A/N: This is not a pleasant chapter, and I apologize for that, but it was crucial for the story. It's from Herr Eberhardt's point of view.

The sound of my alarm clock ripped through the silent house, and I quickly sent my hand flying down at it to shut it off. I straightened up in my bed, blinking away the useless sleep, and peeled the blanket off of me in one quick move. I walked to the mirror and looked at myself. I had achieved everything that I wanted in life. I had an Aryan wife—although the woman was pathetic and vomit-worthy—and the best job in all of Nazi Germany. I was the head of one of the Third Reich's finest and largest extermination camps. Thousands of worthless animals were slaughtered in this camp, and there were many more thousands to come. I was not a person to be excited—but the thought of hundreds of thousands of those arrogant nothings dying under my watch, by my power, excited me.

I smiled at myself through the mirror as I thought of their faces when I do my monthly checks down at the camp. Each one mortified that he or she will be the next one killed. It was wonderful to have the power to pull out one of them, make him beg for his life, and then shoot him in the head. It made me almost peaceful to see them drop to the ground, blood pooling around them, their faces frozen in terror. I would always chuckle a little, then raise my gaze back to the crowd of animals before me, their faces all just as petrified as the one of the person whom I had just killed, and pick out the next to be killed. If I was just driving through the camp, I'd make it a habit of running over any imbecile who was stupid enough to stand on the path. Something about the sound of their bodies as they were crushed under the wheels of my Mercedes calmed me, and it had become sort of a frequent hobby.

After brushing my teeth, shaving, and putting on my uniform, I left the room and made my way down the hall instead of toward the stairs. The door of my wife's room was open, and I peered inside. She was sleeping soundlessly, her left ear to her pillow and her hands held together before her. I liked her best when she was sleeping. It was the only time I could stand her. I shook my head and turned to the room opposite of hers—my son's room. I walked in, careful not to make too much noise with my boots. He was sleeping peacefully in his crib. I stood over him for a little bit, examining him. He was two months old already, and the more he grew, the more he looked like Brittany. It was disappointing to know that he wouldn't grow up to look like me, but I was comforted by the thought that I would raise him to act like me. I wouldn't let Brittany teach him kindness and honesty and every other useless thing that she believes in. This child would grow up to be like me.

I let Brittany keep the name Hans. I myself didn't have a name prepared, and Hans was as good a name as any. My only hesitation was giving Brittany what she wanted—I tried my best never to do that. My failure to think of a better name, however, granted her the choice of it.

I left my son's room and made my way down the stairs. Early morning light shone through the living room windows as I made my way to the kitchen, checking to see if my breakfast was ready. When I entered, the cook jumped and quickly turned around, a spatula shaking in his hand. His eyes remained wide with fear as I walked around him to see that my breakfast was still cooking. I turned back to him. "Why isn't my breakfast ready on time?" I uttered quietly, my unrelenting eyes fixed on him.

He mumbled a few words, his eyes to the floor. I slapped him hard across the face, and he grabbed the counter to keep from falling. "Next time you decide to sleep more than you're allowed to, you'll end up in the crematorium. Understood?"

He nodded quickly, his cheek still crimson from the slap, and turned back to cooking. I straightened my uniform and made my way back out to the dining room, disgusted with my servant's actions. Dirty Jew. They're all the same. He should be thankful that he's alive. Him and that good-for-nothing maid.

He was out with my breakfast about five minutes later, and was a bit alarmed to see that I was still standing. He hesitated a bit, and when he saw me cock an eyebrow, he swallowed audibly and hurried to place my food on the table. After that, he quickly disappeared behind the kitchen door. I smiled to myself at the fear that I created in him.

I wouldn't be caught dead complimenting a Jew, but I did have to admit one thing—his cooking was excellent. I swallowed one bite after another until my plate was empty, then gulped down the orange juice that he had set for me on the table. After this, I left the house, feeling accomplished that the day hadn't even started and I had already managed to frighten one worthless inferior.

I sat in the driver's seat of my black Mercedes, turned on the engine, and began to drive the automobile down the dirt road that led to the camp. When I reached the gate, the young Nazi soldier who was always standing at it hurried to push it open for me and saluted me as my car passed through. I caught a glimpse of his eyes—olive green and shining with worry and fear. I shook my head as I continued to drive through the camp. He was too young to understand the importance of working in this camp and serving Deutschland.

