by Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)
My father never offered me,
in the decades of the ‘50’s and the ‘60’s,
when our relationship had reached its fullness,
the opportunity to return with him
to his native Augustowów, Poland,
to visit relatives (if any had managed
to survive the forced labor camps or
mass killings in its ghetto when the Nazis
controlled the fates of thousands of its Jews).
He never painted for me a work of art
or shared words depicting the Netta River
or the town’s canal or spacious marketplace
or the smiling, gentle people of his youth,
perhaps because they had ceased to exist,
or perhaps because the agony was great.
Shouldn’t it be the birthright of any immigrant
to return, if only for special moments,
or for his or her offspring to walk
the streets and bathe in the tranquil moonlight
of the place that was the home a parent knew
and felt fondness for even in brief moments
many years before?
The difficulty is that when a generation
suffers massive torture, loss and execution,
many generations will be forever scarred
or devoured. Innocence is no defense to
war crimes against humanity.
Now I try to envision my father’s happy youth,
his frolicking with friends and gentle neighbors,
but the fantasy quickly dissipates into sharp reality
when I recall the subject not once broached by him,
rather compelled to dwell in the ash-heap of his memory.
In my old age, it is enough for me to know deeply that
he never offered me knowledge of his Augustowów
because he wanted to shield me from his pain. Even
in his silence, his love for me expressed itself.
He did not leave his heart in Poland. He brought it to
America and shared it with me in his silence,
which shouted love when I’d grown
wise enough to hear it.
Herbert Munshine grew up in the Bronx and graduated from C.C.N.Y with both a B.S in Education and a Master’s Degree in English. You can find his baseball poetry on Baseball Bard where he has had more than 100 poems published, and where he was recently inducted into that site’s Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Great Neck, NY.
Tenderly expressed, Herb! So true that our parents and grandparents wanted only to look forward, to leave a painful past in the past. And yet, we lucky ones to be born in America, to wear cap and gown, to have opportunities they only dreamed— that past is in our bones.
Such an exquisite poem. My dad managed to rebuild ties with his home city in Germany and make new, wonderful ones, which he passed along to us. I’ve even slept in one of his childhood homes. Well, I didn’t sleep much …. But it’s an experience I’ll never forget. Your reconciliation is so mature and thoughtful. Did/Will you ever go back on your own?
Wow – that last stanza is such a powerful ending to this story. Thank you!