‘The German’

The dirt-road dust didn’t bother me; I’d long since given up polishing my shoes, and my lungs had grown accustomed. It was a moonless night, almost chilly if such a temperature were possible in northeastern Brazil. Once we’d arrived on the street the Spirit had indicated we began knocking doors, hoping to find the one the Lord had in mind. Rejection greeted us at every house, but some silent whisper said we’d shortly meet with success.

“I don’t believe you’re here!”

That’s the one.

“Please, please come in. Please, I must talk with you. I’m so terribly depressed.”

Her home was small but well kept. Darling angel statuettes sat upon her counter top, adorable figures with innocent eyes. Her shelf was so book-laden I thought it might collapse; a German textbook capped one of many sporadic piles. This was no ordinary woman.

“Mam, are you all right? Is there anything we can do to help?”

“I’m sorry for crying in front of you like this, Elders. I was just watching a Hitler documentary on TV. What a terrible, terrible man! I feel sick every time I think about him. Please, have a seat.”

Leave a Comment

characters remaining

(Your email will never be published)