Convent

 

Rumors abound.

There’ll be a huge

round-up soon,

all avenues of escape

to be shut down

to Jews.

 

Aunt Lydia and daughter

Lisette leave for grocer’s

at appointed time.

If stopped, they’re

getting rations

of bread for dinner.

 

Like cats, they walk

casually, cautiously

for if the sun hits their

yellow-starred arms just so,

they’ll draw sneers or worse;

aggression and arrest.

 

They’ve packed nothing

for Lisette to take

as the Gestapo is

at every corner and

it must not look like

they’ll attempt to flee.

 

They slink past the

grocer’s window

down a side street

where just ahead

the sun shines on a

majestic stone structure.

 

At a back delivery door

they knock and wait.

Quickly, quietly

the door opens and a swoosh

of black and white

fabric reaches for Lisette.

 

Like a swan’s wings

the nun’s habit

extends then tucks

Lisette close to her body.

There is no time for good byes

just deep, muffled cries

as the door closes heavily.

 

 

 

 

 

In Hiding 

 

The train

leaves us

in desolate

Unoccupied

France.

 

Relieved, we walk

six kilometers

on dirt roads,

one valise

between us.

 

We're lucky

to have

our legs, our

hearts, beset,

but beating.

 

In the distance

the farmhouse

looks meek,

the grounds

isolated.

 

On our arrival

the people

are neither

mean

nor nice.

 

We sleep

in a shed

on blankets

that smell

of livestock.

 

Most days

we get one meal;

a cup of fresh milk

from a blue-eyed

boy

 

who draws

it from

one brown,

slow-moving

cow.

 

Mother's 

awfully troubled 

at our lot, yet

always acts

valiantly.

 

If the radio

comes on

she puts her

tiny hands

tightly

 

over my ears

deadening

that sadistic

German

tongue.

 

She listens

for word about

my grandfather,

her sisters,

The Allies.

 

I see in

her bleak face,

the reports

are never

fine.

 

My only friend is

a black tabby

who wanders

the meadows by day,

sleeps near me by night.

 

Our friendship ended

the one night

we vied for

the only rat to be had

for dinner.                                                                      

 

 

 

 

Invasion and Escape

 

German tanks

reel into Paris

wreck the garden

Mother and I

stroll in daily.

 

Everywhere

black swastikas on arms

that kill

gold stars on arms

that die.

 

In Manhattan

my uncle

Alexis Goldenweiser

a lawyer

arranges for our visas;

 

false papers

scribbled

with just the right

words to

get us the hell out.

 

Once on the train to

Unoccupied Southern France,

a Nazi guard

demands

our documents.

 

Mother’s bony hands

pull papers from our only bag.

I see her face

composed

her hands tremble.

 

She told me

he’d been given

a large sum of money 

to let us go

still -

 

he could arrest us,

put bullets through

our heads as they did

Uncle Raphael

in Warsaw.

 

The officer’s jaw muscles

twitch madly. His

icy eyes glare at me.

I look away, far away --

wishing to disappear.

 

 Biographical Note: Zea lives with one husband, one son, one dog, and one cat, across one old stone bridge, snuggled against one flora-bathed hill, on one wild, unruly creek where one resplendent great blue heron lands when the creek is high and fish are abundant. Zea, an avid journal writer since childhood, began noticing poetic elements amidst her journal writing when she wrote prolifically as a brooding adolescent. In returning to college in later years she studied poetry formally with an accomplished and published poet. She has read her work at a variety of poetry open mics, and has been part of a weekly poetry writer's group for a number of years. A good many of her recent works are part of her "Papa Poetry Series" which began to evolve following her father's sudden death in 2008. See Author Index for Poetry for more of Zea's work.