Sobibor
More writing homework, a setting sketch this time! This time set in WW2 (and with only one line of dialogue). Again, I rushed it some (procrastination!!!), but it turned out well enough that I feel like sharing.
There was little to no sunlight, despite it being late afternoon. Perhaps four, perhaps a bit later, but nearly time in any case; they only waited for a whistle now. Piotr hoped it would come soon, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously, mud seeping through the old leather of his shoes to squelch around and through his toes. Up and down the line of ragged prisoners, a commander stalked, SS pips worn proudly on the collar of his impeccable uniform. He watched them, read them, it seemed, with his hawkish, pallid face and Piotr shifted once more, unable to meet his eyes.
He glanced toward the wooden watchtower high above him, a twisted, faceless
giant where the glint off a rifle became an eye that followed, always watching. That day
there was no sun, and thus no glinting eye, and yet he could still feel it trained on them.
Piotr’s spine tensed into steel, and he looked instead to the three meter high fence, its barbed, metal skeleton entangled with the thick trees at the other side. He couldn’t see through them, though he had heard the train screeching through the station with each and every day, and had smelled the ovens as they disposed of its “cargo” each and every night.
Nowhere he looked allowed him a second of comfort. He knew too well that if
anything went wrong, their fate would mirror that of the thousands of others that had passed through Sobibor. Despite how things had fallen into place thus far, he could feel his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He felt as if the hawkish commander could see the blood on his hands.
They had already taken care of Graetschuss, though it had taken more than one axe blow to finish him, stubborn bastard that he had been. Without Szol, one of the other shoemakers, and his quick reaction to stifle the cries of the dying officer, they would have been lost. He had heard too that the tailors had disposed of Niemann, and that no less than three guards in Camp II had been taken care of by the captured Red Army Jews. Still, they waited for the whistle of Pozycki, normally a signal to end roll call, but that night, blown early, it was to be their signal to finish what had been started already. There was no turning back.
The commander leered forward, into Piotr‘s face, and even without his spectacles, that had been taken from him long ago, he could see his curved, pointed nose and piercing eyes. His attention snapped back and he almost gasped, fearing that he had killed them all, but at that moment, as if God had smiled upon them, Pozycki’s whistle blew.
Shrilly, it rang through the camp, in short, fevered bursts, and the commander scowled, forgetting about Piotr entirely to stalk across the courtyard to deal with the errant whistle blower. However, Pozycki dealt with him, whipping out his concealed dagger and driving it into the commander’s belly.
At that same moment, workers that had purposely absented from roll call emerged from their buildings, weapons- makeshift, stolen, and tools of their trade- in hand. Nearby SS were quickly dealt with, shock too evident on their faces as they were slaughtered by club, or by axe. Even the watchtowers did not fire at them, so terrified they were; they had never expected an uprising, let alone anything near successful, from ones they considered so far below them, so far below human.
A great mob began, a swell of human bodies. Everyone rushed forward, even those who had had no clue of the plans that had been laid for today, starved and worked to near death, but suddenly strong. Cries in every language rang out, the Russians screaming for Stalin, Hebrew prayers, Polish swears, as they surged, catching guards beneath them and tearing them apart with hundreds of feet.
They slammed into the first gate and it fell as if it had never been there, though too many of those in front were crushed into the cruel barbs and lost. The second gate too fell, and by now their prison keepers had begun to panic, shouting in German, and Ukrainian, and Dutch. At last, only the third gate stood between them and the outside, tall and menacing, like the teeth of a beast. By then though, they could not be stopped, and they slammed into it without abandon, those in front skewered, martyred, but the rest, freed.
They scattered then, for the forest was thick in every direction, but for the clearing between the camp and the fence that had been cut down to provide fuel for the ovens. Unfortunately, the clearing was rife with mines, and the explosions rocked Piotr as he ran, filling his nostrils with the familiar and disgusting scent of burning human flesh.
Too nearby, a young man met such a fate, and the force was such that Piotr was thrown to the ground, wrist buckling beneath him. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed, clutching at it. Yet he could not hear his own screams, nor anything else, not the cries, nor the explosions, nor the gunshots as the guards finally began to fire after them, striking down those still not in the forest. He would join those unfortunates if he did not run, and run immediately, as the guards had begun to advance, thus he forced himself up and forced himself forward.
Into the thick, grey forest he ran, skeletal trees catching on the thin fabric of his uniform and on his skin like claws, tearing it, slowing him. His hearing gradually returned, though it was muted, as if his ears had been blanketed in layers of cotton. He could only hear the cracking of branches by then, and his heavy, laboured breathing, but he kept running. He ran for what seemed like hours, until dark fell and not even moonlight penetrated through the intertwined boughs above him.
