http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Topography_of_Terror
SS Central
When the light flicked on, the usual young sergeant entered the cell. “There’s been a change,” he said. “You’re being transferred to S.S. central.” He threw a towel on the cot next to the priest and pointed toward the door. “Wash up,” he said, “bath is down the hall.”
Augustin stared at the juvenile's face with its crystal blue eyes cold as ice. “Do you have a comb?” he asked.
The youth pulled a small comb out of his jacket pocket. “Keep it,” he said tossing it on the towel, then turning on his heels to go. By the time Augustin was ready the guard had returned with an S.S. officer in black. “Captain Mesner will accompany you to Berlin,” he said standing stiff, chin held high.
Officer Mesner proved a friend, though he kept up a hard seriousness. As the train lurched out of the station, Mesner handed the priest his Breviary. Augustin began the prayers he had longed to say for days. Familiar fields and towns along the way diverted his attention occasionally. As provincial, he had been this way many times.
A short taxi ride from the Banhof brought the two men to the huge buildings that now served as SS Central. “We have a reputation,” the intake officer said in his dry raspy voice. “Those who join us never leave!” He followed it with a chuckle. Raising his head from the paperwork to look his new prisoner over, he rambled on, “It is only pressure from what you priests call ‘the Faithful’ that you are alive at all. Your high position is to your benefit, for the time being.”
The building with barred windows on the upper floors was cold. The flag of the new government hung from the windows directly over the main doors. As soon as papers were signed, Mesner departed. Augustin followed intake officer to his cell. No sooner had he crossed the threshold, the heavy metal door clanked shut behind him. Its finality sent a wave of fear up his spine. The cell contained a cot, a small table with a pitcher of water and bowl, and a chair. A cabinet for personal effect hung above the fold down table. No windows allowed light into the room. Only the dim bare bulb hanging high overhead lighted the place casting sharp shadows. A single towel hung from the towel bar on the side of the small cabinet. Augustin, collected his nerves and went to the pitcher to rinse the dust from the long journey off his face. Then he sat down on his cot and buried his face in his hands, keenly aware that he, too, had limits of endurance.
The first day at SS Central he received two visitors. Someone shoved a bowl of weak barley broth through the slot in the door. Another came in to introduce himself as Augustin's personal ward. Augustin sensed the man would do his utmost to make his life miserable. The fellow cast an annoyed glance at the book lying on the bed. Without comment, he took it and left. By lights out, Augustin accepted his situation, repeating in a whisper his Sucipe until he fell asleep.
The days of his internment became routine. The general monotony was peppered with minor diversions. Daily one or another guard would check on him through the grill in the door. Weekly a caretaker came through to mop the floor. Twice a week, his ward led him out to stand for hours exposed to the elements. “For fresh air,” he’d explained. Augustin knew it was the standard way of torturing weakened prisoners. He wasn’t alone. Others stood silently against the wall with him.
Weeks passed; interrogations alternated with abuse and the cleaning of latrines with his hands. One Saturday morning his caretaker, the friendliest of his tormentors because he too was a prisoner, asked, “Would you like a bath?”
It seemed an odd remark, but Augustin answered, “A bath . . . here?”
“Yes, a bath,” said the man, eyes dancing with delight. “But not here.”
The priest nodded his head affirmatively, a queasiness gripping his stomach instantly. The man came closer and breathed near his ear, “Tomorrow!”
The priest spent the night curious over the strange encounter. When the key turned in the lock at dawn, it was followed by a knock. Augustin tensed instantly. No one had ever knocked before entering. “Herein,” he said warily.
A middle-aged S.S. Officer whom he had never seen before entered, “I’m here to transport you to the hospital.”
“I’m not sick,” answered Augustin in a tone of fear. He had heard about scientific explorations on prisoners.
The Officer glanced at the open door and said loud enough for passing guards to overhear, “I will transport you to your physical examination.”
Augustin stood weak kneed, waiting.
“Try to trust me; it's not what you think,” the officer said in a hushed tone. “Please excuse the blindfold; it is necessary for now.”
Augustin allowed his eyes to be covered. A hand grasped his to lead him forward out of his cell. He was led through halls he could not see and out into the open. The pungent fumes of a Mercedes filled the air. “Stair,” the officer warned, and Augustin felt for it with his foot. The warning was a kindness unlike the previous guards who had inflicted injury. Yet, no one stopped the man who was leading him, as if security were not necessary in his presence. A short command, “To the hospital,” was followed by the click of the car’s door opening.
Once seated, Augustin listened to the interchange between the officer and his driver. He heard a rustle of papers being passed to the man with the words, “Here are the orders.” During the drive, checkpoints did not hold up the car. Augustin heard, “pass,” several times. In his mind he tried to follow the stops and turns of the car to ascertain his location or which streets he was being driven down. After several unexpected turns, he began to wonder if the hospital would be his final destination. At one point, Augustin was transferred to another car. Surprised he asked, “Where are you taking me?”
The officer answered, “This is necessary; they must not know our intentions.” Cryptically he added, “We can’t risk lives.” The smell of diesel and a truck like rumble passed the half open window of the vehicle at a traffic stop. Augustin didn't do well in the back seat of a car that took too many turns, particularly since he had lost considerable weight during his incarceration. He began to feel dizzy as the car wound through the streets of a city he couldn’t see. Perhaps he was still at the place from which he had set out?
After what seemed an hour, the auto stopped. The same hand led him, still blindfolded, up a stairway with intermittent warnings, “the landing,” and “left here.” He felt the presence of people crowding the hall of the building’s interior. When he heard a door shut behind him, a familiar voice said, “You can remove your blindfold.”
Augustine shook off his weakness to look around at what appeared to be a large conference room. The S.S. officer sitting on the other side of the table was the same one that had come to his cell, blindfolded him, and led him off. A wistful smile played on the man's face. “I regret the inconvenience,” he said recognizing the priest's confusion. “We will stay here the whole day. S.S. Central ordered your physical check-up. They don’t expect an early return.”
“And the bath?” asked Augustin, searching the man’s face for evil intent.
“You will have it,” said the officer, with a gentle ease. “But first you have work to do.”
Augustin stared at the middle aged officer that should have been fighting on the front. He didn't have a chance to ask the nature of the work required of him, because the officer stood up and walked toward the door saying, “There are over a hundred people waiting in the hall. They’ve asked me to get a priest to hear their confessions.”
The priest's brows rose in surprise. Before he recovered the officer said, "But I'm first." He dropped to his knees in front of Augustin and traced he Sign of the Cross on his forehead saying, “Bless me, Father.”
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