Cartsten Schröder was the little boy’s name, blonde hair blue eyes and the epitome of German perfection in 1923. Although, at the time the seven year old was unaware of any of these circumstances. He saw the world in the way every grown person whishes to see it, simple, safe and kind. He never saw the shadow. Never felt the seed planted into his own small impressionable life but it was planted and nurtured to bring forth unseen thorns.
                                                                                                            It was 1939 and a girl knelt at her bedside, tears falling down her pale cheeks. "God," she prayed. "Don't let them find out about us. Protect my family. I trust you please stop...this make this stop." Her name that is her real name was Ariella. Her parents  were kind people but in these times as was the case kind people were often fearful. No one’s fear was as great as Ariella's father. It was not fear of poverty discrimination or dark looming towers that plagued him.  Rather the fear of abandoning and ultimately failing the ones he loved.
Dominick Dominski had a lucky name and a fortunate heritage. He was a quiet man but this must not be confused with a meek one. From his youth Dominick dared to think, observe, and dream without ever speaking a single word. Yet his most radical dream could be accomplished only through words. Six words to be exact.
"Will you marry me Abbey Moskovitz?” the woman that stood before him blushed and smiled but it was not a happy smile.

"You and your dreams Dominick, this... this is not reality,” she said as she gestured to their intertwined hands.
Dominick looked down for a moment at the spring flowers that bloomed along the pathway. The evening air blew steady sending Abbey’s raven black hair in cascading waterfalls.
"What good is dreaming if it can't become true,” he asked as he pulled a golden ring from his left pocket. “Abbey I promise that this is much more than a dream."
Neither family approved of the marriage. "You’re endangering your future" said one. "You’re dishonoring your family" said the other. Yet when each family gazed into the impassioned eyes of their youths they could not find the malice within them to forbid the union. The marriage did come with one condition however. Dominic’s parents insisted that Abbey legally change her maiden name to a non-Jewish one in order to make the wedding "more honorable”. Dominick was horrified and humiliated at the bigotry of his family. He considered marrying a Jewish woman an honor not a limitation. Rather than take offense The Moskovitz’s family adamantly agreed. They believed that the name change would guarantee their beloved daughter more success and a simpler life then otherwise.  They advised her to distance herself from them and her Jewish ancestry.
"Leave us behind but never forget where you came from,” her mother told her as she rolled her daughters shiny hair into a bun on the day of her wedding. Little did the family know that Abbey’s false maiden name would do far more then add to the couple’s prestige. It would add years to their lives.
Three years after the marriage Poland was a different place. Discrimination had become hatred; hatred had become violence and violence a government mandate. When a little girl with raven hair and big doe eyes was born her parents knew she would need enough courage and strength for all of them. Ariella is Jewish for "lioness of God". It was not her real name. Her real name was Adela but within the Dominski family walls the girl was always called Ariella or simply Arie.
~

Years passed like leaves in the wind some painted in bright reds, and yellows others crumpled and brown. Soon when Cartston Schroder looked in the mirror he saw a young man hardened by time rather than a tow headed youth. Life was harsh on the tailor’s son. He found that society handed success to the wealthy while ripping it away from the working class. Cartston was not handed prosperity he stole it. Being a naturally intelligent, athletic and charismatic individual, Cartston stood out from the crowd. “A natural born leader,” a Hitlerjugend supervisor once said.
From a young age Carton knew what he wanted: to be exceptional. Nothing would stand in his way and nothing would persuade him to lose sight of his goals. He viewed himself as a lumberjack determined to make a mighty log cabin. It did not matter how many great oaks he would have to fell in the process as long as he succeeded in the end. By the age of 14 his peers found him unbearable but the HJ were impressed by his aggressive confidence and tactical intelligence. When Cartston Schroder finally reached the battlefield it was not long before his level headedness and passion for the German cause gained him the position of lieutenant. The tailor’s son was quite proud of himself.
~
Fear is a broad word. It encompasses different things for each person and sometimes many things all at once. It was 1943 and Ariella covered her face with her palms and drowned out the weeping and screaming around her. Two days they had lurched along in the cramped car never to stop for food, water or to relieve themselves. The smell was horrendous. The sight was heart wrenching and the sound was the worst of all. She heard the many occupants of the car gagging on the dry air or sobbing quietly although they had no tears left to spare. Every so often a loud thump would graze her ears. She knew it was another deceased Jew hitting the cars wooden floor boards. In time she would envy them, being allowed to leave their misery before it even began but now she clung to life. It was the only thing left to hold on to. She was alone her mother and father had been separated into different camps months ago and now she and the women with her were being moved once again. “Strutthof,” she heard a woman say. The name did not matter to Ariella all such camps were death camps even if they were marked for labor. She found that there was enough room to sit now and slid to the floor. It was rough to her touch.
She let her body rock slowly back and forth, closed her eyes and searched for comfort. She found herself reciting a verse she once memorized at church. She remembered the Sunday school teacher’s bright eyes and dangling ear rings and wondered where she was now. That day the lesson was on the Good Samaritan a Gentile who took the time to care for a beaten and bruised Jew even though they were sworn enemies. It seemed to Ariella that Poland had run out of good Samaritans.
~
Dreams are like hot air balloons strong and stunning, yet hard to steer and extremely vulnerable. Years of determination and dedication can be deflated due to a single mistake, a leak in the balloon. It was this way with Cartsten. The aspiring general took a step, a step in the wrong direction, a step that would forever alter his fate. The grenade wound was deep. His shin was shattered in multiple places, skin raw and yet the worst was still to come. In a time of gruesome injuries and life threatening choices, Carston’s wound was comparably manageable.
Despite, being a lieutenant he was encouraged to wait treatment until all serious injuries were mended. Two days later when the ragged medical staff reached the soldier they made a horrific discovery. Gangrene had set in, wrapping along his lower leg like deadly tendrils of ivy. Amputation was the only option and it had to be done immediately.
Two days later Carsten awoke. At first there was a sense of relief. The doctors had finally come and ended his pain. He felt well and was eager to continue his work. Then he saw it. Sitting up in the small hospital bed he stared at what used to be his right leg. Now a stump ending at the knee with white slightly bloodied bandages warped around it. For a long time he stared dumbfounded, not ready to comprehend.
A general seeing Carsten awake walked cautiously to his bedside
.
“I’m glad to see you pulled through the doctor’s said it was quite bad,” he said rubbing a thick mustache. He waited for the lieutenant to offer a comment of his own before proceeding but the boy was quiet. 
“Well at least this means that you’ll be going home,” he said lightly. The boy stayed silent. “You know get to see your parents again maybe meet a girl...” The general waited but only silence filled the air. The man was not known for patience and pried at the degraded lieutenant once more.
“Well I do hope the gangrene hasn’t stolen your tongue and you sense of respect as well boy,” he said exasperated at the perceived lack of regard that the soldier displayed.
At this Carsten looked up at him, a deep hurt creating waves in the calm blue of his eyes.
“You really don’t have a clue do you,” he said. “I have nothing. I have no one, just this.” Carsten returned his eyes to the floor his face contorted in misery.
“There’s nothing left for you here Cartsten,” The general said as he edged away from the bed. “Move on.” He gave the dejected former lieutenant one last glance and then walked away. The general however, would not forget Carsten Schröder. He would later describe him as a man so bent on success that he was willing to die before failing.

It was 1941 and the polish labor camp Strutthof had a new supervisor, a German man of 25 who claimed his title after only a year as guard. Staff members grumbled that he was harsh and far too haughty for his age. “The way he barks at all of us I would have thought we were prisoners in this camp,” said a guard with a balding head “a `general he was supposed to be ha likely story,” retorted another.
Carsten found that dreams like hot air balloons can be patched and made to soar again even If they never get to their former height. He sighed. Strutthof was a second chance at what had been stolen from him. It was a chance to be someone to do something worthwhile, to live. He secured the combination of metal and plastic that made up his right leg to the remainder of his knee. He had acquired the prosthetic leg recently from Swiss manufactures at quite a sum of money. Covered by pants leg and a shoe the limb appeared nearly natural though it was highly dysfunctional and caused an obvious limp. A walking stick was necessary.
The three foot piece of wood was a constant source of insecurity for Carsten. It made him feel small, useless, weak. He attempted to counter this limitation with yet more outward confidence in the hopes that one day the bandages would become only a vague memory.
Carsten marched a small group of guards down toward the front gates of the camp. It was an unloading day which was among his least favorite, for though Carsten prevailed in climbing the ranks, he found little satisfaction in his current responsibilities. This particular day meant a damp cattle car, an unquenchable stench, and 50 or in some cases less dirty nearly naked bodies. The worst part he thought was the sound. Dirty feet slapping against the urine soaked floorboards and then there was the crying.
“Den Mund Halten, Shut Up,” a guard shouted. They fell silent one woman taking great pains to restrain her tears.
“March,” Carsten commanded. The long line of prisoners obeyed following behind and encompassed on both sides by a line of guards. Carsten peered into the car and wrinkled his nose at the pungent order that greeted him. Seven no eight dead lay in various positions, some rigid others limp. “Get them,” he told the men behind him. The SS guards entered the car seemingly unfazed by the putrid smell and horrific sight. Moments later each guard emerged from the car heaving a body that is except one. A young guard with a skittish demeanor and bulging eyes retreated from car empty handed.
“One is still alive Sir,” he said tentatively.
“Well shoot her, we have no use for workers who cannot work,” Carsten said.

“But she speaks, it’s more like mumbling really but maybe she could…”

“Does she walk?” the superior interrupted. Reading the uncertainty plastered upon the guards face he grabbed the boy’s gun and marched toward the car pulling the bashful recruit behind him.
It had been many months since Carsten was forced to step foot in an unloaded car and the stench was stifling. Never the less, he marched on, set in proving the cowardice of the young guard. A woman leaned against the back wall, uttering a series of words repeatedly. He learched forward positioning the gun to the center of her forehead.
“Yea though,” she mumbled with dry lips. He could barely make out the words. “I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for though art… though art with me; they rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
Carsten remembered the verse. It was one his mother had said quite often. It seemed to him like those words were attached to a story, a story of a poor boy that rose to overcome, who sold his compassion for success, a tailors son. For a split second Carsten was the poor boy again staring at the creaking support boards of the Schröder family’s humble home. It was a home, he recalled and he had traded it for a piece of destiny. The trigger clicked into place and Cartston readied himself to murder his past.
~
Ariella’s eyes shot open and she jumped to her feet at the sound. A young man stood inches away a cane in one hand a gun in the other. He looked at her blankly surprised at her sudden outburst. She imagined for a second that he would smile at her, and tell her that she was safe but he was not the Good Samaritan she had dreamed of.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked as shock dissipated to anger.
“I… I... I don’t know,” She stammered. Her eyes darted around the boxcar and for the first time she realized its vacancy. “I fell asleep and did not awake till now,” she said pleading her case.
His brow furrowed sending deep creases across his forehead. Ariella reasoned that as many of the guards she had previously observed, the man did not often smile.
“Well she can walk,” said a smaller man that Ariella had just then noticed.  One look from the gun wielding man however sent his eyes to the floor.
“I shall take her personally to the quarters,” said the German man with the ever deepening frown. “He grabbed her roughly by the forearm and proceeded to pull her behind him. Once outside of the car he pushed her in front of him and commanded her to march. She obeyed, letting her feet fall into a steady rhythm in the slick mud.
“Sleeping here will not be tolerated,” he said. “If you don’t work you will die.”
She managed a weak “Yes sir,”
“And no more verses either,” he said as an afterthought.
She did not respond. Ariella knew that she could not agree to something in which she would not obey. He did not seem, to care however, about her silence. His steps were uneven and sporadic much like the breaths of a dying creature but his cane beat the ground like a drum. For five minutes these were the only sounds that Ariella heard besides her own labored footsteps. The area outside the barbed wire was heavily wooded with thick evergreen trees swaying ever so slightly with the wind. This place could be beautiful she thought had its name not been written in blood. 

When they finally arrived he opened the door peered about and then shut it behind her without a word.
The quarters were large but small all at once. The grey barn-like abode rose high above the surrounding trees and stretched along the ground for several meters. Yet when Ariella stepped foot inside she was immediately overcome with claustrophobia. The room was dimly lit by several kerosene lamps that hung haphazardly from the ceiling supports. There were neither windows nor ventilation and as she stepped down upon the creaking wooden beams c***roaches or silver fish were often aroused and prompted to scurry underfoot. She had expected no better but had held onto a fleeting hope none the less.
The sleeping quarters were unreasonably small for the more than 150 people she assumed would be housed there. Women from her car vied to posses the most sleeping room in the high bunk bed like shelves. Ariella knew their plight was useless. For when the rest of the quarter’s inhabitants who were currently working returned they would force the newcomers from their territory, leaving only the most undesired positions. She had seen it before and knew that new comers were not entitled to the most comfortable of dwelling places
~
“I am sergeant Ackermann,” said a tall slightly plump woman. It had been a mere forty five minutes since Ariella and the other women had arrived at the quarters and already they were to be assigned a place in the workforce. “Fighting will not be tolerated in these dorms as well as any form of sabotage and above all no laziness.” Sergeant Ackermann droned on. “Is anyone here a seamstress or knows the art?” she questioned after stating a long series of regulations.  Ariella and ten other women raised their hands. Sergeant Ackermann’s pale eyes roved across the dimly lit room resting on each of them briefly.
“You will work in the camp mending uniforms; the rest of you will work in Strutthof’s tin factory”. Ariella heard no more for she was overcome with relief. Sewing was more than her mother’s profession it was Ariella’s passion. She knew that the conditions would be better, the guards kinder and that her work would not disappoint. The relief was a strange sensation like a taste of honey after drinking vinegar a lifetime but it was gone as soon as she caught sight of the other prisoners. A twinge of guilt settled in her empty stomach as she watched their faces and in time the taste of honey was only a drop in a sea of bitter.
Moments later they were marching. The mountain air was cool, inviting. How Ariella wished to be on the outside. She imagined taking flight like a bird and watching the camp become smaller and smaller until only an insignificant dot of barbed wire remained.  The line separated into two one going to the tin factory, the other to sew at the mending workshop. Ariella followed her respective group continuing to plunge her already dirtied shoes into the muddy earth.
The workshop was large and cold. Grey metal tables filled the room each accompanied by three sewing machines and three uncomfortable metal chairs. The walls were metallic and reflective. Ariella caught a glimpse of herself and the others as they entered the room. They looked like eleven tired ghost in black and white. She shifted her gaze to the women working. Many had not even lifted their heads to acknowledge the newcomers. She lowered her eyes to the dull concrete floor determined not to make eye contact as the workshop’s supervisor gestered to an empty row of seats towards the back of the room.
He was a strange looking man with whisps of graying hair and crooked spectacles. As they took their seats he pointed to a large basket heaped full of prisoner garb. The eleven workers shuffled to the basket in the center of the room and grabbed a handful of striped clothing. Each article was torn or soiled in some way, some with gaping holes others with ripped sleeves or pants legs.
Ariella busied herself, on a shirt with a particularly large hole in the left shoulder. She wondered about the prisoner who once wore the garment. He or she was probably dead now she knew but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps, someone had taken notice of the bedraggled uniform and issued another. Positivity was more than a choice she reasoned. It was a necessity as important as food and water, if not more so. She looked down at her busied hands, rough and heavy but agile. The black and white strings that she spun seemed to leap out of her hands like a distraught creature. She remembered that she had had a cat once who hated to be held. Now she understood why.
When the eleven returned to the quarters, they were met with a frenzy of activity. Women were perched on the sleeping structures, some talking or bickering others sitting in silence or already asleep. As Ariella predicted the residents of Strutthof maintained their hold on the more desirable positions. She squeezed into a spot in the bottom structure and closed her eyes. In time the noise lessened and deep breathing could be heard. One woman prayed quietly, her words muffled against the thick mattress. Ariella listened and prayed too. She had given up on a lot of her hopes. She had no faith in the government, Polish and certainly not German. No faith in her family’s safety. No faith that the Allies would come or that she would ever walk outside in the light of freedom. There was only one thing that Ariella had faith in and it was that there was indeed someone who could make the impossible possible. 
~
Amber light shifted in through the thin drapes of Carsten’s window. He was awake but not up. He watched as the light slowly moved across the room’s floorboards like trickling water. There was once a time when Carsten jumped up at dawn eager for what lay ahead. The promise of achievement of rising to meet adversity of struggling to endure made him feel alive. Now it felt as though there was nothing left to fight for. A war raged through the whole world yet for Carsten the only real battle seemed to be within. You should be happy, he told himself as he skimmed his rough fingers over the badges of his uniform. He closed his eyes, he wasn’t happy.
The next rank was never enough. There would always be someone who was bigger and better with more experience and a lofty disposition. “What does it matter,” he said despondently and kicked at the bedpost. Clutching his foot he sat beside the bed defeated. All those sacrifices, all those hours of sweat, all those times he had pushed friends aside for work and for what, a legacy? He had no wife, no friends who would console him and a family separated by a country and by the lines of society. Who would remember an obscure supervisor at Strutthof with a gimpy leg anymore then a tailor’s son?  He cradled his head in his hands for a moment and then stood. Glancing at the clock he hurriedly dressed looked in the mirror and then left as he always did locking the door behind him.
The morning was cold and the air thick with moisture. Carsten looked to the muddy ground with disdain. His prosthetic leg would often get sucked down by Strutthof’s thick mud. The day was like any other. It was an important job he knew to oversee the guards who directed the workers at the tin factory. The position was an honor far greater than he had anticipated after his short time as an SS guard.
Yet it was a mundane occupation and Carsten feared that it would be the pinnacle of his success. He knew that he could not dedicate his life to cold machinery and tired workers for long. Yet the position supported his physical needs and brought honor and a sense of self-worth that Carsten prized. He dreamed of climbing the ranks to administration although he doubted happiness could be found even there. He thought it odd that happiness and success are not interchangeable words. Success was not hard to find, he mused. Hard work dedication and the abandon of useless emotions resulted in success but not happiness. Happiness is a different creature altogether. It is elusive and taunting yet so tantalizing that every person yearns to live in it. Carsten Schröder had yet to formulate a way to happiness.
The work bell rang and the various prisinors and guards filed out of the building. Carsten stood by watching, his hands dug absently into his pockets. They were like a wave in the ocean an unhappy distressed wave he thought. Soon every last drop of water had exited the factory leaving only one behind. Carson whistled to himself as he slowly made his way to the door with labored uneven steps. Perhaps one day he would walk out of Strutthof’s tin factory for the last time to find happiness or success or in a perfect world both. He smiled. Strutthof is a prison he thought and continued to whistle.
The tin factory was not Carston’s only responsibility however. Amongst unloading days and prisoner files Carsten supervised meals. He watched as a line of women received a meager ration of clear broth and bread. Some of them were Ukrainian some Polish or Russian; all were offenders of the fatherland rather by choice or by nature.
Most prisoners hovered about their food protectively in fear of a snatched loaf. A young guard amused by his own perceived wit threw a piece of bread in the middle of two prisoners and backed away quickly as they began to squabble over it. The women guards with him roared with laughter. Carsten however did not laugh; such behavior was detrimental to Strutthof’s work production and his own position as supervisor. He stepped forward to disband the fray when a third woman stepped between the two. She took her own piece of bread broke it in two and handed it to them. They stopped immediately stunned and reached out to accept the bread. Carsten stepped backwards to his original position against a nearby tree and observed the scene unfolding before him. One of the women bent down and picked up the piece that had been fought for and offered it to the generous women. The woman took the bread and gestured to another prisoner. She broke the loaf once again and handed it gently to the fourth women who moved to join the small circle. Carsten’s throat tightened as he recognized the generous woman as the Jewish woman from the train. He recalled her verse that provoked such intense memories of the past, the past he tried for so long to forget.
“Dumcoff,” said the young guard who had thrown the bread. Perhaps it was stupid for someone who had so little to give so much, Carsten thought. Then the women from the train did something remarkable. She smiled. It was not a joyous smile but a content one. The other women replied with small undernourished smiles of their own. Carsten remembered a time when he smiled the same way. A time before jackets had badges or proud men carried weapons.
 

Ariella grimaced as she extended her fingers slowly out before her. They were stiff and numb from hours on end of sewing. She knew that the women at the tin factory suffered far worse; still she bemoaned her empty stomach and bruised fingers. Weeks had passed since she first stepped foot on the muddy strip of cleared land that she believed to be her grave. At first, the days seemed excruciatingly long but soon they began to merge into one anther until Ariella forgot time altogether. She rarely day dreamed about escape now. It seemed that nearly every soul at Strutthof was in a trance void of any knowledge except that of existence. Breathing was a privilege, living a luxury.
Her knee’s wobbled as the women from her quarters made their way to roll call. The morning wind bit at their faces and a slight drizzle began to fall as they settled into their positions.
“What’s wrong with her,” said a woman as she gestured to the prisoner beside Ariella.
“She has strep throat can barley talk the poor thing,” answered another from behind her. Ariella looked sympathetically at the small pale women beside her. She was Ukrainian, a rebel she imagined for the women did not look remotely Jewish.  It was hard to believe however that the ill woman could be anything but afraid let alone rebellious. 
“1456. Present. 1457. Present”. The numbers escaped into the chilled air and evaporated. Numbers were the prisoners identity, four lonely digits in a row encompassed all they were and all they would be.
“1484…1484.” The silence was dangerous, treacherous. She glanced to the woman beside her who seemed to be gazing toward the mountains. No one dared to move or speak frightened of the consequences. “1484….” The warden said with growing impatience.  He took a step toward the distracted prisoner and waited. Only after another step in her direction did the woman take notice of the warden who shook with rage.
“Present,” she said choking on the word. 
He leaned toward her bending his knees to peer into her face. After a second the warden stepped back as if to dismiss the incident. Then without warning he lunged forward and struck the woman. The prisoners stood in silence as he continued to beat her. Each stroke added to the burden of their own hearts although they dared not make a noise.
It was small and quiet at first like a needle prick, uncomfortable and bothersome. Then the voice that rose up inside Ariella began to scream piercing all boundaries of comfort. Ideas and consequences raced through her mind like a disturbed ant hill. For a moment fear held back the waters that threatened to destroy her. Then the dam broke.
“Please,” she said wedging a foot between the woman and guard. “Please stop she needs no voice to work. Please.” Seeing the shock in the man’s face she came to her knees between them reaching out a hand as if to calm an aggressive creature.
She believed for an instant that the man’s anger was sated when without warning he stepped forward and kicked her in the ribs. The air left her lungs and she lurched forward precariously as he planted a full fist into her cheek bone. He grabbed her shoulder digging long finger nails into her skin as he threw another punch, this time to her nose and mouth. She tasted blood and struggled to focus her eyes. Still the beating continued the man’s face drawn together in lines of rage. She could see green over his shoulder, the delicate outline of forest trees and free birds beyond the barbed wire. She let her mind fly there beyond the pain, beyond the evil.
“Look at me,” he screamed. Ariella shifted her gaze toward him. She felt blood run down her shoulder. His eyes were light but filled with darkness and she refused to look at him. She realized that she hated him and anyone who could hit a woman, a man, or child because of their heritage.
“Look at me,” Her eyes trailed across the ground and he hit her again. She saw over his opposite shoulder the man with the walking stick. Their eyes met for an instant but he was quick to look away an expression akin to guilt lingering upon his features. Was he sorry?  She wondered. Her vision began to blur and the pain became a dull haze in a sea of voices and faces. Then it all stopped.
Her eyes were swollen and it took great effort to focus them on her attacker. He was talking to someone that she could not see behind his wide frame. Her ears rang and she strained to hear their words.
“She is a skilled worker at the mending station. Who knows if the new prisoners will be learned or not?” said the man blocked from her view.
Her attacker’s voice was muffled and seemed to mix with the pounding of her head and the sound of fists against flesh.
“Solitary confinement,” she heard after a few minutes of conversation. Then the guard stepped away and revealed the man behind him, the man with the walking stick. He leaned toward her and she flinched afraid of more blows. He looked at her with an odd expression that she could not decipher. His eyes were different then the guards. They were tired, sad, perhaps even afraid.
“Stand he said harshly. She felt her body pull itself to an upright position. “Go’” he said gesturing to the path between the lines of prisoners. She took a few steps forward and then fell to her knees again. The whole world moved about her, blurry and painted in black and white stripes.
“Stand’ he said.
She stood and then began to fall again. He wrapped a long arm about her shoulders and steadied her. For a moment he struggled to stay upright himself but then balanced his weight upon the walking stick. He held her up as she walked down the lines of prisoners and toward the main square. Some women stole furtive glances at her. A few looked sympathetic but most gave her blank stares. Perhaps it was foolish to nearly die for someone destined to die anyway. She stared at the drops of blood that fell from her face, some landed on the man’s polished boots and left tear like stains on the leather.  The attackers eyes filled with darkness flashed through her mind and any traces of regret vanished.
“You are stupid you know,” the man with the walking stick said when they were some distance from the roll call lines. She watched a rabbit outside the fence scurry into the brush. She kept quiet. An uncomfortable sensation crept across her body, anger.
“Jäger is not one to anger,” he said 
They sloshed through the thick mud until at long last a small dark building took shape. Upon entering Ariella realized that it was a containment center. The cells were mostly empty. It was not often that rebels survived to be imprisoned. He took a set of keys from a hook on the opposite wall and unlocked a door towards the back of the building. He hesitated a moment and then set her gently upon the cold pavement. Without making eye contact he left the cell locking the door behind him.
She listened as his steps faded and sat in the dark bleeding but breathing. He is strange for an officer, she thought. Her anger faded as she skimmed her hand against the brick wall. Anger is a useless emotion here. Hate an illness. Her stomach turned as she thought of the wickedness outside the rough prison walls. Anger is understandable, she reasoned but at who. At “Jäger, at the man with the walking stick at Hitler himself? She realized that she could not hate all of Germany the way some Germans hated all Jews. He was a Jew she remembered but he did not hate the Romans. Even though they mocked him, beat him and killed him with the same brutality as a criminal. He did not hate them on the contrary he loved and pitied them. He died for them. She closed her eyes and leaned one shoulder against the wall recalling a verse she once knew.

