Pact of Silence

At university,
I was the shiny steel ball trapped inside
an old-fashioned pin ball machine,
that got bounced from one Nazi to another to another.
One sold me my first pair of skis and made a toast over peach schnapps,
“Remember what Hitler used to say Hansie, beware of the yellow race.”
Another was the cafe owner across the street
who offered me a smiling cup,
then said he was at the front and didn’t know what was going on.
The third was the landlord who said matter-of-factly
he was in the German army,
like he was describing an innocent trip to the corner store,
unaware they sold child pornography.
Speechless, I had expected war criminals to be recognizable:
scowling and vile and hateful.
But those who did bad things,
it turns out,
wore clean pressed pants and nice shirts and sweaters,
were neatly combed and kempt,
and held out a warm hand in greeting.
They ate breakfast with their families,
owned businesses where we shopped,
and read bed time stories to their grandchildren.
They had cheerful, smiling faces,
walked upright,
and blended into the crowd.
They were every person, everywhere,
who just followed orders and followed in the steps of the one in front.
Today I ask,
how did so many Nazis manage to enter Canada?
What were the wilful blinders
that kept them from being seen?
What was the pact of silence
that kept the government from speaking?
What was the political lethargy
that kept it from acting?
All this at a time,
when ‘none were too many’ Jews.

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