in rememberance | kristallnacht

The 17-year-old Polish Jew, bitter and breaking after his parent’s exile, tasting the acid bite of revenge, feeling the cold barrel of his gun sinking itself into the creases on his skin, drowning in relief and despair when the German diplomat went down, not knowing what he started but soon to be the one to blame.

Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, seizing hold of this possibility, twisting and lacing his words carefully, riling supporters into a frenzy that resulted in a massacre.

A German soldier, torch in hand, confused and questioning but not daring to speak, carrying out his orders because he should, because it was right, but then why all the doubts? 

A German officer, venom coursing through his bloodstream, razing homes and hospitals, even sacred cemeteries in his mania.

A single Jew out of nearly one hundred killed, seeing their life being shattered on the ground, spilled into the street, swept into the wind. Wondering if this was finally the beginning of war, wondering why God let this happen, wondering when the cold shot of death would bring sweet relief from this anguish.

A single man out of nearly thirty-thousand, packed into cattle cars like animals by men who were behaving like animals, pleading for mercy and receiving a beating, fearfully waiting to know where they were going, silently knowing they would never return.

A German police officer, taking the order to stand by while riots raged, building smouldered, glass and bones splintered. Watching it all unfold, confused into thinking that this is what honour was, this was necessary, even safer, for the Aryan blood-line.

And Germany herself, creaking under all the weight of this broken glass, feeling silver shards dig themselves into her layer of skin, fragments losing themselves in her history, and knowing. Knowing it was just a matter of time for war to erupt like glowing lava across her lands.