The Children

Out there, I was the sacred pedagogue
Listened to, read, respected, avoided
Just another intellectual with a beard
Someone whose name you could drop
As if you’d understood the long words,
The emphatic development of thought,
The useful clutter of a mind far away.

In here, I am the one whose hand they hold
When they’re afraid, when the dogs bark,
When the guards mention Treblinka-
Treblinka. The end, the dark corridor
Where they took Sofia, and Stanisław,
And Inka. Inka, with the golden laugh
Who always pointed out the stars at night.

Down here, they cry at night. I know they do
Though they’d never admit it. Eryk and Jakob
Especially, who look out for the girls, who give
The extra half potato, sticking out their chests
Whenever the guards come by. My little gallants:
Zawisza the Black I call them, Sleeping Knights
Who will rescue Polska yet. I know they will.

Up there, a voice that cuts like cold water:
“In line, in line!” The truck to Treblinka
Backs up, like a ravening beast, coughing
Its poison smog. “Your papers, Herr Korczak! You’re free-“
I gape at him, stung. Free, without them?
Take my hand, children, one last time. Up there
There is a light at the corridor’s end. Come on!

In Memoriam: Janusz Korczak, August 7, 1942

Jeremy Vogan