A/N: I think it's working! The writer's block is going away :)
Anyway, some warnings for this chapter: some dub-con/non-con, not explicit.
Historical notes (a lot of them) are at the bottom to help you understand some stuff from this update and the last one! You don't have to read them if you don't want to, but I hope you find them helpful/interesting.
...
November, 1944
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt liked to go riding. He had a horse kept for him at a nearby farm.
He knew to have the bath ready for the officer when he returned. Hot.
Today the officer looked especially stiff as he came in. Mouth set in a terse line.
Rigid as a sculpture.
"Weill."
He snapped to attention and helped the coat off of square shoulders, removed the boots. He followed the officer to his bedroom and waited as he undressed to his underclothes, then took the heavy uniform out to be washed.
The officer called him back a while later.
The man lay stretched across the bed on his stomach, white towel draped over his hips.
"The back and legs, Weill."
He approached the bed, spotted the jar of cream the officer had placed there for him to use. He knelt awkwardly up on the bed next to the man, scooped out some of the cream, and started on the back.
He has muscles. Almost forgot what it feels like to touch a body that's more than skin and bone.
Hard muscle. But smooth. Not like the wiry, stringy excuse I've got binding up brittle arms and legs.
Warm too. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me. But it does. Shockingly warm. Miles and miles of warm, firm skin—he's a large man, even without those layers of fabric—
"Do you have a girl, Weill?"
He blinked, remembered to keep his hands working.
"Sir?"
"On the outside, I mean. Someone waiting for you."
His heart sped up. His head spun.
Why are you asking me that? You're not supposed to ask that, you're not allowed to ask that!
He swallowed harshly, throat suddenly dry. "No sir, there's no one."
"Ah. Not anymore, you mean."
His hands paused. A pointed throat-clearing from the officer set them back to work.
"Who was she?"
Green eyes, glowing like lamps with a fierce life. Brown tresses falling in waves down her back, so soft as he ran his fingers through them…
"Weill?" The tone demanded an answer.
He forced himself to speak. "A Hungarian girl, sir. A long time ago."
"Hmm. And what happened?"
Fire surged in his chest, sparked in his eyes.
Who are you to demand an answer? It's my life. It's my life!
"She was a communist, sir. They shot her."
His hands trembled. Round and round, pressing circles into hard, smooth flesh—
"Weill, you're pressing too hard. Gently, or the muscles won't recover."
The flame jumped within him again, licking at his insides. But he changed the pressure of his fingers, responded in a carefully controlled voice: "is this better, sir?"
"Mm. Yes."
He had never hated the officer more.
You're under my hands. You're at my mercy. I could kill you. I could wrap my hands around that perfect neck, and squeeze, and squeeze, watch your face redden, your eyes roll back, your body spasm—
"The legs, now, Weill."
"Yes, sir."
…
"You've actually read Mein Kampf?"
"Yes, sir. You know what they say. 'Know thy enemy.'"
A cold flash in the eyes; for a moment, he feared the reaction.
But then they softened in amusement, and the officer let out a low chuckle. "And have you always been so convinced that you know who the enemy is?"
"Fairly, sir." He leaned over to refill the officer's scotch glass.
"Fairly? Do I detect some doubt?"
"There was a time, sir, when a part of the NSDAP embraced a populist, revolutionary ideology. If they hadn't infused it with their racial views, and if the brownshirts hadn't been such thugs, it might have been somewhat appealing."
To his surprise, the officer laughed. "You have a sharp tongue on you, Weill, be careful how you use it. But I'll admit the SA wasn't the most sophisticated of organizations. Thankfully we have improved on the precedent of our parent organization."
"Perhaps in terms of covering up thugishness from the public eye."
"Watch yourself, Weill."
"Sir."
"In any case, National Socialism is for the people. It was envisioned as such by the Führer from its inception, and that has not changed."
"The Nazi Party and the war have been financed by capitalists and industrialists, sir, and the Führer deemed the support of traditional conservatives more important than that of the working class. He lost any credibility as an advocate of social change on the Night of the Long Knives."
