Anny Horowitz doesn’t run down
the shopping aisles
as your grandchildren do,
she holds the trolley,
steadying it with her hand,
your ghostly friend,
your little Jew.
None sees her form,
her bright blue eyes,
her blonde hair
tied with ribbon,
her rosy complexion.
She ghostly moves,
amazed by the Aladdin’s cave
of goods upon the shelves,
the packets and boxes,
the loud advertisements
hanging from the air
here and there,
everywhere you
and she stare.
Neither Strasbourg
nor Bordeaux
nor Tours
nor Auschwitz
was like this,
no overpowering display
of commodities on show
of this she tells you
and to a degree you know,
and what was on show
at Auschwitz is still there
in memories or records
or photographs
with staring faces
and deep set eyes.
Anny waits and watches
as the conveyor belt
moves the goods
to the woman
at the till
who pushes buttons
or scans bar codes
and pushes by
to the paid for end
and your son
and grandchildren
pack all away.
Anny gazes on the process,
then at you, smiles,
your little friend,
your ghostly Jew.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Anny Horowitz doesn’t run down
the shopping aisles
as your grandchildren do,
she holds the trolley,
steadying it with her hand,
your ghostly friend,
your little Jew.
None sees her form,
her bright blue eyes,
her blonde hair
tied with ribbon,
her rosy complexion.
She ghostly moves,
amazed by the Aladdin’s cave
of goods upon the shelves,
the packets and boxes,
the loud advertisements
hanging from the air
here and there,
everywhere you
and she stare.
Neither Strasbourg
nor Bordeaux
nor Tours
nor Auschwitz
was like this,
no overpowering display
of commodities on show
of this she tells you
and to a degree you know,
and what was on show
at Auschwitz is still there
in memories or records
or photographs
with staring faces
and deep set eyes.
Anny waits and watches
as the conveyor belt
moves the goods
to the woman
at the till
who pushes buttons
or scans bar codes
and pushes by
to the paid for end
and your son
and grandchildren
pack all away.
Anny gazes on the process,
then at you, smiles,
your little friend,
your ghostly Jew.
ANNY HOROWITZ DIED IN AUSCHWITZ IN 1942 AGED 9.
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