Sound the bugle now... play it just for me
As the seasons change... remember how I used to be
Now I can't go on...I can't even start
I've got nothing left... just an empty heart.
I'm a soldier... wounded so I must give up the fight
There's nothing more for me... lead me away
Or leave me lying here
Gray, gray, gray, everything is gray. He stands in a sea of stone and metal, wondering at the absence of color. How is it possible to suck the smallest bit of color even out of the sky itself? There is no grass, no flowers, no birds cheerfully hopping along the cracked concrete courtyard pecking for worms and insects. No people either.
A nauseating smell pervades the air, one that sends his stomach churning, causes the hair to stand up on the back of his neck. He can't for the life of him remember what it is though, why it sickens and terrifies him so. He is unsure whether that thought should comfort or scare him further.
He starts walking through the empty complex, looking for any sign of life, anything at all. The silence is unnerving. He hugs his thin arms around his upper body, trying to stave off the chill of the cold wind whistling through the ramshackle buildings, and looks around furtively. Where in the world are all the people? Surely there must be someone about. And God, what could be making that awful smell?
A flash of pure white catches his eye, and he makes his way toward it curiously. It's a white eagle, its wings lying broken and twisted beneath it as it squawks softly on the ground. He immediately gets on his knees before it, reaching out one hand to tentatively stroke its soft white feathers, ready to pull back at a moment's notice should the bird try to bite him.
It does not, however, and allows him to pet it, cooing pitifully. He gently gathers the injured eagle into his arms, wincing sympathetically as its wings dangle over his arm at odd angles. The bird screeches in pain as it's moved, but makes no further sound as it settles into the crook of his arms, even going so far as to rub its head against its chest.
Suddenly, from behind him, the sound of marching boots fills the air. Without knowing exactly why, he breaks into a run, holding the eagle close to his chest protectively. All he knows is that the boots are bad. Don't get caught by the boots. If they catch you they'll kill you, kill you, kill you, run, run, run! The images of shiny black boots kicking down doors, slamming into old men's, women's, even children's sides, walking through puddles of stagnant blood fills his mind, and he runs faster, not knowing where he's going, just away from the sound of boots.
He ducks into one of the ramshackle buildings, and dives under one of the stark wooden bunks, landing on his back to protect the eagle from being jostled too much. Curling protectively around the eagle and burying his face into his knees, he curls up in as tight a ball as he can manage and shivers. He still doesn't knowing why he's so terrified, but he's terrified all the same. The door to the building is thrown open, and harsh, grating words in a foreign language fills the air.
An abrupt and burning rage cuts through the fog of terror and confusion clouding his mind. He doesn't know why he's so angry all of a sudden, but he does know that he suddenly has the strong urge to stop running and go kick some major ass.
Something suddenly grabs hold of his ankle, and drags him fighting and kicking for all he's worth out from under the bunk. Rough hands tear the eagle away from his arms and pin them to the floorboards, and he growls and glares up defiantly at his assailants, ready for anything except for what he sees.
Cold blue gazes down at him - so many eyes that he can't count them all - out of fleshless, bony faces, all grinning down at him in the same lifeless smirk. Their uniforms are stained with red, and their shiny black boots are covered in the color, too. Their leader holds the eagle by its throat, and the thing squawks piteously. Before he can do a thing, the soldier tightens his grip, and a barely perceptible snap echoes through the room. Blood trickles from the corner of the eagle's beak as its head lolls limply against the man's gloved fist.
A surge of intense anger gives him the strength to bolt upright, throwing off his attackers, and scramble to his feet. He decks the solder across its bony face, snatches the dead eagle from his hand, and runs as fast as he can for the back door. The other soldier's skeletal hands leave large, deep bruises through his thin shirt as he pulls away, but he pays the aching pain no mind as he pelts for all he's worth down the street, his mind numb with terror and a grief he can't quite account for.
Left! Right! Right again! Left! He darts through the grey buildings looking for an exit, an escape, a hole to hide in, anything. He can hear the skeleton soldiers behind him, shouting foul words in that jarring language of theirs as they try to catch up with him. His bare foot catches on a stone and he stumbles, barking his knees and palms badly on the pavement. The eagle flops limply on the concrete a couple feet away, gazing at him with one piercing golden eye, dull and glazed in death. Tearing his eyes from the eagle, he glances behind him, just as a shrill, inhuman wail cuts through the rank, smoky air, sending the hairs on his arms standing on end.
