How Beautiful I Was

How Beautiful I Was
© Surazeus
2025 01 24

When the old woman in faded green dress 
asks Peter what he is doing, he sneers, 
"I am hanging out till the end of time." 
He gasps surprised when she gives a beer 
and slyly grins, "It will help to be drunk 
when the devils tear everything apart." 

Sitting together on splintered park bench, 
Peter and the old woman with gray hair 
say nothing at all while he drinks the beer. 
She laughs, "I met my husband on this bench 
just after I escaped from Buchenwald 
and sailed to England in small fishing boat." 

Staring sideways at her old wrinkled face, 
Peter chuckles and pulls down tattered sleeve 
to hide swastika tattoo on his arm. 
"My mother works at the national bank 
and I just dress like this to make her mad." 
She reaches up and tugs his spiked mohawk. 

"You are no real Nazi, you cute little putz," 
she snickers and twaddles ring in his nose, 
then leans head on his shoulder with a sigh. 
"When I was fourteen at my house in Munich, 
six Nazis broke in and beat up my father 
because he taught philosophy at Ludwig." 

Caressing his cheek as he stares surprised, 
the old woman with long scar on her face 
hugs him tightly then sighs, "They made me cook 
schnitzels and spaetzle, then each took their turn 
pretending I was his cute faithful wife, 
dressed in white lace dress with ribbons and bows." 

Clutching his left hand with bright cheerful smile, 
she makes him caress the scar on her face. 
"And on the seventh day they cut my face, 
and left me for dead, all bloodied and bruised, 
on steps of my synagogue they burned down. 
You should have seen how beautiful I was." 

Wrenching himself with horror from her grasp, 
Peter runs home and upstairs to his room 
where he shaves the mohawk with razor blade, 
scrubs the fake tattoo clean off of his soul, 
and washes in the shower for two hours, 
then dresses in his sunday suit with tie. 

Staring in shock when he walks in her office, 
Sharon mutely nods her head when her son 
applies to work as accountant or clerk, 
then cries with wonder to see him apply 
serious attention to finance spreadsheets 
that calculate fall of the British Empire.