Chrestomathy (Fall 2013)

CHRESTOMATHY Chrestomathy (from the Greek words krestos, useful, and mathein, to know) is a collection of choice literary passages.

In the study of literature, it is a type of reader or anthology that presents a sequence of example texts, selected to demonstrate the development of language or literary style.

“Think higher, feel deeper.”

(Elie Wiesel)

ARE YOU A WORD SHAKER? TAKER?

IMAGE MAKER?

WHAT IS THE POWER OF WORDS? A Publication of the Calhoun Middle School, Fall 2013

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INTRODUCTION

With the exception of Anna Koppelman’s compelling and thoughtful poem that opens this issue of Chrestomathy and Lillian Remler’s provocative end piece, the writing here has to do with various ways the seventh graders have dealt with studying the Holocaust. They learned about the horrifying history, expressed their own thoughts on Holocaust Remembrance Day, visited the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, and read both Elie Wiesel’s Night and Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief. In each of these instances, words became the power or the failure, the way to say what was palpable in their hearts or the way in which words could never do enough to express what was in the same place. These seventh graders were, as we have come to expect from Calhoun students, profoundly reflective and honest in what they had to say.

An issue of Chrestomathy that deals mostly or almost fully with the Holocaust has become a yearly expression of thoughts on this period in history. Here is why we spend our time on it:

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Where Words and the Heart Intersect Anna Koppelman

We are driving down the West Side Highway.

Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation is blasting from our car speakers.

My mom hands me a box of tissues – the tears haven’t started rolling down my cheeks yet, but my mom’s done this trip far too many times to innocently think today will be different.

We don’t say a word to each other for the first five minutes.

There’s no need for her to mention she has no idea where she is going and no point in my asking what she put into her GPS. I am the one to talk first.

I tell her about my day, every nook and cranny.

By the end of it, I am in tears.

I calm myself down with a breathing technique that I learned off a motivational tape my dad shoved in my room the other night.

This is my social agenda.

This is where I spend my time, crammed in between my mom’s crumpled up tissues and the smell of whatever my brother last left in the car when he was driving with his friends.

My mom lets out a subtle breath.

“I can’t wait to throw 7th grade a funeral.”

This is how these car rides always are. I get sad and she gets angry – then I get angry and she gets sad.

It’s a vicious cycle, but now my mom’s ranting, talking about how mean the girls were to her in 7th grade and I indifferently pretend to listen.

The song has changed. By now we are listening to whatever is next on our long drive playlist.

By now we have both agreed we are giving them too much of our time, as we find ourselves on the Cross County.

We are talking about makeup brands and how frizzy hair gets in the summer, about raincoats and bubble gum; ‘cause this is how it’s always been.

Before it was the car, it was the kitchen table and before that my crib and before that her stomach.

And this is how it will always be, because no matter who you are, you always need to find a way to escape.

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When Words Fail, But Still Break Your Heart: Yom Hashoah- Part 1 (Holocaust Remembrance Day)

Talia Kurlansky 1995 “What are you doing here?” asked a balding man in his mid seventies.

“I…” the other man in his early sixties with wide set eyes stopped, thought for a moment and then decided to walk on.

“You think you can ignore me?” screamed the first man to the next one walking down the street ignoring him. The balding man ran after the second. “Wait!” He screamed.

“I am done. Understand? Done!” said the second man turning around.

The first man stopped. He looked straight into the second man eyes and said, “As long we both live, you and I both know that we are nowhere near done.” The second man took a breath.

“Understand?” said the first man, mocking the second.

“Kirt, I’m tired of this. The war ended years ago, why can’t we?” said the second man.

“Oh Noah, the War was just the starting point. There are future generations. We weren’t even the beginning.” And the first man gave a sly grin.

Fifty Years Earlier 1945

“Hurry!” screamed a man in the group. Noah was one Jew among twenty in a program that found Jews places to hide while the war was going on. It was the middle of the night and four

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Jews, including Noah, were assigned a house on Zarkof Street in Austria. Once at his assignment the rest of the group would continue on to their respective locations.

“Rosenthal, Kinsky, Levonah, Josin....this is it. You are staying with the Honksteins.” Noah Kinsky and the three other Jews prepared to leave. They said goodbye and thanked all of the people who had helped them. The four Jews went around the back of the house and knocked on a cellar door to the beat of the code they were given.

A short woman in her thirties opened the doors. “Hurry, in!” she said.

Eli Fortunato Thoughts I’m blessed that I’m not in that time line. The horror, the pain, everything. I’m a Jew and I’m happy I am one. But what would have happened if I was there? What would my life be like? I wouldn’t have a smile. If I did, they would kill me.

I wish I could go back and stop all of this from happening. Imagine if we lost. I would never meet my friends and wouldn’t know a lot of my relatives. If I could go back, I would change people. My speeches might not have defeated his, but my hands could. I would kill him. I know killing isn’t right, but would you kill millions of innocent people or a terrible dictator, who today we still talk about? Imagine how many lives there would be.

Really, I just need to understand why would someone do that.

This should never happen again. I won’t let it. What the hell did they even do? Nobody ever wanted to step up. Everything they did to my own kind. They were murdered, tortured, starved, destroyed

Celia Goodman In this place all are sad.

All are lost.

All the women and all the children and all the old.

Nothing we could do.

Just survive to fight.

I called to God. All night All day He did not answer.

Is he there?

Does he care?

Can he see what I see?

To the trains we went The doors closed To the camps we went The gates closed And the stripes On the men.

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And still No reply.

What have I done to deserve this?

To the showers we went The doors closed.

Jake Madsen

I feel bad for the families who had members lost to the Holocaust. I feel like I should do something to help them through the pain, but at the same time I feel like it will just make them remember that they lost a relative to this horrible event. I’m not sure if I should try even if there is a chance I’d make them feel better about what happened because it might just make them feel worse because they’d remember they lost family members. I have experienced this, but my family member survived the Holocaust and lived a full life. I feel very grateful she survived because only 1 out of 3 Jews survived the Holocaust and she was one of the three.

