she died this

morning, her

bony little hands clutching

her pigeon chest, a look

almost of relief on her tiny

face.

sitting upright

on the hard chair

he feels a cold black

thrill, like the Nazi he is.

what will he do

now?

he's not used to being

alone.

he goes upstairs where the Body

lies,

his mouth twisting into a

maelstrom

of rage

as he mutters a curse on those

merciful spirits who have

taken her from him.

he'd kill her again if he could; if

only it were

possible

to kill her again and again, to see

that look of

helplessness

in her eyes he had seen so often

when he had held her in his

arms like something

stillborn

and hurt her so much.

he breaks down and clutches her,

cold as a snowflake,

stiff as a tree root, as

frail as a sparrow's

egg.

Then suddenly he lets her gentle

body fall from his

hands, “The children,” he mutters through a

smile, “Yes, the

children.”