The Shades of Hate

  It was the middle of a harsh winter, especially harsh for northern Poland. It was a blizzard. But even a blizzard couldn't hide the darkness approaching the entrance of the camp. The black Volkswagen slowed only to allow the frozen gates before it to be opened, which were closed immediately after it entered. From the front passenger side, out stepped a man of an unmistakable height. The cold barely stung his face, though he was heavily covered. The iron eagle badge on his cap shone in the frozen sunlight of that cold morning. The men and women looked on from the barracks, the mere presence of this man did something that the cold had stopped doing to them. He made them shiver.

  There were murmurs in the barracks. Ones of despair and fear. "He's here to kill us," one voice managed to choke out in strained Hebrew. The man's gaze slowly passed by the window, causing his fearful audience to pull away from it. The man thanked the gentlemen who opened the gate and strode to the office he would soon inhabit.
 
  The office was warm. The man removed his heavy coat and hat, putting them on the rack beside the door. Behind the desk stood two identical flags in either corner of the room. The desk had already been stocked for him by his predecessor. He wiped his snow caked boots on the mat, closed the door, and walked to his desk, sitting down. His medals jingled the song of death he's left in his wake with every move he made. His blonde hair was cut short and combed back in typical style of his rank. His skin as pale as the snow he just escaped. His eyes were as blue and cold as his heart, which could make the roaring blizzard just beyond the walls look like a warm summer day. Wrinkles dared to carve his face. He was, in a sense, a true Aryan. His height let him tower above his colleagues, standing tall at a six foot and seven inches. Possibly the most chilling part of his dress was not of his swastika arm patch, or even his pistol holster across his shoulder, but the double lightning bolts pinned to his collar.

  The man switched on the radio resting on his desk and switched a couple stations. He smirked and settled on the station he normally listened to. News of the war. The fatherland was relentless in its attacks. This report was that of a particularly successful blitzkrieg.
A young dark haired man in similar dress to the reaper who had just arrived was late to his meeting with the new camp commandant. He stopped in front of the door, allowing his fear to get the better of him. He had heard the stories. The man in the room that lay before him, this... monster, he did not know fear. But he knew how to instill it. The young man, he couldn't have been more than twenty six, knocked on the door. "Enter," came a gruff German voice from the beast's lair. The young man swallowed as much fear as he could, turned the handle of the door, and entered.

 The young man entered and the two greeted each other with a typical salute to the fuhrer. The newly arrived commandant switched off the radio he was listening to and motioned to a seat in front of his desk. “Sit,” the man said, “you're late.” The young man gulped and pulled up the seat and sat down. He dropped his gaze from the adornment of medals on the commandant's chest to a clipboard on his quivering hands.

  “Are you aware of your daily schedule of duties here?” he managed to choke out.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I… didn't catch your name.”

  “Ludwig. That's all you need to know.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Have you anything else to say?”

  “Roll call begins in fifteen minutes.”

  Ludwig nodded and waved his hand in dismissal. The young officer stood and quickly walked out, much too eager to leave the room.

 Fifteen minutes came and went. Ludwig was on his way out of his office, returning his heavy overcoat and cap to the places they rested upon his arrival. He waded out into the ocean-like snow, which had stopped falling. Still piled to almost the top of his boots, Ludwig was ready to get this mundane act over with. The young man who had greeted him in his office had already started reading off the names of the prisoners, who avoided even looking at Ludwig. He looked down the lines of the men, women, and children. Disgusting, he thought, absolutely disgusting.