| 
         The memorial tablet in
        Martef haShoah [Chamber of the Holocaust] on Mount
        
        Zion, erected to immortalize the memory of the landsleit from
        Rakishok and the surrounding areas who perished.
        
         
        
        Esther Ogintz (Israel)
        
         
        
        Rakishok
        
         
        
        The rain – it knocks on my window,
        
         
        Filling me with the
        sadness of the street.
        
         
        Heaven poured out its
        rage, 
        
         
        The road is slippery
        and wet. 
         
         
        My memories carry me away 
        
         
        Into the far, far past
        
         
        Where specters float
        by
        
         
        Memories, silhouettes,
        without number.
        
         
        
         
        There, I see Reb Leib, my teacher
        
         
        I know how to pray
        clearly
        
         
        Already know a very
        good Hebrew
        
         
        At only the age of
        eight.
        
         
        
         
        There, I see my teacher, Chaim Mote
        
         
        He only taught me
        Yiddish,
        
         
        Reading Sholem
        Alechiem books
        
         
        At only the age of
        eight.
        
         
        
         
        My mother is near the warm oven
        
         
        Outside – the cold
        is bitter
        
         
        With the “G-d of
        Abraham” on her lips
        
         
        She escorts the Shabbos
        out.
        
         
        
         
        My grandfather covers himself in sweetness – 
        
         
        Recites: “Hamavdil
        ben kodesh l’chol.” 
        
         
        [“He who
        distinguished the holy from the profane” – prayer said at the close
        of Shabbos]
        
         
        In the room it is cozy
        and warm
        
         
        In the hearts
        pleasure, good.
        
         
        
         
        In the oven the coals are burning,
        
         
        The flames glowing
        red.
        
         
        The potatoes cooked in
        pletzlekh [flat rolls or crackers]
        
         
        The herring baked in
        cabbage.
        
         
        
         
        The rain – it knocks on my window
        
         
        Giving clear shape to
        my dreams.
        
         
        Carries me far
        distances
        
         
        I have seen dreams in
        reality…
        
          |