POETIC MEMOIR
Chicken Legs & Free Speech — A Warning From Before Dachau
Prose Poem and verse
I miss him My friend My love
Day by day, month by month, a piece of baggage is opened. Opened to unpack another issue. Issues long there, but hidden.
Even as the truth sees light, all are not allowed to speak. Some have no words or fear their words. Worse, some who speak are punished. You know those stories.
I miss him — my friend, my love. We melded from the first moment. Adjusting the burgundy and blue paisley scarf around his neck, his eyes pierced into me. Not through me. Into me. His eyes pierced into me and I knew — he knew.
He was much older than me and from another country, but we moved through the days with uncommon ease. We laughed, shared ideas, and told stories. Mostly, I listened to his stories, and he intuitively knew mine.
His breath froze as he rolled the sleeve of his shirt down and secured the button. “Your memory is too good. No! I don’t want you to remember that number. I am not that number!”
I breathed in deeply Embarrassed Or something else
That was the night we cooked a kettle of borscht with beef and he shared his cooking secret with me.
A chicken leg Add one chicken leg To each pot of borscht
Warm winter night A kettle on the stove Light low, almost dark
My head resting Upon his shoulder Safe, snuggled there
As the borscht simmered, he shared his stories: some of his stories. He told tales of students in Poland during the Nazi occupation.
Before they tattooed Him. Tattooed him With that number
Before they Were rounded up And tattooed
The students Students rounded up And tattooed
He and his friends met in underground universities. They were secret meetings to study, share knowledge, take exams and read books. He spoke of his youth, where the road to education was rough and haunted.
Shadows around corners Fear of being Found out
Hiding from Friends and neighbors Hiding from…
He spoke of being hungry for knowledge and how afraid he was that his thoughts might come out at the wrong time or around the wrong person. There was no freedom of speech.
No freedom No freedom without Freedom of speech
I miss him My friend My love
The older man that I loved.
We were both scarred, and those scars softened when we were together. His horror from the concentration camp was marked by the tattoo he didn’t want me to see. My scars were marked by the hint of sadness hiding behind all my sweetness and laughter.
There’s a kind of safety when scars recognize each other; a closeness.
He didn’t want to be known for his scars, and I don’t want to be known for mine.
He wanted to be known for who he was and how he lived his life, and so do I. There is strength within each person. Strength and stories of strength, held deep within. Many stifle their words for fear of being misunderstood. Or worse.
Today, people are not allowed to speak.
Worse, some who speak are being punished. You know those stories.
Borscht with a chicken leg added to the pot simmered on that winter evening of stories. A tale of suffering and stifled speech sends us a warning.
A warning from events before the camps. Before the camps. We must learn how important each human is; each story must be told…
and heard.
Day by day, month by month, as our collective baggage is opened. Opened to expose another issue. Issues long there, but hidden.
The cries from before Dachau send us the message that truth must see light.
Loud stories are not the only stories. Your experience is important. Speak, write your words any way you can.
I offer this memory for the A Taste for Life prompt “scars” by Jason Edmunds.
Katie Michaelson tends plants and people from her 125-year-old home and small garden. She sees strength in the injured spirit and finds significance in the insignificant.