Albrecht 1

Emily Albrecht

Mrs. Aeschliman-Spear

World Literature II

18 February 2017

Night Alternate POV

The emerald-eyed Nazi, Fleischer, watched them. He watched them intently and

analytically, gun slung tightly across his chest. He was a butcher sizing up the animals he

prepared to slaughter. It was satisfying, really, possessing the knowledge that this filth was no

longer permitted to roam the spic and span streets of Sighet. Soon they would at least make

themselves useful somewhere. The mans job was to guard the platform of this particular cattle

car as they all traveled to Kaschau onward, accompanied by one other member of the Gestapo.

He had been recruited to the transport teams taking all Jews in that area to Birkenau, making

necessary stops here and there along the way: a duty that would not go unnoticed nor unrewarded

by his superiors. Another incentive was that he could have potentially had the pleasure of

shooting any one of them if they engaged in an attempt to escape. He had heard whispers that

most groups had at least one nut that legitimately thought he or she could get out of there alive.

What a riot.

The David-star prisoners were crammed together like livestock in an undersized pen,

radiating an almost tangible air of fear from their tremor-torn bodies. They sat there inert, as if

festering in the asphyxiating silence. Dust undulated up in clumps from the floor of the car as it

jerked and sputtered on its way, with weak rays of dismal sunlight squeezing in through the

cracks in the feeble creaking wood. In spite of this, the soldier and his Gestapo companion

essentially strolled up and down the length of the platform, expressions twisted into languid
 Albrecht 2

smiles. This was a highly simplistic task, one that grew tiring after a while, so the two

occasionally allowed themselves to engage in bouts of harmless small talk when there seemed to

be nothing else to do. Most of the prisoners obeyed every order well, and the transport itself had

gone just about as smoothly as it ideally could have. As Fleischer considered this, the dim

lighting and strange shadows forced his eyes to see everything in sepia. It was as if he were

somewhat dreaming, body operating on instinct while mind wandered to more abstract things.

Where would they be assigned next upon their return? How would the Fhrer reward them when

they were done? How many Jews would they get to kill on the journey? But suddenly:

Fire! I see a fire! I see a fire!

A scream plunged sharply through the tranquil hum of the boxcar, driving a wedge between

Fleischer and his thoughts. One of the undesirables continued to screech that she saw fire, over

and over again, her voice reverberating loud and wild off the walls. Irritated, the man stormed

into that section of the car and readied himself to deal a blow to her dirty face with the butt of his

rifle. However, he soon came to realize (not without amusement) that the other Jews were doing

all they could to try to quiet her; they huddled around her telling her to shut up, covering her

mouth, even striking her down in the same manner he prepared to. Their primitive actions

stemmed from the fact that they were so afraid of what he would do to them if they displeased

him in any way. He watched this chaos unfurl with cold, idle interest. Beating down their own

kind. Gott, what animals. Animals that made his job easier though, he supposed, shrugging

nonchalantly to himself. Soon the soldier deemed the situation under control and spun on the

heel of his boot, returning to his place between sections to prepare for the next stop of the

transport.