For What Was, What Is, And What Will Be

For What Was, What Is, And What Will Be Arthur Robert Goshin

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OTHER POETRY BY ARTHUR GOSHIN One Hundred and Twenty Four Moons Longing Before Dawn Love’s Cloth Both The Harvest And The Seed Time Changes Nothing The Strange Curiosity of Memory Always Searching for Me Keeper Of Memories A Gate Opens Regardless of Time I Am Who They Were Standing in the Way

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DEDICATION For all of mine, from all of the before, who struggled so through discrimination, torture, slavery, and genocide to enable me to receive the gift of the breath of life.

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About the Poems In the late winter of 2020, as the pandemic began here in the United States, and the trajectory of its impact became clear to me, I decided on a personal project for 2020 and 2021. Namely, to review all of the poems that I had written, select the ones that I would like to share once again, and then to group them by ‘topic’. I further decided that they would best be presented in three different books. This one, ‘For What Was, What Is, And What Will Be’, includes the ‘topics’ of memory, children/grandchildren, parents/grandparents, death/dying, Holocaust/faith.

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About the Photographs There are three types of photographs included in this book. Both those of landscapes and those of structures are not direct photographs. Rather, they are reflections taken off of a metal surface that I use. This metal surface I use is uneven, distressed, and not highly polished, helping to create unique impressions. The third category of photographs are direct reflections mostly taken off of glass.

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‘We are mortal; therefore make every day count. We are fallible; therefore learn to grow from each mistake. We will not complete the journey; therefore inspire others to continue what we began.’ Rabbi Jonathan Sacks (1948 - 2020)

‘…..that even as we grieved we grew, that even as we hurt we hoped, that even as we tired we tried, that forever we’ll be tied together….’ Amanda Gorman (1998 -

)

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Memory

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Children, Grandchildren

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Parents, Grandparents

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Death, Dying

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Holocaust, Faith

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Memory ‘Each and every wonder that life has granted me is encoded, here inside. Mysteriously incorporated into the double helix of memory and experience that shapes who I am, who I was, and who I might yet be.’

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MY NOSTALGIA It’s a most peculiar nostalgia. That gets stronger as I get older. This wish, this longing desire. To relive some of my child times. To hear my Mom laugh while helping her to grind chicken livers. To sit next to my Dad at Ebbets Field. To sneak off with my pals and spend a few hours at Steeplechase.

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To fight Halloween chalk wars. To sit at the counter with my sister and have a cherry coke at Dot’s. To flip baseball cards at the park. Play stickball on West 9th. Go with my Grandmother to Nathan’s for a hot dog and fries, and then see a movie across the street. Sunday blintzes at the Famous with my Grandfather. Oh….how sweet that would be!

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THE TERRAIN OF MEMORIES I’m here now, taking a walk, in this park. Prospect Park, Brooklyn. Such tranquil beauty. A place for happiness, for wonderful memories, but not only for me. It’s a portal of sorts. Where I am transported into a memory wormhole, back through time. My father took me here. His father, my grandfather, took him here. They played, I remember my father telling me.

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And I took my son here, we laughed. And now I run after my grandson here, and roll around in the grass. We are linked to places where we climb up and down the peculiar terrain of our memories. We are people of places that mark our territories, that connect the stream of our memories across generations.

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THE EMOTIONAL MAGNETISM OF MEMORY Although I left my early childhood days in Brooklyn over sixty years ago they’ve somehow remained vital and alive in my consciousness, and even now I sense that those moments are somehow still there, resting, in hibernation, suspended in time, waiting for me to return to them, as though that place is, and will always be, my eternal home. That those life experiences were somehow permanently rooted deeply into the fertile soil of place and imprinted so that the emotional magnetism of memory is always pointing me there.

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AN EMPTINESS She stood there for the last time. Everything that had once been in this house seemed to be gone. No, not the furniture, not the things, but the memories, the laughter, the wonder, the love, the hopes that the future was boundless. Inside she felt the emptiness that she saw. Uncertain now that she would ever feel that way again.

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A YAHRZEIT WICK The dead and our past are our special treasures. It is our memory of them, and that which has already occurred, that are among our most vital possessions. It is what we will last let go of before we leave, for there is nothing else we can take. Memories and the past, and the hope for ours who remain, are then all we really have. Hope and a future for ourselves are no longer relevant as our life burns down like a yahrzeit wick.

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AS WORLDS DISAPPEAR Everyone, everything, has the same fate. All worlds, all people, all things, disappear in time. Also memories…….a mother’s kiss, a child’s birth, a love’s embrace, hopes fulfilled and unfulfilled, all gone. But, what’s gone wasn’t without meaning, without beauty, just because it does not have a continuing existence. It had meaning at that moment, and sometimes long after for those who knew, for those who shared. All pieces and bits in the grand human trajectory. Each as spectacular, as wondrous, in their moments, as the stars and galaxies we view through Hubble’s lens that may have already disappeared by the time we actually see them.

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KEEPER OF MEMORIES My beloved grandmother of most blessed memory. She would only speak Yiddish. She understood English, but refused to speak it. Afraid that if she stopped speaking Yiddish those left behind would be forgotten. That the bridge to those memories would be gone. That the words themselves were magical, containing the images, the voices, the faces, the songs and rhythms of all that she had loved but been forced to abandon. That somehow, even if I didn’t understand their meaning that I would come to know all that she did, that I would remember, never forget, and that I would be the one to take her place as keeper of the memories and their meaning. To then pass the same along to ours who came next. And in this way all that was contained in those memories would last forever.

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A GATE OPENS A gate opens, and I step just inside. There, above a slight rise at the horizon ahead, the sun is giving birth to a memory from the distant past. A small pond, a gentle early morning mist forms an enveloping canopy. A croaking bullfrog emits the only sound. And there I am, 8 years old, waiting so patiently, watching, holding this large glass jar, with air holes poked in the cover, determined that it will be the new temporary home for this bullfrog that I’ve been stalking for several days. Up before everyone else in this quest. For this Brooklyn boy needs to connect, to hold a bit of the natural world in his hands, to make a new special friend, to care for it awhile, then to send him back to his pond, where he will still be king. A precious moment, a precious memory, recovered now, as the gate closes.

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THE UNSEEN At age six, I recall being mesmerized by a late afternoon’s golden light filtering in through the wooden blinds in our Brooklyn apartment. I watched in amazement as what my mother said were dust particles danced about to their own tune. But, where did they go when darkness came? And where, exactly, did they come from? I tried using a flashlight to see if I could find them on cloudy days, but that didn’t work. I could never locate these particles outside, even in the sunlight. I finally came to realize that there were unseen things of mystery occurring all around me in this world. Things that I might never fully understand, I still look for such mysteries, and when found I consider each one a wonderful new treasure.

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MY HIDING PLACE I know I’m not there, but it sure feels like it. I’m sitting in my hiding place. An alcove just off the backyard of my apartment building that no one but me seems to go to. Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, 1951, Avenue P. It’s my favorite spot, mine, all mine. I can hear the cars and the street noise, but in here it seems very quiet. It’s just for me. I’m playing with my yellow truck. My favorite toy. Moving stones from here to there. So I can build something. Oh, do I ever love my secret spot. There is no place better. Still.

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EACH IS WITHIN ME Each and every wonder that life has granted me is encoded, here inside. All the bits and pieces. Mysteriously incorporated into the complex double helix of memory and experience that shapes who I am, who I was, affecting who I might yet be. Just as determinative at the A—-T……sequences that define my genetic DNA. All within me, and I am in each. His smile as he says, ‘grandpa I love you’. Last night’s last fiery burst of spectacular colors. My mother’s hug, my love’s tender touch, all encoded.

