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Lidice

REMEMBERING GAZA

Hitler – to avenge the assassination

of Reinhard Heydrich, the Reich Protector

of Bohemia and Moravia,

and one of the Holocaust’s chief architects

– ordered the isolated mining village

of Lidice (twenty miles from Prague)

to be razed, and males over fourteen shot.

The women and children were deported

to Chelmno and gassed. The barbarism

is still echoing around the world.

 

The Nazis en route to capture the oil fields

of Baku, besieged Stalingrad, blitzed it

with bombs and artillery then entered –

only to be shot at by snipers from each

windowless tenement and rubble-strewn

courtyard. Winter came, and the cannon-fodder

battalions of the Russian Army.

The Germans – outnumbered corpse for corpse,

surrounded, cold, starving – surrendered.

 

When the remaining Jews in the Warsaw ghetto

discovered the truth about the trains to the east,

about their destinations, and the purpose

of those destinations, those who were not yet

too traumatised by humiliation

and hunger felt able to resist.

Between them they mustered six revolvers

and built an arsenal of Molotov cocktails

and bits of masonry. They resisted

the Wehrmacht and the SS for four months,

and received no help from the Allies.

 

And, no, no parallels are being drawn

or analogies being made, only echoes

being heard. Lidice was a war crime,

Stalingrad a rout, The Warsaw Ghetto

Uprising nemesis. Lidice’s ruins

have been preserved as a memorial,

Stalingrad re-built then renamed again,

the razed ghetto’s borders marked in remembrance.

The Third Reich lasted for barely a hundredth

of its vaunted one thousand years, and never

reached the oil fields beside the Caspian.

 

Under the sea floor off the Gaza Strip,

and in Gaza itself, far, far below

the tunnels, and in the West Bank,

are oil and natural gas deposits,

enough to make all the peoples between

the river and the sea comfortably off –

unless or until the whole earth were

to become unliveable.

 

 

 

OCTOBER MOON

That Friday night, a slow moon rose, blood-orange,

huge, over the sea’s horizon. Trails of clouds

were silhouetted across its deserts

like black smoke. Next morning, a drear sea-light

filled the rented cottage in the dunes

by the shore. A heron was wading slowly,

purposefully along the water’s edge.

 

He had gone to that tiny, remote island

off the Atlantic coast, accessible

at low tide across a sand bar, to finish

his latest book: ‘Looking The Other Way –

Genocide In Rwanda’. He was working

on the index. He had reached Complicity.

 

Prompted by a text from a friend late

on Sunday he turned on the tv news –

saw pictures of that Saturday’s massacre:

edited images of the aftermath

of the murder of innocence, and real-time,

incriminating footage of armed men

oppressing distraught women and children,

taking hostages for ransom or slaughter.

 

The days then weeks that followed were lit

by the graphics of the after effects

of the bombardment, the deliberately

chosen response – a life for a life,

a death for a death, rubble for rubble.

And gaslit by hours of talking heads

oozing bombast, lies, and casuistry.

It was a time too illuminated

by the courage and humanity

of the living victims of loss and horror.

 

Each day he would walk along the shore

round the island until he could see

the range of mountains inland across the fields.

The peaks were increasingly hidden in shifting mists.

The hedgerows of hawthorn and traveller’s joy

edging the fields were turning to yellow.

He would think of the fire-bombing of Dresden,

of the razing of Lidice, of Stalingrad –

and of Goya’s painting of two giants

clubbing themselves to death as they sink

ever further into a bog, like some

danse macabre of self-destruction.

One day he suddenly thought of the books

in his study at home, a collection

of sixty years, and was overwhelmed

by their number, their seeming irrelevance.

 

He watched the progress of the moon as the month

waxed and waned: sometimes obfuscated

by clouds, or smoke, or dust; sometimes bright as

a ‘bomber’s moon’. The stars appeared. The sun rose

above the horizon. The sea ebbed, flowed.

And thousands, thousands of children were slaughtered.