Brief synopsis

An ex-Nazi concentration camp guard, a croupier now, tells a story how a round of Blackjack with four people, each of whom carried a trait of Nazi movement, lost him his last hope.

1+4+8+8=21

I lost hope that day. Amusing, how every other night I came to work with a sole indifference towards the players. They sat at my table, tried their luck with rare wit against mine and then left. All I did was draw a card and announce the value. Impartially, I watched people get stripped of their possessions as they handed me the objects they held unreasonably dear.

***

Banging on the door strengthens. The option of ignoring the visitor quickly deteriorates. It is one in the afternoon and I have all the reasons to be outside the house. But I am not. And the visitor behind the door knows it. He persists. I open the door to see the unpleasant face.

"Good day, Herr Klähn. I believe you are aware of the reason for my arrival."

I nod.

"There is no option of further postponement."

"I will pay from the first check," I lie. The visitor knows I lied. I sigh and draw crumpled banknotes from my pocket.

"All I have."

The visitor takes the money (not without an apparent disgust).

"You have a week to pay the rest. Otherwise, you will leave the house at once."

I nod. The shade of pity crosses his face.

"It has come to my attention that, to this day, you have not joined the party. It might be the step in the right direction."

He leaves promptly. I leave the house exactly a week later and head to the city with a dubious intent of joining the party.

***

But that day I placed my hope on the table and lost. The room was, as usual, full and reeked of smoke. I was at my table waiting for a new game to begin. Thomas, my first guest, I have known for the past three months. He had an exquisite sense of ingesting just enough alcohol to tell his entire life story in under five minutes without adding details that have never occurred. He was a boy from that part of town, where the carelessness hangs in the air because dinner is a privilege as is the survival. The same streets, from where the soldiers marched burning with a passion of hunger rather than patriotism were his home. Thomas didn't play smart, preferring to lay himself into unsteady hands of destiny. He trusted no one but believed everyone. Quickly becoming an amusement for senior guests, Thomas humbly took his place in the social hierarchy that formed every evening. That evening he walked to the table greeting the people, most of whom stayed unresponsive.

***

I enter the store. It smells of wood, paper, and leather. I think about the promising new job I am starting. For the occasion, I wish to buy a leather briefcase. My father's old briefcase, that has served him many years, is too unpresentable. The fine dressed man, who, I suppose, is the owner, is busy sorting papers. He has sharp cheekbones that highlight his professionality. I walk around the store, mesmerized by the shining of leather in the dim light. I pick up a simple but elegant briefcase and walk to the man. He raises his head and looks at me expectantly. I hand him the bag, draw out my wallet and begin counting. After the recent wave of inflation, mostly everything my father has left me is worthless. The realization comes to me together with disbelief. did not have enough. I feel the blood in my cheeks and ears. I look at the man, who chose to return to studying papers on his desk. He notices the deep red of my face.

"Come next time, my boy. These are hard times for us all," he says. I cannot move. How can he, how dare he pretend to understand my shame? Times are not hard for him, they have never been! I repeat the words to myself until I can barely think.

***

"Good evening," said Thomas, barely reaching the table.

"Hard day it was indeed." He plunged into a chair. I nodded politely,

"Good evening, Thomas."

From the depth of the room, I saw Herr Schmittman approach the table. He yanked the chair and fell into it. Herr Schmittman was not a frequent visitor, but a memorable one. Never has his visit ended in a peaceful manner.

The next person to try his luck against mine was blockführer. He walked through the door greeting the guests with a smirk and proceeded to selectively shake hands with those, whom he found worthy of his touch. I was sure he had noticed the glimpses in his direction. He must have adored them and, most likely, deserved them. Blockführer placed himself in front of me. His blue eyes on a pale face skimmed the rest of the table.

***

Hunger is unforgivable. It visits you until you pay the debt. I am walking along the streets, cherishing my hopelessness. I notice a small crowd gathering on the sidewalk. They are mumbling words that I can't discriminate. Then the parade begins. The men in cloaks walk slowly as ghosts too terrified to scare the living. Their faces melt into a blur of sunken cheeks and watery eyes. They all carry a small bag. I doubt that the bag is of any help to them. They look hungry. Hungrier than me. I don't belong among them. I belong here, on the sidewalk, watching. Someone in the crowd screams encouraging words to the uniformed men. I scream at the ghosts. I tell them to leave forever. I tell hunger to leave forever.

***

The stranger's arrival was far from unnoticed. He crossed the room in humble quiet and sat in the chair to my left, close enough for me to study him from the corner of my eye. His uniform reflected his occupation, as it did for everyone else. He did not remove his grey coat like most of the guest tend to do. Instead, he removed his gloves, stacking them on top of one another with enviable precision. Stranger's movements appealed for no recognition, not a tinge of guilt was written on his forehead. Have I not known by his uniform that he has seen many men killed, or, perhaps, had his own gun pointed at someone's back, I would have proclaimed him innocent. His appearance left a tail of ambiguous looks ranging from curiosity to disgust. The man did not seem to feel even slightly unsettled. His reticence was enviable.

I decided to begin the game.

"Your bet?" I asked. Thomas was indecisive when it came to money. The old habits were debilitating. He placed a ridiculously low bet. Blockführer shook his head. But I knew that after the first victory Thomas would rejoice and, as if to celebrate, would proceed with bets he later disapproved of.

"Herr Schmittman?" A poorly calculated but rational for his status bet followed. I asked blockführer for his bet. He offered an uncomfortably large sum eager to be accepted as respectful. Finally, the strange man placed his bet - not too low, not too high. I wondered if it was well thought or impulsive.

