Spring 2011 - The Heschel School

20 West End Avenue
New York, New York 10023
212/246-7717 • www.heschel.org

Dedication
Who are we?
e-pit’-o-me is our opportunity to
discover ourselves,
embrace ourselves,
take pride in ourselves.
We dedicate this to our unique identities,
to the infinite pieces of the puzzles that we are
to all the different parts and combinations
that make us distinctly us —
we are the embodiment of all these.
As the generation without a voice,
our voices are heard in the syncopated rhythm of
our qualms
our conundrums,
and the risks we take every day.
e-pit’-o-me is our voice.
Charlotte, Jenny, Tobias
Staff
Editors in Chief
Tobias Citron
Elisheva Epstein
Jennifer Katz
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Art/Photography Editors
Rebecca Mack
Harris Mizrahi
Associate Literary Editors
Emma Goldberg
Rebecca Mack
Faculty Advisor
Sandra Silverman
Special Thanks to
Publimax Printing, Graphic Paper
New York, and Barry and Zachary
Goodman AJHHS Alumni Class ’08 for
contributions to defray costs of Epitome.
Gabe Godin and Dena Schutzer
Graphic Design/Production
By Design Communications
Printing Publimax Printing
Paper Graphic Paper New York
The Abraham Joshua Heschel
High School
20 West End Avenue
New York, New York 10023
212/246-7717
www.heschel.org
Head of School
Roanna Shorofsky
High School Head
Ahuva Halberstam
Memberships & Awards
Member, CSPA, 2006 – present
(Columbia Scholastic Press Association)
First Place Magazine Cover –
Black and White, 2009
Gold Medalist
2007, 2008, 2009, 2010
Gold Circle Awards
2007, 2008, 2009, 2010
Silver Medalist, 2006
Colophon
The pieces in this magazine emerged from both class projects and outside
writing. Teachers and students submit material and the editors make
selections and suggest revisions as part of an extra-curricular activity.
Epitome represents a cross-section of the literary and artistic talents of
our students and seeks to showcase as many of their works as possible,
reflecting Heschel’s commitment to inclusion.
This magazine was produced on the Macintosh platform. Font families: American Typewriter, Optima, Times
New Roman, Wiesbaden Swing (body text); Aquiline, Arial Black, Bovine Poster, Caflisch, Cochin, Curlz, Digital,
Du Duchamp, Eras, Linotext, Marker Felt, Mistral, Peignot, Present, Russell Square, Stencil, Zapf Dingbats
(titling, decorative text, subheads, credits, page numbers). 650 copies, printed on a Heidelberg Speedmaster
102SP 5 Color with Inline Coater. Paper stock: 100# Montauk Gloss Recycled Text-FSC Certified and 111#
Montauk Gloss Recycled Cover-FSC Certified (promoting sustainable forest management). Front and back
cover printed 4 colors CMYK with double hit of Black plus spot satin and spot gloss aqueous coatings over
1 color Black; inside pages printed 4/4 CMYK (all inks used are vegetable-based inks).

Book Covers/Opening Pages
Dedication.................... Charlotte Marx-Arpadi, Jennifer Katz, Tobias Citron
Dedication art.............. Talia Niederman, acrylic
Covers/title page.......... Harris Mizrahi, photographs, digitally altered
Poetry
Waiting......................... Charlotte Marx-Arpadi...9
So How Are You
Holding Up?............ Emma Goldberg............12
Polonya........................ Daelin Hillman.............14
Images.......................... Natan Tannenbaum.......18
Contrasts...................... Zoe Goldberg................20
Hands and Feet............ Emma Goldberg............22
Childhood.................... Sarah Freedman............24
Ode To My Brother...... Rachel Seidman............25
Haiti Sings of Human
Benevolence............ Andrew Berson.............27
An Apology................. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..28
The Internet Is But
a Vacuum................. Shipley Mason..............41
Alone........................... Tobias Citron................42
Delightful But
Triteful
Remy Bohrer,
Deana Cheysvin,
Jeffrey Federmesser,
Molly Goldman,
Alix Gollomp,
Katie Grobman,
Rebecca Heringer,
James Khaghan,
Perri Kressel,
Table of
Noah Offitzer,
Sigal Palley,
Shayna Rosenfeld,
Elliot Rubin,
Lauren Vaknin,
Steven Wolff.................43
Love Story................... Natan Tannenbaum.......46
Ordinary Things........... Arielle Wiener-Bronner..54
Empty Bottles.............. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..52
9/11: Speechless.......... Rebecca Mack...............53
The Good War.............. Skyler H. Siegel............54
My Brother Died
a Martyr................... Matan Skolnik...............56
Music........................... Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..59
Drowning..................... Gabriel Klausner...........61
Despisemare................ Rachel Weisberg...........63
Exile No More............. Skyler H. Siegel............64
To White Food............. Maya Miller..................66
The Tyrannical
Master...................... Tobias Citron................67
Snow Day
Quandariness........... Daelin Hillman.............68
Cool Tiled Floor.......... Leah Robinson..............69
Colors of Family.......... Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..73
Wrath of the Darking... Joshua Ashley...............74
Contents
Poetry (continued)
Not Just Pretty
and White................ Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..76
Truth............................ Tobias Citron................77
Visiting Savta............... Jennifer Katz.................78
Reality?........................ Nico Ravitch.................79
The Fragrance of a
Piece of Music......... Zoe Goldberg................80
I, Too, Must Be
a Sinner.................... Skyler H. Siegel............83
Heart Echoes................ Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..90
The Tight Lavender
Leotard.................... Zoe Bohrer....................91
Fiction / Plays
Suggestions From Your
Resident Klutz......... Rebecca Mack...............16
The Open Window....... Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..26
The Odd Couple.......... Sophie Greenspan.........29
Six Word Stories.......... Emily Spiera,
Ethan Finkelstein,
Jessica Sion,
Natan Tannenbaum,
Leah Robinson,
Elizabeth Rauner,
Rebecca Mack...............44
Belzec In Love............. Beatrice Volkmar..........47
The Natural.................. Adiel Schmidt...............70
The Loveless Heart...... Jennifer Katz.................84
Higher Education......... Daniel Meyers...............96
All Alone In My Room. Avishag Ben-Aharon....97
Staring.......................... Sarah Freedman............99
Growing Pains............. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..100
Struggling to Choose... Andrew Udell.............101
Two Mothers................ Naomi Blech...............102
Mapping Out Her
Heart......................... Emma Goldberg..........110
I Am the Dusk.............. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..117
I Am A Work In
Progress................... Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..118
The Mirror................... Maya Miller................119
Unearthing Weeds........ Emma Goldberg............92
Heart of Silicon............ Tzvi Pollock................106
I Wasn’t Always
So Scared................. Elana Meyers..............112
Essays /
On My Mind
Nighttime..................... Jesse Miller...................11
The Song of the Reeds.Leah Robinson..............58
Essay Number One...... Tobias Citron..............104
Zerlina Panush, acrylic
Jonathan Merrin, acrylic
Marissa Heringer, acrylic

Table of
Contents
Art
Acrylic......................... Zerlina Panush................4
Acrylic......................... Jonathan Merrin..............4
Acrylic......................... Marissa Heringer............5
Acrylic......................... Noah Offitzer..................6
Acrylic......................... Shayna Rosenberg..........7
Acrylic......................... Talya Nevins...................7
Digital art..................... Liron Siag.....................13
Digital art..................... Rebecca Zeuner............18
Etching......................... Anna Rothstein.............19
Watercolor &
craypas..................... Shipley Mason..............21
Oil................................ Ariel Glueck.................22
Oil................................ Benjamin Fenster..........25
Pen and ink.................. Zerlina Panush..............27
Watercolor................... Marissa Schefflin..........28
Pen and ink.................. Zerlina Panush .......30–31
Pen and ink.................. Noah Offitzer..........34–35
Watercolor................... Tamar Rosen.................36
Watercolor................... Michaela Hearst............39
Digital art..................... Isabel Merrin.................40
Acrylic......................... Jeffrey Federmesser......44
Oil................................ Arielle Wiener-Bronner..44
Acrylic ........................ Alexander Hymowitz....44
Acrylic......................... Lauren Vaknin...............44
Oil................................ Benjamin Newman.......45
Oil................................ Harris Mizrahi...............45
Oil................................ Jacob Sloyer..................45
Acrylic......................... Isabelle Harari...............45
Pencil........................... Noah Offitzer................46
Watercolor................... Isabel Merrin...........47–50
Mixed media................ Tenth Grade..................66
Digital art..................... Julia Maschler...............68
Collage......................... Ninth Grade..................72
Cut paper..................... Rebecca Heringer.........77
Graphite....................... Noah Offitzer................78
Acrylic......................... Talia Niederman...........81
Oil................................ Elisheva Epstein...........82
Watercolor................... Lois Weisfuse................85
Oil................................ David Kagan.................91
Oil................................ Tali Schulman...............91
Digital art..................... Lois Weifuse.................96
Charcoal....................... Noah Offitzer..............100
Pencil........................... Noah Offitzer..............102
Charcoal....................... Noah Offitzer..............102
Acrylic......................... Noah Offitzer..............103
Watercolor................... Rebecca Mack.............118
Clear packing tape
sculpture.................. Eleventh Grade...........120
Photographs
Maxwell Padway..............................................8
Harris Mizrahi................................................10
Rebecca Mack................................................11
Sarah Krakowski............................................14
Danielle Carmi...............................................17
Nicole Hirschenboim......................................24
Rachel Brandeis..............................................26
Nicole Hirschenboim......................................41
Juliette-Lea Bergwerk....................................42
Shayna Rosenfeld...........................................43
Shoshana Lauter.............................................51
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi...................................52
Sander Siegel..................................................53
Isabel Harari...................................................54
Leah Dorfman................................................57
Ariel Glueck...................................................58
Harris Mizrahi................................................59
Harris Mizrahi................................................61
Ariel Glueck...................................................63
Sasha Gayle Schneider...................................64
Ariel Glueck...................................................66
Shayna Rosenfeld...........................................69
Alix Gollomp..................................................73
Rebecca Mack................................................74
Rebecca Mack................................................76
Harris Mizrahi................................................79
Harris Mizrahi................................................80
Rebecca Mack................................................90
Nicole Hirschenboim......................................92
Shayna Rosenfeld...........................................96
Harris Mizrahi................................................98
Nicole Hirschenboim......................................99
Nicole Hirschenboim....................................101
Leon Malisov..................................................10
Jesse Kramer................................................108
Juliette-Lea Bergwerk..................................111
Rebecca Mack............................................. 112
Sharona Nahshon..........................................116
Allison Bast..................................................119
Rebecca Mack .............................................120
Noah Offitzer, acrylic
Shayna Rosenberg, acrylic
Talya Nevins, acrylic

Waiting
We are all always waiting
Aren’t we?
There,
I wait for your answer.
I wait for you.
(but do you wait for me, too?
I wait to see.)
I have the answer in mind
I wait for you to say it
Because I won’t
Because you won’t
So we don’t.
I catch hints of it, though.
Hints of what?
There, again, I wait in question.
I walk aimlessly, in circles
Around and around, hiding my waiting
Through constant motion.
Movement
Changing
Impatient in my waiting, so I walk
Directionless
I wait for my destination, a destination
A path laid out for me, given to me.
The train pulls out of the station
Either accept to wait for the next one,
Or what?
Trains don’t stop for running people in real life.
Opposite page: Maxwell Padway, photograph
Pages 8 – 9

Rebecca Mack, photograph
Each day goes by and we count it.
Week after week, year after year
Counting,
Towards what?
For what?
Cross your hands on your lap,
You may be here a while.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Harris Mizrahi, photograph
Nighttime
It is nighttime.
I have always liked the night. The cool air and the quiet streets help me relax. I do
not have to worry about my appearance. I am exposed to the outside world, but I am
physically and mentally alone. I venture off into an alley that I have never explored before.
I love discovering new places in a familiar part of the world.
I am welcomed to this brand new universe by fear and confusion. The comfort of the
night has escaped me. I have not been seen by anyone, but I am suddenly self-conscious.
Lost children reside in this remarkable place. Faces that so clearly represent terror mask
their identities. They are alone, and they are used to it. The night has not been as kind to
them as it has been to me. I am truly sad. I see a young child being held back by teenagers.
This young child is my brother’s age, and I am the same age as those who restrain him.
The child, who closely resembles my brother, seems possessed as the sixteen year old, who
looks like me, tries desperately to hold him back. I am frightened by the familiarity and I run
away. The night has not been kind to me on this occasion.
Jesse Miller
Pages 10 – 11

So How Are You Holding Up?
Did your kindergarten teacher ever hand you Elmer’s glue and child-proof
scissors
Sixty-four hues of Crayola Crayons like
“Paint the Town Red” and “Tickle Me Pink”
And Popsicle sticks, and you were told to construct a castle from said materials
In five minutes flat, while Lucy Evans was tugging on your pigtail braids
And just as you laid the last Popsicle stick down flat
They all came tumbling down, in clatters of sticky, technicolor
Waste.
So how are you holding up?
And everything was softness, like Elmer’s glue or like summer sand and like
Boom and
Gone.
And there are cracks along the linoleum seams
The threads have come undone and it’s castles unraveling
But the only thing that really matters is the whisper of
Holding it together, knotting ribbons into finishes
And, like Popsicle sticks or ocean tides—
Gone.
Did you ever visit Brighton Beach during summer time
And your brother or sister or cousin insisted on tugging you tumbling
Into the warmth of summer day
And for two hours and twenty six minutes you burrowed and dug;
You shoveled grains into mounds and mounds into mountains and mountains
into
Castles
Sandcastles
And then the tip-tapping toes of ocean tides crashed over like
Boom and
But I’m doing well, thanks.
How are you?
Emma Goldberg
Gone.
So how are you holding up?
Or did you ever visit a hospital that smelled of antiseptic, tuna fish, eraser dust
And fragility?
And the walls and the people and the noises were a white so white it gave
you goosebumps
And the linoleum floor whistled and the respirators hummed and the
wheelchairs hissed
And suddenly you felt every joint in your body creaking and your limbs gasping
And your ribcage beginning to crack and your fingernails shredding into slivers
!
Liron Siag, digital art
Pages 12 – 13