For a few moments, Piotr thought that his hearing had gone once more as he finally stopped to rest against one of the thicker trees, but a nearby howl confirmed this as a falsity. He grimaced, and though he would rather be found by wolves than by the SS, he’d rather not be found at all. He moved forward as fast as he could in the nearly nonexistent light, gasping each time his jostled his broken wrist, for even in the dark, the unnatural way it was bent revealed that much.
The howls, luckily, did not follow, though eventually he wished they had, for the near utter silence of the forest was far worse. Not even bug not bird thrived there, and the trees grew curved and sharp and thin, while somehow still blocking all light from reaching him. He tore his sleeve free as he trudged through the dead leaves that created the forest floor, using it to create a crude bandage for his arm. He wrapped it so tightly that, to his temporary relief, it began to numb, but once eased of that pain, everything else seemed to magnify. Each cracking twig or leaf sent his heart racing, and his body, frail already, was near collapsing, knees all but buckling with each step.
With a sudden drop in elevation, they did buckle, sending him tumbling down a small hill and slamming into something hard and flat. Piotr cursed in Polish and rubbed a forming bruise near his temple, thankful at least that he did not break something else. His hand dragged over the surface that he had fallen into, a wall of some sort, cracked and dilapidated. He tried to drag himself to his feet, but found no energy to do so, instead crawling on hand and knee and groping along until his hand literally sunk through the wood of what had once been a door.
The smell of must and rotten leaf invaded his nose, but it was welcome, almost home-like. It had once been a cottage, one roomed and sparely dressed, but a cottage, not bound in by barbed wire, and guns, and towers. Piotr smiled in the dark, crawling inside, and to his further joy, discovered a straw mattress, only slightly mouldy, pressed into a corner. There was even a hole-filled, paper thin blanket and a nearly featherless pillow, both of which he took in hand and held them as if they were treasures.
He felt near unconsciousness by then, body finally taking the toll of the day, and he crawled onto the mattress through sheer power of will, still clutching the blanket and pillow tightly to his chest. As he fell back to the bed, they were his wife, and his son, both of whom had been deemed unnecessary for the running of Sobibor and had joined the thousands of others in the ovens. He gathered them all the tighter and whispered, though he knew he was alone.
“We’re free.”
He slipped into sleep, smiling, and they became merely rotting fabric once more.
I hope you liked it! My internet at home is out, so I may be more afk than usual. (SORRY FOR THE DOUBLE POST AND FORMATTING)
There was little to no sunlight, despite it being late afternoon. Perhaps four, perhaps a bit later, but nearly time in any case; they only waited for a whistle now. Piotr hoped it would come soon, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously, mud seeping through the old leather of his shoes to squelch around and through his toes. Up and down the line of ragged prisoners, a commander stalked, SS pips worn proudly on the collar of his impeccable uniform. He watched them, read them, it seemed, with his hawkish, pallid face and Piotr shifted once more, unable to meet his eyes.
He glanced toward the wooden watchtower high above him, a twisted, faceless
giant where the glint off a rifle became an eye that followed, always watching. That day
there was no sun, and thus no glinting eye, and yet he could still feel it trained on them.
Piotr’s spine tensed into steel, and he looked instead to the three meter high fence, its barbed, metal skeleton entangled with the thick trees at the other side. He couldn’t see through them, though he had heard the train screeching through the station with each and every day, and had smelled the ovens as they disposed of its “cargo” each and every night.
Nowhere he looked allowed him a second of comfort. He knew too well that if
anything went wrong, their fate would mirror that of the thousands of others that had passed through Sobibor. Despite how things had fallen into place thus far, he could feel his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He felt as if the hawkish commander could see the blood on his hands.
They had already taken care of Graetschuss, though it had taken more than one axe blow to finish him, stubborn bastard that he had been. Without Szol, one of the other shoemakers, and his quick reaction to stifle the cries of the dying officer, they would have been lost. He had heard too that the tailors had disposed of Niemann, and that no less than three guards in Camp II had been taken care of by the captured Red Army Jews. Still, they waited for the whistle of Pozycki, normally a signal to end roll call, but that night, blown early, it was to be their signal to finish what had been started already. There was no turning back.
The commander leered forward, into Piotr‘s face, and even without his spectacles, that had been taken from him long ago, he could see his curved, pointed nose and piercing eyes. His attention snapped back and he almost gasped, fearing that he had killed them all, but at that moment, as if God had smiled upon them, Pozycki’s whistle blew.
Shrilly, it rang through the camp, in short, fevered bursts, and the commander scowled, forgetting about Piotr entirely to stalk across the courtyard to deal with the errant whistle blower. However, Pozycki dealt with him, whipping out his concealed dagger and driving it into the commander’s belly.
