Interlude

Buchenwald Concentration Camp, 

December 1944

The wooden bunk is hard against Milo’s back as he lies there, engaged in telling his story to the boy, Fritz. His voice is barely a whisper, and the only other sounds are the snores of sleeping prisoners and a faint scratching just above Milo's head, which he’s pretty sure is a mouse. He ignores it, continuing to whisper.

“So I hid my sketchbook underneath my bed.” Milo yawns, his eyes half-lidded as he fights sleep. For a second, he might actually be asleep, until a fleeting thought enters his mind. He chuckles softly. “Now that I mentioned it, I could sure use some käsespätzle right about now…” A smile upturns his lips as he thinks about the delicious noodles covered with cheese and onions. For the first time in a  while, the constant hunger he’s felt for months gnaws its way back to the forefront of his mind. “Have you ever tried it before, Fritz?”

There is no answer from the boy huddled up next to him.

“Fritz?”

Still no answer. Milo’s stomach sinks as he imagines the worst: the boy has died. At least it would be a small mercy for him to go in his sleep, Milo thinks. Then he wonders morbidly just how many people he’s seen die at this point. Too many to count…

Milo leans over to place his fingers on Fritz’s neck. Relief overcomes him when he can feel the pulse still present beneath the thin skin. Then a soft snore.

Breathing easy again, Milo turns over on his side, falling asleep himself.

                                                                                          *    *    *

BASH! BASH! BASH!

The sound jolts Milo awake. It seems like he’s only been asleep for a few minutes, but he knows better than to assume that. Next to him, Fritz stirs, grumbling. 

“Time to get up, you wretched scum!” shouts one of the guards. It’s the short, dark-haired one, this time being dragged along by a slobbering German shepherd. The dog snarls and snaps at every prisoner it sees, eager to be given the chance to attack — not much different from the guard who has only tenuous control over it at the moment. 

Milo and Fritz crawl out of the bunk, their bodies aching and stiff from being packed in so tightly all night. Then it’s off to another day of inane work.

It’s a clear day — no snow falling — which one might think is a relief, but it isn’t. With no clouds to blanket the sky, the cold is the bitter type that sinks deeply into the bones. All day, the prisoners toil again in their clearing of the camp. The snow from the previous night is the worst kind to shovel. It’s a soft graupel that caves in on itself every time it is sloughed away. 

As the day wears on, Milo watches as one prisoner after another drops to the ground. For a long while, the guards ignore those who have fallen, until they get in the way of the prisoners who are still conscious and working. Then they begrudgingly drag them away, either back to the barracks or the pile of corpses that has grown since the winter froze away  all opportunities to dig any shallow graves.

Eventually, the sun sets, painting the sky with blood-red clouds, and the prisoners who have made it through the day head to the mess hall. There, they are fed the thinnest soup imaginable. Milo thinks it might even simply be salted water. Then they are sent, still hungry, back to the barracks.

On their walk from the mess hall to the barracks, Fritz glances nervously over at Milo before he speaks. “I’m sorry I fell asleep while you told me your story,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Milo replies with a tired smile. “You definitely needed the sleep after yesterday.”

“When we get back to the bunkhouse, do you think you could continue?”

Milo rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You really want to hear the rest of it?”

They arrive at the barracks, and Fritz eagerly answers Milo as they both enter. “Oh, yes! I must know if you threw away your bird drawings or not. That’s the last thing I remember before drifting off.”

Milo lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m surprised hearing about my bird drawings didn’t deter you from ever speaking to me again.” 

“It’s not embarrassing,” Fritz insists. “I love art.”

When they have reached an open bunk, the two of them squeeze in to lie down. Milo leans back, trying to find the position that hurts the least, and Fritz moves over onto his side. They both huddle close to stave off the cold. Another prisoner joins the bunk eventually, but he doesn’t engage with either of them. 

“So,” Fritz whispers after a while, “did you throw away the drawings?”

“No, thankfully,” Milo says. “I just hid them under my bed that night and decided I wouldn’t let them be in a place where Anton and Arnold could see them anymore.”

“What happened next, then, Milo?”