Every time I caught a whiff of the camp, every time I glanced at one of the skeletons walking around the yards, and every time they threw another bag of bones into the pits I knew I had been wrong.

I had been wrong when I joined them. I had believed the lies, so completely, and joined the Youth Party as soon as I was allowed to by my Father. I was younger then and I have aged so much in the years between.

They were the problem, I remember thinking. My Father always said they were scum, undesirables, the leeches that sucked the lifeblood from our tired country. He supported the laws, no matter which ones they passed. He had ruined his back working to keep all these people with pockets full of gold.

I see now he was just an angry, drunken, and crippled man. A mental and physical invalid. A casualty of the last war.

I had been wounded on the Eastern Front and saved by the scum my father hated. It shook me to have them save me. And now, with my transfer here, I see what grows from the seeds of hate.