Deliverance
Poul stared down from the third story window of Government House upon the ornamental gardens which had been so recently restored to reflect the former glory of St. Petersburg. His mind was far away, wallowing indulgently in memories of time spent in this city many years ago.
The sound of a throat being cleared caused him to return to the present day and spin around to face the young man, who had obviously been standing there for some considerable time, his face flushed red with embarrassment.
“Yes, corporal?”
“Captain,” the youth began, “the Commandant has asked me to bring this to you, Sir.” He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Fine, what are they?”
“Prisoner of war lists, Sir. The names of those due to be released by the Coalition.”
Poul wondered why Strazinsky would have thought it necessary to relay this information to him. What business was it of his? He studied the corporal a moment longer. The young man appeared desperate to relinquish himself of the papers and Poul decided to go easy on him, “on my desk, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned back to the window and the overcast sky. The corporal's salute from the doorway was perceptible to him, but it was only when he was sure that the young man had departed that he walked over to the broad mahogany desk and took up the papers from the tray.
Names, thousands of names. Separatist soldiers, missing and presumed dead, most of them for many years. But, unknowingly, the Coalition had had many of them interned in the Siberian Gulag. And now, now that they were on the back foot and knowing that such an act would curry much favour during the final treaties, they had decided to release their prisoners.
There was a paper clip at the top of one of the pages and Poul instinctively turned to it. It was a further continuation of the list, but his eyes were drawn to a name halfway down that was highlighted in red. The effect of that name upon him was twofold. Physically, his gut clenched, his heart skipped a beat and his knees went weak, his legs suddenly threatening to surrender the duty of keeping him upright. Mentally, his brain accepted the information but refused to process it, the end result being an almost blackout. He reached out for, and just managed to fall into, his leather chair as his head swam, his features ashen, his eyes glazed.
It was in this condition that Strazinsky found him when he swung by an hour or so later. And he was not in the least surprised.
. никогда не отчаивайтесь .
Appelgard had been as close a friend as he had had for a very long time. The fact that he was seated alongside Poul in the rear of the Sedan was testament to that friendship.
It had been a month since he had received the shocking news. A month during which he had been unable to assimilate it, unwilling to risk opening up a wound which had already taken so long to even begin the healing process. He had spoken not a word to Sofia, knowing that he would be unable to bear her disappointment if it proved untrue, certain that he would only just be able to bear it himself.
“This is it,” Appelgard stated as they drove through the gates of the processing centre, to be faced with the typically stark grey monolithic structure itself.
Poul stared straight ahead, “just get me in there Johann. Then I want you to leave me to it.”
“Of course, of course.”
Once within, Appelgard took charge of the necessary bureaucracy and it was not long before they were being led through the maze-like innards of the building. Poul realised that it was essentially nothing more than a cell block.
“Tell me,” he questioned their guide, “why are these people still locked up?”
“None of the doors are locked,” the man replied simply, “but no one leaves their room. Internment is all that they have known for so long that they find it impossible to face the outside world, or even to accept that they are free. It is a well documented mental condition.”
Poul grimaced, his stomach tightening, as they came to a halt before one of the many steel doors.
“In here?”
“Yes.”
Poul turned to Appelgard, “wait for me, please?” Appelgard nodded his assent and Poul pushed open the door and entered the cell.
. никогда не отчаивайтесь .
At first he could make out very little in the dimness of the tiny room but, as his eyes adjusted, Poul recognised the shape of a small cot against the far wall and a figure huddled upon it.
He crossed the room quietly, not wanting to cause any alarm.
“Excuse me,” he whispered, “are you awake?”
He waited, but there was no response. He knelt down at the side of the cot and listened quietly. The sound of breathing was faintly audible.
He stole himself to reach out and gently lay his hand on the upper arm of the wretched individual, feeling beneath his fingers very little of substance. No flesh or muscle could he detect, merely the unnervingly jagged bone of the shoulder joint. He very carefully shook the figure but, again, there was no response.
Once more he waited, unsure of how to proceed. What he did know was that he could not leave the room without being certain one way or the other.
He leaned forwards and with both hands gently rolled the prone figure onto its back. The head, however, remained facing the wall, necessitating him to turn it to face his own. The glassy eyed stare that met his eyes held no emotion or sense of recognition. He had now become accustomed to the dim light within the cell but, as he gazed upon the gaunt and hollow visage before him, he could find very little commonality between its features and those he held in his heart, and it was only by close scrutiny that he could even assure himself of their femininity. He needed to be sure.
He reached down and carefully pulled up her right trouser leg, feeling within. The cold plastic of a prosthetic met his touch. He gasped and then clutched her head in both his hands, attempting to force her vacant gaze to lock onto his own.
“Karina,” he wept, “Karina, it’s me. It’s Poul. I know you remember me!”
She moved for the first time then, but only to roll over to face the wall once more. He was about to pull her back over again, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face Appelgard, his vision blurred by tears.
“Enough for now, Poul,” he whispered, “at least you know.”
