Black

~ A historical flash fiction piece ~

Piece #3 in my flash fiction series - The Colours Of The World.

Hope you enjoy!

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Black boots. Black uniform. Black walls. Why is everything so dark and lifeless with these people?

Günter stood, his body rigid and eyes staring straight ahead. A man sat across the desk from him, whispering tendrils of smoke trailing a line from the cigar in his mouth to the ceiling above. On his collar, an emblem was stitched into the pressed cloth of his uniform, denoting him as an officer of the Schutzstaffel.

“Heil Hitler!” Günter said, holding his arm out in front of him in a stiff salute. Even as he said the words, they felt sickening on his lips. How can I hail a man who is the very embodiment of cruelty and hate?

The officer waved his arm at the younger man. “At ease.”

Günter’s body relaxed slightly as his arm lowered. His mind did not.

The mantra he had created for himself flooded his thoughts over and over again. You’re not a rebel. You’re not brave. Stay silent and stay alive. He had seen what happened to the rebels. The brave. The ones who speak. And he could not follow them.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Günter’s throat strained as he tried to keep his voice from betraying the fear he felt.

The officer nodded. “Ja, Officer Hoffman.” He folded his hands in front of him. Every part of his appearance was immaculate. The sleeked back blonde hair, the cleanly shaven face, the black uniform emblazoned with a silver death-head. Günter shivered as his eyes rested briefly on that image of darkness.

“It has come to my attention that you have proven yourself most effective as an officer of the Schutzstaffel. You have carried out every task that has been set for you with perfect efficiency, and have never once disobeyed an order.” The man paused, rising from his chair.

Günter’s heart pounded within his chest. A thin layer of sweat coated his hands as the officer approached him.

He placed his arm around Günter’s shoulders, his lips curling into a cold smile. “I believe you would make a truly excellent officer within one of our… special camps for Jews. Upon my recommendation, you could rise to a high position in Majdanek. And besides, it is a noble calling to aid Germany in her purification, ja?”

Günter’s thoughts froze, as did his body. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out for a moment.

Then he found his words. “And what would this position involve, exactly, sir?” This time, when he spoke, a tremor trickled through his voice.

Just because it’s wrong doesn’t mean you have the power to stop it. You would never have a chance.

Clenching his jaw, Günter tried to force the voice from his head, but it was persistent.

Doesn’t your life matter more than Jews who you do not even know?

The officer was responding, but Günter could not hear him. He was too deeply caught into the warring struggles of his conscience, convictions, and the ever-present fear of death. The voice in his head that told him to simply survive still spoke, but somewhere deep inside of him, he knew it could never win.

The room fell silent, and the officer straightened, clearly awaiting a response from his subordinate.

Günter remained oblivious, trying to quell the raging storm within him. Sweat was beginning to break out on his forehead, and heat rushed over his body.

An instant later, a deathly cold replaced it, before once more being overwhelmed by feverish warmth.

He couldn’t refuse. He couldn’t. Refusal to a commanding officer offering a promotion that came with only more money and a higher position would be unthinkable. And unthinkable would mean dead. But he couldn’t accept. How could he bring himself to aid in the murderous genocide of his fellow humans?

He clenched his shaking hands behind his back. His eyes were locked on the wall in front of him, but he did not see it.

All he saw was black. Deep, dark blackness broken only by sinister flashes of red.

And then, like the first shard of sunlight after a lifetime of night, his mind cleared. Perfect clarity took the place of the wild outrage that had been there barely moments before, and he knew what he must do.

Perhaps I’m not a rebel. Perhaps I’m not brave. But I’m not a liar. I will not be a liar.

With one single word he uttered, he both sealed his fate and put it to rest, finally standing firm upon the bedrock of his conscience.

“No.”

Black boots. Black uniform. Black walls. Why shouldn’t the bestowers of death be surrounded by death’s colour?