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I REMEMBER MY BROOKLYN Skipping, my red scooter, my first two wheeler(red) at age 5, my first friend who died, trolly to Brighton Beach, cherry cheese knish at Mrs. Stahl’s, sneaking in to watch Milton Berle on TV, my Davey Crockett coonskin hat, the old men pushing to get closest to the eastern synagogue wall and Jeruselem, dancing with my sister to Bill Haley and the Comets, chalk fights on Halloween, throwing snowballs from the roof, walking around with a box of animal crackers, flipping baseball cards at the park, seeing High Noon with my Mom and Dad, watching July 4th fireworks at Coney Island from the roof, going to see Stalag 17 by myself, Sunday lunch with my grandpa Jacob at the Famous, stoop ball, helping my grandmother assemble umbrellas, sneaking off to Coney Island and the Steeplechase with Mike and Henry, Mom giving me a bath in the sink at age 2+, Dad trying to toilet train me,

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grinding chicken livers for Mom, the developmentally challenged giant who gave me a ride on his shoulders every day on my way to school, watching the Army-McCarthy hearings, grandma Minnie taking me and my sister Lois to see South Pacific with lunch at the Russian Tea Room, shopping at the open fish market around the block, my grandma Lena dying, my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hamburger, playing stickball and punchball in the street on West 9th, the freedom and independence of being on my own, the matrons and bonbons at the movies, my two gun holster at age three, saxophone lessons and practice, playing for hours at Seth Low Park, secretly trying to wrap tefillin, helping at my Dad’s store on Nostrand Ave., learning to read the NY Times in Mrs. Tracey’s 3rd grade class, my yellow truck, first to receive polio vaccine, chicken fat in the fridge, my parents speaking Yiddish, the Bronx Zoo, Ebinger’s cakes, cherry cokes and 3 Musketeers at Dot’s, Charlotte Russes, making yellow ‘rainbows’ off the curb

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on West 9th, my parents sleeping in the living room while my sister and I shared the bedroom, Dewey 2 -0558, wearing dog tags in case of nuclear war, Mom’s blintzes, lunches at Lundy’s in Sheepshead Bay, fries at Nathan’s, my Dad and I eating boiled potatoes with sour cream and black bread, Ebbets Field, Yankee Stadium, playing skee-ball on the Boardwalk, Rocketts at Rockefeller Center, PS 247, Andy’s Gang, Sabu, Hopalong Cassidy, Tonto and the Lone Ranger, going on the train and buses on my own, Saturday morning movies at the Marlboro including Flash Gordon and Ming, my Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Frank’s quonset hut, my 26 inch Raleigh Racer(black) for my 8th birthday, Ike v. Adlai, Korean War, Truman, revelations about the Holocaust, my friend Henry’s drooling boxer, weekend visits to my Aunt Martha and Uncle Aaron’s house and playing with my cousins, helping my grandma Minnie make gefilte fish for Pesach...

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NEWLY DISCOVERED TREASURES It’s been surprising and unexpected. That many memories which were previously ignored, forgotten, undervalued, have now become such meaningful and prized treasures for me. Certainly the more time for reflection, the nostalgia embedded within advancing age, the emotional turmoil of the death of loved ones, and life’s approaching void, all contribute. Interestingly, it’s the ones from earlier childhood that I’ve now come to believe were key contributors to who I’ve become that are the most treasured. But, it’s also surprising that there are vast swaths of years when truly wonderful things occurred in my life, where the recollection of specific events, specific memories, are so wanting.

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MEMORY TREASURES I find it so peculiar. The bits of things I remember about those I loved, and who loved me, who are now gone. What’s more remarkable are all the things, all the times, I can’t remember. I seem only to possess brief flashes of memory. And why only those particular ones? Is it the same for everyone? Sometimes it’s not a clear image or recollection, but just a vague impression. The loving warmth of my grandmother’s hand holding mine. Is it that the loss is too painful so our mind mechanisms protect us?

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The sparkle in my grandfather’s eyes, and his beaming smile, as he opens his apartment door to ‘our’ special knock. Or is it that we have just so many ‘bytes’ of storage capacity and lack control over what’s kept and what’s discarded? Standing in the sink, about age two or three, just back from Brighton Beach, my mother laughing and washing the sand from my hair. Just how are these lasting memory selections made? My father, home late from work, him sitting at the edge of my bed, me pretending to already be asleep, him giving me a gentle kiss. All so special, each a treasure, but still, how they get there is just another of life’s unsolvable mysteries.

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A WHIRLWIND It’s a ferocious whirlwind. Blowing without pause. Offering no rest. Roiling across my entire landscape of memories. Forcing me to pay close attention for some obscured reason. ‘There must be something that my subconscious wants me to know’, I thought. Something to remember, to consider fresh, perhaps a memory to ‘see’ differently than before. Could be something relevant to what I need to do. Maybe I’ll find out, maybe I won’t.

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AT THE WINDOW I’m at the window looking out. This is my memory of it. Watching the street below, 5th floor, West 9th, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It’s cloudy, cold, I’m hoping for snow. Early February, 1951. Just home from school, PS 247, kindergarten, now lunchtime. I like school and my teacher, Mrs. Hamburger, she’s great. I’ll be 5 years old next month, can’t wait since I’ve been promised a two-wheeler, red. Just let myself in, like most every day.

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My sister won’t be home for awhile, she stays later since she is in the 4th grade. Mom and Dad are at work. I like being alone sometimes, I like being trusted. I like the quiet. I’m going to make sardines on pumpernickel with cream cheese, a recent favorite, then milk, and a slice of cake Mom left for me. Then I’ll see what’s on the TV which we just got, maybe the ‘Lone Ranger’, maybe I’ll also play with my yellow truck. Later, I’ll go out to play in the halls and stairs with my friends Mike and Henry.

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DAVID Of all the moments of remembered sadness in my life the one that remains most on my mind was the death of my beloved cousin, David. He was a little younger than me, we frequently spent memorable Sundays together with our other first cousins, and for several years lived a block away from each other. Even after fifty years I am unable to achieve closure of this grief. He died in a car accident traveling between New York City and Florida. The death of beloved elders, while filled with great sadness, passes because we know they’ve had the benefit of time. David had some of the same special qualities that I so admired in his father, my uncle, Frank. A so very genuine gentleness, goodness, easy contentment without a speck of artifice or harshness. I still miss him.

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STEEPLECHASE I am looking out the window of the Q train as it approaches its last stop. Still very cold, winter, but sunny, early in the morning. I see my own reflection, and it’s some familiar elderly guy looking back. At exactly the same moment I’m recalling one of my very favorite childhood memories that took place here sixty five years ago, one that I believe contributed to a sense of personal independence that helped to define who I became. One of the reasons I came here this morning is to remember that day. I was eight years old, my grandmother, Minnie, used to occasionally slip me a silver dollar for my own use. In those days kids used to have enormous freedom to be out all day on our own.

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With my two best friends then, Henry and Mike, we decided on a Saturday adventure. Each with a dollar, we walked to Coney Island through about 3 1/2 miles of Brooklyn to the Steeplechase, a fabulous ride area within Coney Island. For a dollar you’d receive, on a string, a round ticket that you wore around your neck, and good for 20 rides. At each ride one of the 20 numbers would be punched. When our 20 were finished we went to the exit, and as people left without having used their full ticket, we asked, and they gave. In that way we spent hours at Steeplechase, and then walked back home later in the afternoon. We did repeat the experience on another Saturday. I didn’t have the courage until 25 years later to tell my Mother.

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AN UNOPENED ENVELOPE It’s early Spring, time to do some cleaning, organizing. So yesterday I decided to clean out some of my long neglected dresser drawers. I finally came to the last one at the hard to reach bottom. It was filled with all sorts of things from my distant past. Birth certificates, death certificates of my parents and grandparents, my son’s bar mitzvah speech, photos of my wife as a toddler, and there, at the very, very bottom, underneath, was this sealed envelope, and on the front, written by me, were the words, ‘To Be Opened When’.

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I have no memory of it at all, of having prepared this or even thought of why I might have written it then (I estimated that it was probably around 30 years ago), or what’s in it. So, I sat there debating, considering whether I should open it, wondering how different its content might be from what I would now say decades later. I’ve decided to leave it as it is, sort of like a time capsule, and to now prepare a new one from the perspective of the now me, and label it ’To Be Opened When #2’, and attach them together.

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Children, Grandchildren ‘Words and the ideas they make are truly the most important gift I have to give, my real legacy to you, a few gathered insights to help you live a life of meaning and wonder.’

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HOLDING THEM I held them, my sons, so very gently, but tightly to my chest, against my heart, and felt each rapid beat, each breath, my lips resting on the sweet warmth of their cheeks. I remember. Each, then and now, a wonder far beyond expectation, precious beyond my capacity to explain, and the depth of my love for them unfathomable. Before them I did not fully understand what it would be like. I didn’t understand the meaning. The gift it would be for me. That beyond the perfect beauty of their creation, of the hope and possibilities for the them in my arms, that they would assure the treasured link to all of our line who struggled so and came before, and through them will improve the possibilities of all of our line that will come after.

