Schatzi

31

They took both Max and Peter away early the next morning, before roll call and before they could eat. They dragged them from their beds and marched them out of their block with rifles pointed at them, kicking them and jabbing them in the back if they even looked at any of the guards who took them.

Block 8 was right at the edge of camp, on the other side to the registration building and the train tracks that brought more and more prisoners in each day. It was smaller than most but still bigger than the gay block which was still easily the smallest. There remained very few of them while the number of Jews in camp grew every day.

There were a couple of buildings that looked just like the barracks back at their block, and Peter could see people walking in and out of them as they prepared to start the day. Numbers would soon be read out by the kapo and then the men would start work, most likely in the large expanse of field right next to the cluster of buildings.

Other than the barracks, there was a building that was as squat and blocky as the others but much larger, twisting and turning into a mess of architecture, the corridors and planning of the building clear from the shape alone. The guards led them both to this building.

The door swung open when it was pushed and Peter got a good glimpse of the interior lit by the sunrise outside before the door closed again and the first corridor was lit solely by the flickering and dying lightbulb above their heads which just cast strange, disfigured shadows onto the walls which didn't help the bubbling fear growing in Peter's stomach.

Along each side of the narrow corridor were doors, the kind with heavy locks on them and grates that slid across from the outside so captors could peer in on their prisoners.

It was like a scene out of a movie. It didn't feel real at all.

Max didn't utter a word to him for the whole journey, didn't even look at him. Even when the guards separated them to pull Max further down the corridor as Peter was pushed into one of the cells, he didn't react at all.

And then that was it.

He was alone in his cell, scared shitless and unbelievably confused.

There was a single, narrow bed in the corner, and the room was dimly lit so he could at least see where he was. The cell was clean, surprisingly so. It was newly built, had only been finished a couple of weeks ago. The dust from the bricks was still scattered across the floor like ash.

Word had gotten out quickly. Max spoke about the place like it was infamous, it's reputation widely known. How many people had fallen victim to this unassuming building in a couple of weeks if it was already known as a place of horrors and torture?

It made no sense. He should be dead, not sitting in a cell awaiting some mystery fate that he felt entirely undeserving of. He hadn't done anything that would result in this kind of treatment. Torturing him was worth too much effort for simply being caught out in the middle of the night. Normally, he would have been shot on the spot.

So why was he still alive?

He was left with that question, a torture of its own kind, for the two days that they left him in the cell with nothing. No food, no water, and nothing to give him a clue to what was going on.

When the door finally creaked open again, Peter was beginning to think there'd been some mistake, a mix up, and that he was to be taken back to his block or killed. Surely they'd realise by now that this wasn't what was supposed to happen. But two guards walked in and grabbed each of his arms, pulling him out of his cell forcefully.

"Where are we going?" He asked, his voice rising in fear. "Where are you taking me? Please, just tell me what's going on, I need to know!" He was shouting by now as they dragged him down the corridor, completely ignoring his pleas.