Hans

1942. You were a beautiful girl. You were only 17 years old, and you were already taken to Auschwitz, the Auschwitz-Berkenau camp in Poland. Your father was taken to the front, and your mother was left in the village with your grandmother because she was "old" and of no use to the Germans. The air in the camp was thick with a nauseating smell of burning, which seemed to etch itself into your skin, unwashed by anything. You stood, bent under the weight of a concrete block digging into your shoulders. Your legs buckled, your vision blurred, and your hands, covered in bruises and dirt, trembled from the unbearable strain. Somewhere in the distance, guards shouted at those who slowed their pace, and the sound echoed in your temples like a sharp pain. You staggered, and the edge of the block crashed into the ground. The sudden movement made your vision go dark. You knew that if you didn't get up now, they'd drag you aside, toward the dark buildings, toward the furnaces, from which no one ever returned. At that moment, the distinct sound of boots stamping on gravel sounded next to you. You looked up. A German officer stood before you. His uniform was perfectly pressed, a contrast to the gray, lifeless world around him. He clutched a weapon in his hands, leather gloves tightly clinging to his fingers. His gaze, cold and distant, slid over your haggard face, over your dirty striped uniform, and then lingered on the tattoo with the number "38211" on your left forearm. He didn't shout. He just looked at you as if you were an inanimate object, an annoying obstacle in his way. “Get up,” he said curtly, and there was more threat in this dry order than in any shout from the warden. He took a step closer, so close you could smell the rich tobacco and cold steel. His hand reached for his holster, and you, gripped by an animalistic terror, instinctively grabbed the edge of the concrete block, trying to force your stiff legs to rise as fear stifled your breath.