Chapter 1: Schutzstaffel

1941, two years after The Invasion of Poland

Thwack. “Damnit!” Blaine rubbed the temple of his head and glared at the wooden column above him.

“Shhhh!” his mother’s eyes fluttered towards the attic’s exit, “You need to stop doing that! She whispered harshly.

Blaine’s jaw tightened, he was utterly sick of this shit. Two years in this skimpy attic and they were still skittering around like mice avoiding their eminent extermination. Blaine let a wisp of air out before gently laying himself down on his makeshift bed. The lines of worry on his mother’s face quickly erased as she turned her attention back to sewing her husband’s grey coat. Blaine took comfort in watching his mother sew, following her strategic hand movements as she wove her needle in and out to secure a pocket back in place.

Before comfort could settle in, the attic’s latch swung open sending a resounding crack against the wooden floor. A baldhead with grey sideburns popped through before a pair of hands lay flat out in front of it, “Hoist me up son!” the man said. Blaine rushed towards his father before gripping his right hand; his father stumbled off of the ladder and noisily into the attic. Blaine shut the latch back in its proper place. Despite all the ruckus, Blaine’s mother didn’t utter a single word of disapproval, to which Blaine rolled his eyes.

Blaine’s father was a rather tall man with a frame larger than his son’s; he’d easily tower over Blaine while crouching over. He wore a pair of thick spectacles and a solemn face as far back as Blaine could remember. A common observer would guess he was in his fifties because of the wrinkles indented in his cheeks and the way his eyes drooped, but it that was not so. Blaine’s father was forty-year old man overtaken by the overwhelming responsibility that the German invasion bestowed upon him.

“I spoke to Cecylia at the market, not a single loaf of bread to spare.” Blaine’s father pulled out an empty cotton sack from his pocket and placed it on a trunk beside his wife. After planting his bottom onto a stool he leaned against the wall opposite of Blaine, staring expectantly, “Anything today?” his eyes shifted to his son’s.

Blaine tucked an arm under his head while replying in a snarky demeanor, “Traveled around the entire city of Krak�w like I do everyday father.” He didn’t bother making eye contact. His father knew Blaine barely had time to search for food with the labor he did for the greedy Polish family who hid them in an attic less than twenty feet in length.

“Oh? I did see you by the Smythe’s home earlier today. I hope you weren’t hanging out with that Sebastian kid.” His sentences became clipped.

Lifting himself up on his forearms, Blaine shook his head, “You know I don’t hang around there anymore, after they turned in the Efraims.”

“You’re lying.” His father stood from his stool.

“Why would I?” Blaine quickly scattered to his feet before his dad could loom over him. “I didn’t go anywhere today, besides the barn outside.”

“I ran into Mrs. Smythe on the road outside, she said you came to visit earlier today.” Blaine’s father shook his head as if the steam filling up his cheeks would somehow evaporate. Blaine’s mother stopped sewing and lifted her head, she knew this would be yet another conversation escalating to a dangerous level.

Blaine backed up from his father’s approaching figure, “They don’t know we’re Jewish dad.”

“Now you’re admitting it? I don’t appreciate you visiting that house and I don’t approve of your…” discomfort flashed on his face, “friendship with Sebastian.”

“Friendship? You know that’s not what it is.” Blaine scoffed, “Just say it. You don’t like what I am.”

“It’s not who you are,” Blaine’s dad spoke defiantly, “being a faggot is what little boys do to get attention. ”

After the initial shock of Blaine finally hearing his father directly referring to his sexuality it was promptly replaced with hurt. “I can’t control it.”

“Like hell you can! I’m not going to sit around and watch my own son defile his image…our family’s image, with this sick phase. This ends now!”

“It isn’t a phase father, it’s-” Blaine didn’t get a chance to complete his sentence after his dad practically tackled him to the ground and proceeded to pelt fists into his face.

Blaine’s mother rushed forward and gripped the collar on the back of her husband’s jacket, attempting to pull him off. “Alfred, don’t!” she shrieked.

“Do I have to beat it out of you!?” his father ignored his wife’s pleas, “Is this what I have to do to get you to stop!?” Blaine shoved his hands against his father’s chest successfully rolling him off.

Rising back to his feet, Blaine dusted his sleeves off. He gripped the side of his face in pain before stumbling towards the latch in the middle of the floor, “I’m leaving.” He spoke. Blaine’s father didn’t speak a single word; instead he defiantly turned his head away. Blaine’s mother however, rushed forward to grip her son’s arm, “Stay Blaine, don’t put yourself in danger.”