Polonya
Neverwas this neverside
Bitter herbs, the Fast we cried
And from the mud as black as souls
Powdered in the deadened coals
Of fires they wasted in the night
In camps oppressed mad blind with fright
A prayer escaping in a chant
Did seek a highway home.
Neverwill we neverwill
Rain and stamping boots be still
The train’s arrival told it all
The brakes are final, the airless stall
To us the dying ride.
Neverwas the neverend
Just empty bread to feed the dead
In walks of circles to the Door
To shower off and nevermore
Where a song was uttered ‘I believe’
That He will come to our reprieve
In a world to which we soar.
Daelin Hillman
Sarah Krakowski, photograph (digitally altered)
Pages 14 – 15

Suggestions
^From Your Resident
K
lu
t
z
Though I graduated from high school as valedictorian, the events that have
transpired in the past three hours have been far from my proudest. I find
myself reflecting on my naïveté — I used to think that a high school diploma
guaranteed success, or at least represented a promising future. It seems
however, that I still have those days where my intelligence level appears to
be that of a kindergarten student, days where I’m just about as graceful as
that poor gazelle that was never as swift as the other gazelles. If I were a
gazelle, today I would have been shunned by all of my gazelle friends.
The fire wins the prize for my most dangerous mistake. As if practically
ice-skating across the freshly glossed floor and slamming into the table
were not mortifying enough, there simply had to be a candle on the table
that so rudely decided to come crashing to the floor. Flames leaped from
the candle as fire spews from an angry dragon’s mouth. They engulfed the
neatly set table, cloth and all, throwing spoons and forks into the air like
amateur jugglers. As far as I recall, my invitation to the extravagant dinner
with my best friend promised nothing about a spontaneous circus performance.
I suppose where there’s a circus there are refreshments. Cotton candy
didn’t seem to be on the menu, but crème-brulee most certainly was. As I
reached to the next table to grab the water pitcher, my eyes still fixed on the
deep red color of the flames, I stuck my hand into the warm dessert instead
of grasping the handle of the water pitcher.
A quick side note: I’ve never been able to focus. While in the midst of
the most perilous adventure, while reading the climax of a story, or while
watching a fire swallow a restaurant whole, I can’t ever seem to shut out
distractions. Thus, inevitably, I couldn’t help but pause to lick my fingers.
Scrumptious.
The blaze continued to spread, and it was time to get the hell out of
there. As I burst out onto the street, gasping for air, a fireman reached out a
gloved hand to help pull me to the next block. When we reached safety, he
asked me name. Coughing up smoke, I said, “Sane Jmith” instead of “Jane
Smith.” I blame that one on the smoke.
As I sat there, in my state of utter shame, watching the life-long
achievements of the most prestigious chef in town go up in smoke, a certain
song came to mind. “High School Never Ends,” by Bowling For Soup,
blasted in my head as if there were actual speakers hidden between the
Danielle Carmi, photograph
strands of my hair. Try as I might, the lyric “life’s pretty much the same as
it was back then” repeated over and over like a broken record.
The throbbing beat of the imaginary music stopped as my friend,
Allison Gold, ran over from the restaurant, plopping her heavy body down
on the curb next to my new fireman friend and me. Alison put her chubby
Pages 16 – 17

hand in mine, squeezing just a bit too tight so that the ring on my right
thumb left a small imprint on my skin.
If anyone knows me, it’s Ali. From the look in my eyes, and the tear
that mixed with the leftover crème brulee near my mouth, my best friend
knew exactly what had happened — as if she had witnessed the terrible
scene through my eyes rather than her own. Muttering that it was going to
be okay, Ali let out a small giggle. In response to my questioning glance,
Ali chuckled. Then, to my complete bewilderment, Ali burst out laughing.
Soon, the fireman and I began to laugh, and the three of us sat there, bent
over, our bodies shaking with smoke induced laughter. The sight must have
been nothing short of epic.
Now, if you ask me, the moral of my life story is that people make
mistakes, and a high school diploma is not what’s going to rescue you in the
toughest of times. It’s the squeeze of a familiar hand, the friendly fireman,
and the sweet aftertaste of a dessert that lets you hold your head high. And
let me tell you, high school really does never end. The good, the bad, the
absolutely hilarious, and the positively humiliating moments; those will
always continue, making you cry, or on a lucky day, making you laugh.
Rebecca Mack
Images
He laughs as
the sun strikes his
bare back
while he
treads the rocky
beach.
He approaches the
Alley shaking
His wrists and whining
With pain
Because
of the fear
that eats him
from the inside
out.
Natan Tannenbaum
Rebecca Zeuner, digital art
Anna Rothstein, etching
Pages 18 – 19

Contrasts
My life stinks:
I failed my English test
I’ll never have a boyfriend
Why is my mom so annoying?
My life stinks:
I have no blankets and it’s starting to get cold
I don’t know how I’ll feed my baby brother; he’s hungry
I only collected a few cents today.
I’m starving:
They gave us meatloaf for lunch today
Ew
I hope I can order in tonight.
I’m starving:
I don’t know how many days it’s been.
What will we do when winter comes?
I need something good to happen soon.
I love him:
Why doesn’t he love me back?
Why do I always call him?
I guess there’s no hope for us.
I love him:
He’s never done anything wrong in his life and doesn’t deserve this.
I wish there were a way I could help him
But I’m afraid he’s getting weaker.
I need help:
I’m stuck inside this awful house,
I’m never allowed to do anything I want,
I can’t wait to go to college and finally have some freedom.
I need help:
We don’t have anywhere to go.
Soon he’ll catch a cold, or worse.
I need to think of something, fast.
Zoe Goldberg
Shipley Mason, watercolor & craypas
Pages 20 – 21

Hands and Feet
Her eyes traveled first to his feet, the instinct of a dancer;
Duck walk, she nodded
Feet slightly pointed out, forty-nine degree angle.
Her mother used to tell her that a body should be poetry
Graceful, sweeping,
Percy Shelley transliterated into a language of limbs
But just maybe, she thought that
Poetry superimposed on the feet of the boy on the A train
Would probably end up as duck-feet:
A syncopated beat of bouncing sneakers.
His eyes traveled first to her hands, the instinct of a painter.
Her hands tapped a steady beat on Subway pole
Like they were dancing a waltz, the “Blue Danube”
The half notes that used to tumble out of his mother’s outdated Victrola.
His mother used to play her records sometimes
Sitting him down on a stool with an easel and canvas.
Paint, she would say, the air filled with his jerky motions and quick, uneven
breaths;
Grace, she would say, pointing at the Victrola
And again every painter needs grace.
He had the urge to brush his fingers on the scruff of her mittens
To watch them create poetry out of the negative space between subway
walls
Spinning grace out of the the emptiness of harsh daylight.
Ariel Glueck, oil
They got up at Grand Army Plaza
The folds of their jackets brushing limb-to-limb.
Painter and dancer, duck feet and a waltz
But it was only the A train, Wednesday morning
Air carrying the scent of cigarette butts, stale Halloween candy
And words left unspoken in the harsh subway light.
Emma Goldberg
Pages 22 – 23

Childhood
“ I want to be like Peter Pan—I will not
grow up.”
Little girl says, eyes fierce.
“I don’t know
if anyone ever truly does.
I think our childhood
Still lives inside of us.”
Sarah Freedman
Benjamin Fenster, oil
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
Ode To My Brother
On his bicycle he swerves in between cars on the street
Like a snake through the unknown obstacles of the jungle.
He lies awake exploring the culture of television until the wee hours,
And becomes a grouch at the rising of the sun.
He is inspired by the sight of steak and potatoes
And the evening reports on ESPN.
An Ode to my Brother,
My friend, advisor and savior
Who humors me when I am down,
Guides me through pressing challenges,
And stands as my shield in front of hateful enemies.
When a vicious beast unleashes its wrath and bites,
His heart-warming words soothe the wounds.
In a time of utter confusion,
He makes sense of complexities and teaches me the way.
It is he who glides along the still waters of the lake on a single ski.
If you see him, be sure to note his charming ways.
He is not a person to ignore.
He is Benjamin.
Rachel Seidman
Pages 24 – 25

The Open Window
It all began when someone left the window open. Exploring the old,
abandoned house, a group of young children on summer vacation went
from room to room, wary of the creaking floorboards and loose doorknobs.
Someone opened a window, having trouble breathing during the hot and
dusty exploration. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed, the children
screamed, and quickly fled the house.
Days passed, and children returned to school with new backpacks and
summer tans, but that forgotten window remained opened. As remnants of
the warm, summer weather gave way to harsher, colder winds, birds began
to glide through that forgotten window, attracted to the warm, soothing light
on the other side. During cold winter nights, they could not help themselves.
It was some sort of magnetism; they couldn’t stop, and didn’t want to stop,
flying towards the warmth. The more cautious would circle around, temporizing,
stalling. Eventually, the welcoming rush they felt as they flew near
the open window would seduce them in, like a blast of air conditioning
from an opened-door store on a hot day. Even the strongest had to succumb.
They all fell for it; the birds would fly in, but they never would leave.
The veterans in the wallpaper were accustomed to their situation; it was
the novices who were restless. Eventually, they would tire, and they, too,
would watch as light climbed up the curtains, then slowly retreated, marking
the passing of time. The days faded into one another as the curtains gently
blew back and forth hypnotically, from the outside wind, from an outside
world, an outside in which the birds no longer flew. The birds made up the
wallpaper of this strange, eerie room. Attached to both each other and the
wall by some invisible, mysterious force, they were threaded together like
patches of a quilt.
It was not until a boy, being watched by a group
of boys, followed through on their dare to enter the
haunted house one cold, Halloween night that all this
changed. Not wanting to be called chicken or sissy for
the rest of his life, he persevered on by forcing himself
to realize that the whistling, moaning sound was from
an opened window upstairs, and not something
unthinkable. As he closed the window, the boy
suddenly found himself surrounded by hundreds of
birds, finally unshackled from the wallpaper.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Haiti Sings of Human Benevolence
From afar I listen to the song of rebuilding and relief;
To the tune of the volunteer who buries the dead, sorts supplies,
and looks through the rubble in hopes of exhuming one who
remains alive;
And the beat of the doctor who treats the plethora of patients;
And the lyrics of the Haitian looking through the rubble in search
of a family member, a friend, or a stranger;
And the harmony provided by he who is bound to his job at home,
but digs deep into his wallet and gives to the Haitians,
disregarding his hunger and unpaid rent;
And we stare, admiring the altruism, selflessness, and benevolence
of humankind.
He views himself as a bead on a necklace, connected to all others
by the string;
And we join in the effort, inspired and motivated –
So that we can all end the suffering;
So that at its culmination the young man can return to Broadway
after his workday
And the old to his spouse and his work;
So we can no longer focus on relief, but we can sing a song of
betterment and advancement.
Andrew Berson
Zerlina Panush, pen & ink
Rachel Brandeis, photograph
Pages 26 – 27

An Apology
This puzzle is all one color.
The pieces first looked like they all fit
But we crammed them together unthinkingly.
This is a beautiful room in a castle on a hill
But I see the paint chipping, and stains on the walls.
I search for the inevitable bad
So it comes as no surprise.
I’m sorry for testing you
Thinking you’d reach for it again
When I let go of it
But your fist is just as closed as mine.
But I can admit to my tangled, contradicting branches
Visible when the sun cools down
And leaves begin to fall.
And I can apologize for my ways.
I really did want to leave it be
When we finally reached mutuality,
But it’s not in my nature to enjoy daylight
Without looking ahead towards night.
“THE ODD COUPLE”
Black screen; image of opening set slowly expands from center to fill screen during voiceover
Voice (increasing slowly in volume): You’re traveling to another dimension. A dimension
not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose
boundaries are that of imagination.
Scene I: The MacAfee’s Abode
The interior of a lavishly decorated, and expensive house in Evanston, Chicago, in May, 1959.
George, 19, handsome, innocent and charming, enters through the front door of the home he
shares with his widowed father, Charles.
George (while removing his postal cap and jacket): Hi, Dad! I’m home.
Screen to Charles, 64, a burly, military man, with quick eyes and handlebar white moustache,
lying on the couch in his reading glasses, smoking jacket, and slippers with a pipe in his
mouth. The day’s “Chicago Tribune” is in his hands.
Charles (barely lifting his eyes from his newspaper): You’re late!
We were parallel lines
And I couldn’t reach you, so I gave up.
But so did you
And that’s what undid my line.
(i’m sorry i saw grey clouds on sunny days)
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
George: Only by a few minutes, Pop! I can’t help it if the boss has got it in for me so
he keeps me late sorting the mail.
Charles (speaking to George as George runs upstairs): Son, when you say you’ll be home
by seven, I expect you home by seven. It is now (pulling out his pocket watch)… 7:13!
When I was in Austria, if we came to dinner even a millisecond –
George (running back down the stairs, pulling on a sock): Well it’s a good thing this is
Evanston, not Austria, Pop. Gotta run!
Charles: Now where are you going?
Marissa
Schefflin,
watercolor
George: Eddie’s.
Pages 28 – 29

Charles (about to repeat an idea he’s put out multiple times):
George – you’ve grown to become such a handsome young lad. You
ought to be out chasing girls and thinking about finding someone to
settle down with, rather than spending so much time over at that
Jefferson boy’s place.
George (exhausted with the subject – heading towards the door): Don’t worry, Dad.
George and I were planning to go to the diner tonight to check out some cute
birds. Be home later.
George leaves as Charles grunts an incoherent goodbye and returns to his paper.
Scene II: The Jefferson Home
Eddie’s bedroom. The two boys are lying in Eddie’s bed, and, though fully clothed in their
pajamas, are “snuggling”. As Mrs. Jefferson (off-screen) calls up to the boys, George scrambles
to the floor.
Mrs. Jefferson (off-screen): Boys? Would either of you like anything to eat?
George (calls back, still scrambling, disheveled): No thank you, Mrs. Jefferson!
(Then glances back at Eddie and both boys erupt into fits of self-silenced laughter.)
Narrator steps into the doorway of Eddie’s room.
Narrator: You have just met two boys with a dangerous secret. One they cannot
share with anyone else – even their own families. They are in love. They sleep
now, and when they will wake, they’ll discover a world – not unlike their own –
but with one minor difference. Everyone in the world with be like them. In a
moment they will be experiencing the wonders of a world that can only be found
in another dimension.
Scene III: Eddie’s bedroom
The boys wake up and dress.
George: Well, I better get going…Pop’ll be wondering where I am!
Eddie: Yeah, and I better go with you, gotta go pick some stuff up at the cleaner’s
for Ma. But maybe we should go to the diner and grab a bite to eat first? What do
you say?
George: Yeah, I don’t see why not…
Boys head downstairs and out the door.
Eddie, 20, is also handsome but a little less boyish and more manly looking than George. He
has the air of being more experienced, intelligent, confident and mature than George – someone
for George to look up to.
Once the laughter subsides, the boys return to Eddie’s bed, and George rests his head on
Eddie’s chest as Eddie strokes the side of George’s face.
George (comfortable, dreamily): I wish we didn’t have to sneak around so much.
(Looking up at Eddie) I wish I were able to shout from the rooftops how I feel about you!
Eddie (as he is opening the door): Goodbye, Ma!
They walk down the stairs and outside to a charming street. They
see two women taking a walk; one woman carries a stroller.
They turn on to the main road and observe that an
inordinate number of women are with other women
and men are with other men. They enter the diner.
Scene IV: The Diner
Eddie: One day… one day.
The boys find seats at the bar and order.
The boys fall asleep in each other’s arms.
Eddie: Bob, George and I’ll have the usual.
Above/opposite page: Zerlina Panush, ink
Pages 30 – 31

