12th March 1932 | MannheimHave you every heard the voice of people? The stories of people's feet? The voices of feet?
The closeness of a spanish heel to an Oxford Brogue tells a story of an evening ball. A story of wealth. A story of love.
Add to this story the voices of flaky, cracked feet conversing with black hobnail boots and you have a crime. A suspicion. Tears.
Our story is suddenly interrupted by polished wingtips. The voice is loud and rushed. It tells of a concluded meeting. Of business. A deal.
The voices whisper from all parts of the street. Every shoe, every foot has a voice. No foot tries to drown out anthers voice. No foot tries to kill another foot. The pavement accepts all the stories. Regardless of religion it hears. Regardless of heritage it hears.
I love these voices. They tell what is not spoken. What I cannot see. What there is to tell of the world.
10th May 193 | Berlin | Book BurningThe smoke hangs low in the air. The smell of burning flesh eats at the nose. Tonight the plot is different. Hobnails dominate the story tonight. They tell of power. Of authority. Yet a shuffle of fear exists. A tremor in the voice. The story becomes intense, more authors interupt. The darkness chokes the voices. Ash is caught in the throat. The words become forced, confused and disjointed.
Here and there a rustle of paper. A word. A page. An intertextual reference that has no bearing on the story being told. Yet, it tells a story of its own. A story of a wasted life, a burnt author.
The page tells of an act against the Un-German spirit. What is the Un-German spirit? Those born here. Those born in Paris. Are we not all Germans? The Poles, Turks, Greeks, Asians, Africians and the Jew?
Think about the word 'Jew' for a minute. It is a title proudly born, yet one that comes from many mouths as a curse. An insult. When a little boy wants to insult a little girl does he not call her 'girl'? It it an insult? No! It is a title borne proudly and openly. It is not something of which to be ashamed.
14th November 1940The train screams to a halt. Yet, the screams continue. The voices of mothers, calling for there children. The voices of children, calling for their mothers.
The voices are different here. They speak of cruelty. A shuffle of fear, which once existed, now controls. Hobnail, harsh voices surround those of the crocs. The crows cow in fear. There is no-one individual noise. It is the cry of a multitude. The cry to an unseen God. A cry of pain and sorrow.
A hand rises. It claps at my breasts. It explores, feeling for a heart. A heart that pines with the voices. A heart that helps. Yet, it finds only an unsteady throb. The hand falls limp. The heart , as if missing the love of a hand cries out. It continues to cry out, until the sickness of loss forces the cry to stop. It stops. These feet speak no-more. An individual voice among the multitude stops on earth and starts in heaven. A cry to a now seen God.
Epilogue - I know and as pointed out by the marker doesn't fit however it needed to add something to explain in relation to the question
Sara was born in Germany during the first World War. She never saw her father. She never spoke to her father. He died in the trenches.
She never saw her mother. She never spoke to her mother. She died of the sorrow at the loss of her love, as of the sound of silence.
Sara was blind and dumb. Yet, her ears heard what is missed by all. Common ground among all people. The lack of understanding of differences. She never discriminated. She couldn't. She judged on the voices of peoples feet.
The voice of those people...
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