Tag Archives: history

BORN IN THE USA, PART 3

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Americans’ willingness to bully has always seemed to this second generation Italian-American to be part and parcel of Manifest Destiny, American Exceptionalism, America First, the KKK, The American Conservative Council, ALEC, the Heritage Foundation, MAGA movement, and now the Trump Administration bolstered by SCOTUS, Homeland Security, DOJ and FBI. Individuals within each organization are not necessarily racist, misogynist, Christian nationalists. There are men and women who love our country and only want to serve their nation. But, they are now being swallowed up as the separation of powers, using an immune to lawful control unitary executive pushed by Republican appointees to the Supreme Court, destroys their dedication to facts and the law as guiding principles. Even the military leadership is decimated by firings and forced retirements. Even retirees like Commander and Senator Mark Kelly, and Lt. Colonel and Senator Tammy Duckworth are under attack by the nation they most ably served. What will new recruits do? What pressure will they face as they are asked to obey unlawful orders, as they watch Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth execute such orders with full support of Vice-President J.D.Vance and congressional Republicans? 

In the past, we overlooked weaknesses in our leaders so long as they served the common good, in recognition of their humanity and acknowledging human foibles. There were checks and balances on human ill will and human error. We joined one another, citizen and new immigrant alike, in creating a democratic republic with global vision. We envisioned a world at peace where children could learn what they needed to know to be successful; where business and commerce could thrive; where ownership of resources was put to the common good. We built railroads, a national highway system, flood control projects, an energy grid, the internet, and now artificial intelligence. 

We have been far from perfect, or even rational, but we kept trying to make a “ More Perfect Union.”  We faced down our demons of racism and sexism under pressure of freedom-seeking Americans like W.E.B. Dubois, Ida Wells, A. Phillip Randolph, Ralph Abernathy, Ruby Bridges, Julian Bond, Bayard Rustin, Jo Ann Robinson, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and Congressman John Lewis…among thousands. Their struggle and ours continues. 

It is no coincidence the four persons arrested for protesting at a white nationalist church pastored by an I.C.E. field officer in Minneapolis were African-American, including two journalists: Don Lemon and Georgia Fort. U.S. Asst. A.G. who oversees the civil rights division of the DOJ reposted a tweet referring to journalist Lemon as “ today’s clansmen.” An AI meme is circulating showing Don Lemon in chains as if he were a fugitive slave reclaimed by paid by bounty hunters. I.C.E. agents today are being paid bounties. Killing two white protesters, Rene Good and Alex Pretti while continuing to brutalize people of color stood out to white America. The arrest of Black journalists restored the racist narrative that people color are a always a threat to white America. Soon, the secret police paramilitary created by the Trump Administration will attack Haitians in Springfield, Ohio whose protected status will be allowed to expire under Republican-led House and Senate Leaders Johnson and  Thune. Will white America see this for what it is? Will they connect the dots to understand the effort to divide and conquer all protesters- Black and white, and destroy the momentum which could sweep the fascists from office in coming elections? Seizure of Fulton County Georgia’s ballots has no legal benefit to the DOJ and FBI. But, if unopposed creates the narrative that seizing ballots is the usual course of election security. It is the exact opposite. It is dangerously erosive to election integrity.

In law, evidence must be held within the chain of command. Break the chain and the evidence is useless. It cannot be used easily, if at all. It will face “objection” if a party tries to in introduce it at trial to support a legal claim. Why? Because it is assumed it will be compromised. Ballots seized in a broken chain of command become a disinformation tool, a grand lie as they are altered and manipulated by those who seized them. We must object, not because we are in a court of law; but because we are in a court of public opinion. Our opinion counts as we protest. It counts even more when we vote.

