A Thief's Kiss

You don’t get to see someone twice in the ghetto.

Life in the ghetto was something rare and tragic. Just like the rats and the smuggled food; it was edible and rare to get along with. Life wasn’t life as misery wasn’t misery. Inside the ghetto the laws of humanity’s struggle changed, shifted and transmuted. Adapt or die. The ghetto was its own two lungs and cardiovascular system, eating off its own fingers if it meant another day of hopelessness. You don’t think about the meaning of life, you don’t hope for a brighter day, you don’t think of before; if you do you’ll realize how dead you are.

No. You don’t get to see someone twice in the ghetto.

Because nobody was the same every day.

They all walked as if they had hairline fractures on their ribs and a personal grim reaper following their every step whispering them to go on, go on, but watch out. I bite. They would step around the cold bodies and the crying children. They couldn’t help others if they couldn’t help themselves. They didn’t swallow words like Luca because they had nothing to say. Nothing was okay and chances were that nothing was going to be alright. They had stopped lying to themselves ever since the laws of survival changed, shifted and transmuted.

There stood Luca. There stood Janek.

Water was scarce and food was myth. With nothing to clean them, Janek’s chin was still rusty and dark and a reminder of what lurked around the corners of that damned place they inhabited. Luca’s knuckles were rusty and dark and a reminder of what humanity was capable of. Together, they would remind each other of what it took to keep their two lungs expanding and contracting.

Yet, even against all odds they were both alive. They lacked the understanding of their situation and the statistics regarding their survival. For them waking up covered in lice was another way of being alive and they adapted. Their hairline fractures healed faster, their personal grim reaper limped farther back and their words were swallowed more often. They didn’t only breathe, they lived.

“Hey,” that was Luca. Luca swallowed words. Luca wanted to apologize and give back what he took. He wanted to say he took the tooth to his caravan because he wanted to remember what he did. But Luca swallowed words. “Want to get food?”

You punched me. “What?” You punched me. “I what?” Oh. Right. Ever since his cheek had been shot off and his tongue lacerated, Janek couldn’t swallow words because he couldn’t form words anymore. He waved a fist and punched Luca’s arm, who shoved him back, who shoved him back. Their two lungs were already palpitating with effort; they were too hungry and tired and most likely dead to scuffle over a kiss.

You’re an idiot. “You can’t talk, can you?” You punched me. “Did they shoot you?” That was the key-word those days. They. Them. Those. Animosity was their slogan and everyone followed the norm. Every single person knew who ‘they’ were. Janek scowled and Luca pointed. “Did they?”

Nod.

“They shot my mama too.”

Nod.

“And papa.”

Nod.

“And nana.”

Nod.

“We’re filthy jews so we all got shot, what about you? Why did they shoot you?”

Janek shrugged. He wanted to say he didn’t really know, that maybe they just liked clean people and they didn’t like jews because they thought them dirty. He remembered hearing one of them say he was less than dirt. He didn’t get them. He didn’t get what was so funny when he got shot, either. But he still tried to laugh along.

He pointed at his armband and Luca nodded pensively. “My dog Felix was lucky. He died of rabies. He was the lucky one.” Janek felt queasy. He didn’t think dying of rabies was lucky. “I wish my mama had died of rabies.” Luca is kicking dust and Janek is wringing his fingers. “Felix didn’t cry that much.”

Let’s go find food. “You got chewed? Look, we need to find a way of talking because you’re worse than them and their accent.”

We. That’s all he heard. We.

I said, let’s go find food. “Yeah we need to chew, now come on.”

They had a heart between two lungs.