Archive
08/06/12 - (4)
The Anne Frank House
At 263 Prinsengracht, we pass through the whispering echoes, The reverberating breaths, of the eight doomed fugitives Who, for two years, between July 1942 and August 1944, Eluded the Sicherheitsdienst, by harboring their day-to-day desperation, Above Otto Frank's warehouse, offices, and storeroom. Now, we sit across from each other, savoring supper, in our lavish hotel, Discussing how surprised we were to discover our souls hiding, How terrifyingly vicarious was our isolation, How visceral was the silence, darkness, desolation of their exile, How palpable was the tragic degradation of their inhumane plight. And as we peel back the complexities of our melancholic emotions, An even more demoralizing shadow arrests us: What if we two had stayed there, made, of that group, a minyan, Shared their stressful sequestration, mourning our impending destinies, Chanting Kaddish for the death of our living souls?
08/06/12 - (4)
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