I grew up in a neighborhood with bullies shouting and shoving at “dirty Catholic”, “dirty Italian” little girls. I went to a school where bullies painted Nazi insignia on the walls of the gym. I walked home form early dismissal when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated to smirks and chants from public school kids across the street “We finally killed that Catholic bastard.” I cannot remember a time when I have not been called a Commie-pinko leftist for teaching Black History and creating Black History programs. Like one out of four women I have even been sexually assaulted by bullies. Bullies cannot silence truth-seekers, journalists, educators, civil rights activists, people of color, women. They cannot be allowed to steal our votes, whenever they are cast. They cannot stop us. They have militarized the effort to stop us. They have arrested, disappeared, brutalized and killed. It will never be enough to break Americans and their insistence upon the freedoms guaranteed by a beloved Constitution and Bill of Rights. We stand together, stronger and more sure of our love for our country.

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BORN IN THE USA, Part 2

WWII Era Bark Print from Tonga, Tonga. Photo by L. Annarino

These war buddies who mourned those buddies who died in combat, and who treasured those who sat with them in solidarity at our kitchen table, shared more than stories. They shared themselves. Mom and I quietly listened, staying in the background, granting them sacred space.

My dad did not collect war trophies. He collected books and papers, which I read and pored over. My favorites were a book telling the history of the USS South Dakota, and one illustrating the flags of every nation. The first spoke of valor and patriotic duty fulfilled by every sailor aboard. The second helped Dad identify incoming planes, separating enemy from ally. I considered this a most useful tool; one I employ to this day, always searching out tell-tale signs of enemy incursion into my life and the lives of others. It may be one reason I eventually became a lawyer whose favorite tool is cross-examination. I am always looking for the “false flags” flown by lawyers, newspersons, politicians and servants of the people. There have been too many lately.

I read Dad’s folder containing assignment memos and his letters of commendation, held his battle ribbons and medals in my hands, marveling at the battle stars gleaming dully after being carried through the war. I have the Tongan Island bark tapestry he bought from the King of Tonga in exchange for a case of beer he hauled from his ship onto the beach where Tongan women were making such artistry.

My father fought his way through WWII. When he finally returned to his Ohio hometown, my pregnant NYC Mom in tow, he had a new fight on his hands. The fight of all first generation immigrants to find a way to support his family, and protect other such families living in pockets of real estate abandoned by earlier immigrants; along industrial-polluted rivers, smoky rail-road tracks, and industrial waste areas.

Dad and his brothers, who had served in the US Army as cooks joined their brother, excused from duty because of tuberculosis, and a cousin; and opened a restaurant. This restaurant was not a food truck as today’s start-ups. No, they found a vacant alleyway between two buildings, put sawhorses covered by planks between the two buildings, collected a grill and started cooking. They hung supplies held by ropes strung between the two buildings. They soon had enough money to add a roof, then a floor. Eventually they had a full-service restaurant a block long and alley-wide with a half-block long bar and side booths. the space behind held two separate dining rooms, a butcher shop, walk-in freezer, walk-in refrigerator, kitchen and dish-wash area, and storage rooms above and below. 

These Italian-American men supported their families; and fed the homeless, emergency workers in the event of community storms, floods, and fires. They cooked for the church and seminary fund-raisers. They contributed in every way they could to the welfare of every person in the community. New immigrants are grateful and hard-working in ways earlier arrivals to our shores have long forgotten. I remember.

My cousins and I spent hours at the Center Cafe, sitting in the family booth or behind the bar talking to our great-uncle with a cauliflower ear about his award-winning boxing career.  Dad hung a boxing bag inside our garage and bought us boxing gloves. I sparred with my older brother and punched along with the boys. As a female lawyer, when that was a rarity, I happily and effectively sparred with boys in and out of court. Sicilian and Italian men love their women and make sure they are safe and can defend themselves. 

Sitting behind the bar selling candy bars for my Catholic elementary school was fun. Dad instructed me to count how many beers a man consumed, and not to approach him until he had had 2-3 beers. He concluded I would sell more candy that way. I always won a prize for selling the most candy. Dad knew how to buy and sell. Living on a salary of $50 per week his entire work life meant he had to stretch every penny to rear 4 children and send them all to Catholic school. We kids all worked from childhood on to buy comic books, ice cream and penny candy. Later, to pay tuition, go to the dentist, buy clothes, books and phonograph albums. We all contributed because we were a family.