Regrettably enough, there were no idiots standing in the way of my Mercedes today, and therefore no one to run over. The prisoners were standing about with small bowls that were probably filled with sad excuses for soup, which is exactly what I wanted. They were like dominoes as my automobile passed through the camp. They would duck their heads in turn as I neared, afraid that I would engage in one of my other hobbies, which was shooting at them through the open window as I passed. I wasn't in a mood for that today, however. I had a meeting in Kraków, and I couldn't be late for it. There was no time for games.

The drive to Kraków was dull and tedious, as always. The meeting was to be held at the Nazi headquarters, a tall building in the center of the city. When I arrived, I gave my keys to the guard standing outside of the building so that he would park my car for me, and walked confidently inside. I found myself in a grand entrance hall with a marble staircase leading up to the second floor. Aldous Von Richter was standing by the staircase, and a cold smile spread across his lips as I wandered toward him. "Richart! It's been a while. Word is you're a father."

I let a forced smile appear on my face. "Yes, I've got a boy."

"Congratulations, congratulations. A son is always better." He patted me on the back. "How's your wife?"

"She's fine," I said curtly.

"Just fine?" His eyes twinkled dangerously. "Isn't she proud to be continuing the Aryan race?"

I clenched my jaw, quite aware that I was stepping on thin ice. "Of course."

He stared unyieldingly at me for a few more moments before his infamous heartless smile made its way back to his face. "Well, then. Let's start the meeting, shall we?"

He led me out of the grand hall, and I sighed silently. Aldous Von Richter was famous for his backstabbing. He may have made me First Commandant of Auschwitz, but he can just as easily send the Gestapo after me. One wrong move and I would disappear. Although I couldn't blame him—if I had his power, I'd make anyone who crossed me disappear like they never existed.

We entered a large meeting room, and Nazi officials were standing about, chatting. When Von Richter stepped in, they all pointed their hands toward the ceiling and said, "Heil Hitler."

The meeting was slow and frustrating. Von Richter wanted to bring more prisoners to Auschwitz, ignoring my insistence that we had too many already for our guard force to handle. After two hours of cautious bartering, we settled for increasing the amount of prisoners that we sent to the gas chambers, making space for the new prisoners. It was a compromise, but it would do.

Once the meeting was over, I scooped my jacket off of the chair and began to slide my arms into it. I was thinking about Katharina, the girl I was about to spend the rest of my day with, when I felt a little tap on my shoulder. I turned around and grunted in disgust. It was Frieda, a repulsive soldier with oily black hair who used her red lipstick much too excessively. She was one of the commanding officers at the camp. How a woman had even gotten into her position in the SS was far beyond my knowledge. She smiled and looked me up and down. "So…" she began. "How's the girl?"

I leaned away from the stench of her breath and rolled my eyes. "Who? My wife?"

"No, no, the girl that your wife had gotten for you last year from the camp… Or is she—not with us anymore?" She chuckled throatily. "Your wife just wasn't enough for you, was she? You had to have the gypsy from the camp, too."

I stared at her, waiting for her to break into laughter and say that it was all a joke. What the hell was she talking about?

But she didn't. Her eyes turned questioning, and I knew that I would look like a fool if I didn't know what my wife was up to. "I don't think that's any of your business, Frieda."

"I could make you a happy man…" she trailed her finger down the front of my uniform. I slapped it away, gave her one last hateful glance, and walked out of the room, my mind racing. Brittany brought a girl from the camp? Under my very nose? Impossible.

I had forgotten completely about Katharina until I reached my automobile and found her waiting for me, leaning on the black doors. I motioned for her to get away from the car, and she made her way to me. She tried to hug me, but I pushed her off and said, "Not today."

"But—" she began, her eyes wide with confusion.

"No but's!" I roared. "I said not today!"

She stumbled back and I opened the door of my Mercedes, got in, and slammed it closed. I could feel my face reddening with rage as I speeded out of the parking lot, almost running over a young Polish couple in the process. It would be easy enough for Brittany to hide a person in the house…probably in the servants' quarters, given the trust that she held for those vile Jews. The gypsy would be free to roam the house during the day, when I wasn't there. Suddenly everything made sense. The time I thought someone was in Brittany's closet…or a few months ago, when I was sure that I heard a sound outside in the gravel. Before this revelation, you could almost think that the house was haunted by a ghost. Now it all made sense. I remembered the fear on Brittany's face the morning after I had heard the sound in the gravel. She must have understood the triumph on my face to be a sign that I had killed her gypsy friend, when in fact I just felt victorious because I had won a great amount of money in a gambling game the night before.

