Für Deutschland, für Hitler

"We don't have nearly enough cadavers to dissect here," Professor Hirt complained. "which is a problem because it's quite an important part of studying medicine."

"I agree," Martin said dumbly. "Why aren't we receiving more...cadavers?"

"We aren't included in the distribution program for cadavers to universities yet."

The doctor's words reminded Martin of how organized Nazi Germany was - but every organization has its flaws and in this case, time was the problem. Some of the annexed areas hadn't been included in every program yet - like the University of Strassburg which wasn't receiving cadavers.

"I'm going to need to ask other places for cadavers. I'm considering asking at the Natzweiler-Struthof."

"Natzweiler-Struthof?" Martin asked confusedly. He had not the slightest idea what the 'Natzweiler-Struthof' was.

"The concentration camp." August Hirt answered, "It's only about 60km away from Strassburg. I'm sure they'd have many cadavers they could bring to us."

Martin's mouth went dry. He'd almost forgotten about the concentration camps - he'd been so busy trying to figure out who Franz Weiher was and whether he should accept the job in Strassburg, that some of the other realities of the Third Reich had completely slipped his mind. He was living in a time when camps were running - camps designed to imprison and destroy political opponents or unwelcome minorities. He swallowed hard.

"But...wouldn't the bodies be very...starved?" He asked carefully. He wasn't sure how much a man like Franz Weiher would know about the condition of the people in the camps, but he decided to ask anyway.

"Emaciated cadavers are better than none at all." Professor Hirt said, "When we receive old and sick people it's not that much different." He was emotionless and scientific about it. It seemed to Martin that a dead body was more of an object of interest and research to Hirt than the remnants of a story of somebody who had once been alive. To Martin, it seemed morally indefensible to accept corpses from a concentration camp as objects to be dissected by students - experimenting on rats was one thing, but using the corpses of those poor people seemed like a step too far. August Hirt seemed utterly unbothered by it.

"Sievers has given me hopes of conducting my experiments with mustard gas on people." Hirt continued in an equally unempathetic tone. It took Martin a second to realize that Hirt was still referring to the Natzweiler-Struthof and that he planned to conduct experiences on its prisoners. "We'll probably be ready to start them toward the end of this year." His expression changed slightly - it switched to that small smile that now seemed more creepy than unfortunate to Martin. "You can join me, we'll need support." He continued to talk about the make-shift plans he had but Martin was too shocked to register what the professor was explaining. They wanted him to help with the experiments. On people.

***

Martin paced the living room of his apartment restlessly. He couldn't do it. If he was still employed by the Ahnenerbe - or more exactly - the IWZ and August Hirt, he'd probably have to go. That was impossible. He couldn't go. Panic began to rise in his chest. He tried to push it down, but it consumed him. He felt as though somebody was sitting on his chest, someone heavy. Someone unscrupulous. He reached under his shirt and rubbed at the skin over his heart. It was racing, with every passing second he became more and more sure that his heart would just stop like the hands on a watch when the battery ran out. But it didn't stop. He began to hyperventilate. His breathing was shallow and uncontrolled. He started to see specks of color at the edges of his vision. His arms crawled as if a thousand spiders were making their way up to his neck.

***

"Hakenkreuz am Stahlhelm...(swastika on our helmets)." The music weaved its way through the city like a spider's web. It snaked it's way into Martin's open window and into his ears. He was trying to recover from the panic that had settled in him, but hearing the propaganda music stirred unease deep in his stomach again. He reached up to close the window. But he could still hear it evey so slightly. The music swithed to an even more gruesome and menecing beat. TheTeufelslied. He'd heard the song once, what now seemed like a long time ago to him, it had been during a history lesson. The recording had been old and crackly but the intensity of the music had still reached them, penetrating through time and space and the bad quality of the recording. Now he heard it live. Without the rough edges. "Wo wir sind da geht's immer vorwärts, und der Teufel der lacht nur dazu! (Where we are there's only ever forward, and the devil laughs). The line called for laughter and all of a sudden dozens of German soldiers laughed: ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! The sound was the most chilling thing Martin had ever heard in his life. There was no need to translate the laughter, it was a universal language, a threat, a promise.

"Wir kämpfen für Deutschland, wir kämpfen für Hitler! (We're fighting for Germany, we're fighting for Hitler!" Those words echoed in his mind the rest of the night. 

For Germany.

For Hitler. 

His mind drifted to the Natzweiler-Struthof, a KZ he'd never heard about. It had to be a smaller one. A less prominent one.

For Hitler.

For Germany.

Natzweiler-Struthof.

For August Hirt.