It was 2:00AM and Carston’s mind wandered in a maze. He stared out beyond the dark roofs to the tree tops beyond. Why did I do it? He asked himself. He searched his mind for any possible explanation beside the truth. She’s a valuable asset to the mending workshop and not every prisoner has such capabilities he reasoned. Yet He knew that individuals far more skilled had not been spared. The reason boldly stared him in the face, a rebel to his own mind.
The girl from the train had something that he did not. She represented a trait not recognized by Strutthof nor by most of the world. It was her love; he realized that made her brave. In a place full of hatred and pain one person had the audacity to love, a spark in the darkness. Carsten was afraid but intrigued simultaneously. He could not yet put that spark out.
He chided himself, as he fastened his prostatic leg. Such thoughts are dangerous, they are treason. He stared for a moment at the blood stains on the tops of his boots, a constant reminder of the choice he made. He coaxed his left boot over the prostatic leg and laced it with care. A walk would do me good; he reasoned clear my mind of all this nonsense. The compound was quiet except for an occasional snore.
Carsten hurried down the hallway, his shoes squeaking ever so slightly as he made his way out the front door. There was no offense in taking a walk, he knew. Yet somehow the act seemed odd perhaps even defiant to the strict regimen.
Fog swallowed the night and floated across the ground like a small ghost. He grimaced as his boots sank into the deep mud leaving an uneven trail of foot prints in his wake.  He stopped at the barbed wire fence and tried to see the trees beyond. The outline of branches in the dank air was the only visible indication that a vast forest lay just feet away. Enclosed in a thick blanket of fog clarity seemed to be a distant memory. He turned to gaze in the direction of the compound but it had already disappeared into the mist. Carsten followed the fence for some distance. The ground was harder here and more pleasant to walk upon. After a few minutes he decided to return to the compound and try to get some rest.  As he turned to walk in the opposite direction the fog cleared for a moment. It was like a tiny hole in a brick wall and Carsten for some inexplicable reason was compelled to walk towards it.
He sloshed through the ever deepening mud. It no longer mattered that his boots and pant legs were plastered with it. The window of clarity stretched before him, a narrow passage in a sea of confusion. He entered through it and into the courtyard of the confinement center. This was not where he wanted to be. He turned to go back the way in which he came but found that there was only a solid wall of mist.
The air that clung to the buildings was thinner here and he reasoned that he would follow them until he reached the compound. He stopped for a moment and studied the bright green clovers that ran alongside the confinement center. How often he had over looked them during the day.
Now only at night, out of the gaze of Strutthof could he appreciate such things.  Nature is beautiful he thought as he gazed at the four leaves spotted with dew. He let his eyes rove over the barren landscape of Strutthof, the confinement center, the workshops and in the far distance the gas chambers that marred the landscape like a putrid scar.
Carsten Schroder was not sure why he entered the confinement center or what he was looking for. The door was unlocked, the handle reflecting through the fog the distant glow of a crescent moon.  Dim lights flickered overhead and his boots left muddy marks on the pavement. No one was posted to watch the prisoners for there was only one. He stood for a moment and listened. All was quiet. Perhaps she was dead. The thought carried dual emotions.
He moved towards the cell quietly placing one foot in front of the other. He stopped at the cell before hers afraid of what he would find. It was hard to understand why this single prisoner seemed to matter so much. She was just another captive with a loose mouth and besides that she was Jewish. Yet he knew that she was somehow more.
Carsten peered between the bars at a figure slumped in the corner sleeping, breathing. A strange sense of relief swept over him. Her dark hair fell over one eye and grazed her chin. It had been shorn upon her arrival he knew. Carsten found himself wondering what her hair had looked like long for surely her hair was long once. Did she braid her hair the way other women that he had known did?  Who is she outside this place? Who was she? Now she looked peaceful as if all the cares of the world had disintegrated beneath her heavy eyelids. He wondered how a prisoner could find solace on a concrete floor while he found none from a soft mattress and warm sheets.  Suddenly ashamed of his thoughts he took a step back away from the cell. His leg as it so often seemed to do locked and the stiff hinges squeaked filling the once silent air with a startling commotion.
The prisoner jolted upright and stared at him. She pushed herself against the wall, her eyes large and fearful. He hated that expression and all it encompassed. It was more than fear. It was terror and he had seen it in too many faces. He stumbled for a minute catching on every thought and word.
“I...I’m sorry,” he found himself saying and immediately regretted it. No apology was needed, he realized.  She was a prisoner he justice. She after all disrespected a sergeant publicly. There were prices to be paid regardless of any perceived acts of chivalry. He had been standing there too long and unaware of what to say he turned sharply and began to march away.
“Can you bring water,” she asked after a moment, her voice rough from lack of moisture.
He paused briefly and then continued to march without providing an answer. A stacked row of metal cups sat close to the water spout at the opposite end of the building and he grabbed one, filling it half full. He returned to her cell, cup in hand and placed it upon the ground between the bars.
“Thank you”, she said politely.
Pangs of annoyance rose up where a combination of curiosity and embarrassment once dwelled.  Her kindness was like a dagger.  Fake sentiment, respect it was sickening. He understood sacrifice for one’s own kind but words of gratitude to ones enemy! It was her way of defiance subtle but effective he realized. His finger tips tingled and he clenched his fist briefly.
“That is not necessary,” he said tersely, careful to keep his voice from shaking.
He waited for her response but none came. She just stared at him with uncertainty. The uncomfortable sensation that was anger began to grow within him with each moment of silence.  He steadied himself again, remembering the value of dignity.
“Gratitude here is not necessary,” he attempted to clarify.
Still she said nothing. As the seconds ticked by Carsten felt a deep weight on his chest, a burden that could not be lifted, and still the women from the train refused to speak. His throat tightened though he did not know what he expected her to say.
“You think you can prove anything from fake manners? Do you think it makes you better than the rest?” he found himself saying, the anger visible in his tone. Her confusion was evident “Well you’re not and kindness is no way to mock. It does not belong here. You’re lucky to still be alive. You could have died you know out there but… but you didn’t.”
He was a bit red faced now and his hands shook slightly. She sat in the same position and studied him with large brown eyes.
Well…” he asked after a moment leaning on the cell bars, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t mean disrespect,” she said.  He laughed a short sharp laugh.
“You’re a liar.” No one respects those that they hate. It’s unnatural.”
“I don’t hate you,” she said, her voice contrasting his own in evenness. He stared at her for a moment and then stepped back, straightening the collar of his shirt. It was a lie he knew. How could it not be lie? Hate in Strutthof was twofold.
“So you agree with our cause. You agree with the termination of the Jewish race as well. Is that it?” he asked.
“No,” she said “that is not it at all”. There was silence once more but Carsten was determined to be answered.
“Then you hate the German race too and all the people who fight with us?”
“No” she said her eyes bending toward the cold floor.
“Is this a game that you play? He said exasperated. “You don’t hate anyone even though you are willing to die for your side?” He narrowed his eyes at her and waited. A long silence elapsed before she spoke. Carsten would have filled it had there been anything left to say.
“There was a man once I heard of who was beaten,” she said cautiously. “Robbers attacked him on his way and stripped him of all his belongings. He was all alone and going to die. Some good men passed him but were too embarrassed to help.”
Carsten watched her relieved in one sense that she finally agreed to talk and irritated in the other at her choice of narrative.
“Then along came his enemy, the one he looked down upon. The man took pity on the one who despised him, bandaged his wounds and paid for his expenses. He showed the man love even though they were enemies, even though he was a gentile and the other a Jew.”
“I know the story,” Carsten said after her voice had faded into the darkness. “But what you’re doing is much different than that.” In Carsten’s eyes these ‘acts of righteousness’ were either an attempt to demean her enemies without drawing excessive wrath or to comfort herself through pious but highly irrational standards. Neither motive was genuine and in both cases Carsten found her words and actions uncomfortable, searing even.
“I think it’s the same,” she said.
He had no more ammunition, no words to challenge her. The air seemed to be thick with the emotion he poured out, with the doubts and hopes and dreams that threatened to strangle him. He wanted to leave but somehow he could not. This odd woman seemed to hold answers though he knew not what his question was. She was an unsolvable riddle. Then the riddle attempted to solve itself.
She stood from her position at the rear of the cell and came forward. Her skeleton thin legs wobbled as she took a seat beside the cup of water. The prisoner gestured for Carsten to sit. He stared for a long moment, wanting to refuse. Dignity he thought. Yet he realized that any pride or self-respect was long lost in his outburst. He obeyed sitting directly across from her with only the bars separating them. She studied him for a moment as if reading a book and then spoke.
“My mother was a seamstress. She made all sorts of beautiful blankets and quilts. One day I asked her a question. I was very young and had just learned to read. I had seen writing on the backside of a building, red letters that said awful things… and I asked her why people hated us. She said that it wasn’t their faults entirely. That since they were young, seeds had been planted in their lives and most seeds yield fruit identical to the tree they came from.”
She paused her brown eyes seeming to whisper out of fear of being heard. He imagined that he must look helpless, weak, the superior listening to the parable of the prisoner. Yet he hung on to every word sensing that they were somehow precious, somehow wise beyond understanding.
“But unlike trees people can choose what fruits they bear.”
Her words floated above them followed by a long silence that neither seemed to notice. Carston’s thoughts and emotions were jumbled into an indescribable state of confusion.  
He wanted to ask another question for the sole purpose of hearing what the girl from the train had to say next but he could not think of one. Suddenly he felt foolish, foolish for his emotions, foolish for his willingness to listen. In that moment he had crossed a line, a line that made prisoner number 1485 more than just another distant face.
He stood slowly careful not to let his leg make a sound. She stayed seated; staring at something in the distance, although in the darkness Carsten wondered what she could possibly see. Without giving her a second glance he made his way down the corridor. This time he did not march. A feeling of defeat followed him as he trudged through the fog and mud and into the compound once again.
He kicked off the muddy boots not minding for once that they were misplaced in the pristine room.  The leg came off as well and he pulled the bed comforter over himself. The ceiling was cracked he noticed for the first time. The fault ran across the flakey paint dividing the room the way a river divides two opposite shores.
He allowed himself to imagine for a moment a river he once knew. The lazy waters rippled against its banks. He had once thrown a rock there and watched it skip across the waters and into the depths bellow. Where was that rock now? He wondered. Tossed back and forth in the rivers deep mud, perhaps it was chipped, perhaps it was broken. Even rocks crumble he thought.
Then sleep came like a gentle friend pulling his thoughts away and scattering them in every direction. It no longer mattered if he was right or wrong, strong or weak, sleep leveled everything as death would he imagined. The morning was bound to return the burdens, the pain, and the questions but for a few hours they vanished into a deep and peaceful fog.

Cold was the first thing she felt as her eyelids flickered open. Her whole body shook, arms completely numb.  The cut above her eye brow stung as she raised her stiff body to a kneeling position and rubbed circulation back into lifeless hands.
The tin cup still sat between the bars where she had left it the night before. She made her way toward it, and found that a quarter of the liquid still remained. She raised the cup and consumed the last drops.  The cold metal of the cup in her hand combined with its water sent a chill through her body. The relief of water however against her dry throat compensated for the cold.
Ariella studied the cup for a moment, turning it around in her hands. It was slightly lopsided, smudged and dull. The cup was insignificant in every way yet the liquid it contained held the promise of life. She corrected herself the cup held the promise of survival not life. The two words were very different she now understood.
~
She remembered the clack of her mother’s high heeled shoe’s against the cobblestone road as they walked to the laundry mat one Saturday afternoon long ago in another world. The sun used to shine down upon them and she remembered the itchy fabric of her blue ribbon clad sunhat.
“But mama I hate it, it is prickly and hot and besides that it’s ugly.”
“Be grateful for it Arie. Someone somewhere wants a hat just like yours,” her mother said touching the tip of her index finger to her daughter’s nose.  They had waved to Mrs. Barrow as she opened her little candy store on the corner for the day and skipped over the puddles that had gathered in  the gutter after the nights rain.
“Good Morning to you, Mrs. Dominski, would you like to buy a paper today? Arlow the local paper boy said. 
“I think I’ll pass today Arlow we are in a bit of a rush you see,” her mother said polity to the boy.
“I understand mam but today’s a wonderful addition absolutely delightful it is. I’ve barley sold any paper because I’ve been reading it myself you see, it’s so intriguing I can barley put it down I…”
He stopped abruptly when he saw the shiny coin Mrs. Dominski held out and the half smile that graced her lips.
“Gee thanks Mam! It’s a great addition it really is and...”
“Yes Arlow I am sure it is. You are quiet a salesmen,” she said patting the overall clad boy on the shoulder. He blushed modestly as he handed her the paper.
“Have a good day Arlow and the best of luck with your sales.”
The boy nodded and hurried away clutching the silver coin in one hand and a stack of newspapers under the opposite arm. 
“Goodness Gracious,” her mother said once Arlow was out of sight. “If that boy doesn’t watch it his mouth will run away from him.”
They chuckled for awhile at Arlow’s antics before her mother opened the paper. She scanned the headlines as they walked.  Ariella’s energetic youth carried her to imaginary places and filled the expanse of her mind with half written stories of heroic princes and talking animals all while the coble stone clacked beneath her shoes.
She looked back up to her mother to find that her smile had faded into a straight red line.  The women’s eyes roved back and forth absorbing the words, her dark hair framing a pale and concerned face.
“What’s wrong mama?” the eight year old Ariella asked.
Mrs. Dominski returned her gaze back to her daughter. For a moment Ariella was worried, scared even at what could make this confident and courageous women fearful. Then her mother smiled the way she always did, bright eyed and compassionate.
“Nothing darling, a man was just robbed and hurt real bad.”
“Oh,” she said and continued to skip over the cracks and random stones that jutted out from the street.
Her mother grabbed Ariella’s hand now as they walked, her grip somehow stronger more protective than before. In that moment the little girl felt something she had never comprehended before. It was an unsettling sense, a loss of control. She felt briefly as if the ground could be yanked from underneath, leaving the child alone and stranded in mid air. Then it was gone as fast as it came. At the sensation of her mother’s soft white satin glove intertwined with her own bare fingers, Ariella forgot the uncertainty and fear. This was life. It was a paper held down by heavy unmovable rocks. Her mother, her father they would protect her, they were in her mind made of stone.
~
Ariella held on to the image of the white satin gloves and her own small bare hands for as long as she was able. She yearned just to feel their warmth again, to see her mother’s smile, to be safe. Instead she held an empty metal cup in callused and worn fingers. The sunlight disappeared replaced by cold and darkness, the little cobblestone path transformed into rows of metal bars.
She knew now of course that the beaten man had been Jewish, one of the first acts of Arian hate, a small cough before a terrible illness. Her mother had watched the symptoms, read the signs but there was nothing she could do to save herself or the girl that clung to her white satin gloves.
How ignorant and beautiful life was, she thought, Never was there a reason to fear, or be sorrowful. Death was distant enough to be an idea not a reality. She once imagined that she would become a seamstress as her mother had, fall in love, be married and have a family of her own.
There was a boy she once knew. …Daren, she drew his name from the recesses of her mind. He had lived across the street and on summer evenings she had seen him reading from her upstairs bedroom. His father was a carpenter but he had bigger ambitions. Daren was college bound or at least he hoped to be, always reading, and writing. She imaged that she could marry someone like Daren and live a quite life, him with his books, and her with her sewing. Some day he would become a doctor and all that knowledge would save lives. She would be proud of her hard working husband and he would love her the way she deserved to be loved.
Then the war moved in like a storm cloud and Daren was drafted. His books were still visible on the window sill the day that she left, dusty and cold. She never told him. He was busy, she shy and now it was too late. She hoped that only a continent separated them, that the tall intelligent boy she admired was not snuffed out before he even began to shine.
Even if she had the chance to escape fate, it could never be the same. The last three years had stolen something that could not be returned, more than Daren, more than even her parents. The priceless qualities of humanity, her trust and innocence were gone scattered by the wind. It would be like gathering the leaves of a great oak from the forest floor, placing them back on the branches and asking them to become green again. She doubted the brown leaves would even get the chance to try for the tree was slowly withering and one day it too would die.  There was no one left she realized who fought for her freedom, who respected her because she was a woman because she was a person.
Once she had trusted every voice believed every word. Now the world was made of lies, of people who wanted nothing more than to ruin her. Her hands were no longer little, her mind no longer full of fantasies but she felt like a child, a helpless child, so weak and lost. She thought about the people who labored outside the confinement center’s walls. Their dreams had been crushed by force shattered like glass and grinded into powder. They breathed to breath, ate to eat, lived so as not to die.
She let the cup fall to the ground and listened as the echoes faded into memory. She remembered what she had told him that each tree chooses to bear its own fruit. It seemed that fire licked around her trunk, wilted her leaves and bent her branches. Was she still expected to bear fruit? Did God expect beauty in the midst of destruction; love to hold her up in an ocean raging with hatred?
~
Sometime later Ariella heard footsteps in the corridor. She paused knowing they were bound for her cell. Seconds later a short slightly rotund man placed a small loaf of bread and a tin cup in between the bars. She instinctively shielded the first cup. It would be hard to explain she realized. No one would believe the truth and for good reason. A supervisor of all people.
She did not trust him, not really. She understood what the man from the train was capable of, what he had done. The countless lives he ruined the stereotypical power play, it was obvious. Yet there was something different, something amiss about this man.
The prisoner thought for a moment about the supervisor and his strange actions. She could not quit place the air he radiated, what he seemed to stand for. He was dangerous regardless. He was unstable, angry, a Nazi. Yet she sensed something else, something hidden, something that triggered fear that brought pain.
The man from the train was divided against himself, she thought. Yet she knew that water could not be pure and salt simultaneously, only a diluted mixture. And so the supervisor could be neither evil nor just, only a murky combination of both. Yet she reasoned that perhaps it was this way for all people. 

The soil was soft dusty and the air sweet. A blue sky with cotton ball like clouds framed the landscape which went on for miles and miles until it seemed to bend into the earth. He had never been to this place, never seen anything quite like it. Trees sprouted from the ground some tall and thin others stout and thick.  He stood alone in a small clearing amongst the vegetation. A crow circled over head he noticed, as if searching for a place to land. A single black feather drifted down and landed at his feet. He picked it up and stared at the shiny tendrils that bound it together.
The bird glided into the clearing and landed on a tree not 20 feet away. It was a strong looking tree he noticed. The branches were straight and thick, the leaves glossy and the trunk lengthened but sturdy. The crow cawed as if to say “come”. He walked toward the tree, one bare foot in front of the other. It was a dream he knew then. He only had two feet in dreams. Then as so often happens, the thought wondered off into the murkiness of his subconscious
He let his fingers wander along the tress rough bark as a slight breeze blew through its limbs. Sunlight filtered in through the branches casting spots of light dancing across his face. Then he saw it. There on the lowest branch was a single fruit. He had never seen a fruit of this kind. It was a deep red but not like an apple. The color was more solid more vivid.  He reached out to the oblong shaped fruit and with one motion plucked it from the branch.
The crow cawed again and took to the sky. He watched as it disappeared over the glade. A pricking sensation brought his eyes back to the fruit. It radiated heat, a calming sense of heat that enveloped him. It seemed to bring peace, fulfillment. This is all I need all I want, he found himself thinking. The heat grew stronger the longer Carsten held it but it didn’t seem to matter. He knew that he could let go any time that the odd fruit was but a harmless discovery. 
Then in an instant, the impossible, the fruit vibrated sending pangs of shock into his hand. He tried to throw it away but could not. It seemed to have bonded to his flesh. He screamed falling to his knees but he could not move his arm to smash the fruit against the ground.
The beautiful red melted away to a dark coal like color. He sniffed, the fruit seemed to radiate a putrid smell almost worst then the pain. Dark burning liquid oozed from the fruit running down and burning his wrist and arm.
Then the forest’s beautiful silence was no more. A women’s sob could be heard, emitted from the fruit. The dribbling mass shook as the voice cracked and rose. Then another sobbing voice arose this time it was young, perhaps a boy. A third, nearly undistinguishable voice joined soon after and then another. Soon the air was filled with the sound of wailing. The sound is the worst part he thought the sound.
  He could not bear to look at the fruit in his withering hand any longer. The horrendous pain seemed magnified by every second his eyes absorbed the sight. He looked away toward the clearing where he first noticed the tree. For the first time he found that he was not alone.
Hundreds of men and women of all different shapes, sizes and ethnicities held quivering masses of darkness in their hands, faces contorted in misery. Some had fallen to their knees as the tailor’s son. Others leaned against their respective trees, shoulders or heads scraping against the bark, all suffered.
Carsten looked to the only beautiful fragment of the landscape left, his tree. It was firm strong. It had weathered several storms he knew and surely it would stand this one. 
It happened slowly at first. A single leaf had floated to the ground twirling in the air as it descended, then another and another. Before long the air was filled with dying leaves whirling to their death beds. The pain intensified with every leaf until he wished for death himself. The dark liquid now ran down his side burning more intensely as the tree withered.
“Help,” he yelled into the mirage of pained voices. “Let me just die,” his voice trembled and tears fell freely down his face. He screamed adding to the chorus of misery and let his head lull back. For a moment he watched the other faces and listened to their own pained screams. Some cursed into the air others still struggled with the fruit turning in every possible direction with the hope of ridding themselves of it. It was useless.
Then from the opposite edge of the clearing he saw a small movement. A tiny figure stepped out from among the trees, a boy in ragged clothes. The child moved toward one of the imprisoned men a hand out reached.
“No,” Carsten yelled. “Stay away from the fruit it will hurt you. Stay away!” The boy never noticed or did not care for he continued to draw close to the man. Carsten willed himself to turn away but he found he could not. The boy reached toward the sulfurous mass in the condemned man’s hand, finger tips stretched out. He touched the fruit.
Carsten blinked. The fruit became solid again, a perfectly round black ball of what appeared to be ice. The man dropped it and it shattered against the earth. Then the man stood, free. The child smiled and then continued walking along the edge of the circle. One by one he freed them men and women alike. 
He was coming Carsten knew. He would set him free like the rest. Carsten watched as each smoky burden hardened and fell from the captive’s hands. Slowly the screams and moans died as the remaining afflicted witnessed the boy’s power. Cartston reveled in their joy at the lines of relief drawn across their faces. He found strength in the hope. The pain although excruciating seemed bearable.  Finally the boy freed the man closest to him. Carsten held out his hand trembling as the boy approached.  In a moment he would be free the burning sensation gone.
The ragged clothed youth was yards away, feet, inches.  Then like a cool breeze in the midst of an eternal desert the boy passed as if the tailor’s son was not there.
“Hey wait I’m here you missed me,” he called into the silence of the clearing. The boy paused for a moment, his back still turned. Then he faced the tailor’s son.
His eyes seemed to be oceans framed by dark twigs of hair. The striking features of his face stared blankly. “Who are you? I don’t know who you are,” he said simply and turned back to his course.
“I’m Cartsten, Carsten Schröder,” he called out frantically. “I won’t hurt you I am in the army I can protect you. I can help you. I…
It was too late the dark haired boy was already five trees away and in the process of freeing a women.
“Please Help!” Carsten struggled to project his voice. “I...I can’t get rid of this fruit it’s bad. The fruit is bad and I…” The boy continued to walk oblivious. “Why…why are you freeing them and not me? Their fruit is just as bad. Listen to me!  Listen!.” He started to curse but the boy still did not turn. One by one every person was freed and left the clearing. He tried to call out to them but they did not seem to notice either.
When the last man was freed, the boy stood alone in the clearing. “Please,” he said weakly to the distinct silhouette. The boy faced him once again, although shadows distorted his view. The child rose a raggedly sleeve to his face as if to wipe away a tear. Then the boy turned and walked out of the clearing.
Carsten screamed again and the pain radiated through him, stronger than before. “Don’t you see that I’m dying? Why won’t you help me? Why?” There was no response only the silence of the approaching evening. He sobbed into his shoulder as the pain of the fruit rose in intensity. The anger and confusion of the child’s rejection seemed to fuel the flames that sprouted from his hand. Suddenly there was nothing, nothing at all.
~
He lay still for a moment, absorbing the relief like a sponge. Bed sheets clung to his body, damp with sweat. It had been so realistic that he had forgotten it was a dream at all. He scanned his hand running a finger down the palm. There was a slight ache. He extended his fingers slowly half expecting to see black residue. Yet there was only cool smooth skin where minutes before an inferno had burned.
It was early morning now, the beginning of yet another day within the walls of Strutthof. Despite, his late night Carsten was awake before anyone else as was his custom. Sleep deprivation had become normal to the former lieutenant since his adolescence. A worker by nature a leader by choice was one of his many mottos. In order to be one step ahead Carsten often put aside objects of necessity and comfort. Sleep just happened to be one of these. Yet today he was tired. He could feel the strain above his eyes and his thoughts were scattered and confused. It was weak he knew but he almost feared going back to sleep.
He thought about the excruciating pain of the fruit in his hand and the strange actions of the child. There was nothing to stop a recurrence of the bizarre and painful dream.
He straightened his shoulders and readied himself for the day. As he looked into the small bedside mirror, he noticed the deep circles that formed underneath his eyes. He wondered what the officers would think. Perhaps, they would believe he had put in extra hours filling the prisoner reports. Perhaps, they would even be intimidated at his perceived dedication that appeared to be sapping him of sleep.
No one could guess. No one could ever know the truth, know that he had stolen away in the night, that he had talked to and been influenced enough by a prisoner to dream such a dream as he did. 
He scraped the remaining mud off his boots and swept the flakes into a neat pile in the corner of the room. Then the supervisor left locking the door as he always did behind him.

The tiresome sights and sounds of the place had begun to wear on him. Another sick prisoner’s whooping cough, a deep gash from an accident with the machinery, perhaps a broken finger. It seemed to be all he knew and all that could ever be learned. 
Long ago he had prided himself upon knowledge. Words composed of letters printed upon ivory pages. These ideas seemed to be a pathway to success, to something bigger than himself. In school he passed tests and answered questions. Yet there was something more to knowledge than this, something deeper.
Even as a child it was there, a craving for more than the straight facts. There was something strange and beautiful about opinions, the right to decide what was true.
Many times he had found a quiet place in his house to read. Curled into a corner or pressed out of sight in a backroom he would read, sometimes for hours. The books were never from school. Some came from a little bookstore nearby others from trading and bartering. Many a coin he had spent on them.  They were a kind of secret. Not something he was afraid of but something he kept to himself.
There in the silence of the moment life would disappear and be transformed. He loved the stories and they’re capability to capture a world never seen only imagined. There was a sense of freedom he thought in being able to travel anywhere and no where all at once.
He had forgotten now nearly every text book he ever read, all the formulas he memorized, the numbers he calculated. The facts and statistics lost with the muddled ignorance of youth. They were meaningless in war. Smart men die just as easily as stupid ones he found. Just one misstep, a foot in the wrong place and a head full of facts was no more.
Yet the story books stayed with him even on the frontlines. A distracting thought about a witty detective to lessen the impact of bomb shells. A description of a quiet mystical land somewhere far away, to stop the ringing in his ears. Perhaps, the memory of a faithful dog to ease the hopelessness, the lack of purpose when the only life a tailor’s son had dared to dream was taken and thrown to the wayside.
They remained with him still. Words on a page inscribed by men who had perhaps never been to the places they imagined, never felt the emotions they expressed and never hoped that they could stand for anything more than beautiful visions.
Yet in the still hours of the day as the machines roared under the guidance of worn hands he remembered. He let the stories take hold of reality and transport him back to dusty floorboards and chipping paint, back home.
~
Her hair was always pulled into two straight braids twisted rather clumsily into one. He remembered the freckles that scattered about her rosy cheeks like stars in the sky. Her mother always called them angel kisses. The girl however, was ashamed of them. He remembered a time when she had come home crying that someone called them dirt splotches. There were few things that upset her more than the clusters of angle kisses that graced her cheeks.
Clarice babbled constantly in stark contrast to her brother’s own quiet and controlled demeanor.
“And then Lukas said that he would rather talk to me then Marie any day because of her nose. He said it looks like a bird beak,” she laughed glancing at her mother.
The woman chuckled, her blue eyes soft and gentle.
“Now Clarice you mustn’t say such things about people,” she said a trace of laughter still upon her lips.
“But mama it wasn’t me who said it. It was Lukas!” The woman gave her daughter a look of feigned anger, one eyebrow raised precariously. They laughed.
His mother and sister had always been so close; he recalled envisioning the laugh lines that ran across his mother’s face.
“Cartston what are you doing anyway,” Clarice had said scooting him over in his chair.
“Studying,” he had answered plainly.
“Well haven’t you done enough already? You’re like a human book,” she said giving him a playful push.  He hadn’t answered he remembered, choosing rather to ignore the red headed girl.
“Carsten!”
“We have an exam tomorrow Clarice. So I would appreciate a bit of quiet for once in your life. Do you think you can manage that?” he burst, running a hand through frazzled hair.
“Um….No,” the twelve year old said and grabbed the pencil from his hand in one quick motion.
“Come on Clarice give it over,” he said reaching out a hand.
“You’d have to catch me first,” she retorted in a sing song tone.
He gave an expectant look to his mother. “Can you please tell her I need to study?”
She looked down at the stove turning a ladle of broth around in a deep pot. “Seems strange to me that such a smart boy only has one pencil.” The corners of her eyes laughed although her face remained stoic.
Cartston sighed and stared at the wall at the opposite end of the room. “So immature so childish so..,” he jumped to his feet “so going to get you,” Clarice had screamed as her brother chased her across the creaking floor boards. From the kitchen he heard his mother’s quiet chuckle.
“It’s not fair you’re too big and fast now,” Clarice finally said panting. It was true at sixteen years of age Cartston towered over the little red head and ran nearly twice as fast.
“Then give me my pencil.”
She pretended to conceded for a moment scrunching her freckled face into a grimace. Then she ducked under his arm and ran to the opposite side of the room.
“Rather not I’m still smarter than you are, even when you study like an owl.”
The siblings darted across the old floorboards sending dust in all directions. Of course Cartston had another pencil; he had several in fact, buried deep in his school bag.
However, there was something about this moment he knew that could not be stifled by hours of geometry. It was the pure spontaneity of it all, the sound of free bare feet against the floorboards, the oxygen that flooded his lungs, and Clarice’s airy laughter dancing across the room and into the rafters above.
His sister carried these moments in her pocket like pebbles. He never understood how every day was an adventure for her. She was a free spirit caught up by the winds of change and imagination. He felt himself to be grounded in discipline more like a well trained dog than anything else. Cartston knew however that one day it would all pay off. One day all of the long hours and personal abandon would be rewarded.
The back door creaked open and Cartston listened as his father’s heavy feet plodded against the floorboards. He heard the familiar thud of the man’s work bag on the table and the screech of his chair as he sat.
The two stopped. Father didn’t like it when they made too much ruckus. He worked long days and made very little for the vigor he put into his trade.
“How was the shop today?” asked Carston’s mother as she took a pot of boiling water from the stove.
“The same,” the man answered running a hand over the stubbly edges of his face. “Not much business. Most people have so many clothes now that are fitted by size they hardly need a tailor except for fine occasions and there are many tailors in this town.”
“But there’s only one you, Papa,” Clarice chimed in. Her braid had finally unraveled into two unruly pig tails. 
The man’s faced lit up chasing the sadness that always seemed to linger in his blue eyes when he saw them. He was a good father, Cartston remembered, a troubled man but a good Father.
As he studied the man’s face, the deep set lines of his brows Cartston realized that money didn’t matter. For as long as he could remember he thought his drive came for the need to defeat poverty, to crush the force that seemed to hold them down. Now as his father removed his thread bear jacket he saw that poverty was just another rock in a great and burdensome sack.
He didn’t mind that the broth his mother so carefully poured into their bowls that night was diluted. Nor did he mind the creaky boards or the peeling paint. He could manage thin jackets during the winter, the same meal most nights, and the cold that crept into the house and found the children while they slept.
Yet he could not bear the critical glances of those who looked down upon his father, those who turned up their noses at him, those who had the audacity to accuse him of dishonesty, who took advantage of a good man.
It was sickening to be thought of as less of a person because of an address, or the sate of one’s shoes. Worst of all poverty robbed his Father of the right to fight back, the right to defend dignity, to stand for more than a hungry mouth in a multitude of hungry mouths.
And so Cartston would study and work until he became something worthy of the world, worthy of recognition. When people saw him they would tip their hats and step aside. His father and mother would be revered with honor and respect and his sister given to a man of value. Then the hours and sweat would be justified. Then his mother’s broth would be thick and his father’s shoes shined. Then the world would say “he is more than a tailor’s son, he is oh so much more.”
~
A clod of dirt still lingered under the bed post. He studied the compressed mud and grass before kicking it to the corner with the rest of the shoe scrapings and sitting down in the little wooden chair beside the bed. It creaked but not in the familiar way his father’s chair had creaked. It was a foreign threatening sound.
His dwelling quarters faced towards the forest and the front gate. He watched as the light cast by the moon swept slowly across the floor scattering against the treetops until it touched the tips of his outstretched shoes. He had not taken his shoes off nor undressed for the night although it was already 1:00am.
There were thoughts that prevented his mind from wandering into the region of sleep, dreams, fears and ideas that swirled about. He could not place the feeling. It was not anger or fear. It was neither sadness nor regret. It seemed to be a deep unsettling, the sensation that all was not well, that everything solid was in actuality glass. Sitting there in the dark Cartston knew that there was a reason he had not undressed. He would be taking a walk.