Was the gypsy really just a friend to Brittany? Would Brittany risk everything, her wellbeing as well as our son's, for a friend? Or was there something more between them? I inhaled sharply and tightened my hands on the steering wheel at the nauseating thought of my wife in bed with another woman, and an inferior one at that.

I punched the steering wheel in fury. How long had I been sharing my wife with this gypsy girl? How long has her skin been dirty, impure? She was an Aryan. How dare she hold a relationship with an inferior behind my back? Who did she think she was?

I tried to calm my breathing. I had to find out the truth before letting anger take over me. For all I knew, I could've been enraged about something that was not real. For all I knew, Frieda could have been a liar among the many other unattractive things that she was. It may have just been a sad attempt to talk her way into my bed. I couldn't make speculations such as my wife cheating on me with an inferior woman without a basis for those speculations, other than the word of that repulsive swine. I had to find the facts before I acted.

By the time I reached Auschwitz, I was as quiescent as can be. Even if there was a gypsy hiding in my house, all I'd have to do is shoot her in the head and this would all disappear. I had the power here, not them. I would not be played like a pawn in a chess game.

As I drove up the hill to the house, I realized that it was the sounds that my automobile made that alerted them to my arrival. Nevertheless, I drove until my car settled before the front porch, and opened the door. I wanted to obtain information before catching them in the act.

Sure enough, when I entered through the front door, the gypsy, whether real or not, was nowhere to be seen. Brittany was sitting at the dining room table with Hans in her arms. She turned to me when she heard me enter the house, her face slightly alarmed as she swayed her body back and forth to keep the baby calm. I eyed her suspiciously as I walked into the dining room, looking for any guilt in her expression, but there was none. Either she was innocent or she felt no remorse for doing something as abhorrent as sleeping with a dirty, worthless inferior woman.

As soon as I sat down opposite her, the cook appeared through the kitchen door, carrying our lunch. I paid no attention to him as he set the plates before us, hurrying to leave the room immediately after. The maid scooped Hans out of Brittany's arms, and Brittany turned to her plate, glanced up at me for a brief second, and then began to eat. I stared unyieldingly at her for a few more moments before making my decision—to search for any evidence of the crime that I suspected to have been committed in her room. I told the maid to leave my dinner on the table and that I would be back shortly, and made my way calmly up the stairs. I could see Brittany's puzzled face follow me until I disappeared from her view.

I walked into her room, closed the door silently behind me, and looked around. I searched for any sign that the gypsy had been there, but there was nothing in plain view. I opened her closet, but there was nothing suspicious in there either, just clothes that she wore on a daily basis. I closed it and turned, my eyes scouting for any hint. I decided to check in the drawer of her nightstand, and was delighted to see a diary lying in it. It must have held everything that I was looking for.

I opened it and saw a child's writing on the first page. It must have been a gift from Brittany's sister. I continued to flip through it, stopping only briefly to catch a few sentences, all of which incriminated my wife. I went down to the concentration camp…I took her back to the house with me…I love her… I clenched my jaw and continued to flip through the journal. I kissed her…We made love…She's the love of my life, Anna, and I'm going to raise my baby with her… I threw the diary back into the drawer and slammed it closed, rage building up inside me again. I had two options—one, find the gypsy and kill her now, or two, wait until tomorrow to catch them in the act. At the moment, the first one seemed much more appealing. But I wanted to see for myself what they did every day while I was gone.

I stayed in the room for a few more moments, waiting for the fury to melt away, before making my way back down the stairs. Brittany was still eating, and I joined her at the table and began to eat as well without a word.

That night, I couldn't sleep. For some reason, I was feeling hot and bothered, sexually. I considered satisfying my need with Brittany, and then remembered that she had engaged in sex with an inferior. She was damaged beyond repair.

