I carried Anne Frank while shadows of burnt out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America.
Mr. Marks, a sad grandfather figure of an English teacher at
Public School 25, gave her dairy to me
Achtung! Achtung! Achtung!
The boy I was trembled in fear at the sight of Nazis on
Television.
Years later, there was loud banging on doors.
I saw clothes,
furniture and toys thrown out of windows to the courtyard below.
The new landlord
wouldn’t renew leases on newer tenants.
Our side of the building became silent until jackhammers
woke us from bed. Our hallway was filled with lumber and gasoline fragrance of
paint and turpentine.
My disabled mother, who taught me my alphabets and numbers,
became like Anne Frank hiding in the attic when she heard the violent knocking
on our door.
She couldn’t get out of bed because of pain. Workmen had
left pipes and nails on the floor that caused her to slip and fracture of her
left arm.
I opened the door and was served papers to appear in Housing
Court for the purpose of eviction. The thought of my mother and I put on a
freight train to a death camp in Poland made me coldly angry.
The thought of my mother dying in my arms in a crowded
shelter in New York made me sick. I kept
the court papers a secret from my mother because bad news would have slowed
down or make worse her condition. I was her nurse who became a lawyer.
I’m haunted over what happened.
I need to express a story.
Once upon a time…
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