Martin's fingers froze over the keys of the typewriter. He itched to write a letter of resignation: to lie about Marlene's or their newborn's health and be up and out of the Reichsuniversität Strassburg as soon as possible. But fear held his tongue, and the words refused to escape the confines of his mind. They rammed and barged against the barrier, but nothing happened. Martin was terrified of what might occur if they took his resignation for disloyalty. Now that he'd seen the Natzweiler and the experiments, he was a thousand times more afraid of the Nazis than he'd ever been before.
He leaned back and stared at the address "Dear Professor Hirt and Comrade Schneider" at the top of the otherwise empty page. They would surely have his claim investigated. Especially since he'd seen so much. They couldn't have the information about the concentration camps fall into the wrong hands, and how could they know that he wasn't an enemy spy? That he wasn't some American agent tricking them out of their secrets?
I am sorry to inform you that I won't be able to stay at Abteilung H of the IWZ (Hirt's part of the Ahnenerbe). Marlene has come down with...
What? What illness was so grave that he needed to leave immediately? Cancer? Tuberculosis? A broken back? Those were all things they could check.
He ripped the paper out and slid a new sheet in. He left the address blank and scooted a few rows downward.
I am sorry to inform you both that
That what? Had he received a better offer somewhere else? No, that wasn't possible. And saying he'd slid up a few ranks in the Waffen-SS, or that he was now reporting to more important people about more paramount matters was equally impossible.
I have decided to reassume office as mayor because I am a better politician than a medical scientist.
But Martin didn't have the slightest clue how he could get a political position. It seemed futile to 'run' for any office during the war.: there currently were more essential things that needed to be done in Germany.
I regret to leave you both, but Martin wrote after aggressively replacing the sheet with yet another piece of paper, I have decided that I cannot sleep without being on the front fighting for our country like the countless brave heroes who are there now. I was born a warrior, not a politician or a scientist. I could not live with myself if Germany were to lose, and I sense that upcoming battles will be more difficult than anticipated. While the both of you may be able to change more in the rooms of the University, I feel that the only significant change I will be able to provoke is as a soldier with a gun in my hands. Being courageous warriors yourselves, I trust you will understand my decision.
It would work. There was nothing they could say against it. It proved loyalty and patriotism, the very heart of the nationalistic regime.
Martin buried his head in his hands. This was his way out. It guaranteed that he'd never set foot in the Natzweiler again, that he'd never be part of the atrocious acts Hirt would commit to acquire the bones for his collection.
But the way out and into the front meant certain death for Martin. He'd been there once before but hadn't even been able to shoot. He knew he couldn't get away with hiding forever. Either he'd fight to the death or stay here, where life was much more predictable. And secure.
God help me, he prayed silently.
For the last time that night, he tore a page out of the typewriter and crumpled it up. He tossed the drafts into a bowl and lit it with a lonely match to ensure nobody would ever find out about this moment of weakness. He watched the flames hungrily eat up the paper.
The paper turned to ash. A flame licked the sides of the bowl for a few seconds, then died from lack of nutrition. Smoke curled up and into the air. It twisted itself into crude images, naked bodies, bones, skulls, the face of a professor Martin would like to forget.
After a few seconds of ceremonial silence, he rose, gently picked up the bowl, and dropped its contents into the trash. The evidence was gone. So was his chance at escaping this nightmare.
Nobody will write these kinds of letters, he thought bitterly; we're all too afraid to. But it wouldn't change anything if we did. The people who write the letters don't rule this world.
I am going to die.