The March of the Living is not just one week in Poland and one week in Israel. Rather, it is thousands of precious moments; some that are too hard to think about, let alone talk about….
- Nava Cohen, 2001

We learned that there were six thousand of us marching for six million of them. So, that meant to me that each one of us was given the spirits of one thousand to walk in their memory. This is the thousand that I marched for

My Thousand

I marched for my thousand.
Beautiful and silent and strong.
Mine were all girls; mothers, daughters, sister.
I marched for the girl, who with grace and elegance
Walked down the road, her head held high.
I marched for the girl, who sobbed softly
As she followed her mother and sister to their deaths.
And I marched for them, too.
I marched for the lost young girl, helpless and confused
Looking to her older sisters
But finding no comfort in their defeated eyes
And I marched for them, too.
For those who left no one to remember them
No one to recall their lighter days,
I marched for each one of them.
They didn't know, but they left me
To remember their smiles and tears, joys and sorrows
And for them, for my one thousand, I marched.
- Jill Levy, 2001

Pologne

J'avais déjà vu
J'avais deja entendu
La pologne, une gifle
A chaque instant, une emotion, une reflexion
Une remise en question
L'imagination n'est plus
Le pire a ete appliqué
Je ne ressentirai jamais assez mais j'ai deja ressenti trop.

Poland

I already saw
I already heard
Poland is such a chock
Each second a blow
Each instant an emotion, a reflection,
Another question
Imagination is not enough
The worst has already been done.
I will never experience enough,
But I have already experienced too much.
- J. Silberschmidt, 2001

Today is Friday and I am excited for Shabbat. Never before have I wished for Shabbat to come faster. In this place of hell, Shabbat can't come fast enough. A day of rest, a day to learn, a day of understanding. A night when we will join together as one to pray the Oneg.
- Camile Maratchi, 2001

There are no answers.
Sometimes memory can be the best revenge, and I will never forget.
No one will.
- Brett Berman, 2001

I mourn

for the wearer of the small red shoe who could not have been
more than seven
for the pretty girls whose long braids were cut off until they were
left with no hair
for the young men who tried to act brave while clinging tightly to
their fathers
for the mother who was ripped away from her screaming children
for the bubbie who had five minute to pack her life and grabbed
her pots, pans,
and cheese grater
for the Chassid who had minutes to pack and could only think to
bring his tallis, tefilin,
and Chumash
for the eshet chayil tznuah who spent her life trying to be modest
only to die naked with her
baby piled on top of men
for the physically handicapped who could not do anything about
their situation
for the mentally handicapped who could not understand the
situation
for the wearer of the eyeglasses unable to see his future
for the person who struggled to learn to live with a false limb, only
to have to learn
to survive without it
for my Survivor, Isak, who was tested on because he was a twin
for all the Survivors who are branded forever with their horrific past
for the one and one half million children
for the six million Jews
for the thirteen million liver
I mourn
- Jessica Lief, 2001

You are My Witnesses

I stepped into the boxcar, into the darkness
Sixty years later, I stepped into that very same car.

Both times, I was with friends.
Both times, I peered at the world through a tiny hole in the wall.

I did not know how long I'd be in the boxcar, where I was going, or
if I'd survive.
Sixty years later, I knew full well that I'd be climbing out in a mere
ten minutes.

The boxcar was sealed, dark, cramped, suffocating, and
unbearable.
Sixty years later, the door of the boxcar was open.

I exited the boxcar and was immediately "selected" for the gas
chambers.
Sixty years later, I exited the boxcar and returned to life.

I was an ordinary teenager with family, friend aspirations, and a
love of my religion.
Sixty years later, I am an ordinary teenager with family, friends,
aspiration, and a love of my religion.

I was a victim.
Sixty years later, I am a witness.
- Sarah M. Brown, 2001

Just Like You

Those victims of man's hatred
were children just like me.
Those who once had normal lives
were children just like me.
Those uprooted from their lives
were children just like me.
Those dragged from their homes in the middle of the night
were children just like me.
Those robbed of everything they had
were children just like me.
Those locked behind a ghetto wall
were children just like me.
Those struck by pain and poverty
were children just like me.
Those taken by starvation and disease
were children just like me.
Those forced to brave the endless winters
were children just like me.
Those who never saw the outside world
were children just like me.
Those left orphaned in the streets
were children just like me.
Those robbed of their childhood
were children just like me.
Those robbed of their smiles
were children just like me.
Those who never even had a chance
were children just like me.
Those ripped from the arms of their mothers
were children just like me.
Those shipped in from foreign lands
were children just like me.
Those forced to stand for days on end
were children just like me.
Those stripped and shot and gassed and burned
were children just like me.
Those buried in pits, in unmarked graves
were children just like me.
Those all too young to die
were children just like me.
Those flickering lights in a cold dark world
were children just like me.
Those silent soldiers who fought off the darkness
were children just like me.
Those one and a half million innocent souls
were children just like me.
Yes, those children of the Holocaust
were children just like me.
And you, who killed my neighbors, my friends and my family, you too
were children just like me.
- Jody Krasner, 2001
Written after visiting the forest outside Tykocin

Did You Say Goodbye?

Was the sun shining
Was the air cool
When you began your march?

Did the birds chirp
Did the trees shudder with the breeze
When you began your march?

Did you kiss your mother's cheek
Did you hold your father's hand
When you began your march?

Did your feet ache
Were your hands dirty
As you ended your march?

Did you touch the earth
Did you say goodbye
Before you finished your march

Did you know that you would never be forgotten
Did you know your memory was immortal
When you began your march?
- Emily Yerkes, 2001