Concentration Camp. 3 Views

Veteran # A-106

The sound of a bell rings through the air. The veterans barely notice it. Number A-106 stops working and sits down. This prisoner has been in Auschwitz for over 10 years and is barely affected by anything he sees in the camps anymore. Where there once was a cheerful, vibrant and somewhat handsome face there are only sunken eye-sockets and dirty, scarred skin. He used to wake up and curse his life and his God, but now just doesn’t care. A-106 doesn’t care about much any more. He looks out the door at a tall pole with a loudspeaker and a bell attached to the top and mumbles, “I hate that bell.” A-106 stands up and slowly ambles to the door, only to be shoved to the ground by a rough looking SS officer.
“Alright you swine, today we received a shipment of more Jews and you know what that means. You get the filthy job of tattooing them. I want to be able to read it too, or you’ll go to the crematory!” The officer drops a box just inside the door before stalking off, undoubtedly looking for another Jew to hit.
A-106 struggles to his feet. He laughs to himself about the “crematory” threat. It doesn’t scare him anymore. Sometimes he considers trying to get thrown in just to put an end to the monotony of the camp. Everyday is the same thing—get up, work, eat, go to bed, with a few beatings every now and again. The boredom is almost as bad as the actual treatment, which he and the other veterans had become used to.
He struggles to his feet, picks up the box full of medical instruments and ink and walks outside where two other veterans set up a table. They sit down and ready the instruments for the traditional branding of the new livestock.
The new prisoners line up, and he starts to carve the numbers where he stopped on the last group. The first one becomes A-7012. The next, A-7013. This should be a good job. It’s easy, takes all day and leaves no time for any other jobs, and the SS are too busy hitting the new recruits to even notice him, but still. This job is another one of the things that still affects him. He knows what is in store for these people. He knows far too well. He feels pity for these people. A-7354 has a lot of moles on his arm, he thinks to himself. Other than the arms, he doesn’t see the people he is tattooing. He prefers not to look up so that he can avoid seeing the fear in their eyes, the pained expressions on their faces. For a while the time passes uneventfully until a thin arm is put in front if his face. He can’t help himself. He looks up to see the face of a young man, younger than most he sees come through this camp. The boy can’t be past fifteen years old! He looks back down to his arm and tattoos the boy’s new name: A-7713. This boy, he thinks, won’t be able to handle what he sees here. There were grown men in here who lose their minds in days. What chance does a boy have? For the first time in as long as he can remember, he prayed.

Ben Demsky
A bell sounds and the ring resonates through the muggy air. Ben Demsky looks up with a start at the bell and a loudspeaker secured far up on a pole. He looks back down at his feet and paces back and forth, his mind swimming from what he has seen in the last week. Guards yelling insults, randomly beating people, even killing Jews like himself are sights already too commonplace. He looks over to the shaded side of the barracks. The other Jews seem to have forgotten where they are. They all lean in the shade of the barracks and sleep, talk, even laugh. The merry chatter is almost sickening. “Don’t they know where they are?” he thinks to himself.
Everything that Ben had owned in his previous life had been taken from him. His money, his possessions, his house had all been collected and any scrap left over undoubtedly swiped by his treacherous neighbours. He lost everything. The Nazis stole everything he had, including his pride, by forcing him to run through the mud from barracks to shower and back naked until being given mismatched clothing.
Money and his pride mean nothing now. Only his memories of life before; of his family have any meaning. A tear rolls down his cheek as he thinks of his wife and daughter. He can still vividly picture the look on his wife’s face as the SS officer pointed her and their daughter left and himself right. His heart broke at the sound of his young daughter’s quivering voice whimpering, “Why can’t daddy come with us?” Another tear rolls down his cheek. He hasn’t seen them since. Wherever they were he prays that they are safe and at peace now.
“Hey you pigs!” the yell of an SS officer cuts through the air, “Get over to those tables and get your number or it’s the crematory for you! When you get to the tables bare your left arm and give it to the veterans! Get going!” the officer shoves Ben over to the table and then departs on his inhumane duties.
The sound of happy chatter dies instantly as all of the Jews walk to the tables. Ben Demsky is first in line. Ben holds out his left arm and looks at the veteran. He almost doesn’t look human. He looks more like a skeleton with skin. Sunken eyes and a very visible rib cage make Ben shudder. The sting of an ink-filled needle snaps him out of his trance. The man doesn’t look at Ben, not even when his work is done, only motions him to the side so that others can get tagged.
Ben looks down at his arm and almost laughs. He thought that the Nazis had taken all that he had, but he was wrong. There is more than money, pride and family. He understands now. When that needle had stopped moving on his arm, Ben Demsky, the banker from Sighet, had died. All that was left was A-7012, property of the fascist regime.


SS Officer
The SS officer looks at the clock on the wall. He takes a breath and stands up out of his chair. “Damn it! Only 5 minutes left on my break. Hey Guard, where’s that tattoo equipment? I got a shipment of Jews that I need tagged.”
“It’s still sitting under the table in the storage closet from last time we had a tagging done. Hasn’t even been cleaned.” SS guard replies.
“Ha ha, oh well. As soon as it touches those Jews it’ll be dirtier anyway!” The Officer and the guard break into fits of laughter. The officer checks the clock again before walking over to a button on the wall and pushing it. The muffled sound of a bell is heard and the guard, with a grimace, grabs the box of tattooing equipment from the closet and walks out into the yard of the concentration camp. He holds the box in one hand and walks into the barracks.
“There’s one of the old Jews coming outside. This couldn’t have been timed more perfectly! Stupid vermin, I hate these filthy Jews.” Thinks the officer as he shoves the old veteran down to the ground. The officer smiles and bellows, “Alright you swine, today we received a shipment of more Jews and you know what that means. You get the filthy job of tattooing them. I want to be able to read it too, or you’ll go to the crematory!” he drops the box of equipment by the door and stalks off on another errand.
As he walks, the officer looks at the new Jews. “I hope you all burn,” he thinks, “I know that if we hadn’t captured you first, you would have done the same to us. Dirty, evil beasts. This is what you get! Because of you, we lost the first war. Wouldn’t help us, wouldn’t spend some of your precious money to fund the war campaign. Hah, that’s another thing. You Jews and your money. Answer me this: why do the Jews have so much money? I don’t know, but I’m glad that they don’t have any anymore.”
The SS officer sees the Jews sitting in the shade of the barracks, relaxing, and it makes his blood boil. “Hey you pigs!” the yell of an SS officer cut through the air, “Get over to those tables and get your number or it’s the crematory for you! When you get to the tables bare your left arm and give it to the veterans! Get going!” the officer hollers as he shoves a Jewish man toward the tables.
The officer stalks away, ready to start beating any Jew who steps out of line.