A/N: I am really pretty pleased with this chapter, but any kind of feedback would be very helpful. I tried some new things and I'm curious to see if anyone picks up on them. Also this fic might be put on hold for a bit until I make some headway into my SPBB fic.

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We were stuck on the train for three solid days, waiting, waiting, waiting. I was impatient, as I often was, and as time wore on my nonchalance toward my impending doom wore off, and I became anxious once more. There was talk amongst my follow "passengers" as to where we would end up. Many believed the lies they were told about resettlement, and spoke optimistically about our destination. I was irritated by their stupidity. Though I had no idea what horrors awaited us at the time, I was sure that it would not be some lovely pastoral setting, as many seemed to hope. The Nazis didn't want us to till their fields, or run their factories, or whatever these people believed. They wanted us dead. I tried to be nice about the whole thing, I really did, because having worked as a doctor I understood that sometimes people just needed to hold onto whatever hope they had. But it seemed ignorant to me, and I would rather prepare myself for the worst, rather than cling to fantasies.

But of course, as our journey went on, with many long delays that saw our cars stopped for hours in the heat, people began to lose their hope. There wasn't a place in which we could relieve ourselves, so we were forced to squat in a dark corner and try not to soil the shoes of those around us. No one could lay down to sleep because there wasn't enough space, and many people became delirious if they were unable to sleep standing up, or leaning on a wall or a neighbor. Those who fell were usually trampled to death.

Worse than the indignity and exhaustion was the lack of food and water. A person can go days without food, although those who were already starving to death from their time in the ghetto were significantly less hardy, but no water? In a train car parked in the hot sun, crowded with a hundred people standing elbow to elbow and no air circulation, dehydration was quick to kill.

As people became corpses, our instincts from the ghetto kicked in, and we coordinated together to move them to one side, stacking them as best we could against a wall. It might sound horrible, but it gave the survivors a little more space, for which we were all grateful... Until the dead had their revenge with their stench, and the flies they attracted.

When we finally reached our destination my heart froze in terror, but I was relieved, too. I was ready to flee the hot, smelly Hell on wheels I'd inhabited for three days. Had I only known then what I know now.

The departing "passengers" blink in the harsh sunlight, their eyes so used to the dim light of the train car. There is a little station house, and above it is a sign that says "Treblinka". There is no time to take this in, however, because as soon as you exit the car, the officers begin to yell at you.

"Out! Everybody out! Leave the heavy baggage! It will be delivered later!"

I had brought no possessions with me, and so while some were fretting over their belongings, I simply climb out of the car, hoping for fresh air, but the air is anything but fresh. It smells like the streets of the Warsaw ghetto, a hundredfold. The stench of death makes me freeze in my tracks, but the crowd behind me shoves me along.

There are men with whips and pistols directing us, and we pass through a gate, into a square with wooden barracks on either side. We are all forced to strip, right there in the square, men and women alike. Everyone is shaking with nerves, eying each other with apprehension. The children begin to cry, and so do some of the adults, although they are admonished by their neighbors, because everyone still wants to pretend that things will be ok. The women who are reluctant to strip are attacked by guards, who tear their clothing off them as they scream and try to shield their bodies. Everyone averts their eyes. Then the men are sent to the right, and women and children to the left. Nobody knows what any of this means.

A guard walks by me and orders me to the side, tells me to get dressed again. Who am I to argue when he's waving a gun around? I grab my clothing and hat from the pile I'd thrown them in, and hastily put them back on again. The man yells something in German that I don't quite catch to another man who is wearing the Star of David on his sleeve. A Jew, but he clearly works for these people, and he waves me toward him. I go without hesitation, glad to be free from the chaos of the crowds.

"You're lucky," the man says to me in Yiddish, "But not that lucky, I suppose, since you are here."

"What do you mean?" I ask, struggling to keep up with him as he leads me away.

"Sergeant Schiffner has been looking for a housekeeper. You are to work for him."

"Housekeeper? What?"

The man stops abruptly in his tracks and turns to me sharply.
"Can you clean?" he asks.

"Well, yes."

"Do laundry? Relay messages? Cook?"

I hesitated, "I don't know much about cooking, to be honest."

"Well, you'd better learn, Red, or you'll meet the same fate as the others."

Of course, I had no idea what that meant yet, but it was ominous enough that when he stalked off again, I hurried behind him.

I was led to what looked like some sort of administration building, and locked into the basement with no explanation. I wasn't too happy to be shut back into a dark space after three days on that God-forsaken train, but at least it was cool and quiet down there. I found a rickety-looking cot in the corner, and decided to try and sleep while I waited for whatever I was waiting for.

