I stroll out of my three-story house. I walk through the garden. The flowers are in bloom, though they add little color to such a cold and dark place as where I work.

I give a nod in greeting to the guards standing in front of the gate. There is an inscription on the gate: “ARBEIT MACHT FREI” (work makes you free). I shudder at the irony. If anything, work keeps you alive in this terrible place.

I am a commandant at Auschwitz. My uniform is black as if to show that Death is my employer. Medals decorate my chest. My name, Fredrick Kepler, is sewn on my right pocket. I wear an armband with a swastika on it, showing that I support the criminals that built this death camp. I come to a bleak building and enter, closing the door behind me.

Prisoners gather around me, looking at me expectantly. They wear striped clothing and an armband with the Star of David. Their heads are shaved and they have sunken eyes. I know exactly what they are waiting for. I pull out a dozen bagels with cream cheese. The building erupts into chaos as I divide up the food and hand it out.

The Jews inhaled their food eagerly. I notice that some boys are fighting.

“Why are you fighting?” I have to yell to be heard over the noise of starving people enjoying their food. The boys turn to me.

“He stole my food,” one of the boys whines. I turn to the culprit, who is staring at the floor.

“Give your food to me,” I command. Reluctantly the boy puts his prize into my hand. Carefully, I divide it into equal halves. The boys wolf their food down without expressing their gratitude, but in my eyes, it is enough.

At the end of the day, I head home. I have done this for four years. I could end up in a concentration camp or worse for doing this. Even if that happens, it will still be worth it.