As it was late in the afternoon the guards offered Dickmann accommodation for the night. He was shown to a simply furnished single room which offered an iron bed with a solid mattress and sparse blankets, a wardrobe, sink, bare floorboards, barred and curtain-less windows with a view over a railway platform where exhausted Jews were still arriving by the thousands with their pathetic bundles of belongings. They were welcomed by fellow prisoners who also carted-off the 'dead-on-arrival' corpses to the crematorium or open pits. Meanwhile the band played on. The new arrivals were put through the routine selection of slavery and eventual extermination or immediate execution. They were relieved of their belongings which were taken to the promised land called, ironically, 'Canada', to be sorted out by the guards.
Dickmann pulled a bottle of Jagermeister from his bag and poured himself a large measure into the tumbler he took from the shelf above the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror as he lit a cigarette. It was good to see the reflection of an exceptional person, a person who had become what he was and is and always will be, after seeing such masses of sub-humanity - the untermenchen. They were victims of their own meekness, weakness, indolence and timidity and held back the progress of the Human Race. This was, surely, Darwinism - the process of natural selection - the survival of the fittest! He poured himself a full tumbler of the liquor and slugged it back. His mind went back to that other perfect example of Aryanism, the statuesque blonde girl - Anna Schmidt. What a lovely face and gorgeous body she had, strong legs, beautiful arse, and shapely child-bearing hips. It was a shame that she was so weak - this is not the time for sheepish sentimentality. He would have taught her a lesson all right. He would have squeezed her tits and whipped her legs until her hips shook in a paroxysmal orgasm and he would have given her a good licking until she was dripping wet and then he would have cut the straps and forced her onto all fours and ridden her around the yard until her knees were raw and bloody and then he would have spun her onto her back and as she screamed ... He gasped as the spunk shot out of his cock into the sink. He wiped himself clean on the tails of his shirt and then washed his seed down the plughole.
His hands were still shaking as he poured himself another drink, found that he had finished the bottle and pulled another out of his bag. He replenished his glass and lit another cigarette. He walked back to the window and watched as the endless streams of Jews were processed and darkness fell. Feeling a little groggy he undressed, pissed in the sink and turned off the light and crawled into bed. The image of the train platform stayed in his mind like one of those songs that you hate and the more you try to forget them the more they stick like shit on the side of the pan. It was the most depressing and desolate train station that he'd ever seen in his life. Other train stations that he'd experienced offered the opportunity of an adventure, the chance to escape and the commencement of a journey and even, perhaps, the possibility of a Homeric voyage. This train station was ominous - it was more like an ending - the unhappy conclusion of something important.
Suddenly a shiver ran up his spine as he heard a small scratching sound in the room. A rat! He hated rats and there must be thousands around here attracted to the piles of sub-human corpses. He plucked up the courage to put his hand out of the bed and grope for the candle and matches nearby. He found them and quickly struck the match but his shaking hand caused him to drop it and it fell onto his chest causing him to flap his hands frantically until it was out. He swiftly struck another and this time managed to light the candle and stand it by the bed. He looked around the room but could see nothing out of place and the sound had stopped. He lay back and closed his tired eyes and the sound started again but this time it was a shuffling sound, like someone or something crawling across the floor. Before he could open his eyes there was a crash and he was in darkness again - something had knocked the candle over - something very close to his face. He summoned all of his courage and stretched his arm out of the bed and his hand groped around the floor searching for the matches. His hand shot back as it touched something - something as cold as ice. He tried to pull himself together - he was obviously dreaming and would wake up in a moment. That rasping breath, cold and musty-smelling, which was making the inside of his ear wet, was just a figment of his imagination. His heart was beating like a tin drum. Suddenly a flash from a flood-light lit up the moonless sky and before it died out he saw a shape in the dark. He stared at it with his sore eyes until he could see exactly what it was. The Romanian girl with the long, dark beautiful hair. Her clothes were ripped and ragged just as they'd been after he left her in the ditch. She crawled around the room like a crab with broken limbs, awkwardly, disjointedly, jerking her head and twitching her face but her dark eyes never left his. She slowly climbed onto his bed and knelt on his chest as she stared at him with wide, innocent eyes. He couldn't hold her gaze but, instead, looked down at her body and her skin which was covered with open sores and wheals just like those on the bodies of those creatures who'd been gassed that day. She put her hand on his chin and forced him to look into her eyes.
YOU ARE READING
And the MEEK Shall Inherit the Earth. Book One
Mystère / ThrillerON HOLD Don't read this book if you think that History is irrelevant. However, if you believe, like my old professor, that a nation without knowledge of its history is like a man suffering from amnesia, then please read on as many of the events ac...
