A/N: Translations for the German dialogue are at the bottom. I don't speak any German; all credit for translations and the spelling of words goes to the IMDb Band of Brothers FAQ page.
Skinny hit the break. The car rolled to a stop at the top of the little hill, facing a cabin. The three of us sat in the car, looking at it. I found the place to be one of irony: here we were, surrounded by these picturesque mountains, a sparkling lake, a shining sun and chirping birds. This beautiful place was the home to the lowest scum of the earth.
"Lieb, I fucking hate this," I heard Webster say from behind me.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered. "He fingered him. In the fucking room, Web. One of the Polacks who was at the slave camp said this is where the guy lives, right here." I pointed towards the cabin.
"Which camp?" Web asked. I thought there was some irritation in his voice.
"Whatever camp," I said, not really listening. I was tired of his hesitating. "I'm under direct orders, and I'm happy to follow it." I got out of the jeep and started to walk down the dirt path. I heard Skinny shoulder his M-1 and follow me. A little while later, Web too.
"Is this a personal thing, Joe?" he asked upon catching up.
Was he fucking serious? I wasn't sure if I had heard right. "What?"
"Is this personal to you?"
He was fucking serious. I decided to humor him. "No, it's a goddamn order."
"Does Major Winters know about this?" Web persisted.
I walked a few more steps before answering. "Doesn't matter."
"Oh, the fuck it doesn't," Webster retorted. "What if this guy's just a soldier? What if he's an officer with no ties to the SS? What if he's innocent?"
Thoroughly annoyed, I stopped and faced Webster. "You know what, what if he's a fucking Nazi Kommandant of a fucking slave camp?
"Which one, which camp!?" Webster hissed. "You don't have any proof!"
"Were you at Landsberg?" I asked.
"You know I was."
"You think he's a soldier like you and me?" I said heatedly. "Fucking innocent German officer?" I looked at Webster up and down. "Where the hell have you been for the past three years?"
A hollow clang of a bowl dropping to the floor greeted us as we burst in, me with my gun raised high at the cottage's somewhat portly occupant. He wasn't too old, not too young. Fifties. I was taller than him, able to see right over his balding head. He wore simple civilian's clothes, plain pants and a brown sweater. If they didn't know him, no one could have ever guessed he was a practitioner of mass genocide.
"Wer sind Sie? Was, was machen Sie hier?" the man asked as we advanced.
Web and Skinny made their way in. I could hear them searching the place for any incriminating evidence.
"What?"
"Ich habe gar nichts getan," the man said.
"Shut up."
"Was machen Sie—"
"Ruhe," I said, switching to our mutual language. The man was obviously surprised that I knew German, falling silent immediately. "Sie sind der Kommandant?"
"Gehen Sie hinaus!"
Those simple words piqued my suspicion. But best to ask again.
"Sie sind der Kommandant?" I repeated.
"Welcher Kommandant?" the man said.
"Vom Arbeitslager," I said, my voice hard.
"Ich weiß von keinem Arbeitslager. Sie haben die falsche."
Gonna play dumb, huh? I thought. If there was one thing I couldn't stand, it was people playing dumb. "Don't fucking lie to me," I said, pushing the man.
"Sie täuschen sich," the man insisted, moving to sit. A mistake, in my opinion, since now I towered over him. "Sie können nicht hier reinkommen—"
"YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID TO MY FUCKING PEOPLE?" I roared.
"SIE KÖNNEN NICHT HIER REINKOMMEN!" the man shouted back.
In one movement, I grabbed the man by the collar and cocked the gun, holding it to his neck. I was sick of listening to his bullshit; I had snapped. The man struggled, pleading, "Nein, nein! Bitte nich schießen!" But it was too late for the sorry bastard.
Because hatred like I had never known was quickly welling up inside of me…it was a clear, palpable hatred…but of a different sort as well. Full of not only rage, but also immense grief. All I could think about were those prisoners, the living dead. Starved and beaten beyond recognition, until their former selves were nothing and they became just a whisper of a human. Persecuted past imagining for their Jewish faith…
The man's earlier exclamation had been one of protest, but all I had noticed was his voice. It was harsh and abrasive, without any warmth or comfort in it. How many Jews had been killed due to an order that was voiced by this man's? I didn't know the answer exactly, but what I did know was that it sure as hell wasn't zero.
