Interlude

Buchenwald Concentration Camp December 1944

        "Promiňte, mohl byste prosím být zticha? Snažím se usnout.”

Milo and Fritz both turn over in the bunk to glance at the third prisoner sharing it with them. The hour has gotten late as Milo has been whispering his story.

“Hm?” Fritz mumbles, not understanding the man’s language.

“I’m not sure,” Milo whispers, “but I think he’s telling us to go to sleep — and we probably should.”

Fritz tries to fight a yawn, but it overtakes him anyway. “Yeah, you’re right. You have to promise you’ll tell me the next part of your story later, though.”

“Alright.”

Fritz snuggles down as much as he can in the bunk. “Gute Nacht, Milo.”

“Sleep well.”

The next morning is cold and crisp — the sun barely rising above the horizon. In the courtyard, all the prisoners from the barracks stand at attention while the officer in charge of the block completes the roll call. It is something that happens every day, without much variation in the routine, but something about this morning feels different. Ominous.

Milo notices the nervous shifting of some prisoners to his left. None of them make a murmur or whisper, lest they be shot, but the wave of unrest is almost audible. Then the sound of boots crunching in the snow can be heard, and soon the source becomes visible.

It’s the camp Kommandant, followed by his retinue of subordinate officers. The block officer stands at attention to salute him.

“Sieg heil, Kamerad Oberführer!” 

The Kommandant returns the salute, then pulls out his clipboard and faces the crowd of prisoners. There is a terrible, strangled silence that falls over them. Milo can feel Fritz shivering next to him. 

      The Kommandant clears his throat. “It has come to my attention,” he says, “that there was an incident involving this group the other day during the snowstorm.” The Kommandant narrows his eyes. “Apparently a few of you thought it wise to disrespect my guards.”               

The strain of the silence continues. Milo and Fritz exchange a worried glance. 

“That sort of thing will not be tolerated,” the Kommandant goes on, “and, frankly, the instigators of such insolence should have been shot on sight.” He begins to pace, his arms and clipboard poised behind his back. “My guards were merciful enough to spare you … for some reason. I, however, must find a way to maintain some order around here, so I will need to see you.” 

He stops pacing and pulls the clipboard back out, flipping to a specific page. “Prisoners 59723 and 56836,” he reads, “step forward.” 

Milo and Fritz do as the Kommandant says, lined up side by side in front of him. Then the Kommandant dismisses the rest of the prisoners. One by one, they shuffle off to their assignments for the day. 

Soon, Milo, Fritz, and the Kommandant stand alone in the empty courtyard. A lone crow flies overhead, buffeted by the wind, and Milo tries to focus on it. He imagines for a split second that he is the crow, free to go wherever he wants, but the feeling is fleeting. The Kommandant begins to pace again and continues to flip through his clipboard, the rustling of the papers ripping through the silence. 

“Prisoner 56836,” he begins, glaring momentarily at Fritz. “Detained for desertion from the Wehrmacht following the attack at Normandy.” A disgusted sigh escapes him. “So you are a coward. It’s a wonder they sent you here instead of disposing of you right then and there. Though I figure they deemed it inefficient to waste the lead on someone as pathetic as you.”

Fritz flinches at the words, staring down at his feet.  

The Kommandant then glances at Milo. “And you,” he spits, “prisoner 59723 — were brought here from Natzweiler-Struthof, imprisoned for the crime of treason. Both of you are lucky to still be alive, and yet you have the audacity to undermine my guards.” He stops pacing and looks at them furiously. “I can't tell whether you’re reckless or just stupid, but I have a feeling it’s the latter. So, for your stupidity, you will stand here until the sun goes down and think about what you have done.”

With a swift movement the Kommandant swipes all the papers back on his clipboard. “If anything like this should happen again,” he adds, giving them an ominous glare with his sharp blue eyes, “you’ll be dragged out into the woods and strung up in the trees so the other prisoners can hear your screams as a warning — at least, until the screaming inevitably stops.”

Milo and Fritz both gulp at the thought. The so-called “singing” forest: a torture so awful that no one ever comes back from it. It would be kinder to be hanged or shot in the back of the head than be sent out there.

Seeing the stricken looks on their faces, the Kommandant says, “I’m glad we’ve all come to an understanding.” He then turns swiftly to the nearby guard tower and shouts up to the guard. “If these prisoners move even an inch … shoot them!”

“Yes, Kamerad Oberführer!” the guard shouts back. 

Hours later, the sun is high in the sky. It isn’t warm by any means, but the sun's light has been enough to melt the courtyard into a slushy mess of mud and ice. The moisture from this slop has sunk its way deep into Milo and Fritz’s shoes, soaking their threadbare socks and the cuffs of their trousers. The misery and the cold have set into their bones completely. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Fritz utters pitifully. His knees wobble, and he shivers. 

Milo glances over at him, worry in his eyes. “Fritz…”

“Just let them shoot me already.”

“Stop it!” Milo hisses. “We only have a few more hours until the sun goes down.”

“A few more hours…” Fritz begins to sob. His shoulders shake, and he winces. 

“Come on,” Milo says earnestly. “We can’t give up now. Look, they never explicitly told us not to speak to each other, so … so just listen to some more of my story. Can you at least do that?”

Fritz sucks back his tears and nods. After a few moments of regaining his composure, he speaks again. “Did … did Lukas become your friend after all?” he asks.