Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba
I am Rivka, a convert, bat Avraham ve Sarah
also daughter of Heidi, whose first memories are of craters made by English bombs in Hamburg streets
granddaughter of Lotte, who died in Marburg the day the Wall came down
adopted niece of Hilde, Lotte’s childhood friend who decades later became my own.
b’alma di v’ra khir’utei, v’yamlikh malkhutei
Lotte, my Oma, came to New York every summer
Bringing strange toothpaste and lotion and chocolates I loved
Speaking to my mother a language I didn’t understand
And telling me stories, always the same ones, of her husband, her children, and Mr. Rosenbaum.
b’hayeikhon u-v’yomeikhon u-v’hayei dkhol beit yisrael,
“He was our teacher in the high school, and all the girls loved him, he was so kind
He took us on class trips, and we would sing: he had a beautiful voice.
He would lead us through the fields, singing.
All of us loved Mr. Rosenbaum.”
ba’agala u-viz-man kariv
v’imru amen.
Always, over and over the same,
The schoolgirl’s affection still shining from her at fifty-five, sixty and seventy-one
So that I came, with teenage wisdom, to say yes, Oma, we know
We know all about Mr. Rosenbaum
Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varakh l’alam u’l’almei ‘almaya.
She never talked about the war.
Except to say terrible, terrible I pray never again
Yitbarakh v’yishtabah v’yitpa’ar
Years later I ask Hilde, I want to know
She says terrible, terrible, but we didn’t know any Jews
v’yitromam v’yitnasei
How could we know?
V’yit-hadar
It happened early in the mornings
v’yit’ aleh v’yit-halal
We didn’t know any Jews
sh’mei d’kudsha
We didn’t know, I didn’t know
b’rikh hu
Last year my mother told me.
“They knew people who were killed, of course they did.
Tante Paula, your great-grandmother’s cousin: she married a Jew.
One night they both disappeared. She came back alone, later, and they’d ransacked her apartment—
There was nothing but trash in empty rooms.
Kaftanski was his name.”
l’ela min kol birkhata v’shirata, tushb’hata
And you know, the teacher, Mr. Rosenbaum.
He was a Jew. One day they went to school and all the Jewish teachers were gone.”
v’nehemata da-amiran b’alma
v’imru amen.
She never told the end of the story.
She only spoke of songs and fields.
Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya
I don’t know his Yahrzeit.
I don’t know his place of death.
I don’t know his first name.
v’hayim aleinu v’al kol yisrael
I know all the girls loved him
I know he was kind
I know he used to sing
He had a beautiful voice
v’imru amen.
This is not a poem
It is not a “poem after”
It is Kaddish
Only Kaddish
Oseh shalom bi-m’romav, hu ya-aseh shalom
I will not forget
I will not forget
aleinu v’al kol yisrael
v’imru amein.
About Kimberly Gladman
