Warning: AU –Second World War

M-Rated!Contains coarse language, violent imaginary related to the context of war, and sex.

I do not own South Park. I do not own anything. I wish I was that f* genius!

Just when Kyle thought things could not get worse, they got.

It was already difficult enough to keep up with the heavy labor, intensified by Herr Cartman's pushing around. It was already bad enough to have to deal with the fact other Jews avoided any contact with him and his family. It was already horrible enough to live in this world of pain and uncertainties. But somehow, the fat Nazi managed to make things even worse.

"Number 24551! Step forward!" Kyle recognized his number during the morning rollcall and took a step forward, already holding a bad feeling in his gut. "Number 14873 has died. You will replace him and take over his tasks from now on. Go to the factory immediately and there you will receive further instructions."

The silence coming from the other Jews around Kyle seemed to intensify after the order was given. He resisted the urge to look at his father and little brother and obeyed the Nazi's command. He walked away from the group, distanced from the barracks and headed in the opposite direction of the working fields. No doubt Herr Cartman was responsible for this change of duty. Kyle swallowed dry. Each step he took closer to the factory made his heart beat faster. Whatever the fat Nazi had come up with, could never be good.

Kyle gave a quick look at the factory. It was a large grey building with a single door in the middle and had a few small windows. It looked dirty, unwelcoming and spooky. The red haired Jew raised his head and looked at the sky above the building. Every day, just before evening, black smoke would come out of the factory's chimneys, filling the air with an unpleasant stench. He had heard many stories about this place. Terrible tales that sent chills down his spine. Tales about atrocious torture, pain and death. Kyle's eyes watered as he realized he had not paid goodbye to his father and brother. He would never see his mother again, if she was even still alive. He would never see his best friend again, should the German Nation be ever defeated. He finally reached the old gray building and took a deep breath. He dried out his eyes and lifted his chin bravely. If today he was to die, then he would die with honor and dignity. And so, Kyle slowly walked towards the door, where a guard stood watching him warily.

"Are you 24551?!" The soldier asked angrily. Kyle wondered why Nazis were always so pissed up all the time.

"Yes."

"It's about time! Take the second door on the left!"

Kyle obeyed and entered the dark building. As he walked through the hallway he noticed there were many doors at each side of the corridor's walls and it reminded him of a hospital. A creepy one. He knocked the second door at the left. A voice told him to come in. It was a small office and an officer sat behind a desk.

"Number 24551?" The man asked, barely looking at him.

"Yes." Kyle dryly answered. The man opened a drawer and took out formulary.

"Name?"

"Kyle Broflovski."

"Age?"

"17."

"Barrack?"

"D34."

The man filled in the form and then gave it to Kyle. He stood up and gestured the boy to follow him. With a racing heart, the teenager walked behind the tall man till he stopped at one of the doors. He opened it, gesturing him to enter the room. Kyle obeyed and found himself in a small division with white sterile walls. There was again a man sitting behind a desk, but this time there was also a stretch bed. The man stood up, he was wearing a white cassock, no doubt he was a doctor. Kyle gave him the paper and the man read it diligently. He ordered Kyle to sit down on the bed and performed a series of routine examinations. When he finished, he wrote something in his typing machine and afterwards, dialed his phone to say 24551 was ready to go. Soon there was a knock on the door and a new soldier ordered Kyle to follow him. They walked along the long and dark corridor with many doors. He strained his eyes a bit as they reached the end of it and entered a large empty division with grey walls and an intoxicating smell in the air. The soldier pointed him a strange hand cart. It was longer than usual. Its sides were also higher and rounder.

"Number 24551. During morning shift, you'll search for corpses in the men's work fields and bring them to the morgue, the door at your right." Kyle followed the man's index while he felt his insides turn and thought his heart would explode. Did the man just say corpses and morgue? "During the afternoon shift, you'll proceed your task at the women's work fields. You are to transport maximum two adult bodies at the time, or one adult and two children or four children." The man coolly said, like if this was the most banal thing in the world. "When the doctor is ready examining the bodies, you will bring them over here and pile them up. At 06.00 p.m you will burn the bodies in the ovens." He pointed at the three holes on the wall. "You'll leave at 07.00 p.m. Not earlier, not later. Bodies you hadn't had time to burn will remain for the next day. Now go!"

Kyle, who was shaking from head to toes, lifted the hand cart, exited the factory and headed towards the men's working fields. His brains were still trying to process what he had just learned. Tears fell down his face unknowingly. He'd seen men collapse sometimes. He knew most of the times it was because they died. But he never questioned how the dead bodies were removed from the fields. He had always assumed the Nazis were the ones to handle this. He bit his under lip as reality sourly sunk in. Herr Cartman had made him Dachau's bodies' fetcher. He took a deep breath while a mixture of emotions invaded him. Anger, hatred, self-pity, revolt, disgust. But he knew he needed to be strong. He knew he needed to control his emotions. Otherwise he would give the sick Nazi exactly what he wished for. When he arrived the men's work fields, a soldier came to him.

"24551?" God, how he was starting to hate this number. He nodded, never looking at the Nazi. "You are only allowed to walk between the trenches. Do not disturb the others' work."

With a strangled "yes, sir", Kyle entered the first trench while he tried to scan the ground around him. But instead, he followed the movements of thin weary men and frail weak children. Jews with hollow eyes, tired, sad, beaten up. They were slaves of a world that have gone mad. They lived only to work, they survived only to delay their death. Kyle walked down several trenches with stumbling feet, pushing the cart that sunk in the soft mud. His eyes were always scanning the grounds, seeking and seeking for what he hoped never to find. And then his heart stopped. His vision was blurred by tears. He found his first corpse.

