martes, 2 de octubre de 2012


I'd always heard that the Polish men were tough steelworkers and that the women cooked lots of cabbage.  But I'd never known one--until the garden.  She was an old woman whose space bordered mine.  She had a seven-block walk to the garden, the same route I took.  We spoke quite often.  We both planted carrots.  When her hundreds of seedlings came up in a row, I was very surprised that she did not thin them-- pulling out all but one healthy-looking plant each few inches, to give them room to grow.  I asked her.  She looked down at them and said she knew she ought to do it, but that this task reminded her too closely of her concentration camp, where the prisoners were inspected each morning and divided into two lines-- the healthy to live and the others to die.  Her father, an orchestra violinist, had spoken out against the Germans, which had caused her family's arrest.  When I heard her words, I realized how useless was all that I'd heard about Poles, how much richness it hid, like the worthless shell around an almond.  I still do not know, or care, whether she cooks cabbage. 
-"Amir" from Seedfolks by Paul Fleischman

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