died and God is gone?

*My parents, Holocaust survivors, were never sent to a Concentration Camp in Poland or Germany. They ran South and East spending WWII in Uzbekistan (Southern Russia) with my Grandparents, Aunts, Cousins. In 1944, there was a great famine and most of the family died prior to my birth. This poem is in the voice of my Mother who lived the experience of losing her first born son, Alex and her parents Hershel and Sara. As happened to most of her generation of Holocaust survivors, she was unable to speak of the horror, the hurts, so I speak for her now, though she’s gone.

Papa Pirate

Sara Fryd — Sun, 08 May 2011 18:11:05 +0000

He was part pirate

Benny, Sara, Nusha

Part protector, all black marketeer

Observant, deceptive, courageous

And in this life, he might have been

A CIA agent, a CEO, or Sean Connery

In Gold Finger

But it was then, and that was that

Choices none, so…

He wooed them – Nusha and Raia

With potatoes and chocolates

Because he could not find food

For trade or barter

Though he had gold with precious stones

For sale…

Taken off the bodies of dead Russian soldiers.

Along with silk blouses,

There were wool jackets to keep them warm.

For when there is nothing to eat or drink

Water caught from steam engines in cupped hands

Can quench a thirst, and

Even onion peals can keep you alive

For another day…

What Price Peace

Sara Fryd — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 18:11:09 +0000

Speak them loud intentionally

With heart, with soul, with tears

Attached…

Write them in notebooks

Carve them in a tree

Lovingly…

Joyfully with fingers in the sand

Declaring…

Say them in languages at the equator

At the Antarctic

South and north, east and west

But say what you mean

And mean what you say

Tell the truth

Your truth out loud for all to hear

Say your truth…

Say it loud…

Clap your hands in cadence

Write in rhyme or free verse

Put your prose on paper for eternity

Do not drop your bombs instead

Of getting mad

Anonymously from the air

Do not hide in tanks

Destroying mothers and children

Homes and gardens

From your safe vantage point

Torture is torture

No matter the method of delivery

Do not torture

Then call it peace