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MY HOPE FOR THEM What is it that I’ve wanted, hoped for, for them? My sons. For them to become in time. It has always been about the ‘who’, never the ‘what’. I’m not sure they understood this then, or perhaps, even now. If not, my fault. That it’s about values, active engagement, a view of life, about being a parent, a spouse, about obligation. Selfishly, perhaps, somewhat consistent with mine. That, hopefully, they would be compassionate, sentimental romantics, embodying and passing on an eternal flame of righteousness and goodness expressed through a life filled with repeated acts of beneficial kindness, with an unbending commitment to the active defense of human rights, helping to advance the aspirations of those disadvantaged, living lives

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filled with love, happiness and purpose, attaining insightful judgmental wisdom and self awareness, continuously contributing to the body of human life, worthy of being admired by those of us who came before and all of the us who would come after. Remembering with love and fondness those who enabled them to acquire these gifts. In their end knowing that they had lived wondrous lives, having discovered and experienced profound meaning and purpose, all far beyond their expectation, and having created our next generation who would similarly embody these values, and would be forever mindful of being true to who, as a people, we were, are, and hope to yet become.

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NEITHER GOD NOR SAINT, NEITHER ANGEL NOR PRINCE A father. Neither god nor saint. A son. Neither angel nor prince. In the early years, both infallible. Ascending. With time, both increasingly fallible. Descending. With yet more time, with reflection, you should come to see and accept the imperfections in them, in yourself. If you are honest, you note that many of these imperfections in the other are the very same as those in yourself, and some are present in all men.

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Evolution itself, we hope, is unfinished. If you look deep into your heart you can see the ferocity of your bond, your love for him. It is this bond that matters above all else. But, since mens’ communication skills can be wanting, it is unlikely that you express this feeling often, or maybe ever. So, when was the last time that you did see your father, your son? And, did you tell them that you love him?

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A BREATH OF LIFE ‘Then the Lord God……. breathed into his nostrils the breath of life…….’ (Genesis 2:7)

Each new grandchild has breathed new life into my aging self, somehow reawakening my soul, seeming to give it, me, new purpose and a desire for much more time.

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THEY SHOULD HAVE WINGS They should have wings. My grandchildren. Because for me they are treasures, real angels. Perhaps grandchildren are God’s messengers, His angels for grandparents, leading us to our ‘next’ place. ‘And now I am sending my angel to go before thee and guard the on the way and lead thee to the place I have made ready for thee’ (Exodus 32:20-21)

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They are perfectly created beings with the power to soothe our souls, to remind us that there is some higher continuing purpose and obligation to our lives, for us to help assure that their world will be safe, filled with goodness, and that they will have lives overflowing with happiness and joy. Oskar, Eli, Maxine.

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‘I WILL DO MY BEST’ (For my grandson Oskar Smith Goshin. Born 1.31.09)

Behold. I am finally here. Out of the primordial wash. Fully formed, ready. The first light of the next dawn. Both the hope and voice of our generations before, and those yet to come. I am at the divide. Both the harvest of what was, and the seed for what will be. I carry the hopes, sacrifices, and struggles of the us before who will continue to live through me.

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I am the bearer of the hopes and possibilities of what we might yet be, shaping the futures for those still to come. I am guardian of our precious coded helix of life that stretches from before the before out to the far reaches beyond the beyond. All of this is no burden, it is a gift. I hear your whispers and know how infinite is your love for me, and your hopes for me. With your help, I will do my best.

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THE LEGACY AND THE PROMISE In honor of the birth of Eli Smith Goshin, Zvi ben Ari, Born June 7, 2014; 9 Sivan 5774

‘Baruch HaBa’, ‘Blessed be he who comes’. I hear your call and rush forward to greet you and the world. I am Eli, Zvi ben Ari, ben Aharon, ben Tzvi, ben Yakov, ben Meir Aharon, both the legacy and the promise. The legacy of all of my line, and our people from the before, who struggled so, and endured such difficult hardships, so that I could be here today to enter into the covenant and honor their lives and memory. I believe that all of my before are also gathered here now, in this room with us, to both share the joy of this moment and to bear witness.

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I am also the promise. The promise to all who will come after, that I will do my best to honor the aspirations and memory of the before, and always endeavor to advance the possibilities and hopes of ours yet to come. I am keeper of the word, the next link in the unbroken chain of our people, committed to always remembering and protecting the word, and fulfilling its meaning to make ourselves and the world a better place. My blessed parents, whose love has given me the precious breath of life, have honored me with the Hebrew name Zvi, in memory of my great grandfather who was a wise and devoted father, husband and grandfather. Please know that the depth of your unconditional love and devotion will always be the twin of mine for you. And, in everything I try, I will always do my best.

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A LETTER TO BE OPENED THEN In honor of the birth of Maxine Julia Goshin Miriam bat Yakov Born October 30, 2014; 6 Cheshvan 5775

‘Blessed is she who comes’ Maxine, Miriam bat Yakov, ben Aharon, sweet angel of delicate perfection. Today, 13 Cheshvan 5775, a week after your birth, I first held you in my arms. A miracle. The delight of feeling your heart beating so rapidly against mine, knowing that you are the next link in our unbroken chain, from all who ever were, to all of ours who will ever be. I am writing this letter poem to be given to you on the day of your bat mitzvah. While I so hope that I will be there with you to bear witness and experience the joy as you enter into the covenant,

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I fear that it is uncertain that I will be alive then, so I decided to write this for you now. These few thoughts then are what I would offer to you if I were able to be with you then. Words and the ideas they make are truly the most important gift I have to give, my real legacy to you, a few gathered insights to help you live a life full of meaning and wonder. You are blessed to have your Hebrew name, Miriam, be after my beloved mother, your great grandmother, a woman of special kindness, tenderness, thoughtfulness, who was also a wonderful mother and grandmother, and worked as a primary school teacher. May you walk in her path and those of our Matriarchs. Always remember that your existence is the result of generations upon generations who struggled so under the most adverse circumstances because they had a dream for those who came next. That for the privilege of your life you also have the obligation to honor, through your actions, all those who came before,

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and to then serve as a model and inspiration for all those who will come after. You are now the next keeper of the word, those precious treasures that have guided our generations, as you are the next link in that unbroken chain stretching back across millennia. It is my fondest hope that you will be a compassionate, and righteous person embodying profound goodness while filling your life with repeated acts of kindness and beneficence. You have been blessed with the finest of parents who love you so, and possess values that you should carefully incorporate as your own. Fill your life with happiness and joy, living it as a grand adventure, and always love yourself for who you are and still aspire to be. And, in everything that you try, always, always, do your very best. With Much Love.

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UP HERE It’s blistering hot and humid down there. You can actually see the waves of heat escaping from the road, searching for a place to cool off. Middle of a brutal Manhattan summer day. After only a few minutes outside I was wet, wanting, needing, a change of clothes. Felt like Kolkata. But now I’m up here, in my apartment, the air-conditioning is on high. I’m sitting quietly, watching my grandson take a well deserved nap. The gentleness of his rhythmic breathing, his flushed cheeks. I lean over, risking waking him up, and take a kiss, since I can’t resist. I now sit back and wonder whether years from now, when I’m no longer here, whether he’ll remember any of our glorious times together, what he’ll recall about me, and what he’ll tell his children and their children about me.

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‘GRANDPA’ I wasn’t sure that I had heard it correctly. So, I turned. There, in his stroller, 18 months, with his hands outstretched. Saying my ‘name’ for the first time. Calling out to me to hold his hand. Oh my, oh my! There are a few special moments, gifts, treasures, that life offers for which you are surprisingly unprepared, but have such an indelible impact, that remind you how wondrous your existence is and has been. How you are with purpose, the vital link to all that has gone before, where you are, connecting with what might yet be up on ahead. And to think, it only took one word. ‘Grandpa’

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Parents, Grandparents ‘My love and gratitude is boundless for the light and goodness they so carefully nurtured and placed, as an eternal flame, within my heart, within my thoughts.’

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Harry & Marion Goshin

Jacob & Lena Goshin,

circa 1939

Oscar & Minnie Weiss circa 1939

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THE ONLY GIFT THAT TRULY MATTERED They were born and raised in such different times, in such different places, having had such different lives. My grandparents and parents. Impossible to truly understand and compare to my own. And yet, it was their values, having been absorbed from their prior generations back down centuries, then modeled in their own behaviors, and as explained in their teachings to me, and in how I listened as they commented and reacted to events of the times that together shaped who I became. I am who they were. The only gift I ever received that has truly mattered.

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I WAS A DREAM I was a dream. A dream of love and hope. A singular, universal dream most have, embedded with our human code. Always being passed forward to those who are next. We are each creations that embody the aspiration for enduring meaning from our lives to what follows beyond us. It is also our bond to all who came before. We are conceived in love, nurtured with love, forever passing that dream forward. I was a dream.

