Hi everyone. Savarius made and PMed me a couple manips of Nazi executions with the idea that I might write short background stories for them. This is the first. I will add at least one more in the coming days. Enjoy.
As ordered. I slowly unbutton the front of my striped prison smock. What is the point of doing otherwise? The dirty and threadbare fabric slides off my shoulders and down my arms, coming to rest at my elbows, collecting around my wrists, and baring my breasts to the cold morning air. My nipples are stiff and erect. I shiver and purse my lips expectantly.
Backed up against a rough stone wall, blindfolded and half-naked, I wait for the firing squad to do its work. I can smell the schnapps on the breath of the soldiers facing me from several meters away...that being the standard compensation they receive for spending their days murdering countless defenseless victims, like me, in cold blood.
Just a week and a half ago I was working quite happily in the Bendlerblock, the rambling Wehrmacht staff headquarters building in the heart of Berlin. I was the typist and secretary assigned to Major Von Schrabendorf, a tall and rather handsome officer to whom I was just little bit in love with, although he scarcely seemed to notice. Alright, maybe it was more than a little bit. I was completely devoted to him.
Little did I know that he was deeply involved in a plot by a group of aristocratic officers to assassinate Hitler. I was blind to the goings on, oblivious to the true meaning of the rather oddly worded messages that crossed my desk. Had I been paying more attention, the obtuse language of these messages, obviously some kind of code, might have tipped me off to the fact that something was going on.
In any case the assassination attempt failed miserably. The bomb went off as planned, but our beloved Fuehrer miraculously survived the heinous plot. He went on the radio to tell all Germans that he was alive. I listened to the broadcast. Then it was retribution time. The Gestapo was unleashed, bent on rounding up and interrogating anyone conceivably connected in any way with the suspected perpetrators.
They came sweeping through the Bendlerblock the very next morning to make wholesale arrests. Two Gestapo agents, big and thuggish, dressed in the usual black leather trench coats and fedoras, barged into the Major's office and arrested both him and me. I was hustled down the corridors, high heels clacking on the polished floor, hands cuffed behind my back and manhandled into the back of a waiting lorry along with several other women prisoners. I never saw him again.
We were driven to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and sent to a basement cell. I spent my first night in custody, along with three other women, manacled topless to a dank stone wall, painted a dull institutional gray-green. A lone light bulb cast an eerie glow over our four shivering forms as we waited and wondered what horrors the morning would bring.
For the next four days I was tortured mercilessly. I knew nothing and repeatedly protested my innocence to my interrogators. I was a good German patriot I told them, serving my country; adding in the hopes that it would sound patriotic, that I was a firm believer in the infallibility of our Fuehrer and the ultimate victory that he would win for our country. They didn't believe a word of it, insisting that I was a vile traitor, and demanding that I name names and divulge the many sordid details of the plot they were certain I had been privy to through my association with Von Schrabendorf.
Every conceivable torture was used on me. On the first day, I was just stripped naked and interrogated while sitting on a stool under a harsh light in a small smoke-filled room. They worked in teams, blowing smoke in my face, firing questions and accusations at me non-stop, punctuated by slaps across my face and occasional cigarette burns. I was not allowed a moment of rest. The questioning went on for hour after hour and into the night.
On the second day they tried stringing me up naked by my wrists from the ceiling and subjecting me to a brutal whipping as I swung around slowly in circles, feet barely touching the floor. Every time I fainted they would throw a bucket of cold water over me, fire more questions at me, and resume whipping my welt covered body when I refused to answer. On the third day, they laid me out on a rack, and slowly stretched my limbs until my joints nearly popped. The pain was excruciating, and I thought nothing could be worse, but then they attached electric wires to my nipples and clit, and shocked me again and again until I fell into unconsciousness.
But what finally broke me was the water torture. On the fourth day they tied me naked to a long narrow board, resting on a fulcrum with a large vat of dirty water just under the end where my head was. They would demand answers and when none were forthcoming, the board would be tilted so as to plunge my head under water. There is nothing as terrifying as the sensation of drowning. I would panic, swallow water, and buck and flop around helplessly on the board. They would keep me immersed until just short of drowning, then raise me up, revive me with slaps on my face and punches to the stomach, and then do it all over again and again.
I couldn't take it. No one can defy the attentions of the Gestapo forever. I talked. I named everyone that Von Schrabendorf received in his office, corresponded with, or met for dinner or lunch. I even recalled the content of messages I had taken for him on the phone. By the time they had finished with me, I had by my words aided my interrogators in the arrest of dozens of people, some guilty and others undoubtedly innocent.
After they had finished with me, I languished for a week in a small dark cell somewhere deep in the subterranean recesses of the Gestapo headquarters building, dressed only in a striped prison smock too short to cover my privates when I stood up. I was fed watery gruel and stale bread and told to relieve myself in a bucket that they rarely bothered to empty.
I hoped that maybe I might eventually be released, but it was not to be. This morning they came for me early. Not a word was said. I was simply dragged from my cell and escorted up to the ground floor and out into this small courtyard behind the building, where I was blindfolded and stood up against the wall.
Now as I wait, I hear the metallic sounds of bolt mechanisms being worked to insert cartridges into the breeches of the firing squads' Mauser rifles. Someone offers me a puff on a lit cigarette. I refuse. This is it, I try to stand still and be brave. A stream of warm urine runs down my leg and pools under my bare feet. I feel exposed. I feel shame. I start to cry.