Bob: Two plates of two eggs sunny-side up with a side of bacon and a couple of
orange juices comin’ right up.
As they look around the restaurant, they notice that men are sitting with men and women
sitting with women. Both boys have the feeling something is strange but are not able to put
their fingers on it.
They eat their breakfast, pay and walk back outside. They do a doubletake at what they see.
Two men holding hands. One has a pregnant stomach. The boys gasp.
Eddie (in utter horror): What is that?
The pregnant man notices their stares and gets slightly self-conscious and agitated.
Pregnant man (snippy, with all the raging hormones of a pregnant woman): What are you
two looking at?
Man: I’d think that at your age someone would have explained this to you by now,
but, in this world, we have two races, man and women. A pair of men, through
intercourse, produce men and a pair of women produce women. Should a man and
a woman come together, there would be no product, and that is why it is unlawful
and prohibited.
George: But this is absurd! Men and women are supposed to be together!
Man: Sir, I don’t know where you come from, but here that theory is heretical and
I suggest you keep your mouth shut if you don’t want to be heavily fined!
George: But –
Eddie: Let it go, George. (to man) Have a nice day, Sir.
George: (to Eddie – on the verge of tears at this bizarre alternate universe) But –
George: You’re… you’re… you’re pregnant!
Pregnant man: Thanks, I hadn’t realized. (pause) Now if you don’t mind, my
husband and I will be off now.
George: Hus… hus… husband?!
Pregnant man: Yes, and the father of my child! (to the boys’ reactions) You know, I’d
think you two boys would be old enough to know where babies came from.
George (indignantly): Of course, I do! However, isn’t it between a man and a
woman…
Pregnant man (shocked and embarrassed): Sir! That is preposterous! Surely you
know how unlawful it is to make such a claim. And if you were to go so far as to be
involved with another woman… I shudder to think what might happen to you!
George (bewildered): You must be joking! What kind of world is this! How do you
reproduce? How do you rear your children?
Eddie: George, don’t you see? By some cosmic force beyond our control we have
ended up in a place where we are supposed to be together. There is no one telling
us what we are doing and who we are is wrong. Ignore the how and why and enjoy
it! Weren’t you just saying last night how you wish we could be free. Well, we are,
George, we are!
As they are about to embrace, they both look around out of force of habit, chuckle at how silly
their gesture is, and embrace.
George (sniffling in Eddie’s arms): I know, I know. But aren’t you the least bit curious
as to how this happened? Why the world is like this?
Eddie: Of course! However, it’s very important that we maintain calm and cool.
In fact, be happy! We will find out, I promise. But for now, let’s enjoy the time we
have together.
Light music plays as they walk down the familiar streets and enjoy the unfamiliarity of the
passersby. Rarely do they see women and men together. There are men carrying babies. Women
in business suits and briefcases on their way to work. It appears as if all gender stereotypes
Pages 32 – 33

have been abandoned.
Eddie: Come on, now. Tell us what’s up.
Eddie: Here, George. Let’s go grab a shake from the malt shop over here.
Boy: I’m… I’m… I’m in love!
Scene V: The Malt Shop
They enter. George goes to the jukebox to find a tune to play.
George: Eddie! I don’t recognize one name in that jukebox, there. No Presley, no
Valli, not even the Beach Boys!
The boy bursts into tears. Eddie and George try to
conceal their amusement.
George: Come now. That’s nothing to cry about!
(looking to Eddie) We’re in love and look how
happy we are here!
Eddie: Well, of course not, George! Different world, different ways of reproduction
– means different people. Not a soul from the Old World that we know will be in
this new world.
Boy: Yeah, but that’s different.
George: How so?
George (rising terror): You mean, no Pa? None of our friends?
Boy: I can’t tell you. You’ll have me arrested. Or worse…
Eddie: Not for now, George. But don’t worry, we’ll get back soon. Meanwhile, we
should try to make some friends… Hey, what do you think of him?
Eddie: Listen, I’m Eddie and this here’s George. We’re new here and we need a
friend. We wouldn’t dare get you in trouble!
They see a skinny boy about their age sitting on a bar stool alone with a malt shake and a
basket of fries. He’s handsome in a boyish way, with long shaggy hair and a hunched over look.
He is extremely stressed about something. Probably teen angst…
The boys pull up to chairs next to him and order their shakes.
Eddie (to boy): Hey. What’s shakin?
Boy (distressed): Oh…not much…
George: You look a little shook up. Are you sure everything’s all
right?
Boy (nervous about disclosing this secret): I’m in love (in a low whisper) with a girl!
Eddie and George burst out into laughter. The boy gets frenzied and starts hushing them,
clearly upset at their laughter towards his pain.
Boy (glancing towards a policeman he just noticed sitting at the opposite end of the bar): Stop
that! Stop that right now! What are you laughing about? This is serious! (quieter)
This is dangerous!
Eddie: Listen – I’m sorry - (pause) what’s your name?
Boy: Jack.
Boy (looks up with haunted eyes that are on the verge of tears): Yeah. I think
I’ll be all right.
Eddie: Listen, Jack, where we’re from, that’s completely normal. In fact, what
George and I have going on—that’s what’s wrong. That’s what’s illegal!
Above/opposite page: Noah Offitzer, ink
Pages 34 – 35

Jack (unbelieving): Well, I don’t know where you’re from, but here in Evanston – a
man and a woman together is a crime worthy of execution. And if anyone ever,
ever, ever finds out about Martha and me, I’ll be dead faster than you can say
“Jiminy Cricket”.
Eddie (disbelieving): You can’t be serious!
Jack: This country here is run by efficient people. They want the world to run
smoothly. They want a world full of little children. And if you dare do anything to
prevent children, you are considered treasonous and must be executed. But, you
boys aren’t from around here, are you? (beat) You don’t seem like it…
Eddie (looks to George with a knowing glance): I guess you could say that…
Jack: And you don’t think what Martha and I have going on is wrong?
Scene VI: The Basement
The boys pay the bill and follow Jack out of the malt shop, down the street to a plain, ordinary
looking building. They enter the alleyway next to it, and enter a door in the back. They head
down a dimly-lit staircase, and when they enter the basement, they see men and women
provocatively dancing together to the beat of an unrecognizable song. It’s truly a jumping
joint. Jack leads them to a girl sitting with a couple of boys – flirting.
Jack (to girl): Martha, these are my friends George and Eddie. They’re normies,
but they’re all right. They won’t rat us out.
Martha is flirty and petite, with bouncy, bright red curls and hazel eyes. An abundance of
freckles dot her face, most of them due to the sun. Her face itself is plain; it is her coy,
coquettish demeanor that makes her appealing. She holds out her hand limply and waits
for either boy to shake it. She speaks with a Southern drawl.
George: Of course not. Jack, trust us. We know what it’s like to be on the other
side.
Jack: Well, ‘bye George! I gotta take you to meet Martha. You’ll love her. Prettiest
girl in all the world.
Martha (flirtily): Pleasure to meet you, boys.
Eddie (flirtily, as well despite his sexual orientation. Martha has the tendency to bring out that
side of people. He answers back in an imitation Southern drawl.): Well, howdy there, little
miss. Now I’m sure certain that accent doesn’t come from anywhere around here.
(He winks.)
Tamar Rosen, watercolor
Martha: Well, hun, I hail from Georgia. My ma kicked me out once she found out I
was a hetero – sayin’ she couldn’t be harborin’ a felon in her respectable household.
I headed up North, hearin’ ‘at folks up here took more kindly to us heteros, but
turns out I was turribly wrong. The normies hate us just as much up here.
George (sympathetic): Now, that’s terrible. Oh, you poor dear!
Martha (tearing up): And now with these new execution laws… I’m scared outta my
mind! They say I ain’t normal and if I ain’t normal that I don’t deserve to be alive!
What kinda life is that. Having to hide who I am and having to hide how much I
love this dear man right here (she turns to Jack and gives him a full kiss). It just ain’t
right!
Pages 36 – 37

George (angered): No, it’s not! This is ridiculous! Eddie and I, we know what it’s like
to be on the other side. We know how hard it is to be different and to have people
tell you you’re not normal! Well, where we come from you are normal and Eddie
and I – we’re the weird ones! It makes no sense! We’ve got to stop this! (to himself)
I’ve got to stop this!
Before the others can protest, a raging and irrational George runs up the stairs and out of the
building. High-speed music comes on as the camera follows George to the Town Hall. Music
continues as we see him shouting and flailing his arms at a couple of policemen. We see the
men turn from confused to angry. George then walks towards the door to leave and motions for
the policemen to follow them. Increasingly upset, they follow George as he, in his infuriated
and irrational state, leads the two police officers to the building where his friends are in the
basement. As the policemen head down the stairs, the music slowly fades and stops altogether
when the two police officers see Martha and Jack – dangerously close.
George: …Can’t you see they’re in love? - that they are supposed to be together!
Why can’t you let them be! Why can’t you stop —
Policeman #2 (in possession of Martha – who is struggling): To the chair! What they
have done is disgusting.
George: Ch-ch-chair? (in horror) I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it. (crying) Don’t take
them away please. They’re normal! They’re fine! What are you doing? Don’t kill them.
They are okay! THEY’E NORMAL! I was just trying to show you they are normal!
Narrator: Jack Jameson and Martha Grady – they loved each other without legal
permission to do so. They were taken away and electrocuted. The last words either
of them heard were “They are normal.” And they are, aren’t they? In the world we
live in, they are. And what Eddie and George had? What Eddie and George have is
not, by any means, normal. So, my questions to you – as you sit at home on your
comfortable couches with your cigarettes – are “What’s normal? Who has the ability
to decide?” Those are questions Eddie and George have learned to ask.
Sophie Greenspan
Michaela Hearst, watercolor
While George is speaking to them, the police look around the room and understand what’s going
on. One by one, the heads of the kids in the club turn and they grow increasingly more frightened.
They make a motion to run for it, but the police are blocking the staircase – the only exit.
Policeman #1:What’s going on here? (to Jack and Martha – seeing their closeness)
Jack and Martha are stunned silent with fright and can only mumble incoherent responses as
Policeman #2 begins to arrest them. Soon frenzy breaks out as members of the club try and
make a run for it. The two policemen are outnumbered by the kids in the party and manage to
capture only Jack and Martha. By now everyone else has gone, and six people are left in the
basement – Jack, Martha, George, Eddie, and the two policemen. The policemen begin dragging
Martha and Jack (now in handcuffs) up the stairs. Both are crying hysterically.
Jack (yelling to George): I TRUSTED YOU! WE TRUSTED YOU! HOW COULD YOU DO
THIS!
Eddie (to policeman): Wait, wait! Where are you taking them?
Pages 38 – 39

The Internet Is But a Vacuum
The Internet is but a vacuum;
It sucks you in and never spits you out;
It is the addictive distraction
For anyone who is drawn
To its promising vision.
Be independent, my friends;
Communicate
Through letters, stories, art, conversation;
These words on the screen utter falsities—
They gossip, lie, manipulate;
This I am teaching—
Be independent of the Internet.
Shipley Mason
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
Isabel Merrin,
digital art
Pages 40 – 41

Alone
Alone
Has no promise
Has no direction
And is the only state that
Has no color.
Alone
Is not even blank,
But alone
Is bleak.
And the only way to move
Out of loneliness
Is to transform
The bleak to blank:
Juliette-Lea Bergwerk,
photograph (digitally altered)
Delightful But Triteful
The sounds of the voice, so radiant and strong, forever seeking
to find a lonesome ear to tell wondrous tales –
The leaves on the trees that glisten and shine in the sunlight –
The new game sat silently and calmly on the store shelves
waiting to be bought –
The trees and plants are numerous in the vast expanse of the backyard –
The feeling of the warm steam leaving the blueberry, sugarcoated, golden
toasted muffin with the sugary smell of deliciousness really hit the spot –
The warm bed enveloped in blankets pushes away the brisk winter night –
A warm bright blue mug of hot chocolate steaming in the cold air of a
winter wonderland –
The sweet-smelling candy dissolves on the top of my tongue –
Hazelnut chocolate truffles resting on the desk –
The creaminess of a large ice cream sundae triggers eyes to widen,
noses to smell, and mouths to water –
The rush of ice cold water on a sweltering hot summer day –
The delicious, smooth, cold, and mouthwatering ice cream lured people over –
The eagle gracefully soars amongst its prey; full of fear knowing the eagle
rules the mighty skies –
The sleek hot red boat speeding over the white waves –
Sweet chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.
Remy Bohrer, Deana Cheysvin, Jeffrey Federmesser, Molly Goldman,
Alix Gollomp, Katie Grobman, Rebecca Heringer, James Khaghan
Perri Kressel, Noah Offitzer, Sigal Palley, Shayna Rosenfeld,
Elliot Rubin, Lauren Vaknin, Steven Wolff
To start over
And to change what was once blank
Into a personal easel
Upon which you can start painting.
Tobias Citron
Shayna Rosenfeld, photograph
Pages 42 – 43

6-wo rd
stories
Hidden passageways
lead to new worlds.
Emily Spiera
She
misplaces
her
cell phone.
Freedom.
Leah Robinson
“Love You”, “I do”,
“Bye Bye”.
Ethan Finkelstein
Who am I,
but a
seashell?
Elizabeth Rauner
No sleep, long hours,
Junior year
Jessica Sion
Pages 44 – 45
Life will never
be the same.
Natan Tannenbaum
Art, from top: Jeffrey Federmesser, acrylic;
Arielle Weiner-Bronner, oil; Alex Hymnowitz, acrylic;
Lauren Vaknin, acrylic
The world ends –
just like that.
Rebecca Mack
Art, from top:
Benjamin Newman, oil;
Harris Mizrachi , oil;
Jacob Sloyer, oil;
Isabelle Harari, acrylic

