A Leaf Moves ~ chapter 3
Sep. 3rd, 2012 09:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfulink to chapter 2:
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Illya woke with a start as the bus came to a jarring stop, jerking him forward in his seat. The guards barked their orders, chaining their charges together again and the men were quickly off loaded in front of the the prison; its walls made made of red brick, and standing at least 25-30 feet high, if not more. A cold gust of wind hit them as the guards yelled and shoved them forward, herding them like cattle toward a large wooden gate.
“Uzmite svoj poslednji pogled na spoljni svet , nikada nećete ga videti opet.” One of the guards said to them, followed by a deep, resonant belly laugh.
Illya could pick out a few words, but none that made sense as they were out of context and he asked, speaking Slovak to the man chained beside him.
“Čo hovoril_what did he say?”
“Vezmite si posledné pohľad na vonkajší svet, nikdy neuvidí_take your last look at the outside world, for you will never see it again.”
Illya hated it when they said things like that, as the sole intent of it was to strike fear these these poor bastards, and take away their hope. He confidently set his mind to the task of planning his escape, as they were pushed inside through the gate.
He scanned the area, noting a secondary inner wall that was at least twenty feet high by his estimation, creating a dead zone of about thirty feet in width between it and the outer wall. There were guard towers on the four corners of the wall, giving full view of the courtyard below. The inner gate was solid iron, and now he understood why the guard said to take a last look at the outside world there was no view of the outside world beyond its walls, except the cheerless grey sky above them.
Once inside, they were made to line up in the main yard. Illya took a few more quick glimpses, making a quick study of everything. The barred windows of the cells only faced inward to the court yard and he presumed there were no others facing the out, again reinforcing that comment about having a last look at the outside.
“Dobrodošli na državnom zatvoru u Jasenovcu čiji zatvorenici ste , i iz koje neće biti izlaza_welcome to the state prison at Jasenovac whose prisoners you are, and from which there will be no escape." So went the announcement to the new prisoners. “Work hard and you will be fed, show poor work habits and you will not eat. If you do not eat, you will die. It is as simple as that.” The brief speech was repeated in several languages, including Slovak.
“We are all about making bricks here and that is what you will do for the rest of your natural lives. Making and carrying bricks. The very bricks that are this this prison were fired in our kiln and mortared with the blood and sweat of prisoners such as yourselves. I do not care what you are accused of or whether you are guilty or innocent. You are mine, to do with as I please.” Though trying to resist the feeling, the final words spoken by the Commandant in Slovak, sent chills up Kuryakin’s spine.
"Každému podľa jeho práve púšťa_to each according to his just deserts,” related to Classical Latin "Suum cuique...to each his own.” It was the slogan used at the Nazi death camp, Buchenwald.
One by one each man’s name and number were called and to add to their fear, each was marked with colors just as the Ustaše had done during the war. As a prisoner stepped forward, he was handed a blanket, a sweater, woolen coat, long underwear, two pair of socks, gloves, a hat and was led led off to his cell.
When the name Zoran Nikolić was called, Illya remained silent. The guard with his clipboard, walked along the remaining lines of prisoners, looking at the numbers stenciled on the right breast of their uniform shirts.
“3257.” He addressed Illya. “Why did you not answer when I called your name?”
“Because it is not my name, my name is Illya Kury...”
The guard gave him no time to finish and slammed a fist to the side of Illya’s face, knocking him to the ground.
“Get up!” The guard screamed at Illya as he lay there, momentarily stunned, nursing his jaw and wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.
The guard grabbed him by his shirt collar, pulling him to his feet and staring angrily into the Russian’s blue eyes. He looked him over from head to toe.
“You will not last long here I think, Zoran Nikolić.”
“I said that is not my name, I am...
“Your name is what we tell you, is that clear?” The guard grabbed him by the throat, squeezing just enough to keep him from speaking, but finally released his grip. “You will not speak unless told to, is that clear?”
Illya gasped for air, but again chose not to answer. That earned him several slaps across his face.
“Now what is your name, prisoner 3257?”
Illya sighed his resignation. “ Zoran Nikolić,” he answered quietly.
“I did not hear you 3257, speak up.”
“My name is Zoran Nikolić.” He finally droned.
“Good, you will learn your lessons quickly here Nikolić, or you will suffer the consequences. Take him to solitary confinement,” the guard growled, but not before the left breast of the Russian’s shirt was smeared with a mark of red paint, for Communist.
“Priyatno budet Kuryakin_nice going Kuryakin,” Illya thought to himself in his native language, as he was shoved forward by two guards, crossing the courtyard with them flanking him, while he carried the clothing and blanket he’d been issued.
A strong gust of wind hit him, making him shiver. Winter seemed to be coming early this year, but Illya decided he would not be here for it. He had plans to escape, and to do so quickly.
They took him inside the main building and down a dark corridor, stopping in front of an iron door and opening it; they shoved him inside.