I was awoken some time later when someone kicked the cot over, knocking me onto the floor.

There was a man standing in front of me, and when I looked up and realized that he was an SS officer, I quickly got to my feet, taking off my hat and keeping my eyes on the ground, as we were supposed to do.

"Good," he said, but I still didn't look up, "Upstairs, now."

I followed him and he showed me around his small apartment, pointing out things like the broom closet, and where the pots and pans were hung. I was furious and humiliated at being reduced to some kind of housewife. I was a doctor, not a servant! But arguing with an SS officer produced the same results every time, and in the last few days I'd regained my will to live, if only out of spite for the people who had done this to me. So I didn't argue, because I didn't want to die. I just did as I was told, and hoped it would be good enough to earn another day of life. Maybe if I was lucky this man would choke to death on something I cooked. One can always hope.

A routine was quickly established. The Sergeant left the apartment fairly early in the morning, and I was expected to have his breakfast ready before he left. Then I cleaned, made his bed, did laundry, so on and so forth. He'd given me all the necessary supplies, including a cookbook, which was fortunate since I really had no idea how to cook before I left Warsaw. Usually I was allowed to eat the leftovers, so I always made a bit extra to keep myself well fed, although my cooking tasted horrible to me when compared to the delicious meals my mother had once made. I tried not to think about it.

When the Sergeant came back in the evening, he expected me to make myself scarce, which was fine by me. After making sure he had everything he needed, I'd retreat down to the basement and hide out there until the next morning.

I felt I'd lost my whole identity working for him. They'd shaved my head to prevent the spreading of lice. I had wanted my whole life to work as a doctor, and here I was shining some German bastard's muddy boots. I rarely saw anyone but him, and I felt too much like some spoiled little prince to associate with the other inmates when I'd leave the SS officers' barracks. Hell, the Sergeant even referred to me as either, "Jew," or, "Boy," and everyone else called me, "Red," so it was as if Kyle Broflovski didn't exist anymore.

I was mostly left alone, but occasionally the Sergeant would come down to the basement and beat me until I could hardly stand. It was never provoked by anything I could see, and I was always expected to carry out my duties a usual, even with my face bruised and my body aching. But despite the black eyes and bloody noses I'd wind up with, I felt relatively lucky. I'd learned very quickly what was going on in the other parts of the camp, and it was worse than I had thought.

Had I not been selected to be a servant, I would have been sent into a chamber with fake shower heads in the ceiling. Then great engines would have pumped carbon monoxide into the chamber, and I would have died a slow, agonizing death from suffocation. The concept was difficult to wrap my head around, but to the Germans and the men working in the camp, it was all so routine.

The men went first, while the women and children stood outside, waiting. They could hear the sounds of agony from within the chamber, so even though they were told it was simply a shower, they knew better. But there was no way out. To try and turn back would mean being torn apart by dogs, or being beaten to death, or shot. The victims were like caged animals, not knowing what to do in their panic.

Not everyone died in the chamber, either. Amongst the heaps of blue and purple corpses were always a few survivors, gasping for air as the chamber doors opened. It didn't matter, though. They would either be shot, or thrown into the pits with all the corpses, where they would be burned alive.

So yes, I might sound flippant when I say being beaten on occasion wasn't so bad, but I mean it. I imagined myself in those chambers all the time. Smashed against thousands of others, terrified, and gasping for air. People panicking, doing anything to escape the dying masses. Pushing others to the floor, trying to climb up the fucking walls, anything to stay alive, to keep breathing, to escape the pain. In my nightmares I would be one of the survivors. I would go through the ten or twenty minutes of suffocation, only to burn to death on the pyres. To this day I still have those nightmares, even though Treblinka is far behind me.

So I found I could not complain about my arrangement with the Sergeant, which lasted for several months. But at some point he tired of me, or found someone better, or something. I never knew what exactly prompted my exile from his quarters, but I was sent to work in the camp.

He must have been a little fond of me, or at least thought I was a capable worker, because usually servants that were dismissed were simply shot. For a while I was sent to work on the team that sorted the clothing and belongings of the dead.

When there were transports coming into the camp, times were relatively good. Because, you see, those of us who were not killed had access to all the things the victims had brought with them, and that included food. Of course, we would all be killed if we were caught taking anything as we sorted through the piles of the items left behind. But that never stopped a single person. We ate like kings. Whenever we wanted something new to wear, we took it. We ferreted away any money or gold we thought would go unnoticed, because everyone had escape in mind, and to escape you needed money for food or bribery. It was all very practical. The rightful owners of these things were dead, so it all belonged to us, as long as we could get away with taking it. All we had to do was ignore our consciences. With the food and nice clothing we'd steal, most of us looked better during these times than we ever had on the outside, despite the fact that we had to keep our hair shaved off to prevent the spread of lice. As if that helped.

