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A Day In The Life Of A Kommandent Of Auschwitz

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Introduction

A Life in the Day of the Kommandant of Auschwitz. 6th December 1943 "Days to me are meaningless. A day in itself is simply a time expression. A day is made individual or different by what happens, or the course of action you take. To kill or cure. To heal or hold. Each morning, I do the very same. Each morning, I wake at approximately five am, a time programmed into me from childhood. And each day I eat a sumptuous breakfast of bacon and eggs. I do not consider for one moment the luxury that this is. I kiss my three children goodbye and leave my house, a mansion which sits approximately sixteen miles from the most notorious establishment on earth. My driver, Mr. Hans Guttenburg drives me to work; a place where today I will ruin lives and tear families apart- it's written in the job description. I do not however regret my actions. I protect myself and my family and I swore an oath to the Fuhrer. To some measure, I agree that he is right. To every other measure, I regret my actions-however I am acutely aware that in order to live, I must steal the breath away from another. To live, I must kill. ...read more.

Middle

Something to comfort us when there appears to be nothing more tasteful than a room crammed with bodies, with corpses which do not for a second cloud our sleep. That do not for a second matter. That somewhere, in that room are mothers and children and wives and friends. The most striking thing, as you smell the despair, desolation and destruction, is the love. The love that somehow encompasses the room, almost disguising the horror and terror of it. The way that every person in the self constructed hell, finds someone to hold. How every corpse, every number, is holding a hand. There is far more unity and love in that one room, that the entire, war torn damned world. The day moves onto the afternoon. Every day, at approximately four pm when the sun sets, a few prisoners try to escape. Through delirium or hunger or desperation or perhaps all three, they are driven to scaling the fences- the two thousand volt fencing. Trying to run through the treacherous, iron gate, where a sniper will instantly deconstruct the victim's anatomy without a second thought. The blood stains the dirt beneath the glassy eyed, lifeless body. The reality of this influx of escapees is that every day, I shoot. ...read more.

Conclusion

Mr. Hans Guttenburg drives me the sixteen miles back to my luxurious home. I stop on the way to purchase chocolates for my three Aryan children; children which in Hitler's world will survive. I purchase roses for my wife, as a token of love. I do not think of the man whose life I stole today; I do not think of the thousands I will steal. I think of my family, and remember that this is the way to survive. When I arrive home, there is a hot bath waiting for me. I climb in a shred the skin- the putrid smell of the crematorium, the pungent smell of the gas chambers. I scrub the smell of death from my skin, as though it was simply a hair shirt. I pour myself a glass of whiskey from a crystal decanter before joining my family at a sumptuous meal around my dinner table. We say grace. To survive, I must kill. This is not right. This is not just. However this keeps me safe; keeps my family safe. And for that, I thank God. I thank God knowing that tomorrow, I will rise. And I will do exactly the same thing again. I will know that every time I do, I pave my way faster to hell. But I still thank God." Sarah Waterhouse 6th December 1943 ...read more.

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