Weinstein Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He handed over
to the brown uniform
his card that said
Weinstein, David.
A non-descript
and little man,
short-sighted
like so many,
dishevelled beard,
black suit and socks
that ugly hat
and clever face.

Somehow he had not made
it onto Schindler's List,
but rumours were
that Buchenwald was kind,
plenty of skills demanded
fresh air, the same that Luther,
so many moons ago, had breathed.

He did have assets, too
sixteen full fillings,
all pure gold.
A Swiss accordion
and fiddle made in Klingenthal.

They did appreciate it all,
and when he went into the showers
to refresh and be reborn
the commandant and friends
had Asbach Uralt, neat,
in celebration of a world
that had now reached the final summit
and would remain in God's own place
until the Devil donned the emperor's own clothes.