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Nazi Executions

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Savarius said:
waiting
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brt_fotor-jpg.276164.jpeg "2373". I hate them for doing that to me.

Two days ago in the dead of night I was arrested by two Gestapo men, dressed in black leather trench coats, for making defeatist and unpatriotic statements. As I was hustled down the stairs that night from my fourth floor flat in Berlin's working class Wedding District, I saw my ferret-faced snitch of a landlady peeking through the half-open door of her flat, and could hear her suck in her breath with satisfaction.

Her name was Joan Baum and everyone who lived in my old 19th century tenement knew she was an informer. I should have been more careful, but we had all been drinking, and given what had happened at Stalingrad everyone knew the war was lost. We were in a cynical disrespectful mood as we whiled away yet another night in the cellar air raid shelter. After all, we were being bombed now most nights and it was only a matter of time before the Russians would be pounding at our doors, so it's not surprising that on that warm summer night I forgot all about who might be listening and freely voiced my low opinion of our dearly beloved Führer and his Nazi pals.

Once we reached the street, I was thrown in the canvas-topped back of a waiting truck and was transported to and locked in a Gestapo holding cell with a dozen others until morning, when I was hauled before a judge. Joan Baum was already there eager to testify to my disloyal chatter. The judge, who looked like he had hung one on the night before too, leaned forward and asked me my name, birthplace, age, address and profession.

"Bärbel Mohr, born 1912, right here in Berlin; 32 years old. I live at 44 Kolberger Strasse, in Wedding, and I am a teacher" I blurted out, adding hopefully, “and a good loyal German citizen. Sieg Heil?”

The judge listened intently to Joan Baum's venomous recounting of all the indiscreet statements I had made the previous evening in the cellar air raid shelter. Glaring at me scornfully and banging his gavel for effect, the judge promptly sentenced me to death for defeatist talk and subversive agitation. I was to be executed forthwith at Berlin’s Plötzensee Prison, infamous under the Nazis for its over-worked guillotine. Joan Baum sniggered approvingly.

First thing they did on arrival at Plötzensee was to strip me naked, set me on a chair in a small room, harshly illuminated by a single light bulb, and bind my wrists behind the chair back so I could not move. Then they interrogated me, in the usual Gestapo manner…brutally … hours of questioning, interspersed with beatings, and randomly distributed cigarette burns. I was no match for them. I sobbed, begged for mercy and then broke down and gave them the names of everyone who was with me at that drinking party in the cellar air raid shelter.

When they were through with me, the Gestapo men left, leaving behind their “muscle” … a heavy-set man in a poorly fitting Wehrmacht uniform, with arms like sausages, a full face with rimless glasses and a maniacal look in his eyes. He came around in front of me wielding an iron, the tip of which was fashioned into a bracket to hold a string of numbers. The bracket and numbers had been heated over a brazier to a fearsome glowing red. As my pitiful screams echoed off the peeling, grey-green-painted walls of the small interrogation room, he branded me just above the right nipple with the number "2373".

I languished overnight shackled in a special cell on the ground floor of the building known as the “house of the dead.” I sat in a corner, arms wrapped around my upraised knees, an iron collar around my neck, from which a short chain was bolted to the wall. I could scarcely move. The guards fed me a “light breakfast” of moldy bread and water that morning and prepared me. I was nude and waiting by my cell door at first light, wrists manacled in front of me when “sausage arms” arrived.

"Ah, Fräulein Mohr! I see you are ready for your little rendezvous with the "falling axe" as we like to call our efficient little instrument of death here at Plötzensee. Did you know, Fräulein. our “falling axe” can dispose of an enemy of the State every three minutes. You will be number “2373” so far this year. Follow me please."

guillotine-plocc88tzensee-prison-execution-room.jpg I followed him down a long corridor, out of the building and across a small courtyard to the execution chamber. We entered a room in the center of which stood the instrument of my death … a tall upright frame in which a gleaming angled blade was suspended. Beneath the blade was the small round hole, the lunette, in which my head would soon rest. The executioner, dressed in black, stood near the machine, washing blood off the lunette with a small hose. Two other assistants stood nearby.

I gasped at the sight, and my knees buckled. But before I could fall to the floor, strong hands lifted me off my feet and wrestled my flailing kicking body down facing up on the long wooden bascule. Leather straps were wrapped and buckled tightly around my body and legs to hold me in place. When all was secured, the bascule was slid forward until my head poked through the lunette. I looked up at the blade overhead and began to cry. A puddle of warm pee spread beneath my bare ass.

