My father’s “Arbeitskarte”
or Work Card
is the only surviving document
that I have
from his five years
in forced labour in Germany—
after he was taken prisoner
at bayonet-point
from his village in Poland
by the Wehrmacht.

His photo resembles
a mug shot.
Lined up against a wall;
an i.d. number pinned to his lapel;
fingerprinted;
his signature in indelible pencil.

His jacket is crumpled.
His surname is misspelt
as “Skcznecki”.

Although a prisoner
he was “permitted” to work
for the Third Reich
and money would be sent each month
to his family in Poland.
According to the handwritten amounts
and stamps on the reverse side
of the Work Card
in five years it was sent seven times;

but it’s the photograph
that intrigues me the most, even now,
sixteen years after his death:
the way his eyes stare
into the camera and beyond it.
Maybe he remembers soldiers
spilling from trucks to round up
farmers, barking orders,
prodding them
with bayonet-tipped rifles,
promising them work, hope,
lying about their futures in Germany—

or maybe, in that detached look,
he’s realised
that he will never return
to the country where he was born.