Although feint in substance
it still seems etched
in memory, like the imprint 
of a leaf with veins         
proud on its reverse,

the silence of the night
broken by breathing,
some shallow and fast
like a baby's     
other laboured;

yet more quite noisy
with accompanied snores,
making one wait             
for the next onslaught.

Twenty-six females in all:
thirteen to each cell,
camping           
on damp concrete,

each wall as damp
as our frightened breath;
how long we'll stay together,
how long before death?

A lowly bucket 
in the corner   
to see to our bodily waste;
a walk in the yard each day,
for one hour
precisely.

Once a week we shower
naked
together;
there is no shame,
we're all the same.

The Japanese lady
takes pity; she says         
she's old and I'm only 13.           
I feel as old as
Methuselah.

She teaches me
a Japanese song
which I'll never forget,
but still don't know
what it means.

Days turn into weeks,
weeks into months,
I pray constantly:

St Anthony, please rescue me!
Holy Mary, Queen of Sinners,
take pity,
I'm too young to die!
Jesus, son of God,
save me and all in here!
Adonai, we trust in you!     

At last, someone
has heard my prayer
and come -

I'm photographed
like a criminal,
my fingerprints are saved
for posterity
and I'm free,

almost free to roam,
but kept in a home
for orphans of St Anthony,

all memories locked away
where they will always stay 

until, in Salt Lake City
in March 2001, I find
the consignment note
of female prisoners
received in Auschwitz
from Zagreb, in May '43:
Twenty-five in all.


Verica Peacock ©