by James Somers
Auschwitz, 1945
“Twins Out!” shouted the doctor. He walked the line, his white linen physician’s lab coat flapping behind him. The prisoners in the camp had the notion that this made the doctor appear like an angel with white wings. An angel of death.
Doctor Josef Mengele had taken the position here at Auschwitz nearly six months ago at the behest of the Fuhrer. His experiments required fresher subjects. Auschwitz was receiving trains regularly. The ghettos had been emptied by now as the Fuhrer sought to eradicate the hated Jews.
Hitler had come to Germany as a savior to their people, rallying the Aryan race against the lesser species of men inhabiting the world. Adolf had shown a particular malice for the Jews, something deeper than the scientific evidences found in Darwin’s theories which clearly showed men unequal.
These matters of science had been enough for Mengele. In fact, it was the German race that rightly deserved to sit atop the world as the pinnacle of Natural Selection. It was a proven fact.
Of course, there were doubters, like the Japanese, who wrongly assumed that they should be the masters of the world. They were mistaken, of course. However, those matters would be settled once this war was won by the Axis powers. The proper order would come to be once Hitler proved himself against the Allies. Despite recent setbacks and miscalculations, he still trusted that the Reich would prevail.
In the meantime, Josef’s experiments were necessary to this cause. He had been appointed to the task of perfecting a serum based upon the peculiar properties of Adolf’s blood. The Berserker Strain was his Fuhrer’s pride and joy. Still, there were also his personal dalliances—his research regarding twins, for example, remained his particular fancy.
He felt that he was on the verge of important discoveries, if only he could reserve time for his own pursuits. Unfortunately, the Fuhrer was scheduled to arrive today. His expectations would be high. They always were. The matter of side effects had never been resolved. There was always some destructive problem, whether blindness, or catastrophic organ failure, hemorrhagic complications.
The subjects never lasted. Even if some were useful for a time, as the blind soldier had been not long ago, they all ultimately ended in failure. Adolf was growing impatient with him. Only his great skill with the manipulation of viruses kept him alive. Truth be told, the Fuhrer needed him.
Emaciated figures did their best to stand at attention. They kept their expressions neutral, their faces downcast lest the doctor’s stern derision cause one of the soldiers to step forward and shoot them dead upon the spot. This was not an uncommon occurrence. No doubt today’s inspection would send the elderly and infirm straight to the gas chambers.
But this was life, such as it was. Those living it still clung to some meager hope that the God of Israel would somehow deliver them from the genocide come upon them. Though, day by day, as they toiled at useless work beneath the ash cloud from the ovens, that hoped waned.
Mengele searched the lines. There were no twins in this lot so far, and he was nearly finished. This perturbed him. He wanted to at least secure one set of new subjects before the Fuhrer arrived.
A line of cars rumbled toward the camp upon the only road in or out. Staff cars, adorned with the small flags above the headlights bearing the eagle of the Reich paused long enough for the camp gates to be opened. The soldiers opened to the Fuhrer hastily.
Mengele sighed heavily. His time was up. Adolf would demand his full attention now. Frustrated, he handed his clipboard to a subordinate. He was angry and ruffled at the intrusion as well as the frustrating demands placed upon him for results that stubbornly eluded him.
“And these?” his lab assistant asked, looking over the lineup.
Josef glanced at the assembled Jews. None of them dared to look at him. They stood in the cold, shivering helplessly, their ragged breath hanging in the air as snow fell gently upon them.
“Send them to the showers,” Josef said indignantly.
“All of them?” his assistant asked.
“Of course, all of them,” he replied. “I have no time for them now.”
Mengele trudged away, leaving the lineup. He walked toward the long building which served as his laboratory. There was no need to meet the Fuhrer’s car at the front of the camp. His driver would drop him off at the laboratory momentarily anyway. The commandant might be expecting an official inspection, but Hitler left such matters to others. The Berserker Strain was the real reason he had come.
