Guilty

I was guilty.

My child was ripped from my arms,

Soon to be shoved onto a train headed God knows where.

I grasped for her with my weak, pale hands.

Retracting them bruised and bloodied from a beating.

I howled and beat the soldier with the strength I had left.

My breath came out as icy bursts of anger.

But I could feel his rage overpowering mine as his hand caught

My thin wrist.

I was guilty.

Hundreds of eyes were on me, filled with despair and pity.

My daughter desperately wrapped her arms around me,

Tears falling endlessly,

her eyes reddening and choked sobs leaving her lips.

I begged her to run away, to leave the ghetto,

To leave me.

She only clung to my frail body, digging crescents into my arms,

Burying her head into the crook of my neck.

I was guilty.

The soldier ripped her away from me.

I heard her cry out as she hit the cobblestone path.

He smashed the butt of his gun against my temple,

Dragging me by my matted hair across dirt and stone.

I was placed in front of the train tracks just outside the ghetto.

I was guilty.

I felt the rumbling of the train,

I heard the high-pitch whistle.

The pebbles jumping and the wood vibrating.

A crowd was formed and my hands were tied.

My head swam and I swayed side to side,

Fighting my heavy eyes to find my child.

I was guilty.

I saw my daughter held by the crowd, weeping, begging to reach me.

The soldier pointed to me, shouting things I could not hear.

I felt the train coming closer.

Mothers turned their children away.

I was guilty.

The soldier stared into my eyes.

I felt his coldness pierce my heart and soul,

As though death was standing before me.

He lifted his leg, his black, leather boot shining in the winter sun.

I took one last look at my child and mouthed I loved her.

And he kicked me onto the train tracks.

I was guilty of being a mother.

I was guilty of being a Jew.