Illya landed on his hands and knees, with his things falling to the dirty floor, and he turned just in time to see the door slammed shut behind him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Illya woke with a start as the bus came to a jarring stop, jerking him forward in his seat. The guards barked their orders, chaining their charges together again and the men were quickly off loaded in front of the the prison; its walls made made of red brick, and standing at least 25-30 feet high, if not more. A cold gust of wind hit them as the guards yelled and shoved them forward, herding them like cattle toward a large wooden gate.
“Uzmite svoj poslednji pogled na spoljni svet , nikada nećete ga videti opet.” One of the guards said to them, followed by a deep, resonant belly laugh.
Illya could pick out a few words, but none that made sense as they were out of context and he asked, speaking Slovak to the man chained beside him.
“Čo hovoril_what did he say?”
“Vezmite si posledné pohľad na vonkajší svet, nikdy neuvidí_take your last look at the outside world, for you will never see it again.”
Illya hated it when they said things like that, as the sole intent of it was to strike fear these these poor bastards, and take away their hope. He confidently set his mind to the task of planning his escape, as they were pushed inside through the gate.
He scanned the area, noting a secondary inner wall that was at least twenty feet high by his estimation, creating a dead zone of about thirty feet in width between it and the outer wall. There were guard towers on the four corners of the wall, giving full view of the courtyard below. The inner gate was solid iron, and now he understood why the guard said to take a last look at the outside world there was no view of the outside world beyond its walls, except the cheerless grey sky above them.
Once inside, they were made to line up in the main yard. Illya took a few more quick glimpses, making a quick study of everything. The barred windows of the cells only faced inward to the court yard and he presumed there were no others facing the out, again reinforcing that comment about having a last look at the outside.
“Dobrodošli na državnom zatvoru u Jasenovcu čiji zatvorenici ste , i iz koje neće biti izlaza_welcome to the state prison at Jasenovac whose prisoners you are, and from which there will be no escape." So went the announcement to the new prisoners. “Work hard and you will be fed, show poor work habits and you will not eat. If you do not eat, you will die. It is as simple as that.” The brief speech was repeated in several languages, including Slovak.
“We are all about making bricks here and that is what you will do for the rest of your natural lives. Making and carrying bricks. The very bricks that are this this prison were fired in our kiln and mortared with the blood and sweat of prisoners such as yourselves. I do not care what you are accused of or whether you are guilty or innocent. You are mine, to do with as I please.” Though trying to resist the feeling, the final words spoken by the Commandant in Slovak, sent chills up Kuryakin’s spine.
"Každému podľa jeho práve púšťa_to each according to his just deserts,” related to Classical Latin "Suum cuique...to each his own.” It was the slogan used at the Nazi death camp, Buchenwald.
One by one each man’s name and number were called and to add to their fear, each was marked with colors just as the Ustaše had done during the war. As a prisoner stepped forward, he was handed a blanket, a sweater, woolen coat, long underwear, two pair of socks, gloves, a hat and was led led off to his cell.
When the name Zoran Nikolić was called, Illya remained silent. The guard with his clipboard, walked along the remaining lines of prisoners, looking at the numbers stenciled on the right breast of their uniform shirts.
“3257.” He addressed Illya. “Why did you not answer when I called your name?”
“Because it is not my name, my name is Illya Kury...”
The guard gave him no time to finish and slammed a fist to the side of Illya’s face, knocking him to the ground.
“Get up!” The guard screamed at Illya as he lay there, momentarily stunned, nursing his jaw and wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.
The guard grabbed him by his shirt collar, pulling him to his feet and staring angrily into the Russian’s blue eyes. He looked him over from head to toe.
“You will not last long here I think, Zoran Nikolić.”
“I said that is not my name, I am...
“Your name is what we tell you, is that clear?” The guard grabbed him by the throat, squeezing just enough to keep him from speaking, but finally released his grip. “You will not speak unless told to, is that clear?”
Illya gasped for air, but again chose not to answer. That earned him several slaps across his face.
“Now what is your name, prisoner 3257?”
Illya sighed his resignation. “ Zoran Nikolić,” he answered quietly.
“I did not hear you 3257, speak up.”
“My name is Zoran Nikolić.” He finally droned.
“Good, you will learn your lessons quickly here Nikolić, or you will suffer the consequences. Take him to solitary confinement,” the guard growled, but not before the left breast of the Russian’s shirt was smeared with a mark of red paint, for Communist.
“Priyatno budet Kuryakin_nice going Kuryakin,” Illya thought to himself in his native language, as he was shoved forward by two guards, crossing the courtyard with them flanking him, while he carried the clothing and blanket he’d been issued.
A strong gust of wind hit him, making him shiver. Winter seemed to be coming early this year, but Illya decided he would not be here for it. He had plans to escape, and to do so quickly.
They took him inside the main building and down a dark corridor, stopping in front of an iron door and opening it; they shoved him inside.
Illya landed on his hands and knees, with his things falling to the dirty floor, and he turned just in time to see the door slammed shut behind him.
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Date: 2012-09-03 05:24 pm (UTC)Love this story...
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Date: 2012-09-03 05:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-03 08:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-03 08:19 pm (UTC)