Poul looked down at her once more, curled up now in a foetal position. “I’ll be back tomorrow, my love. I promise”
The sound of a throat being cleared caused him to return to the present day and spin around to face the young man, who had obviously been standing there for some considerable time, his face flushed red with embarrassment.
“Yes, corporal?”
“Captain,” the youth began, “the Commandant has asked me to bring this to you, Sir.” He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Fine, what are they?”
“Prisoner of war lists, Sir. The names of those due to be released by the Coalition.”
Poul wondered why Strazinsky would have thought it necessary to relay this information to him. What business was it of his? He studied the corporal a moment longer. The young man appeared desperate to relinquish himself of the papers and Poul decided to go easy on him, “on my desk, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned back to the window and the overcast sky. The corporal's salute from the doorway was perceptible to him, but it was only when he was sure that the young man had departed that he walked over to the broad mahogany desk and took up the papers from the tray.
Names, thousands of names. Separatist soldiers, missing and presumed dead, most of them for many years. But, unknowingly, the Coalition had had many of them interned in the Siberian Gulag. And now, now that they were on the back foot and knowing that such an act would curry much favour during the final treaties, they had decided to release their prisoners.
There was a paper clip at the top of one of the pages and Poul instinctively turned to it. It was a further continuation of the list, but his eyes were drawn to a name halfway down that was highlighted in red. The effect of that name upon him was twofold. Physically, his gut clenched, his heart skipped a beat and his knees went weak, his legs suddenly threatening to surrender the duty of keeping him upright. Mentally, his brain accepted the information but refused to process it, the end result being an almost blackout. He reached out for, and just managed to fall into, his leather chair as his head swam, his features ashen, his eyes glazed.
It was in this condition that Strazinsky found him when he swung by an hour or so later. And he was not in the least surprised.
. никогда не отчаивайтесь .
Appelgard had been as close a friend as he had had for a very long time. The fact that he was seated alongside Poul in the rear of the Sedan was testament to that friendship.
It had been a month since he had received the shocking news. A month during which he had been unable to assimilate it, unwilling to risk opening up a wound which had already taken so long to even begin the healing process. He had spoken not a word to Sofia, knowing that he would be unable to bear her disappointment if it proved untrue, certain that he would only just be able to bear it himself.
“This is it,” Appelgard stated as they drove through the gates of the processing centre, to be faced with the typically stark grey monolithic structure itself.
Poul stared straight ahead, “just get me in there Johann. Then I want you to leave me to it.”
“Of course, of course.”
Once within, Appelgard took charge of the necessary bureaucracy and it was not long before they were being led through the maze-like innards of the building. Poul realised that it was essentially nothing more than a cell block.
“Tell me,” he questioned their guide, “why are these people still locked up?”
“None of the doors are locked,” the man replied simply, “but no one leaves their room. Internment is all that they have known for so long that they find it impossible to face the outside world, or even to accept that they are free. It is a well documented mental condition.”
Poul grimaced, his stomach tightening, as they came to a halt before one of the many steel doors.
“In here?”
“Yes.”
Poul turned to Appelgard, “wait for me, please?” Appelgard nodded his assent and Poul pushed open the door and entered the cell.
. никогда не отчаивайтесь .
At first he could make out very little in the dimness of the tiny room but, as his eyes adjusted, Poul recognised the shape of a small cot against the far wall and a figure huddled upon it.
He crossed the room quietly, not wanting to cause any alarm.
“Excuse me,” he whispered, “are you awake?”
He waited, but there was no response. He knelt down at the side of the cot and listened quietly. The sound of breathing was faintly audible.
He stole himself to reach out and gently lay his hand on the upper arm of the wretched individual, feeling beneath his fingers very little of substance. No flesh or muscle could he detect, merely the unnervingly jagged bone of the shoulder joint. He very carefully shook the figure but, again, there was no response.
Once more he waited, unsure of how to proceed. What he did know was that he could not leave the room without being certain one way or the other.
He leaned forwards and with both hands gently rolled the prone figure onto its back. The head, however, remained facing the wall, necessitating him to turn it to face his own. The glassy eyed stare that met his eyes held no emotion or sense of recognition. He had now become accustomed to the dim light within the cell but, as he gazed upon the gaunt and hollow visage before him, he could find very little commonality between its features and those he held in his heart, and it was only by close scrutiny that he could even assure himself of their femininity. He needed to be sure.
He reached down and carefully pulled up her right trouser leg, feeling within. The cold plastic of a prosthetic met his touch. He gasped and then clutched her head in both his hands, attempting to force her vacant gaze to lock onto his own.
“Karina,” he wept, “Karina, it’s me. It’s Poul. I know you remember me!”
She moved for the first time then, but only to roll over to face the wall once more. He was about to pull her back over again, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face Appelgard, his vision blurred by tears.
“Enough for now, Poul,” he whispered, “at least you know.”
Poul looked down at her once more, curled up now in a foetal position. “I’ll be back tomorrow, my love. I promise”