Schlachtet die Unschuldigen

“I heard a thousand blended notes, while in a grove I sate reclined, in that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to mind.”
- William Wordsworth

The coarse and twisted barbed wire was crusted with rust from the passage of time. Reeds of grass, that had died long ago, snaked upward through the barbed wire and around the pylons supporting the wire. Their tips begged to scrape against the steel gray of the April sky.
A single line of footprints led away from the fence, like a rape of the virgin white satin of recently fallen snow. Henrick Steinbaum’s mind wandered to another time, as he looked at the crumbling ruins of the buildings on the other side of the fence and guard towers that stood like sentinels, not guarding to make sure prisoners stayed in, but guarding to make sure the sticky fingers of passing time did not steal away the lessons of yesterday.
A small, red rose had begun to bloom, it’s stem leaning against the pylons, and its thorns fighting a static battle against the barbs of the wire: neither would win.
The rose’s head was a deep red, like the blood that had been spilt here. Like a reminder of times gone by, that had not yet become a distant memory on an ocean of tears, the small rose swayed gently in the breeze. His mind swam back sixty years as a single snowflake made its passage from the sky and made a gentle landing on his cheek; his thoughts going back to the days when he had first arrived here, and had seen his son.

It had been almost a year since Erich Steinbaum had arrived at Buchenwald KZ just outside of Weimar. He toiled in the misery of the early April snow. The quarry cart was almost filled to capacity with the large stones that the SS would sell. Though he was only twelve years of age, not yet a man, but not exactly a child, he was forced to work along side the older men, with their vacant eyes. His own eyes had become empty and hopeless too. It was as though his body was still alive, but his soul had perished after his family had been killed before him as they ran from the Gestapo. Erich had tripped on a loose stone in the street, and the large hands of a Gestapo soldier had grabbed him, even as he tried to get up.
It seemed strange, if not mildly ironic, to Erich that his father had fought in the Great War, and was punished, likely executed, for running. It didn’t seem like the way things should have been.
His tattered camp uniform was filthy and torn from the long days of labor in the quarry. His head, shaven, and face scarred, there was really no such thing as hope, love, or a better tomorrow for the people in the camp. News had spread through much of the camp that there had been massive deportations east. They called it “relocation.”
Of course, none of it could be confirmed, and often, many of the soldiers and guards at the camp had said the same thing: “Arbeit macht frei.”
Those words had become a mantra that even, the other prisoners had taken to repeating just to keep morale high enough to get through each day of vicious labor, and each bitterly cold night.
In the distance, he heard the clanging of metal indicating the day of torturous work was over, and a sleepless night was coming, once again. Life at Buchenwald was one of routines.

The mess hall on the opposite side of the camp smelled horrible. The moldy bread that was referred to as “rations,” was spotted with dark greenish-blue circles. The water was tinted brown and often tasted of sulfur. Erich sat by himself. A man in a new camp uniform stood looking down at him him.
New arrivals were given a new uniform that they would wear until they were too weak to work, or until they were executed by the Nazi guards running the camp. Erich continued eating his bread.
“Erich? Erich Steinbaum, is that you, my boy?”
Erich’s head jerked up as he immediately recognized the baritone voice of his father. “Father?”
He stood up with such joy and ferocity at the same time, his water and bread fell to the ground. He hugged his father tightly, and he prayed, to himself, that he would never have to let go. He never wanted to let go again.
Henrick Steinbaum was taller than his son by only a foot, but the last of his family was holding onto him with all of his strength. Considering the pain and suffering that had been inflicted on many of the different prisoners in the camps and the Jewish Ghettos in the larger cities like Berlin and Hamburg, seeing his only son, brought a thankfulness to Henrick, that he had not felt in a long time.

