A leaf Moves ~ chapter 4
Sep. 6th, 2012 05:41 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfulink to chapter 3:http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/112745.html
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Solitary was a small room, long and narrow, with a wooden bed covered by a straw-filled mattress, along with two buckets sitting to the side on the cold slate floor. The door was solid metal, with a sliding panel at its base, most likely for the delivery of food. One of the metal buckets was filled nasty looking water, and the other bucket...well, that had not been cleaned out since the last occupant had been there and stank horribly.
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Solitary was a small room, long and narrow, with a wooden bed covered by a straw-filled mattress, along with two buckets sitting to the side on the cold slate floor. The door was solid metal, with a sliding panel at its base, most likely for the delivery of food. One of the metal buckets was filled nasty looking water, and the other bucket...well, that had not been cleaned out since the last occupant had been there and stank horribly.
If he walked five paces, that covered the width of the room, the length was a few feet longer than the cot. The ceiling was quite low, and luckily for once, being shorter helped him as he wasn’t forced to crouch to avoid hitting his head, as he was sure previous, taller occupants did.
Illya threw his things on the bed and climbed up on it, grabbing hold of the bars in the small window above it, giving him full view of the prison courtyard and the lichen covered inner brick walls. He had an unobstructed view of the comings and goings within it. If he could hold himself up there long enough, he could at least observe any guards, their patterns as well as their shift changes.
He watched as the iron gate opened and a large flatbed lorry backed in. A fork lift arrived from a large archway at the back of the prison, lifting pallets of bricks to the truck bed, while prisoners climbed atop it, tying off the bricks and putting strapping over them to hold them in place. Once the truck was full, the prisoners and the forklift disappeared back through the arch.
The lorry pulled forward to the gate, but stopped as guards checked beneath it with mirrors and among the flats of bricks for anyone hiding there, trying to escape. “So much for that option,” Illya mumbled as the truck pulled through the gate and it was shut behind it with a resonant boom.
He finally tired of watching the little activity going on outside in the courtyard and lowered himself to his bed. The Russian grabbed his blanket, pulling it up over himself, dozing off, as there was little else to do. Perhaps he might formulate an escape plan and the unconscious mind would sometimes pick up on details that the waking mind missed, and these might make themselves known in his dreams.
Sometime later he was woken from a dreamless sleep as the trap door opened to his cell, and a tin plate with some slices of black bread and a small shriveled apple appeared.
Illya called out in Slovak. “Mohol by som mať nejaké čerstvej pitnej vody a čistej nádoby pre moje potreby ďalšie …might I have some fresh drinking water and a clean bucket for my other...needs?”
He heard a cackling laugh.
"Voda je tak čistá, ako to dostane ako jeho z rieky Sávy, a ako na druhú vedra, s tým žiť_ the water is as as clean as it’s going to get as its from the Sava river, and as to the other bucket, live with it.”
He was thirsty but decided against touching the drinking water and nibbled on the bread, saving the apple for last to at least moisten his mouth. He ate it right down to the core, leaving little else but the seeds, and those he dried and put into his pocket. They were edible, and he would save them to add to what ever food they saw fit to feed him or not later on.
.
Three days later he was brought to his permanent cell, there was another cot in there, obviously belonging to his cellmate, but he had yet to see the man. Illya was released to general population, and there given the opportunity to wander the courtyard. The building that housed the prisoners was a single level, and not high enough to allow anyone a view of the outside. The roofs were lined with razor sharp concertina wire to prevent anyone from climbing up there.
He got a better look at the iron gate, deciding that was impenetrable and shifted his gaze to the large archway at the back of the prison yard.
“Ako razmišljate da pokušava da pobegne kroz tu, zaboravi na nju,” a fellow prisoner milling next to him mumbled.
He was speaking Serbian but Illya shrugged his shoulders to show his lack of understanding. “Hovorí slovenská?” He asked.
“Áno, hovorím slovenské. Som povedal, že keď si myslíte, že sa snaží uniknúťtadiaľ, zabudni na to_yes, I speak Slovak. I said if you’re thinking of trying to escape through there, forget about it,” the man replied, as he smoked a rolled cigarette. He offered Illya a drag, and the Russian took it, letting the smoke fill his lungs with its warmth.
