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Salome

Patrick T. Reardon

She danced naked for the Nazi middle-managers
so well that Himmler offered her any-thing she
wanted. “Give me the head of Jesus the Baptized.”

The Jew was brought in from Gethsemane and sent
up in smoke like so much trash, like a camp fire of
the blonde-haired youth, like the refuse of the race
of masters. Many were caught; some were hanged.
But that didn’t bring back the Jew and the six
million others, or the Gypsies, or the POWs, or the
homosexuals, or the partisans, or whoever else got
in the way. There is no vengeance, only sorrow. The
middle-managers were efficient, like the antsy Romans
who broke the legs of the two thieves, like the mother
who got her work done while David crawled his baby
crawl from the front room to the kitchen and became
one of her stories for the rest of his bullet-shortened life.

Did she keep the head in a hat box?

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