Rats Don't Deserve Fresh Air

The man was holding on to a slice of bread so tightly that it no longer looked like bread. Max could not take his eyes off him. He did not know the man, but he knew how the bread would taste in his mouth, and that he would chew it tenderly, savouring its sweetness until the last bit. He swallowed and imagined the morsel sliding gently down his throat. He laid his hand on his stomach. 

“The more you look, the hungrier you’ll get,” Max turned toward the voice—it was a man of no more than twenty-two, though his sunken cheeks and unshaven face added a decade to his look. “I’m Otto,” said the man as he extended his hand. 

“Max, Rosenthal,” said Max, looking away.

“I guess we’re the unlucky ones today,” Otto said as he tucked his hands under his shirt.

“Why does he get one, and we don’t?” asked Max, glancing again at the man with the misshapen bread. The sweetness he had imagined a moment ago was now gone. 

“You must be new here,” Otto replied. “How many days?”

“Two,” said Max, “but it felt like weeks.” He raised his gaze toward the early summer sky. Yesterday felt like a dream where he was watching life unfold before him, dragging him through, while having no thoughts of his own. Today was a yard scattered with men with real faces and a relentless hunger that gnawed at him like an itch he could not scratch.

“What brought you here, Max Rosenthal?” asked Otto. His eyes darted across the yard. 

“The railcar,” said Max, still staring into the sky.

“That’s not what I meant,” Otto said quickly. “What brought you here?”

Max turned to Otto, who was now looking back at him. “My father is a baker. I help him out in the shop sometimes. It’d just happened, you know. They came, smashed our windows, and told us that we could no longer do our business here. Father tried to fight back. He told them to get out of his shop. They beat him up, all four of them at once. They put me and my father in a lorry, and then onto a railcar.”

“We got separated. I don’t know where they’ve taken him,” Max added.

“Somewhere better, I’m sure,” Otto said as he examined the condition of his mismatched shoes. 

“What about you?” Max asked. 

“I was—am a student,” Otto replied, “I’m studying philosophy in the university. It’s not the most popular degree, but it’s important to me.”

“Why?” Max asked.

“To understand life. To find the true purpose of life. Everyone has their purpose,” Otto said, “you, me, and even him,” he pointed his chin toward the sentry guard.

“Who is your favourite philosopher?” Max asked. “Not that I know of any,” he added.

Otto thought for a moment. “Kant, I think,” he said. “He’s a great teacher.” 

“Does he teach at your university?” Max asked.

“No, of course not,” Otto laughed. “He died over a hundred years ago. But his work is being and will be studied for a long time.”

Otto lifted his head. “Act in such a way that you treat humanity never merely as a means to an end, but always at the same time as an end,” he mused.

“Is that something from Kant?” Max asked. 

“Something like that, I don’t remember the exact words,” Otto said. 

“I don’t know what it means," said Max sheepishly. “I’m not well-educated.”

“It means that we all have feelings, thoughts, and the right to make our own choices, and we must not use others as a tool for our own goals,” Otto explained. 

“Goals… I want to get out of here,” Max said. 

“Who doesn’t?” Otto replied. “What is it that you miss the most out there?”

“Bread. You?”

“Hot stew.”

“Brisket—”

“Roast chicken…”

“Spitzbuben!” they both exclaimed.

“You! Over there!” the sentry guard shouted. He pointed at Max and Otto. “The one with the hat.” 

“Me?” Otto mouthed. His face turned to ash. 

“Yes, you,” the guard said and gestured to him once more to come over.

“Wish me luck,” Otto gave Max a rueful smile. He stood up and steadied himself, and adjusted his shirt and hat. He took a few steps forward, and looked back at his friend. 

“Ask him for something to eat,” Max said in a low voice.

Otto continued on toward the guard and stood a few metres in front of him. “Yes?” he said. 

“Come over here,” the guard said without moving from his post. Otto obliged, not before giving Max another quick glance. 

“What did you say?” the guard asked, his face hidden in the shadow. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Otto mumbled.  

“Come closer so I can hear you better,” the guard instructed. Otto shook his head. “It’s all right, I’ve got something for you,” the guard continued.

Max watched Otto inched forward, eyes on the ground, flinching at every word the guard said. Soon he was out of hearing range. 

Otto took another step. 

The sound of a gun shot thundered through the air. Max stared in horror as Otto staggered backward. It seemed like an eternity before the philosophy student fell on his back. A dark pool of blood formed slowly around his head. Otto’s body squirmed violently, holding on to every bit of life as it drained out of him.

Get up, Max thought, we don’t need the bread. Get up, Otto, please.

Thump. What’s happening? Thump. Otto is dead. Thump. Murdered.

There was chaos. Men were howling and running in different directions, but all Max could hear was the sound of his own beating heart. A number of guards in their shiny uniforms appeared out of nowhere. Max scuttled to a corner, joining a few others like him. One of the guards approached with a gun pointing steadily at the group. 

“How many times must I tell you, no closer than six metres from the sentry,” the guard sneered. “Stupid and useless, that’s what you are. Filthy swine.”

Once again, it started to feel like a dream. Max and the group were rounded up and brought back to their cells at gunpoint. 

“Rats don’t deserve fresh air,” the man spat at them and shut the door.

Max cowered in a corner. He stared at his trembling hands. He tried to speak; he tried to form words, but there were none. All he could see was Otto’s body—he was seated next to him and then he wasn’t. He couldn't remember the face of the guard who shot Otto. He couldn't remember the man with the slice of bread that he had so badly wanted. 

All Max could remember was Otto's voice, what is it that you miss the most out there?

Rats.

He trembled. He bit his knuckle and sank his teeth into it so deep that blood soon started to pool.

You filthy swine.

His father held out a tray of freshly baked bread. 

What is it that you miss the most, Max Rosenthal?

He closed his eyes. The guards were roaring with obscene laughter outside.

He took a long, deep breath. And then another. And another.