A blue eye twitched. "The traitor Röhm and his lackeys were planning a putsch. That's common knowledge."
"So it was coincidence only that all those who called for true social revolution were targeted?"
"Coincidence? No, it makes complete sense. Strasser and his beefsteaks were opportunists, riding on the wave of public support for the Führer to push their own radical agenda. Along with Röhm they planned to overthrow the Führer and coopt his achievements for their personal gain."
"Some might view it differently, sir. They might say the Führer used them to get to the top, then betrayed them and their vision in a pure power grab, solidifying his position with the old elite and freeing himself to impose an authoritarian system."
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt glared ice at him. "You're lucky I enjoy a bit of verbal sparring every once in a while, Weill. And that I have such patience for fools."
The glass was pushed towards him, empty again.
He filled it.
"What do you know of the people in any case," continued the officer, hissing the words with poison on his tongue. "You claim to be their advocate, to want a better future for the workers of this country, and yet what do you really know of the world beyond these walls anymore? How can you be an advocate for a society you are no longer a part of? A society that has rejected you?"
He stiffened. "It wasn't they who rejected me, sir."
The officer laughed, cold and cruel. "Oh? That just shows how little you really know. Are you so blind? When you would march through the streets to the brickworks, when you come to and from this house every day, do you mean to tell me you see sympathy in the eyes of those you pass? Do you honestly mean to tell me that you see anything but contempt and fear in their faces when they see that striped uniform, that red triangle on your chest? Aren't those the ordinary Germans whose champion you so proudly claim to be? You're not the champion they want—a pathetic, half-starved skeleton in criminals' clothing."
His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm. "This uniform, this triangle, they blind them from the truth, sir. They have learned to fear them. If I were free of them, then there would be a chance—"
"You'll never be free of them." A fierce snarl. "You've earned them. Jedem das Seine; you've heard the words, haven't you? An old Prussian saying. It's the sacred rule of our rejuvenated society. You've chosen your place, and the German people have chosen theirs. You have no place in the world we're building; in the world the people want."
He struggled to control the tremors shaking his body in anger. Or was it fear?
Ridiculous; what could I possibly be afraid of in those outrageous words?
…But he might be right. I'm afraid he might be right.
…
December, 1944
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt was in a foul mood.
He nearly got himself kicked for not being quick enough with the boots; he did get himself kicked for trying to give the customary massage.
"Do I look like I'm in the mood for that? Get me a drink," was the growl.
He obeyed.
The officer threw back the gold liquid quickly, demanded another.
He obeyed.
"More."
He obeyed.
He stood, every nerve alert and thrumming with energy. He watched the officer as he gulped, throat moving, then wiped his mouth, gulped again.
And then, he found himself caught in the frosty glare.
"What are you staring at, Weill?"
He couldn't move, couldn't think.
"…Sir? I didn't—"
"You were. You were staring. What, is this such an amusing spectacle to you? So I'm upset—you think that's funny?"
Funny was the last thing he would call it. "N-no, sir—"
"Don't lie to me."
Suddenly the officer was on his feet. A large hand found the front of the striped uniform, clutched it like a talon.
"I'm too soft on you, Weill." The voice was too low, too cool. Dangerous.
He could smell the scotch on the officer's hot breath.
He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
"The things I let you get away with… all because you've got an occasionally clever brain."
A long finger rapped sharply on his skull, almost painfully.
Blue eyes gazed into red, hazy.
"You have devil's eyes, Weill." A murmur. "Where did you get them?"
The finger went to the bridge of his nose, traced along it.
"Same place you got this nose? A Prussian Junker. I didn't believe it at first; this pathetic man, descended from such a noble line… but the nose. It's decidedly aristocratic."
He didn't speak; just trembled under the officer's hands.
The finger fell to his lips. His heart raced. Flaming tendrils of anxiety crawled their way through his stomach and up his throat.
The officer was inches away from his face, ice eyes fixed on his lips and lit with something akin to hatred.
At first the finger was gentle, almost tender, testing the softness of the lip. Then it pressed harder, joined by another finger. They pulled the bottom lip down to reveal the teeth. The finger traced along them, forced its way between them.