A huge, black, eagle-like creature swoops down from above just as the decaying pursuers come into sight. The thing is the size of a fighter plane and seems to be made completely of black fire, except for its eyes, which are a burning, fiery red. It looks like a phantom straight out of Hell.
He's up on his feet and running again in an instant, snagging the white eagle as he goes. Though he doesn't know why he bothers; the black fire eagle is large enough to catch up with him in seconds. The frantic beat of his heart and his harsh gasps for air fill his ears as he runs, drowning out even the bellows and shrill screeches coming from behind him.
Suddenly, a large building looms before him, belching acrid smoke from twin smokestacks into the stormy sky. Something screams at his mind to get away, don't go in there, don't look, STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!but another shriek from behind him propels him faster toward the open doors in the front of the building.
Skidding to a halt just inside the entrance, he deposits the bird on the ground and throws his shoulder against the heavy door, trying to push it shut before his enemies descend upon him. The screams of the fiery phantom and the undead soldiers chasing him grow louder and louder, and the door's moving slowly, too slowly. He just can't move it fast enough!
A sudden burst of adrenaline lends desperate strength to his muscles, and the door slams shut not two seconds before the reach him. He pulls the deadbolt lock into place, and jumps back as they start pounding on the door. Trying to ignore them, he picks the eagle up again. He looks sadly at its poor broken body and two tears drip from his eyes onto its ruffled feathers. He gently lays it on a broken crate and scrubs the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
As his eyes adjust to the dim light of the building, he becomes aware that he's standing in something wet. Looking around him, he sees large mounds of something clogging the large room he's standing it. The smell is worse in here, nauseating and rotten. It's like something's died. Just as that thought crosses his mind, huge ovens to his left roar to life like ravenous beasts, throwing the contents of the room into sharp focus.
Human bodies litter the room like broken dolls, limbs splayed and eyes vacant. All are naked, all are emaciated and horribly thin. The floor runs red, red, so much red, and the thick, tangy smell of blood fills the air. The small body of a child lays face up not two feet in front of him - a child a child oh God she's just a child! - but it has no face left, cradled in the arms of a gaunt woman.
As he gazes at them, unable to tear his horrified eyes away, they're picked up by some unseen force, and hurled into the oven beside him. Smoke belches into the air as they're tossed in, followed by an old man, and a teenage girl. He can see human bones among the ash at the bottom of the oven as the bodies turn to ash themselves.
He opens his mouth to scream and ash fills his mouth and nose, choking him instead. Something takes shape out of the flames and smoke, and he stumbles backwards as the huge black fire eagle bursts forth from the fireplace. He falls into a pile of corpses, feeling their cold lifeless skin under him as the demon fills the entire room. It looks down at him, murder and triumph in its soulless crimson eyes, and slams a foot down on his chest, effectively pinning him in place.
He cries out as he feels a couple ribs snap under the assault. Black fire engulfs his body, the worst pain he's ever felt in his life. The demon seems to smile and leans down so that it's almost nose to nose with him. As he gazes into its eyes a shape comes into focus in their depths: a cross, its four edges broken and twisted at the ends. His eyes widen, and he gasps as the breath is driven further out of his lungs and his flesh is eaten away by the fire. He can't breathe he can't breathe it hurts he can't breathe it burns it hurts oh God make it stop make it-!
A scream tore itself from Poland's throat as he shot straight upright in bed, his green eyes wide and frantic. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, drenched his nightclothes and the bed sheets, which were twisted haphazardly around his body, and he was nearly hyperventilating. Stomach rebelling, he tumbled out of bed, not even bothering trying to untangle himself from the sheets, and bolted for the bathroom.
He wasn't quite able to make it to the toilet, so he settled for the sink instead, vomiting up all he had in his stomach until all that was left was bile. Poland was dimly aware that he was trembling as he leaned over the basin, but he didn't care. He was still in the dream, could still see the bodies, feel the fire, taste the ash, taste his people oh God-!
He slid to the floor, clutching his head with his hands, burying his fingers in his pale hair. A sob escaped him and he curled inward, trying to escape the memories that never went away. Not once in the five years since the war had ended, had they stopped; an endless procession of horror and terror, the memories of the Polish people that he, as their nation, was forced to carry.
They only got worse this time of year, when the leaves on the trees turned, and the air grew cold and frosty. Sharp pain lanced through his hip and he pressed a hand to it, felt wet warmth there, and was not surprised. The raw, ugly wounds from Auschwitz-Birkenau, Belzec ,Chełmno, Majdanek, Sobibor, and Treblinka still had not fully healed, and Poland suspected that it would be some time before they did.