Lindsay Jackman

The Pathway to Heaven As I walk the pathway to heaven The fire of hell is burning in the distance Going farther away The smoke dirtying others

As I walk the pathway to heaven The sinners cannot see what is right They are possessed, and run away from the path But the guards of heaven drag them to hell To burn

As I walk the pathway to heaven The guards strip us of clothes And hair To help the others, they say But who?

As I walk the pathway to heaven I smell the smoke of hell But I thought we weren’t sinners?

No matter To ascend to heaven we must go through hell As I arrive to heaven I know something is wrong

But it is too late

The guards of heaven are the demons of hell They have tricked us In their games

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I don’t smell the smoke of hell I smell the gas of sinners And I laugh For I will ascend to heaven And the demons will burn

Scum He cries out “Look for them!”

And I do For I want to preserve ourselves And save our country from scum

But as I look onto an attic I see faces hidden They see me They look starved Defeated

And something inside me Turns in despair I could rid my country of them Or I could save them

I could be a hero for finding this many Promoted, treated well If I do this regularly, I could be a general soon Hunt down the scum Weed out the weak

But we brought this upon them Lives of young ones are in my hands They may be scum But they are people And we will condemn them to death Who is the scum?

When I say this, I know who is right I look to them one last time, then call down “No one is here!

And climb down The captain is satisfied And we take our leave

But not before I see A kid looking at me Saying all the words no one can say Thanks.

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Light The light doesn’t shine here When would it?

They make sure the light never comes They will kill the light if they have to

The light doesn’t shine here Where would it?

Only darkness is here Too much for the light to shine

The light doesn’t shine here How would it?

No one can see the light It is scared by them

The light doesn’t’ shine here Who would?

No one would carry the light For fear of the dark

The light doesn’t shine in here Why would it?

Only darkness is here Covering the skies And souls

Jake Roshkow

Pain and Starvation The weather was only stormy to me Hungry For love Starving For Religion God will get me out He will help us And He did

My throat was burning from screaming my papa’s name. It’s just my mom and I now, in this basement I’m supposed to call home. We moved here a year ago; my father went out every night to his Communist meetings. This night was different, though. The family warned us not to go out, but my papa still went. When we woke up in the morning he wasn’t there, so I screamed his name. My mom put her hand on my mouth and said, “ It’s just you and me now.”

A tear peeked out of my eyes in slow motion. “Why does god have to make the worst moments last longer, Mama?” I said.

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“Things get worse before they get better,” she said. She always knows the ways to comfort me, but things never got better until the family came downstairs a couple of years later and said, “Come now, it’s over”.

That was the greatest moment of my life. I ran outside and danced with my mom. I took out the Jewish star from the basement and wore it. Now, years later, I tell my grandkids this story and I say to them what my mom always told me. “Things get worse before they get better.”

The Devil and His Minions Marched the Devil’s march Did the Devil’s salute Did the Devil’s chores Made us all suffer Stripped us from God And wore the Devil’s uniform No one knew Because their horns were within their disguise

Teo Torrado

From the something to nothing, its crazy how it happened; at one moment you’re at home drinking some relaxing hot chocolate, then the next you’re at Auschwitz being shoved into darkness with no light for hope. I admit that Hitler was a very smart man. It was like his plans almost worked out perfectly and we were foolish to let him have freedom. With his freedom, he used it as he wished. He did it all, made the trains, the camps, the belief and the hope for blond haired, blue eyed white people.

Heather Sundaresan

This Place

What is it like to know your country, your home, the place you’ve been loyal to, is almost entirely against you, and goes out of its way to exterminate your people? I think it must feel like absolute betrayal. Like when you trust someone with everything and they treat it like nothing and turn on you, except much, much worse. The place you’ve grown up in has suddenly changed from your home to a place of hostility and you have to hide from who you once thought was on your side. Your family is now endangered and what can you do about it but hope you can continue to hide until it is all over? And what if it is never over? Would one start to consider the thought that maybe they deserved it? Deserved to be treated like a criminal, an outsider? I think the worst realization would be the fact that you are not one with your country as you once thought; that they are against you and you must hide from your own home.

Lillian Remler

This place Once my home My country

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My safety Is now turning Turning swiftly Against me Although I have always been loyal

We used to be Us A country A nation One Now It’s Us and them Me and you Different and normal Dead and alive

Never again Will we obey Those who seek Our blood to be burned We will fight And die For justice And what is right Never again

Every night Flash back to the horror The prisons The uniforms The death And I remember I will be forever Scared

Herded like sheep Punished like dogs Killed like cattle That’s all we were Animals

Taken We were taken Our Identity Our privacy Our lives Taken Lost forever Into the depths of the Nazi flame

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I sit here Behind bars Drenched in tears And blood And horror And I wonder Which one of us deserves to burn in Hell forever

Jason Kauppila

The silence. Sometimes the silence is worse than shouting, worse than physical abuse. It can be worse because it thrusts upon one the time to solely think and reflect on how they have been treated, how it is so unfair and not right, though they can’t do anything about it. The felling of hopelessness has already taken so many in its cold, uncomfortable arms. The Holocaust was not only horrible because the Nazis killed so many, but the survivors are now changed so deeply, that when they get a time of pure aloneness and silence, the ghosts of their fellow Jewish members of community, normal people, are surrounding the survivors.

I am at a loss of words now for this. I am so deeply blown with a horrible feeling. How did Hitler manipulate so many people? Also, seeing images, listening to songs, watching videos, has really put into perspective the horribleness of the Nazi party. It is necessary to see these. Even to just put into perspective a little bit. I know I haven’t even seen the worst, and I can’t even imagine what the worst would be. Monday was the Holocaust Remembrance Day, and if we all unite, we all remember, all of our force and thoughts will only do well in preventing any other genocide.

I’m Christian, but that shouldn’t matter when remembering one of the worst things that have ever happened in history. We remember the Holocaust, Yom Ha Shoah.

