The doors opened for a second time, again after what felt like days of travelling, but this time they'd arrived at their destination. People craned their necks to see out of the doors as soon as they slid open, bustling and shoving against each other.
"Out! Everyone out!" Wolf, the officer who'd singled Peter out, yelled, hitting people with the end of his rifle when they walked too slowly, weak and tired from the journey. The hitting quickly escalated to using the other end of the gun, the shots ringing out around the area. He'd lost count of how many had died now. From the station to Dachau, it had been far too many.
Dachau. Wolf had mentioned it at the last stop, and it hadn't made any sense to him then. Dachau was just a town if he remembered correctly, and not a very big one at that. If they were taking them to prison, why not just take them to one in Berlin which would surely be bigger and more able to accommodate their large group. And for the Poles, why did they have to travel all the way to Germany to go to a small town prison?
The answer was soon made clear when he got out of the train carriage and saw what stood about 400 feet away from them. A plain looking building which seemed to be the entrance, and in the surrounding area, high, chain link fences with coils and spikes of barbed wire at the top. Inside of the fence were small, squat buildings lined up close to each other, and in one area, a few larger brick buildings with big chimneys. But the part that shocked him most was how many people he could see inside the fence, working and walking about, dressed in a striped uniform.
"W-what? What the fuck?" He mumbled as he was pushed forward into walking closer to the camp by the crowd even though that was the last place he wanted to go. He wanted to run as far away as he could from this place and never look back. He didn't want to know what it was or what it was for. He wanted to never think about it again.
But the train was already moving again, back in the way they came from, perhaps to pick up another group like them. No going back now.
They quickly arrived at the entrance with relatively few casualties from the train to the door. But Wolf was definitely feeling trigger happy and that scared him a lot. He hoped he could just stick in the middle of the crowd of Jews and stick with them through whatever hellhole this place was.
There was a pit of fear deep in his stomach, a confusion and uncertainty gnawing away at him as well. It was there in the back of his mind, but he hardly had time to feel the terror coursing through his veins. He just had to keep going as they walked through the door and into a room. It was relatively crowded but nothing compared to the train, and well lit. There were several tables laid out, and sitting at them were the prisoners in their uniforms. There were also several well armed guards pacing the room, fingers on the triggers of their guns.
"Line up!" Someone yelled, (he couldn't see who) and everyone was quick to obey, scrambling to line up single file at the first few tables, men in one, women and children on the other. He noticed the prisoners held what he was fairly sure were tattooing needles, and his theory was quickly confirmed when the first in line was told to place his arm down on the table. The prisoner looked down at a piece of paper in front of him and then began inking something onto the man's arm.
Meanwhile, a doctor who he hadn't noticed before was walking up and down the lines, grabbing people by the arm and directing them to the other side of the room. A lot of the children were sent over there, as well as the elderly and the weak. Nothing was said to them and they were clearly all too afraid to ask, so they just stood there, shaking and afraid as the rest of the group was tattooed and directed onwards. A couple of the guards also placed the girls' line as well, looking them up and down, grabbing them roughly by the chin and forcing their gaze up so they could look at their faces. A few were taken aside, but after they'd been tattooed. He noticed all were conventionally very pretty. He didn't want to think about what the guards planned to do with them.
It was almost Peter's turn to be tattooed, something that he assumed would cement his place with the Polish Jews instead of with the special fate Wolf had threatened him with. Four more people, three more people, two more. And then...
"Queer!" Someone snapped from a few feet behind him. He didn't turn around, hoping, praying they weren't talking to him. But of course they were.
Grabbed by the shoulder, spun around harshly. Face to face with Wolf now who was smirking, fun still in one hand, other gripping Peter's shoulder harshly, fingers digging in.
"I told you what was going to happen didn't I? Are you really so stupid that you've already forgotten?" He snarled. He shoved Peter out of the line with the people he considered his friends and over to a table where no one was lining up. "We want you to be with your own people." The way he said it heavily implied he didn't consider them as people at all.
The prisoner at this desk looked up, confused as to what was going on, but he organised himself quickly, taking out his equipment and sheet of paper that Peter now could see had lines of numbers on it, next to a blank space for each.
"Name?"
"Peter Printz," he answered, watching as he wrote it down. He got a closer look at the man. Striped uniform ill fitting, the sleeves and legs rolled up so they weren't too big, and it looked very worn and dirty. His hair was shaved short to his head, and he looked exhausted judging by the bags under his eyes and the lack of life in them as well.