"And your teeth…" breathed the officer. "White and straight. Who would have thought…"
The fingers pried his jaw open, all trace of gentleness gone. They felt the sharp ridges, all under the cold gaze of those eyes, pinning him to the spot, assessing him.
And then they met his own again, boring into him. Laying him bare. Sharp. Deadly.
The fingers moved suddenly. They left off inspecting teeth and reached for the back of his throat, shoving in as far as they would go.
He gagged, tried to pull away, but the officer slammed him into the back of the couch, bent him over it so he couldn't move. And still, the fingers reached in, choking him so he couldn't breathe, so tears sprang to his eyes.
He tried in vain to push the man off, but it was like trying to shift a mountain. He stared at the blue eyes, wide and mad. With terrifying certainty, he felt they were looking not at him, but into him.
Just when he thought he might pass out or be sick, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt tore away from him. He keeled over to the side, clutching his burning throat, gasping and coughing.
"Get out of my sight," was the quiet, cold order.
…
There was a stack of neatly folded fabric sitting atop his work desk, and on top of that lay a book. Upon closer inspection he discovered the book was a collection of Nietzsche essays, and the folded cloth was no less than three brand new pairs of underwear.
He stared at the gifts. Because they were gifts, they must be. What else could be the meaning of their placement directly in his workspace, where Obersturmführer Beilschmidt knew he would find them? They didn't belong to the officer, that much he knew for sure.
He was afraid to touch them. He had the odd hunch that they might be a trap. But he needed to move them so he could use the typewriter.
With a trembling hand he reached out and traced the spine of the book. He opened its cover and ran the pads of his fingers over the cool, smooth paper. It had been so long since he had owned anything quite so fine.
I own this now. He gave it to me, so it's mine. My possession.
But the concept of possession was difficult to process from this end. He was the possession, not the possessor.
Property.
He frowned.
Well and good to talk about its abolishment and equal distribution, but...
He set the book aside and felt the soft cloth of the underwear.
Real cotton.
I don't believe it.
A hot tightness seized his throat as he snatched up the garments and stuffed them inside his shirt, as if afraid someone else would see them and take them from him.
A second later he felt foolish.
Who would steal them anyway? The Obersturmführer? The guard outside?
He snorted. He was alone here.
But he wouldn't be once he got back to the triangle. Then he would guard the gifts with his life. The book no one would want, he knew. But real cotton underwear...
He thought of the officer's eyes, the night before, cold blue watching him choke and gasp with-what was it? Hatred? Some perverse pleasure?
He chose these gifts for me. But when? Was he already planning on giving them or is this... an apology?
If it was the latter, he wasn't sure he could accept.
But he still kept the gifts.
...
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt didn't mention them. In fact the officer hardly spoke to him, hardly looked at him at all that day.
...
And the next. And for a while after.
He got used to being left to attend to his tasks on his own.
But he was not any less alert for it.
Still, when the officer was near him, he remembered his hands gripping him tight, the surprising softness of the fingers on his face, his lips... And then the horrible pushing, shoving, the roughness and rawness of it as he struggled to breathe around the invading digits.
Sometimes he realized he forgot to breathe when he thought of it; and on the rare occasions when the officer's eyes did meet his own he found his lungs suddenly full of ice, and he couldn't have taken breath even if it had occurred to him.
...
"Weill."
He was at attention without even consciously processing the implicit demand.
Action and reaction. Equal and opposite. Automatic. Simple physics, really.
"Come with me."
The Obersturmführer led him to his bedroom.
There was something about the bedroom. He didn't like it.
Four-poster, dark mahogany, darker duvet. A black bed, how fitting. Thick carpet over the shiny wood floor. Large, ornate dresser and matching side tables. Walls a green deeper than the depths of the Schwarzwald. It smelled strongly of the officer's cologne (a smell he'd come to know well), though it looked as if it ought to smell of musty old books and older money.