Asha Perry

There was a man He was older than the others He wore a beard and torn clothes His eyes were the color of agony As weightless as he was, he was too heavy for his legs To carry him.

Several times, he fell.

He rose to his knees and fought his way back up The ache in his arms was unbearable to watch as he shook He fell He was dead The man was dead.

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Becca Horowitz

The silence is broken by the cries and screams of innocent people. As they wait with the unknown, they wonder if they will die that day. The struggle and torture lived on with them another day. Nobody could have ever imagined this; even crossed their minds until it happened. Hoping this is just some crazy thing and they will just wake up and be out; but it’s not. The people next to them could be the last people to see them alive again. The last breath they just took could be the last one they ever take. The next step could be the last step forever.

The not knowing kills some. They just don’t know anything. There is no return home in sight, or ever, for millions.

Endless Night

The dark red trail in the mud, Deep and sunken, Overlapping so many that they’ll never dissolve, Yellow shapes that have points, Skinnier than the smallest limb of a tree, No longer feeling the pain of hunger, A bath that will never be taken, A night that will never fade, A night that will last forever, and even when dawn comes to aid, It’s too late, Endless night, Souls embedded into their “graves,” Free of the pain, And too late to save.

Leah Chen

Faith To have Faith, Is to have Hope, Pandora left Hope in her pithos for a reason, The spirit of Eplis never really left us, Mankind, She will always burn in the depths of our soul, Everyone has a special relationship with Faith, We make up, We break up, And then we make up again, Because so matter how out of control our lives are, Faith will never depart from us, No really, We would all be dead by now if it weren’t for her, And even when we’re floating in Heaven or burning in Hell, Faith will always linger on our fingertips, No matter how saddened our souls are,

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Always remember Pandora never let Faith go, And you don’t have to either.

My Last My last fresh meal My last bath My last night of sleep My last stroll in the town My last breath of freedom My last day of life As I take my first step onto the car that will take me away I take a moment and remember my whole life It wasn’t perfect, but I give thanks for what I had I don’t know what is going on, but I know it’s not good I go to the back of the cart It’s small and is filled to capacity I find a space for me and my mom to sit We sit down, but I stand right back up when a little boy coughs blood on my blouse I go and sit next to my mom, holding her tight, asking her what is going to happen to us We are on the cattle car for a couple of hours Nobody gives the passengers food Luckily my mom snuck some fruit for us.

The car stops Somebody tries to run, but the soldier beats him to it and when they brought him back on There was a slash across his face and he was trembling with fear The train car started again and it stopped an hour later The doors opened and fifty guards were lined up outside They ordered us to line up against the wall When I stepped out of the cart I was shocked I had never seen anything like it before All around I saw suffering A man walked down assigning us to different lines The man told me and my mother to go to the line on the left We walked over and waited in line; when we got closer I saw people getting undressed When we got even closer we were ordered inside and then to take off our clothes They told us we were getting a shower I was happy about that because I still had a little blood on me They led us downstairs and through an open door and we went in There are about twenty children and women I heard a loud noise Then smoke poured out of the walls At first I thought it was water, but Then all I saw and felt was blackness

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Andrei Toback

Death Presses On Death appears everywhere On a battlefield with stalwart soldiers On a quiet train full of weary travelers Even in an office building filled with working stiffs

It depends on how you see it An evil robed scythe-­carrying humanoid Or a gloomy mist We might even think of it as a golden aura, coming to help relieve the agony

Many people are horrified of death Some greet death with a smile A few meet it untouched, unaffected, unafraid None come face to face with it alive

We can’t see death, we won’t notice it coming Death is eternal Stalking its unknowing and arrogant prey When it is in our presence we won’t know till it claims our souls.

Tallulah Woitach Untitled A vessel for sadness and pain.

Though innocent and delicate, it fills these people and children like a seashell.

The way a single person can hold the sorrow of millions, a seashell holds all the echoes of the sea, and a survivor holds the echoes of the lost.

Though more terrible than we can understand, we must remember.

For them.

The ones who were murdered by gas and flame.

The ones who were tortured.

The ones who were raped.

Remember them.

They never came back.

They left and we never saw them.

Ever again.

No escape.

This is a nightmare; it must be.

Where can I go?

Nowhere to run,

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just a gas chamber or gunmen over trenches.

When will I finally wake?

Goodbye.

I’ll see you soon after we get out.

I’ll always be with you.

Goodbye.

I’ll see you in the sky.

Someday we’ll both be stars.

Far away from this pain and horror, shining together in the sky.

Anna Koppelman Untitled It took me three hours to fall asleep last night.

The rain patted against the windows.

My stomach rumbled in anticipation.

I could feel my brother’s body at the other end of the bed and I was thinking about today.

If the girls would be mean, if a boy would be especially nice, if my outfit would be up to par, if people would still like me.

It’s funny to think how important these small things are to me.

That these are the ghosts that keep me up, when not so long ago, people of my own kind were up at night wondering if this was the day they would die, if the Nazis were coming for them, if the time was coming close.

Was this the last night they would spend worrying if someone was coming, if they would be safe, if the war was over, if someone would finally realize that all tears are the same, that all blood is red, and all hearts are pure till we make them not.

But I wake up, and put on my mascara and brush the blush on, brush my teeth and smile.

My stomach

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still rumbles, so I go and eat my breakfast and leave for school – because at a certain point, we all have to leave our tears behind and take charge in order to get anything done.

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When Words Fail – Part 2 Reflections on Visiting the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

SHOES

Katie Hade

My first step into the Holocaust Museum was troubling and the atmosphere was odd. It was uncomfortable, uneasy, and made me quite cautious to not even make the smallest sound.

I did not like it. Not in the slightest bit, but who would? I almost felt interrogated, as if they were waiting to see my reaction and judge it.

But the way I felt witnessing genocide over video and seeing shoes and belongings of those whose lives were lost, can never be described. It was a new emotion, one I could not describe or understand. And it felt like a kick in the back of the head.