The cold had remembered her. It reached its wispy arms around her asking her to forget, to close her eyes and drift away. She fought against it stomping her thick work shoes against the ground. It was a feeble effort but the impact brought blood surging through her thin weak legs.
It was funny she thought that the hopeless had so much hope. Perhaps, it was not really hope at all but the will to survive. Ariella was worn, bloodied and bruised. Yet something told her that there was a reason, a reason to live. It was a quiet voice rising in her bones. It asked her to endure and refuse. It asked her to live and die alive.
There were men and women in the world who lived in castles and ate from silver platters. They never dreamed of being hungry, beaten, hated. She wondered if they found hope in comfort or despair in complacency. It seemed that those who have never know it until it is taken away.
It was strange Ariella thought that four years ago she had her mother and father. Four years ago she walked into the general store and bought milk. Four years ago she ate three meals a day with her family. Four years ago she didn’t know the meaning of fear.
In a matter of days that life had been stolen, swallowed and discarded along with the lives of millions. All of the years disintegrated as if they were dust strewn in the wind. The laughter of family members and friends drifted from her mind into the chill air. They had been so happy, so full of life and now only silence remained. These people had stolen all her joy and love and spent them like pennies.
  She forced her mind to wander on. Nothing could bring back those days of comfortable bliss. Nothing could take back the pain and suffering or the faces contorted in anguish. Nothing could bring back her family or grant her a single moment to say goodbye or I love you. There were only memories painted in brilliant yellows and soft grays. For now they were enough. They kept her warm as she shivered in the dark and told her life was worth fighting for even when Strutthof said it was not.
~
She knew it was him. His uneven steps identified him immediately. They were slower this time, almost thoughtful. Suddenly they stopped. Perhaps he has changed his mind she thought. Then the footsteps resumed but in the opposite direction. Ariella crossed her arms over cold bony knees. She was relieved that he was going. She didn’t want to talk to him, to hear the lies planted into his every word. It was men like him who had separated her from and no doubt killed her mother and father. She would never see them again and he thought he was doing justice, that he was bettering the world. Did he know what it was like to lose someone like that, to cry and have no one? Why had he come she wondered to harass her, to see her fear, to watch her cry?
She listened. The footsteps had turned towards her cell again, uneven as always. She waited.
His tall figure knelt placing an object on the ground between the bars that separated them. It was a metal cup she realized. Shadows obscured his face and she strained to see his eyes. He sat upon the cold floor, identical to the night before. It was obvious that his leg still pained him both physically and mentally. Perhaps it was what gave him that broken look, she thought. She dismissed the notion almost immediately however. He had sacrificed far more pride to come here than the loss of a leg. No the man from the train’s hurt ran deeper; it was more complicated than flesh and bone.
She stared for a moment at his shadow, at the reflection of the moon against the metal cup. Was water a peace offering? Was it all an effort to take advantage of her or could there be a trace of humanity left in this shell of a man? Her finger nails dug through the thin fabric of her pants. She didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want any more questions. Ariella wanted the man to go away and never come back, to leave her in the peace of quiet suffering. He didn’t. 
The prisoner stayed in the shadows, refusing to show her face. The man from the train was silent. He sat hands folded elbows resting on his knees.
“Do you really believe all of those things that they say,” she asked at last. Her patience had begun to wane.
“I believe that the Fatherland is capable of great things,” his words trailed off strangely. The topic seemed to be one that the man did not want to breach.
“But what about the rest, what about everyone else?” her voice was rising ever so slightly. She bit her cheek. It was dangerous to sound defiant she knew but the anger seemed to pulsate in her veins.
“They need to be united so that they can work together. There’s tension now but when everyone has the same leader there will be less conflict. ” He said sitting up straighter. Ariella’s hands stung from gripping her knees.
“Not everyone,” the words sounded sad and alone as they soaked into the walls and disappeared. 
She watched his motionless shadow. Perhaps he had forgotten who she was. She waited although she was certain he would not speak.  Anger still flushed her cheeks yet there was something else too.
It was the still and quiet voice that told her to speak up for the Ukrainian women, that convinced her to keep breathing when all logic said to stop. Ariella felt the voice the first night but was too afraid to be angry then. Now she felt a strange sense of peace as the voice extinguished the flames of rage that burned within. It was not the removal of fear or suffering. It was something altogether different as if two great arms embraced her.
She imagined for a moment that a little boy with stunning blue eyes stood watching them. He pointed at the man from the train; index finger extended and stared directly into Ariella’s eyes. His seemed to be made of ice but an alive and pulsating ice. She blinked and he was gone, only an allusion in a world of disillusionment. Yet in that moment she felt that she knew him that she had always known.
“My mother used to say people are like cloth.” The man from the train looked up at her from where his eyes had rested upon the ground.
“They all come in different colors and consistencies. Some are bright others dark. Some coarse others smooth but they’re all the same thing: cloth. My mother was a seamstress and she knew what beautiful quilts are made of,” Ariella paused voice overcome momentarily by the memory of her mother.
“They are cast in all sorts of colors greens and blues, yellows and browns, silvers and reds. That’s what makes them beautiful, their differences. Any color quilt by itself is never as beautiful as a mixture of all of them.” The man was quiet appearing to be in deep thought.
“You tell beautiful stories but life is not a story,” he said at last, raising his head to look her in the eyes. He did not sound angry, not tonight only sad and tired. “These people corrupt society you know, steal and cheat. Perhaps you are different but what of all the incidents reported? How can you account for them, explain them away?”  She felt sickened by his prejudiced but attempted to answer without showing it.
“How do you know what is a story and what is not? Have you seen these things? Hasn’t a German man ever lied or cheated?” she asked.
He was quiet. The air had become thick and uncomfortable again.
“How did it happen?” She regretted the question as soon as it left her lips. It was forward and personal and none of her business.
He stared at her in the darkness for a long moment, his finger tips grazing the concrete. 
“It was a landmine,” he said at last. The man’s tone was simple, matter of fact, emotionless.
“I’m sorry,” she said and she meant it. He did not seem the kind of man who wanted to be in a place like Strutthof.  No her strange visitor wanted to be passionate about a cause but it was not death’s, not Strutthof. He was a soldier without orders she realized, a clock that had lost track of time and thus its purpose. She pitied him now, not because of his leg but because of the lie that supported him. It was his crutch and one day without warning it would break.
“I’m sorry,” she said again into the darkness. 

It was small and hard, an end piece.  He stared at the compact flour mix, already hardened and made stale by the afternoon air. It had been snatched during the day’s meal supervision and was hardly missed amongst the clamor of hands. Cartston was careful though to stow the small loaf out of sight, buried beneath his uniform jacket where no observant officer would detect it. This act was treason, this piece of bread defiance. Yet he felt no guilt, knew no regret.
~
He had dreamed the night before but not of the blue eyed boy nor of the sulfurous fruit. Rather he found himself in a sparsely furnished room characterized by bare wooden floors and walls of stacked logs. In the center a beautiful quilt was pinned upon a wooden canvas. It was the type of wood that comes from great trees, aged by time and strengthened through storms. Vibrant colors of all kinds radiated off the fabric and melded together into an inseparable pattern.
Cartston could tell that the master piece was not yet finished. The edges were bare with only a few dull colors stitched into place. A small stool sat by the canvas ready for use and a pair of stitching needles made an orderly line at the tables edge.
For a moment he wanted to touch the soft tendrils of fabric that created the quilt, feel the rough and smooth cloth. Yet there was something about the scene that told him the piece was untouchable. It was not a matter of danger but of respect, like a sacred artifact from days long ago spent.  It seemed that a single touch threatened to destroy it and so he stood content to revel in the intricate designs until the gold and grey lights of dawn drew him away.
~
It would be the last night, he knew. The last night he would ever talk to the woman from the train, perhaps the last night he would ever see her alive. Tomorrow she would return to the repair factory, mending torn garments. Tomorrow she would be yet another face to him, a number in the morning roll call.
It was better that way he reasoned, better for him to forget and move on with the daily responsibilities of his position rather than dwell on forbidden words. 
As he walked along in the brisk night air, a mouse scurried across the deepening mud eyes cast heaven ward in constant fear of a low hovering owl. After the first night, there was never a doubt in Carston’s mind that he would return to her. There was no denying that Cartston Schroder genuinely wanted to know who this prisoner was. Yet for what reason he himself did not fully comprehend.
The night was clear and staring into the sky he could see the moon overhead surrounded by stars so small and vast that they appeared to be white pin prints upon a large blue grey paper. The great light guided him past the quarters and alongside the barbed wire fence. He saw clearly the low bending braches of the trees beyond and the slight stirrings of the sleeping forest. The fog had hidden so much of the night’s landscape. Now the stark difference between the camp and the outlying land was apparent, like an oozing sore upon an otherwise beautiful face.
He passed the small cluster of clovers alongside the building, gleaming as always with dew. There was a chill in the air, as if the warm days were slowly dying and being replaced one by one with their icy counterpart. He remembered his first winter at Strutthof, what he had seen. There was no use for the gas chambers, when people dropped like flies. He shuddered leaning a hand against the confinement centers wall and trying to push the scene from his mind. It would not leave.
These things were harder to ignore now, more difficult to forget. He had asked himself the question time and time again. Is it worth it, is it just? Now as the rubble of the wall dug into his hand and the faces of starving women and children darted across his mind, he thought he knew the answer.
~
The door handle was cold. He wiped the dew drops that had accumulated on the cold metal onto his jacket. As Carston’s uneven footsteps echoed across the corridor, he imagined what he would say to her, what proper last words should be. He felt that he owed her an explanation for his odd even rash behavior but what could he say? What could he do to make her understand?
He placed the small loaf between the bars. The woman from the train came forward tentatively and took it. She was no longer as fearful, only wary of the officer who seemed to live a double standard. He couldn’t help notice how thin she was, how gaunt her face. 
“Where did you come from, before?” He asked.
It was a personal question similar to hers the night before but he found that it slid easily from his lips. There was something deep inside that prompted Cartston to find out more about the woman who challenged the order of his universe, who was not afraid to tell him the truth.
"The edge of Brody Poland,” She said.  The woman from the train did not seem offended or surprised at his question. Her voice was calm, matter of fact. There was a sense of trust in these cold walls, a cleft of safety.
He had never heard of the place buried somewhere in the polish continent. Cartston imagined that in this far away town once lived a girl who was never afraid. She had long dark hair and gleaming almond shaped eyes. She laughed and sang. During the winter there was always a fire and warm clothes and in the summer she sat on the riverbanks shaded by a firmament of large leafed saplings. Perhaps she had loved sewing as her mother, or the outdoors or a number of things. Perhaps she had a boyfriend or had been married or engaged to be. How much the war had likely taken? How little it had left her with.
Yet it was more than war that made her desolate. It was the people. War kills, war ruins but war does not torture, he thought. War was but a vehicle for the hatred that uprooted this woman’s life and planted it in Hell. The tailor’s son knew that he had been the one. He murdered her family, took her future and her joy. He had been the one who bruised her cheek, shorn her hair, starved her to death.
“What’s your name,” he asked. There was a brief pause before she answered.
“Ariella.”  There was now a name to the face that haunted him. An identity that could never be forgotten, past the numbers or regulations, the woman from the train had a name.
“And yours?” she asked. 
“Cartston Schroder,” She knew his name now, the name of the man who had stolen her life. She had every reason to hate him, he realized. Yet she told him that she did not and her actions insisted upon it.
“Tell me…” he hesitated. “Tell me about how you came to be here.”
He did not want to hear this story, not really. The words were alone and cold, the memories scattered and buried beneath pain. Each face described bit deeper into him. There was no justification and there never could be. Perhaps one day the guilt would fade, leaving only a shallow throb but here living in the words of this woman was agony.
In a moment honor became murder. In a moment a soldier became a monster.
She never said goodbye to them, never knew their fates. There was an aunt somewhere in the countryside that could have helped but it was too late. Her Father sacrificed himself for them. He was polish. She was half.
There were many dark days in other camps distinguished only by her duties at each. She had worked in factories mostly, toiling hours away beside the machinery. Then there was Strutthof, the end of the line. She expressed her thankfulness toward God in being assigned a job so comparably enjoyable. Then there was fear in her eyes like a cold fire. 
“I had to do it you know,” she said. “I had to help that woman. You think it’s stupid I know but I just couldn’t watch it again. I couldn’t let it happen right in front of me, in front of all of those people.”
He was quiet. There was nothing to say. He understood.
“That guard would have killed me, to make an example wouldn’t he?”
Carston’s throat was dry. He nodded. 
“Yes he would have,” Cartston paused. “But he changed his mind.”
She caressed the stale loaf, turning it over in her hands. “I don’t think he changed his mind,” She said. “At least not by himself. I know what you did. I know that you convinced him not to kill me.” Her tired eyes studied him as they so often did.
Cartston wanted the world to be a different place, a safe place, where no one knew the meaning of fear or war. He wished that the land mind was placed a bit closer, that there was none of him left to offer Strutthof. He had power but he could not protect even one person. He had honor but he would watch her die.
“Listen Ariella tomorrow they’re going to take you back to the mending workshop back to the way it was before.” He watched as relief washed over her pale face. She found joy in the fact that she had not been demoted to the tin factory.
“Ariella please don’t do anything like this again,” he pleaded with her. “They won’t give you a second chance.” She stared at him blankly, hands folded.
“Ariella promise me that you won’t.” He closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. One day there would be a vacant stool at the mending workshop. One day there would be one less prisoner waiting for bread. Even if she lived, it was only a matter of time until the quarters were cleared for the next batch of prisoners.
“Promise me.”
“Why?” She asked. “Why did you save me? Why do you keep coming back here?”
Cartston knew that no words were adequate to answer her question. For as long as he could remember the world consisted of those who had and those who had not. Those fortunate enough to be wealthy or hold positions of prestige were happy and fulfilled. Those who did not were destined to toil the rest of their days searching for this idea of success and eventual peace.  Cartston had run after the prize starting from the depths of society. Yet fate seemed to steal his reward. There would be a day he knew, when the war ended. Perhaps the allies would triumph and every wall the supervisor built up would be torn down. Then it would all be in vain. Perhaps the fatherland would overcome. Then he would be elevated and awarded for his deeds. Yet for how long? Flowers are beautiful and brilliant but they fade. War horses pull great loads but are shot out of their misery when their joints become brittle. There was no meaning.
Yet here was a person who fought for no prize. There was a sense of contentment of fullness that lingered around this woman. She had no family, no friends. She had nothing yet sitting alone in that cell she had more than he.
The tailor’s son remembered a day three years ago. A young couple snickered as they watched his now aged father fumble with a worn briefcase. The key to the shop shook in his calloused hands, missing the key hole with each effort. Cartston guided the key into the lock as the young man whispered something into the ear of his lady friend. She found it humorous and put a hand to her mouth in a poor attempt to stifle the laughter.  He hated them for their heartlessness, their frivolous pleasure at the old man’s expense. Cartston vowed that he would stop the laughter and never allow it to return. He built a kingdom around the fear of ridicule, the yearning to be considered adequate. Now he was the one mocking, demeaning people and tearing away their livelihoods. He had become what he worked to destroy, what he hated most.   
Ariella was different.  The woman from the train gave even when she expected nothing in return. She sacrificed when there was near to nothing left, prayed as her God seemed to cast her deeper and deeper into the lion’s pit.   
It was foreign to him, confusing and purposeless. Yet the dreams would not let him forget. The faces and voices that surrounded every aspect of life at Strutthof would not let him forget. Her eyes, resigned to their fate but strong in the midst of death would never allow him to forget.
“I don’t understand,” her voice broke through his thoughts like stone through ice. “What if you were found out? Why would you risk so much just to talk to me, to someone you don’t even care about someone..,” she hesitated “someone you hate?”
There was nothing he could do. The world was set in order like a grand clock, old and precise. The hands would not stop for one second, spare one moment in the timeframe. He was but a clog in a tangled and irreversible mound of gears.
“Maybe I don’t hate you,”
Her eyes were misty and strange. He had never seen them this way. They reminded him that she was beautiful once. She still was.
~
The cold had settled in his joints, stiffening every ligament and muscle. As deep mud slid into the crevices of military style boots once again and the chill air sent melodies through the thinning branches he thought of the task before him, the impossible task, to ignore, turn away, forget.
There was only one way out of the darkness and that was to press on. Cartston would let the images fade; the words become whispers until they were all but gone. Then the guilt would subside. Then the dreams would stop.
There was right and there was wrong. Cartston knew them. Even before he had met the girl with the answers, he knew. He felt the distinction rise from deep within, from a place so hidden it rarely saw the light. Yet there was confusion, chaos as voices from all around spoke different words, planted different ideas. Now ensnared in the very center of a forest wrought with thorns and decay, he dared not move. 

The man who brought her to roll call that morning had a scar running along the edge of his jaw. He did not speak to her just motioned for her to come. The ground beneath the soles of her thin shoes was chill and a fine dew had settled upon the foliage outside the fence.
The women gave her confused glances as she settled into her position amongst them. They had believed her to be dead. Prisoner number 1484 was gone, her space a vacant hole in the block of bodies that made up roll call.
Ariella struggled to make her voice sound strong at the mention of her number. She remembered that Strutthof does not give second chances often, let alone thirds.
The breaths that escaped from their mouths that morning were captured in a white smoke that rose ever so slowly into the air. Ariella shivered now. A cold front seemed to be moving throughout the land. She noticed that there were no birds singing beyond the fence only the quite rustle of small animals in preparation for the winter season.
The numbers continued to lull past the officers lips. “1492, 1493” She listened as each prisoner offered a weary version of “present”.
He was there, dressed in full uniform, pressed and pristine. She found it hard to imagine that this was the same man who brought her bread the night before. He caught her glance but immediately turned his attention back to the officer reading off the numbers. In the brief second their eyes met she had sensed pain. Yet there was something more. It was regret. They were strangers now she realized. 
When the last identifying digit escaped into the morning air the weary prisoners filed past one another to their respective labor camps. She passed by him along with the other women privileged enough to be chosen for the repair workshop. He did not look at her.
~
There was one less woman at the workshop that day, her stool unoccupied. Ariella remembered that her name had been Mary or Marie.
Death was no longer worth what it used to be. Ariella remembered the sorrowful mourners of a funeral she once attended. They had said beautiful words and cried genuine tears.
She scanned a uniform with a tare across the collar. Funerals honored a life well lived, the memory of someone loved and valued. There were no funerals at Strutthof only absences.
The first absence for Ariella was a woman named Linda.  It was the original camp, the fifth day. For four days Ariella and her mother toiled in a factory responsible for assembling war plane engines. They were afraid she remembered, but hopeful. They had only heard the stories, never experienced them first hand. It was a camp designated for labor not death after all.
Linda was a sick woman. She had, had a fever for three days straight. Ariella remembered her mother’s gentle hands guiding away the drops of sweat that had accumulated upon the woman’s forehead with a small rag. They propped her legs up with a stack of similar rags at night and brought her water from the jug at the far side of the quarters when the coughing began.
On the fifth day since their arrival at the camp Linda was summoned.
“You have been called to the medical ward,” her mother encouraged the wheezing woman. Three days past, then four. There was no sign of Linda.
“Perhaps she was relocated to get better medical care,” her mother said when the woman failed to return after three weeks. Yet they both knew better then.
There was an ache, numbness at first. She remembered Linda’s wide eyes and broad lips, her raspy voice. In an instant she was no more. It was as if the woman simply vanished into eternity, gone forever from everything but their memories.
It was not the sorrow that comes from the death of a loved one, that is a different emotion altogether, a deep inconsolable throb. Rather shock at how quickly a life could be tossed aside and forgotten without a care.
Closing her eyes she could remember the names and faces of those who became absent over the course of her stay at the camps. Some of them lingered at the edge of her memory, taking great effort to call back, none of them as clear as the first.
There had been pity surrounding the absence of Linda. It was a tragedy at the time. Perhaps the frail woman had a chance of release of life outside the camp. Ariella knew that she had hoped for one dreamed for one like all the rest. Even in a labor camp absences were frequent.
Now in the heart of the system release was impossible, rescue a lost cause. She would die in Strutthof. There was a certainty in her mind that this last camp would take her in time. Perhaps someone would recall her face upon the list of absences. They would wonder rather her name was Adriane or Amy. Then she would fade like the rest into the memory of another until those memories were erased and discarded as well.
~
There were many who fell into despair. It was like a thickening fog, coiling dark cords around them. When the burden became too heavy they collapsed beneath it crushed from the inside out. It was a temptation to allow hope to depart like wisps of smoke in the cold Polish air. She wanted to rest somewhere where the pain ended. Ariella yearned for peace, to close her eyes and open them again somewhere safe.
Yet the small still voice begged her to wait. It told her that she was not finished, not yet. There seemed to be just enough strength within her bones. She would not submit. The fear and pain radiated throughout her body. It would be easy to stop swimming and let the tide enclose around her. Still the voice was stronger, quiet but forceful. It would not let her be overcome. It would not let her drown.
Strangers
There were whispers in the quarters. When all was dark they would gather close upon the sleeping structures and speak in hushed voices. Ariella listened from a distance one ear pressed against the thin and stained cushions of the structure.
There were outlandish suggestions, some riddled with skewed logic and desperate fear. Yet Ariella respected them for their hope. The stripe clad women had not relented in the pursuit for a glimmer of light despite being in complete and utter darkness. Perhaps, they too heard the quiet and still voice and it prompted them to endure.
She doubted though, that any of their conversations would come to pass. There were not enough resources for them to employ, not enough courage or moral to bolster the torn prisoners. They were weak, undernourished, injured. The ideas were too broad, too flawed. Yet she appreciated their quiet whispers and the hope, though false that they provided the other woman.
As the moon peaked between the first two bars of the windows that night she dreamed of a plan. The details wafted about in her weary mind. They were as illogical as the rest but comforting all the same. 
~
A thin mist wafted in from the east coating the badges upon his uniform in tiny droplets. Cartston watched as they gathered together ran down the metallic surface and sunk into the fabric of his uniform.
Sergeant Brandt, a man of approximately forty with a balding head and sparse mustache called out the prisoner numbers. His voice was course and dry. The uniformed man stopped to cough for a moment before continuing his daily rendition.
Her voice he noticed was the strongest, although it sounded forced and a bit unnatural. He wondered if perhaps the isolation period benefited prisoner 1485’s health.
The glance was unintentional. She stared back at him. Ariella was smaller, sicker then he remembered. The light of day revealed how pale her alabaster skin had become. Her face was drawn downward but her eyes asked for help, they yearned to understand he knew. It was only a moment before he pulled his eyes away from hers. The guilt was too strong to bare. It burned at the back of his throat and made his palms sting as if a residue from the sulfurous fruit still remained.
He had vowed to forget, to let the thoughts and memories that surrounded her escape. Cartston wanted to move forward not look behind at the trail of wreckage in his wake. Yet there she was, staring back at him. Every day he would see her and feel the weight of the mistakes, of the choices. Finally cruel time would slowly pull Ariella away like so many others until there was nothing left but a shadow.
He feared that day, the day when she was too weak to carry on, when the woman from the train began to realize that the world was being woven into a single smooth red towel. He hoped he wouldn’t see it. He knew there was no way to stop it.

Every night the group that huddled together in the moonlight that streamed through the barred windows grew. The whispers became louder, the conversations deeper. Ariella stared into the darkness at the figures gathered upon the top structure. Beams of light illuminated the tired broken outlines of their faces.
“Perhaps if we could get a hold of the key to the front gate somehow,” a woman with a thick Ukrainian accent offered. The others began to speculate about the possibility. None of the conspirators had any idea where the key was stowed or any means of obtaining it. 
Ariella listened with growing curiosity. She imagined a rebellion, an attempt at escape. The risk was high. The prisoners had the advantage of pure numbers but they were weak, unarmed and fearful. There would be a significant amount of causalities if not a massacre. Perhaps in the confusion, some would escape to the surrounding forest. Yet what then? There were likely miles upon miles of terrain to cover before the next town or outcrop. Then there was the question of safety within civilization. How could dozens of women in striped uniforms go unnoticed even within a bustling city?
The dangers seemed to outweigh the benefits. Yet with life slipping from the women’s hands like sand upon the oceanside there was little left to grasp at.
~
There was a commotion in the direction of the mending workshop. The sky was an odd unsettled grey and the birds stopped their singing.  Cartston had been walking alongside the fence when he heard it. A harsh voice sliced through the stillness followed by the sound of bone on bone.
The ground slid beneath him as he ran toward the distant building. Cartston felt as if his feet were anchored in the thick mud that splayed sideways with each step. He had dropped the walking stick and trampled over it in his haste. The fog swelled around him obscuring the path ahead. Finally the oblong structure emerged from the murk. Cartston stopped, breath rattling, heart racing.
Women lined the edges of the building, the white stripes of their uniforms barely visible against the smoke like fog. In the center a single figure knelt on the ground her knee’s pressed into the mud. Jäger loomed over her. A drop of blood slithered down his hand and fell from the index finger.
The man curled his hand into a fist again as if to strike before noticing Cartston. He stopped and righted himself.
“The honor is yours,” he said pulling a handgun from a holster at his waist and offering it to the superior.
Cartston watched the metallic weapon for a moment. Jäger stared at him expectantly. He came forward and took the gun. The surface was cold to the touch. The women watched him, terror painted upon their faces.
The figure in the center raised her head and looked at him. It was her. Blood slid down Ariella’s cheek from a cut that ran across her eyebrow. A bruise was beginning to form beneath her right eye. His hands trembled. Jäger watched with crossed arms.
He raised the weapon and positioned it to the center of her forehead. She stared into his eyes. There was no fear there only sadness. The tailor’s son looked into the distance at the grey of the sky and the shadows formed by the boughs of evergreen trees. He pulled the trigger. 
The noise reverberated throughout the camp sending crows outside the fence into flight. He would not look at her body crumpled upon the wet earth. He turned to Jäger but found that he was gone. The man had disappeared without a trace into the fog.
“I trusted you,” He spun around. The voice came from the group of women. It was soft and still. It was hurt and broken. It was hers.
“Who said that,” he demanded hands still trembling. A woman emerged from the gathering. Cartston took a step back. It was her.
“I trusted you,” she said. He shook his head, stumbling backwards. “I trusted you,” said an identical voice from his left. Another Ariella appeared within the line, her face twisted like the other in the pain of betrayal. “I trusted you,” they said in unison.
The other woman began the chant as well some morphing into Ariella others retaining their original forms.
“I trusted you.”
“No,” he said. “I couldn’t do anything; there was nothing I could do. Nothing I can do.”
The voices continued, with increasing anguish. “I trusted you. I trusted you.” Some began to wail in a near ghostly manner. Cartston covered his ears. The sound was unbearable pulsating within him like a drum. He closed his eyes. There were the faces of those he had seen die mixed together with those that he loved. His mother with her hair pulled back into a loose bun, smiling at him over the kitchen table, a prisoner with a broken wrist screaming against the roar of the tin factory machinery.  His father watching the sun set with tired eyes. A woman with white streaked hair pleading for extra bread. Clarice’s red locks and lice infested mattresses.
“Don’t you understand there was nothing I could do?” he yelled above them. “There was no way I could save you. No way I could save any of you.”
The voices ceased. Ariella stepped forward, “I trusted you,” she said.
He fell to his knees beside her body weeping into his hands. “You shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t have ever trusted in me.”
~
He was screaming into the pillow, hands clutching at the bed frame. The dreams were constant, never ceasing in their painful and frightful imagery. Each one involved the woman from the train, each one shook him.
Yet it wasn’t just Ariella that haunted him now. Every tortured and troubled face left an impression. They pressed into his mind and very soul branding him as a murder, a thief, a monster.
He realized that Ariella was only one face, one story. There were thousands, millions of others who were the same, helpless and suffering human beings. They were mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. They were wives and husbands, sisters and brothers. They had families, dreams, and hopes not different from his own.
It was unfair. It was inhuman and disgusting. Yet he was helpless to stop any of it. He sat on the edge of the bed, a leg and a half dangling over the floor. There were too many faces in the tin factory, too many condemned people. Ariella could never fade from memory when people like her surrounded his every waking moment.
The idea of leaving Strutthof crossed his mind many a time but the risk was too high the benefits too few. He had a job, a title, a purpose. There was honor in the service of one’s country despite the disillusionment that he sensed.  In Strutthof men stopped to salute him. They regarded him as sir. If he were to leave the compound it would all change. The world passed Cartston by in his absence. His education was satisfactory but not advanced. There were jobs to be found for him but not one’s of honor not one’s that demanded notice or respect.  Perhaps, he would open a shop like his father or work in a factory. He imagined that the SS would be suspicious of his sudden disinterest. Cartston could spin a tale about better opportunities back home or a number of things but his reasoning would appear paper thin.
Still his absence would do nothing for Ariella or any of the women within the camp. It seemed that Cartston was also confined within the barbed wire fence. He knew though that he was the most deserving prisoner. 

