Poetry

Ross: Children of the Ghetto

by George Szirtes

Love, we were young once, and ran races

over rough ground in our best shiny shoes,

we kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces.

Our knees were filthy with our secret places,

with rituals and ranks, with strategy and ruse.

Love, we were young once and ran races

to determine the most rudimentary of graces

such as strength and speed and the ability to bruise.

We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces,

and doing so left no permanent traces

because we fought and fell only to confuse

love. We were young. Once we ran races

in ghettos, in camps, in the dismal spaces

of the imagination reserved for Jews.

We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces

at elastic braces, shoelaces, empty packing cases

as if they were the expressions we could choose.

Love, we were young once, and ran races.

We kicked at stones, we fell over, we pulled faces.

Henryk Ross, Children of the ghetto. Playing as ghetto policemen, 1940-44.