I came across an old train car, perhaps practically right in the middle of the museum. It smelled like fear and death and it made my stomach turn. I felt uncomfortable standing there, like I was trespassing. For all I know, I could’ve been standing where an innocent man or woman died. I suddenly felt quite weary and lonesome, a feeling that even brings guilt and an instinct to leave.

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During my time at the museum, I was able to watch every single video in the main exhibit until each one ended. During that time, I kept thinking in my head – this is unreal. This is insanity, this is disgusting. And I felt ashamed. Maybe it had something to do with being born in this generation. Maybe it was this dark truth that I couldn’t save any of those lives.

Noah Copperman

When I first walked in, all I could do was try to prepare myself as best as I was able to. Then the clay sculpture literally made me feel sick and the audio recordings of people who recounted their experiences will stay with me, partly because of the kids who were laughing at it. Sickness was the overriding emotion; sickness because of what the Nazis did, sickness because of the almost bombing of Auschwitz and Birkenau. The ground felt like it was shifting beneath my feet.

Becca Horowitz

When I first walked into the exhibits, I was honestly a little scared to see what I would witness.

The floor we were on first was about the Germans coming into great power and starting to basically take over. As we moved through the museum, the further we went down, the worse it got. It became very dark and had a creepy, sad feel to it. It was very quiet and I think it was more powerful like that. When I left, I kept processing what I’d just seen, over and over and over.

When I saw the cattle car and walked through it, it made be feel upset. I thought about the people in it on the way to the camps. There was one video that really shocked me. It was about these malnourished people dropping dead and others going into the gas chambers.

Finally, there were the shoes. When I saw the shoes, I thought to myself, “Oh, my God.” I was absolutely shocked.

Through the whole museum, I was in disbelief. I was gasping at points with my hands over my face. My thoughts and feelings were all over the place because I had so many different emotions. I felt anger, sadness, shock, and disbelief. It was very important that I saw this museum.

Jeniffer Rodriguez

I walked into the Holocaust Museum thinking I would be the one to console the others. I would be the stronger one. I was wrong.

As soon as I walked in, my heart sank. Everywhere I looked, I saw something that hurt. We started from the fourth floor and worked our way down to the first. Anna K., Celia, and I. By the time we got to the third floor, I was crying. The tears were just rolling down my cheeks.

How could someone do something so terrible? Could anyone just get up and continue living after something so terrible?

The exhibit that got me the most was the one with all the shoes. The poem on the wall went something like: “Because we are made of leather and not blood and flesh, we survived.” I was blown away by how much people had to live through. I was just astonished. Why? How? Each tear asked a different question and each question led to the same answer. It just happened.

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Tallulah Woitach

My reaction when I first walked into the museum was that it was a large place and that it was going to be pretty intense. On that front I was right, but that didn’t prepare me for what I saw as I went further into the memorial

Walking through the cattle car was one of the things that made the Holocaust real to me in a way I never expected. The smell, the haunted look, as though it once held so much desperation, feelings, and fear. But now … just empty. It seemed so sad; all of the horrors it brought its passengers were now finished. The damage was done. Those poor people had already been humiliated, tortured, raped, and now all that was left of their transport was all gone.

Also, there was the prisoner’s uniform, black and white-­striped, it looked so dark and full of despair. It reeked of the Holocaust. The work, the pain. Now it was just hanging there as it held an invisible prisoner.

Adrian Ercilla Antrobus

When I first went inside the museum, I felt like I was in a holy place. It had an eerie feeling to it. When I left, I felt changed, like I had been as close as possible to the Holocaust. The cattle car was the most “feel-­driven” part of the whole museum. I almost felt the souls within the car itself. I felt like I did not belong inside.

Soren Hixon

My reaction when I first walked into the exhibit was shock. It was crazy and amazing that so much could have happened. I felt awed when we left, having experience so much. I felt so small, crushed by the memories and sadness exhibited by hundreds of grieving people.

There were many objects that will haunt me; two were particularly shocking and terrible. The first was the cattle car where Hitler’s prisoners were taken. The smallness of it was just simply shocking. The second was the model of how arrivals went at death camps. People had to leave their clothing and possessions behind. They were then led into a shower, where they were gassed to death with carbon monoxide and, later in time, with Zyklon B. They were then removed and cremated or buried. The model was so shocking, so horrible, that it will stay with me for a very, very long time.

Luke Sprecher

The object that really struck me was the sign over Auschwitz, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” or “Work Sets You Free.” The meaning, combined with the intensity of the concentration camp exhibit, made it hard to imagine it hanging over one of the biggest concentration camps ever.

I feel like it was a really uncomfortable situation and that it was definitely meant to be that. It was also necessary that we went there.

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Romi Konorty

When I first walked in, things suddenly got very quiet. When I left, I felt like a different person.

It was like I had gone through the Holocaust without any direct pain.

Gabe Parker

When I first walked into the museum and stepped out of that strange elevator, I saw a huge photo of hundreds of dead, burned Jews and in big letters, the sentence, “I’ll never forget.” That struck my heart and I just lost all my emotions. It was hard walking through hours of sadness, struggle, pain and death.

This was the first time I had ever gone into detail about the Holocaust, so seeing and hearing all these things, step by step, made it harder. When I walked out of the museum, we had about one hour of free time and for probably a good thirty minutes of so, I just sat down and thought about what I had seen.

I knew the museum was going to be sad. I was already prepared. I have to say, though, that I was heartbroken.

Arno Sugarman

When I first walked into the museum, I was uncomfortable and shocked. The silence was eerie, leaving me scared and nervous to disturb visitors and potential relatives of those whose lives were lost during that tragic time. By the time I had exited the museum, I felt more knowledgeable on the topic – much of what I learned was disturbing, even beyond comprehension, which left me to only contemplate and reflect During my time there, I tried to refrain from talking. Only silence and thought filled my mind.

Jake Stevenson

When I first walked in, I was scared about what I was to see. What I saw was terrifying. When I left, I felt a little dull, as if what I had just seen was a really bad nightmare.

