The Canvas War
I remember that day.
I remember that day.
I remember the painted sun – melting, dripping into the canvas sky. The canvas fell onto the easel ground, steadying itself for what was to come. Steadying itself for its master, the artist, to paint the rest of the portrait. I remember how still everything looked, and I remembered how the stillness was swept away with the brush of death – a single few strokes, and the painted sky was replaced with careless spills and leaking fumes.
That wasn’t even the worst part.
The more I think about it, the more I can remember – yet scarcely – the way canvas was ripped away from the easel altogether, leaving the world broken and without sky. Leaving the world nothing but a taunting and blank page to stare at. No one tried to write anything in, because the easel would just spit out the ink and would rip itself of yet another page, chew on it, and spit it out. And the next page was pitching black. Always pitch black.
I remember watching trains against blank sky – suffering, frying themselves to the ground under the intense heat of the sun that still wasn’t there. I remember hearing the moans – God, they were like music, I could predict each note, each rising and falling point. I could point out the arpeggios of the families that were kept inside the box cars, and I could bob my head in satisfaction to the sound.
I remember the first color that was added to the sky after many years without it. I could breathe in that color, I could close my eyes and analyze it in my mind. I could wrap my fingers around it and smile proudly. I remember the intense gray – the billowing smoke that came out of the chimneys, and swept over Germany, the dull and lifeless color becoming the brightest and liveliest thing the Fatherland had ever saw.
I remember the artist, not as much as I remembered everything else, but I remembered him. I remembered his dark brown eyes – his deep voice, swallowing the minds and spitting them back out with new information. I remembered the way the crowd would swoon under his gaze and vocals – salute to him, watch him use music and paint to brainwash his allies and then kill them with the fumes. I remember how he would paint new ideas before his crowd, and then ruin them before their very eyes. I remember the way they fell for it. I remember the way I fell for it. As I watched him paint the sky with grays and reds – I fell for it all.
I remember the white easel, not as much as I remember the Fuehrer, but I remember the white easel drenched in red. I remember limping over it, letting it slip through my fingers, feeling what would make Germany gallery of the world. I fell to my knees and felt it’s cold, harsh touch, and looked up. The artist had run out of canvas, and started to use the easel to paint the bodies on. So many bodies. So many colors in the sky.
But what I remember most, was the blackening sky. Oh God, it was the last beautiful things my eyes had seen. My perfect, blue eyes, what they had seen. I remember the ashes, the grayness, as they enveloped me into their arms. I remember his eyes. And the blank sky – and how it slowly evaporated into itself. The smell of bodies in the ovens that made the air murky, the moaning. The artist’s voice. I remember that the sky was loud and black that day, and I remember that for the first time, and the last time, I contributed myself into this artwork with a “Heil Hitler”, I then slipped my eyes closed and let the paint coat me over. I remember.
I remember.
I remember the painted sun – melting, dripping into the canvas sky. The canvas fell onto the easel ground, steadying itself for what was to come. Steadying itself for its master, the artist, to paint the rest of the portrait. I remember how still everything looked, and I remembered how the stillness was swept away with the brush of death – a single few strokes, and the painted sky was replaced with careless spills and leaking fumes.
That wasn’t even the worst part.
The more I think about it, the more I can remember – yet scarcely – the way canvas was ripped away from the easel altogether, leaving the world broken and without sky. Leaving the world nothing but a taunting and blank page to stare at. No one tried to write anything in, because the easel would just spit out the ink and would rip itself of yet another page, chew on it, and spit it out. And the next page was pitching black. Always pitch black.
I remember watching trains against blank sky – suffering, frying themselves to the ground under the intense heat of the sun that still wasn’t there. I remember hearing the moans – God, they were like music, I could predict each note, each rising and falling point. I could point out the arpeggios of the families that were kept inside the box cars, and I could bob my head in satisfaction to the sound.
I remember the first color that was added to the sky after many years without it. I could breathe in that color, I could close my eyes and analyze it in my mind. I could wrap my fingers around it and smile proudly. I remember the intense gray – the billowing smoke that came out of the chimneys, and swept over Germany, the dull and lifeless color becoming the brightest and liveliest thing the Fatherland had ever saw.
I remember the artist, not as much as I remembered everything else, but I remembered him. I remembered his dark brown eyes – his deep voice, swallowing the minds and spitting them back out with new information. I remembered the way the crowd would swoon under his gaze and vocals – salute to him, watch him use music and paint to brainwash his allies and then kill them with the fumes. I remember how he would paint new ideas before his crowd, and then ruin them before their very eyes. I remember the way they fell for it. I remember the way I fell for it. As I watched him paint the sky with grays and reds – I fell for it all.
I remember the white easel, not as much as I remember the Fuehrer, but I remember the white easel drenched in red. I remember limping over it, letting it slip through my fingers, feeling what would make Germany gallery of the world. I fell to my knees and felt it’s cold, harsh touch, and looked up. The artist had run out of canvas, and started to use the easel to paint the bodies on. So many bodies. So many colors in the sky.
But what I remember most, was the blackening sky. Oh God, it was the last beautiful things my eyes had seen. My perfect, blue eyes, what they had seen. I remember the ashes, the grayness, as they enveloped me into their arms. I remember his eyes. And the blank sky – and how it slowly evaporated into itself. The smell of bodies in the ovens that made the air murky, the moaning. The artist’s voice. I remember that the sky was loud and black that day, and I remember that for the first time, and the last time, I contributed myself into this artwork with a “Heil Hitler”, I then slipped my eyes closed and let the paint coat me over. I remember.
I remember.