What kind of family does he come from anyway? I've told him about mine but he hasn't told me anything. I know how he likes his eggs, I know how he crosses his tees, I know that he prefers Wagner to Schubert and how many scotches he can down before he shows any side effects (four), but I don't know the first thing about him; childhood, women, home? Just one jagged scar up his shin to prove he even existed at all before coming here.
The smell of the cologne was dizzying. And it was giving him a headache.
"Try these on."
His attention snapped to the officer. He'd been so lost in his observations that he hadn't noticed the clothes laid neatly over the dressing horse, to which the officer now gestured.
He blinked at the garments. Pressed pants and shirt, waistcoat, jacket. Far too fancy for the likes of him.
He wasn't going to ask (he didn't dare) but the officer answered the question in his head.
"There's a function coming up. For the holidays. You'll accompany me as my personal attendant and help for the staff. I expect you to look the part."
He took the items into the officer's personal bathroom—all blinding white tile—as instructed and tried them on. The pants were too large for his thin frame—he'd have to take them in a bit. But otherwise…
He looked at himself in the mirror. Healthier than he'd been a few months ago, for sure, but still. So pale, so hollowed out.
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt entered without knocking.
Critical eyes examined him closely from head to foot, easily making out every tiny flaw.
"You'll tailor them as needed before the end of the week. I'll get you some better shoes, too."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's not for you. I can't show up with my man wearing those sorry slippers with his waistcoat. It would be highly embarrassing."
The officer moved closer, stood behind him, staring at the pitiful reflection.
"Do try to eat some more, Weill. You look damn awful."
"Yes, sir."
A hand reached up past his shoulder to grab a jar of pomade and a comb off the shelf.
"And your hair. Something needs to be done about it."
"Yes, sir."
The officer spread the pomade thickly through pale, choppy hair, and forced it to part in a neat line with the comb.
The fingers were rough on his scalp, and the comb pulled at his hair without mercy.
At last, the officer was satisfied.
"That'll do, I think."
He looked at himself in the mirror, turned his head this way and that. The change was indescribable. He could almost convince himself he was a regular person from outside the triangle. His hair lay flat to his head, sleeked down like he'd seen in advertisements or on some of the more fashion-conscious SS-men. With the pressed shirt and bowtie, perhaps he could even pass as one of them. No red triangle in sight.
He didn't want to take off the fine new clothes, but Obersturmführer Beilschmidt ordered him back into the stripes. Triangle emblazoned on his chest.
At least he got to keep the hair.
…
December, 1945
"You should eat some more. You look goddamn awful."
An aloof snort was his response. "You tell me where I can find the food, and I'll eat it."
He frowned. That voice was too thin, a shadow of the rich baritone that once commanded such authority, once ruled every aspect of his life and filled his waking hours—sometimes even his dreams.
The thin shoulders—they, too, had changed so much, still proud and stiff but not so broad, so strong—shivered under the flimsy, formless coat. A hoarse cough racked the entire body, and didn't stop for a good ten seconds.
He's getting worse. He won't let it on, damn fool. Still so proud. But I can see through that front. Maybe he thinks I can't, maybe he thinks he's still some unknowable mystery to me.
But in the end we're only human.
…
December, 1944
Look at them all. Fat pigs stuffed into parodies of a fighting man's uniform, sitting here swilling champagne and exchanging self-congratulatory anecdotes.
But still, there's a bit of fear in their eyes, isn't there. Something lurking beneath all this frivolous gaiety. Berlin is safe, yes, we're safe here, but they've all heard the news from the front, they know how desperate it's gotten.
That's right. Go on and stuff your face with sausages and cigars, you won't be able to for long. Judgment is coming and it won't be kind.
"Weill."
He snapped to attention from his brooding observations of the crowd gathered before him.
The officer was there at his side—he hadn't noticed him approach.
"For God's sake, Weill, you look like you're plotting murder. Well, perhaps you are, I wouldn't be surprised, but put a good face on it won't you? You're spoiling the mood."
He nearly dropped the tray of champagne flutes he was holding when the Obersturmführer clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
He's drunk. Or getting there.
"Here. Have a drink, it'll help."
One of the flutes was suddenly being pressed into his hand.
"S-sir?"