The part that stuck with me most was going through the cattle car and then into the little model of the barracks. They looked so stiff and unforgiving, like they would beat you up if they were people. My thoughts on the museum burn me, like am drinking hot chocolate too fast. I am consuming the memories and they are burning me.

In Night, by Elie Wiesel, Mrs. Schachter said, “I see fire, I see flames.” Those thoughts were burning her and my memories are burning me.

Nicole Carey

When I first walked into the museum, it was really quiet and dark. Then I came off the elevator and saw a huge picture of the concentration camp with dead bodies. That hit me so hard, it was like someone punched me in the gut. I was shocked. After I left, I was so shocked about everything I saw that I couldn’t even cry. It really hit me hard. I didn’t expect it to be like that. It was not a normal museum.

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I walk in for the first time a cold chill runs down my spine I think of the number 11 million I think of each death They hit me hard like a punch in the gut I didn’t cry I was in too much shock I barely spoke My mind was only there – Nothing else in the world mattered.

Just the Holocaust Museum and me.

Codee Lawtum

Walking into silence, Coming out different.

Knowing Silent, thinking, absorbing Shocked by the video about Children being experiments.

Blood grows cold, heart sprints away When you see where they slept, When you read what happened, When you hear the exhibit with the voices, Never understanding, Now knowing, Never the same When you come out Wondering what happened To the survivors.

What did they think about?

All sorts of thoughts Fighting for dominance In my head When I come out …

Anna Vettori

When I first went into the museum, I was nervous. I was very tired – because crying makes me tired – when I left.

I walked around the museum with Rea, who cried practically the whole time. I cried at the cattle car, the barracks, the model of the gas chambers, and the pile of shoes. When I started crying, Rea would hug me. As if without communicating, she knew I needed it.

The pile of shoes shook me so hard that I couldn’t stop crying. I started seeing individual shoes, such as a pair of high heels that looked a lot like a pair my mom used to have.

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Anna Koppelman

Every single place we went to in DC had something to do with death. The Lincoln Memorial points to all the people who died to end slavery. Martin Luther King was shot. And especially the Holocaust Museum. Death, death, death. Everything we saw had death in it. It’s something we didn’t escape.

We all try to be good people so we go to a good place when we die. We are all looking out to protect ourselves against something we cannot control. We are spending so much time on the future that we forget to live in the present.

Jake Roshkow

Endless Nights Endless Silence Endless Pain Endless Torture Then It ended It didn’t leave without a trace We remember

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When Words(and Phrases) Are Discovered (And Reconfigured) FOUND POEMS IN The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak (Located and Combined)

What does it mean to write a found poem? It involves a student looking through a book and discovering words or phrases that are deeply meaningful, that jump off the page, that have wings. The student then keeps a list of those words and phrases. At a point where the student has enough of these fragmentary pieces of a story, he or she puts them together in whatever way works for him or her. The result is what is termed a found poem. These can be poems only with the words/phrases from the book or with additional words/phrases added by the poet.

Lillian Remler

The Color of Europe

The color of Europe Like oil-­stained pages With juice red faces

The color of Europe Dressed in snow and venom With a moon sewn into the night

The color of Europe Completely bloodless With waxy yellows and Murky darkness

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Their heart punctured Their lungs beaten Their sleep heavy

Their whole spectrum a Murky darkness With no slippery blues And no binding whites

They’re bathed in anxiety In small box-­like miseries And no one notices

Hungry (a combined found poem)

She arrived on the doorstep Frosty blood on her fingers

On someone else’s doorstep Arms stiff as hangers

She waited with starved eyes Caked in snow and worry

But no one came for her So she will be permanently hungry

Nonexistent Arms

He reached out his nonexistent arms He called out with his weak, wiry voice But no one came

He clung on with his battered fingers He gasped for life with his beaten lungs But no one came

He cried cold, salty cloud-­spat tears He inhaled handfuls of suffering But no one ever came

Beautiful Evil The beautiful evil

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Controlling and abusive Charred their hope

The beautiful evil Dangerous and cruel Magnified their small miseries

The beautiful evil Devilish and destructive Stained the world forever

Lukas Jarvi

I The one Who is left behind Crumbling among The jigsaw puzzle Of despair and Surprise

Their childish voices And the smiles Like salt Beating and puncturing My heart and lungs

I kneel On my bed Screaming and shouting At those childish voices I am not malicious, I whispered.

Talia Kurlansky

Nice Has Nothing to Do With Me

The day was gray, the color of Europe.

The sky like soup.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow Of the blinding kind.

If you feel like it, come with me Whatever the hour and color

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I am a result Nice has nothing to do with me.

She met him on the street The cardboard texture of her complexion She had dangerous eyes A juicy red face

Soon, they would both be in the war.

Jason Kaupilla

The Crazy Man

In the neighborhood, which was thought to be the safest neighborhood of all, there was a man, a crazy man. Trees wore blankets in this winter wonderland of a place. Still, the crazy man just stood. The fallen snow was dirty around him more than anyone else; it was cold and heavy, slippery and gray. I was the first to notice the man. His gentle voice made its way to me, as if slipping through a crowd. I didn’t know what I was doing when I walked over to him and as we sat in the rising pool of darkness, I didn’t know better, so I sat there, still as predator eying his prey.

I didn’t know it, though – the man was the predator, a very crazy predator. I closed my eyes and didn’t know what I felt when the life I had known so well vanished completely. The hidden gun clipped a hole in the night. I had one eye open at the time, one still in the dream, and with the closing of my other eye, I was forgotten by the people, lost if you will. They placed me on the ground for the longest nap I will ever take. The cemetery welcomed me as a friend. As for my killer, the one who tucked me in, he went about still, silently tucking in others. He was a crazy man.

Gianna Stock

I waved As they held hands They turned And left With a soaking farewell.

A few moments longer No one waved back.

The moon sewn in to the clouds in the sky Inside a mess of high pitched words Holding her words in her hands like clouds

She could not longer walk

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The sky was dripping It was a breakfast-­colored sun But it was still snowing in the kitchen of 31 Himmel Street She wondered why Remember the white cloud with the gray heart?