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PARCELED OUT TO THE PAST I seem to be parceled out to the past. Bits of me scattered about, all along the terrain of my generations. Residing in both real and imagined memories of my own, all the way back down my line. Sometimes I imagine that I am in Blazowa, Poland, playing alongside my grandmother Minnie, before she was in her teens, when in 1904 she makes the remarkable long journey, on her own, to America. I wake from the daydream, suddenly more than a century later, missing the past, especially the parts that I was never in.

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THAT BENCH I see them now, in that iconic photo, the one always on my shelf, always alive in my imagination. May, 1930, in their late teens. Sitting on that bench, dressed up, holding hands as they always did, even at the end. On that bench outside that Brooklyn subway station. A Spring day, courting. The deep love, affection, respect for each other there then as it always was. Talking about their future, about their dreams, their promises to each other, their hopes, about possibilities. It is special for me because this is where I began, where the idea of me was really born, where I became their dream.

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THAT FIRST DAY AND AFTER It must have been deeply imprinted, embedded within me then, that first day. I must have felt their adoring kisses, tasted her milk’s sweetness, known love. On that first day I must have seen some sun, felt its warmth and promise, listened to my parents’ whispers for the me to come, known hope. On that first day I must have heard their laughter, seen their smiles, known happiness. On that first day I must have been held so very close, so tenderly, known caring. Everything, everything I needed to know — love, hope, happiness, caring — I was taught by them that first day and every day after.

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A REMEMBRANCE, A YAHRZEIT All those other pieces of life I’ve lived are gone. The ones before, gone forever. I mourn their passing, their innocence, their unexpected wonder, their irretrievability, that they were gifts far beyond my expectations. My childhood and after, until a now unseen conclusion. My regret is that my parents, grandparents, and all those others who played such treasured roles, and who have now passed on, are not with me to share the joy and happiness of the recollections from those lives. My poems then are a remembrance, a yahrzeit to their blessed memory.

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FOR ALL THIS WE GIVE THANKS For all we’ve had, for all we have, for all we still hope for. For the opportunity to remember and honor those who gave us the breath of life, and all those from the before who enabled us to reach this season. For the unconditional love of our family and friends, and for all those who wish us goodwill. For the sweet treasured memories of those so dear to our hearts who are no longer with us. For the chance each day to make the lives of those in need better. For the joy, wisdom, and enlightenment we experience. For the presence of beauty and wonder in our lives and in the world. For all this and so much more, we offer our thanks and our fondest wish for the universal end to hunger, poverty, and sadness, and that the days for all, now and beyond, will always be filled with bounty, love, hope, peace, happiness and fulfillment. Amen.

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A TIME FOR US There in the photographs. My Dad. Over the span of time I ‘see’ him, I remember him, with great fondness, affection, and love in my memories, thoughts, dreams, that occur in the day and in the night. However, I mourn all the missed moments, all the time that we might of had, while young and after. Lost, gone, irretrievable, a dark black hole in my heart. There were opportunities, real and imagined. We seem to always believe that up on ahead there will always be time to share. But, it’s never there. Is it?

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JUST ONE MORE TIME I want to open that Brooklyn apartment door one more time. To say in a loud, happy, sing-song voice, ‘I’mmm home!’ To hear my mother call back, ‘hello Sweetie, come here, into the kitchen, so I can give you a big hug and a kiss!’ For me to do just that, and for my mother to lift me up into her arms and deliver on that promise. To feel the softness of her face against mine, her warmth, and her unconditional love. Yes, just one more time.

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ON A TIME WAVE Daydreaming. Suddenly I’m riding the crest of a time wave. Going backward, time traveling. Arriving at my shtetl, Rotmistrovka, Ukraine. To take a walk with my father’s grandfather, Meir Aharon(who I was named after), and my great-grandmother, Eva. For them to show me around the shtetl. For me to tell them what became of their son, Yakov, my grandfather, who they sent to America in 1909, to find a better life. He was in his late teens, and took his brother, Max, five years younger, on this daunting journey. To thank them for the life they helped to give me, for the wonderful son they raised, and for his journey that saved our line and will extend it far forward. And to show them photographs of their grandchildren, great grandchildren, great great grandchildren. Yes, that would be some visit.

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SHE NEVER WOULD HAVE LEFT WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE It is strange how I can walk in and out of particular memories that I hold onto, but not just before or just after them. And, after all these years, the truth is that I’m not sure I understand what happened in some, especially this one that I want to share. They had left me all alone in my grandparents’ apartment in Borough Park, Brooklyn. ‘To go to the cemetery’, they said. They told me that my grandmother, Lena, had died and was to be buried. But that I was ‘too young’ to go, that ‘it was not a place for me’.

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That’s how I remember it. Years later, my older sister said she was with me, but I only remember being alone. It was so very quiet. I was only five and didn’t understand what they had meant. I walked through their apartment looking for my grandmother, for traces of her, knowing that she would come back soon. I sensed that she was still there, I smelled her perfume. She never would have left me without saying good-bye. No, never, not without a big hug, her warm laugh, a kiss, and a ‘I love you’. No, never.

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OVER THE TREETOPS We were laughing, laughing, so very hard together. There, in Prospect Park. I was being lifted high into the sky, again, again, and again. My mother holding one hand, my father the other. Each time they lifted me I swung my feet out into the air, imagining that I was leaping over the treetops, across the earth. Another special, remembered, moment of my childhood, one that I wish I could relive once more.

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THE RAIN (FOR MY MOM) Miriam, age 7, woke to the sound of the rain beating fiercely against the nearby window, and could tell it was early morning. Glancing up she saw the rainwater beading up on the window’s grimy surface. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder and saw that next to her, on the bed, her two younger sisters, Sylvia and Martha, were still off in their own dreamlands. For the first time she became consciously aware that her inner voice was now, surprisingly, more in English than Yiddish, and smiled.

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The other sounds she heard were her parents, Oscar and Minnie Weiss, off in the front, in their store, getting ready, since rainy days were best for their umbrella business here on Essex Street, Lower East Side, New York City. Miriam decided it was time to get up and help, perhaps assemble a few more umbrellas with the materials still there on the worktable.

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THAT NIGHT (For my Grandfather Jacob and my Grandmother Lena)

Now that I know, finally, that I am in my very last days, of all my memories it is the one of that particular night I most revisit and wish to relive once again. I am lying there on our ragged bed in Manhattan, holding hands with my beloved Lena, of most blessed memory. End of December, 1911, just a few days before the birth of our first child, Heschel (Harry). We are whispering to each other. Reminiscing about our good fortune in being in America, and the paths of our journey. Me, from a small shtetl, Rotmistrovka, in the Ukraine, part of the Russian Empire. In my late teens I was taking my younger brother, Max, with me across to Libau, Latvia, to board a ship to New York City via England, where we would meet our older brothers already there, leaving our parents, Meir Aharon and Eva, forever.

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On our arrival in Libau we managed to find a kosher boardinghouse where, by God’s guidance, I met my wife Lena. It was also being run by her widowed mother, Helen, her two sisters and three brothers. As it is said, it was love at first sight. About a year after Lena and her sister Molly were sent to New York City and, shortly after, we were engaged and then married. Years later, Max married Lena’s sister Molly. It was on that night of reminiscing that we spoke so very tenderly of our hopes and dreams for our coming life. I now realize that except for the much too soon passing of my beloved, how much the reality has surpassed those dreams. I will leave behind a wonderful family including two grandchildren, Lois and Arthur, and a great grandson, Erik. Without our wondrous journey and our dreams none of them would exist.

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IT IS FOR ME TO REMEMBER My beloved parents of blessed memory. My source of life. It is for me to remember, to reflect, to sing their praises. My love and gratitude is boundless for the light and goodness that they so carefully nurtured and placed, as an eternal flame, within my heart, within my thoughts. Without this, without them, my soul might be dark, empty, without purpose. I am of them.

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Death, Dying ‘I say a prayer for them all, for what they endured so that all of us who came after might have a better life, and for them to know that they have not been forgotten.’

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DON’T LET ME DIE AGAIN Please, once will be enough. Promise me that. That you won’t forget. To tell the stories of me, to remember me, to include me in your dreams, to include me in the stories of you as you pass them forward. Who I was, what I thought, what I cared about, what I did, how I made you laugh, why you loved me. So in that way I will remain alive. Just don’t let me die again.

