Marching Song. Anarchy out in the streets, I see it every night. Mein Gott. I knew him barely three years ago. I was a celebrated singer and he, a struggling artist who couldn’t draw people. Empty landscapes. I laughed at him. I told him he wouldn’t amount to much if he couldn’t connect with the people. And now. A country brainwashed. My fatherland is tainted. I’m Aryan. Pure Aryan. Most of my friends are Jewish. My parents died when I was but a child. Nobody would care for me. I wandered around for days. An old Jewish man, Jakob, found me on the street. And took me in. One summer I nearly drowned. His son, Israel, saved my life. And now I hide. Because of my music I have become a pariah. Sing this. I could not. Denounce your friends. I could not.

Perhaps I should have seen things more clearly. Recognized the youth group I was asked to join for what it was. Evil. Hatred. Brown-shirted thugs. And that evil little man who can’t paint people. Sadly, he did at last find a way to connect. There is a thin ray of hope, however. I can be smuggled out by train. The last train out. It leaves tomorrow night. And I’m feeling good. In fact, I’m feeling lucky. Because there’s a boat. Waiting for me. After my train ride is finished. My friends will be aboard. We’re going to America. And so I cross my fingers. Say a prayer. It’s a make it or break it moment. There’s no turning back. I can’t stay here. I’m a target. Everywhere I turn. The brown-shirted thugs. The evil little man who can’t paint people. And there’s no room here for a singer who won’t sing marching songs. I close my eyes. Either way, Friday Night can’t come soon enough ... xoRJ