Monsters

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANITA ZOTKINA

HE WAKES, AS HE SO OFTEN DOES, moments before his alarm is to ring. He reaches to the nightstand to turn it off. He hears the soft sound of his wife's footfalls as she makes her way across the still-dark room, hears the door open, then sees her silhouette against the slightly-less-dark hall. The door shuts again. She's on her way to wake the children, and then to the kitchen to make breakfast for all.

He is filled, as he so often is, with a profound gratitude for this life he has been given, for the family he shares, for the simple elegance of their daily routines, for his ability to work and to provide food and shelter for them, especially during this time of sacrifice.

He reaches again to the nightstand, this time to turn on the light. Then he sits, and slides his feet from under the covers and over the side of the bed. He stands, walks to the wardrobe, opens it. He dresses.

By now he can hear the children, their sleepy voices drifting through the walls.

* * *

He's at the kitchen table. The scents of coffee, sausage, and eggs permeate the air. The children file in, sit in their accustomed chairs. His youngest son's shirt is buttoned wrong, so he points this out. The child fixes the error with his tiny hands.

An overweight, graying dachshund waddles into the room. The man looks at his children, ostentatiously checks to make sure his wife's back is turned, winks, then hands the dog a piece of sausage.

His wife says, "I know what you just did."

The children giggle.

She turns to face him, says, "We shouldn't be wasteful. We must be grateful for what we have."

"I am," he responds, and he thinks again about his good fortune to be able to provide all this for his family. He asks his children, "Are you grateful?"

"Yes, papa," they say.

He takes a bite of eggs, chews carefully, swallows. He looks at the dog again, then asks, "Where's Schatzi?" Normally their two elderly dachshunds are inseparable.

His wife responds, "She can't get up this morning." A look passes between them. She continues, "I think it may be time."

Another look between them. His expression warns her not to discuss it in front of the children.

Message received, she says, brightly, "But maybe some sausage will convince her to get up." She looks at the children, "Who would like to give Schatzi a treat?"

All of the children raise their hands.

* * *

He makes the short walk to work. The sun is not yet up. There was a wind in the night, so the air is clean. One of the few things he does not like about his work is that sometimes the smell offends him. But not on mornings like this.

* * *

The transition from home to work doesn't come for him the moment he steps out of the door of his home, a villa provided on site. Nor does it come the moment he walks into his administration building. It does not come as he greets those who work for him. Nor does it come when he exchanges pleasantries with his personal secretary. It does not come even when he walks into his office.

It comes as he sits in his chair. That is the moment each day when the awesome responsibility he carries strikes him anew, the responsibility he carries as commander of Auschwitz-Birkenau.

* * *

This is what happens.

You don't panic when the first entrance is sealed. There's no reason to panic: that's why there are multiple exits. You move to the next exit. It also is sealed. You're still not concerned. Of all places, this is where you're supposed to be safe. Nonetheless it is troubling that two entrances are sealed. You check out a third, and a fourth. All sealed.

You're not the only one to notice. Many of the younger members of your community are confused, discomfited. You and some of the others of older generations reassure them, the same way members of older generations among your kind have always reassured those younger when they're scared. You say again and again, "It's going to be okay."

They start to calm. Then one of your daughters — she's nothing more than a pup, really — complains of nausea. Her grandmother — your mother — rushes to her side, strokes her head and back, talking to her constantly. Then one of your nephews doubles over, begins moaning from abdominal cramping. Your sister hurries to him. The nephew lets go with explosive diarrhea. This does not deter her from comforting him.

You find the father of your children. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and blood gushes out. You touch his hair, whispering to him. Blood pours from his nose, from his other orifices. He cramps, then begins to convulse. He tries to speak. You say to him softly, "Don't talk. You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay."

You're having a hard time holding down your own panic. Around you, your friends and family are losing control of their bodies. They are vomiting, defecating, bleeding all over themselves. Some are moaning or keening. A few are screaming. You want to attend to them, but you need to help your beloved.

And then his body stiffens, seizes, seizes, and seizes again. Something shifts inside of him. Then it leaves, and he is finished.

You turn away from him and toward the chaos that until very recently was your community. You bark out commands, telling this one to take care of the young, that one to find a way out. You don't know what is sickening and killing everyone. You just know there must be a relationship between the forced sealing of the entrances and the deaths that have now followed.

Those around you are vomiting, convulsing, seizing. Those who can still control their limbs are clawing at the walls. You move from individual to individual, trying to calm those you can, comfort those you can't. You keep saying to anyone who will listen, "It's going to be okay. We will get out of here."

And then you feel it. Your mouth begins to water, and the first wave of nausea rolls through you. You force it down, but it returns. Your chest tightens, and in that moment you know — as you've known all along, but would not allow yourself to say, even to yourself...