Bruno Schulz was born 1892 to Jewish parents in the city Drohobych.

Historically a part of the

Kingdom of Poland, at the time of his birth Drohobych was part of the Austrian-Hungarian kingdom of
Galicia and Lodomeria, but would become part of Poland after the first World War, and is now part of
Ukraine near Lviv. It was this town that Schulz lived most of his life. Schulz was a writer, fine artist,
and teacher and is considered one of the great figures of Polish-language literature of the 20th Century.
What survives of his work is two collections of short stories, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the
Hourglass and Cinnamon Shops, with the latter published in English as The Street of Crocodiles,
along with some illustrations and paintings. During World War II he was known to have been writing a
novel called The Messiah but no manuscript has ever been recovered. His town was first occupied by
the Soviet Union and then by Germany. It was during this German occupation that he, along with
thousands of other dispossessed Jews, was forced into a ghetto in his home town. Many if not most of
the occupants of the Drohobych ghetto would be murdered at the Balzac extermination camp. Schulz
was spared this fate because a Gestapo officer named Felix Landau admired Schulz’ artwork and
offered him safety in exchange for Schulz painting a mural in the officer’s home. In 1942, Schulz was
walking down a street in the Aryan Quarter of Drohobych with a loaf of bread. Another German officer
shot and killed Schulz as vengeance for Landau having killed a Jewish dentist under the officer’s
protection. Schulz’ mural was lost until 2001.

The following is an untitled poem I wrote in his memory:

the thirteenth month waits where the clocks break,

where sunless sky meets the shattered window teeth,
the cardboard houses blacken with soot,
cackling bird-song, missing books.
street lamps splutter yellowed days
which repeat in an endless maze.
cinnamon rots. cockroaches fill the road.
footsteps cling to a single loaf.

in a single moment, you saw the tint of morning,

the maps of stars that guided you,
the flocks of attic-ed birds --
their magnificent colours flying free into the sky.
in a single moment, you saw your city,
finally, again.

a moment later,
you were dead.