“It’s just for the night.” Blaine shrugged his mother’s grip off and swung the latch open before sliding down the ladder.

But it wasn’t just one night and Blaine had the distinct feeling that it wouldn’t be when two men in uniform approached him that night. Their black wool coats gave them a hearty appearance; the Schutzstaffel insignia adorned their collars, and that infamous Swastika symbol was sewn onto their armbands… yes these were indeed Nazis.

Blaine tried to appear innocent by presenting a calm demeanor as they neared the curb he was standing on. Ha... innocent. Blaine thought to himself. He was innocent.

“You. Can I see your ID?” one of the men stopped, directly talking to Blaine. His bright blue eyes and blonde hair exemplified the pure race Hitler had splashed all over as “ideal” in propaganda. Blaine berated himself for not walking somewhere less revealing, he glanced around and noticed there was not another soul to be found walking on these dim streets, besides the soldiers of course.

Blaine didn’t have an ID, Blaine was a Jewish avoiding capture, and Blaine was a homosexual. Basically Blaine was screwed. He knew he didn’t have a chance in hell talking his way out of this, but he would be a fool not to try. Blaine stepped slightly out of the light that the streetlamp nearby gave, trying to hide the swollen side of his face. He gave a charming smile to the soldier and a nod to the other man before speaking, “I’m sorry guys, I was just out for a midnight walk and completely forgot my ID. If you want to, we could walk over to my house, it’s four miles down that way.” Blaine pointed to a random direction that was completely irrelevant. He knew most people wouldn’t be up to taking a four-mile walk just to get a clarification, but knew Nazis were relentless. He didn’t think past what he would do if they did decide to take a walk.

The soldier’s facial expression turned reluctant to the point Blaine was sure he just might have a chance, until his buddy whispered something in his ear. The soldiers began to have a hushed exchange of words before the man speaking to Blaine turned back around, “We’re going to have to take you into custody.”

“Wait what?” Blaine feigned being completely surprised by this procedure, “No, no. This is just a misunderstanding, you see I’m completely Polish.” He began to push off the soldier’s grip from his arm.

“We’re not taking you in because you’re a Jew,” the soldier replied eyeing Blaine’s black hair in doubt, “we have suspicion of illegal activity.” He glanced at the bruise beginning to form on Blaine’s right cheek.

“Please, there’s no need for this! Look, we ca-we can just walk to my house and we-we’ll work it all out. You’ll see that I’m not lying.” Blaine began to sputter desperately in his own defense. The soldiers paid him no mind as they began to cuff his wrists. The cold metal seemed to ease Blaine into acceptance; he stopped talking and consciously stared at his two feet while the soldiers began to escort him.

Blaine knew the Nazis were impeccable at finding file work to prove one’s “guilt” and if they did not, they could also slap on some false charges. Then again, who even said they were taking him to a camp? Blaine had heard rumors about his Uncle Eli’s death; he was last seen being escorted into an alley back in Wroclaw with a Nazi who had his pistol drawn. Witnesses swore they heard a gunshot, but they weren’t sure with all the noise in the chaos.

Eventually, the soldiers shoved Blaine into the back of a vehicle where he was driven for a relatively short time. He was guided into some worn concrete building where a man on duty sat on a rickety metal desk with stacks of paper and file cabinets behind him.

The man’s blue eyes bore into Blaine’s as he asked the typical questions, “First and last name? Birthdate? Place of birth?”

Blaine wasn’t sure if it was better to lie to the man or tell the truth. He could either be beaten to a pulp if they somehow found out he was giving false information or he would be sent to one of those execution or concentration camps. He went with the first option, by using some ordinary Polish name, “I am Jacek Pawlak, September 8th 1922, and born in Wroclaw.”

The filing man pushed his chair back and spun to one of the many cabinets, easily finding the drawer labeled P. His fingers skimmed through the files with ease before he pulled out a wad of folders and viewed them briefly to narrow his stack down to two files. The man squinted his eyes at the two possible options before he tilted his head to view Blaine for a few seconds, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. Finally, the man stood up on his feet and walked over to the drawer clearly labeled “J�disch”. Blaine would’ve bolted the door had it not been for the Nazi breathing down his neck.

