The soup had barely any vegetables in it. It was mostly water. Erwin devoured it in a matter of seconds. On Hofer's whistle, they marched back out of camp, back up the hill, back to the uneven road, back with their hands in the dirt. During lunch, Erwin hadn't noticed the black dirt under his fingernails but as he reached for the first grimy stone he did. It was neither the time nor place to think about it, so he pushed the disgust away and busied himself with the work. He had no clue what time it was. He'd never been able to tell the time with the position of the sun, because he'd always been one to take pride in his watches. He'd gotten his very first watch from his late grandfather who'd entrusted him with the leather-banded piece at only seven years old. When his geography teacher had told him to learn to tell the time by east and west he'd proudly flashed his instrument and refused. Now he neither had his watch nor the time.
Their little group rounded a bed. The inmate's warning echoed in his mind. 'Don't go close to the edge of the road'. He moved a bit toward the middle. A sharp sound cut through the air. "Inmate, get back in your line!" Arbeitskommandoführer Hofer shouted. So Erwin stepped towards the edge of the road.
The fog had lessened over lunch, and now the golden forest around him and the steep slopes that rolled down from the makeshift road they were working to level introduced themselves to him.
The laborers carefully worked by the side of the road, making sure not to slip on the dirt. If you were to fall down the slope it would mean certain death or serious injury, and it was too steep and treacherous to climb back up.
Arbeitskommandoführer Hofer lit a cigarette. He drew in a long breath of smoke, giving himself the buzz he so desperately needed. Only a few more hours and then he could go back home to his family. He'd asked his wife Margarete to make potato salad and meat, any kind of meat. In addition to the promise of golden-brown chicken or hare, he was also awaiting a visit from one of his dearest friends. In his last letter he'd mentioned bringing fresh fruit - Hofer hadn't enjoyed fresh fruit in a long time. He tossed the cigarette butt over the edge of the precipice and resumed walking between the rows of inmates.
Most of these men were NN (Nacht und Nebel) inmates. Inmates that should be gone soon. Inmates that didn't necessarily all need to make it back to camp alive. "Schneller! (faster)." He barked loudly, although he himself didn't even know what exactly he was referring to.
His black boots are the same color as the dirt. But they shine. The dirt doesn't. Erwin noticed. He tried to focus solely on weeding and smoothing the dirt, but he couldn't help but stare at the polished boots that marched up and down the rows of inmates. He noticed how Arbeitskommandoführer Hofer always sharply turned on his heel as if he had a history of dancing. "Work faster!" The devil in the SS uniform barked again, "Or tomorrow I'll see to it that your hands are all chopped off!" Erwin ducked back down and intensified the work. It was absolutely pointless. No matter how much the men at the front gathered rocks and small boulders, no matter how many weeds and small plants were pulled out of Mother Earth's hands, and how intensely the men in the back trampled the surface, it was not going to ever be as even as one of the roads below, and it would take a hundred times as long without the right equipment.
Erwin noticed how Hofer only ever stepped on the neat and even places. Those polished shoes couldn't get dirty. By no means. Or maybe, by all means.
Dinner was a piece of bread and another, slightly smaller and more watery, portion of soup. Erwin went to bed tired, hungry, and cold. The Abendappell had taken almost two hours. Erwin wanted to think about his wife Erika or about his parents, his siblings, and the SS letter that never came. But the second he lay down his eyes fell shut and he slept.