Uncle slapped my hand. “Always salute our Fuhrer with your right hand, Hilde!”
My right elbow clutched the doll close to my chest; a present for my fifth birthday. When I was told to raise my arm, I used my left.
On that day, I did not want to acknowledge the monster who sent my Vater to war, my Mutter to cry alone in her bed, my brothers to Hitler Youth Camp.
When his train passed, I outstretched the correct limb for the swarthy man in that train car. I did what I was told. Then.
Not now. Never again.
Alexandra Rochman is a writer, meditator, and yogini. She enjoys traveling, photography and reading. She is grateful to be inspired to write fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. You can follow Alexandra on her website: AlexandraRochman.com. Twitter: @AlexandaRocks.
The Centifictionist 
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