Chapter 24: Natweilers wheelbarrows
Your back hurts, your knees ache and they threaten to buckle beneath you.
You can't write these words. You're too tired when you get back to your cot.
Someone else would have to jot them down, to watch you walk, push, and run. But the people who like to write don't watch you. The people who smoke cigarettes watch you. And they won't write about you.
Your hands don't bleed but they're calloused. You're breathing is labored—your heart thumps against your ribcage. You can see it. You can see the skin tremble under the strain.
You grip the handles of the wheelbarrow more tightly and jog towards the watch tower. You have to be quicker. Quicker than Rolf.
Rolf might bite you. Kiss your shins with his razor-sharp teeth. The man in front of you still has shins. But his are trailing on the ground behind him.
You hear the dog bark and try to go faster. But the rocks are too heavy. Your legs are too tired. Your skin sticks to your bones with sweat.
Behind the watch tower is the gorge. You have to dump the wheelbarrow down it. But be careful not to stand by them, when you hastily yank the handles up to dump the load. They might give you a push.
You scramble back toward the watch tower with the empty barrow and run, faster this time, back to the stretch of uneven land. They load your barrow. You help. Rolf is nowhere to be seen. But you can hear his barking.
Your back itches, your feet throb, and once in a while, you lose your sense of vision for a second. And there you are again - crossing the field with the barrow. It pulls you toward the gorge. You trip, they see you and laugh. You scurry to the edge and prepare to dump the load.
You can't see them. They might be behind you. You can smell cigarette smoke. Rolfs breath. You hold the handles tightly. The barrow has worth, they won't push it off the edge.
A hit to your knuckles and they start to breathe. They start to bleed. The rocks fall down the gorge you can hear them. Then you're running again - back to the field. Rolf is next to you, but then he's gone. A cry comes from the left.
Rocks in, barrow full, run. Faster. You couldn't write about this. Nobody sees you run. Nobody is going to write about this. The smoke curls a whip to your shins. Rolf's teeth graze your shins. He's faster than you. He doesn't have a wheelbarrow. He's smoking a cigar - dogs don't smoke cigars. Here they do.
You tip the wheelbarrow, the handles slip in your hands, and you maneuver it onto the side. Your hands are red. They throb and pump blood like your heart. You can feel them beat.
You reach for the wheelbarrow but your hands never touch the handles. Someone shoulders you. You stumble.
The air is cool against your hands.
Your lungs crush on impact.
Your skin sticks to the rocks.
You hear Rolf bark from high above you. A cigarette butt lands next to your tongue.
You can't write. You can't think.
Nobody is going to write about you.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
MaydayMarko
MaydayMarko Some prisoners of the concentration camp Natzweiler-Struthof suffered this fate during their work in the Arbeitskommando "Todesschlucht".
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