Winfred

51

Official Report

British Intelligence

Code: 3986

Kathleen Winfred

Pirot had given me the night to relax and do as I pleased. I planned on finishing the book I had borrowed from Von Steubon’s bookshelf.

When I returned to the room, I climbed up on top of my bed, sitting against the wall, and enjoyed the last slice of leftover chocolate cake. Then, I set the plate aside.

My eyes went to the dresser I used, sitting against the opposite wall.

On it was the letter, my new name hardly visible from my place atop my bed.

After a few moments, I climbed down and retrieved it, before returning to my bunk and assuming my original position.

I examined the letter, turning it this way and that.

I tried to think why Von Steubon would have given it to me. The handwriting on the front was not his. Even if he would have written it, what reason did he have to write me a letter?

I finally turned it over and slid my finger under the seal, breaking it, and opened the envelope, pulling out the pieces of paper within.

When I unfolded the papers, the first thing that caught my eye was the heading of the stationary.

Auschwitz-Birkenau Facility

I dropped the envelope in surprise, taking the letter in both hands. Virginia, I thought, as I began to read.

Dear Ilsa,

I will admit that I miss both you and Jessica immensely. I arrived safely at Auschwitz-Birkenau, albeit being a bit hungry as they fed us hardly a thing on the train trip.

I must say that it is not as nice here as it is back there. I know I complained and gave the heinies a bunch of trouble when, really, we were quite lucky to be treated the way we were.

I don’t miss Schwab though, but he’s gone so I wouldn’t have a thing to complain about.

I tell you, when I first found out I was being transferred, I was quite upset. I thought I was just unlucky. But then I realized that prisons like that are just holding facilities, until prisoners are transferred to the bigger facilities. It was really just a matter of time. Luck had nothing to do with it.

At first, when you told me about your new position, I was quite envious. I apologize for my envy. It was misplaced. You really are the best one for the job. You speak flawless German, you look German enough to pass as one of them, and you were already friends with that guard, Pirot.

I never really did sincerely thank you and her for saving my life.

Thank you.

Anyways, I was told it was your birthday (the sixth). I do not know if this will reach you by then…I was only told of your birthday and that you might wish to hear from me on the second of April. Not to mention that the mail is probably delayed due to it being wartime.

Anyways, whatever day it is, I’m wishing you happy birthday. I’ll sing Happy Birthday very loudly on the sixth. I don’t care if the heinies don’t like it.

I’ve been told that I can write to you once a month, as your birthday present. It will be like when you subscribe to a periodical, except you’re subscribing to my ramblings.

Anyways, life here is more typical of a prison camp. We get up at 4:30 am. Even though it’s spring now, it is cold at that time of the day. We stand there for hours, waiting for roll to be called. Then we have work detail. We prisoners are split into groups, with each group being headed by one prisoner called a “kapo” which I believe means “overseer”. Anyhow, the kapo of our group is very brutal. He gets better rations than the rest of us, and likes to let us know it. The SS favors our kapo, because he is one of the most brutal of all. We got our prison numbers tattooed on our left arms.

We get a hot drink in the morning, a small portion of thin, watery soup in the afternoon, and moldy bread at night. It is more like the rations when Schwab was leading. It is nothing like having a few meals of good bread and clean water like we did. The water is also lukewarm and probably not very clean.

We get a weekly shower. We have hardly any sleeping space. We work from before dawn till after dark. People become sick because disease travels quickly in the packed spaces.

It may sound terrible. It is terrible.

But every day that I am not chosen to be led to a gas chamber or sent downstairs to spend the day and night in a dark cell, I am happy. I can work; I can starve.

But I don’t want to die.

I am glad I can write to you. Prisoners are allowed to write to family (only in German) every Sunday. I cannot write German. Besides, the letters are censored. Almost all of what I’ve written to you would be blacked out and unreadable, if they even sent the letter. Apparently an officer here knows Hauptsturmfuhrer Von Steubon, and will allow me to write a letter to you once a month, not censored whatsoever, and in English!

Anyways, I miss you greatly.

I hope your birthday is fantastic.

-Virginia Douglas