Classic Poem

In the photograph by Engelman, the old world gemütlichkeit is evident: Vienna, 1938: the velvet-covered chair and Persian rug, the famous couch with cushions. And the tiny, tiny mirror in the window that faced the trees ... as if he needed reassurance for survival, when he listened? Gored by the climacteric of the age, evil passed over every silence. And you can see it, still: the swastika scrawled above his doorway just outside the camera's frame. Here the man became his best obsessions; he lived and fled. A year from now, he will be dead. His artifacts and family gone to Maresfield Gardens, his sisters Dolfi, Mitzi, Rosa, Pauli destined for the camps. Not much remains. What is a life but its runes in absence?