Zareby Koscliene

by L. Pevka


Zaromb is dead.  Parts of our own bodies died a martyr's death along with millions of Jews and Jewish children in every corner of Europe, where thousands were thrown into mass graves and millions of bodies were burned and never given any grave at all.

If Zaromb would have had palaces, large factories, oil wells, if Zaromb were a large, rich the world would sometimes recall it; diplomats would discuss it at their round tables; poets would immortalize it in song; its name would be immortalized in the thick tomes which people would read and perhaps a tear would fall on the Holy Jewish community, Zaromb.

But Zaromb was small and poor.  Instead of palaces, there were small wooden houses.  Here was the town, here the market place and you were already in green fields outside the shtetl.  The small, narrow streets were filled with lovely Jewish children.  Poor Jews, exhausted from hard work and long hours, forgotten by God, lived poorly and hoped for a visit to America or to Eretz-lsrael.  Today, Jewish Zaromb lies dead.

And you, the remaining children of Zaromb, are spread out all over the world. Let your tears fall on this page.  This is Zaromb's tombstone; there is no other marker.  May your desire for revenge fill your hearts and make you ball your hands into hard fists!