Schadenfreude

A different guard came and collected him, brought him to the same officer that had watched him beaten the night before. Erich sat in the same chair, already shaking.

"Well, we've done what we can. You're to go to a labor camp." A glance at the files. "You've got several skills listed here, I'm sure something will be found. You'll be out in two years if you behave yourself."

Camp scared him quite a lot, and two years sounded endless when he tried to think of the entire span between Christmases, twice.

Still, work didn't sound so very terrible.

He could still sew anything put in front of him, and set type without errors as fast as

(Emil)

anyone at the shop, really.

Emil had been the mistake. All he had to do was make sure he never made another. Maybe it would be all right. He would just do as he'd planned, as he'd always done. Be polite and obedient—and he wouldn't think about how long it was. He would think of it as a trade up from hanging.

The guard uncuffed him.

He signed things he wasn't invited to read.