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 UPBy: Peter L. Fischl

I would like to be an artistSo I could make a Painting of youLittle Polish Boy

Standing with your Little haton your headThe Star of Davidon your coatStanding in the ghettowith your arms upas 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 composerso I could write a concerto of you Little Polish Boy

Standing with your Little haton your headThe Star of Davidon your coatStanding in the ghettowith your arms upas many Nazi machine guns pointing at you

I would write a concerto of you and the world who said nothing

I am not an artistBut my mind had painteda painting of you

Ten Million Miles High is the Paintingso the whole universe can see you NowLittle Polish Boy

Standing with your Little haton your headThe Star of Davidon your coatStanding in the ghettowith your arms upas many Nazi machine gunspointing at you

And the World who said nothing

I'll make this painting so brightthat it will blind the eyesof the world who saw nothing

Ten billion miles high will be the monumentso the whole universe can remember of youLittle Polish Boy

Standing with your Little haton your headThe Star of Davidon your coat

Standing in the ghettowith your arms upas many Nazi machine guns pointing at you

And the monument will tremble so the blind worldNowwill knowWhat fear is in the darkness

The worldWho said nothing

I am not a composerbut I will write a compositionfor five trillion trumpetsso it will blast the ear drumsof this world

The world'sWho heard nothing

IamSorrythatIt was youandNot me

I Cannot ForgetAlexander 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 ManMy private battle with God.Sonia Schreiber Weitz

You know I hated You oh LordI cursed your blessed nameI needed help a sign a wordAnd there was no one else to blame

Because Your silence drove me madI climbed the walls and tore my hairMy lungs were spitting blood and yetYou wouldn’t listen to my prayer

I called on You in torment wildAnd desperately cursed Your nameThen I was nothing but a childAnd the was no one else to blame

But now I feel God wasn’t deadAnd 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, everseen anythinglike this.In the children's cell block,the bedding, the clothing,the floors besmeared withdysentery. I couldput my fingers around their upper arms,their ankles, so little flesh. Two hundredand fifty children. Childrenof prisoners. Polish children.Czechoslovakian children.I can't rememberwhat I didafter 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:Inner 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:

Inner Exile: Life in HidingVictims in danger,Irrational Nazi dictatorship.Life in Hiding,Daily Struggle,Survive.Terror of being found,Brutal death consequences.Surrounded by Nazis within minutes.