Schadenfreude

“Achtung!”

Jürgen Goebel barely had time to register the voice coming from behind him before his head was forced forward onto the table. Staccato notes of pain played along the tip of his nose as it hit the wood, and he felt tears form almost instantly. The crunch of bone had been almost entirely unmistakeable — the damn thing was broken, no doubt about it. He lifted his head a few inches from the table, watching with dizzy wonder as his own blood mixed with the thin gruel that the cooks at Sachsenhausen liked to call soup. He could feel chunks of carrot and flecks of bread on his face, but he held little care for the food he had wasted. He knew what would happen next. What happened next was far worse than having a few crumbs cottoned onto his eyelashes.

A hand grabbed the collar of Jürgen’s uniform, using it to pull him from his chair. He felt a pair of rough hands shove him roughly, and almost as if on request, Jürgen let himself fall to the floor. A few months ago, he would have fought back — leapt to his feet with gusto and swing a punch at the guard’s jaw with as much malice as he could muster — but he just didn’t have the heart to fight back anymore. It was the same routine week-in-week-out. At first, they had tested the waters; a mis-placed boot here, an accidental punch there. As time had progressed, however, nobody stopped them and the attacks became both more frequent and more brazen — and they showed no sign of stopping. Nowadays, he spent more time in the medical barracks than he did in the bunk he had been assigned when he had arrived. It wouldn't be long before his body was being buried out back along with the rest of the partisans, thieves, gays and dissidents. After all, he had little use to the regime. What use would the Nazis have with a traitor? In their eyes, he was worse than the Jews that they exterminated on a daily basis.

“Filthy backstabbing bastard. You’re not even worth the beating you’re going to get.”

A boot connected with Jürgen’s ribs and for what seemed like the millionth time in a week, he found himself involuntarily calling out in agony. The sharp, metallic tang that had accompanied the breaking of his nose had migrated from his lips to behind his teeth now. Jürgen was no longer sure if the blood was coming from his nose or from the back of his throat. Spitting it up on the floor, he rolled onto his back. Everything was on fire. He could almost feel the fresh bruises blossoming across the barely-healed ones from the last group of injuries he had been subjected to. Another sharp kick sent him spinning onto his side, groaning as his arm managed to trap itself between the floorboards and his already mangled ribs.

There was no point in looking up to try and rally some help. He already knew that the other prisoners would have their eyes locked firmly on their meals. He didn’t blame them, either. Most still saw him as the enemy, as the one to fight against and as a result, he hadn’t been able to make any friends within his block. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have expected anybody else to risk their own life in order to save his, because he certainly wouldn’t. The key to survival here was to stay out of the way, to keep under the radar as much as possible. Jürgen had been singled out from the very second that he had arrived.

Another boot connected with his stomach, this one with more force. Different guards; another reason why Jürgen no longer tried to fight back. No matter how hard he tried, he would always be outnumbered and destined to lose, and loss only guaranteed a harsher punishment than the one he originally faced.

Jürgen coughed up blood, spitting it out onto the floor once again. Between being thrown from his chair and landing on the floor, he had hit his head and his vision was beginning to blur — although whether that was due to his eyes watering or losing consciousness, he didn’t know. He lifted his head a little, attempting to get a look at his attackers. Jürgen could estimate how long he would be holed up in the medical barracks for depending on the guard. Beutel was the most lenient — his beatings usually only earned him a few days. Beutel, however, was lean and small. The man standing over him was wide-set and had eyes that flashed like angry wildfire. Böhm. If Jürgen even survived, he would be incapacitated for at least a week, if not longer.

Yet another blow landed, this one aimed at his face. Fresh, sharp, stabbing pain erupted across his jaw, causing black spots to swim in Jürgen’s vision. The metallic tang had multiplied, and Jürgen knew without any doubt that his nose was no longer the only thing bleeding. This was the worst one yet — he could barely catch his breath, and his mouth was wet. Resigning himself to almost certain death, he waited for the next blow.

It never came.

“Enough!”

Jürgen’s hearing was muffled, but he could barely pick up the command. He couldn’t place the accent, but he knew for certain it wasn’t German — after all, most of the guards hated him anyway and the camp commander always turned a blind eye when it came to the abuse of prisoners. No, a German wouldn’t have tried to order the guards to stop. It wasn’t Polish either, or not at least as far as Jürgen could tell. Not that it really mattered anyway — whoever had spoken had also distracted attention from him, and he was thankful for the momentary relief. It didn’t matter that it could be at the expense of another prisoner; he was no longer centre of attention.

A dull thwack resonated throughout the mess block as something solid connected with bone. Jürgen could barely make out the shadow of a figure hitting the ground beside him. A sharp gasp came from the crumpled heap, and Jürgen could only assume it was whoever had tried to stand up for him. After all, it was virtually impossible to bring down the guards. Jürgen closed his eyes again, focusing his attention solely on sucking in agonising breaths through his teeth. His entire body ached; pain was spreading out in tiny tendrils that seemed to reach right to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire. If he had been smarter, he would probably have moved out of the way before they started up again, but all he wanted to do was lie there until the pain had finally subsided.