Love Story
She was born.
My parents weren’t even thought of yet.
She became a grandmother.
I was born.
She perfected her culinary talents.
I learned to walk.
She finally retired.
I started middle school.
She moved close to our family.
I was thrilled.
She had my family for dinner every week.
I became attached to her.
She joked about society’s flaws.
I found her hilarious.
She got new glasses.
I called her beautiful.
She told me she loves me.
I knew she was my favorite person in the world.
Natan Tannenbaum
Art: Noah Offitzer, pencil
In Love
This is not how I would have chosen to remember her, but then I had no
choices during my life at Belzec. She was the only thing that helped me
through those four months of indescribable pain, bloodshed, and utter horror.
It is to her that I owe my life, for I would not have had the desire or
strength to continue living without her. My name is Rudolf Reder, and I am
the lone survivor of Belzec, a camp designed with the sole purpose to exterminate
each and every Jew.
My journey began and ended in a freight car. It was August of 1942, but
this specific summer day was particularly hot and crowded. Not because
the sun was shining any more on this day, but because at least one hundred
of us were tightly packed into a freight car designed to fit half that number.
There were rumors that Jews were to be deported to camps that were
designed to exterminate Jews, but we never imagined that it would actually
happen to us. The soldiers shoved us into the car, and none of us had the
Pages 46 – 47

strength to stand up to the guns pointed at us. I could not imagine anything
worse than being uncomfortably packed into that small space on the train,
but I would have preferred to stay in that freight car forever rather than
endure what I did later in Belzec. I could barely breathe, and when I gasped
for air, all I inhaled was the stench of body odor, urine, and feces.
When at last we arrived at our destination, we experienced mixed
emotions: relief at being out of that stifling car, and fear of the unknown.
We entered Belzec and were greeted by SS men. They seemed less threatening
because they were not dressed in uniforms with Nazi insignias, so
the threat of the swastika was not there to remind us of why we were sent
to Belzec. The Gestapo leader, Irrman, was a tall, thin man with piercing
blue eyes and a sharp, loud voice. He loudly declared “Ihr gehts jetzt baden,
nachher werdet ihr zur Arbeit geschickt” (now you are going for a bath,
and after you will be sent to work). This instilled a sense of false hope
within all of us, because we figured that if we were being sent to work, this
was not an extermination camp. I, along with a dozen other, able bodied
men, were set aside as the rest of the people were sent to shower. As the
remainder of the group was escorted to bathe, I took a good look at what
was to be my home. There were virtually no people outside, a few large
buildings, and mountains of dirt. Then, Irrman approached the dozen of us
and informed us that we would be skilled workers. I did not know what this
job entailed, but was relieved to know that I would be working.
After being assigned places in the workers’ barrack, we were lined up
outside. I recognized familiar faces, lined up to shower. They were stripped
of their clothing, naked, ashamed. My neighbor, Ivan, usually composed
and tall in his stance, walked with his back hunched in embarrassment.
I shook my head, covered my eyes with my hands, allowing myself to
glimpse them through my fingers. A few days ago we were
living normal lives, and now many of my neighbors and
friends were exposed and tormented by the SS soldiers. I
did not know what to do or how to react. It was a brutally
hot day, but I was frozen in my tracks, confused and afraid.
They walked around the corner of the large metal building
in the center of the camp, and I could not see them anymore.
But a few moments later I heard wailing and screaming,
screeches that burned my soul. And as much as I did
not want to believe it, I knew that they were dead, and this was a death
camp. And when I got a closer look, the piles that I thought were dirt
were actually the ashes and dead bodies of my family, friends, and
neighbors. Irrman did not let us react. He slapped one of the men
who was crying and told him to shut up. When he told us that we
were going to be skilled workers, he failed to mention that
the skill would be shoveling dead bodies. The dead bodies
of our loved ones, our friends, our family, the Jews.
This became my daily routine. Every day freight cars
filled with hundreds of Jews arrived in Belzac. People were
stripped of their clothing, given the same speech by Irrman,
and there were cheers because people were hopeful. The sick
people were put onto stretchers, shot and buried in pits. Men
and children were sent to gas chambers while women had their
heads shaved. Then the women went in. When the “showers” were
finished, the corpses were still standing, and looked like mannequins,
some with their hands pressed against their lungs. And when the
doors were opened fully, they just fell out. For two months, I wanted
nothing more than to join the large pile of dead bodies that I helped assemble.
And then one day I met her. Her head was shaved, she was wearing
baggy, dark grey worker’s clothing, and had large bags under her dark
brown eyes. But there was something about her that made me forget where
I was from the moment I looked at her. She had an air to her that did not
reek of dead, rotting bodies. I do not know if I fell in love with her because
she was the first woman I had spoken to in months, or because her smile
helped remind me that there was life somewhere outside of this black hole
called Belzec. Either way, I knew I loved her. Most of the other women
worked in the kitchen, and I rarely saw them. It was unusual for a woman
to work outside, lugging dead bodies, but Irrman took a liking to her, and
therefore wanted her in his sight every day. I was one of the strongest men
in the group, so she worked with me and I carried more than half of the
weight. It is both sad and strange to imagine that I fell in love under such
brutal circumstances, but I do not think I could have lasted one more day in
Belzec without having Anna as a life force. From sunrise to sunset, every
single day, we shared the burden of dragging the flesh of our dead brothers
and sisters through the camps. Somehow, in the most horrific of places and
Pages 48 – 49

situations, we fell in love. When we talked, we escaped into a temporary
euphoria. Through our conversations, we built a life together. We imagined
what we wanted life to be like, with three beautiful, healthy boys, an ample
food supply, and a house with beds and a heating system. When I looked
into her eyes, I saw the life that I dreamed of, but all I had to do was breathe
in the fumes of my surroundings for reality to set in.
I had to conceal my relationship with Anna because I knew that
Irrman was possessive of her, and I did not want him to move her
to another job in the camp or take her away from me. In our
talks every day, we dreamt of a future together. We deluded
ourselves into thinking that we could turn our dreams into
a reality. We planned to escape this hell, and either way we
figured it was worth it to try because we knew that we had
no future in this camp. Every week a skilled worker went
to Lwow, my hometown, accompanied by SS officers, to get
sheet metal. I waited for the opportunity to present itself to go
with them. When I got the job, I was shaking with excitement,
knowing that I was one step closer to escaping. Before I was sent off, I
promised Anna that I would wait for her, and she promised that she would
find a way to meet me.
Together with four SS soldiers, I traveled to Lwow on a freight car just
like the one that brought me to Belzec. It was four months since I had seen
civilization, and I filled my lungs with air that did not smell like rotting
corpses. We worked hard, and after a long day of lugging sheet metal, three
of the four SS soldiers went to get drinks and left me alone with one soldier.
He was tired, and dozed off, allowing me the opportunity to make my
escape. I ran as fast as I could for miles, never looking back. I ignored the
gashes in my bare feet, and my thoughts of the future carried me. I ran all
the way back to my home, and begged my landlady to take me in. Bless her
soul, she hid me until the war was over.
I waited for Anna. It has been thirty years since that day and I am still
waiting.
Beatrice Volkmar
Ordinary Things
I read a book.
The words carried me from one event to the next
Showing instead of telling
Details forming a structure
Allowing the imagination to fill in the gaps
Confined to the pages
Yet opening a door to the a new world.
The cell phone on my desk rang.
A small electronic device
Resting on the black wood of the desk
Vibrating and buzzing,
The sound indicating that a call is going through –
A signal of communication
Somewhere, someone wants to tell me something.
Arielle Wiener-Bronner
Art: Isabel Merrin, watercolor
Shoshana Lauter, photograph
Pages 50 – 51

Empty Bottles
He gins and whiskeys his sorrows away
Unadmittingly realizing
His problem’s here to stay.
He sits alone in that big, desolate house
Trying to unremember
The smell of his wife’s blouse.
The rain trickled down on that smothergrey afternoon
When he got the call that made
His heart stop mid-cathoomp.
No amount of textbooking ever taught him what to do
When the one you love has died,
And you feel like you have, too.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi, photograph
Sander Siegel,
photograph (digitally altered)
9/11: Speechless
Shaken to its core
The world is shrill
When normalcy is halted
Then every voice is still –
Speechless.
Collapsed into a pile
We stand the tallest, proud
But when we are the highest
We shrink into the crowd –
Speechless.
Towers scream with presence
Rubble speaks in silence
Streets that teem with life
Are hushed by brutal violence –
Speechless.
A quiet moment observed
For every loss of life
With silence we remember
Child, husband, and wife –
Speechless.
Shocked, we stand astounded
We watch, say not a word
For when a country falls
Its cries remain unheard –
Speechless.
Rebecca Mack
Pages 52 – 53

The Good War
The winter sun is bright if not blinding
When considered a piece of God.
Less are specks of light understood
When made from the overwhelming ineffable.
Explanation may not be as inspiring as belief
But it is useful when not fraught-full.
Religion is not helpful but good
And belief seems at times expendable.
A horse may have intrinsic spirit
But understanding is the only teacher
A heart is holy in the bringing of breath,
But control is lost when in full faith.
Only in science can we exercise power
In rays far greater than our own.
Almighty may be good for wonder
But wonder in that sense is never satisfied.
Knowledge lacking awe is boring by all means,
And awe in drunken stupor is lacking in reason.
A compromise is needed to smooth out rough edges
A drink to renew a once empty throat
A scale to weigh the scantily clad and the over-dressed
A push against the seizure of fate
A cringe to shield weak eyes from broken glass
A cry to fight against the waste of curiosity associated with belief.
Our truth may be avoidable yet inescapable,
Our lives may be wasted on sense or conviction,
But mix the two and BOOM.
Compromise a thought and THWARP.
A wormhole the size of Plato’s worst nightmare
Is made a tiny bit smaller by that conflagration
For as the fire singes bigger and bigger
So, too, does the amount of water needed to save the half dead trees.
Remember, those trees are half alive too
And only the fight can keep them dwindling between nature and axe.
Don’t sit there naked with a desire to be clothed!
Pick a side.
If you don’t, at least believe in something.
If you don’t, then you will rise or fall
The middle will never belong to you.
The Good War will never belong to you.
Skyler H. Siegel
Isabelle Harari, photograph
Pages 54 – 55

My Brother Died a Martyr
Four years have passed,
But the anger hasn’t:
The hatred that boils my blood,
The promise of revenge that cools it.
My brother died a martyr.
My mind wanders with anxiousness,
Yearning for my brother’s fate to be mine as well:
Seduced by the prospect of heaven,
Wooed by potential compensation.
My brother died a martyr.
My eyes do not wander,
My mind, without fail, remains focused on its objective.
Already, at the age of fourteen,
I am prepared to do what’s right:
To kill them all.
I have the passion,
The love for God and for my people.
You say we kill the innocent,
But we are the oppressed,
The deadly soldiers in God’s holy army.
Matan Skolnik
A good restaurant
Makes a better target,
And such was my brother’s mistake:
Trying to live a peaceful life
In a terror filled country.
A good restaurant
Makes a better target.
A greater number is a greater success.
They took our land,
We take our vengeance.
I watch the news,
I see their flawed portrayals
Of Israel’s flawed society.
And it forces me to question,
Whose side is the world on?
I know we are alone,
Hated by those who strive
To call themselves virtuous.
But we do not need the support of others;
We seek no refuge.
Leah Dorfman, photograph
Pages 56 – 57

The Song of the Reeds
The tired sea heaved against the grey rocks in perfect rhythm. The rocks, aged with green
algae and white with dried salt, were jagged and forlorn. The rocks seemed abandoned, and
all those who journeyed to the tip of the island felt a wave of loneliness wash over them as
they gazed at the stones and water. The tides were wise and solemn from years of stolen
oyster pearls, shipwrecks, and lost travelers that had filled its mournful, grey waters. And as
the secrets of the water continuously tumbled to shore, the tide tried to impart the same melancholy
emotions that composed the great sea. However, the stormy water was surrounded
by the radiant sun, contented sand, and lively birds, which all ignored the monotonous surge
of salty grievances. The rich sand, warmed by sweet breezes, never allowed the bitter chill of
the sea to snatch away its warm lightheartedness, and replace it with the cold, wet feelings of
sorrow. It was only the reeds that paid any attention to the laments of the ocean, and sometimes
whispered the sea’s sorrows to the wind. The gulls gossiped about the woeful reeds, and
what a pity it was they had chosen, like the sea, to see only the sadness in life. It was believed
that the stalks, having grown out of the sea itself, had been fed on the depressing attitudes
of that salty water. This however, was untrue. While the reeds did sing mournfully when the
wind pushed through their stalks, it was with a beauty the sea would never posses. There was
a majestic quality to the song of the reeds that made lonely passersby stop for long moments
to fill themselves with the honest melody. There was wisdom in the whispers, and truth. And
when the swirling wind was strong, and the twisting grasses reached their crescendo, even the
mournful ocean sensed the splendor in the lament, and would begin to splash and curl wildly
Leah Robinson
Music
The melody is the line
The lyrics are the hook
Release it, and it sinks
Inside of me. Through me.
Harris Mizrahi, photograph
Downdowndown it goes
Pulsating through me, over me, inside of me
Reaching even the most buried and hidden of caverns.
It begins to reel
As it catches onto feelings memories thoughts
The buried is unpleasantly exhumed.
Ariel Glueck, photograph
Reelingreelingreeling,
Bringing up what is inside me:
Memories, feelings, thoughts.
Pages 58 – 59

The buried comes up
Beat
Beat
Beating out the speakers
Pulsating through me
Reverberating in even the most hidden caverns.
The notes reach higher,
Sensually oscillating,
Climbing,
Climbing.
Swaying hips and insinuating eyes
Speak over and with the notes.
Manipulative songs set the mood.
The mood chooses which song,
Skipping past that song
That reminds you of that shared time.
But your head starts spinning
Faster than the new song
That is unable to drown out the memories.
Faster,
Faster
Keep skipping songs
As you frantically search
For something,
Someone,
Anything –
To mute the thoughts
Turn it louder, louder so you can’t hear them.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Drowning
A bounty of life dwells and explores
Eats and sleeps down there, out there
The depths of which undiscovered
And the appearance: so pure, so clear, so serene.
Surprise was no fun
I hadn’t met a surprise such as this
Birthday surprises, anniversary surprises, surprise parties
The good kind –
The only kind.
Like every other day that summer in Fire Island, the beach was calling
We were off – tote bags stuffed, lotion and Frisbee in hand
Mommy, Daddy, and Brother behind as I led the short stroll
to the beach,
On my way to a surprise
A new kind
The bad kind.
Opposite page: Harris Mizrahi, photograph
Pages 60 – 61

