Yizkor
In memory of Benjamin Pilcer
Survivor of Auschwitz
August 15, 2013
Is it possible that immortality
Resides in the humble province
Of memory?
9 P.M.
That’s what she writes
When her mother’s call comes.
9 P.M.
As her mother weeps.
Her tears don’t come.
She doesn’t know how.
Everyone died before her birth.
She says his names.
Ben. Benjamin. Benush. Benny. Beniek.
She takes a deep breath
And dives into the water
A warm-blooded mammal
Into her beloved lake.
She sees her young father
Pulling into Blue Paradise
In his black and white Dodge.
He rushes into the bungalow.
City shoes and socks drop,
sweat-soaked shirt, pants.
He steps into his stretched-out maroon trunks
Tying the white string at his waist
And releases his body into the blue pool
“Ach,” he sighs with pleasure.
His is a European breast stroke
Keeping his head high out of the water.
“Ach,” she sighs as she rises to the surface.
Is it possible that immortality
Resides in the humble province
Of memory?
He is ninety-four.
His legs no longer hold him.
His skin peels like bark on an old tree.
He wears his huge black wraparound shades
Feisty blue cap with a darting yellow fish
Withered white terrycloth robe.
An ancient tortoise pushing his walker
Across the courtyard to the pool
He parks it by the stairs, with his towel.
He braces himself at the steps
Oh so carefully, so painfully
He oozes his body into the waiting water.
Then he starts to walk.
No swimming for him, just one step, then another
Back and forth across the pool.
He can’t see much nor hear.
Walking is nearly impossible
Except in the buoyant turquoise water.
After twenty laps, which he counts in Polish,
He climbs, with great difficulty, so unsteadily
Out of the swimming pool
To his awaiting walker, which he heaves
To the shower, the sleeves of his white robe
Flapping at his side like an angel’s wings.
Is it possible that immortality
Resides in the humble province
Of memory?
The wisdom of the Jews
To give us this time.
Zachar. Remember.
