Just another number
A beautiful morning at the river Moravice close to Vitkov.
But my mood changed within one second just by throwing a glance at a number. Let me explain:
Yesterday night sitting around a fire the old chef, handicapped and drunk, obviously wasn't happy when he realized I
was from Germany,
obviously his memories are not the best to put it mildly. Asking for a coffee this morning I noticed a tattooed number
on his forearm,
Mz 6039, a KZ number. A strange feeling took hold of me which I couldn't brush off just like that, the resolution was
offered by the old chef himself, though.
He brought the coffee and asked to me to take a seat. Looking at him, his defunct eye and leg, I could not help realizing
that
Odra carries the memories along, one thousand stories and fates untold, and here, unexpectedly, I am faced with one of
them, only one, and it took only one second to be told.
Maybe just another number for those nazi prats out there, but a great burden for the one who once was numbered, abused
and nearly destroyed.
And a legacy that I, being German, can't shake off.
