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The Assassin's Tear

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Karen Azinger

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“Sometimes a soldier returns home and all he can do is share his story in the hopes that somehow, in some way, it helps another soldier make sense of things. And although the stories may not be perfect, sometimes just sharing is enough to make a difference.”

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“I didn't tell him that I'd put his awful stories in boxes and stacked them on a shelf at the back of my mind. I could hear a quieter version of them still, from their dark place, through all the other business that occupied my brain, but I wouldn't unlid those boxes until I was ready to hear [his] stories again as they wanted to be heard.”

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“A very important man used to visit her sometimes, and I met him too. He loved children and used to dandle me on his knee. This was how the title came about for this book, Uncle Hitler, although in the old German tradition, I called him Uncle Adolf, even though I was not related to him. This was a sign of respect to an older person, which is why I called Frau Eva ‘Aunty Eva’.”

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“My entire life I watched people allow the world to shape them, to dictate their choices, to mold them into the clay globe that is earth. To be part of, to fit in. I watched their interior and exterior layers be thinned out by society. But me? I'm like an open wound, instead. I'm the thing you can't bandage. I'm that ugly scar that isn't going away. I'm a reminder of pain, of truth, of brutality. Nobody likes brutality. Nobody likes harsh truths. And, you know what? I'm fucking okay with that.”

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Author:Nicole D'Settēmi
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“There were days when the saturation of death, and the realities of life, became too great. Days where I felt suffocated, heavy. I’d try to gasp for a breath, and I’d fail. Yet, just in the nick of time, I would somehow, once again, be resuscitated. The world grew dark, cold. A black cloud looming over everything that I saw. People evolved into monsters–caricatures, and EVERYTHING was frightening, everybody was a predator! The world transformed, and I would choke. Plumes of dust representing reality, as they sought an exit from my mouth, as I wheezed, and I gasped. Reality was choking me, saturating me with its heaviness. Control? None whatsoever. Not over things, not over people. No, that was Life’s illusion; control was the magic trick. The lack of control, I was truly speaking of, was the inevitable–death. The one thing that tied into everything, everyone. Every neurotic thought, every impulse. It was Death. The Random Act.”

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