“That archway leads to hell. It is the entrance to the brickworks. Trust me, you’ll see the inside of it soon enough. They said you were Serbian but you speak only Slovak, and with coloring like yours, you look more like a Russian. Are you?”
Illya chose silence again, best to keep his identity secret here. Tito had broken ties with Moscow, and that did not bode well for any Russian in this place, one thing these people hated more than each other were the Russians.
The man waved him off when he received no answer, and walked away, leaving Illya to his own thoughts.
Not to be daunted, Kuryakin continued to explore what he could, but after he’d seen enough; he was filled with a feeling of disappointment. Escape from this place just might be more difficult than he first supposed, but still, not impossible. He would figure a way out of here, even if it took him a bit longer.
The next day Illya was woken in his cell while it was still dark; the bed next to his still remaining empty.
“Vstávaj psa_up dog!” A guard snickered as he called to him in Slovak, banging on the bars with a club. “It is time for you to earn your keep.”
Kuryakin squinted at the bright spot lights that illuminated the prison yard, walking along with most of the men he had arrived with as they were finally led through the arched opening.
Inside there was the smell of sulphur and smoke. The air was rancid with it and hot as blazes from the large kiln that stood to the back of the immense chamber. The floor was lined with row upon row of bricks in varying stages of cooling There were men wearing asbestos gloves, pr simply rags on their hands, picking up the ones that were cooled and loading them into baskets hooked over the shoulders of other prisoners who carried their heavy burdens on their backs to the next room that served as a warehouse. There the bricks were stacked on pallets, to await pickup.
A basket was abruptly shoved into Illya’s hands by another prisoner whose face was smeared black with soot. “Put this on.”
Illya followed suit as the other men positioned the ropes fastened to the baskets over their shoulders, and were loaded down with bricks...joining the endless line of others performing the same task.
There was a ventilation shaft above the kiln, but no other means of fresh air entering the work area, and Illya lungs heaved as he breathed in the hot dirty air, struggling under the weight of the bricks he carried. He was a slight man, though strong enough, but this work would challenge even the strongest of men.
The line of men moved at a deliberately slow pace, going from the firing room to the warehouse and back, trying to lengthen the time between loads.
Their faces were blank, as their minds tried to take them somewhere else while they worked at their task. Only a grimace and groan would show now and then as they struggled to carry the heavy bricks.
Illya threw his things on the bed and climbed up on it, grabbing hold of the bars in the small window above it, giving him full view of the prison courtyard and the lichen covered inner brick walls. He had an unobstructed view of the comings and goings within it. If he could hold himself up there long enough, he could at least observe any guards, their patterns as well as their shift changes.
He watched as the iron gate opened and a large flatbed lorry backed in. A fork lift arrived from a large archway at the back of the prison, lifting pallets of bricks to the truck bed, while prisoners climbed atop it, tying off the bricks and putting strapping over them to hold them in place. Once the truck was full, the prisoners and the forklift disappeared back through the arch.
The lorry pulled forward to the gate, but stopped as guards checked beneath it with mirrors and among the flats of bricks for anyone hiding there, trying to escape. “So much for that option,” Illya mumbled as the truck pulled through the gate and it was shut behind it with a resonant boom.
He finally tired of watching the little activity going on outside in the courtyard and lowered himself to his bed. The Russian grabbed his blanket, pulling it up over himself, dozing off, as there was little else to do. Perhaps he might formulate an escape plan and the unconscious mind would sometimes pick up on details that the waking mind missed, and these might make themselves known in his dreams.
Sometime later he was woken from a dreamless sleep as the trap door opened to his cell, and a tin plate with some slices of black bread and a small shriveled apple appeared.
Illya called out in Slovak. “Mohol by som mať nejaké čerstvej pitnej vody a čistej nádoby pre moje potreby ďalšie …might I have some fresh drinking water and a clean bucket for my other...needs?”
He heard a cackling laugh.
