Entry VII – February 24th 1949
Edited Version:
A filthy shovel was slung at my feet. It thudded to the ground; sent a sharp clang echoing through the sodden earth.
A glimmer of sunshine peeped from behind a mass of indigo snow-clouds. I squinted below.
‘Beest rayeh!’ bawled a young Russian guard. Hurry up.
Ten minutes earlier, the throng of women had been separated into six groups of five. New officers had come on shift to keep a close eye on each unit. Assigned to our grouping was the young man stood before me. He possessed somewhat girlish features: a slight nose, rounded lips, and an oval face. He was most definitely younger than I; perceivably only seventeen or eighteen.
I scrambled for the handle of the shovel. It was chillingly cold; stung the calluses upon my palms. I shot a brief glance behind, watched as the strangers with whom I was working hauled their shovels and begun plunging them into the solid ground. I followed suit, summoning all the vigour my muscles had stored up, and began to dig.
Nausea seized my stomach. A moment later, I swallowed back down a gut-full of bile.
I could tell that the other women’s minds were troubled by the horrifying, sickening question plaguing my own.
Were we digging our own graves?
*
We ploughed the concrete soil until our hands blend and sweat was gushing off our bodies. It was so unnatural, considering that our extremities were numb and our faces stung stiff with the slaps of bitter wind.
We finished digging at about eleven o’ clock, I think. We had no way to keep time. The last hour, or maybe two, dragged on. I kept looking over for a nod or a signal from the Guard to indicate that we could finish. Desperation throbbed angrily at my heart. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. My thighs ached and my back was crippled and I was felling physically sick with hunger.
Then relief came. In a deep, sultry tone of voice, the Soviet Guard growled: ‘Trans.’ Go. Everything inside of me leapt.
My fellow team-mates and I separated, quietly wishing one-another goodnight. The night air was cold; the aura eerie, and so I ran back to the shack as fast as my blistered feet would take me.
When I arrived back, I found the door ajar. If Nikola and Hannah were home, they wouldn’t have wanted the cold drafting inside. My stomach sank with dread.
I inhaled deeply, trying to calm the thudding deep within my chest. I padded closer, and peered in through the crack of the doorway. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting.
I almost laughed when I realised what I was staring so intently at. It was a child: a boy, probably no older that six or seven.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Still a little hesitant, I pushed open the door. It gave way to a long, eerie creak.
The child panicked. As he scrambled to his feet, he whacked his leg against the wood of the empty bedside table. He cursed. Ashamed and embarrassed, nursing his shin, he stared up at me. His gaze was cold, piercing; epitomised a lack of innocence. His cheeks were sallow; cavernous. His eyes were deeply set, and his brow-bone protruded. He was skeletal; he was dying.
Horror burned throughout my body as realisation dawned. He’d been scavenging for food.
‘How old are you?’ I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.
A squeak emerged from his mouth. ‘Thirteen.’
My knees gave way, and I slumped to the cold stone floor. My limbs were paralysed with shock. It hit me hard. He was a teenager, and had the physique like a little child. He was starving to death.
And so would we.
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