“I am almost finished with my essay on chaos and the threshold . . .”
                                                Martin Heidegger

                                   
I wake with my ears held:
It’s that dream about the Terezin ghetto, where the little
Children are being encouraged to express themselves.
Words like shekl and shetl crisscross and scatter.

Practiced artists supervise. 
Guards pretend not to watch.
Red Cross workers beam.
It isn’t low rent, it’s no rent,

An art colony where you’re admitted
Without application: “Ideally situated
Between city and country, nature and culture.”
Gaily pack your gear.

I dreamt I am sent on a photographic mission to Terezin.
Diplomatic immunity, WAC brunette and jeep
At my disposal.
Idyllic two hour ride from Prague.

She chose to wait outside the gates.
When I caught sight of something that made me retch,
I covered my ears until the next shot.
This helped not at all.

There was no one with whom I could share my disturbance
That what I was allowed to see didn’t reflect the reality.
The children seemed to be absorbed.
With the adults, it was not so clear.

They took a little more time with the children
Than would have appeared, at first
Glance, and without history, necessary.
“So this is what I prayed for: more time to concentrate on my art!”

The children’s laughter twitched the guards like an explosion.
It is this that had to be rooted out.
Not long before the end, Heidegger could still
Boast of Terezin in letters to Arendt and Sartre:

“And yet, art is more valued here than in . . .”
It was like an art school with everyone floated on full scholarship.
Transportation included. 
Meals provided in a timely way.

There was an order to the day that induced concentration.
The children were giddy, art-crazed, until it was time to leave camp.
The supply of chalk and paper and pastel seemed inexhaustible.
And words like shekel and shtetl I never learned to spell.