Of course it's shocking.  These weren't holiday camps.

In the beginning it was so simple, all so easy.  Then it amazed him that she would fuck for a small piece of bread and cheese.

For her, she did what she had to do.  What guilt she had was not for prostituting herself but because she did not share with the other women, whom she saw becoming walking skeletons over a matter of weeks.

But, in time, his feelings consumed him even more than she hers.

Fear.  Fear of being discovered.

It might come to the attention of the SS; the trawnicki might be envious and raise suspicions; or she might betray him herself to gain favour with a more senior officer.

At the very best this would condemn him to the Eastern Front.  At worst, the wages of this sin would be a bullet to the back of his neck.

But behind this, he troubled over what fornication with an untermensch said about him.  Was it bestiality? Would he ever be able to look his Gerda in the eye again?  Or their future children?  Would they be part-untermensch themselves?

His options were claustrophobic and the more agonising as he had entangled himself in this web of his own making. 

His choice became clear.

He would shoot her the next time they met on the pretext that he had discovered her after curfew.

There were always more untermensch women.

There was always more bread and cheese.