The Wolf Ballet || WW2

20. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Twenty

The storm had exposed its eye by the time Ophelia was awakened by the glaring of an unnatural light. Doused in cold sweat, she stirred on what felt like a wooden stool. It was hard, but it wasn't as cold as she had grown used to. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to new lighting. It took her a moment but a glance upward had her wondering why she couldn't see the sky.

Where was she?

Her stomach dropped once the realization hit and it was evident that she was not in the barracks.

Turning over, she covered her cough with the back of her hand and sat on all fours, the blanket slipping off her back.

"Don't get up too fast, you'll only pass out again,"

Hearing a voice interrupt from behind her, Ophelia was stunned to see a man she had never seen before. He wore a Nazi uniform but didn't seem to be carrying any arms. Instead, he carried a clipboard and pen. A stethoscope wrapped around his shoulders.

Ophelia settled, but only a little, she was relieved he at least wouldn't be able to gun her down. He was an older man, not too old—around his thirties. He wore thin boxed glasses and had light brown hair. Ophelia looked for his badge but was surprised to see he didn't have one.

"You may relax, you're in the infirmary." He spoke, addressing her in English. Though Ophelia remained silent acting as if she didn't understand. It had become an instinct of hers to practically appear dead mute. She hardly spoke to anyone in the camp as it is, but on the rare occasions she did speak—she spoke in Polish. The man looked up from his clipboard, adjusting his glasses having expected Ophelia to respond in some way.

"Right," she heard the man utter, followed by a tired sigh.

He seemed to buy the lie that she was forced to show, and he corrected himself. Repeating his words—before asking her if she spoke Polish.

"Tak...jest," Ophelia eventually responded quietly.

"If you're coherent then you must be feeling better, I was instructed to send you back to your barracks once you've awaken. Your duties have also changed to aid the kitchen."

Ophelia didn't know how to react. More importantly, she couldn't understand why she wasn't dead. She had seen people die for even the slightest inconvenience, what made her the exception?

"Why am I here?" She whispered cautiously, hoping she wasn't crossing any lines. Thankfully, the man didn't seem too bothered by her question.

"You're here to work," the doctor stated, acting as if it was the obvious, but Ophelia knew there was something he wasn't saying. He knew what she meant, Ophelia was sure of that. If there was any reason that she was being kept alive, she prayed that he would warn her.

"I fainted, and they were about to shoot me, yes?" Ophelia reworded her question. Her legs now dangling off the wooden infirmary bench. "Yet, I am here with you—and I am certainly not dead,"

This time the doctor did seem intruded, rather annoyed. There was hardly much insight he could provide the girl—for he as well did not know why she was brought to him. The man who brought her to his door was superior to him and an authoritative figure in this camp. He couldn't turn the girl away without going against his commands. Regardless, the doctor feared this girl was far too incontrollable to withstand the pre-intention of the camp. If she was lucky, she'd die off before it was fully operational.

Judging by her characteristics, he assumed she was a prisoner of war. Despite only speaking Polish, it was clear to him now that she was not from this country. Whatever secret this girl held could have saved her—or just maybe, it conserved her for a greater tragedy.