Marty: “I am the ghost of Auschwitz I have a tale to tell Of the stench of death that rose from the pits The stench from the bowels of hell.” Yes, Marty, as soon as we hear the first line, we can settle back comfortably to hear the tale you are about to tell.
I don’t want to puncture your ambitions, and I know your heart is in the right place, but this sort of doggerel only serves to cheapen the horror of Auschwitz and the Holocaust.
The “bowels of hell” is an overworked and tired metaphor that fails to convey the Auschwitz stench – not just of burning bodies, but of the more personal stench of your own living body.
And then we are told:
“Cold and hungry slaves were we Each waiting for the end In tattered shreds of tapestry That only death could mend.”
The message here is that death makes everything OK. But the deaths at Auschwitz cannot be redeemed. The best one can do is bear witness, and that demands a skilled craftsman:
"They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlour is filled with sailors
The circus is in town..."
Brendan
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