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Authors: Daniel Kalla
Tags: General Fiction
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The terrible silence was broken only by a soft snicker from one of the guards near the door. Schmidt’s face reddened. He circled the desk in three long paces and lunged at the woman. She leaned back and raised her hands to protect herself, but Schmidt punched her full force in the belly. The woman groaned as she clasped her abdomen. He punched her in the face. She gasped and buckled over. Struck again, she crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled around her head and her howls of protest died away, but Schmidt continued to kick her.
Franz could not stomach another second of the brutality. Unable to stop himself, he stepped out of the line. “Hauptscharführer Schmidt!”
Schmidt’s head snapped up. His blazing eyes scanned the room before locking onto Franz.
Another taut silence seized the atrium. No one else in the line dared so much as to breathe.
Schmidt jumped over Frau Kaufman’s prone body and stormed over toFranz. He stopped a foot away and stood nose to nose as sweat dripped off his brow.
“How dare you interrupt me, Jew?”
he panted.
Franz stared at the floor, desperate for the right words. “My deepest apologies, Hauptscharführer. It is only that Obersturmführer Eichmann asked me to return with papers. It is already late. I’m worried that I might miss my opportunity to see him today.”
“That is what you’re worried about right now?
Missing ‘Lieutenant’ Eichmann?
” Schmidt scoffed, and a few of the other SS men laughed. He raised his bloody hand and cuffed Franz backhanded across the cheek. The stinging blow was hard enough to swivel Franz’s head, but he suspected that Schmidt had restrained himself. “Get back in line, you stupid Jew!”
Schmidt turned and marched back to his desk. He deliberately stepped on the fallen woman, eliciting a heavy groan from her, but he did not strike her again. Instead, he flopped back into his seat and snapped his fingers impatiently to the two nearest guards.
They hurried over and grabbed Frau Kaufman—one by her feet, the other by her hands—and slung her toward the door. On their way past, Franz saw from her pained expression that she had regained consciousness. The guards opened the door and threw her out as though tossing a sack of flour. Another guard dropped a stained towel at Schmidt’s feet and quickly swept up the pool of blood. Franz recognized the cleanup for a well-practised procedure.
Schmidt called out “Next!” as though he were only a passport office clerk processing routine applications. The petrified man at the head of the line had to be nudged forward by the person behind him.
After a cursory interrogation, Schmidt allowed the trembling man in to see Eichmann. He turned away the next two in line—a full-figured young woman and her scrawny husband—with a tirade of profanities and insults but, possibly exhausted from the effort of pummelling Frau Kaufman, he did not rise from his seat to strike either of them.
As Franz stepped forward with his head bowed low, he saw the man scurry out of Eichmann’s office. “What is it, kike?” Schmidt barked at Franz.
“Sir, I have brought proof of my departure as Obersturmführer Eichmann requested.”
Schmidt eyed him for a long moment. Finally, he stood up and turned to knock at Eichmann’s door. “Obersturmführer, the Jew Adler is back.”
Franz couldn’t make out the reply from inside, but Schmidt opened the door and grunted for him to enter the office.
Adolf Eichmann sat at his desk, looking as immaculate as before in his pressed black uniform. His short hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. Again, the lieutenant made Franz stand and wait while he filled in form after form. Franz didn’t dare glance at his watch, but he guessed that almost ten minutes passed before Eichmann put down his pen and looked up at him. “Back so soon, Adler?” he said softly.
The terrible silence was broken only by a soft snicker from one of the guards near the door. Schmidt’s face reddened. He circled the desk in three long paces and lunged at the woman. She leaned back and raised her hands to protect herself, but Schmidt punched her full force in the belly. The woman groaned as she clasped her abdomen. He punched her in the face. She gasped and buckled over. Struck again, she crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled around her head and her howls of protest died away, but Schmidt continued to kick her.
Franz could not stomach another second of the brutality. Unable to stop himself, he stepped out of the line. “Hauptscharführer Schmidt!”
Schmidt’s head snapped up. His blazing eyes scanned the room before locking onto Franz.
Another taut silence seized the atrium. No one else in the line dared so much as to breathe.
Schmidt jumped over Frau Kaufman’s prone body and stormed over toFranz. He stopped a foot away and stood nose to nose as sweat dripped off his brow.
“How dare you interrupt me, Jew?”
he panted.
Franz stared at the floor, desperate for the right words. “My deepest apologies, Hauptscharführer. It is only that Obersturmführer Eichmann asked me to return with papers. It is already late. I’m worried that I might miss my opportunity to see him today.”
“That is what you’re worried about right now?
Missing ‘Lieutenant’ Eichmann?
” Schmidt scoffed, and a few of the other SS men laughed. He raised his bloody hand and cuffed Franz backhanded across the cheek. The stinging blow was hard enough to swivel Franz’s head, but he suspected that Schmidt had restrained himself. “Get back in line, you stupid Jew!”
Schmidt turned and marched back to his desk. He deliberately stepped on the fallen woman, eliciting a heavy groan from her, but he did not strike her again. Instead, he flopped back into his seat and snapped his fingers impatiently to the two nearest guards.
They hurried over and grabbed Frau Kaufman—one by her feet, the other by her hands—and slung her toward the door. On their way past, Franz saw from her pained expression that she had regained consciousness. The guards opened the door and threw her out as though tossing a sack of flour. Another guard dropped a stained towel at Schmidt’s feet and quickly swept up the pool of blood. Franz recognized the cleanup for a well-practised procedure.
Schmidt called out “Next!” as though he were only a passport office clerk processing routine applications. The petrified man at the head of the line had to be nudged forward by the person behind him.
After a cursory interrogation, Schmidt allowed the trembling man in to see Eichmann. He turned away the next two in line—a full-figured young woman and her scrawny husband—with a tirade of profanities and insults but, possibly exhausted from the effort of pummelling Frau Kaufman, he did not rise from his seat to strike either of them.
As Franz stepped forward with his head bowed low, he saw the man scurry out of Eichmann’s office. “What is it, kike?” Schmidt barked at Franz.
“Sir, I have brought proof of my departure as Obersturmführer Eichmann requested.”
Schmidt eyed him for a long moment. Finally, he stood up and turned to knock at Eichmann’s door. “Obersturmführer, the Jew Adler is back.”
Franz couldn’t make out the reply from inside, but Schmidt opened the door and grunted for him to enter the office.
Adolf Eichmann sat at his desk, looking as immaculate as before in his pressed black uniform. His short hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. Again, the lieutenant made Franz stand and wait while he filled in form after form. Franz didn’t dare glance at his watch, but he guessed that almost ten minutes passed before Eichmann put down his pen and looked up at him. “Back so soon, Adler?” he said softly.
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