My Father

My father’s bleak shtetl,¹ west of Crackow,
Welcomed a rich Jewish philanthropist,
Who asked around, and offered to endow
One bright schoolboy, provide a scholarship

For Crackow’s gymnasium.²  Shloime Klotz,
The teacher said, deserved such high regard!
But, firm, his mother demurred!  “A Shagetz³
You’ll become,” she cried, “You’ll forget your God,

Lose faith, eat pigs.  Better you stay with me.”
Whereupon I gently teased: “Religion
Stunted you, put you in the I.L.G.
W.U.⁴  Denied education,

You became a wage slave, talent wasted.”
“No, no,” he laughed.  “Think! Think! I would have stayed,
Done well, and—when Poland suffered its crash—
Become a dustpan-full of Auschwitz ash.”
                                                       (2/19/07)

^{1 A small Jewish village.
2 In some European countries, a university prep school.
3 A mildly derisive term for a non-Jew.
4 The International Ladies Garment Workers Union.  My father supported our family by sewing lady’s skirts in a New York sweatshop.}