Marta pretended not to notice as the officer sauntered over, stopping at their table. She knew him well—Olsen, a satanic beast in human form. Across from her sat a girl who managed to retain a fragile beauty despite her shorn hair and prisoner’s uniform. When Danielle realized he was there, she tensed, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.

Olsen leaned down and whispered something in Danielle’s ear. His cap, which he always wore slightly crooked, cast a shadow over his lifeless stare. The death’s head emblem on the black band seemed to mock the girl, mirroring his own disinterest in her plight. Cowering, she shook her head in a miserable show of defiance. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched under his touch.

He nodded toward the door. She shook her head again, more vigorously this time. Without warning, he jerked her upright. She stumbled back, almost falling before he caught her with a rough grip. Then, defeated, she followed him meekly out of the sorting room.

The other women watched her go, their expressions a mix of fear and resignation.

“What’s she in for?” Heather asked, sounding more bored than curious.

“Who, Danielle?” Judith shrugged, not looking up from her work. Her fingers were deft and practiced as she turned up the collar on an expensive-looking trench. “She’s from Marblehead.”

“She can’t be one of Hood’s, or she’d be dead.” Rachel tossed a shirt into a bin on the floor, her movements sharp and precise.

Judith ripped open the trench, revealing a hidden pocket. Reaching in, she pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “The idiot was, though,” she continued, slipping the bill into a special box. No one was stupid enough to steal it, and there was nothing to buy, anyway. “With her boyfriend. She brought him food, or something. Supplies. Him and his friends. Then she watched him die.”

Heather’s eyes widened slightly, but she quickly masked her reaction. “Harsh.”

Someone dumped another box out onto their table, scattering more clothes and belongings. The room seemed to close in around them, the walls pressing in with the weight of unspoken fears and shared suffering. The ceiling was high, yet the space felt claustrophobic, filled with rows of prisoners who labored over piles of clothing and other personal effects. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and dust, mingling with the sharp tang of metal and the faint scent of decay.

The constant roar from the adjacent building was a relentless backdrop, a reminder that the camp’s ostensible purpose was manufacturing uniforms. For enlisted men, Marta had been told, the Heer’s mass-produced cannon fodder. Pounding hammers and screaming gears seeped into her bones, fraying her nerves and eroding whatever slight sense of peace the repetitive work might’ve brought. It never stopped; more prisoners arrived each day, bringing clothing that had to be processed. Marta’s life had become a cycle of examining, discarding, and salvaging, as monotonous as the outpouring of fabric next door…and the ache in her hands.

Struggling to hold the seam ripper, she cursed the mangled lumps they’d become—and Dassel, for consigning her to this hell. Pain had been her constant companion since that fateful afternoon, a relentless torment ranging from dull, throbbing background noise to sharp, piercing stabs that made her eyes water. Even the smallest movements were torture, on cold afternoons like this, but she couldn’t afford to stop. She’d been lucky to get this job, as Judith constantly reminded her; she didn’t want to end up in one of the warping machines, like the girl last week who’d been mangled beyond recognition, her screams still seeming to echo in the bleak atmosphere.

Rachel pulled the sportscoat away and tossed Marta a pair of pants. “All that one needs is pockets.”

She stuck her hand into one and bit back a hiss, the smooth silk screaming against her raw nerves. There was no escape from what Dassel had done to her, shattering her mind and body and leaving her to heal—if she could even call it that. Williston had a doctor of sorts, although she’d never seen him. Even if he’d wanted to examine her, which he didn’t, he was another of Dassel’s cronies. No, Dassel had known exactly what he was doing. He’d intended her to feel this agony forever, to be haunted by his sadism with her every breath.

Staring at the sportscoat’s faded lining, she couldn’t help but see Charlotte.

Part of her wanted to hate the woman, imagining her living a charmed life with her prince in their castle. But another part, the part that had started to grow up since she’d been here, couldn’t help but wonder: was Charlotte’s fate really any better? No one asked what had driven Cinderella to choose a man who couldn’t recognize her face, or what in Snow White’s life made marriage to the man who’d violated her corpse seem like an escape. Sighing, she tossed the sportscoat aside. Charlotte’s prison looked different, that was all.

