Today: ·Discover military tactics used in WWII by using maps and text ·Create a short war update for radio broadcast ·Experience the Holocaust through poetry ·Create your own Holocaust poetry through "found" words

Experiencing the Holocaust through poetry: Creating a "Found Poem"

Roundup of Jews in the Warsaw ghetto (1943)

TO THE LITTLE POLISH BOY STANDING WITH HIS ARMS UP By: Peter L. Fischl I would like to be an artist So I could make a Painting of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you I would make a monument of you and the world who said nothing I would like to be a composer so I could write a concerto of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you I would write a concerto of you and the world who said nothing

I am not an artist But my mind had painted a painting of you Ten Million Miles High is the Painting so the whole universe can see you Now Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you And the World who said nothing I'll make this painting so bright that it will blind the eyes of the world who saw nothing Ten billion miles high will be the monument so the whole universe can remember of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat

Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you And the monument will tremble so the blind world Now will know What fear is in the darkness The world Who said nothing I am not a composer but I will write a composition for five trillion trumpets so it will blast the ear drums of this world The world's Who heard nothing I am Sorry that It was you and Not me

I Cannot Forget Alexander Kimel- Holocaust Survivor: 1942 Do I want to remember? The peaceful ghetto, before the raid: Children shaking like leaves in the wind. Mothers searching for a piece of bread. Shadows, on swollen legs, moving with fear. No, I don't want to remember, but how can I forget? Do I want to remember, the creation of hell? The shouts of the Raiders, enjoying the hunt. Cries of the wounded, begging for life. Faces of mothers carved with pain. Hiding Children, dripping with fear. No, I don't want to remember, but how can I forget?

Do I want to remember, my fearful return? Families vanished in the midst of the day. The mass grave steaming with vapor of blood. Mothers searching for children in vain. The pain of the ghetto, cuts like a knife. No, I don't want to remember, but how can I forget? Do I want to remember, the wailing of the night? The doors kicked ajar, ripped feathers floating the air. The night scented with snow-melting blood. While the compassionate moon, is showing the way. For the faceless shadows, searching for kin. No, I don't want to remember, but I cannot forget. Do I want to remember this world upside down? Where the departed are blessed with an instant death. While the living condemned to a short wretched life, And a long tortuous journey into unnamed place, Converting Living Souls, into ashes and gas. No. I Have to Remember and Never Let You Forget.

Where Was Man My private battle with God. Sonia Schreiber Weitz You know I hated You oh Lord I cursed your blessed name I needed help a sign a word And there was no one else to blame Because Your silence drove me mad I climbed the walls and tore my hair My lungs were spitting blood and yet You wouldn’t listen to my prayer I called on You in torment wild And desperately cursed Your name Then I was nothing but a child And the was no one else to blame But now I feel God wasn’t dead And WHERE WAS MAN I ask instead

An American's reaction to finding concentration camps in 1945 Our men cried. We were a combat unit. We'd been to Anzio, to southern France, Sicily, Salermo, the Battle of the Bulge, and we'd never, never seen anything like this. In the children's cell block, the bedding, the clothing, the floors besmeared with months of dysentery. I could put my fingers around their upper arms, their ankles, so little flesh. Two hundred and fifty children. Children of prisoners. Polish children. Czechoslovakian children. I can't remember what I did after I saw the children.

Barbara Helfgot-Hyett turned these words into a poem Our men cried. We were a combat unit. We'd been to Anzio, to southern France, Sicily, Salermo, the Battle of the Bulge, and we'd never, ever seen anything like this. In the children's cell block, the bedding, the clothing, the floors besmeared with dysentery. I could put my fingers around their upper arms, their ankles, so little flesh. Two hundred and fifty children. Children of prisoners. Polish children. Czechoslovakian children. I can't remember what I did after I saw the children.

Found Poetry: A Found Poem is a poem created from a preexisting text. While reading over this text, highlight important/key words or the most descriptive words. Once you have created a list of all your words and phrases you have the freedom to arrange them how you like to form a poem. Once you are completed, you will have a poem that represents the key information from the original text.

Example: I nner Exile: Life in Hiding Some victims found that they were in danger from Nazi persecution too late to leave their countries. Others thought the Nazi dictatorship could never survive. For many, Nazi racial policy was too irrational to even comprehend. Many Jews felt that they were as much German, Dutch, French, or Polish as anyone else in their communities. Life in hiding from the Nazis was a daily struggle. Those hidden lived in constant terror of being discovered. People in hiding were discovered frequently. The consequences of being found for hiders and those hiding them were grave, often resulting in brutal death at the hands of special police squads. My parents, my brother, and I ran through the kitchen into the pantry outside. In an open bicycle shed behind the house, we tried desperately to hide on the floor between bicycles and pieces of wood. Our luck had run out. Within minutes the house was surrounded by Nazis. --Anita Mayer

Found Poem: In ner Exile: Life in Hiding Victims in danger, Irrational Nazi dictatorship. Life in Hiding, Daily Struggle, Survive. Terror of being found, Brutal death consequences. Surrounded by Nazis within minutes.