The Chosen

Exiled from the Promised Land, we made this land our home

For centuries we lived here, lived in prosperity and shalom

We fought for this our country, we helped it grow

Now people wish to plunge us into a great sorrow

No civil service, no parks, no entertainment, no rights

Few protested while fascism was at its heights

Children were taught that we were undesirable

Anyone who said otherwise was in great trouble

A new I.D card we were given with a distinct J

Our beards were shaved in public and what could we say?

The synagogue where we all prayed, man and woman from every class

Vanished overnight leaving only some broken glass

Made homeless, we were stuffed into ghettos

There, children were shot as they smuggled in some potatoes

We won’t survive this kind of life any longer

Re-settlement? Anything but this ghetto would be much better

It’s crowded, it’s maddening; it’s cramped, it’s suffocating

This box-cart is definitely not meant for a human being.

Fighting for space, gasping for a breath we held on with a belief

There’ll be food; there’ll be water; a new home and no more grief

A halt at last on a frosty day and a settlement was nowhere in sight

Thick smoke reaching for the skies threw us all into a deep fright

“Women and children, this way!” someone cried,

And the long lines formed to the chimney’s side.

“God help us!” I prayed on September first, nineteen thirty nine

“God help us!” I prayed as our train crossed the Rhine

“God help us!” I prayed as I heard my children shout

“God” I now mutter wondering why I still call out

Where is God? Where is He? Is He there or is He not?

We can’t pray, no we can’t; our faith is facing a severe draught

A child was hanged, what was his crime? A woman was shot, what was hers?

Where is God? Where is He? What did we do to deserve such a curse?

We heard they fled as we lined up for bread

But hunger and disease stayed to continue their dread

Soon we were greeted by friendly forces

As we lay dying among rotting corpses

It is over, it is over; I can’t believe it is over

No it is not, no it is not, there is more to suffer

We have no home, no clothes, no friends, no family

All we are left with is this living corpse with a painful memory