I turn my shoulder to the grey and think br of Yosel, son of Saul Rabinsky, how br he slammed the doors of crowded cattle cars br bound for Siberia, although the faces br inside were those of neighbours, Catholic Poles. br br How haplessly they looked back through the cracks, br their petty gentry voices cursing him br and the red star on his cone-shaped traitor’s cap, br their love of Poland beyond his comprehension, br their foolishness not worthy of his grief. br br He did not know few would survive the journey br and those who did would perish in the gulags, br their tundra-bitten bodies heaped beneath br Lavrentii Beria’s orders, like forgotten br enemies of a freedom-loving state. br br The son of Saul Rabinsky did not know br the Wehrmacht would attack within a year br and soon behind them come a death's head squad br to mock the bearded rabbis of the town br and herd its Jews into a killing field. br br He did not know he’d be betrayed by neighbours, br who, in a cabal of silence and revenge, br would watch the gendarmes drag him through the square, br neighbours with whom he’d played and gone to school br and whose unbridled hatred matched his own.