1940 - 1941, August Shriver

[August Shriver]

Journal of Oberleutnant August Etzel Shriver
24 November, 1940
First Entry

It is unusual for me to begin a new journal before the beginning of the new year, but I find I fill mine too quickly. My last one, also, had two years worth of writing, so I suppose it is alright to go on to a new book.
I had the dream again last night - the dream about Anneliese. The dream of a wedding day cut short by the squeal of tires, a woman's scream. I haven't had that dream... my god, I suppose since 1930, when I was living with Deitfried and Imke. Ten years ago.
Well... no, that isn't right. They stopped when I enlisted, in 1932. Eight years ago, then. I suppose that makes no difference, either way it has been a long time. And why now? I don't understand it. Stress perhaps. War. Even when you are doing well, war doesn't make life easier. It doesn't matter who you are. I worry, I worry constantly. About my family most. Elise, Julian, little August. Two months old, god. What a time to be a child! Born into the middle of a war. The same goes for the rest of them. Adele, Hartwig, Isaak. Grete, Eduard, Etzel. Inge and Beatrix. Of all the times to be a child. So young all of them, innocent, you know. So, yes, I fear for them. And, of course, their parents, my brothers and sisters.
Jochim, especially, is posing a danger. Twenty-three years old and foolish, speaks out too loudly of his opposition. I fear that soon he'll be killed if he doesn't tread softer. He sympathies with the Jews. I have nothing against the Jewish people, but orders, as they say, are orders. I must follow them, if it means killing Jews for the sole reason that they are Jews. But Jochim, he, I think, is trying to help them. I fear he will try to smuggle people out, trying to help them. I worry every day that passes that he will do something foolish, and be killed as a result. I pray nothing happens, but prayer only goes so far. As does my influence... for my friendships I can only protect him so much.

[August Shriver]

3 December, 1940

I haven't written since November. Since that SS bastard came, that boy.

Boy. He's five years younger than me, at most. But, yes, he is a boy. A boy who thinks too goddamn much of himself.

I suppose I haven't written because I am afraid. I am afraid of delving into my mind, so I have busied myself with inane work, always skirting around memory, emotion. He reached into my nightmares and found the one most painful. He drug up all the things I have repressed for so long and made me fear my own mind.

The dream is back in full, plauging my nighttimes like some unknown beast. And he, the SS boy, Klaus Fischer or Fritz Amsel or whoever he is has entered into them too. Holding my nephew and the knife he left in my desk. I have slept little in the past days. Haven't eaten. I lay in bed and watch shadows play across the ceiling until dawn. I sit by the window and listen to owls screech.