The Wolf Ballet || WW2

22. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Twenty-Two

"By God, the amount of Nazis that are appearing before us, we should think they're sprouting out from under us,"

Ophelia could hear the girls from the kitchen utter in hushed voices. They sat on a log, right outside the kitchen as they ate their morning meal. Beans, the portion seemed smaller than they have been before. Ophelia figured it was due to rationing reasons. Since they have been eating two meals, once in the mornings, the second an hour before sundown.

Lifting the spoon, she brushed it over her mouth, licking her dry, chapped lips before scooping the chow off the silverware.

"He could have sprouted out from under me, they don't make them like him in Gdańsk,"

The sound of their flustered giggles caused Ophelia to look up from her lap. Following the line of their sight, the line of her lips slumped into a frown.

"He's a Nazi, Jadzia," she heard one of the girls remind the others with a scolding voice.

Von Wolff was at the head of the group, behind him a group of newly arriving Nazis followed as they made their way through the sticky mud. He wore black as the others wore green, making him stand out among the wolves of the pack. The man who he had accompanied, had left early in the morning. However, seeing as Wolff was still at the camp, it was apparent that he was staying—and was in charge.

She lowered her head once he turned a corner and disappeared from her gaze. She hadn't encountered him since that night in the infirmary. She remembers rushing back in the bitter snow, only stopping once she felt she was far enough where no one could hear her scream. A part of her feared he would have had her seized once she returned to the barracks, but his men never came. She was even more surprised when the doctor asked to see her the next day. He cleaned her hand and bandaged it. As usual, the doctor seemed to have worked out of obligation. Uninterested in actually mending her wounds.

"You're alive because the Oberstleutnant demanded it,"

Past words of that doctor's first encounter with her—words that seemed to haunt her. She had been under the focused stare of Nazi men before, and she despised it. A part of her wondered if it had been Von Wolff that kept her from dying. If it was him, she would hope it would not happen again as she had learned that anytime a Nazi would save her—it was out of greed.

She had experienced the mercy that resided in the wolves, and it left her broken and afraid. Fearful of the touch and smell of men. The harsh breath of lust and rapacious hands of defilement—it sickened her. Standing up, Ophelia carried her bowl back into the kitchen. She had no interest in hearing the girls gossip about men. It annoyed her how despite everything they'd been through, they'd still find a way to behave like school girls. As if hundreds of people weren't dying every day.

"You should finish that, it would do you no good if you're starving,"

Ophelia sighed, meeting the gaze of Klara. She sat against the wooden railing of the kitchen's boarded ledge.

"There are many things that are no good, I don't believe skipping a meal is so significant in this life," Ophelia responded cynically. Her shoulders deflated as she held the bowl with both hands.

"Come sit," Klara gestured for Ophelia to step closer. Ophelia looked around, spotting the guard nearby guard on the platform above them. His gaze was focused but he made no move in protest to Ophelia sitting with Klara.

"We're eating, they won't stop you," Klara's voice assured her.

Stepping slowly, Ophelia leaned back against the railing and sighed. She could feel Klara staring at her with detailed eyes as she stood awkwardly in the cold.