The best part of hanging out in the restaurant was listening to patron conversations, especially listening to the men at the bar. All classes of people ate there. Families felt comfortable bringing their children to a place where drunkenness was not allowed. Dad and his brothers knew their customers who became family to them. I watched Dad order cabs and send men home after ‘cutting them off’. He called wives to explain what to expect, assuring them the salary earned that day was still in their husband’s pocket.

I listened to lawyers, judges, CEOs, insurance agents, grocers, plumbers, factory workers, mechanics, gas station owners et al whose faces and voices I recognized because they came every day for breakfast, or lunch, or after-work drinks before heading home. What a cacophony of human behavior and community thoughts were shared between booths and bar. All orchestrated by Dad and his brothers. The music of the masses sang out for all to hear, if they were listening. It still does. If we listen. And we must listen, looking and listening for false flags.

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BORN IN THE USA, Part 1

photo by L. Annarino

I was born 2 years after Dad returned home, after serving in the US Navy. He enlisted after high school graduation. A first generation Italian-American he was un-hireable. He hitch-hiked to the Great Lakes Naval Station with a nickel in his pocket and enlisted. Dad was a brilliant man, one of the first electronics experts. While his ship the USS South Dakota ( the most decorated battleship of WWII) was in dry-dock for repairs after being towed back to New Jersey from the South Pacific, dead in the water after a fierce battle with the Japanese, he taught electronics at Yale. Once the ship was seaworthy, he returned to battle.  

At the Harry Truman Museum a replica of his sister ship, the USS Missouri, is on display as it is the ship where the Japanese surrendered. Dad showed me his firing position inside the cramped and overheated turret. As he continued his explanations his stories drew a crowd, asking more questions. I watched my Dad enthrall over one hundred visitors for more than two hours, offering them a true account of why war is always hell.

Dad first escorted munitions to Great Britain as The US lend-lease effort. Many in the United States did not see the need to oppose Hitler and aid Europe. There was no NATO, nor United Nations yet.They soon learned the short-sightedness of such America First policy when Pearl Harbor was attacked. Dad was there, but the South Dakota was out on training maneuvers when the Japanese strike on Pearl Harbor occurred, one of two ships not damaged nor destroyed that day. Within hours those two ships headed out to the Pacific to engage the Japanese.

As an infant I sat on Dad’s lap as Mom served food and drink to his fellow servicemen returned from war. As I become a toddler, I sat silently at his feet, listening to their stories, feeling their angst, learning their wisdom. As a young girl, I sat quietly listening in the next room. Some Had fought on land, others at sea or in the air. One freed a concentration camp. Others fought the jungle and suicidal enemy soldiers. Dad explained that when the kamikaze pilots attacked by diving onto the ship it was not a single plane but as many as 9 or 10 planes hurtling to the deck during a single battle. He felt like he was on fire inside the turret, as sailors put out fires caused by the crashed planes.

I watched as they placed mementos of their war experience on the table, each with a story.  I recall Nazi helmets, German Lugars, even a Samurai sword. I still have a “lion dog” one soldier was given by a Japanese family who housed him during the American occupation of Japan following the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They treated him like a son of the family as they came to know one another. So many lessons learned through these artifacts.

These warriors appreciated that bomb and I struggled to understand how after hearing them describe the destructive force and damage caused by the nuclear blast ( far less powerful than the nuclear bombs we now have ready). They explained that there could have been no surrender without it. They said many more would have died and suffered if the war had continued on. When Americans built underground bomb shelters in case we were attacked by Russia, my Dad said it would be better to die in the attack than survive and suffer the results of nuclear exposure. My Dad told his little girl this. He told me war is always hell. He did not want his children to suffer hell on earth; better that they died immediately.

Such are the difficult decisions made during war. Every single man at our kitchen table agreed there should never be another war. In fact, WWII was billed as “The war to end all wars.” If only, Soon my godfather would be sent to Korea. Later my brother would be involved in the Viet-Nam War. Next a nephew fought in Iraq. Afghanistan after 9/11.  Now, a great-nephew has been sent to The Border in Brownsville, Texas. Other soldiers are being prepared to make war in Minneapolis.  My country has made war on VenezuelaIa.  It threatens war against Mexico, Greenland and Canada. Remember that there was a Japanese delegation in Washington D.C. protesting American tariffs and a trade war between our nations when Pearl Harbor was bombed in a sneak attack. 