Stef Sarantis

Found Poem #1

You are going to die Your soul will be in my arms I will carry you away gently You will be safe in you own body

I am not nice I am nothing If not fair

Am I violent?

No. Am I malicious?

No. I am a result

Found Poem #2

Empty stomached girl Standing on the street That looked like oil-­stained pages The sky like soup Was boiling and stirring The other children laughed But were decaying

Gabe Parker

The whole globe was dressed in snow Trees were blankets of ice The world was sagging now Under the weight of all that snow You can see bite marks of snow on her hand Frosty blood on her fingers The sky was cold and heavy Slippery and grey The sky was like soup Boiling and stirring

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There was nothing but nothingness In the sky

Adrian Ercilla Antrobus

In most small towns people go by They don’t notice anyone This is how I feel I am death I am never to be seen Until their time has come

That last time Tears were in the book thief’s face A small soul was in my arms I am haunted by humans

Night That last time Tears were in the book thief’s face A small soul was in my arms I am haunted by humans.

Please Max, just don’t die Is he still awake?

The bombs were coming – and so was I Five hundred souls I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases

How many times did she has to say goodbye?

Keep playing, Papa They’re not moving They’re not moving

The last time when the coughing stopped The Gravedigger’s Handbook was the last time she saw Her mother and brother Hans Huberman would have no trouble being Dad Rosa was harder Her brother’s face Staring at the floor Thereness Only helped

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Romi Konorty

The last time I saw her was red.

Within seconds, snow was carved into her skin. Frozen blood was cracked across her hands.

The boy’s spirit was soft and cold like ice cream.

His blue eyes stared at the floor. Seeing nothing.

Her heart at the point was slippery and hot, and loud, so loud so loud.

Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.

I WAVED. NO ONE WAVED BACK.

Lukas Jarvi

They were arranging a meeting For later on In the night They looked at each other He shivered The darkness stroked Him It was only two words My struggle

Their quiet sentences Drifted from the kitchen Into the night One whispered The young man Heard it

“If they killed him tonight It would be better than Tomorrow,” One man said.

It was triumph Before the Storm

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He would dream His Nightmares And wake up Screaming in the Drowning sheets In the corners He would face the Flames

His body jumped And embraced it Until he snapped back Onto the floor His flaming body towering Over me

All my life I’ve been scared Of people standing Over me

Anonymous

1.

Fate Misfortune They fall on top of each other the scribble signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red saying …

I am all bluster I am not violent I am not malicious I am a result We all know that is lie …

For we all know it is death

2.

Oil-­stained pages. When I arrived, I could still hear the echoes The feet tapping the road The children-­voices laughing, and smiles like salt, but decaying fast.

But all too late Soon blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood.

The sky was now a devastating, home-­cooked red; snowflakes of ash fell so lovely you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them only they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.

This time, everything was too late All too late.

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Becca Horowitz

She could see her broken heart, In two pieces, Frigidly.

Still in disbelief, To flow the stem of sadness, A final soaking farewell was let go of.

In all truthfulness, With the abandonment and being alone, A scream dribbled down the air.

Rarely seen was a starving smile.

Delight in life has been taken away Lives clashed with terror, Burned to flames Threat heated up Cracking.

People need desperate help For now, he could only sit on his suitcase couch, Hands under his chin, his elbows burning his thighs.

Starving sleep.

Jolted.

When scared So desperately dark, Each time he moved, There was a sound of a crease, He was like a man in a paper suit.

Alex Rogers

They held hands.

A final, soaking farewell Was let go of.

And they turned And left the cemetery.

Looking back several times.

As for me, I remained a few moments longer.

I waved.

No one Waved back.

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Jake Madsen

The world was sagging now, under the weight of all that snow Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins Trees wore blankets of ice The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring In some places, it was burned There was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle A gang of tears trudged from her eyes as she held on and refused to go inside You could still see the bite marks of snow on her hands and the frosty

blood on her fingers.

The brass knocker eyed her from the door

Lindsay Jackman

Here is a small fact You are going to die Does this worry you?

Please, trust me I am nothing if not fair

I urge you – don’t be afraid At some point in time I will be standing over you Your soul will be in my arms You will know me well enough

First the colors Then the humans I witness the ones who are left behind.

A scream will dribble in the air Crumbling along the jigsaw puzzle of realization They have punctured hearts

It’s just a small story, really.

Creators and Knockers

We were created to create But we don’t always obey the rules of nature Because every good thing Has a shining light But also a dimming one

We’re building to the top But there’s always a knocker

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Who tries to knock us down With our own creations

The knockers create too But they never use them for good But no one knows why they don’t use them for good Money?

Power?

Spite?

It doesn’t matter Knockers are knockers And we have to stop them

Why do creators create?

Why do knockers knock?

To build to a better goal Or to destroy it

We were gifted with thumbs We conquered the need for survival And so we aimed for more But it doesn’t make sense Why knockers knock us down All I know is We gotta knock them down

Dominoes

Can I knock them down?

No. We all will.

Together, They would watch everything That was so carefully planned Collapse And smile At the beauty of destruction And while the dominoes were falling like dead bodies Darkness flowed in.

She had one golden rule A sharp-­edged woman with fat glasses And a nefarious glare Which she occupied with soldierlike posture White and cold, and completely bloodless But She’s going to kill

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And she very nearly did She had one golden rule Featured heavily In the administration of punishment

All was dark-­skied and hazy That red sky The Aryan shopkeeper The road of yellow stars She had one golden rule

Noah Copperman

I am not malicious Nice has nothing to do with me Tears were frozen Septic truth bleeds Caked in your own body I am not malicious

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Nice has nothing to do with me Tears were frozen Quite a lot of thievery The dwindling smell of smoke I am not malicious Nice has nothing to do with me This metallic little bird Thrown down by humans, hiding in the clouds One corpse You are going to die I am not malicious Nice has nothing to do with me

They’re running at me None of them came back Where’s the will to hold on?

