In the middle of marching to only God knows where, Mika questioned his life choices.
What had led him to the army during the most desperate time of Germany’s glorious history?
What had led him, humble pacifist, to trade up his (somewhat dusty) merchant suit for the muddy green of the soldier?

It certainly wasn’t his desire to prove to those back home that he was an able and fit manHis limbs begged him to slow down and he was well aware of the stabbing pain near his right
temple. And oh, how he craved sleep. Or any rest really. He wanted it badder than he had ever
wanted anything; if he was given an option to see family right now or to rest, he’d have to
choose the latter.

But the German troops never stopped for anything other than the Fuhrer, so he shook
himself of the thoughts, steadied himself and perked his ears to the rat-tat of the drum.
But where were they even marching to? Nobody knew. That morning, when they’d been given
their packs and told to strap up their fading boots, nobody had been able to say, which was
expected as who informed the millions of soldiers of where they were going?

Instead, they’d, hoping that “they have us marching to the Furher’s house or a pub, eh?”
Others agreed, “I haven’t had a drink in too long!” Unlikely chance, that- beer was liquid gold.
Mika had a quiet feeling that they were being sent to guard the insides of the concentration
camps. Horrors to him, but he mustn't show it. Oh, how wonderful sleep would be, to escape
from this tragedy. He felt around his pockets, satisfyingly noting that he had food. The rumors of soldiers having vast amounts of money were untrue, yet another reason why joining the army had definitely not been Mika’s most bright idea.

He never had quite enough to send to his daughters. Monthly, the shame of parceling the
pay into a thin envelope and praying that it was. His mind wandered to the girls. How old were they? He wrinkled his brow, pondering. Sabrina was six, no, wasn’t she seven? He shook his head, disappointed that he had forgotten his daughter’s age. Try and remember, he implored himself. Oh, the young one, who was born a few months ago, what did his wife name her? Something similar to Sabrina, he decided. It had been so long since he had seen them- The girls were nothing but vague shapes in his mind but he still remembered their smiles and chatter, their everlasting eagerness to see their papa. Fatigued, he gave up on trying to remember, thinking instead of what their reunion would be like. Oh, what he would give to see them again, maybe someday after this dreadful war.

“Halt!” He stopped just in time, right before colliding into the soldier in front of him.
“You lucky fools, you are all assigned to work at the Auschwitz concentration camps!” The
general shouted, licking his lips wolfishly. There was the low buzz of conversation. Auschwitz?

He felt anything but lucky. Ever since he was a young boy, he had been scared of
harming others, even if it was a small animal or insect. He would cry and beg his mother to stop serving meat, but living on a pig farm meant often the only thing there was to eat was meat. He took to rescuing animals as often as he could, even bugs. If he could not stand the killing of an ant, then he definitely could not be the one causing others pain. He swallowed, searching for an alternative plan. He could run away, but how was he going to live? Where would food come from? Doomed, he realized there was no alternative. He would have to endure the suffering. He sighed, resigned to the pain that was sure to come.

They were in a shaded wood when the little voice began to call out. “Some bread, monsieur,
for the poor pitied child.” A small voice called against the hushed men, weak and empty. He
looked at the ragged lump that was speaking. A young girl, it seemed, frail and bony, hand outstretched for food. She was in his row of soldiers, too small to be discovered just yet, but he knew that she did not have long. “Please, monsieur, someone, please.”

The girl slowly made her way between the rows of men, seemingly unaware of all the
attention she was receiving. No one gave any food, knowing that the general, whose ears were
like wolves, would soon find out. The general was currently taking attendance but as soon as he reached their row, she would be found. The others pushed against her, pretending to not see the small lump. But he could not look away. She looked like Sabrina, eyes that were too big for her face, a face that could have had laughter lines if the storm of war had not cast upon it. He dropped down, too fascinated with her features that looked so similar to Sabrina’s to notice the gaping stare of others. He fumbled with his pocket, struggling to pull the piece of bread from within.

The shadow of a large, bulky, well-fed man towered above him. “What are you doing,
you fool?” He looked up at the potbellied general. He was sick of the sadness, sick of the lies of
good life. Oh, how he wanted everything to end. And what he really wanted was to sleep. All he wanted was to sleep and ease the pain.

He replied, drowsily. “Feeding them, m’lord, feeding them…” The general barked a
laugh and kicked him in the face. It stung, but oh, he felt more tired than pain. He rubbed his
face, deciding that he had felt much worse; the aching pain of missing someone. The gap in his heart hurt more than the sting on his face. The general kicked him again. “Feeding them? Are you insane?” the general sneered, baring his yellow teeth. He ignored the general and gestured to the girl. “What’s your name?” he whispered to the girl. “Sarah.” She mumbled, too tired and ravished to speak much, hand still outstretched for the crust of bread. He handed it to her. She wolfed it down eagerly, sparing no second thought. “Speaking as if to an equal. Pathetic."

Smirking, the general kicked another blow to Sarah, leaving her crouching and wincing
in pain. The general turned back to the men who were all staring as if watching a freak show, not wanting to look but rather unable to resist.

“This is what we do to traitors, pigs.” The general spat on his face. “You, drummer, play
a slow funeral march for these idiots. We will watch you both die slowly. Take your time.” The
general grinned peevishly waiting for him to perish. “General,” he laughed, joyous that he could now finally sleep, “I remember now… my other daughter’s name was Sarah…” he chuckled and with that, he sunk to the floor, to sleep forevermore.