“I Never Saw Another Butterfly” Children’s Drawings and Poems from Terezin Concentration Camp 1942–1944. By Hana Volavkova (Editor) I Never Saw Another Butterfly Poems.
The Butterfly
The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing
against a white stone….
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly ’way up high.
It went away I’m sure
because it wished
to kiss the world good-bye. For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here, in the ghetto.
I am a Jew Franta Bass
I am a Jew and will be a Jew forever.
Even if I should die from hunger,
never will I submit.
I will always fight for my people,
on my honor.
I will never be ashamed of them;
I give my word.
I am proud of my people,
how dignified they are.
Even though I am oppressed,
I will always come back to life.
“The Butterfly”
The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing
against a white stone. . . .
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly ‘way up high.
It went away I’m sure because it wished to
kiss the world good-bye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here,
in the ghetto.
Pavel Friedman 4.6.1942
At Terezín
When a new child comes
Everything seems strange to him.
What, on the ground I have to lie?
Eat black potatoes? No! Not I!
I’ve got to stay? It’s dirty here!
The floor- why, look, it’s dirt, I fear!
And I’m supposed to sleep on it?
I’ll get all dirty!
Here the sound of shouting, cries,
And oh, so many flies.
Everyone knows flies carry disease.
Oooh, something bit me! Wasn’t that a bedbug?
Here in Terezín, life is hell
and when I’ll go home again, I can’t yet tell.
“Teddy” 1943
The Little Mouse
A mousie sat upon a shelf,
Catching fleas in his coat of fur.
But he couldn’t catch her- what chagrin!-
She’d hidden ‘way inside his skin.
He turned and wriggled, knew no rest,
That flea was such a nasty pest!
His daddy came
And searched his coat.
He caught the flea and off he ran
To cook her in the frying pan.
The little mouse cried, “Come and see!
For lunch we’ve got a nice, fat flea!”
Koleba 1944