The Angel of Death

     The so-called ‘Angel of Death’ has been transferred to the head of our camp. No longer would we be ‘pampered’, as he had put it, but ‘the true intentions of the Third Reich on traitorous, Jewish scum such as yourself is about to begin’. I couldn’t even imagine the true horror that statement would bring forth upon us all.

     “Form lines!”

     At the command, countless pitiful-looking men and women rushed forwards in a frenzy of fear. They wished to look presentable for one man: a single man that held the power of life and death.

     Here he comes, was the thought that resounded, in unison, within their minds.

     Backs stiffened, women pinched their cheeks to get a rosy tint while men’s chests puffed out to try and look healthier. It was the beings that didn’t do this that knew they were done for.

     The lone barking of dogs carried far through the chill air. A few coughs were stifled quickly as the sound of horses’ hooves crunched upon the gravel path. The procession of prisoners stood in the mud.

     “At attention!”

     Presently the new officer came into view. He looked regal upon his horse, which was ebony save for an elongated white diamond upon its forehead. The man’s uniform was a dark grey, matching in hue to the cloud-filled sky, and a multitude of medals were displayed proudly. He looked young- no older than twenty-one or twenty-two. But that just made him all the more imposing; it was rare for a man so young to hold such a high ranking position. His uniform was flawless, and both that and his boots which his pants were tucked into seemed to repel the mud. A much-used pistol was stored in its holster at his hip. His hair wasn’t blonde or even dark brown, but rather a pitch black: was he truly of Aryan decent? But no, the prisoners whispered, the blackness of his soul has seeped outwardly. He was fairly attractive but not overly so, but the prisoners could only see, or better yet make up, the flaws.

     He was too tall. His hair was odd. His eyes were dark, not blue. He was as pale as death, never seemed to socialize with the other officers, and was devoid of all good emotions. He never smiled or laughed at a joke, even one that was clearly anti-semantic. What was left was cold, cruel, twisted. A frown was ever-present, and if not that, then a smirk or a sneer. He would not hesitate to put an unruly prisoner or even an inferior officer in their place, preferring torture rather than a simple shooting. He discouraged ‘relationships’ between his men and the prisoners, having both parties punished severely for such degrading and disgusting deeds. And if one followed through with the act, they would be a very high candidate for the receiving end of a bullet. But despite this, though he was hated be a few of his men, those were the ones that sympathized with the enemy. Many more of his men shared in his strict views: they were the ones with the most loyalty to the Fuhrer.

     “I have heard disloyalty, conspiracy, within your ranks.” Reining his horse in, he brought it to a slow walk, pacing up and own continuously through the ranks of pitiful creatures. “Is this so?” Not a soul answered him. The officer carried on. “Maybe these things were accepted by the fool of a man Schneider, but not by me. It is a disgrace, a dishonor reflecting upon myself to my superiors, and to the Fuhrer himself. If anyone knows of any detail, report them to me personally at once. They will be given a decent meal straight from the SS Barracks at once.”

      Uncertainty showed clearly upon their dirt-smudged features. He was lying, surely he was lying. But what if he wasn’t? A good meal could make them last longer, a few days, no, a week or more. But if someone was to tell--

     A throat was cleared. “I believe I heard something the night before last-”

     The officer’s mount stopped abruptly before the prisoner who chose to speak. His gaze was shifty, he wrung his hands. The German’s eyes narrowed, and from the black-and-white dressed man there was an immediate ‘Sir’ before he continued.