The factory worker attempted to stifle a cough against her forearm. However, the steam and dust that wafted over the machinery only served to worsen her condition. She was slower than the rest and it tampered with the effectiveness of the whole system. Cartston watched carefully.
The woman should be declared unfit for work. She should be removed immediately he thought. Yet Cartston stood still, hands wondering over the intricate curving designs carved at the head of his walking stick. To deem the women unfit for work was the same as shooting her point blank. He would not be the monster of his own nightmares again.
Cartston pretended not to notice the coughing and wheezing. He turned away supervised another group and ignored the red faced woman. Yet with each passing day she seemed to deteriorate further, the coughing becoming more intense and frequent in duration. The women who worked near her kept their distance for fear of contracting the illness. They all cast weary glances toward the officer who appeared oblivious to the woman’s failing health.
After a week’s time it became apparent to Cartston that the woman was not improving.  Her cough once shallow rocked through her whole body, sounding deep and congested.
“Come here,” he said gesturing toward the ill woman after one particularly intense spell of coughing. She was not Jewish. Her hair had a reddish hue. It reminded him of Clarice. For an instant he imagined the girl now 17 standing among the workers her pigtails shorn.
“Please sir,” she said. “I can still work. I am a hard worker. I can keep pace with the rest of…”
“Sit over there,” he said pointing to a spot besides the railing away from the fumes that radiated off of the machinery.
The woman obeyed walking toward the spot he designated and setting herself upon the ground. Cartston glanced toward the stairs and the door far below. An unsuspected visitor would surely find this order absurd and unnecessary. There were consequences for showing mercy in these places. Yet the door stayed firmly shut and the other supervisors remained in their own quadrants of the factory.  Still Cartston stayed vigilant, wary of onlookers.
When the bell rung and the rest of the prisoners filed down the stairs, their shoes clanging against the steel steps, the red headed woman stayed. Cartston looked over the railing at the other supervisors and officers. They were far enough away not to hear or see him.
“You can go,” he said. A confused look flashed across her face as she rose, hurriedly ran down the stairs and caught up with the rest. 
He leaned against the railing and watched as the masses slowly exited the factory. Once everyone left, the building was quiet almost peaceful. Often times Cartston would stay alone and watch the smoke and fumes that wafted into the open air disappear into the rafters above. He noticed that a finch had made its home there in the rafters, stitching together a nest of twigs from the outdoors.
He wondered why any creature would leave the beauty of nature for the toxic exhaust fumes of the factory. The air was guaranteed to poison the poor finch over time but alas the bird was unaware. Yet the place was warm, sheltering from the frightful conditions. The bird would thrive for awhile but Cartston knew that disaster would follow. For the finch there was no need to leave. In that moment it was protected and provided for. It was comfortable.

A woman named Clara with reddish hair and a cough talked of her odd encounter at the tin factory where she labored.  For five days the supervisor allowed her to sit and rest during work hours. Each day Clara attempted to rejoin the other woman for fear of being declared unfit for labor but was told by the tall German man to stop and take her place besides the railing. The other woman nodded their heads in agreement. The ordeal was a very strange one.
“I’m still scared of him, of course,” Clara said. “But I don’t know he just seems to have changed all the sudden. He’s different somehow.”
Ariella sat with her back to the group of women, a small piece of bread in one hand. The wind stirred through the now bare tree limbs sending a dead branch to the ground beyond the fence. Winter was creeping in, stealing the soft summer air and the twills of hatchling birds like a stealth thief.
The cold months were difficult to survive through in all of the camps Ariella had been a part of. She remembered huddling close to the other women in the dark still hours of the night their body heat sustaining them. Then there was the danger of frostbite, hypothermia and the typhoid fever that took so many.  Gazing at the faces around her Ariella feared that most would never see the gentle shoots of spring again.
~
The man from the train stood by himself at a distance, leaning against a tree that sprung from the ground a few feet from the area designated for the prisoners’ meals. He griped one hand with the other and stared past the prisoners into the land and sky beyond. Ariella wondered if they would ever say a word to one another again. She wondered if he would ever look at her the same way. Surely he had not forgotten their words.
She had revealed so much of herself to this curious stranger though they had only spoken for three days. Ariella began to believe that perhaps there was more to him than harsh commands and cruelty. Perhaps, this man was capable of understanding of feeling remorse even if he did nothing to stop it. She had begun to trust him. Now watching the wind ripple across the folds of his uniform Ariella realized that he was afraid.
She knew fear. She knew that for some it quieted their voice drawing them deeper within. It made them hesitate. It made them cowards. For others fear allowed them to move with abandon, with purpose. It awakened a need to react, defeat or defend. It made them courageous and defiant. She wondered which category the man from the train fell under.     
The sound signaled for the prisoners to return back to labor and the officers back to their stations. Cartston took up his walking stick and marched toward the dark looming building in the distance, a group of weary prisoners close behind.
~
Their words were no longer whispers although; the deaf were better informed than Strutthof’s officers.  They spoke only under the cover of darkness or when attentive ears were sure to be drawn elsewhere. Their chatter was not void gossip or farfetched wives tales. To the women prisoners this plan or rather these details of the plan were life itself.
Ariella prayed that these developments would not be found out, that the hope would linger even if the rebellion never came to pass. Treason would mean punishment and for many punishment would result in death. Yet the plans continued becoming more realistic as a greater number of women rallied to the cause.
“Oh Mary how can you be so hopeful when we don’t know how to get past the gates,” asked a woman named Mara one night as the rebels discussed new developments. “What are we to do jump them? They’ve removed all of the trees near the fence line to prevent it anyhow.”
Mary who seemed to wear the hope of the whole movement on her face brightened a bit.  She was the main drive behind the rebellion. The other women viewed her as the leader. “The other day I was talking to that woman… Oh what’s her name works at the tin factory. The one with the odd story about the supervisor...”
“Clara,” Ariella imputed from her position on the structure a few feet away. Initially she had wanted to stay out of their plans but as of late the details began to seem more logical and the idea of survival throughout the winter more bleak. Already an outbreak of typhoid was rumored to have ravaged Barrack Four.
“Yes Clara that’s her,” Mary said. “She’s a smart girl she is. Well anyway she suggested we plan the thing to coincide with the arrival of supplies.”
“Are you daft?” Mara whispered harshly her eyebrows drawn together. “Haven’t you got any sense? It’s broad daylight!”
“Of course I know that,” Mary said slightly annoyed. “It’s our best plan of action and if all of the women rise at once they will not suspect it or have time to close the gates.”
“What of weapons? They will start shooting,” Mara said. The women around her began to murmur amongst themselves.
“Yes they will but do they have 5,000 bullets?” Mary asked her lips pressed tightly together.
The women were quiet. Mary pulled at a small hole in the sleeve of her uniform. “Yes there will be casualties many but… I believe we’re worth it. I believe that together we can make this happen.”
Ariella believed it too looking at the determined young Mary she believed it. 
“I want you all to spread the word,” Mary continued. “Be quite and careful and choose informatives wisely, never a Capo. They may have been one of us but they are no longer.”
The women seemed satisfied with this, some sliding away from the huddled group and settling upon the structure for the night.
“But what about outside the fence. What happens then?” Ariella asked. Mary sighed running a hand through matted brown hair. Her hair was longer than the rest Ariella noticed a sign that the woman had been a resident of Strutthof for a sizeable amount of time.
“It will be more difficult then. We must scatter in groups of no more than three and run. The city of Strutthof is quite a distance but it is possible.”

“And what of food? What of the cold?” Ariella asked.
“Food is the least of our worries but I have a solution. If only I could find one for the cold or for the search parties that are bound to come.” She looked into the distance imagining, her eyes wide lips parted.
“Mary?” Ariella said gently after a moment. The woman roused herself from the thoughts. 
“No the food will not be a problem we will gather small portions of bread that week from each meal and stow it in our uniforms. It will be enough. As for the cold we must leave soon, before the first snow.”
There was a hole in the wall that night by where Ariella slept. Closing one eye and gazing out she could see the way the chill wind rustled through the tree branches. Winter appeared to be arriving much more quickly than Mary expected. It seemed to Ariella that the first snow could happen that very night. Yet the sky held its peace and all was still and quiet besides the wail of the wind and the occasional raspy cough of a Strutthof prisoner.
 

Beyond the fence.  No one dared to go past any fence in Strutthof much less the one that divided the female prisoners’ from the males. Yet there were rumors that someone had.
His name was Rodion, his wife’s name Yeva. They were Russian. According to the rumors, the two were keepers of documents, documents considered vile to the Reich. Many believed that when Rodion and Yeva became too curious and knowledgeable they found themselves in Strutthof. No one knew for sure if the stories were true. Perhaps, the couple had harbored Jews or taken part in a massive fraud. Perhaps, they were Jewish themselves although they hardly looked it, him with eyes as blue as the sky and her with hair made of sunshine. Their origins were ultimately unknown. Yet one thing was clear.
They were completely enamored with one another. Ariella recalled now the woman’s constant talk of the man called Rodion. She told the tale of their marriage often, perhaps forgetting that most had already heard it before.
“It happened on the most beautiful day in the world,” she would begin in a broken accent. “It was to be in a church originally but Rodion remembered how much I loved the sunshine and he got permission from my parents for it to be outside. Papa was skeptical about rain because it was early spring but they agreed. It was beautiful. There was laughter and food and music all in the sunshine.”
The women would smile at her memories, some offering polite comments about their own wedding day. For those like Ariella who never married the story often carried a certain weight. They were happy for Yeva’s experiences, for her joy. They were not jealous. Yet there was a sense of loss, a sense that something beautiful and precious had been stolen. As if the gift was taken away before it was even opened, before they had a chance to feel a man’s touch or gaze upon the face of a newborn babe.
Yet perhaps, Ariella thought it was for the better to lose what one never had. There were many both men and women within the camps who had left broken hearts and hungry families behind. Ariella imagined that there were free people somewhere who looked upon the stars every evening and prayed desperately for the safe return of their loved ones. They had cried and wailed at the arrest of their family members and perhaps even pleaded to be taken as well. Still they waited unable to escape the magnitude of loss. Ariella had had no such experience. She was alone. No sorrow was felt over her imprisonment and no heartbroken souls held to her memory. She was glad of it. The desolation of the camp was difficult to bear alone but the thought of being waited for and missed was an especially sad one. There was a comfort and mercy in lonesomeness.
Perhaps, it was this lonesomeness that drew Rodion to the fence. Perhaps, he counted himself already in the numbers of the dead and felt that the only way to breathe again was in her arms. Some said that it was selfish, others that the man was delusional. A few believed that it was worth it.
When morning came they were found out. The penalty: immediate execution by gunpoint. Two loud gunshots rang out across the early morning, silencing the birds that sang in the tree tops beyond. There was a rumor that Rodion laughed at his executioners, that his final words were “so you’ve set us free at last.”
~
There was speculation to the man’s means of entry. At role call that morning Ariella noticed footprints laced around the edges of the fence where the officers had investigated. Later in the day she spotted a few prodding at the posts that held the fence together. It seemed that Rodian’s appearance baffled administration as much as the prisoners themselves.
“I think he dug under,” one woman suggested.
“Nah they would have found the hole and stopped searching by now,” another interjected. “Maybe he found a way to get past the electricity. Rubber you know.”
“Or maybe he found a broken segment of the fence. One where there was no electricity,” said the first woman.
“Doesn’t matter now does it?” Mara said. “He was an idiot and he killed the both of them.” The middle-aged woman’s face scrunched in a sour expression.
“They probably would have both died anyway. It was more brave than anything in my opinion,” said a woman perched upon the structure a few feet away. Mara formed a rebuttal about the foolishness of the decision and soon the whole barrack began to discuss whether Rodion was insane, a hero or both.
“What do you think about it Mary?” someone asked. The prisoners stopped their chatter for a moment, curious at the woman’s answer. Mary sat apart from the rest quieter than ever before.
“I think that they will be more careful now, that they will take more notice of the prisoner’s happenings. There will be greater risk.” A shadow hung over her face as she turned away from them. 
The silence screamed against the thin wooden boards that night as each imagined the task at hand and the severity of a single misstep. Word of the rebellion in the wrong ears would guarantee their deaths. Ariella imagined that Mary was the most fearful. She was the face of the endeavor, the organizer and leader of the misfit bunch. There was no turning back for her, nor for any now. 

There had been a knock at the door. It was a harsh knock, one that made her mother’s china cabinet rattle. Dishes were in the sink, the gravy boat still on the table. Ariella’s mother had put much effort into the meal that day.
Her father answered. There was a man in a uniform, shoes freshly shined, hair slicked back. She read the faint lines of alarm that appeared in her father’s countenance, stiff shoulders, hands griped tightly behind his back. Yet Dmitri Dominski was a clever man, a man of reason and quiet charm.
“Hello officer is there anything that I can help you with?” he said in a light and respectable tone. The man cleared his throat and stepped forward. The mid afternoon sun cast his shadow long and dark against the floor.
“By decree of the state you are issued to come with me for questioning.” Her father fiddled with his pocket watch a moment before checking the time.
“I was in the middle of some important work but I suppose I would be glad to help,” he said grabbing for his coat and hat on the rack near the door and stepping outside. He reached for the knob to shut the door. 
“You seemed to have misunderstood,” the officer said his foot wedged in the half closed door. “All of you are to be questioned.” The taller man peered over her father’s shoulder.
Dominick stepped back into the room, carefully setting his hat and coat in their original positions. “And that we will as soon as my wife and daughter rid themselves of that awful bug that’s gone around. Adela’s about over it,” he said gesturing to the girl seated at the table. She smiled at the officer, color rushing to her cheeks. “Unfortunately my wife is still sick with it, the poor thing works so hard only to take ill. She deserves the rest though. Are you mar...”
“Mr. Dominski I suggest that you and your family obey and follow suit,” the officer said placing a hand on the door. The two stared at each other for a moment. 
“Very well, I see,” Dominick said at last. “But may I at least know why we are needed so urgently.” His eyebrows bent downward.
“Have you heard of the Nuremberg Laws Mr. Dominski?” There was an oppressive thickness to the air then. Ariella knew that the documents had been found, that her mother’s true maiden name was discovered.
“Of course I do but what exactly does that have to do with my family and I?”
“I am afraid that is for the Gestapo to decide.”
~
The small town in which she lived flew by the windows of the little black car. Shop fronts and familiar passer bys melded together to form a solid block of memory. She had heard about the ghettos that the Jewish people had been sent to. She had noticed their stores and homes gone dark. Still she could not imagine a world apart from the only place she had ever known.
The car suddenly screeched to a stop. Ariella caught herself against the seatback with one hand and peered out the front window.
“Get out of the street!” the officer yelled at a boy carrying a stack of papers. The terrified youth edged out from before the car holding out a paper. The officer huffed and started the engine again.
“Get your paper. England and France to oppose the Reich.” Ariella listened as the boy continued his loud advertising. He reminded her of Arlow with the worn cap and tattered trousers. She missed the little paper boy who had grown tall and gone to work at the general store.
Now as the car shuddered over the cobblestone Ariella sensed that she could never return. She knew that she would never see Arlow or Mrs. Barrow’s candy shop or her neighborhood’s rooftops laden with silvery frost again. As they neared the town hall building Ariella absorbed all of the sights and captured them one at time. They were beautiful. They were simple. They were her home and they were dissolving before her eyes.
~
The announcement was made by Mary that night as the chill wind rattled through the walls. They were to start gathering bits of food. The rebellion was only six days away and the women were to prepare themselves for their last fight.
“When the day comes I want no hesitation,” Mary said. “We must be willing to sacrifice ourselves for the survival of us all.”
Ariella thought that she could do it, rush the gates with the rest. Her life would be a small cost for the chance that each woman would have of escape and freedom in the days beyond. Studying the faces around her, Ariella felt willing to make that sacrifice.
They were women of different lands, languages and customs but here they became one. One united sprit, broken and burdened under the same yoke.
“Can you make that sacrifice?” Mary asked her voice quivering.
“I can,” Ariella said softly. The quarters became silent, the wind singing in the bare branches outside.
“I can,” said another tentative voice.
“I can,” the chant began simultaneously. Their voices were mere whispers connected by the same heart. In that moment they were bound together, in a bound stronger than death, stronger than life.

    She had never wanted him to enroll early, never wanted him to leave the safety of home, but the offer was too attractive for the boy to turn down. He would be safe, he had promised. He would be smart he had promised. He would make something of himself, something she would be proud of.
“Cartston you could be anything go anywhere,” she said. “You could be a doctor learn medicine, help people, make money. You don’t have to do this.” The woman gestured to the crisp hat in the boy’s hand.
“But it’s my duty to this country to this family. I will make you proud I promise,” he said placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t know about this country Cartsten but you make this family proud every day, right here at home.” The folds about the sides of her eyes deepened the way the sky darkens before a storm.
“Let the boy go Marin,” his father said from the opposite end of the room, bent over a cup of steaming herbal tea. “If he has the opportunity to make something of himself let him. Life is not always so kind.” There was a burdened sound to the words. He took up the cup and drank deeply.
Cartston had smiled at them. “I promise I will be the best of them out there,” he said. Then after practically sprinting up the stairs he had grabbed a bag from beneath his bed. The fabric was worn much like most of the clothing inside but to Cartston it was perfect. The next day he would be half way across the country learning how to become a soldier. No one would know where he came from or whose son he was. It was a new start, a new start that Cartston very much wanted.
He stopped for a moment and listened. The door was opened a crack and he could hear the voices down below.
“Why would you encourage him Paul?  He could leave and we could never see him again. You know that he could die out there. Do you want that?” There was a long silence from below. Cartsten edged the door open further pressing a curious ear against the woodwork.
“Well answer me!” she said. “Don’t you care if he gets shot to bits?” The sound of a mug slamming down against the table made Cartston stumble away from the open door. His father’s voice was low and hushed the way a dog growls before attacking.
“Of course I do! How can you think I wouldn’t? But can’t you see he’s ashamed of us, of this place, of me? He deserves better Marin and he can’t find that here not in this place.”

“What of all of his studying? He could go on to become a doctor make a life that way.” Her voice trembled.
“I’m sorry Marin,” Paul said softening his voice. “You and I both know we can’t afford that. There are boys with less ragged handkerchiefs who are bred to be physicians. Cartston is a tailor’s son and I fear that’s all he’ll ever be.” Cartston sat on the floor beside the opened door, his knuckles white from clutching the frame and his knees numb against the hard wooden floors.
His mother was crying now. “I just can’t imagine life around here without him.” She said.
“Oh Marin I’m afraid Cartston left this place long ago,” his father said.
~
When the accident happened, Cartston was too ashamed to return to them. Instead, he settled in the city Landsberg investing the small amount of money he had left after the prosthetic on an apartment. The ceilings were low and stained with water and the faucets leaked. The Landlord was a stocky rodent-like man who demanded rent money to be complete and prompt.
“Follow the rules, don’t mess up the place and get me my money every three weeks and everything will be just fine. Otherwise you’re out and no funny play I know people who are not fond of jokes,” the landlord had said displaying a yellow toothed grimace.
Cartston found an old newspaper in a trash bin outside the building and promised himself to never meet the landlord’s acquaintances. There was an offer at the barber shop for a boy to sweep up the clippings and tend the register. The pay was generous for the position and the owner, an elderly near sighted man, was kind. 
The shame was as constant as the sweep of the broom but in some way Cartston felt deserving. Who was he to ever imagine more for himself than a tailor’s son? The broom’s flakey red paint came off under his nails as the present and past stabled him with a single blade.
“You missed a big clump of it over there,” the owner said gesturing toward a dark heap of hair in the corner. “That woman had too much hair. Too much pride too if you ask me,” he whispered wryly. Cartston smiled at him politely. The old man often rambled on about the customers to the quiet boy, making stories up about their antics. Cartston never minded much although, he considered the man to be a bit eccentric. He understood somehow the need to be heard.
“Look at this,” the owner said bending down with a grunt and plucking a lock of dark hair from the shined checker board floor. “She wanted it dyed so many times that now it looks nearly purple,” he laughed. “Imagine that, Purple hair!” Cartston studied the strange hues of the woman’s hair for a moment. It appeared to be frazzled and course, the stands broken and frayed at the ends.
“My you are quiet.” Cartston had not noticed the old man watching him. He searched for words respectful and explanatory enough but found none. “Awe don’t trouble yourself over it. I know that there are things that steal words,” he eyed the cane that rested in the corner and stepped away from Cartston gathering the tip left by the previous customer in one hand.
“You know I have had five different boys over the last year gather hair for me,” the old man said as he slipped the coins into the register.
“That is a lot sir,” Cartston replied.
“Yes it is, isn’t it?,” there was a faraway look in his eyes as if the old man stood apart from the rest of the world. “One quit the other four I found dipping their hands into the register,” he said eyebrows raised. Cartston was not surprised. It would be easy to fool the elderly fund keeper. He had been tempted to do so himself at one point, but thought better of it.    
“It wasn’t that they took my money you see,” he said. “I would have lent it to them if they asked. It’s that they stole my trust,” he paused looking out the window at the passersby in dark trench coats and shined work shoes. “Life is simple son but people get greedy and it’s not just money. In the end I’m afraid that most everybody ends up with purple hair.” He was quiet for a long moment gazing out the shop window. Then he turned and chuckled at the boy with the broom. “Does that make any sense to you?” he asked.
Cartston stopped and thought for a moment. “Yes sir it does,” he replied

“Good lad then you’re wiser than most.”
~
Cartston had avoided meeting the landlord’s friends three times before the letter came. It was a neat envelope addressed to a Mr. Cartston Schroder of the third battalion. He was puzzled over the camp’s knowledge of his whereabouts. His hands trembled as the seal was broken and the snow white letter peeked from the envelope.
“Mr. Schroder we have been informed of your leadership abilities as well as your inexpressible sacrifice for the fatherland. As you have been recommended with high honors by General Scott Ebner we offer you a position in the Polish concentration camp known formally as Strutthof. Lodgings, food and pay will be offered upon your arrival. We await your acceptance letter and trust that you will be eager to serve the fatherland once again.”
He sat the letter on a rickety table near the window and pulled up a chair beside it. The words were typed with dark bold ink, the signature of the camps leader sprawled across the bottom of the page in thin and elegant precision.
He had heard about the camps, stories scattered about in the mouths of various acquaintances. They were often referred to as correctional facilities being designed to accommodate political offenders and other undesirables. He had heard of factories and workshops where the prisoners paid their debt to society with labor.
There were rumors of course from the platforms of moral activist that the camps were cruel and filled with mass deaths. Cartston believed that people died. Perhaps they were even killed in certain circumstances of rash disobedience. Many of these people were rebels after all or bitter souls prone to dishonor.  He did not believe however, that officers would kill good laborers without a cause. Besides lacking honor, the idea was irrational.
He took up the piece of parchment carefully and began to fold it. A concentration camp officer was far from his original aspirations. The incident began to play over again as it had so many times before. Cartston attempted to pull his mind from the sultry air and thick mud but it was too late.
It had been a dark day, the clouds misty and pulled low in an oppressive curtain. They were pushing forward, it appeared. The Allies were slowly relinquishing land, forced to abandon their trenches. He had run forward alongside a younger soldier of about 17. It had only been three weeks since he had received the position of lieutenant and already he screamed like a general for the men to advance.
He was about 25 yards from the next trench when it happened. There was a click as his foot came down sideways. When it lifted the mine was released. He remembered that the 17 year old was pushed back by the force, out of the danger. Cartston dove sideways. There were flailing arms and the ground quaked. The world seemed to be screaming for a moment before a deafening silence surrounded him. Dark shadows of men with machine guns rushing from trench to trench blurred in his vision. There was a terrible ringing as the sky seemed to reach down and smoother him. Then there was nothing.
Often he had imagined missing the mine by an inch. Perhaps, stepping over it without ever knowing it was there at all. The young soldier could have just as easily been the victim yet it was not to be. Cartston stared out the small window opposite the table. A single pipe ran down the side of another brown bricked apartment building.
The life that he dreamed had been stolen too soon. For what felt like a brief moment he had believed that hard work paid off, that he was worth more than a tailor’s son. Then in an instant it was ruined. He was ashamed to ever imagine more.
Cartston fingered the edge of the stiff envelope. Here was a second chance. It was not a particularly honorable chance but it was a chance to become something again. He took up the walking stick that rested against the table and began to hobble toward a small shelf. There was a tingling sensation sometimes where the leg had once been as if it was still there, only malformed and throbbing. The doctor referred to it as ghost legs and assured him that it was common amongst those missing limbs.
He took up a piece of clean parchment from the shelf and a fountain pen. Sitting back down Cartston searched for the right words for an acceptance letter. They were hard to find. He didn’t understand the hesitation. Yet there it was a small gnawing voice.
The pen hovered over the paper for a moment before he set it down and folded his hands. There was no logical reason to turn down the offer. Perhaps he had simply been stunned at his own luck. The camp after all would provide for all of his needs. Cartston looked towards the jar of coins on the shelf, barley filled high enough for rent the following week. No longer would he need to work in the barber shop or live out of the tiny ill-kept apartment building. There would be pay, food, and living quarters, more importantly there would be some degree of honor again.
Cartsten was a soldier by nature. The calling of duty ran through his blood, the need to serve something or someone beat as strong as the heart in his chest. He had been called a leader before but only because the soldier in him was stronger and more just than the man. In the shadow of poverty that soldier always felt weak and the man ashamed. Cartsten took up the pen and set it to the paper. He knew just what to write.
~
The Barber shop owner found a new boy to sweep up the hair clippings the day before Cartsten departed for Strutthof. The elderly man had smiled in a sad sort of way when Cartsten told him about the letter and about the choice.
“I would like to say I wouldn’t take it if I was you. That I’d stay right here in this worn out town,” he had said, glassy eyes once again watching the streets. “But I’d be a liar. I wasn’t wise when I was young.” He chuckled slightly looking at the boy. “I wouldn’t say I’m much wiser now.”
A customer sent the cow bell on the door handle tolling and Cartston busied himself once again with the reddish blond hair that littered the floor. All the while the old man’s words floated about, making him feel an uneasiness within. When at last the customer laid down his tip and left, Cartston stopped sweeping and spoke.
“You don’t think my decision is a good one?” he asked a bit of color coming to his face. The owner looked surprised for a moment. It was not often that the quiet sweep boy spoke let alone started conversations. Then his face became distant, lines of weariness appearing at the corners of his eyes.
“I just don’t believe there’s much good for you in a place like that.” His words were unusually strained, their meaning vague.
“It’s better for me there,” Cartston said. “There’s food, pay a place to live...” The owner seemed to consider something for a moment.
“A place to live,” he scoffed. “A place to live where others die, a place to eat where people starve a place to find freedom inside bars,” the owner paused. His voice had escalated higher into a near sing song rhythm. “Don’t look at me like you don’t know what those camps are.”
There were words in Carston’s mind but his throat was suddenly tight. The face that had always seemed so gentle was turned downward at the corners, his aged eyes piercing.
The ding of the door turned both back towards their work. “Hello Mr. Gutermuth will it be your usual cut today,” Cartsten heard the owner say from the adjoining room.  He listened quietly as the old man talked to the customer about the small details of the town and the prospects of the war. Cartsten swept beneath the customers dangling feet as puffs of graying hair floated to the ground.
The sweeper felt a weight within. It was not anger, not really. Rather a certain fear that perhaps, the old man was right. Perhaps, there was no honor in being a Strutthof guard after all. Then again the eccentric barber was likely to be wrong. He himself admitted to being foolish. He had said that he would have made the same decision, the same decision that Cartston himself made. Now he was being swindled by his own employees.
“Sorry lad, I didn’t see you there,” Mr. Gutermuth said. The man had finished his hair cut, turned around and bumped into the broom wielding boy. Cartsten nodded a bit sheepishly and stepped out of the way.
“Doesn’t say much does this one,” Mr. Gutermuth said chuckling.
“Nope, just says a whole lot of nothing at all,” the owner said without looking at Cartsten. The cash registered closed along with the door soon behind. Then there was silence as the owner counted the register money and awaited the next customer.
There were no more words for Cartsten until the time came to leave. The clippings were gathered together and tossed into the dumpster outside, and the scissors sharpened. He pushed open the door and stepped out but then caught it before it closed completely. There was something he needed to say.
“I used to talk a lot more once,” he said, “Maybe you wouldn’t believe it but it’s true. And do you want to know why I stopped?” He paused a moment. The owner stared at him with an unintelligible expression. “I stopped cus there was nothing left to talk about. I was made so low that there was… there was absolutely nothing left to live for.” His hands quaked and he took a single deep breath. “So when I got that letter… I thought just maybe here was something that I could talk about.”
Cartsten expected that the old man would apologize then, that he would say that he had misstepped his boundaries. Instead, the owner stared passed Cartsten into the vacant street beyond. The sweeper’s finger tips burned from gripping the wooden door frame and his face flushed in irritation. Finally he turned to leave. The door was only an inch open when the old man began to speak. Cartsten held it with three fingers, his back still to the owner.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for out there son,” he said, “You won’t find it at the camp at least not in the sense you think but I pray that you will find it.”
He was still for a moment. Then, Cartsten left as he always did closing the door behind him. 

