Das Ist Kein Tagebuch.Mature

This is the follow up, or is actually the completed story of this is Not A Diary. There are a few differences, but it runs along the same lines. Enjoy !

How ironic it was that hell was so cold. Here, before the snow, the ground had been awash in frigid corpses. He thought this as he watched his polished black boots crunch on the icy ground as he walked between the barracks. It irritated him that his sleeping quarters were the furthest away from the wooden huts where he carried out his duties. He walked across the almost empty grounds in a hurried fashion, waiting to escape inside from the bitter morning cold.

He stared up at the sky as a grey dawn approached. It was early morning yet and he wondered if the dark purple clouds that bruised the sky meant storms or snow. Regardless, he would be inside soon and the feeling would return to the extremities of his body.

As he walked past the crematorium, a truck rumbled past. He turned his face upwards to see the towering brick chimneys. Their tops were now quiet, but they had been blackened by the tonnes of ash that had poured out of them. They seemed to stretch forever as they blended seamlessly with the dark sky.

The truck that had just passed him was carrying hundreds of suitcases, trunks, coats and had the occasional shoe jutting out. He didn’t know where they were going, but before he had a chance to think too deeply on the matter, a light, but solid thud caught his attention. He turned around in surprise and quickly noticed that a pair of shoes had fallen from the back of the truck. Brown leather shoes, with the laces tied together. He couldn’t help but feel a niggling obligation to pick them up. He had a scrupulous nature. The worst that could happen was that he wouldn’t be able to return them to the truck. He turned back around and started to trudge through the cold, shoes in hand.

This break in his daily routine served to remind him how disgusting this place was. He stared around at the almost empty grounds, resonant with desolation. To assure him his distaste was quite appropriate, a dismantled sign lying in the snow caught his attention;

“RAVENSBRUCKVERABEITUNG,RAVENSBRUCK PROCESSING”, it read.

Rather than picking it up, he kicked it and watched it skid along the slick icy ground. The camp was quieter than usual this morning, but he put that down to how early it was. 

He reached Block A, where his ‘office’ sat. Although the room was barely a few degrees warmer than outside, as he walked in, it felt decisively warmer to him. He dropped his scarf, gloves and the pair of shoes to the ground. 

The End

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