Winfred

10

A Day Off

For some reason, the day after the attack from the French resistors, we were given a respite from the daily tortures of the Germans. I spent the first part of the day wondering what had caused Von Steubon’s change of heart.

It was rainy outside, and as the weeks continued onwards to winter, the prison became colder and colder. On my day of rest, I huddled up in the corner of my wooden cot, wrapping my threadbare blanket about my shoulders.

Time passed.

I must have nodded off, and the first thing I awakened to was Schubert, back at my cell door, whimpering.

I whispered his name and the sausage dog squeezed between the bars once more and came to join me in my corner.

For a dog, he looked incredibly dejected; something about him seemed sad. I scratched his ears until he fell asleep, curled up against me. I spent the rest of my day in that way, until I heard Von Steubon calling for Schubert.

I had been unaware of Von Steubon’s return, and I hurriedly tried to get Schubert to leave. If I was caught with the dog, there would surely be hell to pay.

I heard footsteps in the corridor and redoubled my efforts to move the little dog.

Suddenly, Von Steubon appeared at the door to my cell.

I met his gaze, trying not to show how much fear of him I actually had. He simply frowned, his gaze going to Schubert.

“Schubert,” he said, curtly. “Come.”

Schubert seemed to realize that his obedience was not an option, as most people who interacted with Von Steubon eventually realized, and jumped down from my hard cot, making his way hurriedly across the floor and back out through the cell doors.

Von Steubon did not break eye contact with me until Schubert was out in the corridor with him; then he turned, stiffly, and made his way back down the corridor.

I think he did not think I was watching, because he dropped his stiff demeanor for once and slumped somewhat.

I watched him until he reached the end of the corridor, stooped to pick up Schubert, straightened slowly, and exited the prisoner's area.

I glared at his retreating back, angry at the thought of him.

The German officers believe themselves to be so superior. Prisoners are simply a means to an end: they keep us alive for our information, but beyond that, they care nothing for us or for what happens to us at their hands.