Dzyatlava Song

It is 1942.  Seven years old, my grandfather hides in a pit for two days,
Holding his breath.  His aunt left the baby but when she came back it was gone
There have been terrible stories about the Kurpasz Forest, it is dark and frightening
At night they light fires to keep away the wolves
In the ghetto they have put up signs.
In the dark, he sees the face of his mother, pale and terrified
It will hover before his eyes for seventy years, followed by the crack of a gunshot.
Waiting in the supermarket, or in line at a museum.
My grandfather has been crouching in the darkness for seventy years.
 Upstairs, he hears the creak of boots on wood
Someone is rustling through papers. He is too terrified to breathe