Today I should have been ninety-four,
I would be having a party with cake.
I’d have two fine sons and a daughter, too:
Grandchildren to cuddle and stay.
I’d have met a great man, dashing and tall.
He’d have worked in an office in town.
We’d have lived in the country, two dogs and a cat.
I’d have had a fine wedding gown.
Margot would have lived nearby,
Surely a mother herself?
My mother and father would have been so proud.
We’d have raised a glass to good health.
Instead we slept on wooden slats,
As we shivered with hunger and cold,
We were beaten for any discriminatory thing,
We were given no toys to hold.
My mother was starving; she gave us her food,
Scabies was rife in our camp. |
I wanted to die, this wasn’t life,
Living with rats in the damp.
My best friend was in the camp next door.
I missed her riotous laugh.
I was glad to have my sister with me.
Loneliness, was my first and my last.
I dreamed of food that I could eat.
I wished for potatoes and meat
If I survived, I’d wash it all down
With wine and something sweet.
Typhus arrived and we both got sick.
Doctors were never called in.
We died one by one; Margot went first.
Death was an easier win.
I hope I didn’t die in vain.
I hope the world has learned.
Hatred has no place in life.
My diary forever preserved. |