Shaken, Wander-on.

  

 

I walk the bank of the river.
Watch
          fishermen, 
          boats,
          and swans. 

Cross, continue, away from center. 

Shaken, Wander-on

Bob Komives

 

Curious, I wander on
         toward a smokestack,
         a long-vacant lot, basketball hoops, high fence. 

 

Beyond, 
         unclearly, a large church,
         clearly, a lower building attached and well-maintained, 
         music,
         a sign:
        "Music School". 

At the corner, right turn.

The church, now clearly, in disrepair, 
         windows broken, grounds overgrown, facade pocked. 

Door,
         to my surprise, 
         open.

I peek inside. 
          into  great, dark space,
          theater lights,
          portable wall covered with drawings,
          a dozen people illuminated as at a campfire,
          one who speaks.

I do not go in, but step back
         to notice symbols above the door.

Further back,
          I now see no church, no Christian church.
          
I see that I see a Jewish synagogue. 

Back at the door,
          motioned in by a man,
          awed in the dim by two tiers of balconies
          the immense space under dome, 
          a canopy, Hebrew scripture on tablets above,
          
All in severe disrepair,
          light through towering broken windows,
          a floor that feels like dirt under foot.

Knees weaken
          with thought of those who once worshiped here. 

Distracted, haunted,
         my heart, eyes, ears wander on.

Challenged now by the man's presentation,
          strange language, 
          the drawings,
          a paper hand-out.

 

This was, 
         this is
         the Győr Synagogue—completed in 1870— 
         This is
         the beginning of an effort at restoration.

Shaken, I wander on. 

To pass another building,
         renaissance revival in form, 
         painted pale yellow with little care,
         metal ramp to the street,
         a sign that says
         this is no more than a storage place for a chain of stores. 

But then, 
         above eye level,
         on the face of this mysterious building, 
         a dark plaque,
         new enough to shine against dull yellow. 

I step back, look up
         knowing in my heart what the plaque will tell me.

With the help of a dictionary and a learner's Hungarian:
         This is, indeed, a storage place,
         the place to store the Jews of Győr in 1944, 
         before their journey to Poland—five thousand to their death.

Shaken, I wander-on.
Shaken, wander-on. 
Shaken, wander-on. 

poem by Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Shaken, Wander-on :: 1616