Sausage arms leaned over, grinning at me with yellowed teeth. “Farewell Fräulein Mohr,” he chortled, “Let this be a lesson to you and others who lose faith in the ultimate triumph of our Führer and Fatherland.” He stepped back. I closed my eyes. There was a loud click and then ….
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 276336 "2373". I hate them for doing that to me.

Two days ago in the dead of night I was arrested by two Gestapo men, dressed in black leather trench coats, for making defeatist and unpatriotic statements. As I was hustled down the stairs that night from my fourth floor flat in Berlin's working class Wedding District, I saw my ferret-faced snitch of a landlady peeking through the half-open door of her flat, and could hear her suck in her breath with satisfaction.

Her name was Joan Baum and everyone who lived in my old 19th century tenement knew she was an informer. I should have been more careful, but we had all been drinking, and given what had happened at Stalingrad everyone knew the war was lost. We were in a cynical disrespectful mood as we whiled away yet another night in the cellar air raid shelter. After all, we were being bombed now most nights and it was only a matter of time before the Russians would be pounding at our doors, so it's not surprising that on that warm summer night I forgot all about who might be listening and freely voiced my low opinion of our dearly beloved Führer and his Nazi pals.

Once we reached the street, I was thrown in the canvas-topped back of a waiting truck and was transported to and locked in a Gestapo holding cell with a dozen others until morning, when I was hauled before a judge. Joan Baum was already there eager to testify to my disloyal chatter. The judge, who looked like he had hung one on the night before too, leaned forward and asked me my name, birthplace, age, address and profession.

"Bärbel Mohr, born 1912, right here in Berlin; 32 years old. I live at 44 Kolberger Strasse, in Wedding, and I am a teacher" I blurted out, adding hopefully, “and a good loyal German citizen. Sieg Heil?”

The judge listened intently to Joan Baum's venomous recounting of all the indiscreet statements I had made the previous evening in the cellar air raid shelter. Glaring at me scornfully and banging his gavel for effect, the judge promptly sentenced me to death for defeatist talk and subversive agitation. I was to be executed forthwith at Berlin’s Plötzensee Prison, infamous under the Nazis for its over-worked guillotine. Joan Baum sniggered approvingly.

First thing they did on arrival at Plötzensee was to strip me naked, set me on a chair in a small room, harshly illuminated by a single light bulb, and bind my wrists behind the chair back so I could not move. Then they interrogated me, in the usual Gestapo manner…brutally … hours of questioning, interspersed with beatings, and randomly distributed cigarette burns. I was no match for them. I sobbed, begged for mercy and then broke down and gave them the names of everyone who was with me at that drinking party in the cellar air raid shelter.

When they were through with me, the Gestapo men left, leaving behind their “muscle” … a heavy-set man in a poorly fitting Wehrmacht uniform, with arms like sausages, a full face with rimless glasses and a maniacal look in his eyes. He came around in front of me wielding an iron, the tip of which was fashioned into a bracket to hold a string of numbers. The bracket and numbers had been heated over a brazier to a fearsome glowing red. As my pitiful screams echoed off the peeling, grey-green-painted walls of the small interrogation room, he branded me just above the right nipple with the number "2373".

I languished overnight shackled in a special cell on the ground floor of the building known as the “house of the dead.” I sat in a corner, arms wrapped around my upraised knees, an iron collar around my neck, from which a short chain was bolted to the wall. I could scarcely move. The guards fed me a “light breakfast” of moldy bread and water that morning and prepared me. I was nude and waiting by my cell door at first light, wrists manacled in front of me when “sausage arms” arrived.

"Ah, Fräulein Mohr! I see you are ready for your little rendezvous with the "falling axe" as we like to call our efficient little instrument of death here at Plötzensee. Did you know, Fräulein. our “falling axe” can dispose of an enemy of the State every three minutes. You will be number “2373” so far this year. Follow me please."

View attachment 276335 I followed him down a long corridor, out of the building and across a small courtyard to the execution chamber. We entered a room in the center of which stood the instrument of my death … a tall upright frame in which a gleaming angled blade was suspended. Beneath the blade was the small round hole, the lunette, in which my head would soon rest. The executioner, dressed in black, stood near the machine, washing blood off the lunette with a small hose. Two other assistants stood nearby.

I gasped at the sight, and my knees buckled. But before I could fall to the floor, strong hands lifted me off my feet and wrestled my flailing kicking body down facing up on the long wooden bascule. Leather straps were wrapped and buckled tightly around my body and legs to hold me in place. When all was secured, the bascule was slid forward until my head poked through the lunette. I looked up at the blade overhead and began to cry. A puddle of warm pee spread beneath my bare ass.

