Herzdieb [Brittle & Banter]

[Nico]

Cold.

The snow and wind that battered the thin doors of the train carts sent a chill through it's occupants despite their cramped quarters. Tattered clothing already worn thin from their lives before this passage. The train drew near to the station, and sighs of relief rose from travel-weary occupants. Only three days ago the ghettoes had been full, stifling and harsh. Then the evacuations started. There were rumors, but there were always rumors.

A cry went up from one of the women near the doors, her face pressed against the planks, gazing out at the train station. The train had switched onto a spur just as it drew near. As it chugged lazily past the station the wailing of the woman silenced by others beside her. Who knew where they were headed. The rumors, was it foolish to believe them?



The camp's gate opened wide; the locomotive's prolonged whistle heralding their arrival. A few minutes passed as the train made its slow crawl past barbed wire into the camp compound before it ground to a halt. Ingolf Kluge gave his order, and watched as smartly uniformed German officers stepped up to meet the new arrivals. They rushed about before the closed freight cars and rained orders on the black-garbed Ukrainian help. Like a flock of ravens searching for prey, ready to do their despicable work.

Suddenly everyone grew silent and the order crashed like thunder, "Open them up!"


Treatment differed. If from the better-off west, they were often fooled into a sense they were being resettled. Descending from the passenger cars in their best clothes. If from the east, they disembarked from the cattle cars amidst shouts, screams, and beatings.

"Schnell, raus, raus, rechts, links!" His men shouted.

Schweine. All of them. Ingolf glowered from beneath his black forage cap. Dressed in standard Schutzstaffel uniform; black coat and thick-soled leather boots, he was much warmer than the pitiful creatures being forced into lines. All the same, the evening wind was biting.

 

[destati]

• • 
    Seventy-two hours had passed since the cattle wagons were sealed and in that time a slew of complications had developed. The air inside the carts grew stale; those fortunate enough to be near the windows — which were nothing more than small slivers of space in the carts that allowed the captive to breathe — were blessed with the aroma of smoke and burning flesh that was soon to come. The carts were confined with no fewer than eighty people. Sitting was out of the question.
    
    Tranquility was a word all but forgotten in the lives of the detained. Instead, moans of fear and stifled sobs consumed the carts over the seventy-two hour duration. Little children watched their elders with their erratic behavior; not knowing any better, the children mirrored their actions. What else could they do?
    
    Two people were crouched in the corner of one cart — a mother and her child. The mother was about fifty; the lines etched in her skin made the woman look old and feeble. The child was six months shy of her eighteenth birthday; her hair — dark brown in color; straight and silky in texture; approximately three inches past her rear end in length — set her apart from the other prisoners. The mother and child huddled together to conserve heat; all the while, the mother stroked her daughter’s hair, whispering words of comfort amid the chaos that was starting to unfold.
    
    "Yitgadal veyitkadash shmé raba," murmured the rabbi inside their cart.
    
    May His name be blessed and magnified.
    
    The response of the prisoners was the same: “Amen.”
    
    
    
    Hours later, the wagon doors slid open and the captive were greeted with electric torches and truncheons. It did not take long for the captive to obey the words of their captors; indeed, they were quick to flee from the wagon carts, lest they receive another blow from the weapons.
    
    The mother practically stumbled out of the cart, a combination of fatigue and the prisoners who pushed their way through the crowd. The daughter remained next to her mother, helping her to her feet. The wrinkles in her face stretched as the mother offered her daughter a small smile. “You are too kind to your mother, my dear Talia.”
    
    “Sei ruhig!” yelled a Schutzstaffel officer as the mother continued to speak.
    
    Silence ensued.
    
    The captive were relieved of their valuables and forced into a single line. They were given the once-over before their fate was decided — left for the gas chambers, right for a mediocre life of hard labor.
    
    The mother was told to go to the left.
    
    Talia Sperling was told to go to the right.
    
    “No! Mamah!” cried Talia, her brown eyes large and fearful as her mother began to turn in the opposite direction. Without hesitation, the girl clung to her mother, her face pressed against her mother’s back and her arms wrapped around her mother’s waist. The rosy tint of her cheeks and the freckles that plagued the bridge of her nose were no longer visible.
    
    She continued to cling to her mother until an officer grabbed her upper arm and pried her away. “Tucke,” spat the officer — stupid girl — as the mother was forced to follow the other unfortunate captives to the gas chamber. “You will join your mother soon enough.”
    
    Talia wanted to break free from the officer’s grasp, wanted to run off after her mother, but such things were all but impossible for the fragile girl. She watched her mother with tears in her eyes; her body shivered due to the frigid climate. “Monster,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “You’re all a bunch of monsters.”
    