There were six pieces of stale bread wrapped in the cloth and a knot in her stomach. The day had come. Ariella was pressed against the wall on the top structure. The bell signaling role call had not yet rung but she realized by the light streaming through the hole in the wall that morning was at hand.
She wiped a red and irritated nose against her sleeve. It had started as a small shiver, a feeling of being constantly trapped beneath ice. Then as the days went on it extended to her throat and scratched the insides of her ears. It was still small just an occasional sniffle. Yet she felt it mounting and knew that the nights would get colder and moments of clarity further apart.
Sickness within these camps was different. In most cases it effected more than the nose and throat. It seemed to destroy the mind. Perhaps it was the fear that mounted inside, fear of being declared unfit for work, fear of death. For many it was simply the last blow to an emotional house of cards.
Peering through the hole she saw that a thin sheet of ice spread across the ground beyond the fence. The winds picked up the dead leaves and strew them across it like a blanket. It was a beautiful sight but a cruel sort of beauty one that was never meant to be touched.  At approximately 4:15 a truck full of supplies was scheduled to arrive at Strutthof and at approximately 4:25 about 250 prisoners were to simultaneously rush the front gate.
Ariella knew that this would be her last day at Strutthof concentration camp. Tomorrow she would either be a fugitive or a corpse. There was no other option. She rubbed warmth back into her arms as she awaited the day. The quarters were unusually quiet except for the occasional cough or sniffle. She imagined that there were many like herself who could not bear to sleep away what could be perhaps the last few hours of their lives.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime the role call bell sounded. For a moment there was stillness, then the rusting of bodies and the noise of bare feet against the floor. No one had the heart or the right words to speak that morning and so for barrack 7 the first word of the last day was “Present.”
~
She thought that the sky made his eyes look like ice that morning, cold and without compassion. Ariella had decided that she would never understand. There had been no walls in the containment center, no barriers and when they talked it was beautiful. It was honest. It was the truth. In those few hours Ariella felt she knew him. She felt as if she had always known him. Then the darkness was taken away and the world could see them both, could hear them. The walls closed in and a great fortress was built up between them. They were enemies but more than that they were strangers.
She studied him closely. He was tall and blond with a naturally downturned mouth. He was not unlike any superior or guard in Strutthof except that he knew her. Cartston had heard her story, he had asked to hear. She was suspicious of him that first night that perhaps he was trying to get some sort of incriminating information from her. Yet the emotion in his voice convinced her against it. She believed that those words had been real, that she knew him as well and though she would never truly understand Ariella promised to never forget. Her eyes lingered on him a moment before she joined the others on their way to the mending workshop. She couldn’t help but wonder how he would remember her. She looked back at him over her shoulder.
The clock seemed to have stopped although; Ariella detected its subtle tick from across the room. The deft strokes of her fingers against the rough fabric were natural now. In three hours they would all stand and exit the workshop. Their supervisor’s reaction would determine the presence of fatalities.
As the hour hand drew closer to its mark the room began to feel smaller. Some faces had reddened others had paled. Their superior did not seem to sense the tension the way Ariella feared he would. The hours inched by and with each the oppression of the air grew in intensity. The tick of the clock had become Ariella’s own heart beat and her hands fugitives weaving through the pines.
When the minuets could be counted upon her calloused fingers, her hands began to quake. She felt as if she stood upon the threshold of life, the door knocker pulled back. The verses of her child hood resurfaced and for a moment the hands stilled and air poured into constricted lungs. Ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil. Thy rod and they staff will comfort me. There was fear that welled in her throat, a fear of darkness and of cold, a fear of floating in unconsciousness forever. Perhaps, every prayer had been in vain. Perhaps, Strutthof had killed Him too. She chided herself. He was real. He loved her. There was more to the tragic story of humanity then death and destruction. There was beauty; there was the promise of deliverance. Be my comfort. Be my comfort. She closed her eyes tightly and allowed agile fingers to weave through the thick fabric of a shirt brushing every now and again against the metallic surface of the work table.
In the stillness, the outlines of their faces appeared behind her eyelids, her mother’s wide smile and amber eyes, her father’s pepper and salt hair peeking from the brim of a worn hat. They were happy. They were younger than she remembered or perhaps they were simply carefree. She wanted to reach out and touch them again. She wanted them to stay.
Ariella opened her eyes. Chairs were sliding away from metal tables, grating against the ground. The prisoner stood to her feet, letting the needle and shirt drop. The door was open and the first worker had stepped through. She felt the ground move beneath her as the rectangle of light drew near.
There were feet and stripes moving as one. The supervisor stood in the corner of the room bent over a radio. “Shut the Gates,” he screamed. “Uprising, big uprising,” Then there was sky and steam. There was wind and the stinging of her face. There was white. She peered through the falling flakes at the tall billows of the tin factory. A mass of darkened shapes were moving as she towards the front gates.
~
The frantic voice sent rivulets of alarm across his skin. Uprising, the word was unheard of. Cartston stood beside the unloading truck dumbfounded at the sight before him. The snow fell in earnest, blurring the shape of dozens upon dozens of running figures. They lumped together into one large mass of arms and legs.
He ran to one gate and began to pull. The sturdy iron barely budged a few inches. He would never be able to close the gates, not before the onslaught of prisoners reached them. Why close them at all? The question was caught in his throat. He hesitated for a moment stranded between two very different impulses.
“Help,” he motioned to the packager still seated in the truck bed and a guard who stared blankly at the uprising. The two rushed behind the fence and began along with Cartston to push. The gate buckled for a moment before groaning and inching along the frozen ground. The support slid into its chiseled place in the concrete and the three moved to the next gate. 
~
There was an odd stillness within like sleeping under roaring waves. The crashing of feet was muffled by her own erratic heartbeat and the rushing of blood to emaciated limbs. She was tired. They were all tired. Why couldn’t they rest she found herself wondering. Why couldn’t they lie down and use the snow as a blanket. It wasn’t cold not really, just quiet.
In an instant she found herself on the ground. Her hands scraped and bloodied by the ice. Feet flew past her. The gate, get to the gate. Ariella rose quickly and rejoined the pack now at the back. She found that her face was numb and her tears nearly frozen against her skin. 
“It’s closed,” she heard someone yell above their fear. They continued perhaps with even greater intensity, their legs whipping against one another.
“There’s no going back,” she found herself saying to the snow. It was true with every heartbeat the prisoners seemed to realize more and more that closed gates meant death. There were figures she noticed straining against the fence. She couldn’t see their faces through the snow only their intentions.
Suddenly they were yelling loudly and cursing. There were women on the other side of the bars running into the forest.  She counted five and then ten. They disappeared into the tree line.
The metal bars stung against her bloodied hands leaving a track of red along the raised iron. Hands reached out from within the cage attempting to catch a piece of freedom. At the clang of the fence two had sprinted into the forest after the free women. One had stayed behind and entered through the front of the administration look out to no doubt retrieve the heavy clamps that held the two gates firm.
“Push,” someone began to yell hoarsely. It sounded to Ariella like Mary but a different Mary, one that was defeated and hopeless. Arms began to shake, legs began to buckle and the gate grated along the ground popping out of the hollowed hole it rested in. Ariella grasped a portion of the fence and pushed with all of her might. The gates were in truth harder to open then close but the will of the prisoners was stronger still.
“The gates. The gates,” screamed the man with the locks dropping them to the ground. He stared at the impossible sight before him. The frame vibrated as it edged forward centimeters at a time. One woman attempted to squeeze through but even with their undernourished bodies the slit was still too narrow. The lock keeper hesitated for a moment before taking up the locks once more and rushing to the gate. He looped the thick chain about the connecting supports but the rattling of the metal caused them to slip from his hands. He lunged for the connector careful not to let it be pulled into the throng. Yet however many times the man tried, the gap and the chaos within kept the gates from being shut.
The bushes rattled together as a one of the men emerged from the tree line. Terror was in every limb of his body. The prisoners pushed harder spurred on by their progress and by the fear of their oppressors. The man rushed to bars, an odd limp to his gait. Placing two heavy hands a little wider than shoulders length apart he attempted to push the gate closed. The man with the locks fiddled at his side with one of the locks, hands shaking.
Ariella’s vision was blurred.  The voices about her mingled and dissolved into the silent patter of snow on the tree branches beyond. Strangely the air about her felt hot although, flakes landed against her cheeks and bit into her bare hands.  She allowed herself to move with the rest of the prisoners, her knee’s being slammed into the metal bars time after time. For a moment she was floating in a great wide peace where the voices were whispers and the birds that flew overhead were a chorus of their own.
Then in an instant she felt again, the searing pain that ran along her lower body, the grunts and screams that rang out and the familiarity of the man that stood before her. They were face to face once again, separated only by bars.
~
Cartsten couldn’t help but find it a cruel joke that Ariella stared up through the bars and through the snow at him. They were directly across from each other, her knuckles that held tightly to the bars brushing against the buttons of his uniform. Her face was blank. Her eyes were empty fixated on his own. Let go. Just let go. The idea rang through his head. It screamed hurtling through the noise of his subconscious. Just let go.
Still his hands held and his legs pushed against the gate. It did not budge but he pushed. It was a losing battle but he pushed. She would die. They would find her in the forest she could not run there. He pushed. They would kill the rebels. They would kill her. There was no way to protect her. There was no chance, no hope. He had promised her nothing yet he had failed her. He pushed.
His feet slid backwards. Little by little the gate was giving way to their efforts. There was blood running down his hands from the scratching of the prisoners and their countless blows to loose the grip of his hands.  Still he would not let go. It was all he had left to hold on, to keep going, to stand firm. It was the only thing he knew.
Their eyes were still interlocked. “What have you done,” he whispered the corners of his mouth drawn downward. They were not words meant for Ariella.
~
The first shot left their ears ringing, the second sent feet running. The SS guards had arrived firearms in hand. They began to pull women from the fence line firing shots in the air or at anyone who attempted to squeeze through the gates.
For a moment she held tight to the fence still trapped in his gaze. Then she let go allowing the fray to pull her within. A stray elbow found its way to Ariella’s cheek as the women scattered from along the fence line. She winced putting a hand to her face, leaving a bloody print. Her thoughts felt scattered in the wave of motion.  She stood in the midst of it all, lost and confused.
Then there was a sudden pull. They were running back, back to the barracks. She willed her feet to move with the rest, suddenly aware that her hands were numb and that a warm trickle was running down the side of her face.

The ground was racing beneath them as if it too was fleeing. Someone had fallen the sound of their body sickening against the frozen ground. In both ears the noise of their feet echoed. Dark work shoes struck the ground time and time again like darting minnows in a narrow stream. The distant oblong structure was barley visible through the thick wall of snow that the wind blew sideways into their faces. Mary had been right to want to leave before the first snow Ariella thought. The swirling mass of white was like broken glass, the flakes stinging as they settled in her eyes.
They neared the building and then stood directly before it, hands pushed into the groaning wood. Someone mustered enough strength to throw open the door and together they entered the quarters letting the door shut out the elements and the dangers of the world. It was dark. It stank of decay and sickness. There were mites and fleas but they were safe, safe for the moment.
Ariella edged to the corner of one of the bottom structures and curled into herself. She was shaking violently now from the cold and from the fear. She looked about her. Many were settling like herself on the bunks quiet, breaths rattling, terrified. Some wiped tears from their eyes others blood from their faces. They had failed. She knew they would not survive to see much more and for that she was grateful. With eyes closed and heart beating through the striped fabric that clung tightly to her wet body she did the only thing she could. She prayed.
~
When the last pair of hands released their grip from the bars and scattered like the rest towards the barracks there was still one left.  His knees were planted in a puddle of freezing water, his head bent beneath arms that still appeared to push. The sleeves of his shirt were torn nearly clear off on one side and numerous lacerations wrapped around his arms like lines on a map.
If it had not been for the breath that racked through his body in sporadic intervals, the commanding officer may have thought him to be dead. There was a walking stick trampled and broken some distance away. An officer took it up turning it round in his hands.
Several officers started in a jog towards the forest sending water from the slick ground towards the superior. The man did not move. He did not flinch. The officer approached and leaned downwards to speak to him.
“Sir the situation is contained internally we estimate only 20 or so got past the gates.”
Cartston did not budge. The words felt distant and slurred. He had made the choice. She could have been miles away by now.
“She wouldn’t make it. She wouldn’t of…”he mumbled unaware that he was speaking. One arm covered with mud and blood slid down the bar and came to rest against the ground.
“Sir?” the officer asked. There was no reply. “You need to move so we can shut the gates.” Cartston continued to mumble to himself with words lost to the SS guards. The officer motioned to two others and they came alongside the superior on the opposite side of the fence. Grabbing him by the shoulders they attempted to right him. For a moment he faltered before regaining balance.  His face was still directed towards the brown slush that covered the ground. The guards attempted to guide him towards the main buildings but he pushed their hands away raising a bloody palm. The superior was well enough to reach the infirmary without assistance.
The guards watched in silence as the ragged clothed man turned and limped toward the distant building.  The snow soon closed around him and they returned to the task of capturing those beyond the fence.
 

The camp was declared to be in a state of lockdown for the remainder of the day. All prisoners were sent to their barracks and instructed to be quiet. Meals were not served.
The snow continued to fall coating the rooftops and fence line with a thin coat of white. The infirmary bandaged the superiors’ cuts and administration issued him a new uniform. Other than the initial injuries there was found to be nothing wrong with Cartston Schroder. Still the man was unusually quiet his face always downturned.
“You know no one blames you for letting a few go,” one officer said coming alongside him. “They’re bound to find all of them in a day’s time at the most.” Cartston nodded to the man hopeful that he would find the response acceptable and leave.
“Hey,” he said stooping to peer at Cartston who was gazing at a swirl of frozen mud and water. “It takes a brave guy to hold open that gate alone during all of that. Everyone says so.” Carsten paused. He didn’t imagine it in any way to be bravery. No fantasy of his own or any other could lessen the reality of what he had just done. It had been a chance, a chance for them to escape death. It was not a very good chance but maybe just maybe some of them could have survived. Perhaps, one of them could have been Ariella. But he was too selfish. It wasn’t bravery, not at all. It was his innate need to obey, to regain control. It was inseparable from him and he from it.
“Yeah,” he nodded once more looking the young officer in the eye.
“There you go sir,” the officer said taping Cartsten on the shoulder. He pretended to pick himself back up straightening a bit in order to ward off any unwanted pity. Yet there was still a certain weight to him lingering just beneath the surface.
The call happened just past 6:30. It had been over two hours since the rebellion and throughout that time Carsten’s mind and heart had fought between one another, neither able to defeat the other.
“Superior Cartsten Schroder summoned to the administrative office,” the voice over the loud speaker rang out “I repeat Superior Cartsten Schroder report to the administrative office.”
His mind beat and his heart throbbed. They know. Somehow they know. It would not have surprised him if even the thoughts of his mind were known by them. Yet rationality was close behind. He straightened the collar of his uniform. Administration did not know about his meetings with Ariella. They did not know his thoughts or feelings. They could not possibly know. Rather, administration had summoned Cartston to thank him or at the most admonish him for not shutting the gates in time.
He limped through the downfall with more uneasiness than usual in the absence of his cane. The rim of the superior’s hat was coated in white crystals and the bronze buttons of his uniform captured the cold in blurry steam. A storm was rolling over the land, one that would not let up for many a day.
He became aware suddenly of the throbbing in his knee. Cartston had not noticed it in the heat of the moment nor in the ensuing chaos but there was a dull ache, one that pinched in every other step. It angered him to know that the pain was a product of the gate. He had pushed with all of his might. He had willed her, he had willed all of them to miss the only chance they had left and what for honor? To fulfill an order? He would not have been blamed if they all ran free. It would have been a small detail in perhaps the most significant camp escape ever.
Now he was expected to appear before the administration and accept their gratitude. Cartston was to shake hands with those who in five weeks time when the new shipment of prisoners arrived were to issue the mass execution of the weak. Remembering her pale face and reddened eyes Cartston feared that Ariella would be amongst these numbers.  
He stopped short at the idea of working every day in the camp without her on his mind. The snow continued to blur his vision, striking the earth in relentless waves. Carton had forgotten that Ariella wasn’t supposed to matter. She was a face in a million. She was a Jew and a woman and a prisoner. There was nothing especially extraordinary, nothing that set her apart from the rest. She had short black hair. She had ragged nails and skinny legs. She was detestable. They would spit at her in the streets. They would call her schmutzig. In the sight of his world she was nothing but to Cartston Schroder she had become everything.
It was treason. It was risk. It was disobedience but somehow it was not wrong. The dreams told him. The conversations told him. The deep grating guilt that gnawed into everything that Cartston was told him. It was and never had been wrong.
He loved her. The thought reverberated throughout his mind as if it was new. In reality it had always been there, buried beneath the sense of responsibility and pride. He had discounted it as curiosity, as discontentment but it was true. He loved her.  Not for anything that she could give him but for herself. He loved her for dirty tears and for truthful words. He loved her for broken dreams and trembling bravery. Most of all he loved Ariella because she showed him kindness and patience, mercy and grace. She had not hated him though she had, had every right.  
He began to walk again. There was brokenness to his spirit as if the fragments of his intentions and hopes and dreams lay shattered on the ground without the slightest hope of repair. He was helpless. Fate had given him one chance to repay her, to give her freedom, if only a glimpse and he had destroyed it. He had killed her. For prestige and honor, he had killed her. For his own pride and for a party that gave him nothing but hate he had killed the only one he truly loved.
The door knob was cold against his hand. It was a rectangular building, one that seemed to lean slightly to the side. Upon opening the doors he was taken aback by the décor. A great arm chair stood opposite to a square shaped fire place. The floors were wooden but shined and the walls were plastered over with a speckled green wall paper. Cartston had never been to the administration building before and naturally felt out of place in his own snow and mud covered boots.
“Cartston Schroder?” asked a man stepping from an exceptionally long hallway. The badges upon his recently pressed uniform spoke his rank.
“Sir” he said saluting. The man saluted back and then lowered his hand putting Cartston at ease.  He had expected to be spoken to by some of the lower administration but this man seemed to hold an air much grander than any he had seen before.
“I am told that you are nearly single handedly responsible…” the man paused pushing a strand of blackish grey hair beneath his cap-“for saving this camp from a great embarrassment.” 
Cartston stumbled over his words. “I…I held the gate sir.” The administrator stared at him as if expecting a more definitive answer in the near future. Cartston unable to muster the right words memorized every green speck on the wall behind the man’s shoulder. He cleared his throat.
“Soldier there’s no need to be humble here. I very much doubt that the walls would mind.” At this he gave a near unnatural toned laugh forcing the corners of his mouth up. Cartston suspected that he too was expected to join and attempted a smirk of his own.
The man’s laughter ceased abruptly drawing his face into the same harsh lines it was originally set in. Cartston prepared himself for the shaking of hands and for the long trek back to the officer’s quarters. The shame of being praised for the murder of anyone let alone someone who trusted him was more than the tailor’s son could bear.
The administrator shifted his weight between two square toed shoes. There was something about the man that Cartston found disturbing. He could not quite figure out what it was or why he had not noticed it upon first meeting the administrator. Still there was an ora about him as if a snake lurked just behind his eyes.
“Cartston Schroder you were called here because of an exceptional act of bravery but that is not all. You may not have noticed but over the last few months your dedication has not gone unseen.” The man straightened square toes realigning them with the opposite wall. “This last incident was as they say the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Carston’s head throbbed, searching for comprehension. “We have decided to offer you a position in administration here in this building.” He threw his arms outward alluding to the grandeur of green speckled wall paper and cushioned furniture.
For a moment Carston’s heart soared. It was the next rung on the ladder a position he had yearned for, for over eight months. Never would he have dared to imagine that he could obtain it so quickly. Then like an enemy aircraft, the whim of pride was shot down. There was guilt. There was a sick irony woven through every page of this new prospect.
“It would be a limited position of course.” The man said straitening a wayward golden pin upon the breast of his uniform. “It’s not every day that someone climbs to administration after only a few months.”
He had made it to the bottom of the top. The peak of the mountain was in sight and there were only a few more steps to be taken before he stood above it all. Yet what then? Where is anyone to go who is on the peak of a mountain except down?
The man reached out a thick hand. “What do you say Mr. Schroder.” Cartston drew his mind back into the confines of the room and shook the man’s hand.  The air seemed to be unnaturally warm then and the walls drawn close together. Cartston paused, waiting for the moment when he would be allowed to retreat back into the frost and cold. 
“You may start tomorrow morning. We will have a new uniform ready for you and someone will explain your new work,” there was a draw to the man’s words as if he was not finished. Yet Cartston could wait no longer.
“Thank you sir,” he said trying to mask the discomfort that he felt. “I will report first thing after the morning roll call.” Cartston nodded at the man respectfully than turned and took a tentative stride towards the door.
“One last thing soldier,” the administrators voice grabbed on to him and commanded attention. Cartston turned and stepped forward a bit closer to the door than he had before been. “I know it is not your position now and certainly will not in the future but will you help supervise the gas chambers tomorrow?”
“Gas chambers?” Cartston questioned.
“Yes there will be quite a lot more than usual and in case of trouble the regular supervisor may need an extra hand. Seeing that you handled the rebellion so well I thought that you may be able to restore order should anything go amiss.”
Cartsten felt suddenly ill as if a sharp rock rested in the pit of his stomach. No matter where his mind turned the guilt loomed close behind. The general stared at him expectantly.
“Is there a new group,” Cartston asked attempting to disguise the emotions that welled up behind each word. “I must have lost count but I thought there was still five weeks to go.”
“Soldier there was a rebellion,” the man said. “There are always executions after rebellions.”

“Usually only the ringleaders though sir. At least that’s what I’ve always heard. I’ve never seen one until today.” Cartston cleared his throat.  A certain panic had found its way into his voice and it took a great deal of restrain to hinder it.
“Usually yes,” the administrator said. “But Strutthof has never seen one of this magnitude before. It would seem that the leaders were not a single person or persons but a whole barrack.”
“So a whole barrack is to be executed?” The administrator nodded.
“What about the work force those are a lot of good laborers?” The man eyed him strangely for a moment.
“I suppose as a former supervisor you would be worried about a lack of laborers but you hardly need to worry about it now. The new supervisors will figure it out. They always do. Most likely they will just increase the workload or if need be the hours.”
Cartsten nodded to no one in particular. There was nothing left to say. “What time is it than, the execution?” he asked.
The administrator thought for a moment. “About 11:15 before the first meal.”
“I will report then,” he said, saluted the administrator and then turned. Yet before he had taken two steps he dared to ask one thing more.
“Out of curiosity what barrack was it sir?
The man shook his head. “The barrack that seems to have started it all was seven.”
~
His throat still burned as he buried the vomit beneath the recently fallen snow. He had a mild recollection of exiting the administration building and then wondering for some distance within the foggy expanse between the two outcrops. Along the way the illness had overtaken him and thrown him to the frozen ground. Now he felt content to stay there forever where no soul could look upon the evil within him, the evil that was him.
He had never felt a sense of guilt so strong. Yet pulling himself from the ice Cartsten was determined to be sure of it. He knew of course that she had been in one of the four main barracks responsible for the rebellion. He was not however sure of which one.
The snow was falling thick by now and Cartsten expected that it would continue to do so throughout the night. This was among one of the many factors that would keep the prisoners behind lock and key until morning. There was a strange sense that the camp was deserted, the silence eerie in the mid-day.
At last, through the mounting snow storm the silhouette of the front gates began to take shape. Cartsten shivered but not as a response to the cold. Only hours before he had stood behind those bars. Only hours ago he had sealed the fate of nearly one hundred. As he turned towards the lookout building he saw them once again, hands reaching out for freedom beyond the bars and his own denying them.
The man in charge of the role call list and prisoner lists was not at his post. In fact, the narrow room that housed the prisoner records, the keys to the fences, and a menagerie of unofficial odds and ends was completely vacant. Cartston was not surprised. Lockdowns were so rare an occurrence that the staff’s whereabouts were impossible to account for.
He shuffled through a drawer for a moment, moving aside several documents before closing it again. He went through two more draws in a similar manner before finding the roll call book. It was large but simple black bound, unlabeled and sheer. The books appearance seemed too ordinary for the magnitude of what it contained. Within the yellowing pages were the names and numbers of every man and woman to enter Strutthof in the last five years.
Cartsten stared at the names in a daze. In the earliest pages there were red Xs beside the names some accompanied by a particular date. However as the book progressed the red Xs became less, some only a line through a number. Others were forgotten altogether, though Cartsten was sure that the faces behind the numbers had long sense departed.
He took up a large portion of the pages and flipped them at once. The sheer magnitude of the numbers was more than he could bear. He wanted to find one name and it would be one of the most recent.
Running his finger along the last page he skimmed the names. Then turning the page he skimmed through the last few written in the same ink. He paused, confused and then started the procedure again. Yet to his surprise there was no Ariella registered at Strutthof. Not in the last arrival of prisoners nor in the time before. Had she lied about her name? He wondered what would give her the need to do so.
He leaned his elbows against the counter and held his head. He had to know for sure if Ariella was from barrack 7. He needed to know the results of his actions. Calling her into his memory he tried to focus on her prisoner number.  It had been long ago and the numbers were nearly always obscured by dark or light.
Carsten’s finger tips tapped nervously against the wooden counters before the idea struck him. Digging through the disorganized mass of records he laid hold of a particularly small book, one with the title Prisoner Infractions. The most recent incident was a prisoner 1485 for blatant disobedience, the charge solitary confinement.
He brought the little burgundy book up besides the hulking black one and began to compare numbers. Finally his weary eyes rested upon the match, an Adela Dominski of barrack 7. He was not surprised that she had been in the condemned barrack. It seemed that fate yearned for entertainment and had chosen his heart as the court jester.
It was the mill stone around his neck, he knew. Ariella was the sentence for his crimes the price to be paid for his cruelty. She had suffered and now she would die because of him, because he had been too selfish to let go of the gate. And all the while he would be forced to watch as the mass of prisoners entered and supervise as the lifeless heaps were drug away. Cartston would remember her face as he peered into the mirror at gold buttons and a new pendant upon his uniform. He would remember her as he strode about the green speckled wall paper and grand furniture. He would remember every day who was really to blame and who really deserved to die alone and afraid.
Carsten’s hand had been pressed against the book flattening the pages, the moisture from his palm smearing the ink. He took up the hand and stared at the black blotches that covered them, seeping into the creases of his palm. He was once told that the lines that ran like great and curving rivers with thin and shallow tributaries branching out over the plane of his hand were symbolic of longevity. “Long lines mean long life unfortunately,” a friend had joked at the time. Cartsten watched as the ink pooled. He wished that perhaps the river could run dry sooner than predicted so that the gentle valleys would no longer be shaped and molded by such a naturally violent force.
 