Henrick held his son close to his own husky body in the wooden barracks that usually held one person. His son shivered in the painful cold. The barracks were not heated, because, well, frankly, the guards had told them they had to conserve everything to fight the American, Soviet, and British forces trying to invade the Fatherland. While many Jews knew that was another of the many lies that had been told to them, a secret hope had spread through Buchenwald. Many hoped that American and British soldiers would and ease the suffering in Buchenwald by destroying the parasite Germany had become, but Henrick was content in the moment.
“Father, I have missed you greatly. I thought you were,” Erich started to sob softly. “Father, I thought the Gestapo had killed you.”
Although it was dark, Henrick could imagine the look on his son’s face. “My son, have you forgotten the most important thing we had talked about while you were a child?”
Erich thought back to happier times, when they would go for a walk in the parks of Weimar. The trees were green, and his father would buy him a chocolate candy bar, and tell him of the Torah, and the profits like Isaiah and Jeremiah. He used to tell his wife they had to “go out and discuss manly things.”
Erich loved those days more than anything. Not because of the chocolate candy, although it was wonderful, but because his father made him feel like a man, and not some child that was more of a burden. Henrik Steinbaum had tried his best to remind his son of the important things in life, like observing the Sabbath and keeping the Torah.
“My son, do you know where God is?”
His son held on to him even tighter. “Father, God is always with us, because we are his children, right father?”
Henrick smiled to himself. His son had always tried his hardest to please him. “Good night, my son. Maybe before we wake, our Father will deliver us.”
And as Erich and Henrick Steinbaum fell asleep in each other’s arms, for the first time, Erich felt hopeful, that God would deliver them from the evil of Buchenwald and the Reich. After all, God had brought his father here.

Major Hermann Freid looked down at the many shaven heads below him. Erich and Henrick Steinbaum stood towards the rear of the assembled crowd.
Freid was a cruel little man. He wore wire-rimed glasses and his hair so white it had a faded yellow tint to it. Every Jew at Buchenwald hated him with a passion greater than anything else. He had been known to shoot people or take a whip and strangle prisoners, just because they looked at him funny or he was having a bad day.
He also looked fat in his leather SS issue coat that went to the ground, and was adorned with the skulls of the SS. Hermann Freid liked to make himself think he was important, because he was second in charge of Buchenwald, and he had gotten commendation after commendation from the Fuehrer, himself.
“We have been told that there was a theft last night.” Freid yelled at the crowd. “This is a horrible crime against the Reich. Should the guilty decide to absolve themselves, they shall be punished, it will be mild. Seit ehrlicb!”
At the back of the crowd, Henrick shook his head in disgust.
No hands were raised in admission to the theft.
“Since we do not have an honest soul in this place, we shall not worry. For a witness has come forward, and we know the three people that should bear responsibility for this travesty,” Freid yelled, obviously pleased, that he ran such a disciplined camp. Would the following prisoners make their way up here immediately? 4024, 4746, and 4329”
4746? That number seemed quiet familiar to both Steinbaums. Erich looked down at his faded uniform. On his left breast were it read “4746.”
Abruptly, from behind, two SS guards grabbed him, and took him around the perimeter of the crowd, and directly in front and below Major Freid. “You three thieves should know better than to steal from your fellow workers. Because of your lack of respect and caring, I have decided, you shall immediately be hanged. This kind of treachery is unacceptable.”
Freid did not necessarily direct his babblings to the two old men and child at his feet, but more to the crowd of sad eyes.
The three prisoners were led up the stairs to the small balcony where Freid stood. Three ropes hung from a cross bar that used to hold up an overhanging patio roof. Henrick Steinbaum noticed the railings had been removed. His son was pushed up first. He would be the first to die this morning. Freid himself put the noose around Erich’s neck. Then, with one gloved hand, Freid pushed Erich Steinbaum off the balcony.
Henrick hoped his son’s neck would break immediately so he would not suffer. This didn’t happen, though.
For what seemed like an eternity, Erich Steinbaum struggled, as he gasped for air. His father’s heart broke a little more with each passing second. Without thinking, Henrick spoke, only audible to those immediately around him. “Erich, where is God.”
He did not notice the old rabbi standing next to him. The rabbi’s hand touched his shoulder, and Henrick jumped; startled by the old man. “God is there.”
The rabbi pointed at the boy that hung, his body nearing death, his soul nearing peace; his son’s body.
“God is there,” the rabbi said again.

Henrick Steinbaum stood for a moment longer staring at the ruins of Buchenwald. His thoughts were desires of justice and peace as he thought of the son he had lost all those years ago. He asked himself one question aloud.
“Where is God?”