    “Still your tongue, Jew, or I will personally bring you to your mother.”

 

[Nico]

The Rapportführer oversaw the proceedings.

Like any other deportation drop, guards separated men from women and children with practiced proficiency. The camp doctor made his rounds to inspect arrivals as the unruly were beaten into submission. Elderly were immediately picked out; the sickly were led away to the "infirmary." Both would be promptly executed. The lines were then separated. Men first, in a forced march out of the unloading square. The officer sighed, turning to make his way to the tables. Screaming, wailing, screaming. Did they ever shut up? His baton swung on his hip, boots crunching on hard-packed snow. They would. In time they would.


The men selected as able-bodied would be shaved, stripped and bathed. Naked, they would then wait in lines for their papers to be stamped. If they died, the body was to be dragged away by a current inmate to a waiting cart. If they survived they would be given the standard striped uniforms, shoes, and a thin coat. The women would be sorted next- those deemed too old, disfigured, or with children usually taken out of the line at random. Those few lucky enough to remain would be de-loused, bathed, shivering and moaning in lines for their papers and clothes. Fortunately for them it had stopped snowing, but the bleak eastern wind still blew, and the ice would bite under bare soles.

The men were finished; an order to bring the women was given. Ingolf sat behind a processing desk, seated beside other black-garbed officers stamping the paper's of those identified. The new workforce would be introduced to their tasks and lodgings after being tattooed with their number, as was protocol.



"Identification."

"Profession, skills?" He asked, sharp, as the next quaking woman in line stepped forward.

The officer held out a gloved hand for her papers. She proffered them, trying to cover herself with her hands whether due to shame of her pale, exposed flesh or bitter droplets that clung to semi-dry skin. Stamping it, face stone-cold, he gestured for her to move on. It was repetitious work. He'd rather be inside with a fire. Unfortunately, he was not the Schutzlagerfuhrer; the camp's commandant. He was Rapportführer, the man's report leader. Charged with overseeing Blockführers, camp discipline, violations report, roll-call, and training of new SS personnel. Herr Kulge did not run a negligent camp. There were no warnings, no mercy.

"Next."

 

[destati]

• • 
    Talia was forced to follow the other women as they made their way through protocol. Her eyes were still moist with tears when her mother vanished from plain sight. 'Where are you now, Mamah?' she thought to herself as she waited in line.
    
    The amount of men and women was too large for her mind to comprehend. Some men were marched through the crowd with their civilian clothes still on their bodies. Some women still had their hair — and were soon reprimanded with a beating — when they turned over their identification papers. The errors were no doubt a consequence of the mass number of prisoners. It would have been difficult for anyone to keep tabs. Still, there would be those who would point the finger at the prisoners, laying the blame on them for not following orders.
    
    The next few minutes were a blur for Talia. Through error, she had been pushed past the hair cutting station. She was ordered to remove her clothes; when that failed to happen, the tattered pieces of cloth were ripped from her lithe figure and she was pushed into the freezing water for decontamination. Her skin was no longer pink in hue; rather, she was pale with red patches from the bitter cold water. Her hair was sopping wet; water continued to trickle down her back as she stood in line with her papers. Her body would twitch with shivers every few seconds as the cold water droplets made their destination down her back, but she found comfort in the fact that her hair covered her small breasts and genitalia.
    
    “Profession, skills?”
    
    Talia glanced up at the woman in front of her as she moved forward, handed the officer her papers, and tried to cover her exposed body as best as she could. The poor woman. Immediately, she lowered her eyes to her own papers. It contained essential information regarding her very being — what her name was, how old she was, who her parents were, where she once lived, what she did for a living. She continued to scrutinize her papers until the woman was sent on her way.
    
    “Next.”
    
    The woman behind her gave a gentle push, indicating that it was her turn to step forward. She continued to hold her papers in both hands as she walked over to the desk. There she stood opposite of where the Rapportführer sat. Her eyes flickered up from the papers to make contact with his; though there was a sense of great sadness in her eyes, there was also a trace of anger. It had not taken her long to develop distaste for the men in their uniforms.
    
    She extended her papers — which now had water stains from the beads of water that dripped down her hair — before the man could ask for them.

 

[Nico]

Finishing writing "Seamstress" beside the previous woman's name and number in the log-book, he took the papers which were handed to him without looking up.

The action shortly followed with, "Profession or skills?"

His eyes switched to the new woman's identification. Anger flashed in the SS officer's face as he realized the papers were somewhat wet. Wetter than usual, as it was: smudging out certain words and making a mess of the writing. The Jews should have been toweled off enough not to damage papers this badly.

