My grandfather died at Auschwitz.

He fell from a guard tower.

His pure shepherd dog Max
whined and howled wildly,
so confused with the scent
of familiar blood
mingled with this Winter nights
crystalline snow.

His wet black snout
seeks some warmth,
some response,
but only sniffs
the souring stale stench
of edelweiss
in his Master's gaping red mouth.

Tonight Max hopes to dream
of being near the hearth
in his Black Forest home,
chasing the fat long-eared rabbits
through the golden fields,
and not here,
another good dog in Hell.