My name was Czesława Kwoka

He told me to keep my chin up for the picture:
I was still seeing stars from the blow
The blow the cross woman gave me
With her broom handle, that split my lip

Trying to wipe my eyes and mouth
The salt in the tears and blood that stung
But did not sting like mama passing
Yesterday morning; she never woke again

Is it for her that I am sad? Or for me?
No more terror, bitter cold mornings,
Rough handling, death all around,
Death like a pale curtain swirling

From Wólka they took us, to make room:
Lebensraum, room for the pure-blooded
How was our blood dirty? Yet they said so
And herded us like cows, here to Auschwitz

The gray rocks we hew and lift and struggle
To pile in strange, listless patterns
Are hard as the blue eyes that watch us
The pure, blond-haired destroying angels

I do not know what this picture is for, or who.
Before we left Wólka we prayed at the shrine
Of the Blessed Virgin. Something in it
Was strange to me. My mind went instead

To Jezus and His sufferings: How purely,
Calmly He went to the Cross. Guiltily,
I prayed to Him instead. Would He answer?
Through all our exile, loss, pain, death

I don’t understand. Why did mama die?
Why are we impure? What lies beyond
The pale curtain that swirls closer,
Ever closer. Why? Where is Jezus?

My name is Czesia Kwoka

He told me to keep my chin up:
Look! I can see the stars now;
I can see His face now. It’s going to be all right-
Eternal Life burst through the pale curtain,
And welcomed me into the pure flame of His joy forever.

Jeremy Vogan, Winter 2024
Photo credit: Reposted from Grant de Graf