The clang of heavy feet against the metal stairs was especially loud in the dark and in the stillness. Only a small trickle of light penetrated through the dusty windows, catching floating specks of dust in narrow beams as they were stirred from the stairs by the pounding feet.
The boots came to a halt and Carston’s tall figure leaned against the railing, where for so many months he had supervised the workers of the tin factory. Though there was silence throughout the facility Cartston could hear the low turn of the machinery and the busied hands. He closed his eyes and saw their grimy faces. He opened them and felt their dejected spirits.
The tailor’s son knelt to the ground beneath the railing, allowing a leg and half to dangle above the floor bellow. She was an angel he thought, blameless and falsely accused. Beyond that he was a monster, more than a monster he was an evil man. There was no excuse. There was no justification for who he was and there never could be.
He slammed one hand against the thin metal planks of the floor releasing a cloud of dust and debris. “Fake, All of it” he screamed at the ceiling supports. The word echoed about eventually masked by quiet heaving sobs.
There was no Nazi party, no axis or allied powers just people, broken people with names and faces and dreams.  The creed that had infected his mind and demanded his servitude was but a lie, one bound with tyranny and cruelty. He had accomplished much in the last five years climbing a ladder that reached infinitely into the sky, the top out of sight. Yet he imagined that waiting there was something worst than being trapped at the first rung, something that would change him, that would shape him into a man beyond recognition.
In his mind the world had become a senseless killer, a wild beast. It was an earthquake. It was an avalanche or a fire. It was a grenade in the wrong place. It was a knock on the door and a slap in the face. While innocent men and women died, there would be those like himself seated atop it all, sound and secure.
They would tell their children of the great man of war’s heroism, of how he slew a vicious and traitorous people to protect the Fatherland. There would be pictures in their school books of gleaming buttons and stiff soldiers. There would be pictures of the swastika and of their beloved Father, the guardian of justice. The children would salute as he had, they would seek prestige and service as he had and they would be disillusioned and lost as he.
Yet no one would remember their faces through the years, no one would remember hers. No thick paged text book or rusty memorial figure would recognize the cruelty. No one would admit the evil that occurred in the shadows of those stiff toy soldiers. There would be no compensation, no good to right the wrong.
Cartston Schroder wanted many things in life but more than any he wanted justice. When he looked into the sun marked face of his father and at the roughened hands of his mother the tailor’s son wanted justice. He wanted the utter goodness and hard work of the aged couple to show through. He had prayed that perhaps the blanket of poverty would be removed from their humble home and that fairness would prevail. It did not.
When he watched the townspeople cheat and demean his father he had wanted justice. He had wanted punishment. Yet in never came. When he sacrifice happiness and childhood pleasures for a book of lies and a pair of combat boots Cartston believed that perhaps he had found it. He was wrong.
Now as an innocent woman starved and worked to death awaited a cruel execution among thousands of the same circumstances he wanted justice. More than ever before he felt the weight of the randomness, of the uncertainty, of the coldness, that was existence. There seemed to be no sense of order only a chaos. There was no line to separate good from evil only a dim trace of morals overarched by the consuming desire for power, the desire that had characterized nearly every moment of his waking life.
The metal slats creaked slightly under the weight of his body. The sobs had ceased long ago replaced by a numbness that radiated through his bones and into his head. The idea had been there since the last night he had spoken with Ariella. It was a terrifying thought. One that made his heart thump and hands shake. Yet sitting at such a great height there was nothing hindering a fall.
It would be painful yes but in Carston’s mind he was deserving. Perhaps justice would prevail at last. Perhaps in the blood, in the sudden crack and splitting of bone he would defy the randomness, even for just a moment in time. He imagined the nothingness but could not fathom it.
He edged further off the ledge allowing feet to dangle precariously. The tailor’s son’s breaths had become rapid and shallow sending steam into the chilled air. It would take but one moment’s thought to send himself tumbling over the edge to the unforgiving concrete below. Then there would be oblivion. Then there would be justice. He edged a bit further holding on with his hands to the railing behind. There was color to his face despite the cold and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead.
His palms were moist and his hands squeaked against the metal railing as he maintained balance. In one small motion it could all be over. In one small motion he would forget about Ariella, about his sins, about his past and future and present. Just one small movement and there would be no more decisions no more guilt. He wanted the justice and he wanted the stillness. He moved forward.
~
The voices were muffled and airy. There was only green. Ariella watched from a distance as a tall thin man in a blue striped suit and a woman in a rosebud pink dress drawn down to her knees stood beside a pond, a  small wavy haired child between them. The couple was laughing at something. Ariella strained for a moment to see and then nearly laughed herself. The little girl had produced a small cracker and was luring a large white goose towards them. The white feathered bird nearly dwarfed the child in size.
The man picked up the little girl in strong arms propping her upon his shoulders. He then took the cracker and offered it to the curious goose who hesitantly plucked the morsel from his hands. The child leaned forward in wonder sending dark curls across her eyes. Pushing hair aide and peering past the navy blue rim of the man’s hat she gawked at the big bird. The woman in pink had her own dark hair pulled up into a dainty bun. Upon seeing her child’s reaction to the goose the woman titled her head back and laughed, eyes full of love for the short legs and mess of curls.
Ariella melted into the scene, the carefree laughter, her melody. She knew somehow that it was not real. That it was a happy fantasy. Yet she yearned to stay in the land of messy curls, protecting arms and flower dresses for a bit longer. Unfortunately, the scene was replaced by reality, by darkness and the smell of dirty bodies. She hugged her knees to her chest. It felt like hours since the incident and still there was no response from the camp.
Many including herself were shaking from the cold and from wet clothing. Yet there was nothing that they could do to ward off the predator that was the winter, only huddle together and pray.
It was a mercy that Ariella slept for the majority of the two hours after the incident for the various sobs and the death of an older resident who now lay motionless several feet away would have disheartened her even more so. Now the room was quiet and still, the numbness of the situation washing over each soul. There was nothing left to do. Nothing left to feel.
Many had in fact followed Ariella’s good judgment and disappeared into the serenity of sleep. Still a few lingered, eyes studying the ceiling or finger nails scraping against the wooden planks. Perhaps, they were restless beyond the condolence of any means or perhaps they were afraid that death like a thief would overtake them should they let down their defenses.
Mary was one such lingerer. Her eyes stared blankly at the opposite wall and one leg dangled off of the edge of the structure. The woman’s long hair was pulled over one shoulder and she combed through it in slow methodical motions. There was a look of disillusionment about her as If she were a mother bear who had lost all of her cubs.
Ariella listened to the soft fall of snow against the roof and griped her knees closer as the icy wind blew through the barrack’s many knot holes. Peering through the knot closest to her, Ariella could see that the sun had set and that the grounds were deserted. If she forgot about the gunshots and imagined away the damp clothes that clung to her body Ariella may have been able to believe that it was an average night at Strutthof, that it the morning the roll call bell would sound as always.
Yet somewhere within she already knew the answer. This would be her last night in the dirty barrack, sleeping atop the tall wooden structures.  This would be the last night she saw her fellow prisoners or would share the burden of their suffering. When the morning came it would all end, it would all be finished. Her heart told her that with the first light would come the end of Strutthof and the beginning of peace. Yet staring at the horizon through the peep hole Ariella saw only darkness.
~
Carton reeled back away from the chasm. He was sobbing now and a drip of blood ran down his forearm from snagging his finger on a patch of rough metal. Cartsten had been too weak, too much of a coward to allow his body to crash to the cement below. Instead, the distraught tailor’s son had reached for the railing at the last second barley clasping it with enough force to hoist himself from the drop. Pulling himself further away from the edge he began to rock back and forth. The conflict within rattled his bones.
In truth Cartsten no longer wanted life, or the life that lay before him like train tracks to a set destination. Such a path would make him into the monster he had always fought to defeat. The tailors’ son was just that, the son of a tailor. No matter how strongly he toiled to become another he remained the lowly insecure object of a world bent on making sons of its own. In Carsten’s mind it would have been better to have remained a tailor or died on the battle front than to have become the slave of his own ambitions, ambitions that aimed to destroy the only one left who seemed to matter. 
Yet in the few moments that Cartsten held neither platform nor railing he thought of her face. He thought of her gentle voice and wise words, he thought of her willingness to see beyond his faults. In that moment he knew that he could not let her suffer alone. He could not end his inner turmoil while she labored under a greater more oppressive weight. In that moment the tailor’s son made his decision. In that moment Cartsten chose.
For a long time he simply sat, sweat and tears still running down his cheeks. There was a constant dripping noise that filled the silence, one that cast his tired mind into a trance.
There were two paths before him and he had selected the most difficult, the path wrought with obstacles and uncertainty, a path that he feared would result in a dead end. Yet for the first time, he felt assured that it was indeed the right path and that though the next turn may be the last it was worth the fight.
There was little left in the world that mattered to the former superior but there was still one thing. He swore that he would give up every badge, every plaque, every haughty smile if she could never have experienced Strutthof, if Ariella would never have met him. Yet he could not change reality. He could not will justice only deliver it.
Carston’s body had grown cold and numb though he barley realized it and the metal slats upon which he sat dug into his hands. Time was a fleeting resource he recognized. Yet, he hesitated held down by a lingering since of fear. There’s nothing left here. He told himself. Fight for the one thing that matters. And so with great effort the man stood, stared for a moment over the railing and then turned away towards the stairs and the shattered world they led to.
There was a new purpose in his stride as he descended them. It was not a driven one nor a proud one but one of abandon as though only death itself could stifle him.
Suddenly In the darkness of the factory something small and fragile cracked under the weight of his good foot. Cartston stepped back and peered at the lifeless body of a finch, its feathers greasy and ruffled its beak spread into a grotesque yawn. He stooped and cradled the creature in his hands. Then letting the heavy metal door of the factory shut like a clamp behind him he laid the bird in the snow and turned into the swirling cloud before him.

There had been a quiver to Carston’s voice as he relieved the two watchmen of their duties. They had not seemed to notice however the quiver nor the peculiarity of his request. In the eyes of the camp the man had become something of a hero. He had become a right example and most saw the superior in a new light. When Cartston had told them that he would be responsible that night for the watch they shrugged it off, bent under the superiority of rank and thought nothing more of it.
Cartston stood against the front gate facing the camp and watched as the two trudged through the snow and disappeared into the darkening sky. He fought against the erratic beat of his heart. It was far too early to become so agitated yet the magnitude of the situation and his general lack of direction was reason enough. Still he attempted to think rationally, to calm himself, to form some sort of plan.
He pulled a set of keys from one pocket and unlocked the door to the minutia building. Pulling up a small stool he leaned against the thin counter over which the drawer with the attendance book resided. Cartston cupped his face with cold hands. He imagined that she was cold at that instant, that she was wet and afraid and alone. He wanted more than anything to help her at the moment. Yet he knew that he must wait.
Peering from where he sat at one of the high square windows facing the forest Cartston saw that the light was slowly departing sending shadows across the cold counter tops.  In a few minutes it would be completely dark and the camp would sleep. Cartston would need to tread lightly and move quickly he knew, as not to wake the slumbering beast that was Strutthof.
There was also the question of the others. There would be greater risk he knew with more noise, not just to himself but to her. There would be heavier feet and more shadows and there would be limited space. He must make the impossible decision of who to take and who to leave.
Cartston pondered these things as the shadows cast across the dull wooden counter tops became deeper. Every so often he would turn about on the stool and pear at a circular clock mounted on the opposite wall. Time seemed to be passing too quickly while Cartston felt his mind to be trapped in the moment when the administrator had first uttered the word executions.
When the small hand rested upon the first large black dash of the new day Cartston knew it was time to act. He felt waves of nervous energy surge through his body from head to toe. It was a sickening feeling as if the single act defied all that he was or ever had been. Yet it was a freeing feeling as well, as if the chains that had always held him had finally broken. 
For the tailor’s son the moment was different than any other he had ever lived. There was no logical reason to his actions, no profit or gain, just the assurance that he had helped make it right, though he knew that no level of goodness could ever outweigh the evil that he had seen at Strutthof, the evil that he had become at Strutthof.
He stepped out from the building not bothering to lock the door behind him.  There were no other guards posted since every barrack was secured.  Still he clung to the shadows careful not to be caught in the beam of the camp lights.
As he walked Cartston planed where they would go to find shelter and safety. He was unfamiliar with the region having only been into the main city of Strutthof less than half a dozen times. This troubled him a bit though he knew that any place even an army truck would be better than the conditions they faced daily.
As he neared the building Cartston riffled through his pocket for the corresponding key. Upon finding it he grasped the cold metal object letting it cut into the palm of his hand. Carsten’s heart beat so fast that he feared for a moment that a heart attack would overtake him and leave him cold and lifeless before the door with key in hand.
He paused before the lock, profoundly aware that the next movement would forever change the course of his life. Perhaps it was best to trudge back through the snow and replace the keys on their hook. Perhaps it was best to forget about Ariella and her words. Yet Cartston knew that it was impossible that he could never be satisfied with this life again. He was the same man in truth. The same man who wanted power and recognition. Nothing had been taken away. Yet something was indeed added, something that Cartston Schroder would not soon loose.
The faces that stared out of the darkness at him upon the low squeak of the barrack door were gaunt and frightened. Some were shaking curled into themselves.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered loud enough for them to hear. They watched him wide-eyed and wary.
“Where’s Ariella?”  They looked at him in confusion. “Or Adela” the confused expression persisted. He stepped forward into the darkness and pulled forth a box of matches which he opened and used to light one of the hanging lamps.  He entered the room fully pushing the front door to a crack. He then began to scan the bunks for her bending to see the lower ones.
After a moment one of the prisoners a young woman with a narrow face and unusually long hair gestured him towards one of the lower parts of the structure against the corner. He knelt to the ground and peered in at the small wet bundle. She was turned in on herself hugging knees, face hidden from his view. The sight of her shook him and for a moment he dared not touch her.
“Ariella,” he whispered. There was no response from the figure not even a small stirring. “Ariella,” he said a bit louder, “There was still no response. A frantic realization began to grow in his mind one that Cartston knew would shatter his world should it be true. What If he had been too late after all?
The fugitive drew his fears back within and reached gently to shake one arm. Her skin was ice cold the way skin feels when there is no life running through it. The limb fell from its resting place over her knees and dangled. There was a pang in Carston’s throat and he wondered it a strange will of fate that death perhaps could not have waited a single day longer, that he had been too late. It was beyond him he knew rather there was breath still in her or not and part of him wanted to remain unknowing.  
God, he prayed God if you’re really there, don’t do this. Don’t let this happen now, not to her. She’s better than me better than anyone I know. Please no.
He breathed in the musty air and then reached behind her laying a hand on her back, He waited eyes clamped shut lips pursed together. Then like a drop of water to the driest of lands his hand rose and fell and rose and fell.
Thank you. Thank you he found himself saying to whatever force had preserved her life. Then standing he felt the weight of the situation once more. The women now all stared from their individual positions at the strange intruder equally confused and concerned about his presence and actions.
He stepped into the center of the room aware of the fearful glances. “I can’t explain all of this…” he began “But I believe that your imprisonment and all…all of this,” he gestured to the room around them “is wrong.” Cartsten waited a moment for some sort of response. He had tried to speak with sincerity, with true compassion. Some leaned forward awed by the foreign words others remained skeptical arms crossed and eyebrows raised
“Tomorrow the camp has scheduled a mass execution of this barrack.” There was a mummer throughout the room.
“I don’t want that to happen I want each of you to have a chance of life, a chance to escape.” They were quite for a moment except a few translating to those who spoke other languages. “But why should we trust you?” asked one woman. “Yea said another how do we know that you’re not just trying to find the traitors among us.”
Cartsten was quiet now. “You shouldn’t trust me,” he said slowly. “In no way do I deserve anyone’s trust in this room,” he glanced towards Ariella’s motionless figure. “But I’m asking you for it because I am being truthful. You must trust me if you want to leave Strutthof. You must trust me.”
The prisoners looked at one another considering the man before them
“It’s the only hope we have,” the woman with the unusually long hair said resolutely. Some in the room nodded their heads in agreement. Still others held their air of skepticism in stride.
Cartsten was still for a moment watching the down trodden faces around him. He knew that he was right, that his actions though rash were the only thing just about Strutthof. If caught he would surely be sent to higher authorities and condemned if not that very night. Often times offenders of the Reich had unfortunate accidents or simply disappeared without a trace. Cartston assumed that this would be his fate should he be caught.
“I have the keys,” he began pulling his thoughts away from the consequences “of two lorries.” There was a silence in the room as some leaned forward fixed upon his words. “There will not be room for everyone and so I ask that you will be gracious,” he cleared his throat and struggled to impart to them their last struggle. “I ask that only the very weakest come to the trucks. The rest will have to go by foot.”
There was complete silence as each considered their own condition. The chances of making it to the town of Strutthof by foot were indeed slim in the cold and snow. Then he breathed deeply and asked the question that he dared not know the answer, the question that held his fate.
“Does anyone here know how to drive who is strong enough?” Three tentative hands were raised and Carston’s heart sank a bit but it was not long before he found the will to take courage again.
“Very well,” he said. “Two of you will drive the trucks, to where I do not know. There is a small city called Gnask about 20 miles east of Strutthof from there I cannot say where to go.”
They continued to stare at him in silence uncertain of his true intentions. The lamp light flickered slightly now and again, casting odd shadows across the thin wooden walls.
“Please separate yourselves into the groups that will walk and those that will go in one of the trucks. We don’t have much time,” he added raising an arm with a wrist watch to his face in the dim room.
In the minutes that followed the subtle creaking of the sleeping structures and a few hushed discussions wafted in the night air. Fortunately the camp slept soundly unaware of the muffled footsteps and stifled coughs, unaware that the gates were not closed or that the man who closed every door behind him had left one open.
~
There had been soft light, subtle amber that filled the darkness the way water fills a riverbank. The shadows were hiding now except for one. One shadow was speaking to the amber light about something important something that mattered very much to the shadow. It was a sad shadow though she noticed, one that shrunk and stooped and wavered before the light.
Then the shadow had touched her and it had nervous hands. It had worried hands. It had familiar hands that she had never known.
The amber was dyeing a bit and she heard the shadow pleading again. She felt that the shadow was afraid.  Then for awhile it was all gone and she remembered the duck pound and the little girl. She seemed the same but older now except this time she sat alone with no cracker for the inquisitive birds. Was she sad now? Ariella wondered. The girl was all alone with no strong shoulders to sit upon or rosebud dresses to rest her head. Ariella peered from the shrubbery at the small lone figure dangling toes over the riverbank until the colors of the scene melded together into a soft green and blue canvas.
Suddenly she was aware of moving, of being pulled up. She imagined that she had grown great wings and had flown away over rusty barbed wire and over browned tree stumps. Yet they were not wings at all she knew somehow. They were more like arms that carried her. They were not familiar arms or safe arms she thought but they were compassionate arms, arms that cared.
There was green and blue still but they were vibrant, penetrating, almost angry. There was pain in her hand. It had been a sharp pain and Ariella knew instinctively that it had come in contact with something hard. In an instant the colorful landscape evaporated along with the lone girl. Yet the arms remained. They were not in her mind.
Ariella willed her eyes to open but she found them to be heavy and glued shut. She felt warmth, breathing, the fall of uneven footsteps. The material to which her face rested against was rough. Then like the first break of the ice on the surface of a frozen river her eyelids fluttered. She opened the swollen lids slowly and took in the sight about her. She did not believe it.
To her left there were women marching through the snow towards what appeared to be unguarded gates. Their faces were as ashen white as the flakes that fell about them but there was something beautiful. There was hope. She was indeed in arms, arms that were clad in characteristic green regulation fabric.
He had not noticed that her eyes had opened. Peering up at him, Ariella saw that he was frightened. His eyes darted from person to person, place to place, restless and always searching. He breathed hard from the exertion of the walk and the air about him was filled with white breath.
It all felt surreal to Ariella as if it too could be a dream as if she could perhaps wake up in her bed at home, a teenager who lived across the street from a boy who wanted to be a Doctor. Yet she knew that this was reality and in the moment before her eyes closed again she recognized two things. Firstly that she was dying. Ariella’s throat burned and what little fluid existed in her body seemed to be filling up her lungs. Secondly that the man from the train was more brave

Their progress across the heart of the camp was slow due to the emaciated condition of the escapees and Cartsten felt that any moment an alarm would sound, a light would blind them or a shot would break the monotonous rhythm of their feet. Yet none came and the closer they drew towards the front gates the more hopeful he became.
Every so often Cartsten would halt and reposition the bundle in his arms that seemed to weigh no more than a child. He could feel her ribs with each shallow breath and hear the congestion in her lungs. Though death had not claimed her it seemed to stand upon the threshold waiting patiently for the inevitable.
He was worried naturally, that there would be no resources for her. However it was masked by the greater, more immediate fear that the prisoners would find no means of protection outside the gates, that they would be found out and sent back or worst. In truth, Cartsten was unsure of the terrain, unsure that within the surrounding villages and cities that there would be any chance at all. Yet he knew that the chance of a chance was better than none at all, that the prisoners deserved at the least that. 
Behind the lone soldier loomed a great oppressor. It lingered just beyond his subconscious. Though he dared not look it in the face, he knew it was there, and with every shallow breath it sank deep claws. It would never leave he knew, the dark sinking feeling that was guilt and remorse. It would be his downfall, the last thought, the debt that could never be paid. It was his portion, though it was not nearly enough.
He had made the choice to sacrifice himself, to sacrifice his family, for when he was found out they would certainly suffer to what degree he knew not.  He tried to push the intrusive thoughts away, to focus on the matter at hand but there was far too much at stake.
The lorries were in the distance, parked just outside the gates. He could see their high canvas roofs from where he stood. It would not be fair to take the spot of one of the women though Carston’s leg made his own chances of survival bleak.  Instead, he would push the lowery out of ear range and set them free and alone towards an uncertain fate.
There were the occasional last breaths of regret that clung like a ghost sentenced to forever haunt. He feared that it was meaningless, that once outside the gates there would be nowhere to go but back into the clutches of Strutthof, back into the clutches of hell itself. He feared that there would be a loud knock upon a little yellow door in Germany and that there would be tall soldiers with large dogs on short leashes. He feared that they would not tell them why or how but what had happened and that there would be no mercy for an aged man and woman or for a girl of 18.
It had been a long time he realized since he saw those red pig tails, since they had rough housed over creaking boards and under high dusty rafters where the spiders spun their tales. He had not forgotten her birthday nor any of their birthdays throughout his time on the front and in the camp. Now Clarice was 18 and she was no longer a girl not really. He knew that she would be different than when he had last called her angle kisses mud stains and her hair Möhren.
~
The metal frame of the lowery creaked a bit as he pushed against it. Cartston knew that once the wheels began to turn it would be easier but the task of moving two vehicles of such great proportions was difficult at best. Still, reading the sky Cartston knew that he must push forward and so after much effort the wheels of the first lowery began to turn. Slowly he edged it out upon the road, grateful for the slight slope. At a sizeable distance from the camp Carsten judged it far enough and returned with a deepening limp towards the second lowery.
The second vehicle was easier to start and within a few minutes Cartston had lined it up behind the last. He gasped for breath in the cold mountainous air, though he was afraid to gasp too loudly for the camp seemed ready to pounce behind them like an angry mountain lion.
Motioning towards the weaker group he began to load them into the truck, boosting each of their frail bodies over the high wheels and into the passenger section. He found a pain in the irony that just weeks ago he had unloaded a dirty cattle car, placed a gun to a mumbling prisoners head and only refrained from shooting her because of a nervous young guard.
He helped the last woman into the car and handed the driver the keys.  “Be careful” was the only thing he could bare to say. “Thank you” was the only thing she could find to say. The engine faltered for a second before the lorry edged out into the polish wilderness. He watched as the wheels embraced the snowy road leaving deep indentations in the otherwise undisturbed snow blanket.
Cartston made his way over to the last group and took up Ariella from the lap of one of the women. She was still unconscious. Yet it was not this that scared Cartston it was the coldness of her body.  As he carried her toward the lowery he was reminded of their conversations, of her words and of her refusal to hate. If these women had anyone to thank it was her. If he had anyone to thank it was her. There was an odd tremor in his throat a tightness that threatened to spill out at the sight of her head lulling back, eyes opened mouth parting. There was still breath, there was still life, he could feel it. Yet it was fleeting. He had seen death far too many times and knew that it looked much like her.
In that moment Cartston knew that the only one he could really blame was himself. He could never say the regime killed her. He could never say Strutthof killed her. He couldn’t even say that Hitler killed her. The only one to blame was himself and he believed it with everything that he was. 
Laying her gently at the base of a tree he quickly boosted the last fourteen women into the lowery. Then with great care he picked Ariella up and placed her inside the crowded vehicle across the laps of the other women.
“Try to keep her warm” he said to the women. “And find her a doctor or someone you can trust who can help her.”  He watched as one of the women pulled the door shut and he was separated from her forever. Cartston felt as though he should run after the lorry as though fate forbid that they be separated. Yet he stayed put, feet planted in the snow and ice as his heart grew farther and farther away.

The snow fell in torrents, stinging against Carston’s face like broken glass. He had stood for quite some time watching the tire marks slowly disappear. Most of barrack 12 had already sunken into the forest resigned to whatever fate the elements allowed.
His work was finished. He had done the impossible. It was a nearly perfect equation with only one part missing. In the process of freeing, he himself had become a refuge. He had saved the dilemma, the decision for last and now Cartston stood face to face with it.
He imagined the shouts and commotion that would follow the rise of the sun. There would be the rushing of boot clad feet. There would be cries for action and the taking up of arms and there before the gates would be the culprit, the traitor, the coward. They would marvel at the act of mutiny, at the nearly frozen figure kneeling in the snow. Then there would be justice at last, though it would be justice at the hands of the wicked themselves.
Yet there was a fear that enveloped every part of him. It was more than a physical fear, for one can only torture the body to a certain extent; it was very much more than that. He wondered what it meant to cease to be, to simply vanish from existence. Would there be darkness?  Would there be anything? It was the same as letting go of the rails above the tin factory and he could not will himself, he could not dare to imagine. 
There was a reassurance an urging. Perhaps it was cowardice. Yet somehow it did not feel wrong. He wanted to quit, to be done with the foul business that was life. Yet this sense seemed to push him forward to beg him to try. He was to be a fugitive with no home in the world, no place to rest his head and should he be caught perhaps it was for the better. Perhaps justice would find him, but Cartston resolved that it must catch him first.
As the wind sent snow swirling through the tree tops, a lone figure started towards the woods, the last captive.
~
She remembered being transferred from arms to someone’s shivering lap and then into a vehicle. The rattling of the tires over the dirt road was jarring and from time to time throughout the night, Ariella had woken with a start, only to find herself more confused than the last bought of consciousness.
Yet now, it was still and quiet except for the chatter of birds and the sway of woodland branches. Ariella’s throat ached and her hands were numb, with great effort she peeled open heavy and crusted eyelids. Light filtered in, in painful rays through the front of the lorry casting shifting shadows across the faces of its passengers. Most were asleep including the driver who had tucked the vehicle behind a convenient cluster of ever green trees off the side of the road two hours before dawn. 
Though the air of urgency had been great, the weary driver had judged it best to wait for the morning light, sensing that Gdansk was bound to be near. As the hours ticked by she too had fallen prey to the gentle foe that is sleep.
Ariella exhaled warm air over sore and raw skin. She attempted to absorb it all for a second, to understand what had happened the night before. Yet the idea was too absurd, too outlandish and the details too vague and scattered for her to piece together. Eventually the sickness demanded she close her eyes. It demanded Ariella to forget and she obeyed.
It was not long however, before she awoke. There had been a noise Ariella knew, though she was unsure of its source. She felt the chilling fear of being recaptured, of a fleet of boot clad feet just outside the lorry’s door. Some of the other women were awake as well, the same thought painted across their faces. There was a firm knock against the window on the driver’s side and the woman who had remained asleep slowly opened frightened eyes. No one dared to peer out from their various vantage points except the driver who stared blankly at the man who stood before them
He was not dressed in SS guard apparel but wore a plain hunting jacket, one that appeared to have seen as many winters as the man himself. A riffle dangled from one hand and a small pack clung to his shoulders. He pulled at the lorry’s door which opened without much difficulty.
“Do you know you are on private property?” he asked in a heavy polish accent.
“No we didn’t know,” the driver answered nervously. The man glanced to the back of the vehicle at the rest of the women still dressed in their prison uniforms. Ariella closed her eyes. There would be great honor and greater profit awarded to the civilian who discovered them.
“I suppose you are not SS guards?” the man asked eyebrows raised. The question was rhetorical and the occupants of the vehicle stared blankly at him. He raised one foot onto the lorry and leaned forward.
“I will tell you a secret…” he said making his voice low and serious. “I think that the SS are a load of s***.”  The man’s eyes became a strange sort of fire that they had not been before. “Come quickly then,” he said. “I can help you.”
~
Filing out of the lorry’s high canvas frame, the man told them that they must hurry. He took up Ariella in his arms having swung the riffle over one shoulder.
“This way,” he said. “We must get you away from here before the sun is high.” The small band hurried through the fresh snow as quickly as their maladies allowed. The man was stern and hard faced but from time to time he would ask questions or urge them on.
“Is it Strutthof?” he asked. The woman looked at one another. “Yes,” someone answered. “How...” he began” How so many,” There was silence as none of them knew by what words to explain the miracle.
“There was… there was this man and he helped us,” Ariella said, from a parched throat, words barely audible above the early morning chorus of birds.  
The polish man looked thoughtful for a moment before he spoke again.
“Was he able to escape as well?” He asked.
“No,” Ariella said. “He wasn’t a prisoner.”
In a matter of minutes a small plot of farm land greeted them. Its fruit tree’s bare and leafless. The man guided them through a recently plowed path through the snow and to the door of a sturdy grey house. He threw the door open and guided them inside.
“I can tell that you all are in need of medical services, food and water but something must be done first about the truck,” he said looking troubled.
He motioned for them to stay put and then pulled a stack of blankets from a cabinet a few feet away. The man then guided them towards a door, behind which was a set of stairs that arched downwards towards a moist cellar that smelled of mildew and rusted metal.
“They will certainly be looking by now and this house is one of the closest to town,” he said gravely. “You are not at all in a safe place but it is the safest that I can manage at the moment.”
Trust was not an easy trait to revive after what the women had experienced and the man seemed to read their thoughts. He paused at the top of the stairs one hand on the door knob.
“You must trust me when I say that I hate them,” he said. “They stole my life.” His eyes became still for a moment as if he saw a different place and a different time, one that was very far off and very sad.
“I will be back soon,” he promised, breaking the trance. The door closed and a distinct click could be heard as the lock fell into place. The prisoners listened solemnly as the steps of the man creaked above them and then fell silent.
There were two narrow windows built into the cellar that riveted twin spotlights to the concrete and poorly illuminated dusty rafters decorated by hanging farm equipment. Ariella watched as the lights slowly moved across the floor or flickered momentarily as a wayward branch or small animal passed through them.
One of the women had found a sack of rice and had laid Ariella’s head against it having first wrapped her tightly in one of the blankets. She had been right she knew that, that day in Strutthof would be her last. Ariella had never imagined however, what she could only thank God for as a miracle.

