Schadenfreude

“Chodź tutaj, Marek. Szybki!”

Marek looked up from his work — a worn-down piece of metal, doubtlessly being repurposed for use on the planes the Germans were throwing throughout Europe at an alarming rate — and into a set of piercing blue eyes. Blinking rapidly, Marek tried to remember the name of the pretty girl currently beckoning him over to her bench. Marek had never been very good with names. He could draw the face of anybody he had met from memory, right down to every last wrinkle and stray hair, but he struggled to remember the name connected to the face. Her face was more familiar than most, too — she reminded him of summers back home and the smell of freshly-baked bread, and the way in which her voice used to ring through the streets was as natural as the sun in the sky.

“Marek! Stop messing around!”

Ewa, of course. Ewa Kijek. She had been from the same town as him, before they had been moved. She was the baker’s daughter; a pretty young thing with a temper that caused her to fly violently off the handle on more than one occasion. Marek had been given very little attention to her before the war had begun but here, she was the only connection he had to life as he had once known it.

He placed his chunk of metal carefully on the table in front of him, looking uneasily around to see if anybody had saw. If they saw anybody talking it would mean punishment, and punishment usually involved being forced into a fight with an overly-bulky Nazi officer who seemed to never tire of throwing punches.

“What, Ewa? You know we’ll be punished if they see us talking.”

Ewa grinned widely, patting the spare piece of bench beside her. Marek shook his head violently, nodding backward at the two guards. They never put a lot of guards in the workshops with them — Marek had always assumed it was simply because they didn’t see the Poles as a threat. And why should they — they had ravaged the country quickly and easily enough to know that nobody was ready for a fight against an army of such magnitude. The prisoners here were no different.

Sighing in exasperation, Ewa shook her head. Her voice was still a low whisper.

“We have a plan to get back at them. It’s good, you see? Come help us break out of this shithole, Marek.”

Picking up a cloth, Marek made a big deal of wiping the metal entirely clean. While most of the Polish prisoners at Sachsenhausen dreamed of overthrowing the Nazi overseers and returning once more to the safety of their own homes across the border, Marek had no interest in being involved. He knew the penalties involved. To try and overthrow the

Marek picked a cloth off of the wooden bench, making a big deal of wiping the metal entirely clean. After stealing a glance towards the guards — still with their backs to him, laughing about something in their brash, guttural tones — he shuffled across the bench slightly. Ewa grinned widely at him, sliding along from her position.

“What are you working on?” she asked. Marek looked down at the piece of metal and shrugged, showing it to her. She nodded wisely, gesturing towards the hunk of metal she held in her own hands.

“Me too,” she said gravely. “Airplane parts, you understand. These things are melted down and recast into pot-holes in those damn Messerschmitts that they love so much.”

Marek shrugged, returning his attention back towards his own piece. They had been instructed to sand all of the paint off of the metal, a task which Marek had found to be seemingly useless. He had assumed that it was a job designed to wear them down enough to declare them unfit for work, so they could be lined up against a wall and shot. If what Ewa was saying was true, then it made more sense to him than before.

“I have it on good authority,” Ewa’s voice had dropped to lower than a whisper now, and Marek had to strain his ears to hear her properly, “that soon, we will be put to work in repairing the planes. The Germans don’t want to do it themselves, of course. Playing with molten metal might hurt them, but they don’t care if it hurts us.”

Malte shook his head. “No. I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t want to be involved in whatever plan you’re cooking up. Just leave me alone. I’ll survive this my own way.”

Ewa pouted. She opened her mouth as if to speak again, but glanced quickly toward the guards. One of them was looking directly at the pair. Marek frowned. So far, he was sure he had managed to fall under the radar. Pushing himself back across the work bench, he looked down pointedly.

“I’m not interested,” he reiterated under his breath, “so please, Ewa, leave me alone.”



“They’re talking again. The arrogant bitch and the artist. They’re up to something, I swear.”

“Malte for God’s sake, leave them alone. Anybody would think you had a crush on him with the way you go on.”