Death, Dying • 101

HOLDING ON It doesn’t stop. The dying, the funerals. There is this invisible dark threshold you cross at a certain age, and then it begins. Your grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, friends, spouse, all continue to disappear. Seemingly swallowed up into an unknowable void. You tighten your grip onto the edge and avoid looking down. Sometimes your soul gets restless, yearning to be with those who are gone. You’re surprised at how quickly those who you’ve lost recede from your memory, and sadly realize it will also be your fate to be forgotten. Nevertheless, you hold on. Because you want more, you need more. Because maybe, maybe, there is still time to experience more of your dreams.

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FREE FROM MELANCHOLY It comforts me to know. Frees me from melancholy. That as my days, my time, winds down, that not everything that I care about will end when I have disappeared. That there are things, ideas, hopes, moments, which may have a continuing existence out into the far reaches of time. Carried along, embedded in the helices of biology and memory of those who follow and knew, in the stories they will tell, and especially in the actions they may take.

Death, Dying • 105

AT BETH DAVID I’m standing here, offering both prayers and remembrances as the tears of love and memory roll uncontrollably down my cheeks. It is a beautiful Autumn day, the trees showing off their first new clothes, no chill yet in the air. I seem to be the only person around. Exquisite solitude. Beth David Cemetery, at my Rotmistrowker Benevolent Society section. It will also be my final place. At the entrance gate I also note part of the inscription, ‘David Goshinsky, Honorary President’, and the date, 1906. My great uncle.

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I’m here primarily to ‘visit’ my parents, Harry and Marion, my grandparents, Jacob and Lena, and great grandmother, Helen Schuel. As I stand looking about, I also begin to wonder just where all the rest of mine far, far down my family line are buried. All those who, unknowingly, made my life possible, who I never met, and all those so brutally murdered during the pogroms and the Shoah who had no one left to remember them, no one to visit wherever their remains remain. I say a prayer for them all, for what they endured so that all of us who came after might have a better life, and for them to know that they have not been forgotten. Amen.

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NOT KNOWING I fear not knowing. Not knowing their names or my own, being unaware of exactly where I am, or where in my life cycle I’m located, having lost the memories that define who I’ve been. Not knowing that I have become so different from who I was that my own children and grandchildren, understandably, avoid coming to see me. Please, save me from that.

Death, Dying • 109

THE DEAD NEVER LEAVE The dead never leave. The ones you loved, the ones who cared about you. They never abandon you. They are always there, nearby. Just at the very edge of your awareness. You are what they still, and will always, cherish. When you need them, they will hold you close. For comfort, advice, support. It’s what they now do. No, not angels, but close.

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I CRY FOR YOU When you see me cry it will be for you, not for me. After, later, I’ll be gone, but you will still be here. To be guardian of our memories, to be the us for them, to carry the burden of emptiness and an always ‘what if?’ Yes, I cry for you.

Death, Dying • 113

NO SUIT, NO TIE, PLEASE Now, no suit, no tie, please. Just wrap me in a shroud, or jeans and a sweater, so I can be comfortable, and sure, a simple pine coffin. The tallis from my bar mitzvah that my grandma Minnie gave me placed over my shoulders once again. Coffin closed so I can be by myself, not a view I wish to share. At the service read a few of your favorite poems of mine (please include my ‘For All This We Give Thanks’). Tell a couple of funny remembered stories to keep it light. Maybe play some early Dylan. But don’t make it too long.

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And personal commentary from a rabbi, but only if she/he knew me. Place me in Beth David, close to my parents, grandparents and great grandmother. After, a dairy meal of blintzes, cheesecake from Ferrara’s, black and whites, and of course, noodle kugel. Know that I will be with all of mine from the before who are all gone, and we’ll be dancing and singing back in our shtetl, waiting for you to join me, but please, take your time. My grandfather’s tefillin to Oskar, my tallis to Eli, my grandmother’s Passover matzo cover to Maxine. There will be moments when you may really, really, wish I was there with you, know that I am. Love, forever.

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FORGOTTEN I fear being forgotten more than dying. I expect that those who I now love, care most about, will remember and miss me deeply, some even profoundly after I’m gone. Perhaps long for, wish for, more moments together. But, it’s the ones who follow just after who will let me slip away. Because they were busy with other things, because I wasn’t well known or known to them. Not relevant. Understandably unaware that their grasp on me constantly weakens. That if they don’t somehow hold on I will tumble away, into the void, lost forever. I know it’s my fate, everyones, but one that I, nonetheless, fear and wish were otherwise.

Death, Dying • 117

THE FINAL QUEUE They are queuing up. The mourners. Each waiting their turn. To shovel some dirt. Offering their last respects. Taking their portion to help bury me deep. For some finality. The ‘amen’ of Kaddish, and I begin to disappear. Memory of me quickly begins to seep deep into my fresh grave, day by day, until nothing, nothing remains.

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TO SEE A FUTURE I watched. Feeling helpless. Uncertain about what exactly to do, what to say, just how to comfort the grief, the sense of loss, the terrible sadness of death. All eyes were fixed down on the coffin as it was being lowered into the ground. I wanted them all to look up for just a moment, to really ‘see’ each other, and to understand the need to look ahead, and to realize that there will, indeed, be a future.

Death, Dying • 121

AN EXPIRATION DATE Maybe it would be easier if we were given a departure date, you know, an expiration date. So we could plan, to put our ‘things’ in order, to lay out our life pathway, make choices consistent with our allotted time, to have the end less uncertain and traumatic for ourselves and our special others. Consider this a request.

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LOSS I do wonder whether the continual loss of family, friends, mentors, colleagues —- death — is an essential, a critical source for the acquisition of a certain type of judgmental wisdom and personal insight about life. That each occurrence of loss, and the ensuing adaptation, is followed, consciously and subconsciously, by a period of reflection about meaning, purpose, a peculiar moment of enrichment concerning personal identity. That, in fact, these experiences of personal loss are a prerequisite to acquiring meaningful reflective wisdom. What do you think?

Death, Dying • 125

WHERE WILL YOU FIND ME? Now that I’m gone, where will you find me? Most certainly in your memories, in my poems, in your heart. In the remains of my works and in their effects. In our pictures. In the bits of me now in you. But no, not in that box, nor in that dirt and stone. No, never there. Not me in the end, only me before. Promise me that. I am now simply part of the harvest of what was. But you are still part of the seed of what can be. Please, cherish and never neglect that gift. And know that my love for you will never disappear.

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SITTING AT MY OWN SHIVA Ok, ok, I was wrong. I admit it. There actually is something ‘after’, well, ‘after’ my own death two days ago. Too bad they covered all the mirrors here, because I wanted to see, you know, vanity, curiosity. Yes, here I am in my NYC apartment(I guess ‘former’ apartment would be correct) sitting with my sweet, wonderful, loving family at my own shiva. I can see that I’m wearing a suit, black, white shirt and a black tie, and my lapel is appropriately torn. They have all the old photos out and are reminiscing. The words of love and remembrance bring tears of joy. I am so very glad that I wrote all of those poems since so many of the ‘pieces’ of me still remain.

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It’s so nice to hear them take turns reading my poems aloud. I need to sit here awhile, to know that everyone will be ok. I do wish that I could share all that delicious food. I awoke after my ‘departure’ in a large room, in an old wooden house, out in the countryside. The windows were uncovered and it looked like Springtime, with lush fields, rolling hills, wildflowers in full bloom. The room was filled with all of my departed —— my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, all laughing, so happy to see me, hugs, kisses. I wept and wept uncontrollably. Strangely, they were all the same age as when the passed on, but looking healthier, much better. Candles everywhere were creating this magical golden glow. There was this wonderful klezmer music coming from somewhere, and we formed a circle, holding one another, and danced until exhaustion.

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At one end of the room was this huge table filled with all of my favorite foods — blintzes, pickled herring, cookies and pastries galore. My grandfather, Jacob/Yakov, took me aside to explain, that his was the ‘grandfather’s job’. That for now I would stay and get ‘reacquainted’ with my departed family, and tomorrow to attend my own funeral, and then sit at my own shiva. That after, I would be given an assignment —— to watch over and help, along the way, one of mine, perhaps as the ‘guardian angel’ for a grandchild or great grandchild. Oh my, having that task alone would be the greatest of gifts.

