The Taster

by V.S. Alexander

My father had said words were as precious as gold these days and should be meted out with equal care.

The view gave its owner the psychological superiority of one who might believe he was a god. To look upon the magnificent rocky peaks was to feel on top of the world while those below were mere specks, dirt beneath his feet.

But my wishes might as well have been smoke, as transitory and fleeting as the wind that flowed around us.

We were participating in our own destruction. How could everyone in Germany look the other way? I wondered if those living in the cities or on farms outside the camps could smell the odor of burned flesh. Did they look to the skies as gray flecks of ash rained down upon them? How could they not know what was going on; and, if they did, why didn’t they care? Where were the people who needed to rise up in horror and indignation at what our government was doing?

The business of living returned slowly like a picture formed by a jigsaw puzzle, constructed day by day, hour by hour, piece by piece.