Judith glanced at Danielle’s empty seat, her lips curling into a sneer. “Beautiful women get boyfriends,” she jibed. “Ugly women like Marta go to the prisoner’s brothel.”

Marta’s grip tightened on the seam ripper, her knuckles whitening. “I’d hardly call him her boyfriend,” she muttered, her voice thick with contempt.

Rachel pulled out a stack of photographs from a pocket, flicking through them as though they were cards in a deck. “He gave her a pair of shoes,” she remarked. “New ones.”

Picking up a button, Judith examined it with feigned interest. “He wrote her a letter.”

“So?” Marta didn’t bother to hide her disgust. Danielle wasn’t to blame for Olsen’s whims and had done nothing to court his sick fascination. Her stomach churned at the thought that anyone could be jealous. If Rachel wanted shoes that badly, she felt like pointing out, there were other guards. Instead, she grabbed for a stained purse, her mind churning with conflicting emotions.

“He slipped it to her last week,” Judith added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I saw her reading it, near the service entrance to the kitchen.”

Heather grimaced, her face contorting with disdain. “I’d rather be dead.”

Marta’s gaze hardened. “I’m sure Danielle would, too.”

A nearby guard barked at them to can it, his voice cracking through the din of the sorting room like a whip. The women fell silent, but Marta’s mind continued to churn. She shot a sidelong glance at Judith, who now ostentatiously ignored her. Judith’s pretense at disinterest only made Marta's irritation simmer further. When she wasn’t showing off her observational skills, she was attacking Danielle. There was a time, Marta knew, when she’d have joined right in. But despite the depths she’d fallen—or maybe because of them—she couldn’t bring herself to resent the girl.

Heather found a candy bar. Ignoring protests that she should share, she tore away the wrapper and shoved it into her mouth before a guard could confiscate the treat for himself. Marta glared at her, patting down a pair of socks. Danielle always shared the food she found. Then again, a traitorous voice whispered, she could afford to. Marta wondered, somewhat against her will, what the girl was doing at this minute. Could Olsen even get it up, like a normal man?

No man in this world, she reminded herself, was normal.

After her shift ended, she punched out and trudged across the main quad to the mess hall, each step measured and deliberate. Dinner was the usual watery soup and a chunk of inedible bread. She noted with a small flicker of relief that there was butter tonight, and cheese. Sometimes she got marmalade, too, but not this time. Taking her tray to the end of a long table, she sat down alone, the world around her shrinking to the contents of her tray. Other prisoners focused on their food with the same single-minded purpose, their eyes glazed over, lost in the shared ritual of eating.

She moved her spoon through the soup, her focus narrowing to the potatoes and turnip chunks floating in the broth. Tiny flecks of sausage caught her eye, a rare and precious find. She savored each bite, her mind clinging to the small pleasures, trying to avoid the looming despair. Once, she would’ve turned her nose up at such a meal. Now, each mouthful was a lifeline, something to look forward to, breaking the endless monotony of featureless nothing.

Later, she walked back the way she’d come.

The path through the camp was a gauntlet of misery, the air thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting refuse piled wherever it could be most easily overlooked. She passed rows of identical barracks, their gambrel roofs sloping over cheerful brick in a grotesque parody of some romantic village. But there were no gardens here, and no animals to wander through them, only hollow-eyed prisoners watching her from the shadows. Guards patrolled through the silence with disinterested contempt, like shadows brought to life from evil.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A wall rose in the distance, topped with rolls of concertina wire that glinted in the setting sun. Watchtowers loomed at intervals along its length, more guards’ unseen eyes pressing down on her. The ground beneath her feet was a sludge of mud and gravel, churned into treacherous mire by the constant foot traffic and mixed with God knew what. The camp’s façade of orderliness was just that—a façade, a mummer’s mask over the rotting core of anguish and cruelty.