Sausage arms leaned over, grinning at me with yellowed teeth. “Farewell Fräulein Mohr,” he chortled, “Let this be a lesson to you and others who lose faith in the ultimate triumph of our Führer and Fatherland.” He stepped back. I closed my eyes. There was a loud click and then ….
Click to expand...
Crap the blade dos not 'race' down its track and it is hardly sharp. Only it's weight forces it though my ne...
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 276336 "2373". I hate them for doing that to me.

Two days ago in the dead of night I was arrested by two Gestapo men, dressed in black leather trench coats, for making defeatist and unpatriotic statements. As I was hustled down the stairs that night from my fourth floor flat in Berlin's working class Wedding District, I saw my ferret-faced snitch of a landlady peeking through the half-open door of her flat, and could hear her suck in her breath with satisfaction.

Her name was Joan Baum and everyone who lived in my old 19th century tenement knew she was an informer. I should have been more careful, but we had all been drinking, and given what had happened at Stalingrad everyone knew the war was lost. We were in a cynical disrespectful mood as we whiled away yet another night in the cellar air raid shelter. After all, we were being bombed now most nights and it was only a matter of time before the Russians would be pounding at our doors, so it's not surprising that on that warm summer night I forgot all about who might be listening and freely voiced my low opinion of our dearly beloved Führer and his Nazi pals.

Once we reached the street, I was thrown in the canvas-topped back of a waiting truck and was transported to and locked in a Gestapo holding cell with a dozen others until morning, when I was hauled before a judge. Joan Baum was already there eager to testify to my disloyal chatter. The judge, who looked like he had hung one on the night before too, leaned forward and asked me my name, birthplace, age, address and profession.

"Bärbel Mohr, born 1912, right here in Berlin; 32 years old. I live at 44 Kolberger Strasse, in Wedding, and I am a teacher" I blurted out, adding hopefully, “and a good loyal German citizen. Sieg Heil?”

The judge listened intently to Joan Baum's venomous recounting of all the indiscreet statements I had made the previous evening in the cellar air raid shelter. Glaring at me scornfully and banging his gavel for effect, the judge promptly sentenced me to death for defeatist talk and subversive agitation. I was to be executed forthwith at Berlin’s Plötzensee Prison, infamous under the Nazis for its over-worked guillotine. Joan Baum sniggered approvingly.

First thing they did on arrival at Plötzensee was to strip me naked, set me on a chair in a small room, harshly illuminated by a single light bulb, and bind my wrists behind the chair back so I could not move. Then they interrogated me, in the usual Gestapo manner…brutally … hours of questioning, interspersed with beatings, and randomly distributed cigarette burns. I was no match for them. I sobbed, begged for mercy and then broke down and gave them the names of everyone who was with me at that drinking party in the cellar air raid shelter.

When they were through with me, the Gestapo men left, leaving behind their “muscle” … a heavy-set man in a poorly fitting Wehrmacht uniform, with arms like sausages, a full face with rimless glasses and a maniacal look in his eyes. He came around in front of me wielding an iron, the tip of which was fashioned into a bracket to hold a string of numbers. The bracket and numbers had been heated over a brazier to a fearsome glowing red. As my pitiful screams echoed off the peeling, grey-green-painted walls of the small interrogation room, he branded me just above the right nipple with the number "2373".

I languished overnight shackled in a special cell on the ground floor of the building known as the “house of the dead.” I sat in a corner, arms wrapped around my upraised knees, an iron collar around my neck, from which a short chain was bolted to the wall. I could scarcely move. The guards fed me a “light breakfast” of moldy bread and water that morning and prepared me. I was nude and waiting by my cell door at first light, wrists manacled in front of me when “sausage arms” arrived.

"Ah, Fräulein Mohr! I see you are ready for your little rendezvous with the "falling axe" as we like to call our efficient little instrument of death here at Plötzensee. Did you know, Fräulein. our “falling axe” can dispose of an enemy of the State every three minutes. You will be number “2373” so far this year. Follow me please."

View attachment 276335 I followed him down a long corridor, out of the building and across a small courtyard to the execution chamber. We entered a room in the center of which stood the instrument of my death … a tall upright frame in which a gleaming angled blade was suspended. Beneath the blade was the small round hole, the lunette, in which my head would soon rest. The executioner, dressed in black, stood near the machine, washing blood off the lunette with a small hose. Two other assistants stood nearby.