"What is this?" Ingolf hissed.
Had the Jew thrown them in the snow?

He looked up, about to bark at the stupid woman for being so foolish when he was met with the reason for her damp papers. Her hair had not been cut. It hung in long, wet strands down her front, covering the girl's trembling breasts. Rivulets of ice-water dripped down her body, his eyes following them along the curve of her hips. The inside of her thigh. Schönes Kind. His eyes rose from her flesh. Slate blue meeting the dark, earthen brown of the girl's eyes. Red marring the white under long lashes, either from tears or chill. Her face was twisted with hurt, rebellion, sorrow… but she was beautiful. Quivering there in her pain. He felt heat swell in him despite the cold.

The spark behind his eyes was not pity. His interest was rather in the girl's body; his eyes dragged slowly over her form. Taking in the rosy cheeks, the pink lips that pursed as she waited impatiently to be out of the cold. No doubt the slight female would die soon if left out in the elements in this state. His tight-pressed mouth turned up into a slight smile.

The officer glanced back to her papers, tapping his pen in thought.

"Thalia."

What a pretty name. It rolled thickly off the officer's tongue.

"You have ruined your identification on purpose?" He asked slowly, holding up the semi-damp paper.

It was still legible in most areas, but the officer paid no heed.
"And this," Ingolf reached forward, taking up some of the silken strands and pulling them away from the girl's breast.

"Are you stupid? Blind?" he gestured at the women behind her, his voice falling, "In the Lager you follow orders,"

His fingers tightened in her hair before he yanked the girl's head down to his level, snarling into her face, "or you will punished, Judebrut."

She undoubtedly would have been barbered upon arriving at her lodge, but that was of no importance to him. She stroked something in him, enough to make the officer pause to consider what the brown locks would feel like slipping through his fingers. Dragging the hunched girl by her hair to the side of his table, the called orders over his shoulder. A lesser officer appeared at once to take up the woman's arm and lead her away. She would not be going to the lodgings with the rest of the women. Not just yet.

Ingolf scratched into the log book the girl's information, putting as her occupation "Ehrenhäftling"- Special prisoner. Looking up, the Rapportführer calmly beckoned the next woman forward, not missing the way her wide eyes flicked from him to the street the girl was led down. They learn by examples made of them. He held out his hand.

"Identification."



Thalia was ushered along the long, muddy, slushed streets of the encampment, the grip on her arm forcing her to keep up with the young officer's clipped pace. At the end of the road the man turned right, past a few more fences, until they reached a slope of a hill removed from, and overlooking the encampment. Atop it stood the Lagerkommandant's home, and to it's right, slightly smaller, was his report officer's. Dragged up to the latter, the girl was thrown unceremoniously into the the foyer of the wooden home. Her accompanying SS officer snapping orders for the girl to start a fire, before striding past her. He returned after a few moments to throw the damp, naked woman a towel.

"Cover yourself."

Taking up guard of the door, the soldier stood still, watching his charge as were his orders.

 

[destati]

• • 
    She lowered her arms to her side when the Rapportführer took her papers, and as she waited for the man to look at the forms she made an attempt to warm herself; with her left hand, she stroked her right arm from wrist to shoulder, the goose bumps and prickled hair no longer as obvious. The same procedure would have been performed on her other arm had it not been for the way the Rapportführer hissed his words.
    
    Hesitantly, she looked at the source of his anger — her damaged identification files. The mixture of ink and water had blotted out segments of crucial information, but it was not bad enough where he would need to squint his eyes to make out the general gist. Still, the way he had hissed made her swallow hard, fearing that she would be reprimanded for her carelessness. No such thing happened. Instead, the next few minutes passed in silence as the man examined her bare figure. She visibly tensed when his gaze dropped lower.
    
    The subtle smile that appeared on his face worried her. It had been far too long since she saw a smile, genuine or not.
    
    “N-No,” her teeth chattered in response; as if to prove her innocence, she shook her head. “I did n-not ruin my papers on p-purpose.” The water felt like ice against her skin, a hindrance to her speech. Had she not known any better, Talia would have assumed the droplets had turned to ice. Before she had the opportunity to test her theory, the man grabbed a handful of her hair, exposing her body further as he raised her hair to eye level. The foreign sensation of warmth had returned to her cheeks, but not due to actual heat — it was from shame.
    
    “Are you stupid? Blind?”
    
    “B-But,” she stammered, desperately wanting to say she was pushed past the barber, but no such words left her mouth. Maybe it was from the cold. Maybe she was just too nervous to speak. Regardless, he pulled at her hair until her face was inches from his, the expression on his not at all pleasant. She could do nothing more than listen to him as he barked his threats and called for a lower officer. The grip on her hair loosened, only to be replaced as the soldier seized her arm and led her down a street. It was neither the way her mother nor the healthy women went.
    