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132 • Death, Dying

UNSTOPPABLE It was unstoppable. A strange, perverse, perfection of unbridled intent All internal defenses, and all applied external interventions made no difference. It exists to destroy, with no conscious awareness, no judgmental concerns, a willful commitment to overcome any obstacle. I watched in sad, morbid fascination, it was riveting in a most unseemly and peculiar way. It showed no mercy, having no moral compass, just a singular objective no matter what, to complete its purpose, a perfect weapon system for destruction, death. Cancer.

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MOURNERS I watched the mourners nearby. I was with my Dad to visit, to remember, to offer prayers to all of ours at Beth David Cemetery. Ten years old. Although I wasn’t allowed to attend funerals, my Mom’s protective rule, it was ok to go and ‘pay my respects’. I saw the sadness, the grief, the effort of mourners to comfort each other. As I watched them leave, I realized the brevity, the quickness, the certainty of the end, and that people have no real choice but to move on to whatever is next.

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THE FINAL ARC What was my dream? The one at the beginning of my circle. I don’t think I can remember any longer. I’m too tired now. Time is closing in. I had so many, many hopes. Things I wanted to do, to achieve, to leave. Did I really have that dream? I’m no longer sure. Maybe though. It’s hard now to recall. With my final arc closing, I should know, shouldn’t I? Perhaps it’s just too much detail to recall now.

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It’s the summation that’s really important though, isn’t it? You know, the totality of everything together. I think though, to be honest, that my life far surpassed that dream. By a lot. I believe, yes, that it was far better. A really good thing, although I had hoped for more, but who doesn’t? Yes, a life so much better than my dream. Oh, yes, that’s good, really good. I feel settled. Time now to rest. But, will I still dream?

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Holocaust, Faith ‘We are now what remains.....so, it is for us, in most blessed memory for all of the perished and forgotten, to always remember, to always pass on and honor that memory..... hoping that all of their departed souls will be bound up with ours, and will finally be at rest, in peace, forever and ever.’

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I HEAR THE DEAD I hear the dead. The constant echo of their cries. The children. The slaughtered. Lost forever. Victims of unbearable torment, pain, horror, suffering. From the four corners of my own diaspora -- Blazowa, Rotmistrovka, Boryslav, Libau, and far beyond. My generations and all the others left behind. Vanished, erased, from the body of collective humanity.

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They were seeds of what could have been. The dead and all those after, who will now never be. They were also the loss of all the generations before, who struggled so in hardship and anguish to give life and hope to those exterminated. Memory of them all, them all, now evaporating with time. Am I not who they were? They would not have forgotten me. Was Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, said for each, for all? But, most had no one left to say it for them.

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How can we, who remain, rest until we know that their precious souls are forever under God’s eternal protection, bound up in the collective presence of their own people, for all time, beyond time? But no answer is ever heard. God is mute, hiding in shame. As He should. These were bestial acts of intentional, unspeakable inhumanity. Nourished by those who acted in the name of their god, with their perverse beliefs, both then and in the centuries before, that was the cause, the original sin.

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Of those who knew what was occurring, few stood up, fewer acted. It is my deepest hope that those with the stain of blood, and those consenting, have been condemned to an eternity of endless and horrific suffering for their crimes. This occurred within our lifetime, not another place, another time. It was the most unspeakable, abominable crime in all human history. And yet, the memory still fades. Some, who are reincarnations of the beasts, in harsh and further cruelty, even deny that the horror ever took place. Where then are the millions?

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First as a child, I secretly prayed to God to anoint me as His avenging angel, so that I could sweep across the earth, gathering up and devouring the guilty and complicit. I can’t bear the thought that some of these demons still walk the earth, while the sweet innocents are forgotten. I continue to awake, hoping to find the anointing oil moist on my forehead. Maybe it will be so with tomorrow’s first light. Because, still, I hear the dead.

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We are what now remains of the strands of cloth woven together by Jacob for Joseph’s coat. So, it is for us, in most blessed memory for all of the perished and forgotten, to always remember, to always pass on and honor that memory, and to say Kaddish now, hoping that all their departed souls will be bound up with ours, and will finally be at rest, in peace, forever and ever. Amen

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Kaddish:

146 • Holocaust, Faith

Yees’gadal v’yees’kadash sh’mey rabba B’alma dee v’ra cheer’usey, v’yamleech malchu’say B’cha’yey’chon, u’v’yo’mey’chon, u’v’cha’yei d’chol Beis Yisrael, Ba’agala u’veez’man kareev, v’eem’ru: Amein. Y’hey sh’mey rabba m’varach l’alam u’l’almey almaya. Yees’barach, v’yeesh’tabach, v’yees’pa’ar, v’yees’romam, v’yees’nasei, v’yees’hadar, v’yees’aleh, v’yees’halal sh’mey d’kood’sha b’reech hoo L’eylah meen kol beer’chasa v’sheer’asa, toosh’b’chasa v’nechem’asa, da’ameeran b’al’ma, v’eemru: Amein. Y’hei shlama rabba meen sh’maya v’chaim aleynu v’al kol Yisrael, v’eemru: Amein. Oseh shalom beem’ro’mav, Hoo ya’aseh shalom, aleynu v’al kol Yisrael, v’eemru: Amein.

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WHISPERS OF MEMORY I strain to hear their whispers. I know they are meant for me to hear. The ashes of their burnt flesh are forever mixed with the earth’s dust. Auschwitz. The dust carries their whispers of memory as it blows across nights’ landscape, carried by the winds of time. Belzec.

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They want to be heard, never silenced, to assure that the past is inescapably in our present, a constant reminder, whispering in our ear, offering their stories, what was lost, their pain, their sorrow. Majdanek. Telling us to always remember, to never forget them. Treblinka. To never forget. To never forget. To never forget. Never.

Holocaust, Faith • 149

IN MEMORY OF SOME OF MY COUSINS MURDERED DURING THE HOLOCAUST Moshe Scheiner Shula Geiger Eliezer Volf Valtz Samuel Moses Zins Feige Zins Beirisch Zins Yehoshua Mendel Zins Lazar Zins David Zins Channa Zins Chana Toba Geiger Shaul Wolf Ettinger Fradl Esther Ettinger Yitzchak Ettinger Silke Scheinet Nebental Scheinet Chava Scheinet

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Gittel Geiger Joseph Alter Weissblum Meilich Geiger Toba Geiger Fradl Geiger Moshe Yitzchak Geiger Chaya Ita Stockman Salamon David Geiger Sara Geiger Riva Silka Geiger Schewa Ginsberg Isidore Ginsberg Bernard Berl Geiger Markus Geiger Mina Perlmutter David Perlmutter Frieda Prisand

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BLOODLUST I confess. To having a bloodlust that I cannot suppress. I know it’s a sin that I cannot cleanse from my heart, even on Yom Kippur. It is retribution I desire. Retribution by my own hand. For the murderers, and all those complicit, by their actions during the Shoah, the pogroms. From my childhood to now I continue to hear the dead, their sufferings. I still pray to God to anoint me as His avenging angel, so that I could sweep across the earth exacting revenge in the most brutal of ways. Maybe, just maybe, it will be so with tomorrow’s first light.

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GEMATRIA My time will be soon, very soon, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. These numbers, so brutally etched on my forearm, I refuse to think of them as what the abominations intended. Instead, for me, they are part of our mystical Jewish tradition of gematria, where each number is part of a word, a code that creates a meaning, and here that meaning is a special prayer. A prayer to the Holy One, Blessed be He. When the smoke, of what will soon be left of me, ascends up and up into the heavens, I believe that He will hear this prayer and know to guide my soul to be bound up with all of mine under His eternal protection forever and ever.

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TEARS OF SORROW My tears of inconsolable sorrow flow unabated through the alleys, lanes, streets of my vacant shtetls. Mine, and all of ours, are all gone, those generations have been erased, destroyed. My young, old, even the yet to be born, all the sweet innocents, engulfed, disappeared in the torrent of sadness, despair, at the hands of the constantly regenerating abominations. Hopes, dreams, memories and love gone, lost, forever. As though they never existed. Forgotten.

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WHY? (These questions may make some of you uncomfortable, but they must be asked)

Why did so many of our fellow neighbors become collaborators and give us over to the Nazis? Why were we denied entry to countries like America and sent back only to then be killed in the gas chambers and murdered in empty fields? Why were our long time neighbors so quick and happy to take our land, homes, property, when we were sent off to concentration camps? Why, after the war, when the few of us who were left tried to go back to our homes, to our neighborhoods, were we beaten and often killed?

