7. 1. 1921 - 29. 9. 1944
The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing
against a white stone...
Such, such a yellow Is carried lightly 'way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it wished to
kiss the world goodbye.
For seven weeks I've lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Der letzte war’s, der
so war das Gelb
und sieben Wochen leb ich da
das war gewiß der allerletzte,
|From the Prose
of Petr Fischl (1929-1944)
We got used to standing in line at seven o'clock in the morning,
|Night in the Ghetto
day has gone for keeps
Dawn crawls again along the
|It All Depends on How You Look at It
by Miroslav Kosek (1932-1944)
Terezin is full of beauty.
In the ghetto at Terezin,
after all, claims everyone,
The whole, wide world is ruled
doesn't know the world at all
When dew drops
sparkle in the grass,
Hey try to open up
your heart to beauty.
by Hanus Hachenberg (1929-1943)
That bit of filth in dirty walls,
I once was a little child,
three years ago.
and a dead day then,
But anyway, I still believe I only sleep
I'll go back to childhood sweet and like a briar
How tragic then, is
youth which lives
Somewhere, far away out there, childhood sweetly sleeps.
path among the trees,
In the flame of candles by my bed,
These thirty thousand
souls who sleep
|On a Sunny Evening
On a purple sunshot evening under wideflow'ring chestnut trees,