“I think we might have a Jew. He looks to be about eighteen. There are only two missing families in this area. One with a four year old, the other with a teen… he was sixteen at the time.” The filing man read the wad of papers from the cabinet, “Blaine Anderson, October 4th 1923, born right here in Krak�w.” the man looked like he just read a lottery ticket matching to a million dollar prize.

“Looks like you’re coming with me,” the Nazi gripped Blaine by the back of his neck and pushed him forward with unnecessary force, “Christ killer.” He spat.

x-x-x-x-x

Before Blaine was transported to anywhere in particular, he spent the night in a jail cell then went through a crudely unprofessional examination; he was probed while naked in the middle of a small office, it was humiliating. A doctor checked his basic vital signs and looked to be sizing him up by the bulk of his chest and forearms. Although Blaine was a bit unnourished from eating mostly bread, he was definitely in great shape; a healthy 18 year old who was not unfamiliar with tough labor.

“Bring him to Auschwitz III, Monowitz” the doctor nodded, “I’d give him four months before he’s dead; he’s in great shape.”

Blaine was stunned at how the doctor spoke in a tone suggesting this was great news. Was four months a long time to live? Blaine didn’t think so. Why four months? What were they going to do to him? Did it take that long to get executed?

Somehow, he didn’t think asking questions was going to derive any answers, so he quietly obliged when he was stuffed into yet another van for a ride a tad bit longer. It was after this ride he was introduced to one of the most infamous concentration camps, Auschwitz. He would later find out that Auschwitz III and Auschwitz II meant the difference between life and death, well... a short life anyways.

Blaine didn’t even have to be provided a tour to know that this camp was going to either be the end of his book, or the most dreadful chapter in it. Once his foot hit the gravel road down the middle of the camp, he was sure this was hell incarcerated within barbed wire fences. Despite the neat appearance of the buildings in rows; the guard towers on the outside set the tone. The guards faced inside and from Blaine’s vantage point he could see their rifles clearly.

Blaine was led to one of the few administration buildings in camp, where he was registered into the system. A man at the counter directed Blaine to lay his right arm on the counter, his palm facing up. Blaine was confused by this request, but did as he was told. Perhaps they need it to size a uniform. Blaine thought. That didn’t seem likely after the man began to rub alcohol onto his arm.

Sooner than Blaine was able to register the man sent a metal stamp straight onto Blaine’s arm. Searing pain soon followed, as the man began to rub thick black ink into the fresh cut with no care. Blaine opened his mouth to complain about the lack of warning, but stopped short after viewing what had been tattooed on him.

110910

Blaine’s face held a repulsive expression; he’d just been stamped like cattle.

“Here is your uniform, you will wear it at all times, unless told otherwise by your supervisor. You are not permitted to remove anything from the uniform or alter it in any way.” The man handed Blaine a pile of neatly folded clothes with a pair of shoes on top.

The uniform was printed with light blue jail stripes on all articles, except the shoes. A single patch adorned the front of the tunic and the side of the pants. The patches were poorly sewn Stars of David, each made out of a pink upside-down triangle overlapping a yellow one.

Once Blaine tried his uniform on, he realized with dismay it was rather large. His sleeves drooped over his wrists covering his hands and his trousers scrunched at his feet, but that was only the beginning of the change Blaine would face in the months to come.

x-x-x-x-x

Over the months in concentration camp Blaine had no choice, but to survive and adapt. Was it really his fault what that adaption asked for? Blaine learned to work hard and keep his head down, to agree with everything his superiors told him, even if that statement diminished his worth. He learned to turn his head away when he saw the executions of his fellow inmates, and if he wasn’t looking away, he hoped he was smiling in amusement. He learned to ignore the lines of innocent women and children being carted off into the “showers”, even though he knew those showers were gas chambers and their bodies would be dumped into the big gaping hole south of camp.

Blaine’s “adaption” earned him the position of Kapo. Otherwise known as supervisor of his fellow prisoners. The guards caught on to Blaine’s amazing obedience and loyalty and jeeringly gave him the rank, “Now you’re the king of shits!” one guard snickered.

Blaine got to wear a dark blue coat over his basic uniform and an armband with another Star of David, this time an empty blue outline with the word Oberkapo sewn across it. He was also given a visor cap with a yellow Jewish star sewn in the front. Blaine always got a kick out of the Germans’ tedious use of the Star of David.

