Hans Schmidt. Age 31, serving in the Third Reich, developing a series of artillery for the SS guard. His convoluting and disturbing ideas have been treated upon Auschwitz prisoners and used to either torture or kill. He spends his pass time drowning out the consequences of his actions with lies, excuses, and heavy bourbon. Unmarried because of his developed personality of being timid and self-conscious of the choices he made. He spends his nights only having the curtains drawn so he can never have to look at himself in the reflection. He’s a shallow man that only speaks when spoken to, and never disobeys the agenda he is faced with.
April 15th 1942, Oswiecim Poland, in a small stone house not 5 minutes from Auschwitz. Closed silky red curtains block every window, and occasionally they shimmer like a mini wave, as Hans peeks out of the window. The small manor is over bared by dark green trees that shadows over the stone house, and shielding the view of the little snake like stream of smoke that trails from the house. The area smell heavily of smoke and bodies. And the soldiers who visit smell of urine and alcohol. Small nods are greeted among the soldiers who arrive and stiff hands point to the sky as though saying “the man past those clouds , is the same man who’s leading our county past the great fall it has endured” Quiet shuffles squeak from the finely pressed uniforms. And eventually small claps of the reflecting badges fill the empty air. Hans not much taller than 1.56 meters conforms to the mass dressing of every other perfect German, with empty shallow eyes. Combed blonde hair that is pressed neatly to the side. That grey morning commences with Hans sitting in his uncomfortable red chair that pushes his body forward, to the extent of a bowing position. Hands pressed against the chair, his small chubby fingers start to become bright red from the anxiety. A stiff knock on the door fills the empty air. Two soldiers subsequently shuffle in, without waiting for Hans to look up. They barricade themselves around Hans, and speak in a strict tense voice. “You’re needed back at the camp, the General wants to see you.” Hans never looks up, as he knows they won’t reveal more. He steadies himself up, and puts on his lucky flask (which is lucky whenever it is full). He slides onto the smooth leather seat of the car, which has been washed countless times, even if it isn’t dirty, by the campers at Auschwitz. The two soldiers look with the same strong blue eyes that look straight past Hans, almost like they can’t even understand what they are doing themselves.
They arrive at the camp, with the large pillared monument overseeing the scattered huts that seem to run in a checkered formation, with different colored huts to symbolize different types of prisoners. They march into the doors like wind up dolls, with their little suits and their empty minds. Hans holds his head up to avoid gaze of the prisoners, but blindly collides with a small, frail man, with the bones showing from his face, almost like he was made of clay. The Guard to the right of Hans who smelled of blood, withdrew his gun and firmly shot the man he deemed to be a pig, while he closed his eyes and pretended like someone else was shooting. The body collapses to the floor, and men in stripes dragged their feet, to dispose of the body. The general waited outside the door, a small frail women, stood with her head lying down, breathing the dirt in, as her back went up and down like a pump. She rolled to the side to unveil her blue eyes. She stared directly at Hans. The General, handed a small gun that still had his finger prints molded onto it. The woman continued to look in Han’s eyes, which keep swarming in its place. The general says four simple words, “kill for your country.” His hands grew numb, and the paleness of his face fades to bright red. He whispers to himself “She’s just a fly standing in the way of our great nation. She’s just a fly, don’t look in her eyes.”