He took his arm and shoved his sleeve up to his elbow. Not roughly, but not gently either. Just like he was used to doing this, day in day out. Peter could see his name written down next to a series of numbers on the list, and those numbers were very quickly tattooed onto the inner side of his forearm. It hurt, but he winced more out of surprise than pain as he hadn't been paying attention. There was too much going on and he was far too tired to be fully aware of what was happening.
When it was done, Wolf accompanied him through, keeping a close eye on him. Peter expected them to wait just like everyone else was, but they walked straight out and into part of the main area he'd seen from outside.
Wolf took a few steps back, clearly enjoying how confused Peter looked.
"Usually there'd be a group of you when we do this, but we weren't really rounding up queers that night when they got you, so you get the solo treatment. Strip."
"What?" Peter whispered, voice catching in his throat. He coughed and repeated the word, still sounding shocked and confused.
"Clothes off. Now."
"Why?" Peter asked slowly, knowing he was risking a lot by not just going along with why Wolf told him to do.
"Because it's procedure," he snapped back. "Don't get it in your head that it's for any other reason, you fucking faggot. Now take them off."
Peter gulped and bent down to untie his laces, quickly removing his shoes and socks, followed by his shirt, and then his trousers so he was just standing there in his underwear.
Wolf sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said everything, you idiot."
Peter glared at him and then removed them as well so he was standing there, completely naked, arms wrapped around himself, shivering in the November chill.
"Now what?" He muttered through gritted teeth.
"Stop talking back or I will just shoot you," Wolf said, walking closer to him. "Give me a minute," he said, and Peter realised he'd been walking for the door behind them, and not towards him.
He looked down at the ground beneath his bare feet, mud frozen by the cold. As much as he hated Wolf already, he just wanted him to come back with something for him to wear because he was fucking freezing out here with nothing to wear or do.
Wolf returned quickly, thankfully with a set of the striped uniform under his arm, and a pair of scissors in his hand. He placed the clothes on the ground and stepped towards Peter.
"On your knees."
Peter frowned and just stared at him. This was a very strange situation and had he been at home, the situation of being naked and told to get on his knees, just him and another man, would be one he'd enjoy being in. But here, he was just confused and scared. He got down on his knees and felt Wolf grab a chunk of his hair. Why oh why was his face now in line with his crotch? He closed his eyes and just looked down at the ground, red spreading across his cheeks.
When he opened his eyes again, he could see blond strands of hair falling down onto the hard ground. His hair, which had been thick and falling in soft waves around his face, now cut messily as close to his head as possible. He ran his hand over it, thinking about Eli's hands running through his hair, his pretty, innocent face buried deep in his locks while they were in bed together, limbs tangled like tree roots. Just out the shower, towel around his waist and hair wet, crawling up to Eli and shaking like a dog so he sprayed droplets of water everywhere.
He looked up, biting his lip to try distract himself from the fond memories he couldn't stop thinking about. Wolf was gone, and in his place was a man who looked like he was in his mid thirties, a prisoner, holding a small folded pile of stripes. He handed them over to Peter without saying anything,
Peter quickly put them on, just finishing as the Polish Jews exited the building he'd come from earlier. The group that had been tattooed were lined up against the wall and told to strip, just like he was, but the other group that had been taken aside walked past this stage and towards a set of buildings across the courtyard.
"Where are they going?" Peter asked as he buttoned up his shirt that felt rough and scratchy against his arms and torso. He glanced over and saw Aleksey standing against the wall, watching the line getting steadily further away from them. The child, the one who'd been the first thing he saw when he woke up at the train station, looked back at the group as she was led away, eyes puffy and red from crying, screaming her head off.
The man remained silent so Peter tapped on his shoulder angrily.
"Tell me where they're going," he demanded, pointing to his friends. "What's happening here?"
He stayed silent and started walking to a different groups of squat buildings standing alone. There was only about 5 of them, compared to the biggest block which had at least four times that, and seemed to still be in construction.
Peter looked down at his new uniform, noticing the pink triangle sewn onto the shirt, in the same place Eli wore his star.
"What's this?"
He expected just silence in response but for the first time, the man spoke.
"It means you're really not going to last here unless you learn to shut your god damn mouth. It means they know what your crime is and you're one of the worst here. It means you take any opportunity you're offered for a safer ride through here.
"But really," he continued, "it means, just like the other boys, you probably won't make it more than a month in here."
An:
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