Winfred

viii

Freidrich Von Steubon, Captain, SS

There are some certainties in life...some things that we can take for granted. Things like...the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Even if there are clouds, the sun is still there, on the other side. The certainty that the wind is there, because you feel it, even though you cannot see it. The assurance that twenty-four hours will go by, and then a day will be over and a new one will take its place.

There are other things that you cannot take for granted, like the fact that you are alive, and that you are breathing.

One moment, they are just men and women, lining up for the morning, waiting to be sent out on work detail. The next, some of them are breathing a sigh of relief, grateful that, even if for only one more day, they are alive. Some, however, are joining the line winding towards the gas chambers.

I think that I took my former detached-ness for granted.

Before, I could watch the people herded into the short buildings used for termination, without feeling any different than I felt at any other given time of the day.

Now, I called their numbers, and each one echoed through my head, reverberating like a gunshot. I found myself watching as they filed into place, and picking out one or two people in the line, and wondering about their families...wondering if they had family members who were out there somewhere, and who would never know what had happened to their loved one...who would never find the unmarked grave that served as a final resting place for their father, their mother, their son...Who would never get to say goodbye.

Every time I stood there, and watched, a sick feeling arose in the pit of my stomach, and I was immediately prompted to void the contents of my stomach. Every time, I swallowed against the burning in my throat, and did my job.

Every time, I felt like I, personally, was putting the nails in the coffins of innocent people.

But what could I do? If I tried to interfere...to work against Hitler's system...I would be putting the nails in my own coffin.

And, while I consider myself to be at least somewhat brave, I am a great coward when it comes to one thing...and that thing is my own eventual death.

So I kept my mouth shut, and I swallowed the bile in my throat, and I ignored the guilt as best as I could.

The Jewish man, so far, was keeping his promise to tow the line. Dietrich seemed unsatisfied with the sudden recovery of the prisoner from wounds that were a death sentence. I told him firmly that death would be too great a privilege, when working in the prison camp was living hell, day in and day out. I told Dietrich that I had ordered the medic to tend to the man's wounds to the point where recovery was possible.

Dietrich seemed content not to question this, if only the man was put to work in his detail. I closed my eyes briefly, feeling an ache beginning behind my eyes. I had done everything I could do. "Very well," was my response.

Dietrich did not bring up the man's recovery again. I could tell that, day in and day out, he was looking for an excuse to publicly humiliate the man again, but the prisoner was behaving quite well.

At least it was one less thing to worry about.

Until the day that the man decided to stand just two inches...two inches... to the left of the prisoner in front of him, making an interruption in the perfect lines of men that Dietrich was so obsessed with.

I did not have any time to react, or to even feel angry at the man for forgetting his promise to me, before Dietrich was at his side, evil grin stretching what seemed like ear to ear.

The man served as Dietrich's punching bag for a few long minutes, before being sent off to work detail, with the promise of solitary confinement for later.

At this point, I allowed stress to become anger, and the perpetual ache that the stress had created behind my eyes became a full-blown headache that left me dizzy.

I retired to my room, resolving that, if Dietrich didn't kill the man, I certainly would later that night.