Rings

I stare at the black and white image hanging on the wall, circa 1945—the one 

guarded by a sheet of glass with goldenrod trim.  The room is quiet and still,  

like a library.  But not like the modern libraries where the ambiance is cut by  

the clinking sound of fingers striking keys, or the bustle of people, or the image  

of happy children plopped in colorful bean-filled chairs reading their favorite tales.   

No, this room is heavy . . . quiet . . . somber.  

I imagine I’m the one kneeling there, in front of the splintered crate—hands  

deep inside, as if buried in a mound of finely-grained sand.  Only, it’s not sand; 

it’s rings of fine gold.  I clench my hands to form fists, forcing the icy metal  

against my palms—each circlet pulled from the heap sends a wave of shock  

through my arms, and into my mind.

Visions of men and women, boys and girls—dirty, frail, bald—come to the  

forefront of my mind as if the box were haunted by their memories.  Each,  

draped in blue and white—standard issue—carried with them a numerical  

moniker etched into their fragile skin by der Tätowierer, as if they were to be  

inventory stacked among a store shelf; awaiting purchase from someone, anyone  

who could see their worth.   

I hear the cries of men and women, boys and girls—scared, angry, concerned—wary  

of the men donning crosses of terror.  In each hand, a single satchel bearing a name:  

Hana Fuchs.   

Hahn Jrene.   

Emil Hübscher.  

Some had no names at all—it was as if they had no identity before their arrival, aside  

from David’s star.  But that’s impossible when you’re living flesh and bone, as they were. 

In the distance, the faint hum can be heard, followed by screams; it sounds like the wrath  

of a bumble bee has pierced its way into the next victim.      

Gentle streams flow down my cheeks, but can’t bear the thought of opening my eyes—stomach in knots.  I release the rings and listen to the sound of the precious metals drop against the crate—like raindrops tapping a tin roof.  Burying my hands once more, I pull out another group of rings—each sending another wave of shock through my body. But this time I don’t feel it in my mind, I feel it pulling at my heart.  

I taste the sweetness of springtime on my tongue as I bite into the plump strawberry  

handed to me by das Gärtnerin outside the Wochenmarkt across from the temple.  The  

sound of children laughing swept behind me, and from the corner of my eye I witnessed  

a mother swaddling her infant as she shopped next to her doctor husband. Tall, thin, short,  

fat, young, old—shielded by David—their laughter and smiles fill me. 

I place the rings back inside the crate--the weight of their burdens released from my mind,  

but their memories can never be erased from my heart.