Christmas at Auschwitz

Ever wondered hat it would be like to track through the snow, walking next to a metal barbed wire fence which held millions of souls between its harsh grip? The SS know, they lived it. Guns on their belts, whips in their hands, Caps on their heads. They were told to do this by their leader. Will they do it?


1. Christmas Greetings - You Jew

Three weeks, three weeks I've been here in this cold dog-eared place, and I'm loving it. My new life as a soldier really defines who I am, What I love! What is my duty under the reign of Adolf Hitler. Our leader, Our commander, Our God.

I walked around the barbed wire fence, encasing the camp in its cold, harsh metal hand. Small snowflakes drifted from the sky above as my well booted feet made footprints in the thin layer of snow beneath them. You could smell the joy of the people in the air... The non Jewish people that is. Christmas was upon us. Taking off my Nazi cap I smoothed back my dark, blonde hair. I needed to be able to see past my fringe of hair. I was on killing duty that morning. My bright blue eyes reflected in the cold steel of the door into the camp. The door that kept millions inside, enclosed, captured. Never letting them be free. The commandant passed by me and as he did so I raised my hand to hail our almighty, out savour, our wonder. Adolf Hitler. After I had chanted my hail for Hitler I passed through the gates. Into an entirely different world.

My mind flashed back, seeing all those people lost, thrown out, unwanted. It was like when I confessed my love of Hitler, my love of Germany....To my Swiss parents. I can still remember the screaming matches. The shouting, the throwing of my mothers blessed china. The bangs, the rustling of me going through my clothes to collect what I would need. To collect my clothes, food, everything. To be able to show Germany my love for their country. That was three weeks ago. 21 days. But I'm fine now. Really I am.

I shivered in my long coat, as I held my gun close to my chest. I had killed fifteen people before coming here. Men, women, children, infants. Every living being. I even shot a small,week old baby in the head when I was part of the travelling firing squad.The humiliation those people must have felt. Standing, naked by the ditch for five minutes before we fired. The men that surrounded everything, everyone, everywhere to see them murdered. At least I wasn't standing up there.

The snow was heavier now, as I blew the cold air out of my nose, the colour was gone in an instant into the blizzard of snow. Poor Jews. Oh well, see if I care

As my feet touched the ground, the snow beneath them crunched. The sound that reminded me of my childhood, all those years ago. But my footprints were not the only ones I could hear. Smaller steps, children's steps, were being made not far from where I was stood. So I ran, I ran towards the sound of this tiny footsteps gun in hand. Ready to kill this rat, this Jew.

I found a boy of only eight or nine sitting in the snow, shivering but feasting. Feasting well on our meats, our cheeses, our bread. As I advanced towards him his head shot up like a startled dog.

"What do you think you are doing!?" I shouted at him, as tears ran down his face.

"Answer me boy!" I hissed, cursing at the end.

"Fine then don't answer me" I whispered, just audible.

My hand made its way to the collar of this young boys shirt and gripped it tight. My knuckled going white from the effort and the cold.

"Absolutely fine by me" I spat in his face, his dear Jewish face.

Throwing him to the ground i drew out my gun. Holding the boy between the rubber sole of my boot and the cold, icy ground, I aimed for his shaven head. His big brown eyes stared back at me, but I didn't care.

My finger on the trigger, I pulled it. The sound of the gunshot echoed around the camp. I took my shoe off of his now limp body and watched as his dark blood stained the pure white snow beneath him, with a smirk on my face. Robin Kunst, a murderer.

"Merry Christmas you Jew" I spat at his lifeless body as I walked away.

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