It has been many years since she met the man who of spoke horrors.  Pathos was in his past while his name goes unremembered like the numbers on his skin, a shame I cannot recall it.  He was a guest in our junior high school English class, recounting the hell of the Holocaust that bore and burnt him.

He mentioned how he had a younger brother, and how he was with him and his mother.  He was confronted with two lines. He gave his brother to his mother, thinking that he would be safer with her.  When they separated, his brother and mother were gassed.

Silence is quiet when it falls on you, like that day.

“I have no regrets.”

Food fell from the sky and crushed many refugees, meaning to feed them.  For those who were not crushed, they ate too fast and died.

That’s not even the whole story.  Not even close.

There is no solace in burning flesh.  Their sodden souls do lie. How can one not smell the stagnant stench of sulfur mixed with human entrails on fire?  A holocaust of humans murdered in ovens beneath an open and indifferent sky, guarded by brainwashed barbarians. Where were the humans?  Who were the heroes? Were all their noses clogged when death passed gas?

Big Brother is watching.

My Mother is weeping.

My Grandfather is crying in his grave.

My Sister is sleeping

For food on her plate

And no one is hearing the screams

That are screaming

In the ghetto where

Monsters are killing

And people are walking

Dead on their feet.

Where is my father?

My holy ghost?