    Where, then, was she going?
    
    
    
    Talia followed the officer in silence. There were no wails of protest as he led her away from the camp and to a new area, an area that appeared to be habitable. More so than the area where they came from. Warmer, too. The wooden room was pleasant — the girl’s shivering had decreased dramatically — even without a fire. But the officer ordered her to start a fire. She found an old fireplace and brick hearth located on the east side of the room; three small birch logs were still inside the fireplace.
    
    She took the towel with great care and wrapped it around her body. It was thin and mangled, but it soaked up the remaining water droplets and provided some warmth. “A sheynem dank,” she said in appreciation — thank you very much — to the officer before he retreated to the door.
    
    Turning back to the fireplace, Talia took a match from the mantle and crouched down. She struck it against the brick three times before a glow appeared, and then she placed the match with the birch logs. It took seconds for the flame to transfer over to the logs. It took minutes for the room to become warm.
    
    She continued to crouch next to the fire, allowing herself to bask in its comfortable warmth.

 

[Nico]

Boots thumped up the creaking stairs and across the small porch, stomping the majority of the snow from the soles before the front door flew open. Ingolf nodded to the guard who smartly stiffened, clicking his boots together before leaving. Dark eyes fell on the girl huddling beside the common fireplace. She looked so delicate. Like a pretty flower that had bent, bowed under winter ice. Small, weak, and helpless. His gut clenched, a burning pooling there. When was the last time he had touched soft flesh? Too long ago…

Taking a few deliberate strides forward, he stood before the girl. Silent, Ingolf's frown twitched down slightly. Without pause a hand whipped out- catching her across her face brutally. The backhand sent her sprawling. Before she could gather her bearings, he had knelt heavily beside her, turning the girl over so she lay on her back. A leather glove traced her reddening left cheek slowly, a tight smile on his lips. One arm rested relaxed upon his knee, the other rose from her cheek to brush chaotic strands out of captivating, wide eyes. She was such a prize.

"You will not run, yes?" He tucked a strand behind her ear gently.

Showing his teeth, Ingolf smiled, "The hounds beyond that door will not hesitate to tear into your pretty flesh."

Drawing her pale hand up to his lips, he inhaled the scent of her skin, placing a kiss on the back of her palm. Ingolf let his hand trail down her collarbone, pulling slightly on the towel she held wrapped as he brushed his hand down, feeling over the soft curves under the thin material. Lust piqued in him, and he did not conceal it. Hungry, Ingolf wanted to see more of the creamy skin. He took up a fistful of her cover, yanking on it. Not violently enough to rip it away from the girl, but enough to jar her. Ingolf watched the prisoner's face for a reaction. Would she fight him? Or would she bawl, like the pitiful, infested prostitutes his men took joint pleasure from?

 

[destati]

• • 
    
    Brown eyes flickered up from the incinerating birch logs, taking sight of the Rapportführer as he barged through the door and gave an unspoken order to the guard. The room grew quiet after the guard’s dismissal, the only sound that continued to linger being the crackling fireplace. Talia did not look away once the Rapportführer caught sight of her, nor did she budge an inch when he stepped into her personal space. Instead, she merely watched him in silence, her face void of expression as the man stood and examined her with a frown on his face.
    
    Without hesitation, he slapped her face and sent her toppling backwards to fall with a thump on her hip. She had no time to move, let alone ponder what just happened, before she was positioned on her back, causing her bony spine to grind against the floor. Her cheek turned ruddy in color and began to throb with pain, though the young girl did not dare move her hand to soothe the irritated skin. He beat her to that, anyway. She flinched at his touch, the soft sensation of his glove providing no comfort for her sore cheek.
    
    “You will not run, yes?”
    
    Swallowing, she nodded her head once, an indication that she harbored no desire to run. Running would lead to her inevitable demise. Her muscles stiffened when he placed a feather-light kiss on her hand, soon to let his hand glide over her small breasts and rib-exposed stomach. It was the first time her gaze broke, long enough for her to glance at his hand as he grabbed a chunk of the towel, pulling at the flimsy material until the curve of her pallid hip was exposed.
    
    Before the Rapportführer could continue, she seized the towel and pulled back, a surprising burst of strength allowing the girl to reclaim her covering, minus the chunk in his hand that had ripped off. “N-No,” she begged, sitting up and wriggling herself away from him, her eyes desperate and pleading. “Not that. Anything but that.” It took a matter of seconds before her back came in contact with one side of the room, preventing her from backing up any further. “Please, I beg of you.”