But there were lulls in the transports, and during these times we were malnourished, and still worked hard. If you did not sort the items fast enough, you were whipped. Even if you did sort the items fast enough, you were whipped. If you looked too happy, you were whipped. If you looked too sad, you were whipped. So on and so forth. You should see my scars.

At night you would lay in the bunks, too exhausted to move, but you could not sleep because the fleas and lice would constantly be biting you. The blankets we all had (which were also stolen from the transports) were always stained with blood, and had to be replaced on a weekly basis.

If all that wasn't enough, a round of typhus swept through the camp, killing some, while simply incapacitating others. We jokingly called the disease "Treblinka", and nearly everyone had it at some point, in varying levels.

One evening we were in the barracks, settling in for the night, and suddenly I became convinced that the man in the bunk next to mine had stolen a piece of bread I'd hidden under my bedroll. I hadn't been feeling well all day, and the loss of this bread (which, in retrospect, I'm not even sure ever existed) enraged me. Though he was twice my size I tried to attack the accused, and was mercifully pulled away by some of the other men before I could land a blow. The man I'd accused was not known for his kindness or patience, and anyone he'd ever fought had come out of it with a few missing teeth. The men who'd stopped me took one look at my face and felt my forehead. "He's got Treblinka," they said. One of the symptoms was delirium, which was often one of the first symptoms of this particular strain. And so I was sent to the infirmary for a week... a week which I do not remember, for the most part.

I weaved in and out of consciousness, and when I was awake I had hallucinations of my mother. She'd come to me and put a cool cloth against my forehead, and when she'd leave again I'd cry out for her. When my fever finally broke I noticed the odd looks I received from the men in the other bunks, and I couldn't quite tell if it was pity or annoyance. I assume the latter, because when I went back to work everyone knew I'd cried for my dead mother while I was sick, and several of the men mocked me for it. Still, others seemed happy to see me back on my feet, so I ignored the jokes hurled at me. It's not as if I could have helped it, anyway, but I would think that since everyone there had lost all their loved ones as well, they might be a little more understanding. But compassion is hard to come by in a death camp, I suppose.

One morning at roll call, only a few weeks after my recovery, several men were selected to be transferred to the "second camp". The way Treblinka worked was that the people selected to work there were "broken in" in the main camp. This was where the trains were unloaded, and we sorted through the belongings of the victims. The second camp was the death camp. The victims were sent there, down a path called the pipeline and into the gas chambers where they were killed. From there the bodies were disposed of, in mass graves at first, but at some point during my stay in Treblinka they had begun to burn them instead, a method that left the whole area covered in a thin layer of ash. The SS never sent workers directly from the trains to the death camp, because they realized early on that a person had to become numb to what was going on around them before they would be capable of such work. But they often made stupid choices when picking out new workers for that area, which was thoroughly demonstrated when one of the officers chose me. As if I had ever been able to ignore what was going on around me!

The officer pulled me out of line, and when I hesitated, he hit me over the head with his whip. I yelped and dashed forward to join the others who had been chosen, casting a wide-eyed look back at my companions who were staying behind. Those who went through the fence into the death camp never returned. Once you go through the fence, there is no change of clothes. There is no feast generously left behind by the dead. There are no spoils of war. There is nothing but corpses everywhere you look, and the ashes of the burnt victims on your skin and in your teeth.

We went through the fence reluctantly, but you can't exactly tell an SS officer that you don't want to go; that you don't think you're even capable of doing the work. You go, or you die, and you try not to think about the fact that once your usefulness has expired, you will as well.

Even when there were no transports coming in, which was more often than not that summer, there was always work to be done. Because, you see, the Nazis were trying to clean house a little. Everyone realized pretty early on that they were trying to cover their tracks, but who could stop them? Not us, certainly.

So what did that mean in the death camp? We had the unenviable task of digging up the corpses that had been buried earlier in the mass graves, and moving them over to the fires to be burned. I'm not talking about some nice, sun-bleached bones. I'm talking about half-rotted corpses, in varying stages of decomposition. Some were still recognizable to an extent: this man had blonde hair, this woman was pretty, this child was probably cute before someone smashed his face in. But many were... well, I'll let you imagine it, because it's too horrifying to talk about, even now.

