Friday December 22, 1939, I was seven.
While it was still daytime,
Mama and I went to the grocery store,
outside the wall.
We could still do that in December.

Piotrek the storekeeper gave me an orange.
“Got a case by train, from Italy, two days ago, one left,
for you, gift for Christmas,” he said.
Mama, I, thanked him for this last orange, golden.

He motioned to us to shop quickly.
“Leave, before the patrol comes by.”

Warsaw’s early winter announced itself,
harsh.
That night, on Twarda Street,
eight of us huddled in our flat.

Grandfather sang our Shabbat blessing.
My eleven-year-old cousin Dorota and I,
shared the orange, delicious, sweet,
golden by candlelight.

I will never forget our last
family Shabbat,
orange from Piotrek,
orange golden for Christmas.

Emma Alexandra

Note: Persona poem – The perspective of my cousin Ignacy Vogel imagined. The Vogel Family living in Warsaw perished during the WWII Holocaust