Pinkas Synagogue

They had no sanctuary but this. We pass into the rooms where every wall Is etched with names, their dates of birth and death, The latter closely packed in time As the old graves in the nearby cemetery. Surnames and initials red as blood, The rest in black to symbolize their cruel end Which brought their memories to this place of rest. So many individual names, so many families, None obliterates despite the 'Last Solution'. Without the walls, the statues too, Three children crouched in terror, Writhing men like skeletons reaching out in hunger, Recall my impotence and anger. Dear people, my brothers and my sisters, Carted off like cattle to the Auschwitz abattoir. I see them hover there in regimented lines Between fain hope and deep despair, Hearing the seductive sounds of the conscript orchestra. As those about to die recall The mocking irony of 'Arbeit mach frei'. No, no, what makes us free is true respect For a neighbour's faith, his colour and his race, To offer sanctuary to those displaced by war or famine. That's what makes us free and truly human.