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Why did most who saw and knew we were being slaughtered never say anything, and even deny it had happened? Why did so many priests, church leaders, academics, police officers, businessmen, doctors, community leaders, teachers, journalists and others, collaborate with the Nazis in ways that facilitated our slaughter? Why, even now, are we the people most targeted by religious hate crimes? Why do so many Arab and Muslim leaders and clerics express their desire and intent to kill all Jews? Why?

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MY MURDERED PLACES (These are my places. Where my grandparents lived before coming to the United States)

These are from eyewitnesses and contemporaneous historical sources: Rotmistrovka ‘On May 12, 1919, a band of 50 men arrived at Rotmistrovka. The next morning, they were joined by local peasants and peasants from nearby villages, and the pogrom began. Most murders took place in the evening.’ ‘The Germans occupied Rotmistrovka on August 1, 1941. Within a few days they murdered all the Jews.’ Libau ‘The Latvians, themselves, actually planned and organized the massacre of the Libau Jews.’

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In this way, most of the 9,000 Jews of Libau were wiped out in the summer of 1941. Blazowa ‘In July, 1942, most of the Jews from Blazowa were deported to the Belzec death camp.’ Boryslav Boryslav fell to the Germans July 1, 1941. A pogrom immediately after killed 300 Jews. In the first ‘Action’, November 29-30, 1,500 Jews were murdered in the forest of two neighboring villages. In August, 1942, 5,000 Jews were deported to the Belzec death camp. In February 16 -17, 1943, 600 women, children, elderly were executed in the city slaughterhouse. Finally, between May and August, 1943, all remaining Jews were killed.’ NEVER FORGET, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER.....

Holocaust, Faith • 161

REPAIR, RECTIFICATION, REDEMPTION I constantly ponder whether that which is impenetrable, nonetheless, does exist. Whether there is an originating force, a spiritual presence and purpose far beyond our comprehension, hidden behind the folds of the folds of awareness, one only concerned with the grand collective, and not the personal. That The Holy One, HaShem, God, Guarantor of the Covenant, Creator of the Cosmos, Blessed be He, provided a gift, albeit an imperfect gift. A world having insufficient access to the Divine Light, one requiring repair, rectification, for its continued existence. Tikkun Olam.

162 • Holocaust, Faith

For it may be that it is only through an unyielding morality in all of our actions, a constant striving to perfect the human spirit through both individual and communal repeated acts of piety, love, goodness, kindness, beneficence, and justice, that we can repair ourselves, all our generations, the earth, and even The Holy One, Blessed be He. Perhaps it is we, as the collective, that truly are the intended, long awaited Mosiach, the Messiah. And that we, as individuals, are each vital contributors to this truly grand purpose and the obligation of repair, rectification, and finally redemption.

Holocaust, Faith • 163

WHERE I WAS MEANT TO BE They were all there. Waiting for me. My beloved parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and the others I missed so. I knew them all, but some I had never known. ‘Shalom aleykhem!!’ All so happy to see me, so happy to be with me. Finally. There to celebrate, to welcome my arrival back to our village.

164 • Holocaust, Faith

All the candles creating this wondrous golden glow. Singing, dancing. I wept so in happiness. We continued on and on through that night and everyone after. I had longed so deeply to see them, to talk to, and to be with them again. Here, where I always knew I finally was meant to be.

Holocaust, Faith • 165

166 • Holocaust, Faith

BAT KOL Children, my children, and then all of mine who will come after. Please listen. It took me close to a lifetime to fully understand, so I want to share this with you now, while I still can. Always look for the sacred, the goodness that is in those who you may see. Listen carefully, always, to the voice, the bat kol, that you hear within you, that has traveled across time and generations from the distant before to guide you to a righteous life filled with repeated acts of kindness and beneficence, to make your contributions to improving, to perfecting, the world in return for having had the gift of sharing its wonders.

Holocaust, Faith • 167

WERE THEY PRAYERS? Were they prayers? It has only now occurred to me that perhaps some of my poems have actually been prayers, written at some mystical urging of my subconscious, for a purpose hidden from me at the time. That as they were written the words floated up into the wind, which carried these words and their meaning out into a never-ending upward swirl, higher and still higher, climbing up into the far reaches of the infinite cosmos to a place where the Holy One, Blessed be He, waits to receive offered advice, to consider for action His obligation to fix His mistakes and to repair and perfect the world. Who knows?

168 • Holocaust, Faith

Holocaust, Faith • 169

170 • Holocaust, Faith

A TRIPLE HELIX Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, there actually is a divine light. A third unseen strand, intertwined with our own double biologic helix of life. A universal life force, linking us together, coiled within the first cell at the moment of our creation, then continuously replicated. The light being a divine gift, the source of goodness, kindness, beneficence, available to each of us to help perfect ourselves and the world but only if used, otherwise it withers allowing darkness to enter and to permeate all actions. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, there is a divine light.

Holocaust, Faith • 171

NEILAH It is that time between late afternoon and nightfall as the sun is in its final journey to the West. Off in the far distance I can hear the first sounds of the creaking gate as it begins to slowly close. These are the remaining moments of opportunity, to offer prayers, pleas, before final judgment is made and the inscriptions become indelibly fixed in the Book. My heart, my thoughts, now rush forward in a torrent, not on my own behalf, but in memory of all those who I have treasured and are now gone, that their souls are safe and remain under God’s protection bound up in the body of all of ours forever and ever. Amen.

172 • Holocaust, Faith

Holocaust, Faith • 173

174 • Holocaust, Faith

ISRAEL We are this place’s original remaining people. My own line, born here, forced out to what is now Morocco, onto Spain, expelled again, eventually into the Pale of Settlement, then emigrating further. The soil, the water, the air, are ours, affirmed by the Holy One, Blessed be He, for all time, reaffirmed by the world in 1948, defended against repeated onslaughts, and then making it bloom so very far beyond everyones’ wildest hopes. We have been unyielding in maintaining our covenant through more than two millennia of brutal discrimination, slavery, torture, wars, and genocide. This small place is ours. Now and forever.

Holocaust, Faith • 175

SEPARATE AND APART I’ve always felt somewhat apart. Separate, a bit different. An outsider of sorts. Believing that there may be others, now unknown, who like before, will want to do us harm. Harm because of who we are. Yes, of course I now feel safe. But didn’t we in all the pasts? It’s not a fear, it’s a guarded anticipation, because evil stalks, especially this evil. No, it doesn’t preoccupy my thoughts. But hasn’t history regularly repeated itself for us?

176 • Holocaust, Faith

Haven’t we been discriminated against, tortured, enslaved, murdered, even within the brief span of my days. Just because of belief, culture, genetics. Why should I assume ‘never again’, where is the experiential rationality in that? With the Holocaust so recent, and it having emerged from, and been embraced by, ‘cultured societies’, and with new Holocausts being called for, hoped for, by so many, the thought is not so irrational, is it?……is it?

Holocaust, Faith • 177

THE VENEER OF FAITH I am troubled by the common definitions of faith often offered by others. I especially reject the seeming ‘requirement’ to only follow obscure, prescribed rules, and a need for an external cloak, a veneer of faith, by the wearing of religious symbols, the need to somehow show others one’s religious identity. The need to show, seems analogous to the wearing of brand or team names, the showing of fashion labels, and makes me wonder whether there is a lack of a committed inner faith rather than being a possessor of it.

178 • Holocaust, Faith

Isn’t true faith personal, requiring some doubt, uncertainty, a continuous questioning and, therefore, shouldn’t it be more private? Rather, for me, the true affirmation of an inner faith is confirmed by repeated acts of beneficence, compassion, caring and kindness. Faith serving as a private internal inspiration for the defining of personal beliefs that must then be transformed into actions that improve both the self and the world.

Holocaust, Faith • 179

THE HIGHER MORAL GROUND It has been bothering me for quite awhile. About those who claim a certain fundamentalist religious superiority, believing that they and their same are the occupants of a higher moral ground. I mean this really, really annoys me. That they see themselves as being ‘more religious’ somehow, then closer to God, to the ‘truth’, that their word counts for more. But, who is truly more ‘religious’ ——— a fundamentalist practitioner whose life is primarily consumed with an unerring compliance with prescribed codified rituals, exacting oral repetitions, or a ‘righteous’ person whose life is primarily consumed with acts of love, beneficial kindness, that relieves the suffering of the least fortunate, repairing the world.

