Grandfather Clause

 
for David Kamenetz, z"l

If only you'd done what you'd been told to do.


If only you'd not been lifted by a chance wind


west above the wheat tips of the Ukraine,


the thunder of knouts, the Cossacks shouting.


If you had stayed instead to be murdered,


the Einzatsgruppen, old men like you,


fingers palsied on the trigger, bellies shaking at the recoil,


would have shot you dead at the edge of a pit,


slaughtered you on the outskirts of a town


Jews could not enter after sundown.



There is a clause that refers to you


in the inner lining of a foreign language


where Jew is the dirtiest word ever.


This clause prepared in advance of your name


is the secret history of your death


decreed in a grammar strange to your Yiddish


as the language I speak is still inflected


by the death that might have been.



Yet you entered America like a pilgrim or a germ.


Which was it? Or both, as America decided,


with your Jewish heart and lungs, and your Jewish disease


and two strong fingers and a needle.



Why should I tell that old story again?


I'm still immigrating into this moment, learning


that the words applied to you apply to me.


Even after all this time, I will not allow anyone


to annihilate your name and mine.


I am grandfathered in.



From the collection "The Lowercase Jew" by Rodger Kamenetz. Reprinted with permission of the author.
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Related Topics: Faiths, Judaism

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