The Boxcar Poem by John F. McCullagh

(On a railcar siding outside Oswiecim, Poland 12/11/1943)



Our captors did not care that we had nothing left to eat,
Nor blankets or warm clothing locked in this boxcar with no heat.
My old father's face was turning grey; his hands and cheeks felt numb.
He needed somehow to get warm or else he would succumb.

Everything we had, they had taken from us, for we were "Untermenschen".
Our tabernacles were overthrown, unarmed, we couldn't prevent them.
We had no great illusions of what our fate would be:
We would be starved and worked to death for Hitler's Germany.

Something in my soul cried out; I cannot reason why.
Somehow I was determined that my father must not die.
I set about to warm him; I massaged his hands and feet.
To keep his life's blood flowing I knew I must not sleep.

Grey morning dawned; still bitter cold, as sharp as any knife.
Our companions had all froze to death, each yielding up their life
Only we two survived the night to see another dawn.
With some envy we surveyed our friends who now were dead and gone


Somehow I survived the camps until the soldiers came.
Out of all my family, I, alone, remained.
In time I immigrated to this land, considered free.
Be vigilant, my children; beware repeating history.