The birds chirping overhead had ceased their songs to listen to the odd gurgling sound that was emitted from the pond. It was not until the lorry disappeared beneath the murky waters that they recommenced their choruses.
Aron Kaplon had been a farmer for longer that he had, had breath. This was shown quite clearly by his sun weathered skin, rough brown hands and assorted knowledge of nearly every plant under the sun. He did indeed hate the Nazi’s. Perhaps, a bit more than the average polish man. He had fair reason to. Yet he had never tried to act against the system until that morning when Nazi oppression came in the form of fifteen human souls.
As the middle-aged man lurched through the underbrush, his mind searched for a solution to the mounting problem in his basement. He knew of the underground in Gdansk. Unfortunately, the Nazi’s knew of it too. There were many throughout the narrow cobblestone streets that had learned to specialize in more than shop owning or merchant pedaling. To distinguish between friend and foe was in itself a major feat and Aron worried that the slightest of movements would disturb the swarming ant hill in which they stood. Still he had made a commitment to those women and Aron was not known to go back on his word.
The sun peaked over the tops of high evergreen trees as the grey house that Aron had know as home for over 30 years came into view. There was a different feel about the small abode that morning, as if it held within itself the gift or curse of possibility. The idea that fifteen Nazi oppressed fugitives were huddling in his cellar was still foreign to Aron and there was an odd numbness in his hands as he passed through the rows of sleeping trees to the grey doorway.
Part of him wished that the cellar would be empty, the women gone and the whole business a strange and terrible dream. Yet, he knew better than to let such wishful imaginings shape his actions and curb the adrenalin that had caused him to sink a lowery into a near frozen pond.
There was a loaf of bread in the kitchen and he paused at the sink to fill a jug full of water. Food and water were the most pressing of the prisoners’ needs, he judged by their skeleton like figures. Descending the stairs, he distributed the commodities to the women who thanked him profusely.
The woman who had been too weak to walk choked a bit on the water and refused the bread all together. Aron was unsure of the particular illness but remembered an old remedy for the common cold that his mother used to brew. Leaving the cellar door a jar, he hurried up the stairs and towards the kitchen. He heated the water quickly and began to gather his ingredients: ginger, lemon, honey and an assortment of savory herbs and spices. It was an odd smelling drink and an even odder tasting one, sour yet sweet, bitter yet savory and thick leaving a thin coating about the back of one’s throat. Yet by Aron’s record the concoction never failed in providing at least a bit of comfort.
The ill woman accepted the drink, kindly nodding instead of verbalizing her appreciation. Aron returned to the upper parts of the house more distraught than ever. Sinking to the ground, back to his front door, the farmer attempted to reason through his next move.
After a few moments the man stood, pushed back the fear that lingered at his finger tips, locked the cellar door and stormed out of the farmhouse. He mounted upon a tattered cherry colored bicycle and peddled vigorously towards the direction of town. The possibilities were stacked against him and he was unsure if a gift or a curse resided in the basement of his little farmhouse. Nevertheless Aron would try. 
~
There was something out there, something following, he was sure, an informant waiting for him to slip up, just waiting. Perhaps, it was a wild beast, a wolf poised to pounce. He paused and turned quickly in the direction of the trees behind him. There was nothing but brush.
“Come on, Keep going,” Cartston told himself. The cold was bitter and his head throbbed. He had seen glimpses now and again of other escapees in the beginning, now there was only the sound of his own uneven footfall and the gentle patter of snow. He had taken up the habit of talking now and again to keep his mind alert and his body from yielding to the snow. Since the fourth or so hour, though Cartston had lost track of time himself, there had been a temptation to stop and rest. Yet he knew he couldn’t, even for just a few minutes.
He heard through the swaying of evergreen limbs a trickling sound, it’s beautiful melody was made eerie and lonesome by the night air. The small stream ran right across his path barley a dribble of water but unavoidable all the same. Cartston was unfazed by it however, stepping gingerly across the rocks who reflected the moon dimly in their grainy faces.
He had placed one foot on the snowy opposite shore when one moon faced rock gave way. In an instant, Carston’s knee slammed against the river bed and the opposite ankle was wedged crooked beneath a large grey bolder in the streams center.
The pain was excruciating and Cartston was still for a moment biting his lip to stifle a scream. The water continued to flow cold and numbing and the escapee collected himself slowly. Cartston attempted to pull the trapped ankle free from the bolder with the opposite leg, the prostatic leg but there was very little traction.  After a few minutes Cartston knew that the method was futile and resigned himself to the only means possible. He lowered the rest of his body into the stream and pushed the boulder away from the surrounding rocks, freeing himself. Cartston managed to pull himself from the narrow stream to the opposite bank. He was cold and wet and the material of his pants had ripped at the knee revealing raw and bleeding flesh. However only when Cartston had slowed his breath and attempted to stand did he understand the severity of the situation. His ankle throbbed and protested any weight forcing him to sink back to the snow.
Griping the injured ankle Cartston came to the realization that he would die. He would die if he was unable to walk out, either by the cold or by the hands of SS guards, he would die.
~
Eli Noska squinted out of his front window, pushing aside heavy tan curtains. He had caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, a man on a bicycle, peddling quickly across the church residences. The bicyclist had finally stopped and leaned his means of transportation against the priest’s small abode. He recognized the man as Aron Kaplon, the farmer on the outskirts of town. 
“Irena,” he yelled letting the curtains fall back. “Start the kettle. We have company,” Moments later there was a polite but urgent knock at the priests door. Eli gathered himself and the opened it, wondering all the while what trouble the farmer was in, for he seemed to be is some sort of trouble.
“Oh Hello Aron,” he said in the gentle tones that priests are accustomed to. “Please come in.”
Aron wiped away a stray bead of sweat and then followed the priest into the house’s interior. Eli ushered the man to a small sitting area.
“Now the kettle is on and we are seated,” the priest said watching the farmer closely. He seemed to be dazed staring off blankly at the rooms subtle décor. “Aron what is it that you have come to see me about today?”
Aron hesitated briefly before continuing. “I came to you because of a discussion we had about a view last summer,” he said. “A view that you said that most of the church holds, about what’s going on inside those camps and why...why it’s wrong.” The priest leaned forward a bit. “I have a problem Eli,” the farmer said. “And it’s a big one.”
When Irena Noska came in with the tea, she could tell that her husband was in some sort of distress. He and the farmer from the river sat in silence pondering something. She set the tea on the table. Though the wife of a priest and as godly as a saint Irene Noska was not above knowledge of more worldly affairs.
“Well… if I may ask what is it that is troubling the both of you,” she said judging it a perfectly opportune time to learn a quip of town gossip, though, she promised herself never to repeat it.
“Irena, I think you better sit down too,” The woman obeyed, sensing that the situation was far more serious than she had first perceived.
“Mr. Kaplan here,” he began after his wife was seated. “Has fifteen Strutthof escapee’s in his cellar. Irena’s eyes widened.
“And…” he continued, “He wants our help.”
The two had requested to talk alone and had left Aron sitting in the living room. He was nervous and the back of his throat itched from the strenuous bike ride. Aron reached for one of the blue china tea cups that had been left undisturbed during the time in which he had explained the situation to the aged couple and with shaking hands poured the steaming liquid.
He could hear from the other room the priest and his wife’s hushed voices. Every so often the latter’s would rise in pitch, distressed most likely at the risk involved in their services. Eli’s voice however remained calm and gentle. Though Aron was unable to distinguish any of their dialogue, he knew that the kindly old gentlemen spoke in favor of aiding the escapees.
At last the couple returned to the room an expression of resolution set firmly on Eli’s face, one of worry on his wife’s.
“We strongly believe in the equality of all people before God,” he began folding hands characterized by the early signs of wrinkles before him. “There is a great risk..,” he looked at his wife briefly, “in this decision but we know that God’s people are not called to be safe.”
“Thank you sir,” Aron began. “I’m so… “
“As to what is to be done about the current situation,” the priest interrupted them. “We have a plan. It is as I mentioned before a bit risky,”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Aron reassured them. Eli looked to his wife again whose tight eyebrows remained downturned.
“Mr. Kaplan,” he said, “We need some produce.”

From the cellar they heard it, a large vehicle. The ground rumbled ever so slightly and dust rained down from the rafters. They listened wide eyed, most holding their breaths and praying that their rescuer had not double crossed them. Ariella remained still, eyes closed, head resting upon the same bag of rice. She heard the vehicle as well, though any onlooker would have judged her unconscious. It made her noxious in truth to open her eyes and the darkness was as good a place as any to pray.
“Will we have to make two trips,” Ariella heard an unfamiliar voice say. The front door had been unlocked and there were footsteps on the first awning.
“No I don’t think so,” Aron replied. “It will look less suspicious that way.” Ariella exhaled relief into the musty cellar. SS guards did not generally worry about being thought of as suspicious only a rebel would say such a thing.
The cellar door creaked opened and Aron followed by a younger man descended down the stairs.
“Sorry I was gone so long,” Aron said. “But I think I found a way out for all of you.” There was the same fire in his eyes that Ariella had noticed in the woods, ignited by pure contempt but maintained by a truly noble character. “This is Michael,” he continued motioning to the dark haired young man beside him. “Michael works with the church that is going to help relocate you. But this is where it gets tricky.”
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “There is a truck used to carry produce outside as you have undoubtedly heard. It is loud and rickety and will cause people on the streets to turn their heads and stare. There will be a tarp over you but it is imperative that you all must lay flat and motionless the whole time. If we are going to get caught it will be then.”
They nodded their heads at the plan as it was the best anyone could muster under the circumstances.
“Alright then,” Aron said. “Let’s go,”
“Take them two at a time,” Michael cautioned. “So that it will be easier to hide them should you have any… any unexpected visitors.”
“Right,” Aron said and motioned for the first two to follow. Ariella was the last to come carried by Michael up the stairs.
“She will need medical help,” Aron told Michael. “Know of any place she can get that,”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “My Uncle is a doctor and he’s hid people before.”  Ariella steeled herself for the journey. A doctor could help her; she just needed to hold on that long. Ariella was wedged into the last clear spot in the bed of the truck, her arms and legs overlapping those of the other women. They felt like corpses she thought as the tarp was draped over them and the doors secured. They looked like them too she imagined, a truck bed loaded with corpses.
The truck revved and then started, slowly edging away from the little grey house that had concealed fifteen fugitives in the early morning hours. It was about 9:30 AM and by the noise of the street Ariella knew that the town was awake and functioning. It was a frightening sensation, being so close to a town that would certainly send them back to Strutthof if discovered. Yet to Ariella, it was also comforting to hear the noises of everyday life, a woman laughing probably arm and arm with a gentlemen, a gang of childhood trouble makers kicking at a flock of pigeons and a newspaper boy calling out the grim headlines of a never ending war. Poland was still Poland she recognized. The only thing that had changed was that it was no longer her home.
The road was full of divots that caused Ariella to grimace ever so often as a bony elbow or knee found its mark. When at last the truck pulled into the safety of the inner courtyard and the gates were shut firmly behind it, Aron removed the tarp and helped each of them to the dusty soiled ground. Michael took Ariella up in his arms and they began to make their way towards one of several buildings on the residence.
“This is a storage space mostly,” he told the women. “Mr. Noska, the priest hopes to have relocated all of you by tomorrow morning at the latest.” The boy fiddled with the lock of the door finally turning the key inside. “He is very…very connected.”
There was a thin coat of dust that lingered in the air, a sign that the room had not been touched for many months. “I’m sorry that we could not provide better,” Michael said. “But it is the safest place on the grounds.” There were several pieces of furniture all covered by thin white sheets and a great mirror that sat face up upon what appeared to be an old night stand. They too were covered in dust.
“Feel free to use any of the furniture,” Michael said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with food and drink.”  He placed Ariella upon a white sheet covered sofa. “Mr. Noska may visit as well. Right now he is trying to contact people from the underground.” At this Michael turned and began to head towards the door.
“I suppose this is where I say goodbye ladies,” Aron said. “I wish you all the best of luck.” The women waved, thanking him again for saving them. 
~
Eli set rounded reading glasses upon an aged writing desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. People in Poland were becoming more and more scared. Lately prospective hosts had been “too full already” or “couldn’t take that sort of risk anymore.” Eli understood. Irena had been part of the reason he had never kept any of the refugees there at the church. Yet how could he turn them away? He would find hiding places for them and if not he would make one.
He dialed the phone number and waited for the voice at the end of the line. “Yes,” answered a deep baritone.
“Hello is this Dr. Spiewak,” asked Eli.
“Yes it is.”
“It’s Eli Noska and it appears that my cold has come back again. Would it be possible for me to make an appointment?”
“Yes,” the man answered after a moment. “What about Tuesday at 5:15?”
“That’s a bit later than I would have liked I don’t have any medicine here and it seems worse this time.”
“Then you better come in sooner,” Dr. Spiewak said. “Say tomorrow morning at 8:15?”
“Yes that will do Dr. Thank you,” Eli said hanging up the phone.
Throughout the rest of the day, Eli made preparations for the church’s lawn to be mowed, the lock to his daughters house to be changed, the grape juice for next Sunday’s communion to be delivered and for a clock smith to service his vintage pocket watch.  Still there were two left to be accounted for and the man knew that he would not easily find them a place before the next day.
It was true in part Eli knew that the church was not a safe place for such refugees. It was not a safe place for anyone. Over the course of the last few years most churches in the area had been shut down, their clergy often deported for one reason or another. Catholicism opposed the Reich according to Hitler.
Yet St. John’s Cathedral had stood the winds like a great oak tree. Rooted firmly in the small community’s heritage, the people had upheld it. It was the heart of Gdansk and though the rest of the body was ill and festering the church remained a single beating memory of the past. There had been repercussions of course, a broken window in the chapel, words painted in red on the front gates. Yet for over four years, while the rest of the small churches were torn apart and looted, St John’s remained resolute, a stone giant.
For this reason alone, the old church was not an ideal place to harbor Strutthof escapees. Should they be found out it would not only be he who suffered but the whole of the church, falling no doubt to the same fate as her sisters. Yet like the Good Samaritan, who could turn them away? Who could call themselves Christian or even somewhat good when these women went untended to?
“We are always in need of more help around here.” He said to no one in particular. “And that is what we must have.” Irena had never liked the idea of forging fake identities for the fugitives and employing them at the church.
“Feels as though we are criminals ourselves,” she would say. Yet he knew that her heart broke for them as much as his own.
Their most chancy endeavor had been Michael, the son of two undergrounds who had long since been taken. When the boy appeared at their doorstep teary eyed and with no home to return to, they had made papers, forged an identity and implemented Michael into the church. He was the nephew of a local doctor, Jakub Spiewak according to the papers, having emigrated from Germany after the death of his parents.
Eli ran a finger over the telephone receiver, slightly smudging the sheer finish. “Not called to be safe eh,” he said.

The ride back to the little grey farm house was far less trying and Aron tucked the rickety cherry bicycle back into its original spot. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, as if he had seen life and death and was returned back to a perfectly mundane existence within the hour.
Glancing at a leather banded wrist watch; Aron saw that it was only half past 10:00Am. He returned to the interior of the house and began to tidy up, folding the various blankets scattered about the cellar, sweeping up crumbs, and wiping honey off of the kitchen counters. The famer finally came to rest in an old arm chair, running one hand against prickly facial hair. Any air of normalcy had since departed from the man’s day, leaving him in a state of perturbed stillness.
After a few minutes Aron decided that the most effective way to calm himself was to resume daily activities. He had forgotten to check all of the traps that morning after the discovery, he realized, and deemed it an ideal time to do so. After taking up hunting jacket, heavy boots and the same riffle that he had, had that morning, Aron started for the first trapping site.
The trap had shut without rendering a creature of any kind. Aron referred to these incidents as ghost whispers and complained often about their frequency. The next site was equally inconclusive as was the one after that.
“What a day,” the farmer mumbled under his breath. “What a day.” He stopped, aware suddenly of another presence. It is a skill often acquired by those who have been removed from bustling city life and who are bound to the forest as the sky is bound to the earth. Aron did not feel the creature’s eyes or hear its breath but the man knew that he was not alone. 
Aron looked about him. There was nothing in sight, not a curious bear nor skittish deer but the feeling was strong, stronger than he had ever felt it. Weaving with care through the underbrush Aron listened. There was a usual sound, a rustling. He followed his ears guided more by a piqued interest then by hunter’s instinct.
Upon rounding a particularly thick grove of brush far from the downtrodden path Aron saw movement and pulled himself back behind a thick trunked tree. He did not believe what he saw to be true. Peering from behind the peeling bark Aron was greeted with a peculiar sight.
A man dressed in SS garb leaned face forward against a tree hands planted about shoulder width apart. There was blood running down his hands and wrist and the man looked to be in some sort of grave distress. His feet were moving as if trying to push the tree to the ground but kept slipping on the slick underbrush. Aron ducked back behind the tree unsure of what his next move should be.  Every ounce of his body wanted to turn around and walk away. Even if the man called out he could just walk into the underbrush and dematerialize into the forest like wild animals often do. Yet he was no wild animal he knew.
There was a tug, a sort of impractical impulse to aid the man whose feet Aron still heard beating the underbrush. There was no reason for it. Aron hated the Nazi’s. He hated the SS and he hated this odd stranger who had disrupted his hunting ritual for the second time that day.
“Hello,” Aron said stepping out from behind the tree. He had strung the riffle over one shoulder but held instinctively to the strap. The man did not turn. “Are you lost? Injured?” Still the man did not as much as flinch. Upon closer inspection Aron saw that his uniform was ripped and one ankle was bloody and swollen. He stepped closer only yards away and then feet until the man’s face was clearly visible. His eyes were closed Aron realized, clamped shut.
Aron held the strap a bit tighter. “Hello,” he repeated arms length away from the young man. When there was no reply Aron reached out a hand and shook his shoulder. The intensity to which his eyes and face sprung to life sent the farmer reeling backwards.  Suddenly there was an audible panicked breath from the uniformed man who Aron noted appeared young enough to be no more than a boy.
“It’s ok I want to help,” the wounded man stared with bloodshot eyes. “I want to help,” Aron repeated placing a hand to his shoulder.
“No,” the stranger said, eyes widening. He pulled away from Aron and tumbled to the snowy ground.
“Okay,” Aron said holding up both hands. “I’m okay; you don’t have to be afraid,”
“No don’t take me back,” the man cried. “Kill me kill me! I didn’t kill her I didn’t you did,” he screamed pointing a finger at the farmer. He slammed the already bloodied hand to the ground but pulled it up quickly in response to the pain. He stared at it for a moment. “The fruit burns,” he mumbled.
Aron stood utterly shocked and confused by the man’s outburst. “I’m not going to take you back,” he said carefully placing his words. “I live in a nice house and I am going to help you get better. Okay? ”
The man was looking into the distance as if mesmerized by the falling snow. Aron slowly inched forward and reached out a hand. The man looked at him but this time he was different. Taking the hand the uniformed man attempted to stand but sunk back down to the snowy embankment seconds later.
“I can’t walk sir,” he said in an altogether different tone. “I’m going to die here.”
“No you’re not,” Aron said. He reached forward and began to lift the man to his feet. He took a quick inhale through clinched teeth in obvious discomfort. “Just use the other foot for support.” Aron said wrapping one of the man’s arms around his shoulder.
“No put me down.” The man said with urgency. Aron obeyed. The pain written upon his features told Aron that the man would need to be carried out. “The other leg to eh?” Aron asked though he expected no answer from the stranger who seemed to have drifted into a state of shock. Rolling up the opposite pant leg Aron found that the guard had more than a limp.
“Alright then,” the farmer sighed. He bent and took up the near frozen body with some difficulty for though Aron was a burly man in his youth he had grown unaccustomed to such large burdens over the years. Groaning and teetering over the slick path Aron made a grueling journey to the little grey house. He placed the man on the sofa in the sitting room and set to work piling blankets over him and warming rocks to place at his feet.
Sometime during the walk the man’s eyes had shut, and his body had gone limp in a state of complete unconsciousness. Once the blankets and the rocks were in place Aron sat in an arm chair across from the sofa marveling at the mornings events. He had, had fifteen fugitives and now an unconscious one legged SS guard in his quiet little abode, more beings then had resided there for many years. 
When he closed his eyes, Aron could still imagine their laughing faces under the newly leafed saplings, a mother and son. Those days had been good and long ones before Poland was occupied and before the forest had known the farmer so well. In the evenings there was the smell of honest food in the air, the type made from hours of preparation. There was laughter and music, lithe notes that floated from the heart of their great old piano like birds to the sky. 
Aron glanced at the dusty relic pushed aside to the corner of the room. It had been years since the beautiful instrument had been treated as all pianos should, to the loving caress of skilled hands. Aron knew that it, like himself would remain alone until the keys became yellowed and out of tune and the finish wore from its wooden frame.
~
The skirt was unnaturally loose and the shoes a size and a half too big. They had decided against stockings for no matter how small a pair Ariella wore they always seemed to bag. The clothes had been borrowed from the priest’s grown daughter solely for the purpose of the transit from the church to the practice of the local doctor. Mr. Noska promised that the Dr. would be able to find much more suitable clothing.
Her reddened cheeks had been patted down with extra foundation in order to portray an Anglo woman should the car be stopped. A large sun hat shielded her face from the view of the average onlooker though if one peered closely the characteristic features of Jewish heritage were still distinguishable upon her gaunt face. 
There was a buzz at the front gate just after 8 and a small black car pulled into the court yard disturbing the peace of the regular flocks of birds that gathered in the lush landscape. A dark work boot splayed aside the gravel. The man who knocked upon the parish’s door was a Mr. Feliks Zdeb, a long time family friend and fellow perpetrator of Eli’s. His job that day was simply to drop his friend off at the Dr.’s office and drive away. It was a simple enough task and one that Feliks had performed twice before. The Dr was a good man, one that had not gained his profession from chasseing after titles or prestige but from the gentleness of his heart. It was against the man’s nature to turn any needy soul away regardless of the law, regardless of the danger.
Ariella who was barely able sit up straight on her own was carried to the black automobile and placed in the back seat. The windows were darkened she noticed through slightly blurred vision. It distorted the rays of the sun, buffering their impact on Ariella’s sickly form. Once the car started the men were quiet, alert and focused on their mission. Though the transfer was fairly safe, they were aware that a single mishap endangered not only their own lives but hundreds of others.
After ten minutes of bumping over the uneven streets of Gdansk the car reached it’s final destination. Eli stepped out first and surveyed the area. A paper boy stood at the corner shivering in the early morning frost but the rest of the street was deserted except for the occasional window shopper or errand runner. Eli motioned for Ariella to come opening the door for her. Legs wobbling Ariella summoned the strength to rise from the automobile and hobble towards the entrance of the Dr.’s office. It was a two story building as many of the shops on that street were, with the Dr.’s practice on the bottom floor and he and his families living quarters at the top.
However unlike most businesses on that street Dr. Spiewak’s home held a secret. Behind one of the off white glazed walls was a room, a room that had been built by specialist posing as patients over two years ago. The plaster had come in briefcases, the paint in a woman’s handbag. When it was finished it had housed a Jewish couple for a month before they were able to escape Poland to safety.
Since then the wall had been unused but not forgotten in the Spiewak home. Whenever Dr. Spiewak passed by the secret room, he was reminded of the evil of humanity which lay just outside the door. When his wife, Justyna passed the room she thought of the danger that fighting for justice held and when Joszef passed by the families secret he was reminded of his promise never to speak of it.
“Bring her up the stairs.” Dr. Spiewak said. He had never seen a human being so sickly or emaciated before. The mere sight of her skeleton like legs sent righteous anger throughout him. The Dr. believed that no one should have to suffer in such a way, especially for no reason as Ariella had.
The elderly priest carried her up the stairs without much difficulty and laid her upon a couch in the sitting area.
“She has a cold as well as malnutrition,” Eli told the doctor.
“Yes,” the doctor said pulling out a stethoscope. “We will have to do something about that.”
“Take a deep breath,” the doctor said as he pressed the instrument to her chest. The doctor listened for a moment as Ariella exhaled a shaky breath.
“Congestion,” he said folding up the stethoscope, “and a fever,” he said placing a hand to Ariella’s forehead. He left the room returning seconds later with two white pills and a glass of water.
“Try to take these,” he told Ariella. “They should help reduce the fever.” He turned to Eli who stood at a distance as Ariella attempted to swallow the pills.
“How bad is she,” Eli asked in hushed tones. “Not well, not well at all,” The Dr. was straight faced and serious as was his custom however there was a notable amount of worry in his voice. “Iv’ never seen anyone this bad,” he told the priest. “If you had not gotten her over here it would be a matter of days at the most. Even now…” he trailed off interrupted by Ariella’s cough.  “Even now I don’t know.”
The priest left after some time equipped with a plastic bag containing fever reducers and a receipt for one visit to Dr. Artur Spiewak, diagnosis the common cold. Outside the same small black car waited. Eli turned and peered at the two story building, inside resided a woman who had seen felt and heard hell on earth, whose story could never be properly understood or fathomed. Ariella needed a doctor. The priest whispered a quick prayer and turned towards the dark vehicle. He feared for her, that perhaps not all of the woman’s wounds could be healed with medicine and nourishment, that something had been taken, something that a man, even a good one could not return.

The ceiling was smooth yellowed white. Great care had been taken in spreading the plaster and applying the paint though time had spoiled the craftsmanship with its sickly yellow hues. He did not move his head. There was numbness in his shoulders, a stiffness. The idea of paralyzation played through his mind, bringing forth images of chair ridden elderly men, rendered useless and burdensome. Yet there were greater worries at hand he knew.
Cartston remembered trudging through the snow and cold. He remembered the accident at the stream and the bracing of his ankle with a strip of material from his pant leg. There had been a feeling of hopelessness as the crippled man regained footing, pain as Cartston drug his weight with a twisted and bloodied ankle. Then there was a numbness but not only of the body, of the mind. Cartston recalled moving but in what way and in what direction he did not know.
The same scenes entered and reentered his mind through it all. There were the role call lines, perfectly straight and utterly miserable. There was the way Ariella looked through the bars of the containment center and the cold metal cup she held. There was the sound of the machinery and the sound of his sister’s laughter. Cartston saw again the day Ariella shared her small loaf of bread with the others, he heard once again the mocking tones of the guards. He was reminded of his father’s shop and recalled the thin green lettering that made up the sign Tailors Shop. The image that sent his legs reeling into action however was that of Ariella’s beating, the day that she earned a position in solitary confinement. He remembered the way Jäger had turned without warning and hit her. He felt in the pit of his stomach the sickening noise. Cartston watched himself turn his back and pretend as if nothing had happened, as if a brutal attack on an innocent woman was not taking place. Cartston hated himself for it. He hated that he had waited so long to act and that she had suffered so much because of him. Was she alive?
He sat up slowly one vertebra at a time. There was an empty tea cup that had been set on the far side of the table across the room from him. The smell of an herbal mixture still floated in the woodland air. Cartston stretched out a foot and then instinctively pulled it back. There were hot rocks pilled at the end of the sofa. His shoes lay a few feet away at the base of the sofa, his feet bare.
The man in whom he had first encountered in the woods entered the room carrying another tea cup with a steaming liquid within. He handed the mixture to Cartston who after a moment of hesitation accepted it.
“Who are you,” Cartston asked sniffing the drink.
The man looked at him and chucked slightly. “I feel that that is the question  you should answer yourself,” he said.
Cartston took a sip of the drink having deemed it safe. It was thin and bitter despite its savory herbal scent.
“I’d like to know if I were among friend or foe,” He took another sip. The liquid radiated through the mug and into the palms of his hands.
“I am a farmer,” the man said and Cartston knew it to be true by his weathered face and large rough hands. “I am neither your friend or foe.” He watched as Cartston took another sip. “I don’t know you.”
Cartston was quiet turning the nearly empty mug round in his hands.
“And fortunately you will not have to,” he said attempting to rise from the couch. The biting pain that greeted his awakening senses sent him back to the stack of blankets however.
“If you told me your story I may be able to help,” the farmer said. Cartston paused allowing the pain to fade away into the numbness once again.
“All I need is a brace,” Cartston said. “And then I will be able to make my way.”
“To hobble all the way to town?” the farmer asked aware that something about Cartston was amiss. “Do you know how far that is lad?” his eyebrows rose. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to go into town and then phone for some help? Don’t they have Doctors at that correctional facility?”
The two stared at one another for a long moment. “I need a brace and I need to leave,” Cartsten said with an air of mounting urgency. The man opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the sound of tires. He left the room to peer out the front window. Cartston sat rigid with fear,
The farmer returned hands dug into his pockets. “Looks like your friends have come to pick you up,” he said casually.
Cartsten bit his lip, he would have to decide to trust this man, and he would have to decide immediately.
“You have to hide me. I can’t explain everything but if they find me they will kill me.” Cartsten said. He pleaded with his eyes. There was a chance that the man that he talked to was devoted to the Reich, that Cartsten had made a full confession, a fatal mistake. It was true that devoted or not the farmer would gain a sizeable award and the honor of capturing a dissenter. Yet Cartsten sensed something different in the farmer, something he could not explain.
“Give me a reason why I should help?” he said. The farmers face had changed its countenance and Cartsten began to believe that his assumptions had been false. “You are probably a spy…sent to see if I would betray the Reich.”
“No believe me please,” he whispered unable to make noise come from his throat. “Would I break my own ankle and freeze to death just to rat you out? They will kill me for what I did.”
“One less of them,” he motioned towards the front of the house, “is no concern of mine.” There was a firm knock at the door.
~
The hands were cold against her neck, measuring pulse with the medical professionalism of years. For the last three nights Ariella quaked as spasms of coughs advanced one after another like a persistent army. The illness was always least bearable at night, for the chilled air aggravated her raw throat. There were moments there in the late hours when the bile caught and threatened to strangle. Yet, there was comfort in the soothing words and gentle tactics of the doctor. If Ariella were to die she thought it best to die here among the warm colors of the Spiewak home and the brave souls that dared to love even when love was outlawed. Many a time Ariella feared that the constant cough would expose them. Yet, the doctor was not deterred by the danger, rather legitimate or not and in time the morning light would pour in through the curtains and chase away the darkness of another brutal night.
In time the doctor’s persistence paid off and with each passing day the color returned to the cheeks of his patient. Soon Ariella was able to eat solid foods though not much at the same time without sickness.
The family became found of her especially the doctor’s wife who soon discovered Ariella’s skill with yarns and wools. Justyna had much to learn in this regard from the young woman who had found refuge in their home and in the evening the two often sat and knitted together. The family realized quickly however, that there were many things that the girl did not like to talk about and that her words would often be few.
The multicolored yarns were Ariella’s comfort most nights although even the textures of the fabrics drew her back to the sound of her mother’s own silver knitting needles. Some nights Ariella found peace in the memories, in the image of a mother’s hands guiding her own. Yet in others, she was tormented by the knowledge of loss.
She wove together a quilt of many colors in time and gave it to Joszef. The little boy slept with it most nights and often asked her to tell him the blankets story. The small tale soon became a bedtime ritual though Ariella often changed the circumstances and details.
“Many years ago,” she would begin. “There were many different villages all inhabited by people who only wanted one color of fabric. One wanted purple, another red one blue and a very boring village only wanted brown.” At this the boy would often laugh and refer to a classmate who was surely from the village of brown quilts. “One day a little boy not much unlike yourself from the village of orange quilts wondered why there couldn’t be a quilt with all the colors. His friends assured him that he was crazy of course, but the little boy thought differently and he traveled across the lands to gather up a little bit of royal purple, a little bit of majestic blue and even a little bit of dull brown. Even the dull brown is an important color you see Joszef and in actuality it isn’t dull at all mixed in with the others,” she would say. “The boy created a quilt more colorful than any anyone had ever seen and more beautiful. Some people finally saw the value of all the fabrics though a few remained afraid and angry and the little boy decided to hide his quilt where...
“Just the way you’re hidden?” interrupted Joszef one evening.
Ariella looked into the wide innocents of his youth. “Yes just the way I am hidden,” she patted the boy’s messy hair and tucked the quilt over him.
“Just the way I am hidden,” Ariella whispered after she had finished the story closed the door and had started down the hallway to her room sealed as the blanket in a deep vault.