He lifted the sleeve of his nightshirt and stared at the seven numbers etched there in indelible black. Historians had estimated that over six million Polish civilians had perished in the war. Poland knew the exact number. It was permanently tattooed into his skin. And he knew their names, their stories, how they died, everything. He even knew the living's stories. And everyone had one.
It was almost unbearable sometimes, knowing all this like he did. Like when he went down to the grocers' and saw their ten year old niece - who they had adopted after the war ended – and looked into her old, old eyes, the eyes of an elderly woman. Nobody knew that she had seen her mother get shot in the head by a German soldier when she was only four years old.
The old, drunk, Jewish man on the street corner. He had had six children before the war, and a beautiful, generous wife. They were all dead now, them and their whole village.
The young woman, who laughed and danced on Saturday nights with every boy who cared to look at her. She had been brutally raped by the Russians when they had occupied her city in the last days of the war. Her mother and younger sister had not survived.
So many faces. So many names.
A hysterical half-sob/half-giggle escaped him, and he bit down on his lip hard as tears continued to stream down his face. Was this what going mad felt like? He gingerly brought his hand away from his hip, and looked numbly at the blood that covered his palm. A small puddle of the stuff had gathered under his right leg, and he could feel more trickling down his arm, his back, his chest.
On impulse, he touched his finger to the floor and traced the first name that came to mind on the pristine white tile.
Hinrieta Nowak. She had been twenty-three years old, with a young son and another on the way. She had been worked to death in Majdenek because she and her husband had harbored a Jew in their home.
Poland stared at the bloody letters for a moment. Then, he got up on his knees, dipped his finger into a puddle of blood on the floor, and more names soon followed the first, tens, than dozens, than hundreds. Man and woman. Rich and poor. Jew and Gentile. It didn't matter to him who they were. They were all his children, and he loved and mourned them all equally. It wasn't much, but… this was all he could do for them now. Remember. Remember and make sure nothing like this would ever happen again.
THE END
This subject (the Holocaust) is something I've felt very strongly about for a long time, and I really hope I was able to do it some measure of justice. The horror of it was really hammered home to me while I was on a trip to Israel, and I went to see a museum created by actual survivors of the Holocaust. Among the things in the museum was artwork done by the survivors, some of the soap and buttons the Nazis made out of the ashes of the Jews and other people from the ovens, and hundreds of plaques, each with the name of a Jewish village or town that was completely wiped out during the war. And by wiped out, I mean no survivors. At all. I remember being utterly numb and emotionally drained by the time the visit ended, and I was never able to view that time in history the same way again.
Notes:
1. The white eagle is a traditional symbol of Poland. Its inclusion here is symbolic of the number of Polish people killed during the war, and how Poland was almost destroyed during WWII (though they gave one hell of an account of themselves. You guys have my eternal admiration and respect.). The black eagle is a national symbol of Germany, and the broken cross (the swastika) is, of course, the symbol of Nazi Germany.
2. Which brings us to our next point. Poland had the highest per capita death rate of any country that participated in the war. It lost over six million people, almost a full 20% of its prewar population. The majority of those killed by Nazi Germany were civilians (exceeding military deaths almost 10:1), and over half of the six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust came from Poland.
3. Yes, Auschwitz and all those other death camps previously mentioned were built in Poland, not Germany. It is my personal head-canon that having a place such as that on your soil where so many people lose their lives gives the nation in question a small, but very bad scar.
4. About Poland's number tattoo. That's a part of my head-canon as well. Any nation that lost a good chunk of their people to them had them, at least initially. They've faded somewhat over the years, some completely, but Poland and the German brothers still have theirs, even almost seventy years later.
5. I was toying with writing an additional scene to this, where Hungary comes over and some hurt/comfort happens, but, given the theme and the subject matter, I discarded the idea. I could still write it if enough people are interested, though.
6. Song lyrics used are from "Sound the Bugle" sung by Bryan Adams, from the Dreamworks movie "Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmeron." It is now Poland's official song, along with "Ordinary Day" by Great Big Sea. I have so decreed it.
And if you have any more questions, either about the historical events, my head-canon, or if something just plain didn't make sense, don't be afraid to ask. God, doing research for the historical notes made me sob like a child.
Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Himaruya. Sound the Bugle" belongs to Bryan Adams and Dreamworks.