The high flames of authority dance across the German skies. We are burning today. My brothers come from their homes with words they once treasured to be destroyed at the hands of my government. My words are no longer welcome in my Fatherland. Now I return because I must see it for myself. What is it about madness that draws the creative soul so? Why am I drawn to this desecration of everything I believe in? I bring a text so that I blend with the others from the village come to burn. There is a pain in my soul as I watch it all. Hundreds of words bound together by a common distaste for what is now treasured here. But I must not weep for fallen comrades, for they are close by. How like the gothic villains of old they are, dressed in black, their faces emotionless and stern, illuminated by the flickering light of fire. They watch without pity as art, genius, love is burned before them. No mercy in their eyes as the eyes of those long gone weep as I cannot for the loss.
There is a secret desire in my heart as I toss the book in with the others. The pages curl into smoke and yet I do not see, I wait only for opportunity. I see the man, blond hair, blue eyes, the same stern visage that murders these tomes. May I see the list, I ask him, so that I may do service to the Fatherland and see them all destroyed. With a click of shining black heels it is passed to me and I hungrily, eagerly read, waiting to see, waiting for the pain and jubilation that I will feel when I see it. But my stomach turns, it is not there. Is there another, I beg, where are the others, there must be more. As if this long, winding letter is not enough destruction for me, I need more. My selfish ego needs more. No, he says, the words haunt me even still, this is all. I do not see the bonfire, the children dancing and singing praise, the soldiers laughing, the villagers’ glassy gaze. I stagger through the streets of that Germany I no longer know.
How can this be, how can it be possible. I have written so many books, my life has been filled with their writing, my pathetic quest for perfection in the written word. How can it be that my life is not there, on that list with the other heroes of Germany. Why is my name not among the damned righteous, among those purveyors of truth. Why are my words not murdered with the thousands. Their omittance has branded me a liar. Everything I have published is now lie. I beg them to burn me, I plead with them to shoot me down and announce me to be a danger to Germany. But I am left alone with the sheep as they salute mindlessly. I do not belong here with the saved. The truth is burning and I, to my dismay, am cold.