Aron knew who the officer was. He was the guard who had opened the gates, who had set fifteen prisoners free only to become a fugitive himself. It was a noble act but it was no payment for the evil that certainly occurred at his hands. There was no excuse for conquering the world and then taking their sons, taking his own son.
John Kaplon had grown to the sound of a piano he once deemed magical. He had loved the intricate melodies that his mother played and at the age of four began to learn as well. Soon new songs filled the little farmhouse and kissed the newly plastered ceilings. Some were reckless tunes full of adventure and the uneven fall of fingers that comes with imagination and a lack of experience. Yet with time, fingers grew and John’s head was filled with dark and soulful notes and with ones made of contentment and of the purest of light.
Stacks of sheet music littered John’s room some pinned to the wall and underlined at certain points. On some days late at night Aron would awake to the hushed sound of keys. He knew that should he enter the sitting room, he would find his son bent over the piano a pencil behind one ear and a sheet of handwritten notes before him. The boy was talented, more than talented. He was gifted.
From birth John’s destiny had appeared as with all children born to the land, to be faming. However, Aron and Annie wanted more for him. They wanted John to be happy and so they encouraged the boy to pursue the talent in hopes that one day he would sit among others as gifted as himself.
When the typhoid fever took Annie, John was only 14. Long after the days of mourning John’s notes were made dark and melancholy like the tears of a widower, like Aarons own tears. Yet they were no less beautiful.
Three years John spent forming a collection of such songs. One day, he would take them somewhere, he would say, somewhere to someone who would make them something. He never got the chance.
In 1939 the seventeen year old received draft papers.  He was to fight for a cause he did not believe in and with a people who were not his own. In 1941 he was to die for it as well.
When Aron received the news he had been angry, throwing the papers in the messengers face and shutting the door. He remembered sinking to the floor with his back to the front door, tears rolling down his face. His only son had been taken in a war against his own people. The boy’s dreams were lost to fire on the home front. The piano was alone.
“No I went hunting early this morning and I didn’t see anyone out in the wood either,” Aron told the officer. “I will keep my eyes open though.”
“Yes please do if you find any of these people I promise there will be a handsome reward,” the officer glanced at the farmer’s tattered sleeves. “A very handsome reward.”      
The famer shut and locked the door watching as the men climbed aboard dark green lorries and rumbled towards the town. Somewhere fifteen new residences were tucked into everyday life, behind shop windows or in secret rooms secured behind heavy brick walls. Still they were endangered, pursued by hatred and prejudice that closed in like a bloodthirsty scavenger determined to pick at what was left of the wounded.
Returning to the room, Aaron found the boy as he had left him, wide eyed and pale. There was an expectant expression upon his face and eyes darted past Aaron and into the room behind.
“I told them not to bother with anything suspicious here,” Aron told him returning bulky hands to his pockets. “You ought to give me a reason not to be a liar,” he said flatly. Aaron could tell that the young man was biting the inside of his lip, perhaps contemplating the weight of the truth or conjuring up a conceivable lie. “Why don’t we start with your name,” Aron asked interrupting the fugitive’s thoughts. “What do they call you?”
“Cartston Schroder,” the officer allowed after a moment. Aron knew by the nervous movement of the man’s hands that his true identity carried weight and that the boy had in fact disclosed it. There was no route of escape now for the fugitive, he had gambled out of utter desperation.
“Is it true what you said about them wanting to kill you?” Aron asked, though he already knew the answer. He wished only to test the boy’s merit.
“Yes if they found me.” Cartston said. The young man’s eyes were searching for the intentions that lay behind Aron’s questions.
For many years the Farmer watched as the town began to nestle up closer to the outskirts of his land. He heard the lorries roar over the hills and past his land sending small animals scurrying from the undergrowth. He yearned for the war to end, so that his son could truly die. For the memories lingered with each symptom of the sickness and the piano’s music refused to fade. He felt the anger seep through the sorrow once again, a death, a meaningless death, for a cause that was never his own. John’s place was and had always been in the gray farmhouse, seated at the instrument he so dearly loved, not on a foreign front, in a land only interested in the boy’s capability to kill and to survive. He was no more than a boy, no more than a boy, Aron thought.
He let the memories fall from his shoulders and met the young man’s stare. There was something familiar about those eyes, something universal. They knew fear and they knew hope yet it was the uncertainly, the lack of direction that Aron recognized. He remembered it in himself as a young man betting all of his savings on a small piece of land with hard soil and sloped ground. He remembered it in his son’s eyes the first day that he learned to use the great green tractor that still rusted behind the shed. He remembered it in the depth of his eyes, brown eyes like his mothers, when he said goodbye.
“Did you kill someone?” Aron asked. The man shifted a bit, perturbed by the question.
“No,” he said. “Not in the way you mean.”
Aron slowly tucked his memories back into the past and then folded his hands in resolve.
“I will help you,” he told Cartsten. The officer bent his brows downwards but did not question the man’s decision.
“Thank you sir,” he nodded.
“That is if you tell me your story.” 
~
Aron believed the boy’s every word. There was reason to lie about much of what he admitted, much of the detail he recalled. Yet Cartston remembered every circumstance and spoke them as they were, even those that condemned him. The memories made the boy uncomfortable however, his knuckles white from forming a fist throughout the recollection. 
“There is no reason why you should help me I know,” Cartsten said after he had finished recounting the events of the last two years. “I would have wondered off and created my own fate if it were not for my injuries.”
“Fate is not so easily determined.” Aron said. “You should know that more than any.” There was a silence in the room as one pondered what he had heard and the other what he had done. An old clock on the mantle stoically counted the seconds of stillness until the farmer spoke once more.
“Did you love her?” The farmer’s eyes abandoned their stony mold and became momentarily genuine and searching. Cartsten closed his eyes. When he opened them they were misty. He had suppressed emotion throughout the recollection yet now it welled up within.
“Of course I did,” he chocked, voice manipulated by the grief. “How could I not the way she showed kindness to others, the way she lived out who she was with bravery, with faith. The way she…” he paused. “…the way she gave me a chance.”
Aron remained straight faced though the story moved him. It was a tale of suffering and of refuge of hatred and of grace and Cartsten stood in the very center.
“So you saved them because you loved her?” Aron asked.
“I saved them…” Cartsten paused as if the idea was absurd. “I didn’t save them she did. She showed me that I needed saving too, that I couldn’t stay either without being one of them.  No Ariella showed me what every single one of those women was worth, she saved all of us.”
The farmer scraped a clog of dried mud with his index fingernail from the inner folds of his hunting jacket before looking back up at Cartsten.
“Perhaps this young woman has saved you once again.”

There was no safe place for the man not in the countryside and certainly not in the cityscape. To those loyal to the Reich he would be considered a dirty trader, to the underground a controversial subject, a distraction that the band of rebels need not be troubled with.
Aron asked himself what the man truly deserved, what the just retributions of his wrongs were. The answer was clear to the farmer that this man though young, though brave, though misguided deserved the full extent of the law. He deserved death. Yet Aron was no judge of men, executioner nor rat. To take away perhaps the greatest gift allotted to mankind was against his nature. Why condemn Aron reasoned, a man already condemned.
The dreams that came to Cartsten sent him yelling into the night and sobbing bitterly. Aaron listened from his own bedroom and watched as the shadows of tree limbs danced over the yellowed ceiling. He would wait day by day until the soldier was well enough to leave or until circumstances demanded another alternative.
Days were average for Aron as he set about his routine pretending as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The snow continued to fall about the little grey house forcing the farmer to dig a path each morning and pour warm water upon the ever thickening ice on the front steps. The boy ate and drank and rested, his ankle supported by a slightly crude brace made up of a wash cloth and two spoons. The farmer was no physician but he had dealt with broken bones and askew fingers enough to know the correct method of setting the foot. As for frost bite Aron marveled that the boy had not so much as damaged a finger tip.
Cartsten would heal Aron knew, and very quickly Then perhaps the odd guest would stay true to his word and leave the farmhouse for the refuge of elsewhere. Aron feared exposure in truth, for some nights the ground rumbled still with the wheels of lorries and great search light beams found their way through the tightly drawn curtains.
He dreamed one night that they had fished the lorrie out of the pond, the pond directly to the right of his property. The soggy canvas and dank smell led the SS to the gray farmhouse like bloodhounds to a den of foxes.
When the boy healed, Aron decided he would make him leave rather by choice or otherwise. The farmer could not afford such a risk, not at his age. Besides the boy was no innocent, he did not deserve so simple of a solution. Perhaps, justice would run its natural course once the offender stepped beyond the safety of his walls. Aron did not care the outcome, only that the storm pass quickly and leave his own abode standing and unscathed.
~
He no longer considered himself a strong man. He no longer considered himself brave or intelligent. Cartsten was an empty man like a flask of oil run dry. The ambitions in which he had based his life had stayed with Strutthof, behind bars.
The hours in which he spent in the dark spare room were filled mostly with sleep. For with sleep came the chance to forget. Though his frequent dreams, forced him even in sleep to remember. The hours of wakefulness were spent pondering the past and the future. Cartston felt himself to be a ghost, a dead man condemned to continue to wonder the land of the living. There was no place for him in the world, in this land.
He had asked the farmer about her, what had happened to the ill prisoner. Aron could only tell him that she had survived to his house but that he knew no more after that except that one called Eli Noska had hid them all. Cartston asked if they could speak with Eli but the farmer weighed it too dangerous to go poking about at a snake with a stick.
Aron brought him water and food from time to time and examined the still swollen ankle. “You are healing quickly.” Aron would say though the pain still shot through Carston’s bones with every movement.
“Do you have a family still?” the farmer asked one day as he was repositioning the wash cloth brace.
He tried not to think of them often. Yet with the countless hours of recovery Carton’s mind often played through the consequences of his treasonous behavior. His heart is truth was far too heavy to imagine more hurt and more lives destroyed upon his account and so the fugitive often pushed the thoughts aside.
“I don’t know…” he said. “And if I do they are two countries away and may think me dead.” The farmer nodded and repositioned an askew spoon.
“You?” Cartsten asked.
“Nah,” the farmer responded. “Never have been much of a family man.”
Cartston watched the man’s sun wrinkled faced and believed him. His host was one who seemed to enjoy silence and lonesomeness. One who never had guest and did not seem particularly fond of his current one.
Cartston knew he must leave once the ankle healed. It was not fair to sap this man’s resources and endanger his good will. The boy was a wayward particle of dust that came to rest in the stillness of an abandoned corner. There was shelter in that quaint corner but dust like all objects of the wind is bound to be stirred again.
~
Deep in the forest footprints and tire tracks were filled in with the storms blessed furry and the pond in which the lowery had plunged was all but frozen over. The farmer was prepared for such a storm and spent one afternoon stacking a pile of pre-cut firewood against the far wall inside the cabin. The winds were bitter and biting, the falling flakes a wall of solid white crystals.
It had been two weeks since Aron saw any sign of a search party or heard the rumbling lorries. He knew that all efforts if not already would be dismissed as useless in response to the storm. The boy walked now but with pain and much difficulty. It would be pure cruelty the farmer thought to turn him out into the blizzard. They were safe from the SS for a time as well and so Aron reasoned that he would harbor the fugitive a bit longer.
At meal times they sat together usually in silence or with minimal conversation. The boy often consented to washing the dishes, saying that it was the only thing he could do and served to occupy his thoughts at least for a bit. Carsten had also taken to whittling having found a knife and a piece of firewood. The famer noticed that the boy often seemed to be somewhere else as he carved into the dry wood. Fast fingers turned over and over the log as eyes stared dully and mind traveled back. Once he had nicked his index finger but not too badly and the incident had not repeated itself since.
The boys temperament became remotely more friendly as the mealtime conversation became more frequent and in depth. The boy shied away from political topics and his own past naturally. However to the farmer’s surprise Carsten was somewhat impressively knowledgeable about agriculture and hunting.
“I learned it from a book,” he would say when the farmer questioned him. Aron accepted the boy’s answer though he reasoned that it had been something like a few books. Rather he told the truth or not his knowledge was a point of conversation, a small relief from the unabridged silence.  
For in truth the farmer had never liked silence. It was an unnatural state he reasoned. Even nature buzzed with life, the wind whistling like song throughout the tree tops. He had grown so accustomed to it however that another’s person’s presence in the little farmhouse seemed to encroach upon something sacred. Perhaps it was lifestyle perhaps it was memories.
Some mornings Cartsten would awake early and set the table. Then setting an old rag upon the table he would take up the knife and whittle away at the pieces of firewood, the shavings caught up by the rag.
The first morning that Aron awoke to the sight he paused for a moment behind the boy’s back. In the shadows of the early morning and in a blue flannel shirt that had been often worn by his son Aron felt as if he saw John’s ghost. Seated in John’s spot at the table Aron half expected the boy to turn around and say “morning Pa”. Instead the farmer was greeted by a distinct German accent and a pile of wood shavings.
~
He thought of her often. The days were long and still. In time Cartsten felt himself unwind a bit, though the dreams still haunted him and though the remembrance of his deeds hung about him like a noose. He attempted to occupy his thoughts with the future, where he would go after the farm house, after the war. Yet even in the strongest of imaginings Cartsten saw no place for himself.
In truth he wanted to stay in the protection of the little farmhouse for as long as possible. There seemed to be a degree of peace to the place, a safe house in the middle of a war zone. Aron had grown more personable as well, kindly despite the fact that the farmer most likely wanted the fugitive gone. Cartsten would leave once the weather improved and once he had formed some sort of plan, until then he would rely upon the grace allotted to him.
During the worst of the storm Aron pulled out an old stack of cards from a tall cupboard. Cobwebs had sprouted up around them and a thick layer of dust and grime covered the boxes face.  
“Want to play he asked?” Cartsten nodded though he knew himself to be highly unskilled at any sort of card game. By the dusty condition of the box he reasoned that the farmer had not had card playing company for quite some time either.
As the two lay down card after card Cartsten felt there to be a sort of barrier broken. Did this man consider him to be a friend? Was he really able to see past what he had done and who he had become? The snow continued to fall and in time their interactions became more natural like that between acquaintances rather than between fugitive and lawman.
After three hours Cartsten had won two games the farmer five. There was no denying that the farmer was skilled in the game of black jack. Carsten reasoned that he had played many times before. Perhaps, Aron had not always been the hermit that he had perceived him to be.
When the storm blew over the mountains and into the cavernous valley’s bellow Aron returned to his work and Carsten to his whittling. The boy’s ankle had been healed for quite some time. However Carsten hesitated to leave the farmhouse, for he had neither plan nor resources beyond the property. Aron did not seem to notice or if he did kept, it to himself.
Two months came and went without a mandate to leave from the farmer. Carsten learned to cut wood and check the closest of the farmer’s forest traps. In this way he hoped to earn a sort of keep. There was guilt of course. For the boy felt that he was taking advantage of the man’s kindness. Yet Carsten could imagine no other option in which he could survive.

The sound pierced through his dreams. It was sad and beautiful, familiar. Aron opened his eyes. He felt awake but knew that he must be dreaming. The melody persisted, different in slight but still recognizably John’s. How many times he had been awoken in the night to that blessed tune. The farmer waited for the dream to end, his eyes becoming more accustomed to the lack of light minute by minute.
Still the melody did not cease. Aron sat up and touched feet to the ground. The air was cold. He couldn’t be dreaming. It was too detailed, too real. He slowly opened the door and inched down the hallway. He half expected the piano to fade, a ghost in the night but the notes continued to float softly and skillfully throughout the house.
The floorboards creaked under his weight and his shadow loomed tall before him. Peering into the room Aron felt his throat tighten heart constrained momentarily as if by binds. A figure sat at the piano, fingers slowly falling over notes written upon paper long yellowed and faded.
“What are you doing,” he asked voice quaking.
“I…I,” Carsten fumbled turning around and standing to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Aron repeated himself. So similar was the apparition to John’s likeness that he had nearly believed it to be more than another lonely dream. Carsten stared speechless.
“Don’t ever touch that piano again,” Aron said his voice filling the dark room and ricocheting from the empty walls. “Do you hear me? Don’t you ever.”
“Yes sir,” Carsten said closing the piano with haste. The boy filed past him, down the hall and into his own room.
Aron listened as the door shut. He closed his eyes, standing in the center of the room. Perhaps he had been wrong to react in such a volatile manner but moral law was significantly blurred as it was in the farmhouse.
The bottle of wine was not a good one, not specially fermented or aged. It was bitter and biting but Aron had tasted far worst. There was no notion of rest for the farmer after the incident and so glass in hand he sat opposite the piano and attempted to disappear into bitter whine and kind memories. There seemed to be no relief however for even by the third glass the vivid image of the piano playing boy remained.
There was a corner of the sheet music protruding from the clamped lid of the instrument and after a few minutes Aron rose and reopened the lid freeing the sheet that floated to the ground.
“Aw this one was one of the best ones,” Aron said as he reached for the sheet music. The piece had been Annie’s favorite as well. He remembered the way she had marveled over the noble notes and the words that their son had so cleverly woven into the melody. It was rare that John ever sang other than for the yellowed piece Aron held in his hands.
“Birds they do fly. Oh but birds they do fall. In the sky up above shielded by the love of God. Oh birds how they fly. How they fly. Oh why do we run the race had not begun. Oh smile for a day, laugh in the night. Oh birds how they fly. Oh but birds do they fall.”
Aron heard the words and notes once more in the still hours of the night and was taken back to a warm and loving household, one where one was never and could never be alone. Tears pulled in the corners of his eyes and the farmer did not brush them away.
“Oh you and me have been through a lot,” he said a bit slurred as he ran a hand over the yellowed keys of the piano. He lowered himself to the bench sitting the wine glass upon the floor and tucked the song back into the thick stack of parchment. It had been two and a half years since he had heard or seen any of his son’s work and the farmer was reminded of it’s grandeur of its utter beauty and grace. Perhaps, knowing what John could have been and what he could have done was what saddened the father most.
John could have been great, a composure a pianist who performed in big cities surrounded by those who breathed nothing less than starlight. They would travel from their comfortable homes and villas to see a boy who had known nothing more than the smell of the air and the feel of dirt and piano keys beneath his fingers. He would have been happy Aron knew, Annie would have been happy for him.
Yet his boy was gone forever and no amount of sorrow could bring either back. Annie would have wanted them to be happy, to remember but forget her and yet they had been unable. John would want the same he imagined as would he have. Yet when half a man’s life is stolen not much is to be expected of him, let alone the capacity of joy. 
Many times Aron wondered why the sickness had not taken him instead or why that stray bullet could not have hit another man’s son. For those left behind the mystery of fate was strange and cruel. Aron would have traded his life for both of them and yet he was helpless. He could not heal Annie though he knew natural medicine, though the best doctors had come to her. He held her hand as she slipped further and further from him, until she became no longer Annie. He would have taken his son’s bullet one thousand times yet he had sat comfortable at home unaware that the last flickering light of hope in his life had been snuffed out.
He didn’t understand why death had taken two and left one alone, left the one that wanted to protect most that could not bear the silence of an empty house. Perhaps God wanted something more from him Aron reasoned. Yet he could not imagine what.
“The world is missing a great pianist old girl,” he said standing to his feet and shutting the piano’s lid. “But were not done yet,”
~
The sack had once been filled with rice, once with potatoes. Now it housed two cans of beans, a thick woolen sweater and a whittling stick and knife. Carsten had overstayed his welcome and now it was time to move on he reasoned. He did not hold a bitter bone of resentment toward the kindly farmer who was the closest thing to a friend Carsten had. Yet it was not fair to him. Aron was not only endangered by Carston’s presence but as the previous night’s encounter had indicated bothered by it as well.
Though Carsten had no plan and no refuge except the frozen winter that lay beyond, he yearned to be just. In a life of injustice perhaps he could selflessly put another soul first at least once. Though Carsten knew that no matter how good he ever became the weight of his wrongs was and would always be heavier still. Perhaps his punishment he reasoned was simply to groan under the unbearable burden.
Glancing through the curtains in his room Carsten saw that the sun was not yet in the sky. It could not be later than 4:00 in the morning he knew. The landscape seemed to curl into itself as if the leafless trees and crooked fence post themselves braved against the frozen foe. The farmer’s door was shut. Perhaps he would leave him a letter explaining. He did not wish Aron to experience any guilt on account of him.
He set the sack up against the door and rummaged about in a kitchen drawer for pen and paper but found that he could not locate either.
“The pens are in the other drawer,” a voice said from the darkness. Carsten swiveled about startled. He had not noticed the shadowy form sitting at the kitchen table. He turned on the light.
“What... What are you...?”
“I had a feeling you might try to be good,” the farmer said smirking a bit at the boy’s surprise. Carsten tried to speak, to defend himself but Aron interrupted. “You will be caught in town. You will freeze in the wilderness. There is nowhere for you to go. Your goodness boy is stupidity.”
“But you don’t want...” the farmer interrupted once more.
“My son played the piano. He wrote those songs. He is gone now and you reminded me of him and I did not want to remember.”
“I’m sorry,” Carsten said ashamed for not understanding the man sooner.
“Don’t be I must learn to remember,” Aron said – “Just as you must learn to forget.” 

The signs had been in the streets printed in bold on every paper in Poland or so Carsten had heard. He had stayed hidden for three months after the initial headlines proclaimed peace. Now a man of 26 with no occupation or trace of honor stapled to his name Carsten had nothing and yet he was glad of it. To become someone other than Carsten Schröder was his new ambition and so with a weighted heart but rested legs he had bid the farmer farewell. Aron had become over the year and  a half in which Carsten was hidden something in the likeness of a father and a friend and the boy felt in part guilty for leaving him alone.
“Get those piano pieces published,” he had told the farmer on his last day. Carsten meant it. In time Aron had requested that Carsten play all of the yellowed pieces once more. Only then did Carsten realize how gifted the man’s son had truly been. He believed Aron when he said that he could have been more than a farmer one day. Perhaps the individual shards of the boy’s soul could still live on in the great halls that a farmer and his wife once imagined.
As for the former SS guard he knew that consequences lingered above his head, just consequences. The thought had crossed his mind many a time. Perhaps the most upright option was to hand himself over, to confess the atrocities of his actions. Yet there were still those who needed him in the charred and crumbled ashes of a world that he himself had set on fire. He had a mother and father and sister perhaps all still alive, who would need someone to support and care for them. Carsten could not abandon them for he had always been the son of his father and tailors mend.
Past family Carsten saw only a simple life, one perhaps very lonely and removed and rightly so. He was sure of one thing however; that no matter how long or short he lived he would care for those who were broken in any way possible. He would try to prevent the devastation that befell so many from ever taking root again and he would become weak so that others could be strong. Carsten knew not where he would go or how he would accomplish these things yet they were an immense comfort, a promise from him to those that he had wronged.
~
Walking the polish streets before the eyes of a civilian audience was odd to Ariella. For four years she had hidden her face as if it was disease ridden. The world felt much younger now or perhaps it was she that felt old.
The doctor and his wife had been kindly people. They had grown and nurtured both Ariella’s body and spirit, slowly removing the fatigue and despair. Cars that backfired, thunder and various circumstances still sent her into episodes of panic from time to time. Yet because of the kind couple and their child Ariella regained a sense of humanity or at least a belief in the potential of human goodness.
The store bell jingled as Ariella entered the shop disrupting her thoughts.
“Good morning Arie,” said the sales clerk.
“Morning Meg,” Ariella replied.
Soon after the war ended the shops reopened and several new positions needed filling. Once the Spiewak’s judged society stable, Ariella applied for a job at the local tailor shop. She planned to raise enough money to go to her home town. To go to a home that she knew would be empty, a town ravaged and torn.
At night there was little else to think about then them, the woman who had held her little hand as she crossed those cobblestone streets so many years ago and the man who dared to love.  She never said goodbye, never had the chance. Yet somehow she knew that goodbye was only a word, that the solace she wanted could never be found. She would see them again. She knew this much.
The machine clacked along as Ariella weaved a particularly colorful blouse through the rigging. She watched as the needle drew the torn fabric together once more, leaving only a small indication that it had ever been torn. Perhaps it would be the same for her Ariella reasoned. One day she would look upon her scares and realize that they had never truly torn her. That day was far away.
The bell jingled once more and a man walked in. The sun obscured his face and Ariella squinted to define his features.
“I heard there was an opening here,” he said in a heavy accent. Ariella heard little of what Meg told the man for she knew his voice. She set down the blouse and watched as Carsten explained his experience with cloth.
She had wanted to leave it all behind and for a moment she felt pursued as if by the horrors of the past. This man was woven into the pain, into the tears and misery and yet perhaps it did not have to be so.
“I’ll have one of the other employees show you how to work one of the machines, it’s quite easy really,” Meg said motioning Carsten over to where Ariella stood. Upon recognizing her, he paused eyes swelling with emotion.
“Do you know each other,” Meg asked confused by the tension that had suddenly filled the room.
“No,” Ariella said after a moment. Carston’s eyes dropped to the floor. “But I used to know someone who looked like him,” Ariella continued.
The room was still. “Well,” Meg said –“You can show him how to work a sewing machine if you don’t mind.” Ariella nodded and the sales clerk returned to the front counter still a bit taken aback by the odd encounter.
Ariella picked up the piece of fabric again and straightened the wrinkled corners.
“What happened to the man that used to look like me,” Carsten asked picking up another torn shirt from a rack and examining the seams.
“I think he died in the war,” Ariella said. Carsten stopped and set the shirt down.
“Ariella I’m sorry. This was an accident seeing you here,” he took a step away back towards the front counter. “I’ll leave it’s...”
Many times Ariella had wondered what it would have been like if she had met him in such a situation. Perhaps it was an accident that this man, this man who turned against all that he was seemingly born for, stood before her once more. Perhaps it was a coincidence that they both still lived and had chosen the same quaint little shop. Yet Ariella did not believe in accidents nor in coincidences.
“My name is Arie,” she said interrupting him. He stared at her for a long moment.
“Carsten,” he said. She smiled at him drawing the tension away and replacing it with something altogether different.
“Do you know how to work a sewing machine?” 

The countryside flew by in brilliant purples and greens. There was a light rain that drizzled down refreshing the earth and spotting the windows with dew like droplets. The red headed woman watched as the droplets made their way to the corner of the window and then leapt off into the wind to join their brothers.
She no longer wore her hair in braids as when a child but in a single bun that sat directly atop her head. A year after the war her brother had returned and found there to be no one in the small German town in which they had grown. A neighbor pointed him to a Bavarian town where the family still well, as much as the man knew now resided. Her brother had written and in time come.
He was different in more ways than one yet he was the same brother and son who had left them. She reasoned that perhaps he was better. He had marveled at her.
“Oh Clarice how you have grown!” he had said lifting the nineteen year old in the air. “Your hair! What have you done with you carrots? It’s only a tomato now.” He said flicking at the bun. There had been laughter in the Schröder house that night as the family rejoiced. For the war had come like a tempest and still four trees though weathered still stood.
A week later however Clarice noticed her brother to be restless. She saw him often from her second story bedroom window walking late at night. Clarice reasoned that it was the war that troubled him, with all that he had seen and no doubt done. Yet in time she understood it to be more than memories.
It was as if Carsten yearned to be somewhere else and after a month he bid his family farewell with the thin explanation that he must see to another matter. Their mother had worried of course as was her custom. Their father had simply told her to let the boy forge his own path. Though, Clarice who had learned her parents knew that he too thought about his absent prodigal son.
The train halted, its whistle sounding into the cool air. Why her brother had decided to settle in the Polish town of Brody was beyond Clarice. She stepped off the platform and down onto the cobble stone. The train chugged away and Clarice waited upon a bench for her brother who according to the station clock was already five minutes late.
“Never change do you Carsten.” She whispered under her breath “Never change.”
It had been a full year since her brother last contacted them and since he had moved to Poland and opened a tailor’s shop of his own. Her father had thought it unusual that his son had not simply taken over the family shop. Clarice would have to agree though oddity was not beyond her brother.

“Clarice,” Carsten said shaking his sister shoulder. Clarice had not noticed her brother approach and was as usual absorbed in her own wonderings.
“Do you know that your fifteen minutes late. Fifteen whole minutes Carsten Schröder I should have just gotten on another train and just…,” Clarice stopped midsentence. “Carsten at least have the decency to tell me to stop yelling at you in front of your wife. She might want to change her mind now.” Clarice motioned to the small dark haired woman beside him. Her eyes sparked in amusement at the two.
“How are you Arie,” Clarice asked smiling warmly.