Freedom for Moses

         “Two lines! Men on left; women on right!”
         Like the sea, our new German ‘Moses’ parts us. However, he it is not fleeing from Egypt to freedom. Our Moses is having us flee from life for his personal freedom, if that‘s what it could ever be considered.
         Once we have fled, who’s next? Those with teal eyes instead of properly cyan? Blond hair instead of gold? Peach skin instead of cream? Once we have been removed… fled… will it really matter any more?
         Am I being too callous? I have the right - we all have that right. It’s the only one we have now, provided that our hatred remains silent. May it remain unspoken for the safety of us all.
         He begins to saunter down the path between us. I resist the urge to spit at his swelled chest. I believe this is his show of authority. I am not afraid of him. I do not respect, so why fear?
         He points to the frail and aging, obese and ugly, weak and ‘useless’. They form a new line. He looks more and more diseased with his smirk as he commands us. He starts with us, the women.
         He points at some, passes over others, a lucky few. It is sick how he derives ecstasy from this power - his power - over our lives.
         Someone behind him, hidden in the men, spits. My jaw tightens at the identity: my beloved husband. I married him in the Ghetto a few days prior. The one who told me not to fear, but not to speak, as we left one another for the cattle cars. He should have heard his own words. I wish he had…
         Moses turns; all flinch but my own. Moses can see the silent fire in his eyes and soul.
         “You!” If he had only stood still, he would have been ignored. Don’t speak, if you love me you wont speak! “Your spit is at my feet.”
         Nothing… yet.
         “Pick it up. On your knees and pick it up like the disgusting louse you are.”
         He drops to the dusted ground; Moses kicks earth into his face. He takes his own fluid back into his mouth, disgusting as it is, and returns to his defiant stance. Moses lingers staring into his eyes. He begins to turn; the mixture of dirt and saliva is shot into his ear.
         Unwittingly, I squeal. Moses’ eyes cut to me (I didn’t flinch either). He turns back to my lover. “Yours?” Don’t answer! Moses pulls my hair and throws me to his feet. My head hit’s the hard ground, and I feel my back crack. Again, I am thrown into half consciousness.
         “Yours? Pick her up!” He bends and holds me like a small child against his chest. My back is broken. He kisses my hair, and then my forehead. I can feel the dirt caked on my skin and blood dripping down my brow into my eyes. My skull is shattered. Gently he guides my head to his shoulder, carefully so he wont hurt me more.
         I’ll die knowing he loved me.
         “Carry her to the fire. She’s worthless now.” An incensed tear pelts my cheek. He begins walking past the rest of the people. I moan a little, attempting speech. That was stolen from me now too. Damned Moses. He lowers his head to mine in hope. I speak with actions and kiss his cheek. He begins shaking - sobbing in desperation; this is the first time I’ve seen him cry. He didn’t even show any hint of a tear when his parents were shot for speaking Czech instead of German.
         Let him be killed quickly. I’m already in enough pain for both of us. Save him...please...save him.
         Why do I ask this? It’s his fault! It’s his fault I’m broken. It’s his fault I’m going to die. God- Give him the same death as I am suffering. He deserves no better, now. It’s his fault I’m going to burn! It’s his fault…
         I begin crying as he lies me down onto the platform moving into the depths of Hell.
         “…I love you…” I can barely hear him through the screaming corpses.
         I can smell the rotting hopes of clemency. I can smell the reek of my own hopes. I hate it. I hate how he’s alive.
         I feel the heat of one million stars burning for Moses’ freedom alone. I feel myself burning. I’m flammable – I never knew that. Thank you, Moses, for that worthless information. Thank you, God, for my worthless life.
         I taste the lips of the one I loved. The mix of dirt and myself caked upon them. It’s all the same now; all inconsequential.
         I hear a crack. I hear a scream not mine. I hear the fall.

I miss being able to say ‘I love you.’