Story

June 1, 2082. New San Francisco.

I want to make one thing clear: I've never had anything personal against you. No hatred, no grudges. In fact, I won't hide that every now and then, seeing how you were getting beaten down, I even felt a sense of injustice. I believe I even donated at some point to one of those nonprofits that took care of you. What I've done, I did solely for work, for my career, that's it. Nothing personal. When I was little, I was even similar to you. In those days without food but full of resentment, I'd look around and see the same scene as yours: filth, poverty, despair, and indifference. My father was someone who hadn't done anything good in life, one who always kept his head down. And when we happened to go on a vacation, he definitely didn't book a room at the Ritz or the Fairmont, but in a rundown guesthouse.

Yet, it might be because that deluded mother of mine liked to feel like a little bourgeois, on Sundays, we were always in the habit of going to Mass at St. Grace Cathedral, in the posh area of Nob Hill. I vividly recall its spires reaching skyward, higher than anything else, the pristine whiteness of its marble, the sylvan scent wafting from the nearby English lawn of Huntington Park, and the pure smile of the priest conducting the Mass. No one at my home ever smiled at me. It must have been one of those days that I decided that when I grew up, I would live the good life. I wouldn't sleep in those fourth-rate boarding houses, but at the Ritz, where the doorman wears livery, and I would go to Mass at St. Grace, where everything smells sweet, and people smile at you.

Yes, I've climbed the career ladder. I've spent my entire life climbing this ladder, and I climbed it. Sure, the hiccup along the way was that in order to climb that ladder, I had to deal with people like you, but it was, I repeat, just a hiccup and, above all, nothing personal. No hatred, no grudges. Can you even imagine that when I became a member of the "Strength and Unity" party, I didn't even know what it was? I found them only because they gathered in the courtyard next to St. Grace, where I used to spend my evenings, serenaded by the constant flow of the fountain. I only knew that when they held their rallies, the voters emerged with such hatred for people like you, that they started to believe that their crappy lives, thanks to this hatred, could be a bit better, because, in the end, "at least I'm not like you."

The party grew and seized power, and I was appointed Ministry of Public Decorum. I dealt with "cleaning up the streets" from people like you. Under my command, the party's secret police picked you up and threw you in jail or deported you to some more degraded neighborhood. Anything so that the good folks who had figured out how to climb the ladder, strolling the streets of Nob Hill with their happy families towards St. Grace, wouldn't have to smell your stench anymore, but the same scent as the perfect Huntington Park.

But I repeat, between me and you, nothing personal; in fact, I even showed a lot of humanity in carrying out my job. I distinctly remember the vibrant light that the gothic stained glass windows of the Cathedral reflected when they told me it had been decided to "take you all out." I found it to be a rather debatable choice and proposed alternatives. Why not throw you all into the Tenderloin, for example? You would have fit right in there, among yourselves, without being judged by every passerby. But deep down, I thought that I would have never killed anyone, I would never dirty my hands, just sign a few papers. And so, one by one, under my command, a shot to the heart and then off to mass graves. After all, even if you had your own cross, who would ever bring flowers to it? The family you abandoned?

I swear to you that for some time after all this, I spent the best years of my life. Loved by my equals, feared by the humble, respected by all. I permanently moved to Nob Hill, and every evening, just before sunset, I would stroll down California St. to Grace Cathedral and admire its majesty and purity. Every day, it seemed like the spires grew just a little higher, piercing the ceiling of the world. Then suddenly, they stopped growing.

Underground struggles, differences of opinion, the party had never been so unstable, and the opposition noticed it. "The front of freedom and equality," has reconquered much of America and has now reached San Francisco with the help of the population. Meh, as if they didn't secretly want what we achieved. However, don't misunderstand me; I'm not writing this letter eaten up by the worm of remorse or hoping that my executioners show me mercy.

In fact, I don't believe I've done anything wrong. I followed orders, did what everyone else was doing. Whether it was me or someone else pulling the trigger, what difference does it make when everyone knew and didn't lift a finger? In fact, since you all had to die anyway, I believe I at least made the most humane, painless decisions. But I repeat, between me and you, nothing personal. No hatred, no grudges. What I did, I did only for my career. It was work, that's all.

You know, it's ironic how right now, I finally remember the reason why my father took me to St. Grace despite our humble condition. It wasn't because of my mother. "What, Mom never told you? Men may be born under different stars, but they all die under the same sky."

And so today, as I climb the stairs of St. Grace one last time and reach the rooftop, I can finally observe this sky from the highest point there is. Yes, I did it. I've lived under the brightest of stars. But as I soar and look upward, I realize that you were right, Dad.

It does not matter, nothing does, today I die under your same sky.

Inspirations

This story was created for an assignment. It depicts the current state of San Francisco: the degrading condition in which the homeless and the poor are, and the opposition with the beautiful and wealthy San Francisco.

This story is heavily inspired by the following works, all rights to the respective authors:

• Arendt, H. (1963). Eichmann in Jerusalem: A report on the banality of evil. Viking Press
  • The character of the story is highly inspired by Eichman, the Nazist General that Arendt describes in her "The Banality of Evil". The narrator is the perfect example of how trivial are the reasons behind evil: no dramatic construction or great plans.
• La 7 Attualità (2020). "La banalità del male" - Il racconto di Stefano Massini [Video]. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-7vQeoByHQ&t=404s.
  • This video is a speech delivered by Stefano Massini, an Italian famous writer and Professor. Massini recites an interpretation of Eichamn's last words which were fundamental to give the tone to my character. The video is in Italian and sadly there are no subtitles.
• Dostoyevsky, F. (1992). Notes from the Underground. Dover Publications.
  • Dostoyevsky's magnum opus served as the inspiration for my content. Despite the distinct differences in our narratives, the characterization of my narrator mirrors the Man of the Underground in its metaphorical "ugliness." Primarily, the influence from "Notes from Underground" manifests in the textual form, encompassing multiple repetitions, gritty writing, and the veiled madness of the character - distinctive traits found in Dostoevsky's works.