My mouth becomes bone dry—I’m unable to swallow while questioning why I’ve been told to be here.
A long, narrow one-story building with a harrowing pitched roof is in front of us and a cold sweat climbs up the back of my neck as we approach the foreboding entrance. Damp wood, mildew and musk taint the air, despite the modern appearance of the interior. The floors are unfinished, and the wallpaper pattern is dark and busy. The atmosphere is tense.
Officers and guards stride by me, ignoring my presence as if I’m nothing more than the shadow of the man I’m following. We walk past rooms, bleak with desks with typewriters, chairs, and filing cabinets. A larger room with one long table and many chairs appears to be a meeting space. Then there are closed doors, slimmer than doors to the offices. The corridor appears endless as we continue walking ahead until the guard stops and pivots on his heels to face an open door.
“Officer Schäfer, your enslaved laborer has arrived.”
The introduction makes me curl my fingers into fists by my side. I’ve been many things in my life, but to be referred to as a slave when slavery has long been abolished can only be seen as a purposeful method of intimidation—name calling. Though, I’m not sure what else he could refer to me as, as I’m working against my will.
“Come,” Schäfer commands.
He speaks to people as if they’re household pets. This man has nothing more than traits of inferiority masked with his ability to make a one-shot kill. The guard steps aside, allowing me to walk inside of Schäfer’s barren workspace: a simple oak desk, typewriter, telephone, pen, inkpot, and a leather-bound notepad. Through the windows, rows of identical wooden barracks stretch into a foggy gray horizon. My pulse hammers in every vein as I stare at this man.
He opens a desk drawer, retrieves a folder, and drops it flat on his desk. “Sign these.”
“What are they?”
He snickers, an odd sound from the permanent scowl he wears. “I take it you can read?”
I take the folder into my hands and open the flap, finding a short stack of German typed papers. While he continues to stare at me as I struggle to read through all the text and decipher unfamiliar German terms, my focus catches on one line I can clearly make out:
In corroboration to your position serving a lieutenant of the Reich, you agree to any necessary retrieval of birth records, school records, and religious affiliation records.
“Fill these out and sign the communication agreement at the end,” he states.
“Now? I’d like time to review them properly.”
“These papers do not leave the room. You have ten minutes.”
He leans back in his seat and folds his hands behind his neck.
My throat swells and I dip the pen into the ink and begin writing. By the time I reach the last section, my hand is stiff and shaking. It’s a rewritten copy of the house rules, a reminder not to speak to any prisoner or other slaves working under his roof. No speaking without permission. And never mention what I’ve seen or heard. Consequences for not obeying these rules will be at Officer Schäfer’s discretion.
He takes the papers from my hand and flips through the pages. “You’ve missed answers.”
A raucous scream drives through the rumbling window. Schäfer doesn’t flinch, but I can’t stop myself from looking out for the source of noise.
I squint at what I’m seeing outside. “There’s a man having a seizure or something of the sort just on the other side of the fence.”
“Not a seizure,” Schäfer says.
“How do you—he’s?—”
“He’s dead,” Schäfer drones. “Those fences have electrical currents running through them, and some of the—” he clears his throat, “—Jews can’t accept their fate in this world and turn to other means of escaping.”
If I react, I will be giving him exactly what he wants. I will not react. I didn’t want to see another person die. It’s been a day. Just a day.
“I gave you everything I have. There’s nothing more to find. I tried to explain this to you last night.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know my parents’ names.”
“You were a ward,” he says. “An orphan.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I can help.” He taps the pile of papers into alignment. “There are sealed records, protected information—children born out of wedlock, adoptions, that sort of thing. These files are not easily accessed.”
