World War II

Long Rows

Seventy-five years ago
a man
crawled along
in the field
with me at his side
searching
for every single blade
of wheat that had fallen
from the Russian harvester.

The rows were endless,
the soil hard
beneath our knees
and the sun
without mercy.

At the end of the day
he carefully threshed
the sheaves of wheat
ready
to be ground
in the little coffee mill
clenched between his knees,

to make our breakfast gruel
seasoned with salt
the Russians called Deputat
for working in the fields
pulling weeds.

At the end of the day
he was ordered
to drink with the Russians
whose language he had learned
in Siberia
25 years ago.

That man was my Grandfather,
District Court Judge
of Hannover (retired).