To the pages of this book, which I will swiftly destroy
It has been two months since Bruno's disappearance. It has been difficult for us all. Unsurprisingly, Gretel is crushed; every night sobs belonging to her and her mother wrack the house. I must stay strong for them now. Not for myself, or even the fatherland; not any more. Everything has changed, and my authority is slipping.
A good soldier never cries. A good soldier never shows guilt, fear or remorse. No mercy, no regret. A good soldier has this hammered through their minds to be the most important and dominating aspect of their lives. There is not a shadow of doubt in my mind that as of right now, I am no good soldier. In brutal honesty I begin to doubt whether I want to be. There is no joy left in this house, and I know that the remnants of my family will leave soon. They cannot stand it here.
My wife... I cannot bear to see her in the way she is. The misery and the pain- she is hurt beyond my comprehension. The more I think about it, the worse I feel for not listening to my own mother. Now that I have witnessed from a parents eyes the loss of a child I can see how much I hurt her, before I even came to this cursed place. But my remorse pales in comparison to my wife's misery. I see her break a little more every day, a little piece of her soul shattering; the hope and determination she held in her heart to light up the lives of our family is faded from her eyes. She is a husk, an empty shell that used to posses such beauty. Even in her depression she is still beautiful, but the once radiant glow has faded to a heartbreakingly sorrowful beauty unlike any other I have ever seen.
As much as I want to bury the fact, I know deep inside it is all my fault. I should not have brought the children here; and now Bruno, all of us in fact, have suffered for my mistake.
Where did he go? Why? How could it be possible for a boy to simply disappear from the face of the planet? I should have been a better father, and devoted less of my life to being a soldier. I have a theory about what may have happened, but it is loose and I have no evidence. The fence where his clothes were found – nobody guarded that area of the camp. It would be possible- an off chance, a highly unlikely possibility- that a small boy to find his way in. A small boy like Bruno.
It would be cruel to tell Gretel or my wife of this assumption. I do not doubt that the impact on them would be horrific, and the last thing I could wish to do would be to hurt them more. I have ruined their lives enough already. They would hate me for causing this. The house is already a pool of sorrow, doubt and regret- Who am I to add hatred to the whirlpool of crushing emotions?
I cannot stand to see other soldiers so eager. So ready to please, me as their superior, the Fuhrer as their leader, the fatherland as their country. I want to yell to them- Save yourself the misery! Go home to your families; your complete families, and become a greengrocer or a teacher or a doctor. Do not allow yourselves to be taken in by the glory and the lies. In the end, it is not worth it.
But they still remain so oblivious and excitable, like children. Spoilt children that cannot get their own way. It is sickening to think I used to take the same grim satisfaction from hurting my fellow humans. So many of the Jews...no, the people in that camp have had their lives destroyed. Now that I've felt it myself, though, I hate that I allowed it to happen.
It is my fault. All of it. The suffering in that camp. The suffering in my house. The suffering in my heart. But most of all, the suffering of Bruno. If my theory is correct, then he is dead. My son is dead.
And it is all my fault.