The doll’s house was at the far side of the camp.

A low, squat barracks near the entrance the guards used, it exuded an aura of misery. Here, Marta and the others served those prisoners deemed deserving…or at least those who could afford a coupon. Each go cost the same as a pack of cigarettes, though coupons were also given as rewards. Most of them went to the Kapos, the trusties, some of whom were even worse than the guards. Marta wasn’t popular, not that it mattered; her customers were assigned to her in fifteen-minute slots.

A blonde bitch built like a refrigerator was waiting for her. The Aufseherin, the doll’s house overseer, radiated foul temper. “You’re late,” she growled, tapping her foot.

“I needed dinner,” Marta muttered.

The Aufseherin prodded Marta’s stomach with her riding crop.

Behind her, men were already lining up along the low covered porch. The doll’s house operated on a strict schedule, like everything else in the Reich. Operating hours were between eight and ten on weeknights, allowing a maximum of eight customers for the most sought-after girls, and then twice as many customers again on Sundays. Each girl served them in her assigned room, and they were all expected to report back after dinner in time to prepare.

Pushing past the other woman, Marta continued on.

The building’s exterior was deceptively normal, its true horror revealed only once inside. The walls were thin and, soon, they’d be amplifying every sound: the thudding treads of the guards, the muffled cries of the women, the occasional laughter from men who found amusement in the horror they inflicted. The air was thick and oppressive, a soupy mix of stale sweat, fear, and the ever-present scent of desolation. It clogged her nostrils, making her gag even in the best of times. Each breath felt like a chore, a reminder of the hopelessness permeating every corner.

Every time she walked past the reception area, she thought incongruously of her honeymoon. She and Bill had gone to Niagara Falls, springing for a motel with the same faux wood paneling. Only instead of a tired motorist, complaining about the sheets, a man marked with a green triangle jabbed his finger into a bored guard’s face. Kevin might be a habitual offender, but he never ran out of coupons; he stole them from the other prisoners. “I told you,” he repeated, leaning forward across the desk. “I want the redhead.”

Leaning back in his chair, the guard crossed his arms and shrugged, his expression one of casual indifference. “You always want the redhead.”

“Yeah, well.” Kevin’s lip curled in distaste. “I don’t feel quite so much like I’m getting a disease.”

“None of them have diseases,” the guard retorted, his voice tinged with irritation. “We check.”

Kevin arched an eyebrow. “But how often?”

Throwing his pen down, the guard lost his patience. “You’re going to take who I assign, or I’m going to light that stupid chit on fire. If you’re so worried about cleanliness,” he added, “use your hand.”

“Come on,” Kevin wheedled. “I stopped that escape attempt, didn’t I?”

The guard rolled his eyes.

Marta moved on, her footsteps echoing dully against the cold, hard floor. The hall seemed to close around her with each step, the walls pressing in, a suffocating reminder of her confinement. By the time she reached her room, night had fully taken hold of the world, leaving her few possessions etched in shadow. Producing a match, she lit her makeshift lantern. Trading some half-sucked peppermints for an awl, she’d punched holes into an old tin can and then traded a book she’d found for a stump of candle. The pinpricks of light cast a vague star pattern on the walls, a fragile semblance of hope in an otherwise oppressive darkness. She told herself that she was alive and that counted, even if survival was its own kind of torment.

She started unbuttoning her shirt, each movement sending fresh rounds of needles through her damaged hands. The skin around her fingers throbbed, raw and inflamed from her hours in the sorting room. Parting the coarse material, she paused as tears sprang to her eyes—both from the pain and the humiliation of what it concealed. Feld-Hure, someone had tattooed above her breasts, field whore. Each block letter was an inch tall or more, black against skin that’d only grown paler since her arrival. Somehow, they bothered her even more than her serial number.

