Religious Jews of Le Marais consult an inner vision that
Muslims, Christians, have no way to view. This vision
cautions Jews to bide their wary time and wait the dropping
of the other shoe. The Camps were sixty years ago, but always
one more shoe, nicht wahr? And after one more shoe, one more.
They know that “moving target” is a free translation of  “diaspora.”

Brisses lead to Polizei and razor wire, dogs. This
knowledge has tattooed nishumahs, guts, the very soul.
We watch three young Talmudists, emerging from
yeshiva now, in hot dispute, cross Rue du Temple
without looking either way, their eyes upon the argument.
Kabala magic, and an oak door yawns. A watchful,

skull-capped, burly man steps out to cover them, to interpose
his body should it come to that. They enter rapidly, disputing
still. He sees them in without attack. His concentrated gaze,
like lightning, mine-sweeps up and down the street. For just
this moment safe. He follows, and we hear the bolt slide
through, as though it bears the weight of half the world.

And yet a single panzer tank could take them, destroy their Torahs,
the security they pray for from the El they pray to, guarding them
with outstretched arms and miracles, with plagues, with thunderbolts
as it is said. We hear the trains. They are at Gare de Lyons right now,
but tomorrow, who can say? Trains go everywhere. And shoes. That
is the code that’s written on their skins - this information of the blood.

Accepted by SC Rev 11/25/02