Blaine embraced his position fully, as he knew his expiration date of four months could be extended with the benefits of being a Kapo. However, there was always a downside to benefits in camp. With Blaine’s position as Kapo he also took full responsibility for the group of prisoners he overlooked, that meant production in whatever they were doing and attitude. If one prisoner got out of line, not only did that prisoner get punishment, but so did Blaine. So, Blaine could only do the most logical thing and insure that would not happen. He couldn’t bribe his inferiors, he had no money or befriend them because most of they spoke different languages; Blaine beat obedience into them. Pain and fear were universal languages.

In the back of Blaine’s mind his conscious told him this was wrong, that in carrying out this position he was turning his back on not only his fellow inmates, but also what he was. Blaine was Jewish and wrongly imprisoned, but Blaine was also extremely conflicted. Over the months of near starvation, brutal beatings, the sight of countless murders, the insults, the hate Blaine developed for his father only grew. Blaine was a part of his father whether her admitted it or not.

Maybe the Germans were right; maybe people like my father and I should stay incarcerated from the rest of the world. Blaine’s contemplated. His thought process didn’t turn towards people like his loving mother or his sweet Aunt Ira; he refused to think of it. Blaine needed what his hatred gave him: strength. He needed strength to get through his suffering. He could deny it as much as he wanted, but this camp was destroying him, gnawing at the ounce of good he had left in him. He needed to get out before he was an empty shell.

The sound of a puttering engine snapped Blaine from his thoughts. He’d been sitting on a step in front of one of the camps few administration buildings. Blaine was forced to wake up earlier than other inmates to insure they were on schedule; this was nearly the exact time the sun hit the horizon. The other Kapos leaned against the side of the building having conversations among themselves. As Blaine stared at the approaching vehicle his eyes focused on the Swastika symbol in back of the front tires. The open top allowed Blaine to view the two men dressed in neat Nazi uniforms that sat up front.

Blaine rose to his feet as the car came to a slow stop not far from where Blaine was sitting. A man exited the administration building Blaine was in front of; Blaine recognized him as the camp’s main director. The driver did not exit the vehicle and drove off once the passenger closed his door after tugging himself out. Blaine craned his neck a bit, trying to get a glimpse at the man’s face, but all he could make out was the patch of silky brown hair that his cap didn’t cover. The man who stepped out seemed to be tucking something into his uniform’s front pocket before he turned around fully to the camp director.

Blaine couldn’t help his eyes from roaming after he viewed the man’s nearly porcelain-like skin and gapped for a second at his piercing blue eyes before shaking his expression off. Upon further inspection the man was obviously a high-ranking Schutzstaffel, Blaine recognized the three leaves on his collar and the cross at his neck as being predominant with important positions. The many decorations on his uniform also tipped off his value, but Blaine could not recognize what each one was for.

The camp director stood at attention until the high-ranking official settled in front of him, they both performed the classic Nazi salute before belching out, “Heil Hitler!” in union.

Both men visibly relaxed and the camp director left no time in giving his fellow Nazi a hearty slap on the back before exclaiming, “Inspektion der Konzentrationslager, checking if our room’s clean, huh? No notice again I see. You inspectors always catch us by surprise, but really it’s nice to see you again Kurt.”

Kurt. Blaine mouthed to himself as he viewed this exchange.

“Well, it wouldn’t be a fun inspection if you guys cleaned up before I arrived, now would it?” Kurt’s craning neck and busy eyes showed he was already critiquing the campgrounds. His lips turned into a frown after viewing the pealing paint on the administration compound. Suddenly Kurt’s eyes settled on the lone man standing awkwardly nearby. Kurt was about to comment on why this prisoner was released early after seeing the prison stripes on his pants, but then saw his armband marking him as a Kapo.

In response to the prisoner’s dark black hair, soft hazel eyes, and masculine chin, Kurt’s eye twitched. Kurt didn’t understand what he felt, but he was sure he didn’t approve of it. His facial expression settled to a sneer in response to the Kapo’s nod and smile. Blaine dropped his smile quickly and suddenly felt his face hot with embarrassment.

The camp director gazed in a disapproving manner at Blaine’s behavior, “Back to your compound, Jew.” then turned back to accommodating the inspector, “Come, come. Let me show you inside!” the camp director guided Kurt in, his arm around his back as if they were old buddies. Before entering the building Kurt gave Blaine’s retreating figure a slight look of empathy, he felt a gentle pang in his chest. He hoped to see that Kapo again.