The morning after, I did everything as if I was about to leave the house for business. When I was eating breakfast, Brittany came downstairs with Hans in her arms, a bit surprised to see that I was still in the house. She glanced cautiously at me as she entered the dining room, sitting down in the chair opposite of mine. She was silent as she watched Hans, his blue eyes looking back up at her. Had my son grown to love the foul gypsy, too?

After I finished my breakfast, I grabbed my things and left the house. I entered my vehicle, and with one last glance at the house, began to drive down the hill. When I was about halfway down, I slowed the automobile and pulled off to the side. I imagined how I'd walk in on them holding my son together, or even kissing. How I'd grab the filth by her hair, drag her outside, point my gun to her head, and shoot. She only provided trouble, and needed to be rid of immediately.

I waited in my Mercedes for about half an hour before starting to make my way back up the hill, on foot. I wanted to give them enough time to feel safe, and to do what they'd usually do.

It took me about ten minutes to reach the house again, and I walked to the front door, trying to be as quiet as possible. When I opened it, I found the living room to be empty. I advanced in, careful not to make any sounds. What I heard when I reached the base of the stairs made fury ignite in me once again like a lit match in a forest.

Soft moans echoed from upstairs, and quiet mumbles of the name "Santana." I slipped off my boots, placed them in a side closet so that they wouldn't be seen, and silently climbed the stairs. Extremely cautious not to make a sound, I walked down the hall and found, to my astonishment, that the door of Brittany's bedroom stood slightly ajar. She must have left it open so that she would hear Hans if he began to cry.

The door was open just enough for me to see exactly what was happening in the room. A dark-skinned woman was lying naked on top of my wife, her face buried in my wife's neck and her hands cupping her breasts. Brittany's head was thrown back, her left hand clutching the gypsy's hair and her right running up and down the gypsy's body. I knew that I should make my presence known, watch their faces become pale with horror, and drag that thing off of my wife. But there was a bulge growing in my pants. I realized, with extreme embarrassment, that this scene aroused me rather than disgusted me.

My breath catching in my throat, I dropped silently to my knees and forced my pants and briefs down as the gypsy moved down my wife's body, its mouth now latched onto one of her breasts. Brittany's moans grew more passionate, more heated, and her body began to rock back and forth. Crouching so that I wouldn't be seen, I began to slide my hand up and down my penis, my arousal melting into excitement.

In the room, the gypsy's head was now hovering above my wife's sex, the latter's legs bent and opened widely. The gypsy muttered a few words before dropping its head and beginning to lick my wife's core. Brittany grunted, her legs quivering, and sent both of her hands to grip the filth's hair, her hips beginning to rock into its face. It moaned quietly as it continued to lick her vagina, and gripped onto her thighs to steady them. My hand quickened.

This should have been nauseating to me, not arousing. But there was something about the way Brittany arched her back, so devoted, so trusting of the thing beneath her. She was never like that with me. She never enjoyed what I had to give her as much as she was enjoying what the gypsy had to give her now. Not to say that I enjoyed it much. I preferred sleeping with whores than with her. At least I got some kind of reaction from them. She was like a lifeless doll. Never made a sound, never showed any emotion but the tears that slid down her face.

But not now. Now I was seeing a Brittany that I had never seen before. She was ardent and joyful and, I admitted reluctantly, in love. In love with scum, dirt of the earth, a complete nothing. What woman in her right mind would fall in love with something like that and not with a wealthy, successful, powerful Aryan?

My hand still working feverishly and my breath becoming uneven, I turned my attention back to the room. Brittany couldn't keep quiet anymore. Her moves were jagged and desperate, her hands clutching its head as close as possible to her. She was crying the gypsy's name, and it only hummed back in response while it continued to work fervently. At last, Brittany's body began to shake as she ripped through her orgasm, something that had never been presented to me before. I was never able to make her reach her climax.

My breath hitched, and I realized, alarmed, that I was about to come. I let go of my penis, held my pants up, and hurried silently to the bathroom, where I continued to rub above the toilet until I emptied into it. I breathed heavily but quietly until I calmed.

As I pulled my pants up and fastened my belt, I came to a decision. I would let them finish what they were doing today, allow them a last goodbye. And tomorrow morning, before Brittany awoke, I would pull that filth outside and grant her a bullet through the head.

Translations

German

"Deutschland" – Germany.

"Gestapo" – The secret police of Nazi Germany.

"SS" – Schutzstaffel, the paramilitary force of Nazi Germany.