"The world won't end, Weill. Drink it. It's Christmas—I'm feeling charitable. Don't refuse charity, Weill. Pride isn't flattering. Especially on the likes of you."
His cheeks burned. But he wasn't sure if it had more to do with the officer's words, or the hand still resting on his shoulder as if it belonged there.
The officer picked up a glass as well. "Prost."
"…Prost."
Etiquette dictated that he meet the other's eyes when toasting. He forced himself to look into blue, as if he weren't terribly agitated by the situation.
He struggled to balance the tray on one hand as they clinked glasses and drank; the ice eyes were still locked onto him. He felt he couldn't look away first. It would mean surrender, retreat.
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt downed nearly all the contents of the glass in one go. Finally the eyes slid away as the officer let out a sigh.
"It's the only way I can bear these things."
"Sir?"
"These social functions, I mean." The flute was brandished haphazardly at the room, filled with the black and white of dress uniforms, the glint of polished buttons, the sparkle of women's jewelry. "The brass here are all blustering idiots. Nothing but glorified bureaucrats."
The rest of the champagne disappeared quickly. The officer examined his empty glass.
"Go see if they have something stronger in the kitchen, will you?"
"Sir."
He walked away, feeling slightly off-balance at the officer's odd behavior. Speaking to him almost like a comrade.
He glanced at the champagne flute still in his hand, unfinished.
Must be much nicer stuff than any I've ever had. But I forgot to pay attention to how it tastes.
…
It was late by the time Obersturmführer Beilschmidt gathered him to go to the car; or rather, he gathered the Obersturmführer.
The officer had had several more glasses, and it wasn't champagne.
He had to help the man from the car to his front door, and then up the stairs to the bedroom, sagging under the weight.
With difficulty, he managed to get the dress coat off, and was finally able to deposit the officer onto the bed, where the man barely remained in a sitting position.
He started untying the dress shoes.
The officer mumbled something.
He dismissed it as drunken muttering to oneself and removed the shoes without responding.
But then two hands shot out and grabbed the sides of his head, tugged him in close between splayed thighs.
"I said look at me." The growl was surprisingly articulate.
His head was forced back. He stared up into the officer's face, bent low enough that he could feel hot breath on his skin, nostrils filled with the oppressive odor of alcohol.
He sat, still and trembling, like a rabbit trapped in the gaze of a snake. Waiting. Waiting for his fate to be doled out. Unable to run.
"Why do you do this to me? Why do you torture me?" The voice was thick and hoarse.
Fingers tightened in his hair. He winced. But still he didn't move.
And then the snake struck.
With a painful jerk, he was pulled up and tossed onto the bed. The officer's strength was not impaired, even if his coordination was.
He landed face down on the cool, smooth covers that smelled strongly of the officer's cologne. The olfactory overload made him dizzy.
He felt hands grab him from behind. He twisted away, heart pounding—but his leg was caught, pinned down painfully to the bed with a knee. The hands reached for his shirt—he blocked them with his arms and they grappled for a moment.
A desperate fumbling—what's happening—harsh breathing—this isn't happening—and he was pinned on his stomach.
A heavy, hot weight rested on his entire body as the officer lay over him, pressed him down into the mattress.
His heart was in his throat. He was sweating through his nice clothes. The ones the Obersturmführer had given him.
Humid breath tickled his ear and neck. Fingers closed around his wrists like vices and pushed his hands above his head.
There was an insistent pressure high up on his thigh. Prodding, full of intent.
His stomach clenched.
He's… excited by this. This isn't—this can't—it's not real.
The officer's nose pressed into his hair. He shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut. Braced himself.
But nothing happened.
The fingers on his wrists slackened; the breathing slowed, evened out. Obersturmführer Beilschmidt lay slumped over him, asleep.
He stayed there quivering for several minutes before he felt in control of himself. Forced himself to think clearly and calmly.
Luckily he knew his number would not be called at Appell in the morning; the Obersturmführer had told him they would get back late and he was to spend the night at the house. He was already excused from the evening roll call, as he was often kept late and had to be escorted back after curfew.
