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We arrived at our destination late in the afternoon. The facility wasn’t one of the large, infamous state concentration camps that later filled history books. It contained no mass, specialized execution chambers or industrial waste disposal plants. It was an entirely different type of institution—a secret, administrative labor camp, rarely mentioned in mainstream history.
The installation operated under the direct, absolute supervision of the region’s high-ranking military commander, Colonel Friedrich von Steiner. He was forty-two years old, with neat, slicked-back gray hair, a rigid posture, and a consistently calm voice. He never raised his voice in anger or resorted to physical violence. He issued daily orders in a polite, measured tone, as if making a routine social request.
This complete lack of emotion was the most terrifying aspect of his demeanor. Von Steiner ran the labor camp with the cold efficiency of a private commercial estate. The facility maintained a strict internal hierarchy and harsh disciplinary measures that required no verbal explanation; every prisoner understood the hidden consequences of disobeying orders. He personally assigned specific tasks to each new arrival, choosing who would work in the kitchen, who would maintain the officers’ quarters, who would repair military uniforms, and who would be reserved for private administrative staff.
The burden of absolute control
No official ever explained the exact nature of these private activities, but a deep sense of dread permeated the barracks. For the first few weeks, my sisters and I tried to blend into the background. We performed our physical duties in complete silence, stared at the ground, and actively avoided contact with camp staff. Despite this, von Steiner maintained a constant, watchful presence. He regularly walked among the ranks of workers during the mandatory morning roll calls, deliberately lingering on specific individuals. It wasn’t a look expressing standard human emotion; it was a look of unwavering possession.
One evening, our vulnerability became apparent. Two guards materialized at the entrance to our wooden barracks and called Séverine’s name. She rose from her wooden bunk with incredible slowness, her limbs visibly trembling, and cast one last, lingering glance at Aurore and me before crossing the threshold. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes—a silent farewell, a profound plea for strength, and an expression of pure terror. She returned to her quarters at dawn, utterly silent. She refused to speak of the encounter; she simply lay down on the bare wooden boards and turned her back to the room. When Aurore tried to comfort her, Séverine instinctively recoiled, as if expecting a physical blow. I sat on the cold, clay floor, feeling a vital part of my youth crumble.