Year 1942

I am a soldier. A proud man to be serving my country. Doing what is considered right. I am a Nazi.
Or should I say, was?

Everyday, I watch innocent people die. Sent to the left or right. Labor or death. All in the flick of my wrist.
But why?

We’re told that we are weeding out the dirt and filth from our society. Only blaming those who were meant to be blamed. But, who decides that? Hitler?
I stop sorting for a moment, resting; as if flicking my wrist tires me. But, it does. Knowing that by a single, almost involuntary, movement, I determine the rest of people’s lives.

Young. Old. Weak. Strong.

A fellow soldier comes over. Soldier? Hah. More like executioner. He looks down at me, crouched on the ground.
Asks, “Sind Sie gut?” Are you alright?
I look at him tears collecting in my eyes.
“Why do we do this? Why?,” I ask.
He looks at me, examining my character. He turns away slowly and quietly responds, “Wir sind gerade folgende Aufträge.”

We are just following orders.