


(fragment) Listen you, the German God, how the Jews pray in the "wild" houses, while holding a crowbar or a pole in their hands. We pray you, oh God, for a bloody battle. We implore you, oh God, a violent death for us. But before we die, let us have that our eyes, do not see how the rail-tracks are dragging on. Give the marksmanship to our palms, o Lord, To make the grey uniform full of blood, Make us see, before our throats Are shut with the last smothered groan, In those insolent hands, the flippers with whips That simple, our, the human fear. As the flowers purple with blood, From Niska and Mila, from Muranow, Blossoms out the flame from our barrels. This spring is ours! It is the counterattack! It is the wine of battle which goes to our heads! These are the partisan forests of ours, The alleys of Dzika and Ostrowska Streets, There tremble on our chests the small "block numbers," These are our medals of the Jewish War. The shout of six letters glitters in red, As a ram pounds the word: MUTINY. Wladyslaw Szlengel, February 1943. |













This boy in the picture of ghetto is a star from documentary films, war albums, too large cap is falling like the universe on his frail shoulders. The small boy is not afraid any more, for half of the century he has played the same role, hands raised above his head while an esesman's rifle points at his back who will believe in stars dying in eyes of a child, only blue star on the white armband is real.
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