Petr Ginz

Petr Ginz

It is a foggy day in Prague;

The fading of the Jews begins,

begins with a sign, a branding:

black-and-yellow stars of David;

On his walk to school, Petr counts

sixty-nine ‘sheriffs’ with badges.

Petr Ginz is a star shining in darkness;

He sees seeds germinate in mud and scum;

colours a visit from prehistory;

laughs cannonballs of explosive satire;

Caged Prague streets are his fairytale of stone;

Before any soul has rocketed to space,

He draws Moon Landscape, earth seen from the moon;

Moon rock heaves mountain peaks in linocut.

It is a foggy day in Prague;

Death hovers over the Vitava;

Normal time fades in the ghetto;

Jews are starving to skeletons;

no fruit, geese, poultry, cheese, onions;

Tobacco rations are verboten

to prisoners, madmen, and Jews.

Petr logs the calamity.

He records in yellowed notebooks:

The people fade away, hundreds,

And then thousands, gone on transports:

Levituses, Poppers, Mautners;

One August day he barely notes:

‘In the morning at home.’

Petr is sent to the ‘spa town’,

Transit camp for the death camps;

His mind is still an adventure;

Reads, writes, draws, paints, carves linocuts,

Edits a secret newspaper;

He is sixteen talent-rich years

He is gassed in Auschwitz.

1 February 2003:

On Petr Ginz’s birthday, death

Flies the shuttle Columbia;

Ilan Ramon, carries with him

A copy of Moon Landscape.