The Bridge Of Stolen Shoes
Grey Johnson
Our nation's Holocaust Memorial Museum took away his freedom as soon as he entered,
by guiding him to an elevator and lifting him to the top floor.
To leave, he had to descend
along a prescribed path to the first floor exit, and on the way, there were very few exhibits that the structure of the Museum allowed him to completely bypass.
Mengele videos were to the left, next to the cattle car, with the viewing screen at the bottom of a small concrete pit.
During his experience there, in one of the galleries on the second floor,
he was first struck by the fact that each and every shoe was black, and the next thing that hit him was the size of the pile they made.
The area of the floor that they covered, and the depth of the mound, made it necessary for visitors to cross a small bridge in order to get from one side of the exhibit room to the other.
Finally, there was an almost shameful, and simultaneously angry smell of old dirt, dust, rotting leather, and anxious sweat that made him feel unexpectedly guilty.
It took all the fortitude he had that day to follow his friends across.
As he stepped on, he felt as though he were climbing the pile, it rose so closely to the boards beneath his feet.
He made it across the bridge of stolen shoes, but only because he wanted to escape, and that was his only way out.
Grey Johnson is from a small town in the Southeastern part of the United States. She appreciates her quiet life. You can read other things she has written here: http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/GreyJohnson http://www.fictionaut.com/users/grey-johnson http://issuu.com/greyjohnson/docs/your_pajamas_for_nameless