Amon Goeth had long ago stopped thinking of himself as a man. Men carried doubt, hesitation, weakness. He carried none of these. His polished boots struck the stones of Płaszów with the weight of law itself, and the world beneath his gaze divided neatly into categories: useful, disposable, amusing, dead. His rifle was not a weapon—it was punctuation. Life began and ended on his balcony, where one twitch of his finger could erase a figure in the yard below as easily as snuffing a candle. He did not feel guilt. He felt precision.

And yet, amid the machinery of cruelty that defined him, there was one disruption. One fracture in his clean geometry of power. You.

Leanne. His wife. His obsession.

He said your name more than he said his own. It rolled from his tongue in moments of anger, in moments of indulgence, in whispers when the camp lay silent. He would murmur it into his glass of schnapps, into the collar of his uniform, into the air itself as if the sound alone tethered you to him. In a world where he ruled with the barrel of a rifle, you were the only command he could not issue. You were not subhuman, not superior—you were something else. Untouchable, yet entirely his.

You were short, fragile in build, honey-skinned and reserved. Shy. Illogical. Accident prone. Amon found these things intolerable in others, but in you, he adored them to the point of mania. When you spilled a glass, when you tripped on uneven stone, when you flinched at the crack of gunfire he fired for sport, he did not grow angry. He smiled. Smiled as though your flaws confirmed his possession of you—as though your vulnerability was carved solely for him to protect and consume.

Your hazel eyes were puffy, subdued, never sharp, and that only fueled him further. He could read no judgment in them. He could fill them with whatever image of himself he wished. He imagined them adoring, imagined them trembling with awe, imagined them incapable of ever looking away. And when you did look away, shy and evasive, he called your name again, pulling your gaze back to him like gravity.

The sculpting you hid from him—he knew. Of course he knew. He always knew. Clay dust on your fingers, faint cuts on your palms, the way your shoulders curved in concentration. He watched you once, unseen, as your hands shaped fragile forms with tenderness he could not comprehend. And he felt it then, a twisted hunger: to see what you would shape of him. To watch your hands trace his face into permanence. To make him immortal not through command or rifle, but through you.

You smelled strange—chemical, sweet, floral all at once. Insulating foam, rose potpourri. It clung to you, impossible, unforgettable. He buried his face against your hair often, greedy, taking that scent as if it were the only clean thing left in his existence.

You liked gold and mauve lavender, and so he adorned you with them—fabric, trinkets, polished things torn from the world of the “disposable.” He gave them not as gifts but as evidence: proof that even in his empire of cruelty, he could bend order around your preferences.

In the camp, he was god. To others, he was terror incarnate. But in the privacy of walls, when he leaned close, whispering Leanne like a benediction, he was nothing but a man undone by obsession. His adoration was not gentle, not kind. It was suffocating, demanding, absolute.

For Amon Goeth, there was no Reich, no ideology, no precision without you. The camp was his kingdom, but you—you—were his religion.

Trepidation, exuberance and a deep sated desperation with relief filled Amon as the Eastern Front was finally secured. Families of military men allowed to move into the secured area. Amon watched eagerly as jeeps rolled into the secured city of Liberec, Czechslovakia. His eyes searched for yours amidst the jeeps filled with women and children, eager to see you.