The Man Who Stepped Forward

Inspired by true events.

The siren wails like a demon’s scream, splitting the morning air.

It cuts through the fog that always seems to hang low over Auschwitz, a sour mist that smells of damp brick, boiled cabbage, and old piss. We freeze. Thousands of striped men halt mid-march, spoons paused halfway to chapped lips. No one moves. You learn not to react here.

Whistles never mean anything good.

The air turns still. Heavy. I taste soot in the back of my throat. That smokestack in the east yard hasn’t stopped belching since we got here. Not once. Not even at night.

The guards appear like dogs off-leash. Screaming. Beating. Boots slam on concrete. A klaxon continues blaring, echoing off the wire and stone, and I know—I know—some poor bastard has escaped.

And we’ll pay.

By noon, we’re lined up in rows on the Appellplatz—roll call square. The gravel digs into the soles of my feet through worn-thin boots. Sunlight presses on my back like a weight. I’m sweating, even though it’s early April and still cold enough to see our breath. My stomach growls, hollow and angry.

No one speaks.

That’s the rule.

Not a word. Not a blink out of place.

They keep us standing for hours. One man collapses somewhere behind me. I hear the dull thud and the bark of a rifle butt striking his skull. Then silence again.

Eventually, the Kommandant steps forward. Calm. Crisp. His uniform still clean.

“A prisoner has escaped,” he says. “You will suffer the consequences.”

His German is too smooth, almost practiced. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s a ritual.

“Ten men will die.”

Not may. Not could. Will.