Jeanette Steinman Shelburne
San Juan Capistrano - 1940
“Oh, stop!” he said.
“Stand here. Let me
take a picture.”
She softened her hand
around a white dove—
it looked at him too.
It was so nice to see her
looking happy for a change.
She was always in pain, never ate very much
and she never forgave him
for everything he did to her.
He didn’t deserve forgiveness—
he knew that.
He was looking at her
for a change—the train ride
from New York had been one long stretch
of listening to him boast
to strangers—be the expert
be the King.
It’d been one long marriage.
to the junk peddler who made it big
the peasant trampling
through muddy fields
to put food on the table
to save the family
“for their own good” –
By now he’d trampled
all the love from her heart – still
she needed his strength
his brutality.
The sun in California
always comes as a surprise—
the air is dry and cool but the sun
is like a torch – your scalp
stands up on end, your skin
puckers out as the sun reaches
into every hidden pore—
it loves you
and soaks into you.
Edges shine as reds grow redder
blues grow sharper
shadows grow deeper.
He looked a little bit
like the man he was
a long time ago – back when they thought
they would change the world.
“Oh, this glorious sun!” –
she would say things like that.
It was nothing like New York, this sun
that cradled her, warm like she remembered
from her mother’s ribs and breasts
and belly that smelled like sweat
and soap and an old dress.
She was smiling, like when she played
the piano or sang arias or spoke French
to his business partners—he used to feel
lucky that a woman like her
would want to marry him—
a long time ago
when he used to make her laugh.
God, she was magnificent.
He took the picture.
They Lived
Yad Vashem means “hand and name.”
By their hands they created deeds.
By their names they were known.
From this quiet hill above Jerusalem
a memorial remembers six million Jews. A crushing maze
of tunnels display the artifacts
of their lives and their murders, finally opening
to a balcony of sunlight atop the biblical hills. The databases
underground churn endlessly,
recording, organizing, classifying, categorizing.
I am here today.
I look at a photo
of my aunt—a beautiful young woman
with a winsome smile and liquid brown eyes
that melt though the paper. On the back is written:
Erni, 1939.
I type her name— Erni Eichwald.
The Berlin to Łódź Ghetto transport sheet flickers on the screen.
October 1941.
Neat, hand-drawn columns speak
of a day where everyone was pretending
this was an orderly relocation.
You’re being sent to work in Poland,
line up, cooperate and you’ll be okay.
Meticulous columns, handwritten
with small round letters—first name, last name, age, profession.
It’s the W page.
Line up by the letter
of your last name. Cooperate
and you’ll be okay.
First on the list are: Erni Eichwald Wolff, 27, hatmaker,
Helmutt Wolff, 43, artist, and
Tana Wolff, 18 months old.
I hadn’t known Erni
was married. Now I have two more names
to mourn. I have dates and places and ages
and professions. They existed.
They will be remembered.
Erni holds Tana, she’s wiggling,
but Erni holds her close. Helmut manages
their two suitcases. They couldn’t take
his canvases or Erni’s hats.
They’re wearing winter coats.
It will be cold soon.
Tana tries to pull off her cap,
the one Erni made for her.
It’s pretty, with a little knitted flower
in the front, but it’s hot
in the crowd of people.
So Erni holds it
in her hand.
They got in line first
so they’d have more space
on the train
for the baby.
Cicadas pulse outside the building and bushes
sweat their herby fragrance. There is a boxcar
half-hanging over the cliff, once packed with Jews, crushing
along railroad tracks somewhere in Europe. You can’t forget
this in Israel.
It hangs over you
the boxcar to nowhere
that could fall any moment.
It hasn’t fallen
over the cliff yet,
not today.