The Wolf Ballet || WW2

47. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Forty-Seven

Choking on the fumes of death—a stench like rotting mold and flesh, was unmistakable to a man like Arthur Von Wolff. There, across the fading horizon line—smoke trials coming from a nearby killing center. Arthur, whose hand still rested loosely over the phone, understood it was only a matter of time before the public realized what was near. With the occupation of Denmark, it would be only a matter of time before the tracks were unearthed and shipments of newly accumulated prisoners were set ablaze.

Feeling as though death was eager to follow him wherever he went—Arthur couldn't wait to leave. Marburg, much like most of Germany, was no longer a comfort.

Averting his eyes away from the black smoke trails that gradually touched the stars, Arthur looked down at his hand. The muscles in his mouth seemed to strain as he recalled back to the conversation he momentarily had with Ophelia. It was brief and strange—the German lieutenant mostly listened not entirely comfortable with speaking up. He was far from an emotional man—sharing one's emotions and troubles was hardly something he indulged in. Nevertheless, he was unusually willing to overhear what Ophelia had to say.

She spoke of the insufferable feeling as though time was eating away at her. Her moments of recollection,

'I catch myself gazing upon the simplest things in the day and am reminded of night.'

Arthur knew what she meant; she was still suffering from the memories of Auschwitz. Understandably, those were hauntings one could never forget. Arthur didn't know the extent of her experience whilst imprisoned—only the things he could imagine. Finding her in the snow—waiting to die, surely it mustn't have been agreeable.

Taking her in after that—a great risk that it was on its own. They had already begun counting the numbers by the time he had saved Ophelia. Members of the watch towers were expected to investigate where the missing prisoner had gone.

Thus another regrettable decision was carried out by his order. Arthur had assigned a few trusted men to go into the nearest city and grab a woman off that street. It didn't matter who, so long as they brought her to him. Arthur later claimed she had tried to escape and the woman—who had filled in as the missing number was inevitably executed.

Arthur still remembers the beseeching wails of the girl who claimed there had been a mistake—that she wasn't Jewish nor Polish, but a German girl. However, there was no debate as it was Arthur's words against hers.

With a quick blast from a smoking pistol, the girl's body fell with a sudden thump. Arthur couldn't look away, though his heart begged him to recoil at the sight. Any expressive regret would have surely been noted—therefore Arthur had no choice but to face his sin.

He returned to his cabin soon after—the place in which a recovering Ophelia had laid. He had hoped to be reminded of the life he was saving in being cruel, but once he was in there all he could feel for himself was a loathing far too great. He cried—killing someone to appease his greed. A likeness to his father who had repeatedly done the same.

Just now, Ophelia claimed he was the one who knew the most of her—yet Arthur couldn't help but feel the most distant.

Pulling himself away from the window and the phone, Arthur took this time to take a good look at his desk. There were depthless mountains of paperwork. With Fedor and the other men still out of town, much of the work was left in his charge. Arthur hadn't gotten a proper sleep since then. Taking a cigarette out of its case and hanging it off the edge of his lips—Arthur took this time to undo a few buttons of his shirt.