The Wolf Ballet || WW2

19. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Nineteen

There was draft the moment the pressure of the water decreased and Ophelia felt the bumps on her skin tingle. The leaky shower head above Ophelia only still let out a droplet of two. She lingered behind as the crowd began to gather around the soldier handing out new robes. Staring up at the shower head, she allowed her hand to dwell beneath the inconsistent flow of water. It would take a guard calling out to her to remind her she where she stood.

Trailing the crowd, Ophelia was surprised to see the same Nazi female as before, the one who would have cut her hair if the man hadn't stopped her. She couldn't have been much older than Ophelia—early twenties or late teens. There was the similarity to them both as well. Blonde hair, light eyes—the similarities were subtle traits but heavily noted by the French dancer.

Was it envy?

Ophelia wasn't sure why she felt spite in her chest—why she felt herself specifically wanting to hate the girl. Could it be that she suddenly felt inferior to her? Seeing a vague image of what she once was—the cruel realization that she wasn't as pretty nor, divine as before. It pained her, more than she'd ever supposed capable.

The shallowness of her undue rancor had Ophelia glossed from the eyes as she could have never imagined herself apt to feel such lowly covetousness. Had she truly lost her way? She feared the war would only cause her to stray farther from her God.

Ophelia swallowed her spite, raising her head as she accepted the new set of pajama. Their eyes locked and for a moment Ophelia felt a sense of weariness within the girl.

The former ballerina blinked, not believing any regret from a German was true—she deemed it impossible. Though looking closely she could see there was indeed a sense of sadness within the girl's light blue eyes. Ophelia froze, unsure of how to come about the awkwardness. At that very moment, she despised this woman more than she has ever despised anyone, yet all the girl did in return was pity her.

Ophelia's entire body seethed, as she thanked her, though the illness in her throat had it come out in a sort of croak.

______

The group was instructed to change and gather in the center of the camp. Ophelia stepped out into the open air, adjustment her cap as she peered up at the brewing mist of clouds above them.

'Is is going to rain?'

Ophelia thought, trying to keep her stripped hat from flying out beneath the glide of the winds. Looking around, she could see the majority of the camp—men and woman alike, were being lined up in front of wooden overhang.

She flinched as guards began breaking through the crowd, yelling and petling men and woman with the center of their batons. Little by little aligning the laborers into sections, Ophelia managed to avoid getting hit but she was dragged by the back of her shirt. Her shoulders tensed as she was positioned near the left side of the court. Her feet already sinking heavily into the wet mud.

It had started raining almost instantaneously, hard heavy gusts of water jeering down on them—making their previous trip to the showers absolutely useless. Ophelia tried to look up at the stage, but the rain was rotund, her eye lids could not handle to weight being poured over her freezing feeble body. Nevertheless, she stood firm, her tears blending in with the streams of rain. She could see the platform but barely, a group of men in black coats and caps stood. The red and white stash on their left arms were bright even beneath the gloomy lighting of the storm's shadow. She sighed, noticing how thick umbrellas shielded them from the bombardment—unlike her and those she stood with. By now, their feet were rooted into the dirt like a field of potatoes.