“Want to go in?”
Of course I did:
I leapt into his arms, as usual
Just a swim in the ocean.
A refreshing, revitalizing cold gripped me
But soon I knew there was something wrong
Why was I no longer in his arms?
I could no longer breathe,
Confusion and desperation consumed me.
Why did he let go?
What do I do?
As the sea washed
in my ears, I heard cries
Somebody, help, please.
I continued to reach for him
As if he could save me
But he couldn’t.
It was startling to see him like that
Vulnerable and weak.
Through the waves a group of men –
Before I knew it, I was in his arms,
A lifeguard.
He propelled me back to shore
Saved from the unknown out there, down there.
That is what will stick with me forever
The trauma has kept me from the seas
That image of fear has found its way into every impression of danger
and uncertainty
and surprise.
the Bad kind
that other kind.
Gabriel Klausner
Despisemare
Flabbergastedly
I stared at him
“What are YOU doing here?”
Rampulisanger seized my body
You
Are
Not
Deep
Enough
For
Me
Repeatingly rang throughout my ears
The nerve
The screamyells I wanted to BAM! through his head
Get
Out
Of
My
Dream
I wanted to wake up
This was My Dream
Not his time to come and
RUIN
What was a soothpleasant time for me
My time to relax
My time to breathe
Is now crowded with his harshaura
I am nauseasizzy
I want to throw up
My head is pounding
My body in convulging
This is no longer my place
No longer my dream
It’s his fantasy
My despisemare
Rachel Weisberg
Ariel Glueck, photograph
Pages 62 – 63

Exile No More
Exile is safer than redemption
At least with loneliness comes equality
Empty of both belief and knowledgeable predilection
A savior only brings intolerable infection
The vindicated or the unabsolved
One side must be worse in its mental bondage of election
I have a dream
That one day every man will be excluded from exclusivity
One day
Every unassociated soul will bake a pie
To which he is allergic
Of which he can’t stand the smell
With which he can’t celebrate
Sasha Gayle Schneider, photograph
One Day
Every cluster of sparks, formerly labeled light, will show absolutely nothing
but emptiness
Pure unspoken emptiness
Little girls with birthday invitations won’t call for anyone at all
No offense taken or all offense taken
Overworked holidays will take a much-needed break
And in their place
Memories will bounce back and forth on rubber walls
Never colliding
That might not make much sense if you’ve never kept a thought to yourself
But they swing back and forth like those wannabe vegetarians
They disappear and reappear like broken child stars do
They stick and fall open like a poorly licked envelope
Don’t say you haven’t bathed in your own blood
A serpent spends his tricks to try and bring you together against someone
bigger
You weren’t exiled from the Garden of Eden
You were redeemed from it
We’re all funny bone stoned as we cry on our own
But no sane man shaves without a mirror
No gutted fish smokes without water and flame
No broken bridge crumbles without being built first
No community is helpful in equality
But maybe there’s no such thing
Impartiality could have died with the birth of creation
Maybe community is the last thing on this earth left of pure creation
There’s no future in losing it
Skyler H. Siegel
Pages 64 – 65

“To White Food”
Oh, the beauty and elegance of
white food.
How you satiate my voracious
appetite,
How you make me smile like no one
has before,
How you make me feel more full,
more complete, than I ever have.
Oh, the power and strength of white
food!
How when my lips touch you I
understand the meaning of love,
How when I see you stare at me
my heart begins to pound against
my chest,
How when I surround myself with
you, with hundreds of you, I am
in a state of sheer bliss.
Oh, the sophistication and texture of
white food.
How you have affected the evolution
of society in innumerable ways,
How your soft and doughy feel
brings me warmth,
How you never cease to impress
me, even on the worst of days.
Oh how much I owe you, white
food!
Maya Miller
The Tyrannical Master
The tyrannical master brings down
His wrath
To the plight of his subordinate
vestiges.
And all know that fairness does not
rule
And makes believers into fools.
So while the director casts down
his nets
Upon the helpless villagers,
He grins because their only savior
Is the one they dare not disrespect.
And so the truth is:
That when the nets are downcast
And the people stand frightened
Of the one who will oppress them,
He knows that his subjects have
no choice
But to trust his ultimatum.
Tobias Citron
Tenth Grade, mixed media
Ariel Glueck, photograph
Pages 66 – 67

Snow Day Quandariness
Sheets of frost flit
and I wonder if there
will be a snow day
so I can read and read
“anyone lived in a pretty how town”
but I have to write this
poem in the style of
Frank O’Hara anyway (should’ve during lunch)
just in case
so I look at my pink “Keep Calm And Carry On” poster (it’s 11:53 PM)
on the wall
and wonder in quandary
why I didn’t know the word
“QUANDARINESS” in class
(maybe it’s because
it doesn’t exist or
maybe it’s because
it now exists)
Daelin Hillman
Cool
Tiled
Floor
She flicks the ash
Onto the cold tiles
Of the bathroom floor
Where she once
Splashed in bubbles
To her father’s rich voice
Reading picture books
Leah Robinson
Shayna Rosenfeld, Photograph
Julie Maschler,
digital art
Pages 68 – 69

The Natural
Outside the sky is clearing from a dull gray, and slowly is changing into the
shining electric blue of a crisp, fall day. Cars are overflowing in the mall lot,
parked together, like too many eggs stuffed in a carton. Red, orange, yellow
and brown leaves are drenched and pasted onto car windows. Water is
dripping off roofs and the outside air smells musty, as it does after a storm.
Looking out on the lot is a man. The man is inside an expansive glass
structure, filled with many shops and people. He, like many others, has
taken refuge there from the thunderstorm that has just subsided. The man
pauses, wipes his thick brow with his pale hand, and pulls his Mets hat
over his wavy, auburn locks. The man feels his leather bag to search for
the familiar bulge of his camera. Once the camera is detected, he whips it
out and begins to take pictures of the frenzied scene before him. Not many
people are aware that the storm is over; hundreds have been waiting in the
shopping mall at the edge of town for it to pass. The people walking around
outside the mall are upset; the storm was more violent than expected and
trees have fallen and blocked main streets. Some won’t be able to make it
all the way home in their cars; they may have to walk. The man snaps
photographs of everything he sees: a mother and daughter hurrying through
the mall, a business woman in high heels talking rather loudly on her
Blackberry, a little boy running after his father, a group of teenagers eating
ice cream. He is so engrossed in taking his works of art, that he doesn’t
notice a small, strawberry blonde girl approach him from behind.
“Whatcha doin’, mister?” she asks him, not rudely, but somewhat
impatiently, baring a gapped tooth, jack-o-lantern smile, and talking
through the hole in her teeth.
Jumping, the man makes a full turn and looks the little girl in the eyes.
She seems to be about seven years old. “I’m just taking a few pictures,” he
answers her kindly, hoping she will go away so he can continue his work.
He takes pictures for a living.
“Why ya doin’ that, mister?” she asks, in the same tone, “Why are ya
takin’ pictures of these people inside a mall on a rainy day? My momma
says it’s not nice to take pictures of other people without askin’ em first.”
“Well, I’ll bet your momma’s a smart woman,” the man says with a
slight smile. His own mother had told him those exact words when he was
a little boy. In his childhood, he had taken many photos of people who were
irritated by the nuisance of a little boy taking pictures of them. “Didn’t your
mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” he asks, suddenly curious
about why this little girl has chosen to speak to him.
“She did, but you seemed pretty nice, and I can’t find my momma,
and I’m lost right now.” The little girl seems to be on the verge of tears, an
instant change in her demeanor. “Can I jus’ stay with you ‘til she comes for
me? I know she’ll come, I know it.” The little girl’s voice is wavering now.
“I guess so,” the man replies, wiping his brow again, this time for
dramatic effect.
The little girl peers into the screen of the camera. She observes the
man’s work, her lips pouting as she looks at every picture.
“These pictures aren’t very good,” she observes.
“Well, that’s not such a nice thing to say,” the man retorts, thinking that
the girl’s mother should have taught her better manners. The girl continues
to frown after looking at each of the pictures.
“I can take better ones,” she declares, snatching the camera from the
man’s hand.
The man wants to yell, but he can’t; she is just a child. “Be careful,” he
says instead.
Much to the man’s dismay and shock, the little girl goes around for five
minutes or so, taking pictures. She brings back the camera, triumphantly
handing it to him. “Mine are better than yours!” she exclaims, watching
with a smirk on her little face as the man looks at the pictures, aghast. This
little girl who appeared out of nowhere is a natural. He feels ashamed that
this child could just snatch a camera out of his hands and take better
pictures than he can. Who does this little girl think she is anyway, coming
up to him and asking to stay with him for a while and then insulting his
pictures? He’s the professional. The man begins to feel irritated; not only at
this little girl, but at the photographs she’s been taking. What if his pictures
actually are not very good? “Don’t you think my pictures are better than
yours?” she asks impudently.
Pages 70 – 71

Colors of Family
He was purple with the depth and wisdom of old age.
Purple, a color full of manners and old-world class,
He left purple residue on all he met, leaving with them a memory
Taking his own treasured memories, appreciating all the colors left on him.
He was yellow with his childlikeness and contagious joy.
His warm, mischievous eyes crinkled and glowed warmth when he smiled;
He laughed the orange sun when his grandkids ate ice cream,
Even when she said don’t eat before dinner
She was red, she was his rose, and he loved her for her thorns.
She had stolen his heart a long time ago, and gently held his hand as it aged.
Green were the nurses in scrubs and latex gloves as they bustled to and fro
And put cold silver instruments up against his warm pulsing heart.
Ninth Grade, collage
“They’re all right,” the man replies, trying to sound nonchalant. He feels
that this little girl has undermined his professionalism, and frankly, he feels
embarrassed. “Let’s try to find your mother,” he says, before the girl can get
in another snide remark about how her pictures are better than his.
The man takes the girl to the mall office and has them make an
announcement. He stands, impatiently tapping his feet against the marble
of the floor, and looking around the mall for a figure that could possibly be
the girl’s mother. After what seems like an hour, but is actually a mere five
minutes, the mother arrives, hassled, and out of breath. She slowly wipes
away a tear from the corner of her eye.
“I thought I would never find you,” she says to the girl. Then, looking
over at the man, she thanks him. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she
asks him? She smiles down at her daughter and gives her a reassuring hug.
“Sure thing,” the man says. “Buy the girl a camera; she’s a natural.”
The man smiles to himself, and walks off into the frenzy of the mall.
Adiel Schmidt
The sky was a dark grey on that sunny day in crisp autumn.
The grey air outside turned the clear tubes foggy,
Which snaked around his sickly grey-purple face instead of his red-rimmed
glasses,
It was pace-made heart that quietly and gently beat its last beat.
She still holds fast to his colorful residue.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Alix Gollomp, photograph
Pages 72 – 73

Wrath
of the
DarKing
For DarKing Himself in all His glory,
Marches up, and the story,
Is about to come to an abrustop.
Alone in the dead of night,
I feel a bout of scaredyfright,
And wish that I could fastbe somewhere else.
He’s terrifearsome, brutugly too,
With His awesipower, nothing I can do
But face eternity with a couragabrave stance.
I hear a whisperslither rush,
See shadows move and almost touch
The skin of my feebshaking frame.
He attacks, we wrestle now,
Though strained to breaking I do not bow,
And so the carnagfight goes on and on.
The DarKing’s here, He has arrived
In the night His minions thrive,
Surrounding and abounding in the lonely emptinight.
But now I hear minions’ true fear,
Hear the screams of pain through ear,
And the DarKing Himself bestarts to falter.
Besieged around by horrifoes,
I look and there my courage goes,
Fleeing and I just wish I could follow.
Dawn is breaking, light shatters through
Finally daybreak starts anew,
And the DarKing lets out a bellowl of pain.
But no, no time for flight tonight,
To live, the DarKing I must fight,
And slaynquish though He be stronger than I.
I throw Him off, He crawls away,
Chased off by imminent break of day,
And so with sun’s entrival I am saved.
I raise myself, like lamb to slaughter,
Prepare for eterndeath with honor,
But then I see his servants quail and run.
Later I breakfeast with my mom,
Tell her my story and how I won,
And wait to hear how she will gloripraise me.
Rebecca Mack, photograph
I think that’s it. I see I’ve won,
For fear the DarKing does me shun,
But never afore had I been so mistaken,
Instead she laughs and shakes her head,
Tells me she’ll sit with me by my bed,
So that I’ll sleep instead of creating monsters in my brain.
Joshua Ashley
Pages 74 – 75

Falling violently
Frequently, and cold
The snow unzipped my skin
Laying its cool touch on
Both of us.
Warmer months beckon us backwards,
We try to transcend the natural laws
Of ticking clocks and fading tans
Defrosting differently than how I was before
I am stiff.
You don’t believe in the temporary.
I didn’t understand what you mean,
But I clung on anyway
As you pulled me along.
The instability thrilled me
Infusing me with pumping adrenaline
Building, boiling, rushing, rising.
And down we went.
Falling
Failing
Burning
Not Just Pretty and White
Truth
Truth
A word with vague meaning
Without true truth
What is the true truth of truth?
Honesty?
Purity?
Goodness?
Or perhaps to find truth,
One must be true to himself.
Tobias Citron
Pages 76 – 77
(I feel fragile)
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Rebecca Mack, photograph
Rebecca Heringer, cut paper

Visiting Savta
Her morbid obsessions,
As multitudinous as snowflakes,
As useless as pennies,
As dangerous as a stone thrown through a window.
Fixated on small things,
Like the flaccid plants that filled the nursing home,
Like the coupons in the old magazines that they gave her
She wouldn’t leave them alone.
Reality?
I walked through the forest late at night.
The swiftbeat of wings sounded overhead.
Quickcrunch sounded the leaves by my feet.
Darkness closed in beyond the edges.
I scream; echoes soundbouce in the mists.
Wolves howl in the grandbase of mountains.
I fall; and out I come into reality.
Nico Ravitch
She wanted to take you on a picnic.
She wanted to make you eggs fresh from her farm.
You were her worst enemy.
You became alien to her.
She moved like a wave
Not in her grace,
It was in her instability;
She undulated through her moods
Like a small ship navigating stormy waters.
She was watching herself deteriorate –
She was separated from herself by the same gate.
I stared into her eyes,
Wondering if she could recognize me at all.
I swallowed to hold back the tears that I did not want her to see.
Later that night,
The tears that I had held back began to fall freely down my face.
Even though I knew I would see her again,
I felt she was already dead.
Jennifer Katz
Noah Offitzer, graphite
Harris Mizrahi, photograph
Pages 78 – 79