It seems I have only ever known war. Yet, I have never known war. War has been visited upon others in my name. Until now. War is now showing its face, if not its full vengeance, in American cities. The Civil War happened before my family emigrated to the United States. I was so relieved my family had never participated in enslaving others. Later, I understood I was participating as policies underlying enslavement continued within institutional racism. There is no escaping racism. It is akin to being an alcoholic in a 12 step program. We Americans, even those with the strongest will and opposition to racism, must fight it one day at time, one step at a time; always alert to the impulse which drives us to use it. Like alcoholism, a drink may be an immediate solution; but only leads to more misery. And such misery continues to be visited upon people of color. The murder of Ms. Good and Mr. Pretti may have finally alerted white Americans to the misery visited upon all of us, when visited upon any one of us.

After Dad’s war buddies left I would question my Dad. I asked if it was hard to kill someone. Watching the war documentaries in between the Saturday double-features at the Midland Theater I could not understand how people could do such evil to one another, especially the death camps throughout Europe. Much later, I learned of the Japanese internment camps in my own country. The mother and father of a friend had been interred in such a camp and described the suffering and loss they had endured, sobbing out stories with great grief. Dad explained how such evil can happen. He told me that it is incomprehensible to a sane person to kill. The method used is to dehumanize the enemy so one no longer sees the person as a fellow human being; not merely someone different, but someone less than human. A German becomes a Kraut. A Japanese becomes a Jap.  A Vietnamese becomes a gook. An Iraqi becomes a towel-head. A Jew becomes a K..e. An African-American becomes a N…..r. An immigrant, asylum seeker or refugee becomes the worst of the worst criminal rapist and murderer. Not just different but less. Now, we have our own concentration camps after our WWII soldiers fought to free concentration camps in Europe. I know what the men at our kitchen table would say. They understood the propaganda that white men are not only superior, and all others are less. The men at our table knew better.

I asked why it took Pearl Harbor for the USA to join the war effort. He explained the appeasement of “old man”Kennedy and Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain failed to assess the true danger posed by Hitler and Mussolini. Kennedy lost a daughter and son to the war; and a second son injured during a heroic effort. I wonder if later he could see his folly. I wonder if Heritage Foundation appeasers can see theirs. I wonder if voters will admit their folly in electing people ready to put their Superior policies into action.

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KILL THEM ALL?

Fraud plot in which some Somali immigrants participated? All Somalis are garbage so get rid of them all.

Criminal activity in which some African-Americans engage? All African-Americans are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Investigations and questions by journalists you find troublesome? All journalists are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some women refuse your advances and sexism? All women are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Venezuelan boaters survive an illegal attack at sea? All Venezuelans are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Democrats pass legislation restricting corporate greed? All Democrats are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Military heroes remind military personnel to refuse unlawful orders? All military and veterans are garbage. Get rid of them all.

CEOs defraud, overcharge for goods and services, underpay workers? All CEOs are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some White people commit crimes? All white people are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some men abuse and rape women? All men are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some bankers hide criminal gains, make money off the deposits? All bankers are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Hate has no logic except its power to destroy.

Hate has no reason except its delight in abuse.

Hate has no goodness in thought or in deed.

Hate is a damning influence and creed.

Hate is the one thing no one needs.

Some people hate? All people are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Hate until no one is left alive, no one at all.

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MY FELLOW AMERICANS

MY FELLOW AMERICANS

I hold my tongue.

It takes strength I do not have.

Whimpers escape

On shattered breaths,

In silent screams.

The fight worries my soul,

Battle weary and choking,

On words held tight inside.

Once the scream begins

I doubt I could stop.

I wait for your speech.

I yearn for your promise

To stop the authoritarian

Who has taken over our house,

Emptied its vaults,

Stolen its wealth,

Sold its power

To the highest bidders.

