The Intruders by Gerald Chadburn Walnut trees shed their yellow leaves Upon a white road, which unravels Like wet cellophane under the blur Of a line of beaming streetlights, charred and old. Yellow fog creeps on languid waves, harbors on the grass, Stills its oars, And cover the yellow leaves with a misty bow As if the act had been rehearsed before. Half-seen houses stand molded by the mist, Showing glassless panes and skeleton frams Which seems to warp under the ghost ship called "fog" And contain voices that mumble of the past. The voices still when the intruders wake To watch the listless fog moisten the pane. Pray, Jew, Pray An ugly man is war Crudely made Old as time Forgotten by those who are dead Made him An ugly man is war Crippled vain Wrinkled face Stranger to those who are dead Made him The Garden "Pig!" The Jewish boy fell almost to his knees, regained his balance, and lifted his arms, grotesquely clothed in rags, to ward off another blow. The Nazi officer struck the slender boy with his clenched fist and kicked until he was grunting for breath. "Dirty pig!" The youth teetered on the edge of one of the great vats used for the storage of human manure from the compounds. His lithe body swayed. His arms reached out, found only air, and there was a splat as the feted mire closed over his body. The hands groped out from the pit and clawed at the cement. "You belong in there!" The shiny boot came down, smashing with a crunching eagerness the face straining up. Again and again came the boot, crashing down to take the will, the life. We dragged the drowned boy out after the officer had gone. His groaning father broke away from the arms that had held him back, and 23