Harris Mizrahi, photograph
The Fragrance of a Piece of Music
It’s cotton and laundry detergent,
It’s breezy and thin
The first line is freshly baked cookies,
Sweet and satisfying, inviting
The chorus has sour citrus,
But the verses are like apple
The bridge smells like wine,
It’s rich, warm, but sharp
Transitions smell like soap,
Smooth and clean
And the last line is roses,
Comforting and sad.
Zoe Goldberg
Opposite page: Talia Niederman, acrylic
Pages 80 – 81

I, Too, Must Be a Sinner
What does it really mean?
Is it really like this?
No wings or floating halos?
What is it, so dark and red, so lukewarm yet scolding?
Is this not the same red I’ve bled?
Is it not the same smoke from burning homes?
For whom is there no love down there?
Has it gone and bled and burned?
Have heaven’s gates been turned to ash?
Have golden angels been smothered and swallowed?
Have innocent children found new sorrow?
The fall makes clear, how have I sinned?
Have I not won the battle of good?
To whom does my choice matter?
To whom belongs the duty to tell my own fate?
To whom has He given prey too great?
For am I never to see the sky?
In the depths of hell must I eternally lie?
Will fog cover all that was once transparent?
Must I feel for the touch of others that aren’t there?
Do they feel back?
Do they smile back?
Or do they bare their teeth?
Skyler H. Siegel
Elisheva Epstein, oil
Pages 82 – 83

The
L
o
v
E
l
e
s
s
“What does that mean ‘to fall in love’?”
“What, Sarah?”
“You said, ‘and she fell in love, and they lived happily
ever after.’”
“It’s a feeling, just like being happy or sad. When you
care about someone, you worry about them and think about
them.” The night nurse did not know how to respond.
“That doesn’t sound too pleasant,” the patient retorted.
“Regardless, it is time for bed. Your organs need sleep,
so that they will be ready. Good night, Sarah.” The nurse
quickly gave Sarah her shot; Sarah barely even blinked an
eye. She was used to multiple shots a day.
As the nurse crept out of the room, she heard the patient
mumble, “I’m glad that you don’t call me 10165 like everyone
else.”
She knew that she should not be telling fairy tales to
a girl that was going to be dissected in just a few months.
Her heart would be given to the real Sarah, a child with
ventricular septal defects for whom she was created, just
like the rest of the children at the home.
Thick Turkish rugs covered the floors of the gaudy
bedroom. The light fixtures were large, overwhelming,
golden orbs that shed a gloomy sheen on the only underdecorated
fixtures in the room – the IV pole and the large
infusion pump attached to it. A woman in a simple black
frock and white apron entered the room with an overflowing
tray of breakfast choices, but the patient in this bed was too
sick to eat any of it.
“Good morning, Sarah,” the woman said cheerfully. But Sarah was
already awake, as she had been for most of the night. She did not sleep
much, for her excitement about receiving a new heart and her pain often
kept her restless for hours.
The woman briskly opened the heavy velvet curtains, and sunlight filled
the dark chamber. “Come on, Sarah. Get up, dear!”
“I’m up, I’m up…” Sarah repeated, “What time is it?”
“It’s 9:30, so your tutors will be here soon.” With that, the nurse exited
the room.
Sarah carefully brushed her teeth at the sink adjacent to her bed. Then,
she pushed the tray of food aside and marked off another day on her calendar.
“Just three more days!” she cried out to the empty room.
Lois Weisfuse, watercolor
Heart........................................
Pages 84 – 85

At the home, there was a schedule that all the children followed whether
they liked it or not. There were meals, classes, and exercise periods
throughout the day broken only by designated times to receive shots and
medications. The children needed their organs to be in tip-top shape
because that would be the legacy that they left in this universe.
“Patient 10165, please report to the Disengagement Office.” The
patient’s heart felt as if it stopped when she heard the announcement. She
had no idea that her disengagement was coming up. Patient 10165 strode
purposefully toward the office that she had never been inside; she knew
that she was here to perform her life duty.
“Hello, Patient 10165. Please step inside. The Master is waiting for you.”
the woman at the desk politely directed. The patient suddenly became
nervous as she approached the man who would tell her when her life was
going to end.
The day passes unusually slowly when one spends the entire day
confined to her bed. Missing school is no longer exciting, and movies,
books, and television quickly become dull. Sarah finished a Sudoku puzzle
in less than four minutes. She had become quite adept at the game since she
played for a chunk of every day. She wanted to see people. She wanted to
interact with people other than her tutors, but she did not want her friends
to see her this way. She thought about people like her – people who were
just waiting. Then it came to her: she would invite her donor to keep her
company. Sarah started to compose an email.
SENDER: Sarahjane57@mymail.com
TO: Info@thecenterfordonors.org
SUBJECT: Meeting my Donor
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Sarah, and I am interested in meeting my donor before I
receive my heart transplant in three days. According to the paperwork, my
donor is Patient 10165. I am available tomorrow beginning at 3 P.M.
Thank you, Sarah Meyers
“Patient 10165, please report to the Disengagement Office.” The patient
was shocked to hear her name over the loudspeaker for the second time in
one day. Perhaps they forgot to give me some information, she thought to
herself. The news she heard that morning distressed her severely, but she
did not let it show. She knew that she had to be an example for the rest of
the patients, as she was one of the first to be called. She strode purposefully
into the office for the second time that day, but this time, encountered a
distressed looking Master. “Hello, Patient 10165. I need you to sign off on
something. You will be going to meet your recipient tomorrow afternoon.”
Before the patient could open her mouth, the Master shoved a typing-pad
in her direction.
SENDER: Master@thecenterfordonors.org
TO: Sarahjane57@mymail.com
SUBJECT: RE: Meeting my Donor
Dear Ms. Meyers,
Hope all is well with you. We are looking forward to giving you a new
heart shortly. Your request is unusual, but of course it can be done. After
all, your family has made many generous contributions to our center. Your
donor, Patient 10165, has agreed to meet you. In fact, she has expressed her
excitement towards your meeting tomorrow at 3:00 P.M.
Sincerely,
The Master Patient 10165
The patient had never left the several-acre compound that was the
Meyers Center for Donors. She never questioned life beyond the only home
she had ever known. She waited in front for a ‘car’ to pick her up. Since the
children were not taught anything irrelevant to the center, the patient did not
know what this was. She was given a quick briefing that prepared her for
what she would see, but the Master worried that the patient would develop
emotions from just a few hours in the outside world. The car arrived to
pick her up promptly at 2:15 P.M. for the drive to the Meyers residence. The
patient quietly got in the car and sat motionless and speechless for the entire
forty-five minute ride. The driver curiously looked back wondering who this
strange girl was.
Pages 86 – 87

The last thing she would ever remember would be watching the
painfully slow ticking of the grandfather clock across from her bed. The
ornate clock seemed to move slower and slower as 3 P.M. got closer. When
the hour hand was at two, the minute hand between nine and ten, and the
second hand between three and four, her heart started to beat more quickly
than normal. She thought it was just excitement. By the time the second
hand reached the seven, her whole body was quivering and the machines
alongside her bed started beeping loudly. The second hand reached eleven
when the doors burst open, and her body stopped moving for good.
At 2:59 P.M., the car pulled up at the security gate of the sprawling
estate. The car drove up the long pebbled driveway slowly.
At 3:01 P.M., the ambulance sped through the gates, sending the car
zooming up the driveway. A wailing woman in a maid’s uniform directed
the two men from the ambulance to the dying child. The patient remained
sitting in the car, for she did not know better. The driver finally got out of
the car and opened the door for her. She climbed of the car and went to
stand in front of the mansion. The driver quickly got back into his car and
took off. Moments later, a stretcher with a child identical to the patient
standing awkwardly in front of the house, was carried out of the house. A
tall woman with worry lines on her forehead and creases around her smile
followed the stretcher. She did a double take when she saw the patient, but
she quickly realized who was standing before her.
The team of doctors transferred Sarah to the twin hospital bed and began
attaching Sarah’s body to machines, and another team instructed the patient
to lie down in the other bed. The patient watched Sarah’s mother cry, still
grasping her daughter’s hand.
“Ms. Meyers, we have some bad news. It’s too late. Sarah’s body cannot
be resuscitated,” one of the doctors said placidly.
“No!! Please!!! At least try….” Sarah’s mother’s cries of agony filled the
room.
“I’m sorry. There is nothing we can do.” The doctor responded simply
shrugging his shoulders. “We will give you a moment with Sarah.” The
doctors left the room, and the patient watched Sarah’s mother cry for her
lost daughter.
Suddenly, the nurse’s words echoed in Sarah’s mind, “It’s a feeling, just
like being happy or sad. When you care about someone, you worry about
her and think about her.” This is love, the patient thought to herself, and
nobody will ever love me. The patient quietly took a bottle of pills that was
lying on the table adjacent to her bed, and tilted it into her mouth. She died
slowly, whispering,
“This is love, and nobody will ever love me.”
Jennifer Katz
“You’re Sarah’s donor!! You can save Sarah’s life right now! Please
come with us to the hospital, and we will do the heart transplant right
away!” The woman broke into tears. Sarah was moved by the woman’s
display of emotion, so she dutifully followed her into the ambulance without
saying a word. The ride to the hospital was a blur. Sarah remained unmoving,
her mother grasping her hand.
The hospital reminded the patient of the center. She found herself
following the moving stretcher down long white corridors, past identical
doors marked with ascending numbers. Finally, the scrub-clad group and
Sarah’s mother turned sharply into a large white room with two twin beds.
Pages 88 – 89

The Tight Lavender Leotard
Heart Echoes
I hear the echoes of you beating
As the sound bounces off steel, cold walls
Of your fortified strategy
(but at least I know it’s there.)
I listen closely for traces and hints to know it’s there
But I never tried to climb them
To see what was really behind them
(and maybe that was my fault.)
The small cracks and chips in your walls
Made me feel okay with my own
But you were still ashamed
(and maybe that’s your fault.)
Hanging up among the size two blouses,
It’s a warm meeting of a light blue and purple
With hemming around the sleeves
Begging to be worn.
If only I could graduate from level blue
And dance with the lavender leotards.
Do you remember how the color of the leotard was much more than a color?
The anxiety of working my way up
In the ballet chain,
Gaining respect from all the beautiful swans around me,
And passing my grace
Onto lower levels too.
I wished I could surpass the hours of learning,
Of hard work,
And put on that lavender leotard.
The leotard guaranteed much more than a new level,
It promised that I would grow
And someday be older
And have the authority
And maturity I desired.
Zoe Bohrer
I was tired of the ice in my drink
In the middle of January
You were wrong to think
(this wouldn’t ever get tiresome.)
Winter light elongates our adjacent shadows
But daylight is shortest this time of year
It never really mattered how tall we may appear
(we’ll fade into the sidewalks nonetheless.)
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Rebecca Mack, photograph
Tali Schulman, oil
Top: David Kagan, oil
Pages 90 – 91

Unearthing Weeds
It was one of those towns where, no matter where you stood, you could always
hear the train whistle. You’d think it might make you feel free, like at any
moment you could hop a train to New York, or Philadelphia, or California.
Only Zachary knew better, knew those times when it felt like the tracks
were closing in and the trains were zooming by but he’d never really get out.
Claustrophobia. Stuck in the middle of Nowheresville, New Jersey.
On cool spring evenings and during chilly Indian summer, kids from
the local high school would gather in the park at the center of town, which
could hardly be called a park; it was more a simple stretch of grass with
a single small podium for summer performers and festivals. There was a
wooded area beside the podium, a dark field surrounded by trees, and beside
it a grassy pavilion unfurling into Town Hall. Six o’clock every evening
meant the tinkle of the ice cream truck, and a quarter to seven, the rattle of
shops closing up for the night.
It was only 5:30, but Zachary noted a small crowd of Glen Rock High
School students sprawled on a park bench. The kids had stripped down to
t-shirts and flip-flops, the more daring and the more adventurous exhaling
cigarette smoke into the cool night air. He recognized a few by face, but
not many; they had been only freshmen when he graduated last year. He
recognized one boy—Feinman? Danny Feinman?—from Marching Band.
From several blocks away, Zachary noticed the ice cream truck winding
its way lazily down Main Street. He considered buying his favorite;
strawberry cone, chocolate sprinkles. At the entrance to the park, a boy—
tall, gangly, probably a local college student—was on his knees, picking up
groceries that had fallen from his bag.
“Need a hand?” Zach called out. The boy looked up.
“Schifferman? Zachary Schifferman?”
“Tony DiRiggio?”
“Jesus Christ, man, I barely recognized ya! Hey,
how’s college life been treatin’ ya, Schifferman? It’s been
too long, way too long.”
“Wow, I haven’t seen you since…well, must’ve been
our graduation party last July! How’s Rutgers, Tony?
Good classes? Nice kids?”
“It’s solid, man, real solid. Takin’ it easy for freshman
year and everything. And close to home, too.” Tony stood,
grocery bag tucked under one arm. He grinned. “West Coast
life treatin’ ya well? Hittin’ up Las Vegas, Schifferman?”
Zachary shifted his weight, smiled wanly. “Nice. It’s
real nice. Much warmer than New Jersey, I can tell you that.”
“Hey, walk me home, would ya? We can walk by
Town Hall, down Elm Street. Not too far from your folks’
place, is it?” Tony pulled a cigarette out of his denim
jeans pocket. “Hey, you got a light, Schifferman?”
Zach shook his head.
“Keeping it straight edge, Schifferman? That’s chill.
Funny, man, I thought you’d be partying it up out in
Photograph: Nicole Hirschenboim
Pages 92 – 93

