Tanya
by Peter Medvinsky

To the sacred memory of Tanya Marcus and all known and unknown martyrs and heroes of the Holocaust

The man who entered my compartment on that train
Crossing the winter-gripped Ukraine
Looked twice my age, but strong and tough;
The kind whose war-time youth was rough;
He said “Hello,” then paused a bit
And took his seat.

The train was crawling; we were looking outside;
Another town was in sight;
A park, a church, a monument
To a Resistance fighter hanged…
“They honor heroes,” I said,
And turned my head.

The man looked grim, a muscle was twitching on his face:
“Young man, I fought in those days;
Killed murderers, was stabbed; was shot;
Had friends: a brave, daring lot;
The most courageous of them all
Was a young girl.

I first met Tanya in the fall of 41;
Kiev had just been overrun;
I was a soldier, had to hide;
The partisans were hard to find;
Tanya and her Resistance friends
Saved me from death.

I wish I had,” the man continued, “the words
To tell you what a girl she was;
Her gentle beauty to describe;
Her magnetism; her love of life…
And no photos of her
Survived the war.

Then came the day all Jews were ordered to report;
Most obeyed, Tanya did not;
I saw that eerie march of death:
Graybeards, cripples, women, babies…
The laughing Nazis machine-gunned them,
Every one.

I did not see Tanya smile ever since that day;
“For us is left only one way,”
She said and soon began the hunt;
Forged documents; a small handgun…
A one girl army she became
After that day.

When Tanya struck, her blows stunned the Nazi gang;
The ones she killed were of high rank;
Gestapo dogs were running wild;
They searched for many days and nights;
Even SS-men from Berlin
Were flown in.

She was betrayed. We tried to save her, but we failed.
We later learned that in the jail
They tortured her beyond belief;
Death came to her as a relief.
She was just twenty. Not a word
They got from her.

After the war I met some high-ups and, in vain,
Urged them to honor Tanya’s name;
They made it as plain as they could:
“Jewish last names don’t sound good;”
This is the world that we live in –
Cruel and mean.”

The man got off the train and vanished in the night;
But not before leaving behind,
With me: his last look, long and hard;
The memories that I must guard;
The fire that has not ceased burning
In my heart.

Copyright © 2002 by Peter Medvinsky
All rights reserved

Peter Medvinsky is a U.S. poet of Russian/Jewish background. He has lived in the U.S. since 1981 and has been writing poetry since 1998. His poetry has been published in many U.S. Jewish periodicals.

Write to Peter Medvinsky at pmpoetry18@fastmail.fm