An old man laid on the chaise lounge chair with a cool towel on his forehead. That was the only way he’d open up to the therapist. When he was little, his mother would lay him down in the same manner during tantrums. She said the cool of the towel silenced the demons.
He’d removed his tweed cap and laid it on his chest atop a matching tweed sportcoat, white shirt, and beige tie. He was in his 80s and it showed. He was, however, lucky enough to keep his hair.
“Good morning, Mr. Krause,” the therapist sat in his chair.
“Good morning, Mr. Schwartz,” he said.
“This is our second meeting. Have you done as I instructed?”
“Yes. I’ve written something putting myself in the place I was.”
“Good. Read it to me.”
Krause began.
“I wear the uniform of the German SS. Our leader says these people are an abomination. Many have died at the end of my bayonet and more by my rounds from the attached rifle. I listened to my leaders and hated them, as well. At the beginning, I was faithful to the cause. At the beginning, I believed. At the beginning…
I watched as they brought train after train, boxcar after boxcar. I must have seen thousands pass by me to never come out again – many to be turned to ash. Frail and weak. Worthless, I thought. But, their eyes…
Eyes of fear and hopelessness daily burn into my brain. I see them behind my closed lids and I feel…something. Maybe it’s sympathy, perhaps not – maybe it’s a form of it. However, the more eyes I see, more are implanted into my memory. I don’t know if I want to do this anymore. I don't know. I doubt…
I doubt the leader. As I deal more with these people, the more I see that they’re not vermin at all. They have valid fears and needs. Some I spoke to had prominent occupations. They’re intelligent and loving, hard-working and passionate. One man smiled at me, almost to forgive me. How can that be?
I befriended a man named Black. Before his capture, he was a psychologist at a mental hospital. His voice, even in his state, was soothing. We grew to like each other. I told him my thoughts and fears and he listened intently, more than any German friend I'd had. ‘You are better than these fences and gates,’ he’d tell me.
The commander of the camp called me into his office after taking note of our relationship. He said I’d gotten soft and was to rectify the problem. ‘How,’ I asked.
‘Kill Black,’ he said, ‘In front of me.’
He had the man brought in, my confidant. My friend. He ordered me to draw my pistol. I looked my Jewish friend in the eyes. ‘It’s ok, my friend,” he said. ‘Remember. More than these fences.’ he closed his eyes to accept his fate.
‘Fire.” Said my commander.
My heart sank, then leapt into my throat. My stomach turned, cramped. The Furher was absolutely wrong. This man was my friend. This man…
‘Fire, Krause,’ he shouted.
And I did so into my commander’s chest. I looked to Black’s eyes and he smiled before another officer came in and shot him, taking me into custody. I was to be taken out behind the camp and shot, but my killer’s released me – they were friends of mine. They told me to run and I did, as far and as fast as my legs would carry me.”
“And now, after all these years,” he continued, “I’m being counseled by another Jewish man.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“I need you to forgive me,” he said.
“Forgive you?”
“I’m showing signs of dementia. I want to know that I’m forgiven before I lose my wits”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Krause,” he said, “I can’t forgive you. I’m not Mr. Black, nor am I even related to him.”
“I suppose not,” he said.
“Sir, Mr. Black would be proud of you for what you did and where you ended up. He’d be proud of you for today.”
“You believe that?”
“I do. Do you?”
“Yes. Forgive me Stephen Black.”