As the bodies burned, he kept the books. As children
screamed, he kept the books. As people died of starvation, were kicked to death,
were tortured and cut, he kept the books. As innocents were maimed, were broken, gassed and raped, he kept the books.
One, ten, fifty, one hundred.
Far easier being a bookkeeper, hiding your head in lists and
tally sheets, than a murderer. Far simpler to avert your eyes and focus on
numbers than take part in that genocide. After all, all he did was keep the
books. It was his job to keep the books. Someone had to do it or the figures
would not balance.
One thousand, ten thousand, one hundred thousand.
Keeping the books for ever straight as eventually, as always, the figures must be brought to balance.
Three hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand through the books.
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