It was a man lying on his stomach with his face to the ground. Kyle clumsily walked away from the trench and approached the body. With shaky hands, he hesitantly touched the corpse. His fingers carefully pressed on the cold skin, like if he was afraid the corpse would attack him. Kyle blinked and hot tears fell on the ground. He took a deep breath and grabbed one of the man's arms. He suppressed an agonizing groan for it felt cold and hard. Gently, he turned the stiff body over and looked upon the dead man's face. Kyle turned around, his hand pressed on his mouth, his eyes shut tightly. A couple muffed sobs escaped his lips.

He needed to be strong. He needed to carry on. He didn't know exactly why anymore. He just knew he had to do it. So he turned around and opened his eyes again. He forced himself to look at the dead man. He needed to see reality before his eyes. He needed to confront death if he was to fulfill this new task. He if was to prove Herr Cartman he couldn't break him. The man's lids were half open, glassed eyes looking up, as if the last thing he did was to stare at the sky. His lips were departed, leaving the trace of his last breath. He was terribly skinny, his grey skin sunk against the bones. More tears were shed and Kyle couldn't look at those dead eyes any longer. So he gently pushed down the lids with his fingers. Afterwards, he dragged the body to the trench, lifted it up enough to place it on the cart. And headed away, searching for more corpses lying on the ground.

…

Gerald Broflovski observed his son concerned. Kyle had stood in the lunch line with a blank expression the whole time. He walked automatically, got his soup and sat next to his family.

"Where were you all morning?" Ike asked. The child stared alarmed at his brother, who was behaving strangely. Kyle didn't react to the question. The voice had sounded distant, empty of any meaning. He sat eating his soup without tasting it. Ike noticed his big brother was paler than usual and his hands were shaky. "Kyle?" He called, a bit louder this time.

Kyle heard the child's voice. He stopped eating and slowly turned his head to look at his brother. Ike felt a chill run down his spine. The older boy's look was a haunted one. Kyle stared at his little brother like if it was the first time he ever saw him. His gaze was entranced by all that sparkling life in the child's dark eyes, all that youthful energy imprinted on his young face. And he wondered for how much longer. Before that light would eventually die and those shinny orbs would become cloudy and dead. A wave of regretful compassion swept over his face and he rested his hand on his little brother's cheek. It felt soft. It felt warm. And then, he started crying. While Ike stared confused at his big brother, Mr. Broflovski put his bowl of soup on the floor and embraced tightly his older son. For, this morning, he had seen Kyle, down below at the trenches, transporting corpses on a long hand cart.

"It's okay Kyle, just let it all out." The father said, while he pressed his boy's body closer to his and rocked him back and forward like if he was a little child. "You'll be okay, my son. You'll be okay."

Not so far from them, a large fat SS officer watched the scene closely. He grinned evilly. You're going down, Jew. It's only a matter of time.

…

There is always hope, even in the darkest of all times. Do not believe God has abandoned you. For he spared your live in the selection, as He did your father´s and brother's. He allowed you to stay together, so you could support and take care of each other. He gives you health and strength to survive each single day in this hell. Do not look at the things you have lost, but those you still have. You must keep your faith in God. He watches over you, even when you think He doesn't. As for those who departed, they no longer suffer. They are with God now. And He has given you the power to pay them one last honorable respect. I know it's hard for you to accept the idea they don't receive a proper funeral and the blessings of a spiritual leader, but you still can give them one last prayer. Tell them what's in your heart. A small respect is better than none at all.

These were the wise words of priest Maxi, a Roman-Catholic priest who, just like the Jews, was a prisoner in this camp. He was arrested for helping two families with handicap children escape from Germany. And now he spent his days breaking stones and his evenings giving spiritual guidance to men. Their background made no difference to him. It didn't matter if they were Christian, Jewish or Atheist. Because he was a man of God. And in God's eyes, we are all His children.

Gerald Broflovski had heard rumors about this priest in the camp. He had heard of how he lifted up the spirits of the desperate. And so he searched him and asked the man to talk with Kyle. The new bodies' fetcher had been wary and unwillingly at first, but priest Maxi's words did give him the needed hope. He decided to follow the man's advice. He truly hoped uttering small prayers would ease the pain in his heart each time he found a dead human being laying forgotten on the dirty ground.

…

He came across another corpse. This time it was a young man, in the beginning of his twenties. Was. Past tense. He lifted his cold and stiff body, laid him carefully on the hand cart and looked at him. He shook his head, in the brink of tears, thinking how unfair it was. How messed up this world was. That such a young soul should have to suffer such atrocities and die so soon. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

I'm sorry this had to happen to you. I'm sorry your dreams were taken away so soon. I truly hope you are in Heaven now, in a safe haven, living a new life, resting in peace, finding joy beside God.

He opened his watery eyes, grabbed the hand cart and proceeded with his work. He had to be quick and discreet so no soldier would be suspicious of his behavior or think he was taking a break. He sighed, a bit relieved, while he walked. He found it remarkable that priest Maxi had been right. He did feel a bit better after saying a prayer. And so, this way, this horrible task became a little bit easier. It became bearable enough to carry on.

A/N

The function of bodies' fetcher was the most feared function of all prisoners in concentration camps. Not because it was physically heavy (actually, the work was light) but because it was mentally a strain for men's physiological and emotional condition. Men used to fetch bodies' until they would become crazy. When they reached insanity, the Nazi would simply execute him and substitute him with another bodies' fetcher, and so on. The hand cart is real. I saw one at Kamp Vucht, along with the ovens.

As you probably already figured out, the two families that father Maxi helped are those from Jimmy Vulmer and Timmy.