A cat.

October–1942

Peter has a cat.

I touch it lovingly, gliding my hands over its soft fur.

It reminds me of freedom, dirt, grass, clouds, the sky.

Trees to climb in, jump from.

Beyond the frosted gray windows, bookcase.

The breeze upon my face.

Slip beneath the rafters of rotten wood, glide between mortar.

Under floors, through doors.

Yet you stay with us   mouschi ? our furry friend

An unyielding companion, you could

Just run away, leaving this fate but you remain

However-

I wish I were a cat

So I can run in our tortured homeland.

And feel the breeze and a million other unsignificant things

Yes, I wish I were a cat.

Anne