Shoem - The HIdden
Sunlight dapples down through the elms
Spreading a Turkish carpet of gold and shadow
Over the bricks of the sidewalk
Men and women bend to each other
Glasses of wine sparkle in the sunlight
As do eyes and murmurs.
The tables have been pushed to the edge of the street
The house itself is built on the sandy, wet clay of the city
Tilting and groaning under past agonies that few suspect
The upper stories lean out into the sky a full meter
Casting darkness over all who pass below
In the street bicycles and the occasional car
People pass by and think how quaint is this city
Look at the café in the house leaning across the street to touch its neighbor
Few of them know that the house is bowed by
The fear that dwelt within its walls for so long.
The very old in the neighborhood
Remember that the house did not always lean and twist
As it does now
The city’s houses have a long tradition
Of hiding the pursued
Under the steep stairs, between additions and rafters
Hidey holes have served priests, unwed mothers,
Political refugees, even philosophers, and a girl named Anne.
In our era
Nazi officers, Gestapo, police and informers
Have swirled through its dining rooms in winter
And sprawled on its terrace in summer
Laughing and snorting with the exclamations
Of those who conquer.
While above them, a mere few feet away
Cowered Jews in hiding
Lying silently between the rafters on rags
To muffle any cough, stifle any sigh
When the officers left with full bellies
The smells of their scraps rose to torture the hidden
The house groans with its secret knowledge
Its step gables
No longer a stair for angels to come and go
Though the hidden never touched the walls
Their fears, their stifled coughs, and unspoken words
Seethed through the rafters and bounced off the walls
Forcing the house to buckle and twist
The horror of those years still visible today
On both bricks and flesh.
Sunlight dapples down through the elms
Spreading a Turkish carpet of gold and shadow
Over the bricks of the sidewalk
Men and women bend to each other
Glasses of wine sparkle in the sunlight
As do eyes and murmurs.
The tables have been pushed to the edge of the street
The house itself is built on the sandy, wet clay of the city
Tilting and groaning under past agonies that few suspect
The upper stories lean out into the sky a full meter
Casting darkness over all who pass below
In the street bicycles and the occasional car
People pass by and think how quaint is this city
Look at the café in the house leaning across the street to touch its neighbor
Few of them know that the house is bowed by
The fear that dwelt within its walls for so long.
The very old in the neighborhood
Remember that the house did not always lean and twist
As it does now
The city’s houses have a long tradition
Of hiding the pursued
Under the steep stairs, between additions and rafters
Hidey holes have served priests, unwed mothers,
Political refugees, even philosophers, and a girl named Anne.
In our era
Nazi officers, Gestapo, police and informers
Have swirled through its dining rooms in winter
And sprawled on its terrace in summer
Laughing and snorting with the exclamations
Of those who conquer.
While above them, a mere few feet away
Cowered Jews in hiding
Lying silently between the rafters on rags
To muffle any cough, stifle any sigh
When the officers left with full bellies
The smells of their scraps rose to torture the hidden
The house groans with its secret knowledge
Its step gables
No longer a stair for angels to come and go
Though the hidden never touched the walls
Their fears, their stifled coughs, and unspoken words
Seethed through the rafters and bounced off the walls
Forcing the house to buckle and twist
The horror of those years still visible today
On both bricks and flesh.
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