I heard the door close and knew Web had left, but I couldn't care less. His words before we'd entered the cottage were proof enough of how he felt.
And to hell with what Webster thought. This was just one more assignment, and one he was performing reluctantly at that. This meant nothing to him. Those starving prisoners...those starving prisoners, they're all Webster saw, nothing more. It was all the whole company saw. No one else saw his father in those men, his grandfather. Or even his brother.
The men of Easy were my brothers, yes, but so were each and every one of those prisoners. They were my brothers just as much as these guys in uniform who had endured Sobel, the D-Day jump, the frozen foxholes in Bastogne with me.
However, what the others didn't see in those prisoners was the most frightening sight.
Themselves.
And I did.
Nothing distinguished me from the prisoners other than the fact that they were German and I was American. That was only one thing standing between my uniform and theirs. I was so close to being in the same position…but I wasn't. And if I wasn't there in the camp suffering alongside with them, I was at least going to do my part in helping to end the suffering.
I kept on repeating myself, shouting the same things at the man, "See what you did to my fucking people?" I wanted to make him see, make him understand...the Jewish people were experiencing a living hell. God knows I sure was, just knowing what sort of state they were in, and I wasn't even in the fucking camp.
Somehow, amid the clamor and shouting and denying, I heard evidence. I couldn't be sure if it was a straight confession, or maybe it was just a slip of the man's tongue, I knew that it was this man, no mistakes. There was no other way that what the man said could be taken any differently. I said so to Skinny, who was standing apprehensively against the wall, watching me interrogate the man relentlessly.
"Find Webster," I said. "This son of a bitch is guilty."
Skinny left the room swiftly, and I turned back to the Kommandant. He was staring at me, more horrified than ever.
"I'm not it!" he kept insisting in German. "You've got the wrong man!"
"Shut up!" I yelled. "Shut up!" He continued on with his whining, a disgusting sight. This man was the most pathetic life form I'd ever seen. "GODDAMMIT, SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I bellowed. I'd have enough of him. The Kommandant seemed to know what was coming:
"Nein! Nein!"
I pulled the trigger. The Kommandant let out a strangled cry of pain, falling forward. With unexpected strength, he stumbled up, pushing me out of the way. Before I knew it, he had burst out of the cabin.
"Shit."
This man was not getting away. I dashed out after him and into the bright sun again. I made to shoot, but my gun was empty. "Son of a bitch," I said. "Shoot him," I told Webster. The man was jogging away lamely.
He looked back at me. "Shoot him!" I screamed.
"No," Webster said.
I stared at the fleeing man, feeling about to vomit. He was going to get away, without any retribution for everything he had done. And I was going to have to live with this knowledge that I had been unable to help my brothers. Give them the justice they deserve.
Then—
A puff of smoke clouded around the man, and he fell, a hole in the middle of his back. At the same time, there was a familiar-sounding clatter from a gun, and I twisted around. Skinny lowered his M-1.
Well, it hadn't me, but now I could sleep a little easier. I disengaged my gun and stood there by the cabin for a little moment before heading back to the jeep. I recited the Kaddish in my head one more time. A man had just died, but the words weren't for the Kommandant. My prayer was for his victims. They were finally rid of their tormenter and forever with their keeper.
A/N: Please review!
Translaions -
Wer sind Sie? Was, was machen Sie hier? / Who are you? What, what do you want?
Ich habe gar nichts... / I didn't...anything. [Most likely trying to say Ich habe gar nichts getan, which translated to "I didn't do anything".]
Ruhe. / Shut up.
Sie sind der Kommandant? / You're the Kommandant?
Gehen Sie hinaus! / Get out!
Welcher Kommandant? / What Kommandant?
Vom Arbeitslager. / Of the labor camp.
Ich weiß von keinem Arbeitslager. Sie haben die falsche. / I don't know of any labor camp. You got the wrong person.
Sie täuschen sich. / You are mistaken.
Sie können nicht hier reinkommen. / You cannot (simply) enter here.
Nein, nein! Bitte nich schießen! / No, no! Please don't shoot!