At that same moment, workers that had purposely absented from roll call emerged from their buildings, weapons- makeshift, stolen, and tools of their trade- in hand. Nearby SS were quickly dealt with, shock too evident on their faces as they were slaughtered by club, or by axe. Even the watchtowers did not fire at them, so terrified they were; they had never expected an uprising, let alone anything near successful, from ones they considered so far below them, so far below human.
A great mob began, a swell of human bodies. Everyone rushed forward, even those who had had no clue of the plans that had been laid for today, starved and worked to near death, but suddenly strong. Cries in every language rang out, the Russians screaming for Stalin, Hebrew prayers, Polish swears, as they surged, catching guards beneath them and tearing them apart with hundreds of feet.
They slammed into the first gate and it fell as if it had never been there, though too many of those in front were crushed into the cruel barbs and lost. The second gate too fell, and by now their prison keepers had begun to panic, shouting in German, and Ukrainian, and Dutch. At last, only the third gate stood between them and the outside, tall and menacing, like the teeth of a beast. By then though, they could not be stopped, and they slammed into it without abandon, those in front skewered, martyred, but the rest, freed.
They scattered then, for the forest was thick in every direction, but for the clearing between the camp and the fence that had been cut down to provide fuel for the ovens. Unfortunately, the clearing was rife with mines, and the explosions rocked Piotr as he ran, filling his nostrils with the familiar and disgusting scent of burning human flesh.
Too nearby, a young man met such a fate, and the force was such that Piotr was thrown to the ground, wrist buckling beneath him. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed, clutching at it. Yet he could not hear his own screams, nor anything else, not the cries, nor the explosions, nor the gunshots as the guards finally began to fire after them, striking down those still not in the forest. He would join those unfortunates if he did not run, and run immediately, as the guards had begun to advance, thus he forced himself up and forced himself forward.
Into the thick, grey forest he ran, skeletal trees catching on the thin fabric of his uniform and on his skin like claws, tearing it, slowing him. His hearing gradually returned, though it was muted, as if his ears had been blanketed in layers of cotton. He could only hear the cracking of branches by then, and his heavy, laboured breathing, but he kept running. He ran for what seemed like hours, until dark fell and not even moonlight penetrated through the intertwined boughs above him.
For a few moments, Piotr thought that his hearing had gone once more as he finally stopped to rest against one of the thicker trees, but a nearby howl confirmed this as a falsity. He grimaced, and though he would rather be found by wolves than by the SS, he’d rather not be found at all. He moved forward as fast as he could in the nearly nonexistent light, gasping each time his jostled his broken wrist, for even in the dark, the unnatural way it was bent revealed that much.
The howls, luckily, did not follow, though eventually he wished they had, for the near utter silence of the forest was far worse. Not even bug not bird thrived there, and the trees grew curved and sharp and thin, while somehow still blocking all light from reaching him. He tore his sleeve free as he trudged through the dead leaves that created the forest floor, using it to create a crude bandage for his arm. He wrapped it so tightly that, to his temporary relief, it began to numb, but once eased of that pain, everything else seemed to magnify. Each cracking twig or leaf sent his heart racing, and his body, frail already, was near collapsing, knees all but buckling with each step.
With a sudden drop in elevation, they did buckle, sending him tumbling down a small hill and slamming into something hard and flat. Piotr cursed in Polish and rubbed a forming bruise near his temple, thankful at least that he did not break something else. His hand dragged over the surface that he had fallen into, a wall of some sort, cracked and dilapidated. He tried to drag himself to his feet, but found no energy to do so, instead crawling on hand and knee and groping along until his hand literally sunk through the wood of what had once been a door.
The smell of must and rotten leaf invaded his nose, but it was welcome, almost home-like. It had once been a cottage, one roomed and sparely dressed, but a cottage, not bound in by barbed wire, and guns, and towers. Piotr smiled in the dark, crawling inside, and to his further joy, discovered a straw mattress, only slightly mouldy, pressed into a corner. There was even a hole-filled, paper thin blanket and a nearly featherless pillow, both of which he took in hand and held them as if they were treasures.
He felt near unconsciousness by then, body finally taking the toll of the day, and he crawled onto the mattress through sheer power of will, still clutching the blanket and pillow tightly to his chest. As he fell back to the bed, they were his wife, and his son, both of whom had been deemed unnecessary for the running of Sobibor and had joined the thousands of others in the ovens. He gathered them all the tighter and whispered, though he knew he was alone.
“We’re free.”
He slipped into sleep, smiling, and they became merely rotting fabric once more.
I hope you liked it! My internet at home is out, so I may be more afk than usual. (SORRY FOR THE DOUBLE POST AND FORMATTING)