A Leaf moves ~ chapter 7
Sep. 15th, 2012 08:37 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfu
Weeks drifted into months as winter finally arrived with a vengeance, burying the prison under three feet of pure white snow. At first it was looked upon as a boon, with the prisoners boiling the snow for the cleanest drinking water they’d had since arriving. It would have to sustain them as the Sava river was now frozen over.
The first day of the storm brought all work to a halt, giving the men precious hours of rest, but once the snow stopped, the courtyard and road needed to be cleared. Work gangs were formed and many of them saw the outside world for the first time in years, as they were sent under guard with shovels in hand, to clear the immediate road leading to the prison gate.
Several men were shot trying to escape, sneaking off to cross the frozen river, putting the rest of the prison population on edge for fear of some sort of reprisal.
The Russian was working inside the courtyard with others prisoners, toiling away at removing the snow. He was weak and could barely lift the shovel at times. He willed himself to go on in the snow, to lift himself from his bunk each day with an inhuman effort. He would live, and Napoleon would find him. “Where are you...where are you my friend?” He would whisper in the night.
Illya stopped to control his cough that had developed over the past week, and the whip wielded by Hinko Kordić, struck him. In a moment of fury, and with a sudden burst of energy he charged Kordić, knocking him to the ground and smashing him left and right with his fists, cursing at the man in Russian.
“Ya ubʹyu tebya.Vy chertovski ublyudok_I’ll kill you. You fucking bastard.” Even in his weakened state it took two guards to get him off of Kordić.
The guard wiped his bloodied face with his gloved hand, pointing it at Illya as he was held down in the snow by the guard. Kordić stepped forward, kicking him in the side, while the men prevented him from rolling up into a fetal position to protect himself.
“Solitary for you Nikolić and no food for three days,” he roared, giving him one last kick.
Illya was lucky the man just hadn’t shot him. Perhaps deep down, he wanted him to... He was released after five days, bruised but with nothing broken, and was sent to the clinic as it was obvious he’d become more ill making him useless to work.
His dry cough was bad, he had shortness of breath and severe chest pain when he inhaled and exhaled, yet between breaths, he felt almost no pain at all. His cellmate, Dr. Dragovic diagnosed it as pleurisy, a viral infection of the lower respiratory system and had possibly developed from a fungal or parasitic infection. There were no antibiotics to use, and the best the doctor could offer were treatments for Illya to breath in steaming fumes from a pot of boiling water filled with herbs, while he covered his head with a cloth to contain the potency of the vapors. It helped during the day, but at night Illya thought at times he was going to cough up a lung.
The cold weather made for less demand for bricks and less work, blissfully shortening the days for the inmates. The extra time was spent sleeping, playing cards and doing what they could to amuse themselves, but Illya kept to himself or with Dragovic in the clinic. His cough was still there, but the treatments had lessened its severity.
Winter passed quickly, and there was no view of the outside world as promised, only lichen covered walls to face each day. Illya looked up as a bird flew overhead, a sign of life. With the air of Spring, the thaw finally came. Outside there was life, hope. He was growing weak in body, but not in spirit. Napoleon? He stopped whispering his friends name, and would now only think it.
He was like a bird, pecking at every last crumb, even the turnip soup tasted like a king’s meal now. When others died, the rations increased. That afternoon there were two slices of black bread instead of one. Illya asked himself, “Would he soon be the next one to help fill the bellies of the others?”
He struggled with his workload that had now increased with the coming of the spring weather, wheeling heavy loads of bricks in a wooden wheelbarrow or carrying bricks in the basket slung over his shoulders to be stacked on the pallets. Trudging back and forth every so slowly under the watchful eye of Kordić, and now ignoring the whip as it struck him.
Illya’s only focus had become to stand, and make it from one place to the other with his load of bricks, so he could eat. He had become as the other prisoners, with life revolving around following orders and eating whatever food he could get his hands on to survive another day.
Today he ate some bugs... a beetle, it tasted like apples, wasps like pine nuts, and worms like fried bacon. Or did they? Was he losing his mind? His body was fading..."Napoleon." He dared to utter it. The cough was becoming bad again, his chest wracked with pain and he was unable to leave his bed to work.
No food...he knew what that meant as he lay staring with sunken eyes at the red brick walls of his prison cell; he tried counting the scratch marks he’d made but couldn’t focus to do it.
Dragovic had Illya moved to the clinic to keep a better eye on him and perhaps make the young blonds imminent death a little more comfortable in the end.
Dragovic felt the head of the man he knew only as Zoran Nikolić and found luckily there was no fever. He gently lifted Illya’s head, holding a bowl of hot fish broth infused with herbs to his lips.
“Drink my friend, it will help you feel more comfortable."
Illya sputtered and coughed as he tried to swallow the disgusting liquid.
“Nyet,” he mumbled, pushing away the bowl,” Ya ne mogu. Ostavʹte menya v pokoe_I cannot. Leave me be.”
Dragovic recognized and understood Russian. “Takim obrazom, vy ne to, kto vy, kazhet·sya, Zoran_ so you are not who you seem to be Zoran.” He gently ran his fingers through Illya’s hair, caressing him in a fatherly way.
Illya looked up at him. "Nyet, I am not, but what does that matter now?” He closed his blue eyes, falling asleep.
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Date: 2012-09-15 02:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-16 01:52 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting!
Newsletter for Saturday, September 15
Date: 2012-09-16 05:58 pm (UTC)Re: Newsletter for Saturday, September 15
Date: 2012-09-16 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-16 07:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-16 10:53 pm (UTC)