So, I write. That I can do

While I wait for you.

To me, this nothing new.

Do you believe me now?

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WE THE PEOPLE

The people’s house is no more.

Oh, the structure still stands,

It’s East Wing destroyed.

It rose garden paved over.

Its grounds defaced.

It is no longer democracy’s safe space.

No woman, nor child yet protected.

Hidden files of pedophilia and rape

Keep Republican representatives

Of the people away.

No chance to obstruct

as we fearfully watch all we love destruct.

Money directed from its appropriated place

Into the pockets of the man in disgrace,

Who crowns himself king,

And demands all kiss his ring.

Our right to rule ourselves now firmly displaced

By cruelty and hate,

absent a single moment of grace.

There are no longer two sides.

None of us are left with any pride.

We the people now have no place.

Unless we stand together to fight

The destruction of freedoms that are our constitutional right.

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DECONSTRUCTION

Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025

The streets were lined for blocks on end.

Signs reminded all who rejoiced to attend

Why they walked and talked and smiled and waved

At passing cars who braved delays

While drivers honked horns and shouted out

“Vote him out and make it a rout!”

Costumed critters danced to our delight

Knowing their freedom would give him a fright.

Deconstruct the lies we have been told.

Deconstruct the narrative being sold.

Deconstruct the bullie’s hold.

Deconstruct institutional mold.

Gather in peace the young and the old.

Stronger are you, more wise, more bold.

Deconstruct so we can rebuild

What he has destroyed with his minions’ lack of skill.

We know how to do this, and more.

We have done it many times before.

Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025

My thanks to my friends in Clintonville area of Columbus who helped me attend this moment of patriots’ challenge to the con men robbing the USA of its power, wealth, ideals and humanity. The lack of media coverage was appalling. The misrepresentation of attendance numbers cannot be challenged when media fails to provide images of the gatherings. A local station covered it AFTER it was over and crowds had dispersed. Another stated hundreds attended when it was actually thousands. We are here. We are resisting. We are going nowhere until the despotism and kidnapping of people and the Supreme Court, universities, news organizations, social media outlets, medical and public health Institutions… even our very language and the meaning of words and phrases has been brought to an end and freedom restored.

We shall not be silenced.

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4TH.OF JULY, 2025

Photo by Brendon Spring on Pexels.com. Read the full text of THE NEW COLOSSUS, (partially quoted below)by Emma Lazarus and inscribed on the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor.

Today is my funeral.

I have always been myself.

everyone else was taken.

I had become a fossil.

So many layers of sediment

have built up over time

that I

am hard as rock.

Too soon

It has become 

too hard

to remain human.

Especially, when monsters

roam the earth with heavy feet

in lockstep with one another.

They stand atop 

the crumbling rock and pray.

They say

that they

are God’s representative

on this dying earth

to show all the way

to greater days.

We were already pretty great,I say.

I thought we were stronger than they.

I thought they could not

make me, me, me ! their prey.

Yet, on this day we celebrate my birth,

I die during parades

of those who march behind 

school bands playing my songs.

A Statue of Liberty drone-scape

dots the night-time sky

above Red-White-and Boom

crowds cheering while immigrants die.

De-naturalized, de-refugeed

de-citizenized.

No irony there? 

How can the crowds

not realize I am dead.

They are cheering at my funeral.

After all is said,

I am done.

Too few mourners attend.

They have been forced to hide.

Even the Fourth Estate

has crumbled before my eyes,

its voices silenced, 

without enough pride nor ratings

to turn the tide of my demise.

Perhaps it is a Celebration of Life

which once was, but is no more.

Can you bring me back from the dead?

Can you resurrect what I stood for?

“Send these, the homeless,

tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp

beside the golden door.”

You can still speak these words.

you can still act on my behalf,

on behalf of liberty itself.

This. This. This! I sincerely implore.

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D-DAY TODAY

Photo by Karin Setterholm on Pexels.com

I learned of D-Day from newsreels

 shown in between double-features

at the Saturday morning movies

which cost a quarter

at our local theatre. 

