Hey fellow FF readers and writers. This is just a quickie from the perspective of Bruno. There are references to and information from the works of Sam Pivnik, Tadeusz Borowski, Elie Wiesel and Geseke Clark.

I do no have any affiliation with the aforementioned works and 'The Boy in the striped pyjamas' was written and owned by author John Boyne.

Warning: Some might find the story a bit disturbing.

Where are we going? Those soldiers have come and are pushing and shouting and ordering us along. A man who is the tallest I have ever seen, even taller than Papa, is thrown into someone else and knocks him over. He's crying out as people step on him. A huge, muscly guard strikes him with a big stick across the back of the head. The man cries out but no one cares. No one even looks at him. I can't believe it. Why is he hitting him. Has the man done something wrong.

Shmuel's hand is griping onto mine and he pulls me along with him. The guards continue to shout: "Marsch!" Someone splatters me with mud. These clothes smell even more now. Another man, his head is shaved to nothing, cries out and falls to the ground next to us. I don't think he's very fast because a guard is screaming at him that he did not catch up. The guard takes out a whip and … Oh no! I have to look away but I can hear it crack against the air. Why does he do it?

More shouting. Another shove. Where are we going? I'm looking at all the faces around me. Everyone is scared, frightened even. I don't blame them; these guards are mean people. One man pushes back a guard and barks: "Ich will mit dem Herrn Kommandanten sprechen!" (I wish to speak with the camp commander) The guard cackles and, with a whack of his rifle butt to the face, sends the man falling backwards. He cries out but one stops. Not one of the other people here in striped pyjamas even looks in his direction; they just keep going and going.

Shmuel pulls me close to him. I don't want to lose him; I might not see him again. With what he's told me, the guards will probably take him away somewhere. I see smoke rising from a building ahead of us. All the big, dirty, dilapidated (Yes, I used a big word. Mama will be so proud) are behind us. We pass a wire fence and a gate. Some more soldiers are standing there, some of them with big German Shepherds that are snarling and barking at us. They look ready to eat me and me and Shmuel pull each other closer and try and hide behind some of the bigger men, hoping they will protect us if the dogs are let off their leashes.

Now there's a building ahead of us. A huge grey building that's the colour of Shmuel's skin. More soldiers are standing around it, some of them on the roof. I see two of them wearing these funny things; they look like shorter but fatter elephant trunks and the eyes are huge. What are they? A hand grabs me and pushes me forward and I almost fall over, pulling Shmuel with me. I look behind me and more people are pushed in. Then the door slams shut. I'm scared! What's going on! Where are we?! I look around at the big grey room. What is this place.

Shmuel gives my hand a reassuring squeeze and looks at me and I look at him. Don't worry. We'll stay together.

I feel a little calmer but I'm still worried. How long will we be here for? What's going to happen to us? I need to get home. Mother will be wondering where I am. If I'm late for dinner, Papa will be very cross with me. I was already doing something wrong by coming here.

A group of men around the edges of the room start shouting at us and the men to get undressed. I look at them and they are also wearing striped clothes and have shaved heads. Were they ill? Or were they helping the guards? They started pushing people into another room at the other end of the room, throwing their clothes onto the floor. How rude and messy of them! If Mama saw this in my room, she would have given me a clip around the ear. One of the men starts barks at me and Shmuel to undress, waving one of those big sticks around in his hand and almost snarling at us like some monster. We hurry to do as he says and then join the last few people as they go towards the room; me and Shmuel clutching hands, scared that we will be kept apart in there.

But we'll be out soon. I can see him again tomorrow. Maybe his father is in there.

We are all put together and everyone is pushing and shoving and crying out. I can't hear what I'm thinking, I just want to go! Oh, please let it be over now. I look back at the door and two of the men with shaved heads slam the door shut. A lock rings out and two men, thin and completely naked, start pounding on the door. Fear is coming back. I'm scared! Terrified!

I look at Shmuel, who is also scared and looks like he will start to cry. I squeezed his hand tightly.

"You're my best friend, Shmuel. My best friend for life."

Something opened up above us and the light flooded in, making it hard for me to see. Everyone else around us looks up. One of those faces fills the hole, blocking out most of the light. What is he doing? Is he going to let the rain come in? That's not very smart, we'll get wet.

He's dropping something. It looks like a lot of little tiny things. I don't remember their name. Why? Why is he doing this?

My hand still holds onto Shmuel's. I'm not going to let it go. Nothing can tell me to let it go.

Jonas watched the three men on the roof of the chamber climb down, all of them removing their gas masks and holding a circular can in their hands. He new and they knew what was going on in those buildings. He was not close enough to it, but from what he heard from several of his colleagues, the screaming, pleading and coughing was distinguishable from within its walls.

He ran a hand through his blonde hair and turned his back on the building, brushing some imaginary dust off his uniform's sleeve. It was as if he was trying to deny the very existence of it. But he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that something like this was happening.

Will people choose to remember it though? He thought to himself. Will they remember the mechanism of death, the machines built only to slay hundreds, the hatred, the terror, the blowing out of the sacred candle that was life and replaced by a fire of hate?

What would those in the future say? His children, and grandchildren? And his grandchildren's children?

And God? Well, he's probably hanging from somewhere. Some of them here have blamed God for not intervening. It's the way things are now. A culture built upon the principles of blame another but not oneself. And yet, no one sticks up for anyone, sometimes even oneself.

Thought of the future come to his mind again. What would they say?

He coughed a little as rain began to fall from above, the grey clouds now having taken over the sky. For anyone outside this place, it was just another day. Well, maybe with the odd broadcast about the fighting at the front in the east, but nonetheless a normal day.

And for him, this was well and truly normal, no matter how horrific it is.