Aaron Weiss once believed that the scariest thing was vans.

He was wrong.

The Zilberkhan camp did not kill immediately. He dissolved people — day after day, scream after scream. People didn't die here, but stopped being people: skinhead shadows in striped robes, whispering numbers instead of names. Aaron became the 404th.

He wasn't burned in the oven.
Not buried in the moat.
He was left.

"You will be a reminder," the commandant said, squeezing his chin. — Living proof that we are merciful.

And he gave him a job.

Now he was sitting in barrack No. 7, scratching the dried blood between the floorboards with his nails (or rather, with what was left of them). Ten people were shot here this morning. The brain clicked on them like beads:

— That one over there was shouting in Yiddish.
— This woman bit the guard.
— And this old man... He just fell down.

Aaron had to clean up the tracks.

Scratching.

His fingers stuck together in the dark muck, but he did not stop — because he knew that if even one drop remained, tomorrow he would be put in this place.

There was a doll in the corner.

Not a rag, but a real one. A girl of about five, with pigtails and an embroidered dress. Dead, of course. But neat, almost fake. She was put here "for an example."

Aaron wasn't looking in her direction.

He was scratching.

Scratching.

Until the fingers started to rub off into a bloody paste.

— 404th, that's enough," the guard said, kicking him with his boot. — Go get your rations.

Aaron stood up.

Went.

** Without looking back.**