The Silence ~ Journal Entry

19 November 1941
There’s water dripping from the pipes. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s almost unbearable in this silence; the silence after death is beyond my tolerance. Yet I stand in it everyday.

But they deserve it. This is just their punishment for all they’ve done; done is their punishment. So why do I have to be punished, too? I am doing the right thing. I’ll be thanked one day. Perhaps when the Fuhrer makes his visits he’ll recognize my efforts and I’ll be rewarded. Maybe. I said this last month when the Fuhrer was making rounds through the camps.

There’s a knock at the door; Bang. Again; Bang. And once more; Bang. Three knocks and the door swings open. I salute the soldier standing before me. He speaks softly, hesitantly. “Number 93182.” I’m happy to hear the silence break. I reply to back to a him; there’s a smile on my face. He goes off; He must think I’m smiling to kill again. I’m smiling because I’m relieved to hear something other than ~ Drip. Drip. Drip. There it goes again, but this time I’m unaffected.

I can hear things now. I hear screaming from somewhere in the camp. I hear other soldiers laughing and yelling. They’re drunken in the kitchens. I wonder what they’re all thinking right now, or any other moment of the day.

Bang. Bang. Bang. He’s back. The door opens to reveal the soldier. He walks in, dragging someone by their arms inside. Their face is covered by a bag. We salute, the soldier and I do. He speaks. This time his voice is harsh and controlling. “Number 93182.” He throws the number in my direction and leaves.

That’s all they are to me; numbers. I look at this number and wonder who they are and where they came from. I have these questions every time a new number enters my “office.” I never inquire, for their answers are unimportant. They’re an enemy of the state, and that’s all that matters. I walk over to the number and bring them to the chair; I have to force them to sit down. I remove the bag covering their face, as I do every time.

His eyes stare at me in horror. They’re blue and filling with tears. He can’t be more than seventeen years old. He’s different than the others. He looks like one of…one of us. I want to ask what he’s done, but I do not. His answer is still unimportant. He’s here because he has done wrong, why else? He’s here to be punished.

I remove my gun from my holster and check it to make sure it’s loaded. One shot left. I raise my arm and take aim at his head. The center of his two eyes; it will be an instant kill.

My finger’s on the trigger, I’m about to pull. He speaks softly and chokes on his words. “Please don’t shoot me.” I hesitate to pull now. I hate when they beg. It only makes them seem lower in my eyes. As if that were possible. I know we are better, and they know it, too. Begging only makes them worse.

I regain my composure and the trigger’s pulled. The solider from before comes in with another and remove then number. The door closes and I sit down in my chair.
Drip. Drip. Drip.

The silence after murder is beyond my tolerance.