The 25th day of Cheshvan,
over a century ago,
a family brutally murdered
while hiding from pogrom pillagers.
My father, aged 9, hidden elsewhere,
found the mutilated bodies
hanging from snow-covered forest trees.
Trading his warm coat for an oxcart,
he carried his family to their graves,
site unknown to this day.
On their yahrzeit
I stand to chant Kaddish.
My father died at 92,
his duty now mine.
The names resonate in the shul –
Ben-Tzion, my grandfather, whose name I bear,
Bat-Sheva, my grandmother,
Reuvan, Golde, Huddel, my uncle and aunts.
Did the men fight to the end?
Were the women raped?
Did they recite the Shema before the end?
Only two photos remain –
my red-bearded grandfather,
looking much like Van Gogh,
my high-cheek-boned grandmother,
a paragon of Jewish beauty.
What would it have been
to celebrate holidays together,
to hold their hands,
to walk in Prospect Park,
to sit on their laps,
to hear stories of the old country,
to learn of life on the farm,
to romp with cousins on Brooklyn streets?