As Stanley walked toward the back of the library, the librarian's comment echoed through his mind. She had said that we create horrors in our literature to help us deal with the real horrors in everyday life. He wondered: "What horrors are there in life that are so scary that writers like Stephen King are trying to help us deal with them?"
Looking for real life horrors, he found himself standing in the section devoted to history and war. His eyes scanned the massive row of shelves. He instantly spotted one book among the thousands. It was just a normal looking volume, but he could see the air seem to shimmer in front of it. He reached up, and the book seemed to move to his hand as if guided by a magnet.
He walked to his regular seat, an over-sized chair next to a window on the back wall. He sat and looked down at the book in his hand. The title seemed to make no sense, it was "Das war Dachau". He opened the cover, and immediately realized that the book was written in German, a language he knew nothing about. He scanned the page, trying to understand what he was reading, when suddenly he felt the world spin. He felt himself pushed into the chair, and then everything went black.
His head hurt. He could hear the sound of voices around him. He was laying on something hard, and the air was thick with a putrid stench. He opened his eyes slowly, trying to orient himself. He saw he was face down on wooden planks. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice urgently saying "Hans, wacht auf!" He knew that the words were German, but he clearly understood them, not as if they were translated, but as if it were his native language. "Hans, wake up!" the voice repeated. He turned and sat up slowly, letting the dizziness pass.
He saw the man standing over him, the one who had been shaking his shoulder and speaking to him. His face was thin and hollow looking, with a scraggly beard stubble. His skin was thick with grime, and there were open sores on his cheek. The man was wearing filthy rags, which seemed to once have had blue stripes. Now it appeared that they were being held intact only by the filth and grime ground into them. He had the fleeting thought that if they were to be washed, they would simply dissolve.
"Hans", the man said, "you are hurt, but you must make role call or he will beat you even worse". Stanley touched the right side of his head. It hurt. He could feel that the scalp above his ear was split. He looked at his hand, the traces of blood were thick and congealed. He noticed that his own hands and arms were caked in thick grime which seemed to be cracked and flaking. Seven blue numbers were tattooed on his left forearm.
"What happened?" he asked the man. As he spoke, he realized that he was speaking German, although he had never spoken it in his life.
"You did not answer at role call this morning, and he hit you with his rifle".
Stanley was still confused, "Who is 'he'?" he asked. He noticed several other men had begun to move closer.
"You don't remember? Herr Greubber, the fire chief, is now a Gestapo guard. He hates Jews more than any other guard here, and prefers to beat us rather than kill us."
"I'm sorry", Stanley said, "I can't remember! Who am I? Where am I? Who are you?"
"Your head wound", the man replied, pointing to the bloody rags next to Stanley. "The bleeding has stopped, but it must have harmed memory as well. I am Rabbi Jacob Weise, your friend, you are Hans Gertz, and we are in the Dachau Camp" he paused, and then added thoughtfully "That you cannot remember may be a blessing from God".
A clang of metal came from outside. "It is role call" said Jacob. "Let me help you walk. Remember: Answer when your name is called, it is Hans Gertz!"
Stanley stood, placing his right arm over his friends shoulder and moved toward the door.
"I'm not Jewish" Stanley said softly as they moved.
"Perhaps you weren't" said Jacob, "but now you are".
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