But he didn't plan on spending the night crushed beneath the officer's substantial form.
Slowly, cautiously, he tried sliding out from under the man. But it was impossible without jostling him considerably. Praying the officer was too drunk to notice, he rolled the bulky weight off of himself and sat up.
Only to be pulled back down.
"Stay." The order was quiet and sleepy, but unmistakable in its firmness. Not to be disobeyed.
He was enclosed by long arms and pulled against a hard chest. He didn't dare try leave now.
He remained alert as long as he could. But sleep pulled at his senses, and eventually he was lulled to sleep by the steady inhale and exhale of the warm body next to him.
...
Historical notes:
The basics:
Sachsenhausen concentration camp, located just north of Berlin, was used by the Nazis to imprison "undesirable" elements of society, from regular criminals to homosexuals to Jews. The majority, however, were political prisoners, who could be communists, Social Democrats, anarchists, etc. I've posted a map of the camp (which has a triangular layout) here.
The red triangle ("Das rote Dreieck") was the badge that identified political prisoners, just as pink identified homosexuals, green criminals, yellow Jews, and so on.
After the war, the Soviets converted Sachsenhausen into a camp for German prisoners; these were mostly Nazi functionaries, including former Sachsenhausen administrators, though prisoners also included civilians denounced as opponents of Stalin's regime and even some people who had already been persecuted by the Nazis. An unfortunate pattern in Soviet-occupied territories was that opponents of the Nazi regime, who had suffered its oppression throughout the war, were then vilified by the Soviet "liberators" because they were not strictly Stalinist. Soviet propaganda went so far as to lump these anti-Nazi resisters in with the fascists themselves; part of the twisted logic was that only collaborators could possibly have survived the Nazi terror. This is how, after the war (starting in August 1945 in the fic) both Ludwig and Gilbert find themselves prisoner in the same camp.
Timeline:
1932–the Preußenschlag, or Prussian coup; the dismissal of Otto Braun's cabinet, which helped pave the way for the Nazi rise to power
1933–Hitler becomes Chancellor and quickly suppresses all political opposition
1936–Sachsenhausen built, at first exclusively for political prisoners
1939–World War II begins. Inmates at Sachsenhausen now include various ethnic/racial groups and increasing numbers of foreigners from Nazi-occupied countries imported for slave labor (like Feliks).
1941–At least 12,000 Soviet POWs are murdered at Sachsenhausen in gassing vehicles (mobile gas chambers) and by being shot in the neck through a concealed hole in the wall while being "measured for uniforms."
1942–Permanent execution chamber, gas chamber, and crematorium (much smaller than those at death camps like Auschwitz-Birkenau) erected at Sachsenhausen
August 1944 (fic start)–the war is in its last year and Germany's prospects aren't looking so great. Most of the Jewish prisoners have long since been deported to Auschwitz.
February 1945–preparations for evacuation begin in the face of the Red Army's advance. Many "high risk" and sick prisoners are murdered.
April 1945–Germany is in its final throes but fanatical ideology pushes many to fight till the end in the belief that the Führer will still save the country. Sachsenhausen is evacuated on the 21st, leaving thousands of those unable to march behind. They are liberated on the 22nd by the Red Army. The evacuated prisoners begin the process of an 8-day death march. Thousands die of exhaustion on the way; any who stumble or cannot keep up are shot by the SS guards. On April 29th the guards abandon the prisoners, who eventually meet units of Allied soldiers.
August 1945–Special Camp No. 7 of the NKVD (Soviet secret police) is moved from its former location to the site of concentration camp Sachsenhausen
References (starting with chapter 1):
Kapo–a prisoner (usually a green triangle criminal) appointed by the SS to act as a camp functionary/policeman. Enjoyed special privileges, known for their brutality towards fellow prisoners.
Bolshevik–Lenin's dominant faction of the Communist Party in the Russian Revolution; in this case, synonymous with Communist.
Brickworks–one of the worst places to work as a prisoner. The factory produced bricks with which the envisioned fascist capital city would be constructed.
Obersturmführer–a ranking in the SS equivalent to First Lieutenant.