Malte scowled, directing his attention from the benches in front of him to Romy’s slim figure. She was leaning against the desk behind them, arms crossed and figure slumped. She was bored; Malte knew that much. Most, if not all of the guards hated supervising work assignments, but Romy seemed to despise it more than most. She stared him down expectantly. Malte knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, crossing his own arms in a show of hostility, “try and suggest I’m like the scum we bring in here. I’m not homosexual, Romy. You of all people should know as much.”

“I’m just saying,” Romy started, uncrossing her arms. Frowning momentarily, she picked at her tooth with one of her nails, making a small triumphant squeak as she dislodged whatever had been causing her discomfort. “Sorry, steak stuck between my teeth. Anyway, I’m just saying that you spend far too much time looking out for the artist. Somebody who didn’t know any better might assume that you’re in love with him.”

Malte considered responding again, but not before Romy’s face broke into a wide grin. Malte glared at him as she began to laugh, pulling her body from the slumped stance it usually held.

“Jesus, Malte,” she said in between giggles, “I’m kidding. Get a sense of humour, would you?”

“Not very funny though, is it,” Malte muttered. He could feel heat rising to his neck, and scrubbed at it angrily. He didn’t like being the butt of anybody’s joke, much less the butt of another officer’s joke, and yet time and time again he found himself rising to Romy’s slick little jibes. Resting his hand on his baton, he looked over at the benches again. They were still talking, and doing a thinly-veiled job of hiding it. Romy looked at him witheringly.

“Leave it,” she protested, grabbing a hold of his elbow. “You’re the one that was just past telling me that it wasn’t worth it, remember?”

Malte shook off her hand and her protests, and started to make his way over to the pair. They had split apart and were now focusing intently on their work, but in Malte’s eyes the damage had already been done. Approaching the man – even if she were a Jew, Malte couldn’t bring himself to torture the woman – he cleared his throat loudly.

“What are you doing?”

The man looked up from his work, eyes wide in terror. Malte felt a wave of smugness roll through his body. Here he was, the partisan scum that he was, trying to pretend that he hadn’t been doing anything wrong and yet, he was scared of Malte. Years previously, Malte could have empathised with this man but as the years went by, Malte realised why the boys at his school were as violent as they were. Power over another human being was one of the strongest emotions that Malte had ever experienced.

Malte didn’t wait on the man replying. Instead, he gestured to the table with his baton.

“Your right hand.”

The man looked at Malte for a few seconds, confusion etched across his face. Malte rapped the table with his baton, repeating his question.

“Your right hand, Pole. Put it on the table. Do you not understand German?” Malte snorted in disgust, placing his own right hand on the table. “Like this.”

The man mimicked Malte’s actions, placing his hand palm-down on the table. Malte smirked, before bringing his baton swinging through the air. As the metal connected with bone, a resounding crack reverberated around the shed, and the man cried out in pain. Malte glanced around quickly. The others had stopped working and some were staring at the commotion with their mouths open. The man was sobbing quietly now, caressing his hand against his chest.

“What are you looking at?” Malte asked incredulously, gesturing to the rest of the group. “Back to work, all of you! You, Pole, go to the medical bay. I want you fit for your assignment again tomorrow morning. Let this be a warning. Do not cross us. You will not win. Understand?”

The sudden bustle of work tools being picked up filled the shed. Satisfied, Malte walked back to Romy, who was standing with a mixed look of disgust and shock on her face. He glared at her once again, and she raised an eyebrow questioningly in his direction.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she said under her breath after checking that nobody was listening. “He’s harmless, you said it yourself.”

“Sure I did,” Malte said breezily. “They’re dangerous in pairs, Romy. Don’t forget that.”

“No, they aren’t,” Romy said with a roll of her eyes. “What exactly are you trying to prove, anyway? Your immense masculinity? I don’t need you to put on a peacock show, you div.”

“Who said it was for you?” Malte retaliated, “and besides, I think I’ve proved my ‘immense masculinity’ to you anyway.”

Romy wrinkled her nose. “You’re disgusting. In fact, no, better, you’re a pig.”

“Wasn’t what you said last night.”

“Shut up.”

Malte couldn’t help but grin. Getting one-up over Romy felt like a victory, and a big one at that. Her face was like thunder, and her bottom lip trembled slightly. Perhaps she would cry. Malte relished the idea of making another of the guards cry, even if it were just a woman.

Yes, getting one up over Romy and punishing the scum felt very good indeed.