All through France and later Germany when his unit

settled for the night in copses, barns, town houses

with bombed-off faces, tents in mud — my grandfather

readied himself to survive as for prayer.  

First he’d find a piano, buy time with an egg

then wash his socks and hang them to dry 

before morning. All around him footrot

and privates drinking kerosene, 

swaying to their own shattered music.

 

So he came home unbroken, contraband Nazi 

banner ripped from a pole smuggled home in spare trousers.

Married glamorous goyim women,

tucked a baby grand under a velvet quilt

at night, bought a silver keter for the synagogue,

furs and theatre tickets, pickled tomatoes

and sandwiches fisted full of brisket.

Demanded burnt toast in diners, 

kept a beautiful beard 

and four children, a Cadillac.

 

Remember, my dad laughs, 

when he came home sometimes

to leave groceries at the door, you could just

wave goodbye to him going down the stairwell

if you ran?  My aunt puts her hand over his.  

In her house, last year’s Christmas tree still hangs with glass

glitter and brittle brown arms 

one slip from going up in flames.

 

At the piano he pounds the fallboard

as I fumble notes and cry, grandfather bleeds out

in Beth Israel, it’s late and Dad’s car

tears out again, on my bedroom wall 

the red wash of headlights shrinking into the night.  

We sleep easy as soldiers,

until it’s almost a relief to hear the bombs

begin to whistle their way home.