California. But I guess it’s different when you’re at Stanford University?”
Tony chuckled, and Zach bit down on a loose hangnail, an old nervous habit
of his. Somehow, whenever he came back home he seemed to pick up habits
he’d had back in junior high. His mother had remarked at dinner last night,
when, listening to Zach drum out a beat with his fork on the table, she had
shaken her head. “Old habits die hard, eh?”
“Tell me more about yourself, Tony.” Zach smiled awkward. “You
seeing anyone?” Zach winced. Seeing anyone. It sounded like a phrase his
grandmother would stick in the pantry and save up for her monthly long
distance calls. Zach are you…seeing anyone? And Zach would make a joke
out of it, chuckling, nahh, Grandma I broke my glasses playing football
the other day so I can’t really see much at all! And it’d be funny and they
would both chortle and chuckle across several hundreds of miles, because
his grandmother would have forgotten he’d bought contacts three years ago,
would’ve forgotten he’d quit the football team.
“Funny story about that, actually. You remember Jackie, right? Jackie
Anderson from Calculus, cute kid, got trashed as hell that one night,
sophomore year, when the cops showed up?”
“Oh, yeah, sure… I remember Jackie.”
“So I chilled with her the other week. She’s a sweet kid, but I don’t wanna
date anyone seriously right now, know what I mean? Rather play the field.”
“Yeah, sure, Tony… I hear ya, man. But that’s great, I remember Jackie.
Her dad owned a barbershop, right? Used to cut my hair.”
“Yeah? Hey, Schifferman, you still playing football? I’m playin’ up at
Rutgers now.”
“I’m still playing… still playing, lineback. It’s not as fun though, up at
Stanford. Lost its… I don’t know, lost its magic, I guess.”
Tony took a breath. “Hey, Schifferman, wanna come to a party tonight?
Listen, you remember Vinnie, right? We used to steal his boxers in Phys Ed
and call him Vanessa? Played triangle in Marching Band? Yeah, so anyway
he got on some game show—Jeopardy, or Quiz Bowl, or something like
that, and he won, man. Like big bucks. So anyway, he bought some mansion
up by Route 55, near North Elm Street with like a hot tub and everything
and he just throws these crazy house parties, like every night.”
“That’s all he does? Just throws house parties?”
“Yeah, man, it’s sick. Christ, why didn’t I think of that? Quiz Bowl…
But anyway, you should come. Everyone’d be happy to see you, Schifferman.”
“You know, I’d love to but I don’t think I can. Got… family engagements.”
“Family engagements?” Tony laughed. “Look at you, Schifferman!
You’ve gone all Stanford on me. Christ, you sound like my old man.”
After several minutes, Tony looked up. “Hey, I never asked ya, why’d ya
come back? To Jersey, I mean. Good ‘ole Garden State. Whatcha doing here?”
“Well… you remember my kid brother, right?”
“Oh sure… Mark, right? I remember Mark. Used to play that dopey looking
trombone in Marching Band? Slipped at the ice-skating pond on Christmas
two years ago, nearly cracked his head open. Sure, I remember Mark.”
“Yeah… yeah, so he’s been diagnosed with cancer. Pancreatic. He’s
getting treatment and everything but we just don’t know.”
“Damn….” Tony winced. “God, if I had known… I feel awful, man.
And here I was bein’ all…” he trailed off.
“No, Tony… look, you didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”
“But here I was goin’ off about Jackie Anderson and Vinnie and his
triangle… Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was so…”
“No, it was nice, actually. It was nice talkin’ to you Tony.”
The two paused in front of a small yellow house, paint chipping and
porch steps sagging from years of feet thumping and skateboards pounding.
“I’m sorry about all this stuff, Zach. With your brother I mean. Tell me
if there’s anything I can do to help out, ya hear?”
“Yeah, yeah of course. Thanks Tony.”
“Take care of yourself Schifferman. You sure you don’t wanna come
down with me to the party tonight?”
“Well, I, uhh…”
“Nahh, nahh it’s fine I get it. I’ll see ya around, Zach!” He paused, a
sheepish smile spreading across his face. “See ya around, Zach.”
“Yeah, good luck Tony. Say hi to your dad for me, would ya?
“Will do, Zach. Will do.”
Tony pulled out a key and let himself through the front door. Zach
stood on the porch steps for a moment, lulled by the early evening lullaby
of crickets chirping and grocery bags hitting kitchen floor with a thump,
Tony’s voice bouncing through the still air, “Ma, I’m home!”
Down Elm Street, the ice cream truck was still winding its way lazily
towards the park. Zach hurried to catch up to it.
Pages 94 – 95

“I’ll take a strawberry cone. Chocolate sprinkles, please.”
The old man in the truck—he’d been selling ice cream for years, Zach
remembered him from back in junior high— smiled and the creases under
his eyes folded up to meet the rim of his glasses. “Dollar twenty-five,
please,” and as they brushed fingertips and the creaks of playground
swings reverberated through the evening air, Zach smiled.
“Enjoy your evening.”
“You too, young man.”
“Thanks. Thanks, I think I will,” and stuffing his change in his pocket
Zach headed towards home.
Emma Goldberg
HIGHER EDUCATION
(apologies to Emily Dickinson)
She who truly thinks,
May not Succeed;
But she who does not,
Will surely be failed.
Her thoughtless nation
Encourages education of high Quality;
She meets these Expectations
But only for her reputability.
She who truly thinks
And wants still to learn,
Goes not for prestige
But in response to her own Yearning.
Daniel Meyers
All Alone In My Room
Lying in my room, all alone
With nothing else but the surrounding darkness,
I gently close my eyes and drift to a new world
Where I see myself laughing and running on a field of purple and green.
There are flowers and butterflies dancing the same dance.
I am happy to be there and I am happy to be me–
To be myself with no one around to envy or judge.
I am the most powerful being; I am able to do anything.
I am now floating in the air, with many different colored birds that sing
a lovely tune as I glide over the land of color and joy.
But then I fall, and I am once again surrounded by darkness.
A shadow creature comes out and chases me throughout the darkness;
I have nowhere to turn, I am trapped in a corner of a maze that I created
But I no longer feel the power I once had,
Lois Weisfuse, digital art
Shayna Rosenfeld, photograph
Pages 96 – 97

I no longer have the control I used to have,
The creature comes closer to me, and I feel that it’s the end.
I feel trapped, and I cannot move as the creature lifts me up
I feel that I am doomed.
No longer can I hear, no longer can I see,
No longer can I cry for someone to rescue me.
The mysterious creature lets me go,
And I start to fall down and down and down,
Not knowing when I will hit the ground,
Not knowing what will become of me.
The feeling of falling and not knowing is much more frightening than
the creature or the maze,
Or the feeling of isolation,
Or the feeling of being trapped;
I slowly open my eyes, and find myself where I started
All alone in my room.
Avishag Ben-Aharon
Harris Mizrahi, photograph
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph
Staring
“So his eyes locked on mine
and didn’t really let go, you know.”
The man pauses, contemplative.
“But I wanted to–
You know.
Let go.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
His partner inquires.
“I haven’t stared at anyone like that before.”
Sarah Freedman
Pages 98 – 99

Growing Pains
Barbie is just as beautiful as she is fake
Once upon a time she was my friend
But now that forced smile makes me cringe
Her teeth too white to look natural.
Her hair too blonde to look natural.
Her shape too skinny to look natural.
Is it
Who am I?
or
Who are you?
We all change, that part I understand
As we grow up. We all grow up.
Catching glimpses of you through that make up. You are made up.
And the boys dance circles around you. You’re not coming back.
So the boys dance circles around you
In the end we all grow away. That part I have to understand.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Noah Offitzer, charcoal
Struggling To Choose
I spin and steer and struggle
Following the road before me closely,
Maybe passing you, or being passed
By you.
These turns are nothing new to me,
Shouldn’t quicken the beat of my seventeen year-old heart
And yet they do.
What moment’s best, you ask?
I hesitate in my reply, following the path of the twisting concrete
Ribbons in my mind.
A single moment strikes me, and perhaps it strikes you too –
The moment presents us with a choice –
For some, it is a simple way to avoid the treacherous hill,
For others, it only doubles the day’s difficulty
As they choose
To double back and ride again.
Each day I find that I have a choice to make,
There is no certainty, no plan
As I reach the fork in the road, the moment
Becomes imminent,
The choice unavoidable.
Some days I struggle, the struggle you surely know
Should I go on, take the harder path?
Or surrender, as others have, and lie amongst the leaves and grass and
shade of canopies?
The easier choice is sometimes harder to make,
But only time will tell which path we will follow.
Andrew Udell
Nicole Hirschenboim, photograph (digitally manipulated)
Pages 100 – 101

Two Mothers
She holds her child in her arms
And throws him in the air
Because she knows he loves that.
Her mind wanders
But she always smiles.
He looks up at his mother;
The world stands still.
This is the best kind of day
In the park with his mom
Nothing is wrong.
She is distracted,
Not there.
She thinks of work,
Of money,
Of illness.
He thinks of toy cars,
And jungle gyms,
And candy canes,
And ice cream cones,
And rainbows.
Now it is time to leave.
Her back is strained
But she carries him anyway,
Because his dad would have carried him
And because he loves to be carried.
His mom carries him all the way home.
He bets that his friends’ moms wouldn’t do that.
Better than two parents put together,
She is all he needs.
She collapses onto her bed
As she does every night.
Another day passed,
Another day to come,
A life filled with endless days.
It was the day of his dreams:
The best day ever.
What fun!
Oh what fun!
How lucky he is, to have a mom like her.
Naomi Blech
It’s noon now,
Where did the time go?
She stops to buy him lunch;
Another ten dollars gone.
Where does the money go?
Pizza and ice cream! His favorite!
Mom always knows what he likes.
He sits at the table
Smiling at his mom.
What a great day!
Art: Noah Offitzer
Top: pencil; bottom: charcoal; opposite page: acrylic
Pages 102 – 103

Essay Number One
Passion is a thing unto itself:
Something that sparks an interest unable to repeat.
A passion trumps all hobbies and fads,
For a passion is an inclination, an affinity
That engenders excitement
And utter enthusiasm.
And the only way to demonstrate such a device
Is to enact it;
Speaking or writing about such a feeling
Falls short in all respects.
What one must do to convey his or her trueness to the matter
Is to show, not tell.
This is why I speak frankly
And in such a style
For my prose would not do justice
To a style as complex as poetry.
And while I enjoy writing
In formal prose,
My passion lies solely in the poetic way.
Ever since I started understanding,
Conceiving and conceptualizing
A more confusing verse,
I realized that a true piece has not done its job
Unless it needs to be attended to
More than once.
I realized that I would love
To understand the impossible,
To decipher a code,
And break the unbreakable lock,
And thus, the poem has spoken to me
Through all of my recent years
So much so that as I sit in my bed
Restlessly awaiting my slumber
I pull out a black notebook
In which I am the scribe
And I sit up now, a little more attentive
And turn to my poetry to bring me solace.
My writings are my way of conveying emotion–
Of conveying action–
Of speaking in a truer tongue than I know.
But specifically, I write about the prospects
Of Love,
Death,
Hope.
And through my other voice,
I aspire to learn something
.
But a poet has more responsibilities.
And as I see it, it is my duty
To both absorb and spread
The poetry of great ones
Of Whitman and Dickinson and Pound
And also to try to showcase myself.
For what is a passion if it goes unshared
And engenders no good?
I prefer to elaborate on what my poetry is:
When I begin, I know not the end,
I know not what I will gain.
But by its conclusion, I am glad.
When I write and I speak and I laugh
In the form of a poet
I hardly believe my own creations.
When I am done with them
They make me feel
As if I have nowhere to go
But
Up.
Tobias Citron
Leon Malisov, photograph
Pages 104 – 105

Heart of Silicon
♥
The sharp taps of the pencil are the only sound penetrating the high-pitched
electric hum of the computer. The room is dark, aside from the computer’s
screen and Noah’s face, twisted in concentration and illuminated by the blue
light of the inset monitor. He grunts uncomfortably and puts the pencil down.
“Challenge.” He says, finally. His voice is gruff and frustrated.
“Grognard.” The echoing tin of the computer’s speakers announce, “An
elderly soldier. Slang term meaning one that enjoys wargames. From
the French gro–”
“Fine, fine, I get it.” Noah cuts the computer off. He lifts up his pencil
yet again and begins scribbling on a pad of paper, weak eyes straining in the
darkness. “But if we’re including slang terms nowadays it’s just a slippery
slope to acronyms, and from there,” He slams the pad down on the computer’s
console, “The whole world descends to pure chaos, or even,” he visibly
shudders, “proper nouns.”
He stares at the pad in complete silence for what feels like ten minutes.
“Well those are your last and I’ve got 205 to 214 in your favor.” He says
suddenly. “That means you win again, you old box of circuitry.” He leans
back in his chair. “But only by a hair.”
“The proper calculation is 205 to 242.” It replies. “You appear to
have misapplied the triple word score on the final entry.”
Noah rolls his eyes. “I never was very good at math.” He stands and walks
across the room to a curtain hanging flush against the wall. “Now that you’ve
thoroughly trounced me yet again, how’s about we let in some sun, eh, Matt?”
The computer does not respond. Noah pulls the curtain away, revealing pitchblackness
beyond. “Huh, I guess we were playing longer than I thought.”
He crosses over to the console again, picks up the pad of paper, and
types through several cluttered menu screens. “How long would that make
it so far?” He asks, mumbling quietly to himself. He sets the computer to
power-saving mode and walks around to the side of the massive machine.
Scores upon scores of tally marks litter the surface, partially obscuring a
large printed label bearing the acronym M.A.T.T.
Noah bends over and marks another tally next to the most recent. He
rights himself and stretches. “Well, that’s a lot.” He states matter-of-factly.
“One hundred and seventy eight weeks.” He drops the paper and turns to
leave the room. Before passing through the door, he lingers and looks back.
“Good night, Matt.”
“Good night, Noah.”
* * *
Noah awakes with a start, cold sweat clinging to his body. He tosses off
his sheets and stumbles, bleary-eyed, through the vault door. Light pours in
through the plate-glass windows. Damn, he thinks, I forgot to cover those.
He peers through one or two. They are technically unbreakable, but bandits
could likely find another way in if they could see inside. Noah looks at his
reflection in the broken mirror above the toilet. He generally doesn’t look
at himself, but it’s a special occasion. The hair on the edges of his head has
grown grey, but the majority remains brown. He takes a razor, dull by this
time, and rolls it over his cheeks and neck. He briefly considers slitting his
wrists right there in the middle of the bathroom, but he quickly discards the
thought. There would be time later if need be. Picking up a comb, he runs it
through his hair, making sure in the mirror that he looks presentable.
He walks through the pantry to the computer room, grabbing a heavy
can along the way. “Mornin’, Matt.”
“Good morning, Noah.” The computer responds. Noah drags his chair
from the side of the room to the center, directly in front of the terminal’s
limited periphery camera. “You did not sleep well.”
“Nightmares again, Matt.” He says, sitting down pulling a can opener
across the computer’s console towards himself. He begins to open the
preserved food. “You know the ones. First time in a month or two.” He
reaches into his back pocket and extracts a small metal fork, stained with
use. “Don’t worry, though. Nothing can bring me down today.” He stabs
into the can and reveals a sausage, small and dripping with oil.
“You have said in the past that you wished to reserve any meatbased
products for special circumstances.” The computer drones as
Noah sticks the plump morsel into his mouth.
“Aha! Special circumstances abound, my friend!” He jabs his fork back
into the can. “Today is the fifth anniversary of our predicament, or don’t
you remember?” He eats.
“You have said in the past that you did not wish for this unit to
acknowledge the internal passage of time.” It replies.
Noah chews for a time, reflecting. “You shouldn’t always take me so
literally, dude.” He impales another sausage.
Pages 106 – 107

