The Chair

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Ruth, posted by Avery

I recently had the opportunity to meet with Holocaust survivors, and not only was it very amazing to hear their stories, but it was also amazing that the woman I spoke to, Ruth, allowed me to take a photo of one of her poems. She wrote it about 40 years after going into hiding. She was around nine when she went into hiding for two years, and she vividly remembers her inability to make sound, to read, to speak, and so on. While Ruth made it out safely and was able to study in the United States, many of her friends and neighbors could not. Through poems like this, her experience will live on. -Avery

July 11, 1986
The Chair
The room is small,
in the attic,
under a flat roof.
Two tiny windows,
in the slanted side,
show pattches of sky.
The chair,
made of wood,
straight back,
uncomfortable.
Seated on it
is a child.
From early morning
till dark
she sits.
Does not move
for fear to make a noise.
Hands, 
mostly idle,
trying to keep busy.
The mind races
within its own confinement,
while she sits on the chair.
Summertime,
the room is stuffy.
No window can be opened,
for fear to be noticed.
The child sits,
bides her time.
Books are scarce
paper unavailable.
The chair is her world.
Fellow occupants
remain in their place,
on their chair,
silenty
for fear to be heard.
They communicate
without words.
Sharing their fear,
their uncertainty.
On the chair
she sits
childhood lost
hope dim.
Sometimes,
through dusty panes,
sunrays enter the room.
Riding them piggyback
the child
escapes her prison,
still sitting on her chair.
Dreaming of a future
which may never come.
Hoping against hope
to be free,
to leave the chair.
Rekindling
The light of youth,
Which grows dimmer
by the day.
A bird flits by.
The child reaches,
prays, whispers:
“Take me with you,
free me.
I can not take this anymore.”
Only the chair hears her plea. 
The moment passes.
She sits
still staring at the sky.
The chair holds her tight.
Yet the child knows
freedom must come.
But…. 
when? 
The light in her eyes
grows weaker.
She slumps,
sighs and waits,
sitting on the chair.
Seasons change.
Summer, fall, winter.
Cold sets in. 
The room,
heatless, 
for smoke might be detected,
grows chillier by the day.
Daylight hours are short.
No light may be lit.
How can hope survive?
The chair,
its occupant,
they remain.
The child knows 
spring must come.
So hope lives on.
One day,
she’ll leave the chair,
walk out
into the world,
free again.

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