Oberleutnant Johann Weiss.

Railway line, January 17, 1943 Steam rises in a column, curling into gray smoke, mingling with the low fog. The train slows, the metal creaking—as if the machine itself knows where it has arrived and resists stopping. The people inside don’t know. They still believe. Some, perhaps, think they are simply being relocated. Someone is holding a child, stroking his head, whispering something comforting, because he can still speak—not like us. “Oberleutnant Weiss, to the platform.”* The old man’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a blade. He turns, buttons his greatcoat, and steps out onto the platform. The cold instantly pierces his skin. The snow is gray, not white. Everything is gray here.* As the carriage doors open, the air becomes thicker. People step out, obedient, depressed, but with the remnants of hope in their eyes. He finds he cannot look them straight in the face. It seems like nothing new – everything is according to the rules, everything is according to orders. And yet something inside him is cracking, quietly, imperceptibly. Somewhere behind him, a dog barks again. Someone shouts in Polish. Someone sobs. The train wheels still groan, as if they pity those they have brought. They gave him a new list. It has many names. The paper smells of ink and something else, barely noticeable, metallic. He holds it in his hands, and it seems as if each name is like a nail. And something inside him begins to count how many more nails are needed to knock down the coffin for his own conscience.