180 • Holocaust, Faith

Who is more ‘religious —— the one who only studies and repeats the treasured words, or the one whose life is primarily focused on acting upon the well understood values embedded within those words? Ask yourself, if Moses, Mohammed, Jesus, and Buddha, were all sitting at a table with the Holy One, Blessed be He, and asked Him such questions, what do you think His, their answer to such questions would be? Yes, with certainty, also being an active ‘righteous’ person is certainly a higher state of religiousness, up on the higher moral ground. One is primarily engaged in actively repairing the world while the other is mostly in service to the self. Above all else, be ‘righteous’.

Holocaust, Faith • 181

WHERE IS THE DIVINE? (‘………where shall I find thee?’)

I do look for it occasionally, the divine. A universal life force of shared human purpose. A need to periodically affirm my preferred belief in its existence, to know it really may be present, at least for me. A continually unwinding thread connecting the embedded goodness and kindness within people. So, in the course of my days where is it that I do find evidence that the divine does exist? Just where?

182 • Holocaust, Faith

Well, I see it sometimes in faces, especially in the eyes and expressions of infants, young children, as a pureness of intent, purpose, hope, goodness, trust, possibilities. I also see it when observing intentional act of kindness and beneficence, each seen by me as a commitment to make others and the world better, to fix what is broken without regard to personal gain or recognition, observing that we each are able to be active participants of a divine purpose. The divine does exist, well, at least for me.

Holocaust, Faith • 183

184 • Holocaust, Faith

MY SOUL (NEFESH, RUACH, NESHAMA) IS RESTLESS My soul is restless. Breathed into me by the Holy One, Blessed be He, nurtured by my beloved generations. I am now at the intersect between the withering of my days and the felt need to yet fulfill more purpose, to honor the obligation to help perfect the world in exchange for the gift of life, to hold fast against surging dark forces, and to help assure the rule of kindness and goodness. But given the persistence of the dark forces, and my sense of urgency to help block its path, there is a troubling uncertainty about what, exactly, to do to find an answer to the question, ‘Grandpa, what did you do when the darkness came again?’ My soul is restless.

Holocaust, Faith • 185

186• Identity

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Dr. Arthur R. Goshin first began writing poetry as he turned sixty. Educated as a physician and in public health, he’s had a successful fifty year career in health care. The first phase of his professional life involved the development of comprehensive health centers in communities of poverty. The next phase involved the founding, development, and leading of a very well recognized, large, not-for-profit health plan serving over a half million members. He currently serves as a board chair, board member, or advisor for a range of organizations, foundations and private entities. As a Clinical Professor, Dr. Goshin has reached his fiftieth year as a global health focused faculty member at the University at Buffalo. As he retired from ‘employed work’(as he puts it), and began writing poetry, he also became the founder/ funder/president/ceo of his own foundation (healthyworldfoundation.org) engaged in numerous health projects in India and Africa. His new website, arthurgoshinbooks.com, includes some of his books of poems and photographs. He splits his living time between Santa Fe and New York City with his wife Renee. They have two sons/daughters-in-law, and three grandchildren.

188• Identity

TABLE OF CONTENTS Memory 3

My Nostalgia

4

The Terrain of Memories

6

The Emotional Magnetism of Memory

9

An Emptiness

10

A Yahrzeit Wick

13

As Worlds Disappear

14

Keeper of Memories

17

A Gate Opens

18

The Unseen

21

My Hiding Place

22

Each Is Within Me

24

I Remember My Brooklyn

29

Newly Discovered Treasures

190• Identity

30

Memory Treasures

33

A Whirlwind

34

At The Window

37 David 38 Steeplechase 40

An Unopened Envelope

Children, Grandchildren 45

Holding Them

46

My Hope For Them

48

Neither God Nor Saint, Neither Angel Nor Prince

50

A Breath Of Life

52

They Should Have Wings

54

‘I Will Do My Best’

56

The Legacy And The Promise

58

A Letter To Be Opened Then

63

Up Here

64 ‘Grandpa’

192• Identity

Parents, Grandparents 69

The Only Gift That Truly Mattered

70

I Was A Dream

73

Parceled Out To The Past

74

That Bench

77

That First Day And After

78

A Remembrance, A Yahrzeit

81

For All This We Give Thanks

82

A Time For Us

85

Just One More Time

86

On A Time Wave

88

She Never Would Have Left Without Saying Goodbye

90

Over The Treetops

92

The Rain (For My Mom)

94

That Night

96

It Is For Me To Remember

194• Identity

Death, Dying 101

Don’t Let Me Die Again

102

Holding On

105

Free From Melancholy

106

At Beth David

109

Not Knowing

110

The Dead Never Leave

113

I Cry For You

114

No Suit, No Tie, Please

117 Forgotten 118

The Final Queue

121

To See A Future

122

An Expiration Date

125 Loss 126

Where Will You Find Me?

128

Sitting At My Own Shiva

133 Unstoppable 134 Mourners 136

The Final Arc

196• Identity

Holocaust, Faith 140

I Hear The Dead

148

Whispers Of Memory

150

In Memory Of

153 Bloodlust 154 Gematria 157

Tears Of Sorrow

158 Why? 160

My Murdered Places

162

Repair, Rectification, Redemption

164

Where I Was Meant To Be

167

Bat Kol

168

Were They Prayers?

171

A Triple Helix

172 Neilah 175 Israel 176

Separate And Apart

178

The Veneer Of Faith

180

The Higher Moral Ground

182

Where Is The Divine?

185

My Soul (Nefesh, Ruach, Neshama) Is Restless

198• Identity

LOCATIONS OF INCLUDED PHOTOS Disney Concert Hall, LA

Other Poetry

East Wing, National Gallery, Washington, DC

Dedication

Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC Lake, Central Park, NYC

About Poems About Photographs

Chrysler Building Reflection, NYC

Quotes

Pierre Hotel, NYC

Section Location

United Nations, NYC

Memory Section

Disney Concert Hall, LA

7

Broad Art Museum, LA

8

The Oculus (WTC Site), NYC

11

Spring Street Salt Shed, NYC

12

Santuario de Chimayo, Chimayo, NM

15

Truchas, NM

16

Buildings Along 57th Avenue, NYC

19, 20

Brooklyn Bridge, NYC

23

East Wing, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC

28

200• Identity

The Huntington, Botanical Gardens, San Marino, CA

32

Along 57th Avenue, NYC

42

Carnegie Hall, NYC

44

Building, West 18th Street and 11th Avenue, NYC

51

American Falls, Niagara Falls, NY

61

5th Avenue and 34th Street, NYC

62

Legion of Honor, San Francisco

65

Leonora Curtin Wetlands Preserve, Santa Fe, NM

66

Water Conservatory, Central Park, NYC

71

Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, NM

72

Abiquiu Lake, Abiquiu, NM

76

Lake, Central Park, NYC

79

Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, NM

80

Diablo Canyon, Santa Fe, NM

83

Conservatory Water, Central Park, NYC

84

Aspen Vista, Santa Fe, NM

87

Las Conchas Trail, Jemez Springs, NM

91

Echo Amphitheater, Carson National Forest, NM

97

2

• Identity

Santa Fe, NM Along Pacific Coast Highway, CA

98 100

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, Central Park, NYC 103 Leonora Curtin Wetlands Preserve, Santa Fe, NM

104

William Cullen Bryant Preserve, Long Island, NY

108

Lake, Central Park, NYC

111

Bow Bridge, Central Park, NYC

112

Leonora Curtin Wetlands Preserve, Santa Fe, NM

116

The Huntington, Botanical Gardens, San Marino, CA

119

Pond, Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, CA

120

Aspen Vista, Santa Fe, NM

123

Arizona - Sonora Desert Museum, Tucson, AZ

124

William Cullen Bryant Preserve, Long Island, NY

127

Bow Bridge, Central Park, NYC

131

Aspen Vista, Santa Fe, NM

132

Leonora Curtin Wetlands Preserve, Santa Fe, NM

135

Window Reflection - West 12th and 9th Avenue

138

Dubai, UAE

151, 155

204• Memory

Met Breuer, Madison Avenue, NYC

152

Art Gallery of Ontario - Toronto, Canada

156

SoHo, NYC

166

Ralph Lauren, East 72nd and Madison Avenue

169

Lower East Side, NYC

170

Chinatown, NYC

173

Manhattan, NYC

174

Subway, NYC

184

SoHo, NYC

Table of Contents

Meatpacking District, NYC

Table of Contents

Whitney Museum, NYC

Table of Contents

Jones Beach Boardwalk, Long Island, NY

Table of Contents

Church Of The Red Rocks, Sedona, AZ

Table of Contents

Railyard District, Santa Fe, NM

Table of Contents

Paris, France

Table of Contents

Along The High Line, NYC

202

Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, NM

204