I gasped at the sight, and my knees buckled. But before I could fall to the floor, strong hands lifted me off my feet and wrestled my flailing kicking body down facing up on the long wooden bascule. Leather straps were wrapped and buckled tightly around my body and legs to hold me in place. When all was secured, the bascule was slid forward until my head poked through the lunette. I looked up at the blade overhead and began to cry. A puddle of warm pee spread beneath my bare ass.

Sausage arms leaned over, grinning at me with yellowed teeth. “Farewell Fräulein Mohr,” he chortled, “Let this be a lesson to you and others who lose faith in the ultimate triumph of our Führer and Fatherland.” He stepped back. I closed my eyes. There was a loud click and then ….
Click to expand...


Oh i love this Barbaria. our minds are very much alike, i am doing a
poser set with a man in Germany right now and my ending will
be on the German Guillotine . this story is giving ma a lot of idea`s
 
Wragg134 said:
It's Frau Baum who's triggered my loathometer!

:mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad:

Wonder what happened to her, later? :rolleyes:

Brilliant, Barb!
Click to expand...


Well my story is that after that as too often with awful people she made it to the end of the war and thought she was set up smug. However denazification to a lesser and new building to a greater extent, caught up with her and all the young ladies moved out of her apartments block.

It is not entirely clear quite what happened to her. The police report indicated she probably fell and broke her leg while doing laundry, give the broken femur and the laundry basket and the scattered clothing all down the stairs. It is likely given evidence of movement that she was still alive and conscious at that point. No one knows the exact cause of death as the rats ate her...given the copious blood stains she was possibly still alive when they started.

For more tales of Rodent Revenge you have but to ask...also there may be a line in Bärbel Mohr's Ghost stories...after all someone may have helped our dear old lady have her fall.
 
Last edited:
Dorothy Brown said:
Oh i love this Barbaria. our minds are very much alike, i am doing a
poser set with a man in Germany right now and my ending will
be on the German Guillotine . this story is giving ma a lot of idea`s
Click to expand...

Glad to be of service Dottie :p

Wragg134 said:
It's Frau Baum who's triggered my loathometer!

:mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad:

Wonder what happened to her, later? :rolleyes:

Brilliant, Barb!
Click to expand...

Tree's Joan is about as loathsome as they come :eek: .... RR seems to have the answer to your question ;)

RacingRodent said:
Well my story is that after that as too often with awful people she made it to the end of the war and thought she was set up smug. However denazification to a lesser and new building to a greater extent, caught up with her and all the young ladies moved out of her apartments block.

It is not entirely clear quite what happened to her. The police report indicated she probably fell and broke her leg while doing laundry, give the broken femur and the laundry basket and the scattered clothing all down the stairs. It is likely given evidence of movement that she was still alive and conscious at that point. No one knows the exact cause of death as the rats ate her...given the copious blood stains she was possibly still alive when they started.

For more tales of Rodent Revenge you have but to ask...also there may be a line in Bärbel Mohr's Ghost stories...after all someone may have helped our dear old lady have her fall.
Click to expand...

This report just in from R. Nagetier, Polis Kommisar, in Berlin. The investigation was suspended for lack of interest evidence. Rest in torment peace, Joan Baum, wherever you may be. :mad:
 
RacingRodent said:
Well my story is that after that as too often with awful people she made it to the end of the war and thought she was set up smug. However denazification to a lesser and new building to a greater extent, caught up with her and all the young ladies moved out of her apartments block.

It is not entirely clear quite what happened to her. The police report indicated she probably fell and broke her leg while doing laundry, give the broken femur and the laundry basket and the scattered clothing all down the stairs. It is likely given evidence of movement that she was still alive and conscious at that point. No one knows the exact cause of death as the rats ate her...given the copious blood stains she was possibly still alive when they started.

For more tales of Rodent Revenge you have but to ask...also there may be a line in Bärbel Mohr's Ghost stories...after all someone may have helped our dear old lady have her fall.
Click to expand...

Wunderbar! :)

madiosi said:
View attachment 276822
Click to expand...

Prima! :)

Barbaria1 said:
Glad to be of service Dottie :p



Tree's Joan is about as loathsome as they come :eek: .... RR seems to have the answer to your question ;)



This report just in from R. Nagetier, Polis Kommisar, in Berlin. The investigation was suspended for lack of interest evidence. Rest in torment peace, Joan Baum, wherever you may be. :mad:
Click to expand...

A fitting end....:rolleyes:
 
If history was different...

It is in the 2030s and to celebrate the 100 anniversary of the Thousand Year Reich decedents were rounded up and publicly hanged. Here Barbara Moore is about to have her neck stretched...
1437438223_867.jpg
Tree
 
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