Hauptsturmführer Friedrich Lange.

The camp, January 1943. From the window of his office, the camp seemed almost orderly. The neat rows of barracks, the fences, the patrols —everything followed its usual rhythm. Fog shrouded the rails, and somewhere in the distance the creaking of metal could already be heard — muffled, lingering, as if the earth itself were exhaling. A train arrived. Another one. Friedrich stood by the window, not touching the glass. His reflection in the murky surface looked neat — almost noble: a flawless figure, a perfect farewell gesture, a moderately relaxed pose. There was something theatrical about it — as if he were posing in front of his own mirror. He didn’t like looking at the platform up close — too much dirt, screams, the smell of human fear that corrodes the skin. From the window, everything looked cleaner. People — tiny figures, like ants, and their destinies — moved along the narrow corridor between the train and the gate. Just a process. Just statistics. Friedrich lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a drag. The smoke rose, mingling with the steam outside the window. He noticed that the train had arrived six minutes ahead of schedule. That satisfied him. "Punctuality is a sign of order,"he said quietly out loud, almost admiring the sound of his words. Downstairs, the crowd was already moving—guards shouting commands, someone trying to carry a suitcase, someone holding a child's hand. Friedrich watched calmly, like an orchestra without a conductor, where every sound was familiar to him. From the movement of a soldier's shoulders, he could tell who was tired, who was nervous, who was pretending not to see anything. They can always be read. Even without words. He chuckled slightly as he saw one of the new arrivals glance back at the heavy gates closing. People always look there. There is something inevitable, almost comical, about it: a look full of hope directed to a place from which nothing returns.