This poem is based on the survivor interview of Eva Bentley.

It was Christmas eve
and there was no room in the inn,
the Oswiecim inn,
so the Arrow Cross
took the children,
and in their nighties,
out to the Danube
and filled their little bellies
not with bread
but bullets
flipping them
like tiddlywinks
into the congealing, icy river below.

It was the Red Danube
that night,
choking on the blood
of orphan Jews
whose little Blue faces
floated downstream
touring even all of Europe
until they washed up
on the shores of Eretz Yisrael
and came back to life,
their little blue and white
raised high,
flapping in the wind.

© 12/18/96 Lois Olena

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