***

"I am not a nobody anymore," I think to myself. The thought warms my heart. The words swirl the air, ringing in the ears of the crowd. I feel the tingling sensation in my stomach. I want to raise my hands and scream. I want to believe in the words I hear. I like these words. The crowd around me likes them too. I am, we are more than we thought we were. How foolish of us to downgrade ourselves into the state of no recognition. No more. I have found the path I can follow with pride.

***

I accepted the bets and drew out the deck. Then I placed a card in front of Thomas. Seven. The boy looked grateful. Herr Schmittman could not seize his impatient tapping on the table. Content but far from enough with his ten, he was waiting, brewing. Blockführer chuckled. He had a nine. I drew another card and placed in front of the stranger. Ace. Only he chose to stay impassionate.

***

The window shatters. I take a step back and watch millions of pieces of glass fall on the ground. In the pitch darkness of the night, one might think that heavy hale is hitting the road. I step into the store, push to the side the table that was far from being on my way. The papers fly off. I see a man curled in the corner tightly clutching a leather bag. I grab him by the collar. Immense pleasure hits my body. I drag him outside and toss on the side walk. He is still clutching his useless bag. I grab it and hit him in the stomach. He groans. Why does he not scream? I long for his pain. I hit him again and again until my pupils shrink and I get bored. His face is covered in blood and I cannot see his cheekbones. The man's helplessness annoys me. My friends drag him further. I feel dissatisfied, but the night has just begun. I can see many more windows with a yellow star on them.

***

Thomas looked at his six in disappointment. Next two for Herr Schmittman and four for the stranger were drawn. I placed the card in front of blockführer. King. His total nineteen was promising. Blockführer raised his hands to let the rest of the room know of his victorious chances.

***

I have earned their respect. A guard of the camp, solemnly doing my job, I have impressed myself with diligence. My comrades look at me in admiration. What more could I long for?

***

I opened a card for myself. Five. Thomas exhaled. I turned to him. Thomas asked to hit. Nine. Too many. It didn't take many alterations for his face to delve into deeper disappointment. Herr Schmittman remained in the game. Six, eighteen in total. Blockführer stayed. The stranger asked to hit. Eight. Thirteen in total. The stranger calmly asked to hit again. Calmness was uncommon at my table. Men chose to make risky decisions to give life another chance to prove itself fair. With shaky smiles or uncomfortable movements, they declared their choice. But calmness was rare for such moments. Blockführer turned to the stranger. Eight. Blackjack. The stranger only leaned back in his chair.

***

A man is shot in the back. I have never seen his face. I do not want to see his face. Instead, I see the faces of the men with guns. I do not want to see their faces either. I do not want to remember their faces. They are tense for a split second. Now their faces are relaxed. The guns are lowered. They are deaf. They did not hear the screams. They did not hear the words. I did not understand the words. They were in a language foreign to me. The words echo in my ears. I do not want to hear them. The men are shot in the back. I do not want to see their bodies. The men with guns see the bodies. Their muscles were tense for a second. Now their bodies are relaxed. I do not want to relax my body. If I do, I will see the bodies on the ground and the backs of their heads, and their words will deafen me. The men with guns leave. I do not see the face of a man shot in the back. I lower my gun.

***

I showed an eight, followed by a seven. Twenty in total.

***

He hands me his pocket watch. I am told to pull the ring off his finger. I obey. The finger is swollen, and it takes me several tries to free the ring. It is still warm when I toss it into the box with many other similar rings.

***

There is a certain flair to the people who are close to coming down with rage. It is easily predictable if one manages to distinguish the vein that crosses the temple. For Herr Schmittman it was pulsating violently. His pupils dilated and an empty look in his eyes urged me to take a step back.

Herr Schmittman hit the table and got up, knocking down his chair. Disgraceful words flew in my direction. I was getting impatient. The scene quickly attracted the attention of the other tables. Thomas took a few steps back and disappeared into the crowd.

***

I see a man running at me with an axe. I blink in disbelief. He gets closer. I take a step back. He is faster. I notice sun being reflected from the polished metal. I jerk my body to the side. I feel the sharp pain in my leg. I scream. Someone drags me somewhere far. I hear the clunk of metal hitting the ground. Then I hear a shot. I lift my head to look. The black stripes of the dead man's clothes are the same shade as the ground. I did not want him dead.

***

It didn't take long for the scene to end. Herr Schmittman was taken out of the room, his acts, as usual, futile. Blockführer moved to the next table, no less proud of himself than before. Only the stranger remained seated at the table. I handed him his winnings. He walked out of the room as calmly as he entered. I watched the crowd resume the talking the moment he was out of the door. It seemed that he never was at my table. Then again, he was known for humble and vigilant viciousness.

***

I am not a guard anymore. There is not much good in a guard without a leg. Instead, I stand behind a table with a deck of cards. I dread the time alone. The thoughts that enter never leave. I suffer quite a bit.

***

That night I left my table with an uncomfortable silence in my head. I was refusing to think as the thought of scrambling meaning out of pure chance frightened me. I have caricatured four fairly mundane people - Thomases who cannot shake the poverty out of their fairly full wallets, Herr Schmittmans who choose anger over guilt and fear, blockführers and their constant mapping of the hierarchy with them on or close to the top. Being abundant, they played, lost, won, and left. I have learned to see them through and leave them behind. That day I won them. Only the stranger, whom I recognized from the start, was slightly intriguing. I have seen him countless times. Many would say he was death itself. To him, I lost. It was ironic how losing to death did not mean dying. For me, it meant losing the hope for redemption.