To win or to lose The conversation of bullets

“You’re still alive” A voiceless human His tortured existence Nothing but goneness Who were these people?

“I will kill you”

One wild card yet to be played I like that a lot Again the conversation of bullets Rusting into his palm It was a day in which he had some work Everything was good, but it was awful too

She might snap She wasn’t going to kill him “Try to forget about it” But every moment was accounted for And as she calmed herself from a nightmare She watched Papa as he slept, going to see his son

“You’re our kind of idiot Far too tough Still with red teeth Polishing your wicked ways” She looked like she might snap “I think we may have killed him” “Do you feel bad?”

His mouth ripped open

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“Of course I do”

There was a young man parceled up The house was pale At the end, the church disappeared

Leah Chen

Signature Black The whole globe, Was dressed in snow.

White-­ snow sky, At the window of the moving train.

The world was sagging, Under the weight of all that snow.

A face with the shades pulled down, Tried eyes, Melting metallic eyes.

Alive with dust, The yellow light.

Amplified, The book opened, A gust of wind exhausted itself.

Bits and pieces of floating despair.

There was nothing left to give.

What color, will everything be, at the moment when I come for you?

What will the sky be saying?

Seek out the colors.

A sky to slowly suck on, A billion or so flavors.

A day, merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with every passing moment.

Thousands of colors, None of them quite the same.

The moon was sewn into the sky, Clouds stitched around it.

The gun clipped a hole into the night, it was too late to bother understanding anything.

Far down, There was an itch in his heart, He made a point not to scratch it,

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afraid of what might come leaking out.

The moon was undone now, Free to move, rise, fall, and dip on the boy’s face.

Nothing was clear.

A mountain range of rubble crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise.

They have punctures hearts, they have beaten lungs.

The sky was like soup, boiling, stirring.

Black crumbs and pepper streaked across the home-­cooked red.

They were glued down, every last one of them.

A packet of souls.

Snowflakes of ash, so lovely, stretch your tongue out to catch them, to taste them, scorching your lips, cooking your mouth.

The septic truth bleeds toward clarity.

Within seconds, snow covered their skin, frozen blood caked across her hands.

Somewhere in the snow, she could still see a broken heart, in two pieces.

Each half was glowing, beating under all that white.

There was the chaos, of goodbye

Gate of God The smell of friendship, stemmed the flow of struth, so much good, so much evil.

A woman wailing, bits and pieces of floating despair, the dark, the light.

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A fire would be lit, a book of fire, a mountain of ash, like a magnet, a freak.

Red marks like footprints, BURNED.

And that was when the great shiver arrived.

(Mixed Found Poem) The sky was filled with bombs, fire and ash, the world ablaze, raining beautifully as they engulf Himmel Street.

The Book Thief is writing in the basement, while the lemon-­haired boy dreams, and Mama snores and Papa sleeps.

And still they sleep, When the Book Thief awakens, When the Book Thief’s heart is shattered into glass pieces.

Jesse Owens tastes dusty and sweet, like regret in the shadows of trees, under the crying sky of Himmel Street.

The Book Thief begs for him to awaken, but he is now in an undisturbed sleep; streams of sorrow flow down the Book Thief’s face …

What about a kiss, Saumensch?

She finds herself face to face with the great saumensch herself, voicing a memory of goodbye, as Mama gives her heart a wathchen.

Red ash falls like snowflakes all around her as her heart pauses, and her heart tightens and glows with strength that enables her to turn around to look at the man with silver eyes, not dead ones.

The man she loves the most, The man who played the accordion, The man who taught her how to read, The man who understood her, The man who was one of the greatest joys in her life, The man who saved her from death, The man who was her Papa.

The world is a black hole on Himmel Street, a magnetic force pulling everything within its reach into its grasp.

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A red and very much alive heart beats within her, the one and only Book Thief; her heart glowed in two pieces, fighting its way out under all that ash and rubble.

Kai Petkov

He climbed down into the shivering snow, with his coat hanger arms He is starving The train galloped on Orange and red embers looked like rejected candy Smoke climbed over his shoulders It felt as if the whole globe was dressed in snow Trees wore blankets of ice A warm scream filled his throat

Kai Petkov

The air raid hit the city The bombs came down, and soon, the clouds would bake and the cold raindrops would turn to ash Houses were splashed from one side of the street to another Three deep gashes were made in the earth People lined the streets As the crowd arrived, things had changed What was left of the blackness above was nothing but a scribble, and disappearing fast Nothing was spoken Nothing but thoughts Each person stood and played with the quietness and the glow of fire Orange flames waved at the crowd From further away it looked like something volcanic

Jeniffer Rodriguez

It was a soft, yellow dressed afternoon His sentences flowed in the light, stemming the flow of truth Within seconds, snow was carved into her skin Frozen blood was cracked across her hands She could see her broken heart, in two pieces Her brother’s face He was dead

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Anna Vettori

The moon and the clouds watched him tightly as sleep deprivation whittled under his eyes.

And his head was heavy as he drifted into a dream.

In his dream, soft-­spoken words fell through the moon that was sewn into the sky at night.

Clouds were stitched around it.

A hurry of thoughts woke him as he sucked in a large clump of air

Ryan Tremblay

As you might expect, someone died.

The dynamic train guard duo.

The ones left behind.

They had punctured hearts, they had beaten lungs.

The cause, a refrigerated dark chocolate.

Arno Sugarman

Hope in Darkness

When I glanced back at the plane The man’s mouth appeared to be Smiling A final dirty joke.

But a suddenness found its way Onto his lips then, Which were a corroded brown Color and peeling Like old paint In desperate need of

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Redoing.

He warmed up soon after, But when I picked him Up originally, the man’s spirit Was soft and cold Like ice cream He started melting in my arms.

Then warming up completely.

Healing.

Matthew Vazquez

His blue eyes stared at the floor Seeing nothing His sentences glowed in the light One still in a dream Liesel had no idea where she was The girl, however, stayed A warm scream filled her throat

First the colors A single hour can consist of thousands of Different colors After a small collection of minutes I rush And some people cling longer Was it fate?