I learned of D-Day listening

at the feet of my father

hidden under the kitchen table

where Daddy spoke with buddies

who went to war with him

after years of childhood friendship.

I learned of D-Day in school

where we studied WW II,

and ignored the study of Viet-Nam,

while fellow students were drafted

to go fight a different war.

Korea was seldom mentioned 

anywhere but among the men

like my cousin who survived the fight.

I learned of D-Day from movies

like OVERLORD, and later,

SAVING PRIVATE RYAN.

But, those images had already been ingrained

on the bank of memories lodged in my brain.

Images of certain death

where the words “last ditch effort”

were not mere metaphor, but a lesson to

never make war, nor allow it to cross our shore.

Today is D-Day, not in reverent remembrance,

but as a last-ditch call for the war

that we face against crony capitalism,

corruption, Putin international mobsters

posing as politicians; heads of national security,

homeland security, and even presidents.

Greed brought war within our shores.

This is our D-Day hidden inside fake news,

and Project 2025, and a budget reconciliation

package too large to read or report upon,

Too quickly pushed through by enemies

of state we call Republicans,

but who are nazis manning bunkers

Photo by Hub JACQU on Pexels.com

called The Great Wall like the one 

our fascists try to build  along our southern border.

To keep brown people out? Or keep us in?

Is America becoming a giant camp

concentrating those exercising free speech,

free movement and all dissent beneath the thumb

of authoritarian diatribe and power, making us numb

and willing to cooperate with endless hate?

I honor those who once fought to save the world

and keep it free from hate and bigotry,

and create a fair economy which served us all.

I see the last ditch in my mind with no need to recall.

It lives on every street, in every neighborhood,

in every school board meeting, and City Hall;

in governor’s mansions and courts of law.

It is still alive these many years

and brings anger along with tears

burning the back of my throat

as I mourn those who breached the fascist wall

and those whose bodies I imagine afloat

off Omaha and Utah Beaches, and now, in our cities.

And I remember, as if it is today. It is. Such a pity.

Community members clash with ICE, other federal officers, Minneapolis police, and other state officers as officials raid Las Cuatro Milpas in Minneapolis, Minnesota Tuesday, June 3, 2025. (Photo by Nicole Neri/Minnesota Reformer)

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MARTA ASKS “NEVER AGAIN ?”

Photo by Gabriel Guita on Pexels.com

Marta married an American soldier

in the front lines of her liberation

from Nazis who invaded her city

where her father’s butcher shop

did business selling cuts of meat

from the cattle raised on their farm

outside the city, somewhat removed

from the war which rounded up neighbors,

Jews, whose shops also served Dutch

neighbors who labored by their sides.

As German soldiers arrived under Nazi flags

These Dutch, Jew and non-Jew, stayed silent

coming out from their shops to watch them march by.

Soon, rumors were heard that non-Jewish shopkeepers

were considering turning Jews in by-and-by

to save and serve their own interests.

Marta’s father knew better. He knew the lie

they told themselves that such hate

could pass them all by, by cooperating.

In the morning the Jewish shops were shuttered.

The Jews had been warned and fled

to no one knew where. On a wing and a prayer

they followed twelve year old Marta

to the family farm where they hid in the barn,

protected and fed, and where they could safely hide.

The Nazis came and took their cattle, their chickens,

but did not find the Jews who were kept hidden,

kept alive. Marta’s family stayed silent, too.

Not to save themselves, nor appease their enemy;

but to save their Jewish neighbors and their own pride.

Years fell away with wizened flesh that kept them alive.

When the food was gone into Nazi bellies

she ate grass soup, and chewed leather hide

from her shoes, made into stews. It kept them alive.

By the time American soldiers took over her town

Marta was an emaciated bag of skin and bone.

She married the soldier who fed her his rations

and gave her rebirth of heart. She had kept her soul.

She had saved the Jews and her love of humanity.

But her sanity sat heavily on thin shoulders 

no longer able to stem tears nor fears.

She heard those marching feet and shouts  of “Heil !”

In forever dreams she relived the living hell

she and her Jewish neighbors survived.

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