Freidrich Von Steubon, Captain, SS
The Jewish man seemed to haunt me wherever I went. On work details the next day, I saw him take up his shovel and move out with the group to work on laying ties for new railroad tracks. I watched from a distance as he scanned the crowds, most likely searching for some glimpse of his wife and son.
When he did not see them, he bowed his head and continued the trek to the worksite.
In the evening, the guards were still talking about the "Jewish scum" who had dared to try and defy the SS.
I sat to the side, a glass of beer sitting untouched before me, looking at my reflection in the polished glass of the cup. What had I become? What sort of empty monster? At what point had I gone from having even the least bit compassion... to taking pleasure in the pain of others... to feeling this...nothingness...on the inside? I used to quantify others' pain against my own. I felt all my pain on the inside, the pain from having my parents stolen from me before I had ever had the chance to even form memories of them. The pain from knowing that your parents died, their bodies curved over your body, and that of your twin sister, trying to give you the best chance at life, all because of a war. A needless, horrible war.
And wasn't that just what we were doing all over again? This was another world-wide war. People were dying. Humans, were dying. People who, if they had the choice, would never choose to be involved in this conflict.
At the bar counter, several guards were still mocking the Jewish prisoner.
I slammed my glass down suddenly, and rounded on them. "Shut up!" I yelled. "Would you all just shut up! Repeating the story a thousand times is not going to give you any more pleasure!"
The men were shocked into silence at first, but then they began to look at me oddly. I shook my head, before turning and stalking out.
I needed air, and I needed sleep. What was going on inside of me? Why did it feel like my insides were being rent apart? Why did I have a sick, sour feeling in the pit of my stomach?
YOU ARE READING
Winfred
Fiction HistoriqueThe Women's Guard, The Soldier, The Nazi, The Spy. The Spy turned Prisoner. As they say, dead men (or women, as the case may be) tell no tales. But Kathleen Winfred isn't dead; she managed to escape. Now, the story of her capture by Nazis in occup...
