My Zaidy

My Zaidy lived with us in my parent’s home

He used to laugh, he put me on his knee

And he spoke about his life in Poland

He spoke, but with a bitter memory

And he spoke about the soldiers who would beat him

They laughed at him, they tore his long black coat

And he spoke about a synagogue that they burnt down

And the crying that was heard beneath the smoke

But Zaidy made us laugh

Zaidy made us sing