Soft breeze loving his neck, ears, black black hair as it blows him into dreams of Hans, his love coming today. "My love is like...." Like the smell of the sun, yellow and lemony. The smell of tar enters him, the same smell he'd imagined when visiting Auschwitz, where he and Hans had met. Out of the ashes.... New York Jew, son of survivors, goes to pay homage: 47 family members and the rest of the 6 million. Meets Hans, a blond with "cherman"-inflected, infected English, taking photographs. On a day like this, in fact, one year ago. Spring. Springtime in Auschwitz. A Jew and a German. Once, they were the same, his father a German Jew, now antithetical, like he and Hans. The Amtrak whistle blows. "Go By Train," blinks the neon on the tower. "Go By Train," by train, by train. They had, all of them, gone by train. Hans' great uncle, with the same flaming curls spiralling from the scalp, wore the pink triangle instead of the yellow star. David would wear both. In one of the "infocenters," he saw the women kissing their fingers, then the star through the glass of the display case. Lipstick, saliva and schmutz covered the yellow star. But the glass over the pink triangle was clear.
Together, they will return to kiss it. The train arrives. He buries his crooked nose in Hans' shampoo-smelling white-blond curls: how clean, how sweet.
Find out more about Annie Dawid at www.anniedawid.com