“Get up, Verräter.” A well-aimed kick connected with Jürgen’s stomach as the guard spat out the last word. Jürgen felt bile rise up in his throat as he struggled to catch his breath again. “You’ve got a chance to redeem yourself. You too, Niederländer, seeing as you’re so eager to help. Get up. Up!”

Every word spat from the guard’s mouth was accented with a sharp crack — no doubt the butt of his pistol rapping off of the table. Jürgen scrambled to his feet, holding a hand to his nose. As he stood, his head swam and had it not been for the hand that wrapped itself around his waist, he had no doubt that he would have gone straight back down again. Curious, Jürgen looked up into the face of a young man. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty, with a full head of dark, tight curls and a thin, wiry body. A slow river of blood was oozing steadily from a cut just above his eyebrow — likely a result of gun butt against skull. He didn’t look like a saviour. In fact, he looked almost as scared as Jürgen felt. However, his grip on Jürgen’s waist was steady, strong. Jürgen held onto him as if he were his lifeline, blinking rapidly to try and stop his vision from swimming in front of his eyes.

“Move!”

The butt of the gun that had been buried in the small of Jürgen’s back wasn’t needed to force him into movement. Hazily, he pushed one foot in front of the other. Most of his movement wasn’t of his own accord, however — the man who had probably saved his life was partially dragging him along.

“Didn’ have to do that,” Jürgen slurred under his breath. He would bet almost everything he had once owned that his saviour was new. Nobody else would have had the balls to stand up to a guard, not if they had been imprisoned for any longer than a few weeks. People knew to steer clear of trouble. “You’ve got a death sentence, y’know that?”

“You speak English.” The reply was a little surprised, but the grip on Jürgen’s waist did not loosen. “You do not sound English.”

Taking a laboured breath, Jürgen winced as the pain flared up again. The whole world seemed to be spinning and were it not for the support of the marginally taller man standing beside him, he had no doubt that he would have been getting dragged along the floor to whatever destination the guard was now leading them towards. He debated remaining silent — after all, he had more precious things to use the few breaths he could catch for other than talking to a complete stranger — but he decided after a few seconds that he couldn’t simply remain quiet. It would be rude to ignore him, especially as he was probably one of the only reasons why Jürgen wasn’t lying in a pile of rotting corpses by now.

“I spent some time in ‘merica.”

“I understand.” The man beside him chuckled as he adjusted his arm, placing more of Jürgen’s weight onto his own body. “I would offer you a hand to shake, but you might fall. My name is Luuk. Dutch. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Jürgen. German. Thank you. Would’ve probably killed me, if you hadn-”

“Sei ruhig!”

Even as the order was barked, Jürgen felt himself go into fight-or-flight mode. He half-expected the words to be accompanied by another blow, but Böhm seemed satisfied with the violence he had inflicted, at least for now. Jabbing his thumb forward, the guard continued to walk ahead at a pace that neither Jürgen nor Luuk could match.

“What?” Luuk asked under his breath as soon as Böhm had walked far enough out of earshot. “I am sorry, I do not speak German well. Only Dutch and English.”

“He’s askin’ us to be quiet.” Jürgen cracked a smile; letting a short gasp of air escape his gritted teeth as he felt the shards of bone in his nose grate together. Luuk grinned in reply, shaking his head.

“Understood. Come on. Let’s hope he takes us somewhere that you can lie down.”

Kasimir Färber was in trouble.

He wasn’t sure if it was the malnourishment of the prisoners or whether he had done something wrong, but he was in trouble, and lots of it. Out of the nine prisoners he had been given in order to develop the new vaccine, not one remained alive. Five had died of heart complications, three had simply stopped breathing and one, the last, had to be put down before he had managed to wring Kasimir’s neck.

And yet, they still had faith in him.

The Wermacht was desperate, that much was evident. They had asked Dr. Wirth if he could concoct a cocktail of drugs that would keep their men fighting longer and harder. Almost immediately, Wirth had delegated the task to his only aide, and Kasimir had taken the responsibility gladly and with grandiose promises of the miracle drug within the month.

Almost a week and a half had passed since Wirth had explained the importance of this experiment and still Kasimir was no further ahead. Yes, Kasimir was in big trouble. Trouble far larger than the hulking figure of the guard who had delivered him two fresh men.

He had requested that the guards bring him in two new subjects, and they had dutifully agreed, returning with two bloodied, drooping figures. Kasimir had tweaked the formula a little — more cocaine, less Pervitin, all in a capsule instead of an injectable formula — in a desperate attempt to complete his task. If these two managed to remain alive, he would monitor them and then just maybe try it on some others. Once it was tried and tested, he could communicate it to Wirth, who could alert the Wermacht. He would be a war hero, just like his father had hoped for.

Nodding in dismissal, Kasimir waited until the guard had closed the door before he let his jaw drop in shock. As he took in the two men he had been sent, one using the other as a way of staying upright, he couldn’t help but shake his head in horror.

“What the hell did they do to you?”