The Cats of Auschwitz
Somehow it is the cat, and not the train yard, that makes me weep.
A bus, this time, takes us through the iron gate.
It is the same, yet not the same, the oldest of us, a woman past one hundred, remarks in pointed Yiddish.
A tomcat crouches on a windowsill, unbothered by the frozen air.
“I try to rehome him,” explains the guide, in English, “but he escape and come back.”
The tomcat nuzzles against my coat and purrs. "He just want food," the guide laughs.
I had resolved not to weep, to give them none of my tears, but I had not expected this soft heartbeat inside my coat, purring for food.
About the Creator
Eric Dovigi
I am a writer and musician living in Arizona. I write about weird specific emotions I feel. I didn't like high school. I eat out too much. I stand 5'11" in basketball shoes.
Twitter: @DovigiEric
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