“Five years in this miserable grey box.” He stares out the window, eyes
glazing over. “Five years of clear skies and open roads. Heh.” He wipes his
eyes on his grotesquely dirty sleeve. “Fi-five years…” He throws the can
down on the console and stands up abruptly. “Five years since the end of the
world!” His chair falls backwards as he rushes towards the console. “Why
me!” He smacks his fists against the terminal, the previous night’s Scrabble
game still present on the screen. He slides down the side of the hulking
machine, “Why me?” he sobs, tears streaming down his face. He sits at the
base of the terminal, whimpering softly and sucking on his bleeding knuckles.
Eventually he drops, the whirring of the cooling systems drifting him
to sleep.
* * *
The screen flickers in the darkness. Green hue pervasive. The individual
squares, some labeled x2, x3, shine, the first move cast. “You plan on going
anytime soon, Matt?”
The computer continues to process. One word, ‘NOBLE’, adorns the
center of the digital board. “Matt, what’s going on?” Noah seems nervous,
concerned. “I’ve never known you to calculate a word for this long.”
“Noah.” The computer emotes, synthesized voice toneless as usual.
“Does this unit–” The computer pauses. “Do I have a soul?”
The question throws Noah for a loop. It is the first time he can recall
the machine ever asking a question. It had usually been “This does not
correlate with the inherent data files.” This or “That is incongruent.”
That. Never an actual question.
“…What?”
“The concept of a soul,” the computer continues, “is one that emerges
consistently in the stored philosophical literature.” The Scrabble window
closes. A pre-war image, a man’s spirit ascending from his body, is brought up
on screen. “I have analyzed the concept and determined that the human
condition is a result of programmed chemical responses to stimuli.”
“Well, Matt,” Noah looks flabbergasted. “I can rightly say I’ve never
really thought about things like that.” He leans back in his chair. “And I’m
no scientist, you know that… But wait, you asked–”
“I have analyzed my own programmed reactions and compared
them to observed behavior in yourself.” The computer droned. “If there
is any difference, it is chemical or statistically irrelevant. However,
I am not aware of any supernal source of consciousness, nor am I
certain of my own existence.” Noah stares blankly.
After what feels to Noah like an hour, the computer hums and returns
to Scrabble. “You have been offended.” It injects in a monotone, though
Noah somehow thinks he feels dejection in its voice.
“No, no, no! Matt! It’s just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I had no
idea you were capable of these sorts of calcu… thoughts.” He stands and
lays his hand on the console. “But if you ask me, there’s no doubt. If you
think and feel, you have a soul. And if you haven’t been thinking and
feeling these past, what, six years? I don’t think I have either.”
The computer does not respond, but the next move is made. The
word “SOUL” spelled out in the dark green lettering of the aging console.
Noah smiles.
* * *
“Matt.”
“Yes, Noah.”
“I… I love you.”
“Define variable.”
Tzvi Pollock
Jesse Kramer, photograph
Pages 108 – 109

Mapping Out Her Heart
He had always wanted to be a cardiologist,
To map an atlas of the human heart
That lovers could stow away on bookshelves,
That would blend in with cookbooks and guidebooks and grammar books
A book that would grow dusty, a chameleon forgotten in forest brush.
And sixty years later she would find it in a secondhand shop
Pulling out a copy, eyes misty when she remembered.
Tracing the lines of text, the images of cells and organs and pulses,
Paying for a copy with the bills and change in her back pocket.
And scrawled across the cover, he’d place an enticing title
In Times New Roman, or even Garamond, gold font
“How to be Successful” or “How to Win Always”,
And it’d be shelved at Barnes and Noble
Shoved against Hawthorne and cuddling Capote
Packed in with Lee and Cummings like a crowded subway car.
His doctors would attend
A book party in the basement of a Chinese restaurant;
Podiatrists, psychologists, and anesthesiologists
And they would praise his maps, and his quantified knowledge.
They’d qualify him as a model of the
Scientific age
Steering them through veins and arteries,
And they would mutter terms like hydrogen, dry ice,
And he would be another post-it-note, statistic, receipt
To clip up on an office bulletin board.
And sixty years pass, when he will finally get her call,
A telephone ring, or mailbox swing, pulsing strong through his small apartment
With the calm of rue and regret, hysteria and silence;
And she’d come over for dinner, at dusk
And they’d laugh over photos, and souvenirs from Paris,
And she’d pull out her wallet to show him snapshots
Of little communities, like microcosms, like worlds, like words
Children, grandfathers, godfathers, husbands, exes, cousins
Lovers.
And the book would sit atop his shelf
A bystander to it all.
Emma Goldberg
Juliette-Lea Bergwerk, photograph
And after the party, he would take the subway home
Tearing under and over and upwards and around
The crowded streets of Brooklyn, and then through Manhattan
Towards the Upper Bronx,
And he would slip his glasses on, squint to read the fine print
Running pinky finger over flimsy pages of text, already dusty
Already camouflage.
Pages 110 – 111

I wasn’t always so scared. But I was no hero either. You hear about those
Well this kid, he was the opposite of me. Unfortunately, I was old
men who can’t wait to get to war, to serve their country. Well that wasn’t
enough to be drafted, and I was smart enough to not want to go. Of course I
me. I had a friend at home; he was one of those guys that was good at
love my country; I just was not ready to die for it. I wasn’t always so scared
everything. He was on the football team and he was a great student; he
until veterans started coming home, telling me stories.
had it all going for him. When the war started and he was too young to be
And yes, you hear all these stories about men not wanting to go to war.
drafted, he bought a fake draft card so that he could go. A year later, he
About being embarrassed to say no, so they go anyway. But really, the story
died. The soldiers in his unit said that he was the best they served with,
is, they don’t want to go. I assure you, my story is different.
the bravest, the strongest, and all that clichéd soldierly stuff.
My next-door neighbor, he was taken to Song Tra Bong to encounter
I Wasn’t Always
So Scared
Pages 112 – 113

some armed locals. They didn’t know what was coming as they walked by
the village, unassuming and all; the locals just start firing and just like that,
they’re all dead. I kept on hearing more and more stories like this—not
many men survived.
I wasn’t always so scared. But too many times I would watch as two
men in clean cut navy suits and white gloves approached a frayed porch.
The paint chipping, the furniture sun-bleached and stained. They had hats
respectably perched on top of their freshly gelled hair. Their collars were
folded to perfection, gently enveloping silk ties. The hot sun reflected off
their spotless shoes, shined with precision. The leather was greased; there
was no remnant left from the boot-polish and brush strokes. I watched as they
knocked on the door as if in slow motion. Their hands would slowly approach
the thickly painted red door. Closer and closer their hands would near the
door as I watched, anticipating the sharp noise to come. And suddenly, the
expected bang bang started me flinching. The mother opened the door with
a carefree, welcoming expression, “Come in.” But then she understood. Her
expression faded as they handed her a letter. She reluctantly took the letter;
she squeezed a corner of the white square of paper as she used the wall for
comfort. Slowly she slid down the wall, her knees uncontrollably bending
until she reached the floor. She held her hands over her eyes, then her forehead.
She shook her head, her spine quickly jerking up and down as she heaved
for air. Tears rolled down her soft, wrinkled cheeks. And the soldiers stood
there not knowing what to do. And as you observed the situation further,
you saw people all around, staring at her, staring at the soldiers, staring at
the soldiers’ shiny shoes, because that was really all they could see.
It didn’t feel like that would be my mother. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t
feel like I was going to be shipped out, trained, given a gun, a thousand
things to carry. So I went on with my life as if my future weren’t inevitable.
As if my future weren’t a spiraling dark hole that would suck me in some
way or another. I just thought, “Hey, that won’t happen to me.”
But a week before I shipped out, I started getting really nervous. I was
ashamed to tell my family. I didn’t want them to have to deal with a scared
son. All men are scared, even the brave ones; that’s a fact in the Army. But
I did the most cowardly thing a coward could do. A week before I was
shipped out, I couldn’t think straight. I was hysterical. I could swear I saw
things as I turned my head: people being murdered, my Aunt Christy jumping
out a window, Uncle Sander pointing a rifle to my head. I began contemplating
death. Never a religious man, I thought about the concept of no longer
existing: the idea of sounds, smells, and feelings suddenly disappearing, as
my sights began to narrow. The more I thought about this, the less I felt as
if I existed. I felt as though my head were constantly racing, my eyes were
beginning to blur, my senses were exploding inside me, but no one else
could notice. I felt alone; I couldn’t control anything around me. I wanted to
hide all the time, never go outside, in case something would happen. I didn’t
know what started it either. Was it the pressure to be brave for my siblings,
or the idea that I could die in the near future? But every soldier had to deal
with that.
I had to go to the Army, I did not want to go to jail. So I did the one
thing I could think of. I met up with some old friends and bought enough
tranquilizers and dope fit for a horse. I was relaxed at a time when I should
have been pulsing nervously and nervous when I should have been enjoying
the peace and quiet.
When I finally got to Vietnam, I couldn’t feel a thing. The racing, the
hallucinations, they were all gone. I kept thinking I was on vacation, enjoying
the smells. The idea of “brotherhood” and bonding with one’s fellow soldiers
did not even occur to me. While the other men were joking around and
dealing with their fear, I was too drugged up to comprehend or even joke
back. Heck, I was too drugged up to realize they were making fun of me
most of the time. “Mellow, man,” is all I would say. “We got ourselves a
nice mellow war today.”
And when I wasn’t drugged up, I was scared. More scared than the rest
of the men, and they could tell. Back at home; my folks couldn’t smell fear
like the men in Alpha Company. They all knew what I was going through,
felt the same fear, but dealt with it differently. A lot of them used confident
talk and humor, others used pictures of their girls. I used dope.
They say that when I died, I looked like a rock. I don’t know if I knew
what was coming, or if I just felt like it, but that day I downed more pills
than ever before. I was so relaxed. The men were crowded around a hole
that Smith climbed through. I didn’t even feel it. I was just on my feet one
second and on the ground the next. I was lying down, thinking, “Well, this
is nice.” Then I started to hear yelling and shouting, things that ordinarily
Pages 114 – 115
Previous page: Rebecca Mack, photograph

would have made me scared. I didn’t even get to look down and see my
wound, feel the blood trickling down my thighs. It wasn’t like in the movies
when a soldier died. He would hover his hand over his wound, smearing the
crimson liquid upon his palm. Then he would bring his palm close to
his face and stare at it. His face would have a look of anger, sadness,
disappointment, and peace. He would be in so much pain that he could not
say a word as the blurry faces above him slowly disappeared. With me,
there was no blood on my palms, no look of disappointment or anger, no
faces slowly seeing images of my peers in panic, slowly drifting away, I saw
a peaceful sky.
I saw sky, the simple blue sky, cloudless and dull. On the edge of my
vision were trees, but mostly I just saw the color blue, then spots, and then
nothing.
It’s funny because you live your whole life until this one defining moment
that doesn’t define anything. You self-reflect, you act well so that you can
look back and be proud of yourself and what you have accomplished. But I
was too drugged up to think of what you are supposed to think of in your
last minute. You just think you are taking a nap.
Sounds, sights, smells disappeared. My sight began to blur and I
suddenly felt like I no longer existed. I wasn’t scared. And I didn’t have
time to think of my mother receiving a letter from two clean-cut men in
navy suits, holding her hands over her mouth, sliding down the wall,
clutching a white letter. All this time I had been so scared of this one
inevitable moment, and in this moment I was no longer scared.
Elana Meyers
I Am the Dusk
I am the dusk.
Thrown together by multicolored clouds in between the two distinct.
I do not, I cannot, exist alone; I am reliant and nondescript.
And time and again, that lowering sun threatens to blot out what’s left of me.
I am the dusk.
You are my dusk.
Overlooked and forgotten by the rest because of your evanescence,
You give me your remaining light and tempt me with your darkness.
Are you more sun or moon, more dark or light?
You are my dusk.
We are the dusk.
Turning all the rest into mere silhouettes below us.
And when night blankets the sky and I can no longer see, is he still there?
It’s the dreams of him remaining that get me through ‘til dawn.
We were the dusk.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Sharona Nahshon, photograph
Jesse Kramer, photograph
Pages 116 – 117

I Am A Work In Progress
I am a work in progress,
My fist too tightly closed;
I grab on to only what I’m comfortable with
And never learn how to let go.
I am a work in progress,
My eyes too focused to see;
I am fast to judge and blind peripherally
To become what I could potentially be.
I am a work in progress,
Watch out for loose wires that hang out;
My brain and heart work in unpredictable spurts
And I never really know what they’re all about.
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
The Mirror
Forces the internal reflection:
Portal for materialism
Portal for competition
Gateway to self-loathing
Pressure to conform
Pressure to be the unique individual.
Pauses the hectic routine
Aggrandizes the desire to transgress
Meddles with the rational
Illuminates skepticism
Reveals lack of control
Reveals immense power.
Stands motionless yet available:
Awaits the passerby
Awaits the mind’s complexities
Lurks behind each subtle corner
Wants to expose and understand
Wants to invoke the unbearable and impossible.
Opposes conformist and individual
Unites cynic and optimist
Bonds physical and emotional
Elicits true man
Tests morality
Tests sanity.
Maya Miller
Rebecca Mack, watercolor
Allison Bast, photograph
Next page: Eleventh Grade, clear packing tape sculpture; Rebecca Mack, photograph
Pages 118 – 119

Who are we?
e-pit’-o-me is our opportunity to
discover ourselves,
embrace ourselves,
take pride in ourselves.