Interrupted Forgiveness

When will my actions be forgotten? 

Why is my judgement not enough? Every day I have conversations with people, and as they divulge more about their problems or boast about their successes, this nagging guilt waits for me once the silence begins. Despite a hatred of small talk, I demand it continues. No breaks, no time to think. 

I run roughly fifty miles a week. I stop when I can no longer move. I have befriended the local taxi driver because I am a frequent customer. And, because I need to befriend the taxi driver. He picks me up after my runs. I sit on the concrete, hoping my heart does not slow. Searching for familiar faces to fill up the void. Then he comes to save me.

I'm a barber. Picked it up when I moved here; well, people think I moved here. I improve how people look. They come to be dirty, and I clean them. At first, I couldn't stomach serving the Blacks. The Jews I could ignore. Give off the impression that I am one of those grumpy barbers that rarely look at the customer. Not the Blacks. I'd take my break as soon as one of them entered. Luckily, not a lot of them around here. 

Sometimes, I think about the strength of my scissors. If they were exceptionally strong, could they cut my hand off? Rid someone of bone. I wonder if some of the prisoners had scissors, could they have run us over? I bet some take pride in their survival, but they did not survive; they were saved. 

One time, at work, a Jewish man approached me. At first, he wasn't in for a haircut, just a question.

"I recognise you," he said. "Not sure where from but, what's your name?" 

I had seen this look before. Not usually as dull as this time in particular. He genuinely was not sure. Considering his suspicion, he had to be careful. It is a big accusation. 

I've been cutting hair here for twenty-six years. I basically own the place; once the old man finally dies, I will. The Jew, standing in front of me that day, reeked of alcohol. Odd to see a Jew fall into addiction. Rare. I had to see how drunk he was. I did want to kill him, but murder is very inconvenient to me. Drunken realities are so easily manipulated, but this man stood firm. Why should he come here? Why must he face me?

The Americans have something for this…Statute Of Limitations? It has been so long. I do feel guilty. I know I do. Has my hatred subsided? No, but what does that have to do with it. I must regret what people declare I should regret? I must be punished? It was war!

"Tobias." I said as I ushered him towards the door. 

"Tobias! Ah, see I don't know a Tobias. I feel like I know you though."

He tore away from me and sat on the barber chair. 

"You any good then Tobias?"

I can still taste his breath. The war must have injected him with alcohol. I see it all the time, supposed decorated soldiers crying in the street. Screaming, making a scene. Drinking to squash the memory. I do not pity them. See, I don't avoid the memories. I loathe my memories because they do not do anything for me. Yes, I know I fill in every second, but I am tired. I avoid repetition.

"Yes, I'm very good. This one will have to be quick though. I am closing."

"No problem at all. I'm sure you can stay open a bit longer for a veteran such as myself."

The introduction of fear. He probably thought I was afraid. As if his former occupation is a dagger that dropped out of his pocket. A lion yawning. I don't fear his kind. A drunk. Once you are that, you are nothing else. He wasn't much, to begin with.

I detest a hairy face. The lack of discipline. He had a long, almost grey beard. Not much hair on top. This man that day was no soldier. His past had expired. Why does mine live on? 

I felt his eyes on me from the moment I began cutting his hair. His hatred was nearly lustful. He didn't follow my hands. No, he tracked my eyes. Occasionally, I'd turn my back to him, and I could sense the waves forming. This coward building up courage he could never have! This fucking drunk coming to me to ruin my life! Oh, I tested the strength of my scissors that day.

"Let me ask you something, are you Jewish my friend?"

"No," I said.

"It's funny, you look very similar to a man I met in Mauthausen."

"Oh really? No, sorry. Couldn't have been me."

"Yes, couldn't have been you. As you are not Jewish."

"Indeed."

"You see, he wasn't a fellow prisoner. He was a …."

I turned his chair to the side. Threw my eyes at him as his person shrunk. 

"You stupid, cowardly Jew!"

I exposed his neck with my scissors and gently invited him to the floor. Watched the blood combine with the hairs on the floor. I swept him into the corner, and now, he exists amongst the collection. 

It was me against him. It was survival. My crimes? Survival. My punishment is my brain, and believe me, it penetrates deeper than any bullet I may be due. Justice doesn't stand before you; it drifts and camouflages through time. Who are you to say otherwise?

Cheers