Raizl, Forhenwald, Bavaria, 1945
The Red Cross worker
says, in halting Polish,
“Don’t you like the soup?
It’s not my mother’s,
but at least the meat is real.”
How can Raizl explain?
Meal after meal,
she sits, clutching her spoon,
eating less than a bite,
naming the pieces of food:
this one is Aleksy,
(he loved potatoes)
this pepper, Elzbieta,
(who we called Erzi,
because she was Hungarian,
and moaned
that our food had no taste)
this piece of meat,
Jaga, gone,
just after the liberation,
as though she knew
her work was done.
“Maybe it’s too hot?”
says the Red Cross woman,
reaching to touch the side
of Raizl’s tin bowl.
When she finds it cold,
she shakes her head.
“Look at yourself!
You need to eat something;
you look like you just
came out of the camps!”
Raizl imagines
pinching a piece of meat
between her thumb and forefinger,
touching it to Aleksy’s lips,
leaving a meatgrease kiss.
They were all so hungry.
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