My child, the Bar Mitzvah boy,

Stood tall in his new suit

After his reading,

Awaiting the blessing.

And the Rabbi spoke of my son’s mother’s father, 

Froim Lumerman.

 

The Germans had chosen him from among the Chosen,

And marked him head of their Judenrat

For the mud-street village of Tarnogrod.

But mindful of his practical Talmud,

He followed the ancient proscriptions

And would not hand Jew over to Gentile

For a train ride to liberating labor

Or whatever . . .

He would not and fled.

The Germans sought him in the Polish forest and the Polish home.

Unsuccessful, they marked another.

And on the red night that rendered Tarnogrod

Jew-free forever,

He brought his family 

Into the hostile forest.

There they survived.

There my son’s mother was born.

And from there Froim learned to kill back.

 

Here I knew Froim for twelve years.

He was huge but bent by German lead.

But he would have stood tall

At his daughter’s son’s reading.

And from his seat before the Ark, 

Would, in awe, have mouthed the blessing.

 

                                                                                    -   Jeffrey Eisenmesser, 1983