Eight Days

To a once happy young woman,
a child was born,
in the ghetto at Sátoraljaújhely,
sometime in May, 1944.

Not just a child,
a male. A male baby.
A covenant to keep.

Give him his fathers’ name!
Her mother shouts.
My son still lives!
Her mother-in-law replies.

Give him his uncle’s name!
Her mother-in-law shouts.
My son still lives!
Her mother replies.

Her brother and her husband,
had been taken months before,
slaves.

Eight days.
Eight days.

A covenant to keep.

By now, they know,
they know without knowing,
the woman, her mother,
her mother-in-law,
they will be put onto trains,
they will be traveling.

Oh, G-d, oh, Lord,
they pray,
let us bring him into your covenant,
here, in this room, let us muster
our joy on solid, unmoving ground.

Eight days.
Eight days.

A covenant to keep.

A baby boy.
Oh baby boy.

A covenant to keep.

With what, on the eighth day,
on a suffocating train, can one
keep a covenant?

With what tool can you mark him,
this Son of Abraham,
that his G-d might know he has
arrived?

Utter darkness then, cars filled with
the sweat of desperate terrified people,
stale anxious sweat that has no
hint of human sweetness.

An elderly woman sits dead in the corner,
they cannot move her.

The cars roll on.

The mohel cannot see,
they use all their matches,
that he might not mutilate the child.

He brought his very sharp knife,
not knowing the manner in which
he would be called to use it.

The baby cries out.

The people chant:
Ke-shem she-nich-nas la-brit kein yi-ka-neis
le-to-rah oo-le-choo-pah oo-le-ma-a-sim to-vim.

For a moment,
they remember who they are,
and the darkness explodes.

They are underneath the stars of the Sinai
dancing around a fire and He is there and
He delights in their dance.

They chant:
Eight days!
Eight days!
A covenant is kept!

He places his hand upon the child’s forehead
and the crying stops.

The baby looks up at Him,
and smiles,
Elohai neshama
sheh na-ta-ta-bi t’hora hee.

The train slows.

The door opens.

Ugly moonlight.

Eight days,
not nine.