"Voda je tak čistá, ako to dostane ako jeho z rieky Sávy, a ako na druhú vedra, s tým žiť_ the water is as as clean as it’s going to get as its from the Sava river, and as to the other bucket, live with it.”
He was thirsty but decided against touching the drinking water and nibbled on the bread, saving the apple for last to at least moisten his mouth. He ate it right down to the core, leaving little else but the seeds, and those he dried and put into his pocket. They were edible, and he would save them to add to what ever food they saw fit to feed him or not later on.
.
Three days later he was brought to his permanent cell, there was another cot in there, obviously belonging to his cellmate, but he had yet to see the man. Illya was released to general population, and there given the opportunity to wander the courtyard. The building that housed the prisoners was a single level, and not high enough to allow anyone a view of the outside. The roofs were lined with razor sharp concertina wire to prevent anyone from climbing up there.
He got a better look at the iron gate, deciding that was impenetrable and shifted his gaze to the large archway at the back of the prison yard.
“Ako razmišljate da pokušava da pobegne kroz tu, zaboravi na nju,” a fellow prisoner milling next to him mumbled.
He was speaking Serbian but Illya shrugged his shoulders to show his lack of understanding. “Hovorí slovenská?” He asked.
“Áno, hovorím slovenské. Som povedal, že keď si myslíte, že sa snaží uniknúťtadiaľ, zabudni na to_yes, I speak Slovak. I said if you’re thinking of trying to escape through there, forget about it,” the man replied, as he smoked a rolled cigarette. He offered Illya a drag, and the Russian took it, letting the smoke fill his lungs with its warmth.
“That archway leads to hell. It is the entrance to the brickworks. Trust me, you’ll see the inside of it soon enough. They said you were Serbian but you speak only Slovak, and with coloring like yours, you look more like a Russian. Are you?”
Illya chose silence again, best to keep his identity secret here. Tito had broken ties with Moscow, and that did not bode well for any Russian in this place, one thing these people hated more than each other were the Russians.
The man waved him off when he received no answer, and walked away, leaving Illya to his own thoughts.
Not to be daunted, Kuryakin continued to explore what he could, but after he’d seen enough; he was filled with a feeling of disappointment. Escape from this place just might be more difficult than he first supposed, but still, not impossible. He would figure a way out of here, even if it took him a bit longer.
The next day Illya was woken in his cell while it was still dark; the bed next to his still remaining empty.
“Vstávaj psa_up dog!” A guard snickered as he called to him in Slovak, banging on the bars with a club. “It is time for you to earn your keep.”
Kuryakin squinted at the bright spot lights that illuminated the prison yard, walking along with most of the men he had arrived with as they were finally led through the arched opening.
Inside there was the smell of sulphur and smoke. The air was rancid with it and hot as blazes from the large kiln that stood to the back of the immense chamber. The floor was lined with row upon row of bricks in varying stages of cooling There were men wearing asbestos gloves, pr simply rags on their hands, picking up the ones that were cooled and loading them into baskets hooked over the shoulders of other prisoners who carried their heavy burdens on their backs to the next room that served as a warehouse. There the bricks were stacked on pallets, to await pickup.
A basket was abruptly shoved into Illya’s hands by another prisoner whose face was smeared black with soot. “Put this on.”
Illya followed suit as the other men positioned the ropes fastened to the baskets over their shoulders, and were loaded down with bricks...joining the endless line of others performing the same task.
There was a ventilation shaft above the kiln, but no other means of fresh air entering the work area, and Illya lungs heaved as he breathed in the hot dirty air, struggling under the weight of the bricks he carried. He was a slight man, though strong enough, but this work would challenge even the strongest of men.
The line of men moved at a deliberately slow pace, going from the firing room to the warehouse and back, trying to lengthen the time between loads.
Their faces were blank, as their minds tried to take them somewhere else while they worked at their task. Only a grimace and groan would show now and then as they struggled to carry the heavy bricks.
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Date: 2012-09-06 12:06 pm (UTC)Angst...
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Date: 2012-09-06 07:42 pm (UTC)