Gifts

Auschwitz, Buchenwald Treblinka, and Sobibor … their names come easily to mind even now in twenty twenty-five.

Majdanek, Kulmhof and Belzec take more time.

Now, there is Tecoluca, Matsapha, and somewhere-Rwanda, and prisons yet unnamed and God-knows-where chosen by men in suits of black and blue, white shirts instead of brown, and Windsor-knotted, Trump-red ties.

Those same men looking down into the streets today, pissants shouting and waving above their heads vulgar declarations—now clichés— "Fuck Trump!" "No King! No Tyranny!" and "Save Our Democracy!" doubtlessly demanding once again return of freedoms filched and fenced for pennies on the dollar.

Annoyed by yet another of these daily dins, a reichman gazing upon this madding crowd declares the obvious … perhaps, to reassure himself, or perhaps, others in the room:

"Bald werden solche Leute stumm gemacht. They must ... they will ... be silenced ... soon."

But, his words fall unremarked like dust in listless air the open window breathes into this room of preening men busily scrubbing their hands of humanity, scraping barnacles of decency from their shells, brushing blood from their fangs at well-maintained and glistening white, men's room sinks.