The Vengeance of Rome

TWENTY-EIGHT

I lift my left leg and bring the red spike heel down between Hitler’s naked shoulder blades. I push him flat to the dirty carpet. The spike depresses his white flesh and leaves an almost bloodless mark. I press again with the right foot. Another deep impression. The black leather of the dog whip caresses the back of his head. He is blubbering some sentimental nonsense into the pile.

—Shut up, you bad, filthy little louse. Filthy little louse-boy. Naughty louse-boy filth. Shit-eating, piss-drinking disgusting little Yid. Bad, bad, bad doggy. What are you?

—Bad doggy.

I balance myself and grind the red heel down into the left shoulder.

—Bad, dirty little Alfy. Bad, stupid little Yid bitch.

Another babble of wet grizzling.

—Mummy. Mummy.

—Dirty, filthy worthless Yid louse. What are you?

— Worthless. Yid louse.

I grind again. —What are you?

—Worthless Yid louse, mistress.

—Dirty Yid louse eat shit.

There are now a dozen circles branded into his back. They look like the marks of the plague.

He grovels. His spittle makes my shoes glisten. I draw the whip across his head through his matted hair.

—Bad boy, I say softly. His tongue tastes my ankle. I am surprised at my own tone. -—Dirty little Alfy. Dirty little shit. I am almost affectionate.