You would have marveled too.
At the tall, snow-covered trees whose branches drooped low due to the weight of the soft white blanket. At the skeleton arms of the forest that led through the sunlight which reflected off of the polished car and bounced onto the pearly white snow. Most of the landscape was untouched, with few animal tracks to prove a sign of life - that this wasn't just a beautiful painting of winter wonderland, but that it was one.
The road snaked up the hill in sloped curves or sharp turns.
Martin felt they must have been driving through the pretty woods for half an hour or longer.
His sense of time had been completely thrown off. Confusion settled in where the clock's hands were. Shuffling the cards all wrong.
August Hirt was chattier than usual. His excitement was contagious and every person in the vehicle aside from Martin had been infected with it. Martin just felt sick to the stomach.
And in awe of the forest.
Hirt, a man named Reißer whose SS rank Martin was unsure of, and the driver were all bedazzled by the little snowflakes and the sun-kissed trees as well, but Hirt's eyes kept trailing away from the wood and hungrily fixed onto the street, barely being able to await what the future held for him. At approximately 18 o'clock he could start his experiments. Only a few more hours and he'd finally get to do what he'd wanted to try for such a long time...
Then, from around the bend a few large buildings came into view, and below them, a barbed wire fence.
They pulled up to a smallish parking area. After getting out of the car they were immediately greeted by a smiling man named Josef Kramer*. He was one of the Lagerführer - soon to be Lagerkommandant and destined to be the man who assisted Hirt on his later - more racial than medical - endeavors. "SS-Hauptsturmführer Hirt! Professor!" He shook his hand enthusiastically. Then he picked up Reißers and finally Martin Weiher's. "Reißer, Weiher, pleased to meet you all." He dipped his head to the driver and told him that he could go warm up in one of the organizational buildings to their right.
"They've been properly fed?" Hirt asked, skipping all small talk.
"Of course, Professor! We've done everything you've asked, I saw to it personally."
"Wonderful. I was sure it would work out splendidly."
Kramer and Hirt started to walk down the trail toward the entry. Kramer must have notified everyone about their presence because SS men passing politely saluted Professor Hirt with the Hitlergruss or a curt nod of their head. A man and his trusty German shepherd trotted by. The animal looked up at its owner. It was well-trained, it didn't bark at the visitors and when its owner stopped to exchange a few words with Kramer it stood protectively by his side.
They kept going and Martin caught his first glimpse of the entry gate.
It loomed forward in the distance, and with every step closer he felt that it seemed to get impossibly bigger. He could make out the words on the plaque over the gate: Konzentrationslager Natzweiler-Struthof. In a matter of a minute, they were directly under it.
Reißer offered Martin a cigarette. He accepted it gratefully. Reißer lit his own and then Martins. Reißer hadn't even tried to offer one to Kramer or Hirt. He'd been too afraid of the first and knew that the latter suffered from bad lungs - it would be idiotic for him to smoke.
The gate was made of wooden boards and barbed wire. The wood made big Xs in the front of the gate. Do not enter, Martin thought miserably as he stepped into the door that Kramer held open for him. For a second he was in a middle place, right under the plaque, in between worlds, in between freedom and slavery, in between life and death. He crossed over through the other door and stepped into the camp.
Reißer followed close behind. Kramer closed the door. The guards that had nodded them in were now behind the gate. Back where they could move freely and weren't fenced up by the barbed wire fence that ran around the whole perimeter of the Stammlager.
Martin flicked his cigarette to the ground. The nicotine rushed to his head. It took the slightest bit of his stress away.
He found himself staring into the heart of the concentration camp. He could see some men in striped uniforms scurrying around with pans, followed by a slightly older man dressed in the same attire. They must have been working in the kitchens. They disappeared into one of the barracks. Reißer stamped his cigarette out.
Kramer and Hirt were still chatting.
The Lager was surprisingly empty. There were groups of prisoners, but nothing like Martin had expected. Reißer saw the confusion on Martin's face and, as they fell into step behind Hirt and Kramer, explained the concept of the Aussenkommandos - most of the prisoners were in working divisions away from the main camp, and they wouldn't return until later. Martin thanked Reißer for the explanation.
They walked down a gravel path, they passed a small clearing where the gallows caught Martin's eye. "Do they...use those?"
"Yeah. Once in a while."
Martin nodded thoughtfully, trying to mask his horror behind a poker face.
What a weird place to be hanged. Below you you'd see the camp, those ugly barracks stretching out over the ground, down the hill. And then, if you looked straight you'd see the picturesque rolling hills.