Copyright Dee Lovering
I climbed that pillar
to meet God, hungering
and thirsting after
ragged flesh covered
my naked soul.
“What a self-righteous prig. Holier than thou? Holier than Moses, that one. He finally got fed up with us sinners and climbed up to get away. We’d yell, ‘Met God yet?’”
I met God and
He betrayed me.
I wanted to
stay but He
wouldn’t let me.
“Go back,” He said.
“I was there when he climbed down. I was going to jeer but then I saw the tears. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. I didn’t know what to say.”
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I wanted to punch him, to smash that smarmy, false-penitent expression off his face. I spit at him through the bars. “What gives you the right to be sorry?”
“You don’t want me to be sorry? To regret what I did?”
“So that what? I can forgive you and you can die in peace? My wife didn’t die in peace or her parents or my parents or any of the thousands of people under your charge.” If it wasn’t for the bars protecting him, I would have choked him. “You herded us like animals! You fed us slops and garbage and sent droves off to the gas chambers, for years! And now, now you’re sorry?”
“Yes,” he said, head bowed.
I stormed off and spent a sleepless night wrestling with thoughts and images that would not die. I returned to his cell at daybreak and sat watching him until he awoke.
“I cannot forgive you,” I said. “Not today, at least. But tell me, why did you do it?”
“I was young and needed a job,” he began. “I started at a desk, but I was diligent and got promoted. After that . . .”
We talked all day. There were millions of bricks in that edifice of hate between us but with those two words, “I’m sorry”, a few bricks had fallen. As the day went on, they continued to fall.
15 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, concentration camp, death, fiction, flash fiction, forgiveness, prison, sorry | posted in Dusk