Das Ende Der Straße

By Ajay Muralidharan

We’re getting a new shipment of prisoners today.

And seeing as how no one else would deign to debrief them,

It fell to me. As usual.

It’s a sunny day in Mauthausen,

At least it would’ve been,

If the granite quarries nearby didn’t kick up a fine layer of smog,

That persisted in the air like a grim miasma,

Betraying the farce behind each garden,

Each Fountain and Topiary.

I check my watch.

The trains arrive in 3 hours.

Perfect.

Plenty of time to get ready,

As I enter the Commandant’s Office,

Searching for the ebony uniform,

That smelt the least like chemical waste,

As I slip into the suit,

My fingers catch on a fabric tag, on which,

Printed in bold lettering,

HB

Never one for subtlety, eh Hugo?

I spend a little more time admiring my epaulettes,

Watching my reflection swirl across the small silver insignia,

Of a skull-and-crossbones.

Before finally slipping on the armband with the hooked cross,

Gently onto my sleeve.

I stride out from the office. Head held high.

My presence immediate quarry for a bevy of my colleagues,

“Herr Franz! Herr Franz!” They call me,

As we exchange debriefs from higher orders of government,

On our way to the station.

***

And soon, they pile out.

A mangy bunch of dishevelled, emaciated families and orphans.

Most clutching their hands together in prayer,

Or to hold on to whatever,

Whoever they had left in this world.

I search for the able-bodied men,

Capable of hard labour in the Quarries,

Their wives protest. Vehemently.

Their peals resounding; begging for reprieve,

For them to join their husbands,

Or serve in their steads.

I’ve always wondered how they’d react,

If they ever knew of the fate that befell them instead.

The men shuffle away, heads hanging in resigned defeat,

As the women cry in anguished sobs,

The familiar faces of bereavement.

The children, wide-eyed. Confused.

Empathetic, even.

In the crowd, I spot one such cherub who meets my eyes.

A toddler. Barely all of 3 years old at most.

With flaxen hair and rosy cheeks. A perfect visage.

What a pity.

I cordon off the requisite areas,

Explaining to the remainder of the crowd,

That their days here would be filled,

With duty to the state of Austria,

Careful to give them the impression,

That subservience was their only choice.

They eye me with curiosity.

Expecting the worst, the faintest glimmer of hope,

Now washes through them like a wave.

I have them discard all their valuables,

Their clothes and shoes and family trinkets,

With promises that they’d return to their hands when they were inspected.

The crowd, believing they had a choice in the matter, simply comply.

I check my watch.

4:30.

Daylight’s burning. It’s time.

The crowd shuffles inwards,

The older men in the crowd smell the truth,

And meet my eyes in silent pleas for mercy.

I wonder what they saw in them.

Maybe Guilt? Maybe….Envy?

One by one they march through the doors.

Some even call me by name.

“Bye Mr. Franz! Auf Wiedersehen!”

“Danke Schön!”

The kids must think I’m some sort of hero.

How ironic.

As the last ones march in, the veil begins to fall,

And once the doors are shut, the clamour begins,

I march around to the control room.

Lean over a baluster,

Trying to rein in the headache splitting my temples,

As the smoke cleared,

I stood up,

And nodded to another member of the Schutzstaffel,

Who flips the breaker,

The control room fills with mechanical whirrs and hisses,

As nearby, the screams of betrayal and agony begin,

I stand closer to the machinery,

Hoping that their droning would drown out the shrieks,

One more time.

By Ajay Muralidharan