Klinkenwerk–the brickworks.
Prussian Junkers–land-owning military nobility of Prussia, many of whom held large estates in the East until the end of the war.
Schuhläuferkommando–punishment work detail, assigned to test boots for the Wehrmacht (part of Sachsenhausen's shoe factory). Prisoners were forced to march nearly 50 kilometers in a day along a test track with various terrain surfaces, sometimes with heavy backpacks. Death from exhaustion was common.
Social Democrats–a main political party in Weimar Germany, left of center but not revolutionary (communists tended to hate them as much as they hated Nazis). The popular "stab in the back" myth propagated by conservatives after World War I told that Social Democrats in the government (along with communists and Jews) had betrayed the country by surrendering before Germany was really beaten.
Otto Braun–Social Democrat and Prime Minister of the Free State of Prussia for most of the Weimar period. In the politically tumultuous interwar period, his government proved the most effective within the Weimar system, until it was purposely undermined by Nazi supporters in order to clear the way for Hitler (see Preußenschlag on the timeline).
"bore us to death" and women clearing the wreckage (Oct. 1945 section)–whereas Sachsenhausen had been a work camp under the Nazis, prisoners suffered from a lack of activity under Soviet supervision. In the meantime, due to the lack of civilian men, women (known as the "Trümmerfrauen" or "rubble women") became largely responsible for the task of clearing away the ruins of bombed cities and rebuilding.
Mein Kampf: If you don't already know, the book Hitler wrote while in jail in the 20s. The title means "My Struggle." It outlines his ideology and vision for Germany, yet according to Goebbels (at least I think it was Goebbels) practically no high ranking Nazi officials actually read it. Can't blame them; it's kinda dense.
NSDAP: Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, or Nazi Party.
brownshirts: SA stormtroopers, who wore brown shirts with their uniform.
SA: Sturmabteilung, Nazi paramilitary organization, which was superseded by the SS (Schutzstaffel) in 1934 after the Night of the Long Knives.
Night of the Long Knives: a purge of the Nazi ranks that took place from June 30-July 2, 1934, during which those seen as Hitler's political and ideological rivals were arrested or murdered. These included mostly members and leaders of the SA.
Röhm: Ernst Röhm was the leader of the SA. He was executed during the Night of the Long Knives. To legitimize the purge, the Nazis made up the excuse that Röhm had been planning a coup to overthrow Hitler.
Strasser and the "beefsteaks": Not an indie band name, catchy as it is. Gregor Strasser (along with his brother Otto, who was thrown out of the party earlier) was a leading figure in the strain of Nazi ideology that emphasized the need to topple the old German elites and impose a new social order. He and Röhm represent the "leftist" wing of the party. They believed that Hitler coming to power was the first stage of the revolution, and the next, socialist stage, was yet to be fulfilled. "Beefsteak" Nazis refers to followers of Strasserism, who held revolutionary communist views and hoped to see them fulfilled by the Nazis. The term comes from the idea that they were brown on the outside (brownshirts) but red on the inside (communists). Strasserism was still an essentially nationalistic and racist, anti-Semitic ideology.
Jedem das Seine: "To each his own" or "To each what he deserves" from the Latin suum cuique. This motto was displayed on the entrance gates to Buchenwald concentration camp (at Sachsenhausen the motto on the gates was the infamous Arbeit macht frei, "work makes you free," as at Auschwitz).
general note: Hitler was able to come to power by working with less radical, old-school conservatives and monarchists within the government, who mistakenly believed that they could control Hitler and the Nazi party if they incorporated them into the government. It was partly to appease these sorts of politicians and old military leaders that Hitler carried out the purge of the SA, which was seen as too thuggish and radical.
note on concentration camps: work camps like Sachsenhausen were integrated into the economy and administration of the towns where they were located. Townspeople knew exactly where and what they were, even if they didn't know all the details of what went on inside. It was completely normal for them to see prisoners being taken to and from work at various sites in and around town every day.
Appell–roll call, conducted twice a day in the camps. All prisoners had to stand still for the duration, sometimes for hours on end, no matter the weather.