And the stench... when you'd get off duty at the end of the day and you'd find a place to sleep on the barrack floor, you felt so fucking filthy that you wanted to light your skin on fire just so it would stop crawling. There was no escape from the stink of death, or the feel of rotting flesh against your skin.

And on top of that, you can't even imagine how many flies there were. Thousands of them swarming us at all times, laying eggs upon the corpses until you were practically knee-deep in maggots.

And when the transports came in, there were fresh corpses to dispose of. Suddenly I was the one throwing not-quite-dead people into the fires, and listening to them moan and scream with their last breaths.

At one point we received one last transport from Warsaw. Later I would hear from others that these were the last survivors from an uprising that had taken place there. And though these people were quickly transformed from survivors to victims, they spread their story to anyone in the camp that would listen. Escape had been on the minds of everyone, of course, but this inspiration was what was needed to get everyone into gear. With only a few minimal supplies, these men and women had held off the Germans for a month. The Nazis had to burn down the entire ghetto to retrieve everyone. We were all impressed by those who were brave enough to stand up to the Nazis. The idea of an uprising in Treblinka was stronger than ever.

The transport had another effect on me, though. As I was pulling the bodies out of the gas chamber, I saw a few people I had known, or had seen on the streets. They were barely recognizable, since suffocation from the fumes turned everyone into a swollen, bluish-black mass, but occasionally when hoisting a body from the pile there would be that jolt of recognition. At one point I reached out for a woman's body, only to realize that she had been a friend of my mother's. I jerked away from her in surprise, tripping backwards over another corpse and landing on my ass. Of course there was an SS officer standing only a few feet away, and he was immediately upon me, whipping me savagely until I got back on my feet and returned to the pile of corpses.

At the end of that day I felt so sick that I spent an hour behind the barracks, crying so hard that it made me throw up. It was the first time I'd cried since entering Treblinka, but all I could think was that it could have been me, or someone in my family. Yet here I was, still alive and gracelessly disposing of the people I'd once known.

Throughout the year I had kept my head up, though I'm not sure how. I'm not the strongest person on the planet, and I've been known to be a bit sensitive at times... so it's not as if I wasn't bothered by all of this. Every day since I had arrived at Treblinka I was horrified by myself and by my surroundings. At night when I was trying to sleep, I'd keep thinking, "I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe this is my life now. What kind of person am I?"

But while I may be weak and sensitive, I'm also extremely tenacious. And just when I started to think that I'd had enough, and should just take the easy way out, rumors of an escape plan started flying around. So I stuck it out.

We only heard bits and pieces of what was going on in the main camp, but what we heard sounded promising. As the prisoner's revolt became better planned out, several men in the main camp broke into the munitions storage and stole some grenades, as well as some guns. Two of the guns were smuggled into our camp, and given to men who know how to shoot. Because communication was difficult between the two camps, it was hard to know exactly what was supposed to happen, but we were assured that those on the other side of the fence had it under control. So we waited.

On August 2nd, the plan came to fruition.

First there was the sound of a gunshot from the main camp, and then the sounds of explosions. A great cheer went up all over the camp, and one of the men on our side shot the SS officers who were guarding us. Then they broke down the gate into the main camp.

Utter chaos. Men are running everywhere, trying to avoid being shot or captured, and there are buildings on fire, and several bodies of guards sprawled here and there on the ground.

I have never been much on fighting, and I don't even know how to shoot a gun, but when I come across the body of one of the guards I hate most, I duck behind him to shield myself from any stray bullets, and steal his gun out of its holster. I figure that even if I can't shoot it properly, it might at least give me a way to defend myself. I tuck it into my belt, and take off running with the rest of the crowd.

There are explosions all around, and more bodies on the ground as I get closer to the front of the camp. Building after building catches on fire, and the grenades are being hurled at any officers that come toward us.

Ahead there is the barbed wire fence, and we must climb over it carefully unless we want to become entangled. It is slow going for most, and it gives the men in the watchtowers enough time to pick many of my fellow prisoners off with their machine guns. I am lucky as I climb over, because either their attention has been drawn to another location, or they are reloading. All I know was that there is a momentary lull in the shooting, and I take that opportunity to scramble up the fence. My hands are cut on the wires as I launch myself over it, and I hear bullets zipping past me, close to my head, but I pay no mind to any of that, and I run off into the woods as fast as I can.

I know I am being pursued. I can hear the dogs in the distance, the shouting, the rattle of the machine guns. I don't care. I just keep going. Nothing will stop me but death itself.