a love cannot survive in the Holocaust...


The Sun will turn yellow,someday...

There is the path down your street
I have seen you walking there for all your life.

1942,we were kids,remember?
childhood traces are unbelievably drowned into oblivion.
You had your curly hair hastily down, and you wore
that old jacket, your dad's possession.

The guns shot above our heads and the bullets
were a mile away from our street.
But we kissed,love was the only feeling that could survive
in this mighty jungle of possessions and murders.

One day I walked down our street,the lovers' street.
But you weren't there,first time you stood me up in our rendez-vous.

Hollow thoughts,empty voices,ferocious screams.Me,in the middle of the street,frantic,afraid,lonely.

Where did you go?I thought you abandoned me.I thought you were collapsing as the air blew next to your head,bringing bullets and the smell of death.

The radio is on.

Some hours after this loss, this loss of contact with you.

My heart was dead, ripped off and lying on the floor of my house.My cold,rich house.

"Millions of Jews carried in concentration camps by the Germans".

Did they take you to death? That is why Sun was colored red.

Even colors mourn.It is not only people's screams that tear the history apart.

Prays,prays,prays.A handful of lies, trying to persuade myself that the Sun will turn yellow.

I gazed into the sun every day.He was blood-stained,he was dropping blood on my high-heels.

And I believed that the Sun will turn yellow.My hopes were my feet,they kept me alive and well.

I did not have feet,after all.After this news, my body went numb.My fingers were always searching for your curly,hastily made hair.

Pools of sorrow,pools of pain,pools of blood.My house was turning red,my balcony was sweet maroon, my Sun was bleeding.This Sun once shone a light on me and you as we strolled around the street,laughing and telling jokes.

He was taking his revenge for our happiness.That is what is always happening when you are happy and loved.

You knew. I knew. The Sun would turn red one day.We kept on loving.We did not see.We did not want to see.

Days were passing slowly,all my clothing was turning red.The Sun,which I once trusted into,bleeded endlessly on us.On me,on you,on everyone whose heart was in pain and whose bullets were not enough to murder love and hope.

There,by the railway lines, I was hopelessly waiting.I was sure that the train would come and it would offer you to me.You would come,with a smile upon your face,with some cuts on your soft skin, with a kiss waiting on the edge of your lips,with your same old jacket, your dad's jacket.The one I used to lay my head on and dream.Dream about a sleepy night and a passtime full of songs dressed in your voice.

The Sun is still bleeding, my love...

The railway lines were turning red,again.But inside me I was feeling blue.Nature has all kinds of colors.But I cannot get into them,I cannot feel anymore.I am numb.Sometimes,some outer signals would bear a blue feeling inside me,but no.A glance at the Sun was enough to make me numb again.

I took a knife and tried to stab him.He was just bleeding on me,so my knife turned red and my heart melted,along with it.I did not have the power.I would regain it, if only you could just walk our same street and sing your sweet songs again.

Why does everyone keep secrets from reality? We saw,we did not want to see.

3 years later, liberation came.I wonder why they call it liberation,when there is still that same old smell of death around us.Fools,a handful of fools.

You never came back.

The sun turned yellow again.

I was rarely visiting my balcony anymore.My high heels were still red.This color could not fit with the "happy" atmosphere of my city.I am not that kind of rebel,and I am not strong anymore to stand up and fight.

Sometimes I take off my high heels and try to take that color off them.But years have made it difficult.We cannot just take colors and feelings off us,we cannot, my love,even if the power of your smile still survives in me.

I am the only thing half-alive.All poetry in the world is dead and faces bear no feeling in me anymore.

I gathered all my courage and visited the balcony once more.

The Sun was yellow.He was looking at me...

...and making fun of my salty tears.




Short story by Eva
Read 986 times
Written on 2009-07-12 at 00:40

Tags Love  Holocaust  Death 

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