A Day in Buchenwald

“Admiring the view?” Jehovah asks.

Or, rather, his witness: the Jehovah’s Witness.

I heard someone arrive, footsteps on the snow, in the copse on the edge of the Little Camp, between the quarantine huts and the infirmary, the Revier. I turned around for a second, listening to that crunching of snow. I did not fear the inopportune arrival of some SS. They aren’t in the habit of venturing into the camp on Sunday afternoons. Those on duty keep to the watchtowers or guard posts, snug and warm. Those not on duty are drinking beer in the SS canteen, awaiting their turn to go on guard. Or they’re chasing girls, in Weimar. But if it really wasn’t an SS officer, it could be some prowler. So...