Broken Wings

Welcome to Mauthausen

Maximilian Schüffen-   Linz, Austria 1942

Mauthausen was a heartless, empty prison. It looked as if someone had taken a broom and swept every sign of life out, leaving it to die in the barren landscape. In all honesty, the Jews were not really welcomed to Mauthausen. It was more of a hostile welcome, greeting them with snickers and glares. Maximilian marched into the prison grounds, staring up at the sunless sky, blanketed in dark, gray clouds. It all seemed to enhance the already bleak, caged prison. Square buildings were stationed everywhere, mere blurs in the middle of nowhere.

"Maximilian, Maximilian," the kind man whispered.

"Ja?"

"Stand straight. They're coming."

Max strained his head to get a view of the uniformed soldiers, marching up the line. Another one was formed, a rope of prisoners. Some strands refused to separate, clinging on to the opposite rope. He cringed, looking away from the tear-stricken faces in the other rope line. A wavy shadow hovered over him, its sapphire blue eyes piercing through his. An eternity of minutes lay out before him, freezing in the frigid air.

"Left."

Maximilian obeyed dutifully, limping over to the second line. The sharp, shooting pain returned to his ankle, burning through his shoes. The kind man followed him to the left line, winking. The sinking feeling in his stomach dissipated, replaced with a feeling of gratefulness. God had given him a friend that would care for him.

The left line was sent to one of the square blurs. Inside, rows and rows of wooden barracks stood, taunting the prisoners to drift into a deep sleep. Sleep. Max longed for it now. A Kapo, a Jewish man with a twisted face, yelled out instructions with such force that it nearly pierced the prisoners' ear drums. From what little information Maximilian could grasp, he discovered that jobs would be assigned, presumably back-breaking ones, and the prisoners would be required to attend them each day. With each word, he discovered more and more about the camp. Food was scarce. Winters were cold. Death was common.

At the end of the Kapo's grand speech, Maximilian and the kind man followed the rest of the group towards another square building, this one bigger, and filled with shower heads. Instructions were yelled. Striped suits were handed over. Maximilian stared at that filthy blue and white stripe suit, a series of numbers stitched onto it. Sighing, he gave in, and quickly slid into the dreaded uniform.

"It's a fire! They're burning it!" someone shrieked, pointing to the billow of thick, black smoke. It smelled a horrible stench, one of rotting flesh.

Maximilian shuddered at the image in his mind.

❀❀❀

"Get up! Get up! Roll call!" the Kapo yelled. Though he tried to block it out, the voice would simply not leave him alone. The sky was still a starless, bleak black. It had to be around four or five in the morning. If you get up at that time every morning, I applaud you. However, Maximilian was not accustomed to rising at such early hours.

"You're very lucky, my friend. They mistook you as healthy. If you're not careful, they may rethink that," the kind man whispered, his shadow looming over Max's bed, or rather his wooden slab. Maximilian groaned, rolling on his side. The pain still infected his body, slowly multiplying everywhere, worsened by the slicing chill.

"Maximilian. Get up. Now," he whispered anxiously, glancing around the room. Already, several prisoners were up, marching to roll call.

It took quite some time to get used to the seemingly endless row of digits, embroidered on the chest of every single prisoner. Every time a number was shouted out, it required Max to glance down at his own, ensuring that it wasn't his. The chilling air ceaselessly bit through his suit, sending shivers down his spine.

The solution? Marching in place.

Yet there was, of course, a drawback. The shooting pain returned in his ankle, becoming increasingly existent with each step. Eventually, Maximilian's feet gave up marching. He could deal with the cold. But the pain in his ankle was something to be avoided. After several minutes of freezing cold and pain, the prisoners were finally allowed to scoop up their ration: watery broth and stale bread.

Food, somehow, did not seem appetizing to Maximilian. He stared at it, unsure if it was worth consuming. Eventually, the threat of getting even weaker made him give in.

"They are going to assign us our jobs. Act strong, but not too strong. I don't want you getting a job that you are unable to complete," the kind man said, slurping up the last of the broth.

Maximilian nodded.

In the end, Maximilian had ended up in metals factory. A very fortunate job indeed.

❀❀❀

Slivers of wood penetrated through his suit, first sticking on his back, and then his sides. His back ached horribly, begging for relief from the cold slab of wood.

"Else. Where are you?"

It was answered with an empty draft.

And then the dreams came. They flooded over Max like a torrent of rain. They were always of Else.

"Please don't leave me. I can't live without you." Her soft, gentle hands squeezed his back, struggling to let go. How could he let her go?

"Else," he sobbed. Everything else was a blur, merely a background object in the landscape of tears.

"Don't cry, Max, you'll make me cry, then. You can't cry. You're an adult."

"I'm not as strong as you think. I'm not strong at all." He recalled the small, timid Jew that arrived that one critical night. The one who couldn't speak. The one who hid in his bedroom.

"Ja, you are, Max, you're stronger than anyone I know." A sliver of hope shone through her teary eyes. It pierced right through Maximilian's.

There is hope. There is hope.

I wish someone could have told this to the freezing, suffering Jews of Mauthausen. Or maybe someone did.

It just depends if you want to listen.