Muselmann
annahmen
Here – where the sky has been abandoned by birds, where smoke makes men weep, where numbers on wrists are the square root of one’s identity – death is a blessing. Here, death is glorious relief. When a man lives for nothing, he dies for nothing, and nothingness is peace.
There are lives that end in the moments between dreams and lucidity; lives that wait until sunset to dwindle and die. He, the corpse, is one of thousands, one of millions, but he is saved from fear and pain and hatred because his eyes do not close upon a hundred naked bodies screaming for air; they do not last see a huddle of terrified creatures waiting to be shot into a ditch. He sees humdrum. He sees seconds pass by, unhindered by terror. He sees calm and quiet and routine, and his eyes slip closed on a moment of tranquillity amongst the brutality of circumstance and revenge.
His name could have been Hans. It could have been Jakob or Klaus or Max. He could have been an accountant, a teacher, a lawyer, an artisan; he could have been rich or poor, traveller or Witness; he could have loved a man or simply hated the Führer.
Whatever, whoever, he was, he was the victim of a sadness that surpassed pity. He was the side effect, the emaciated, sickened side effect of vehement hatred and opportune prejudice in a society that preached crystal warfare and hid behind nationalism and pride and racial purity because it was afraid of the dark.
He could have grown up playing Fuβball in the street, scuffing his knees on the gravel, laughing until his throat was hoarse. He could have chased and raced and tasted soup and bread after a long, tireless day of being young. He could have had friends who he loved like siblings, and parents who doted and fawned.
He could have been solitary and quiet, a boy who read books until his head ached, who listened to the sounds of children on the street and wished they’d just be quiet for five minutes. He could have begged his mother to read just one more chapter before she turned out the light.
He could have lost his father to the trenches, the trenches that ate men feet-first. He could have happened upon his mother in the kitchen with her head encapsulated in her hands, jailed in cold fingers, with an open letter staining the wood of the table just by being there, just by being real.
He could have been vicious. He could have been irredeemably cold, the product of abuse and neglect from a young and impressionable age. He could have lost love and failed to find it again, like the key to a box that loses its worth once it has been forever locked.
He could have fought with his fists or fought with his words. He could have lived for himself or for the life of a lover. He could have been happy or sad, loud or quiet, charitable or cruel. But there is one fact amidst the murk and mire of possibility and hypothesis: he lived. He was a man with a life, a precious life that he held in his arms and his legs and his smile, and his eyes that saw the cloudless sky and the machinations of war in the same inexpressible view.
He had a life. He was a life. No matter his faults, no matter his fears.
He was alive, once.
The life is spent. The corpse is still. A boot, caked with mud and dust, kicks its shoulder.
“Tot,” says a soldier to his friend. “Dead.”
They share laughter and a cigarette.
“Muselmann,” the soldier’s friend declares. They put the corpse on the wheelbarrow and take the wheelbarrow to the furnace, and the corpse burns. And the smoke lifts from the chimney and it scatters the birds, and men see it and cry, and numbers on wrists never fade.
There are lives that end in the moments between dreams and lucidity; lives that wait until sunset to dwindle and die. He, the corpse, is one of thousands, one of millions, but he is saved from fear and pain and hatred because his eyes do not close upon a hundred naked bodies screaming for air; they do not last see a huddle of terrified creatures waiting to be shot into a ditch. He sees humdrum. He sees seconds pass by, unhindered by terror. He sees calm and quiet and routine, and his eyes slip closed on a moment of tranquillity amongst the brutality of circumstance and revenge.
His name could have been Hans. It could have been Jakob or Klaus or Max. He could have been an accountant, a teacher, a lawyer, an artisan; he could have been rich or poor, traveller or Witness; he could have loved a man or simply hated the Führer.
Whatever, whoever, he was, he was the victim of a sadness that surpassed pity. He was the side effect, the emaciated, sickened side effect of vehement hatred and opportune prejudice in a society that preached crystal warfare and hid behind nationalism and pride and racial purity because it was afraid of the dark.
He could have grown up playing Fuβball in the street, scuffing his knees on the gravel, laughing until his throat was hoarse. He could have chased and raced and tasted soup and bread after a long, tireless day of being young. He could have had friends who he loved like siblings, and parents who doted and fawned.
He could have been solitary and quiet, a boy who read books until his head ached, who listened to the sounds of children on the street and wished they’d just be quiet for five minutes. He could have begged his mother to read just one more chapter before she turned out the light.
He could have lost his father to the trenches, the trenches that ate men feet-first. He could have happened upon his mother in the kitchen with her head encapsulated in her hands, jailed in cold fingers, with an open letter staining the wood of the table just by being there, just by being real.
He could have been vicious. He could have been irredeemably cold, the product of abuse and neglect from a young and impressionable age. He could have lost love and failed to find it again, like the key to a box that loses its worth once it has been forever locked.
He could have fought with his fists or fought with his words. He could have lived for himself or for the life of a lover. He could have been happy or sad, loud or quiet, charitable or cruel. But there is one fact amidst the murk and mire of possibility and hypothesis: he lived. He was a man with a life, a precious life that he held in his arms and his legs and his smile, and his eyes that saw the cloudless sky and the machinations of war in the same inexpressible view.
He had a life. He was a life. No matter his faults, no matter his fears.
He was alive, once.
The life is spent. The corpse is still. A boot, caked with mud and dust, kicks its shoulder.
“Tot,” says a soldier to his friend. “Dead.”
They share laughter and a cigarette.
“Muselmann,” the soldier’s friend declares. They put the corpse on the wheelbarrow and take the wheelbarrow to the furnace, and the corpse burns. And the smoke lifts from the chimney and it scatters the birds, and men see it and cry, and numbers on wrists never fade.
♠ ♠ ♠
Muselmann (pl. Muselmänner, from the German, meaning Muslim; in Polish Muzułman) was a derogatory term used among captives of Nazi concentration camps to refer to those suffering from a combination of starvation and exhaustion and who were resigned to their impending death. Some scholars argue that the term possibly comes from the Muselmann's inability to stand for any time due to the loss of leg muscle, thus spending much of the time in a prone position, recalling the position of the Mussulman (Muslim) during prayers. (Source)Annahme (feminine noun, pl. Annahmen): assumption.
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