Tallulah Woitach It was calm white Snow was carved into her skin Frozen blood was cracked across her smooth white hands Only the girl saw it She picked it up and held it in her fingers The book had silver writing on it Black against her white skin like an eclipse Cold light invited her out A circle on the dribbled glass Pale and fogged up One eye open One still in a dream

Crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization Despair and surprise They have punctured hearts

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Beaten and blinding A dark juicy red blood flow Dropped from their mouths like jewels The darkest moment before the dawn When the dark sun rises Sly and unwanted Like a yellow hole dripping in the sky

Goodbye A six year-­old boy died in the third carriage His blue eyes stared at the floor The book theif and her brother were traveling towards Munich The boy didn't make it She climbed down into the snow, holding the small body The boy was getting heavy All was white, and as they remained at the station, she could only stare at the faded lettering of the sign in front of her Werner, was buried two days later The girl however stayed Her knees entered the ground. Her moment had arrived Still in disbelief, she started to dig Frozen blood was cracked around her hands She was being dragged away A warm scream filled her throat.

Nick Metheny

Bombs were coming. And so was I. Just like in war.

Another dirty joke. Another dirty headline, And another dirty kill.

Five hundred souls.

I carried them in my fingers, five Hundred bodies, buried in holes, Or burnt to ashes.

I’d throw the ones taking too much space over my shoulder.

Only the kids stayed in my arms, And as laughter, smoke, screams rose out of the chimney.

I moved on to the next job.

Soul after soul, Body after body, Shower after shower, I will never ever ever forget Auschwitz

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Jake Roshkow

It continued Quiet Voices were loud Traveled Wondered It amuses me It ended She was the book thief without the words

Jake Stevenson He Smelled Like Mein Kampf It’s getting worse.

Any time now they could find us out.

We don’t know what might happen.

You might need to find a place …

One Name, One Address; Hans Hubermann Himmel Street, 33 Molching

He must already hate me, huh?

I don’t think so. A promise is a promise.

A week later, a letter came: Be Careful.

He smelled like Mein Kampf

Soren Hixon

The last time I saw him the sky was red.

Why? If only he could have seen The book thief On her hands And knees, Kissing his dusty lips To your left Perhaps your right You can see her broken heart, in two pieces.

Why?

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Heather Sundaresan

The world was sagging now Trees wore blankets of ice Some people Cling to life Longer than expected The horizon was beginning to charcoal There seemed a quick shadow again A final moment of eclipse I’ve seen more eclipses than I care to remember

The plane was still coughing Smoke Was leaking from both its lungs A scream dribbled down the air I witness the ones Left behind Crumbling along the jigsaw puzzle of Realization Despair and Surprise The smoke exhausted itself There was nothing left to give All that was left was The body And the smiling teddy bear

Quinn Doherty

At times, she would watch him.

She decided that he could be summed up as a picture Of pale concentration.

So began a kind of storytelling phrase In the living room each night.

It was spoken just loud enough to hear.

“Don’t be afraid,” she heard papa whisper.

“She’s a good girl.”

It waltzed through the window with the draft.

Perhaps it was the breeze Of the Third Reich, Gathering even greater strength.

In the outside world Liesel was learning to find some more of its uses.

He walked to the hall and called out,

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“Everything alright down there?”

The answer ascended the steps, On top of Max Vandenburg.

“Another minute perhaps!”

Five days later, When she continued her habit of looking at the weather, she did not get a chance to see the sky.

In her final visions, She saw her three children, Her grandchildren, Her husband, And the long list of lives that merged with hers.

Possibly the only time that Max’s illness didn’t hurt Was at dinner.

There was no denying it as the three of them Sat at the kitchen table With their extra bread and Extra soup or potatoes.

They all thought it But no one spoke.

They carted the paint through town, Smelling the hunger on some of the streets And shaking their heads at the wealth On others.

What are humans capable of and why do they do what they do?

How can we do it?

Why do we do it?

Our Power Consumes us, It is an addiction, It burns as hot as fire.

But at the same time Is as cold as ice, Deep in our souls.

Maybe we don’t realize That our power becomes us, Maybe we Don’t want to.

Broad you might say; But so is life And what you can do with it, What you can do to it.

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Life can change In a matter of seconds, One decision, One mistake.

Who decides? ___________________________________________________________________________________ “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.” ― Abraham Lincoln

“The day the power of love overrules the love of power, the world will know peace.” ― Mahatma Gandhi

Lillian Remler

What We are Capable Of

Love Is joy Is courage Is peace Is happiness Is strength Is faith And gives us power Hate Is destruction Is greed Is Anger Is Rage Is discrimination Is evil And tears us down And these things drive us To our best And our worst They bring out All the justice And all the evil They define what we are capable of

Codee Lawtum

When I Arrived It was the darkest moment before dawn.

The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring.

When I arrived, I could still hear the echoes.

The streets were ruptured veins.

Footsteps and thoughts, and doubts.

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Glowing pockets of streetlights.

Dark, passive buildings.

Blood and Violence Tears like crystal floated down his skin, despite the fact that he was not crying.

The tears had been bashed out of him.

They have punctured hearts.

They have beaten lungs.

Full of blood and violence – but also full of stories that are equally difficult to fathom.

Snow and Ice It was December and the day had been icy.

The mother, the girl, and the corpse remained stubborn and silent.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow.

Like it had pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater.

Trees wore blankets of ice.

The world was sagging now, under the weight of all that snow.

Perhaps ten meters to my left, the pale, empty-­stomached girl was standing, frost-­stricken.

You Will Know Me Soon You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variable.

It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible.

Your soul will be in my arms.

A color will be perched on my shoulder.

You will be caked in your own body.

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The End Piece Lillian Remler

The woman looked out the window longingly.

Her dreams had been broken.

Now nothing is left for her.

Lightning strikes in the distance, no one cares.

Lightning strikes close to home, the world ends.

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