This piece is part of our Wit­ness­ing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the expe­ri­ences of Jew­ish writ­ers around the globe in the after­math of Octo­ber 7th.

It is crit­i­cal to under­stand his­to­ry not just through the books that will be writ­ten lat­er, but also through the first-hand tes­ti­monies and real-time account­ing of events as they occur. At Jew­ish Book Coun­cil, we under­stand the val­ue of these writ­ten tes­ti­mo­ni­als and of shar­ing these indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ences. It’s more impor­tant now than ever to give space to these voic­es and narratives.

A Lake of Stars

We arrive at Rosmarin’s 

where the bun­ga­lows are on stilts 

and the 1960’s wood pan­el­ing reminds me 

of a child­hood spent in Wood­bridge and Mon­ti­cel­lo, in

colonies of refuge my par­ents took us to each summer.

There we joined my grand­par­ents and their friends, 

kib­b­itzers play­ing pok­er and pinochle, 

house­wives in bouf­fants, hus­tling mahjong and canasta

under an oak tree, reliving 

their child­hood before the war,

each in short sleeves and tattoo. 

I could see the roundups behind their smiles,

the bark­ing dogs and the terror 

woven into jer­seys of laughter,

their bod­ies ancient at fifty. 

They told me over a gle­zl tey, nev­er again 

but I know bet­ter now. 

At Ros­marins, the late after­noon sky ignites the lake, 

and the water is like a gle­zl tey I float in.

When the wind kicks up, 

a blue heron shud­ders and lifts above the surface,

I think of the Nova dancers; I see 

their shad­ows pinned to the trees.

I see my grand­moth­er and her friends 

cov­ered in Yid­dish clover, tat­tooed under an oak. 

Their white, hair­less bod­ies in the pool, 

touched by the sun. There’s no escap­ing the irony; 

they were the lucky ones.

Sat­ur­day night the band plays.

Dis­co lights flick­er like it’s 1972. 

The Rosmarin’s sky is a lake of stars 

and in it I imag­ine the crowd at Nova,

before the music dies, and innocence

is a con­stel­la­tion of freedom.

All I can do is try to hold onto the moment

before the dawn ends and the exe­cu­tions begin.

But the music is too loud, 

and my body is too old. 

The sky with its lake of stars is 

obscene-beau­ti­ful.

All around me the air is burning.

I can taste the ash­es in my grandmother’s gle­zl tey,

and hear the prayers in the forest 

of tun­nels rimed with tears.

The views and opin­ions expressed above are those of the author, based on their obser­va­tions and experiences.

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