The firing squad is told to ready, and then to aim. There is a pause. One of the soldiers coughs. Silence. And then...
As ordered. I slowly unbutton the front of my striped prison smock. What is the point of doing otherwise? The dirty and threadbare fabric slides off my shoulders and down my arms, coming to rest at my elbows, collecting around my wrists, and baring my breasts to the cold morning air. My nipples are stiff and erect. I shiver and purse my lips expectantly.Backed up against a rough stone wall, blindfolded and half-naked, I wait for the firing squad to do its work. I can smell the schnapps on the breath of the soldiers facing me from several meters away...that being the standard compensation they receive for spending their days murdering countless defenseless victims, like me, in cold blood.
Just a week and a half ago I was working quite happily in the Bendlerblock, the rambling Wehrmacht staff headquarters building in the heart of Berlin. I was the typist and secretary assigned to Major Von Schrabendorf, a tall and rather handsome officer to whom I was just little bit in love with, although he scarcely seemed to notice. Alright, maybe it was more than a little bit. I was completely devoted to him.
Little did I know that he was deeply involved in a plot by a group of aristocratic officers to assassinate Hitler. I was blind to the goings on, oblivious to the true meaning of the rather oddly worded messages that crossed my desk. Had I been paying more attention, the obtuse language of these messages, obviously some kind of code, might have tipped me off to the fact that something was going on.
In any case the assassination attempt failed miserably. The bomb went off as planned, but our beloved Fuehrer miraculously survived the heinous plot. He went on the radio to tell all Germans that he was alive. I listened to the broadcast. Then it was retribution time. The Gestapo was unleashed, bent on rounding up and interrogating anyone conceivably connected in any way with the suspected perpetrators.
They came sweeping through the Bendlerblock the very next morning to make wholesale arrests. Two Gestapo agents, big and thuggish, dressed in the usual black leather trench coats and fedoras, barged into the Major's office and arrested both him and me. I was hustled down the corridors, high heels clacking on the polished floor, hands cuffed behind my back and manhandled into the back of a waiting lorry along with several other women prisoners. I never saw him again.
We were driven to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and sent to a basement cell. I spent my first night in custody, along with three other women, manacled topless to a dank stone wall, painted a dull institutional gray-green. A lone light bulb cast an eerie glow over our four shivering forms as we waited and wondered what horrors the morning would bring.
For the next four days I was tortured mercilessly. I knew nothing and repeatedly protested my innocence to my interrogators. I was a good German patriot I told them, serving my country; adding in the hopes that it would sound patriotic, that I was a firm believer in the infallibility of our Fuehrer and the ultimate victory that he would win for our country. They didn't believe a word of it, insisting that I was a vile traitor, and demanding that I name names and divulge the many sordid details of the plot they were certain I had been privy to through my association with Von Schrabendorf.
Every conceivable torture was used on me. On the first day, I was just stripped naked and interrogated while sitting on a stool under a harsh light in a small smoke-filled room. They worked in teams, blowing smoke in my face, firing questions and accusations at me non-stop, punctuated by slaps across my face and occasional cigarette burns. I was not allowed a moment of rest. The questioning went on for hour after hour and into the night.
On the second day they tried stringing me up naked by my wrists from the ceiling and subjecting me to a brutal whipping as I swung around slowly in circles, feet barely touching the floor. Every time I fainted they would throw a bucket of cold water over me, fire more questions at me, and resume whipping my welt covered body when I refused to answer. On the third day, they laid me out on a rack, and slowly stretched my limbs until my joints nearly popped. The pain was excruciating, and I thought nothing could be worse, but then they attached electric wires to my nipples and clit, and shocked me again and again until I fell into unconsciousness.
But what finally broke me was the water torture. On the fourth day they tied me naked to a long narrow board, resting on a fulcrum with a large vat of dirty water just under the end where my head was. They would demand answers and when none were forthcoming, the board would be tilted so as to plunge my head under water. There is nothing as terrifying as the sensation of drowning. I would panic, swallow water, and buck and flop around helplessly on the board. They would keep me immersed until just short of drowning, then raise me up, revive me with slaps on my face and punches to the stomach, and then do it all over again and again.
I couldn't take it. No one can defy the attentions of the Gestapo forever. I talked. I named everyone that Von Schrabendorf received in his office, corresponded with, or met for dinner or lunch. I even recalled the content of messages I had taken for him on the phone. By the time they had finished with me, I had by my words aided my interrogators in the arrest of dozens of people, some guilty and others undoubtedly innocent.
After they had finished with me, I languished for a week in a small dark cell somewhere deep in the subterranean recesses of the Gestapo headquarters building, dressed only in a striped prison smock too short to cover my privates when I stood up. I was fed watery gruel and stale bread and told to relieve myself in a bucket that they rarely bothered to empty.
I hoped that maybe I might eventually be released, but it was not to be. This morning they came for me early. Not a word was said. I was simply dragged from my cell and escorted up to the ground floor and out into this small courtyard behind the building, where I was blindfolded and stood up against the wall.
Now as I wait, I hear the metallic sounds of bolt mechanisms being worked to insert cartridges into the breeches of the firing squads' Mauser rifles. Someone offers me a puff on a lit cigarette. I refuse. This is it, I try to stand still and be brave. A stream of warm urine runs down my leg and pools under my bare feet. I feel exposed. I feel shame. I start to cry.
The firing squad is told to ready, and then to aim. There is a pause. One of the soldiers coughs. Silence. And then...
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Going to have to have a word with the sergeant in charge of the squad. 