Blowing her nose, the damp mold smell of her room seemed to grow more oppressive, mixing with the lingering scents of rotting linen and dirt. She cursed as a button slipped from her grasp, her fingers unable to hold on. The anticipation of what was to come seemed to grow and grow, a nightly ritual of dread. She steeled herself for the encounter, mentally preparing for the degradation she’d endure. Each night, the same grim anticipation, the same bargaining with herself for how she’d make the time pass. She focused on the pinpricks of light from her makeshift lantern, trying to lose herself in the faint patterns they cast. If she could just detach, just float above it all, maybe she could once again endure to the end of her shift.

She jumped as the door swung open, whirling around as a man was shoved inside.

“Let me out!” he called, almost falling over his own feet.

“Look,” a voice jeered, “the bitch isn’t even undressed.”

The man turned back to Marta, his face stricken with fear.

Two guards were watching their little tableau through a hole in the door, large enough to give them both a clear view. In here, at work, even at the latrine, she was never truly alone. She let her shirt fall to the floor, her hands trembling as she started tugging at the drawstring of her pants.

“That’s right!” the first guard guard hollered. “Show him your tits!”

“Those aren’t going to cure him,” the second guard added, sneering. “Those are terrible tits.”

“To them, all tits are the same,” a third guard chimed in, followed by coarse laughter.

She laid down on the bed, and waited.

“Remember, missionary only!” the first guard instructed, his tone mocking.

The second guard spat. “No pretending she’s a man.”

“He doesn’t have to turn her around to do that,” the first guard advised, his crude joke eliciting a round of snorts.

The man’s eyes had grown as round as saucers.

“Want us to come in there and show you how?” The second guard again. “Because we will!”

“Should we show him where the cock goes on her,” the third guard asked, “or on him?”

“I think he already knows,” the first guard replied, his tone dripping with malice.

The third guard’s chuckle was a low, rustling sound. “A hole’s a hole. Right, Marta?”

For a split-second after that, there was silence.

The man came to a decision, then, as Marta fixed her gaze on the ceiling, fumbling at his pants with trembling hands. He climbed on top of her, his eyes wide and filled with warring dread and resignation. She lay still, her body rigid, saying nothing. Propping himself up on his elbow, he took his cock in his free hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She knew she should help him, make it easier, but she didn’t. His tears fell onto her bare skin, chilling her to the bone as he worked furiously on himself. Finally, he pushed inside, and she turned her head, focusing on the rising moon outside the window, trying to escape in her mind from the brutality of the act.

“Give us a good show or you’ll lose your nice, cushy job!” the first guard warned her, his tone mocking.

“She doesn’t need real hands to grab the latrine buckets,” the second guard advised. “In fact, those claws would work well!”

“Besides,” the third guard added, his voice tinged with sadistic glee, “Olsen says you’re slow!”

The first guard sneered. “Smile, bitch, and show us how much you love it!”

After what felt like forever, the man finished and left. She felt his mess slide out of her and grimaced, mired in self-loathing. What she wouldn’t give to see Danielle in a room like this, even for a night, or down on her knees during one of the commandant’s special performances. She hated herself for wishing that on anyone, especially someone as helpless as that little fool. But Danielle only had to endure one man’s attentions, and how much stamina could he have? If their places were reversed, she’d be able to wash herself up and hide in that poor excuse for a bunk. Picturing it was bitter consolation, twisting her insides with shame.

What kind of person was she, that she could think like this?

Through her window, she watched the moon vanish behind a cloud, plunging her room into deeper darkness.

Her next customer arrived.

She’d had him before—a former sergeant in the Wehrmacht, now reduced to this after stabbing his lieutenant. He didn’t even bother to remove his pants, just tugged them down around his thighs before dropping his weight down and mechanically thrusting in and out. The bed creaked under his efforts, each movement a painful reminder of her degradation. His breath was hot and sour against her face, but she kept her gaze fixed on the world outside and all it represented.

No one watched this time, not that she could tell.

Finishing, he patted her on the cheek, his touch sickeningly familiar. “Mit deutschem Gruß.”

With German regards.