1
He didn't know what day it was.
It didn't matter that he didn't know what day it was. He had cared once and quietly asked someone in charge what the date was. His question wasn't answered; he was just struck about the head and remembered falling to the ground watching his vision swim with blood. He had known something was very wrong before things had gotten as bad as they were. His intelligence was vast enough for him to notice the signs of impending disaster. He had warned people and helped as many as he could get out, but there hadn't been enough time for him. He was found out eventually and now he existed in this squalid place where humans had stamped humanity out of themselves and their prisoners; their slaves, their dogs.
His world which had once been filled with busyness, smiles, learning, colour and sweets was now grey and monotonous. Death and decay were everywhere, their oppressors completely absent of empathy or kindness. He hadn't understood fully what was happening in the beginning, but now he didn't want to understand. He couldn't. Even though he was one of those people who were open to every possibility, he would never allow himself to be open minded with these monsters and their twisted ideals. He was now ashamed to be human, ashamed of mankind and how they could think doing something like this was acceptable in pursuit of perfecting the human race.
How could he and the others around him not be counted as human? They looked the same, breathed the same air, ate, slept, laughed, and cried. Of course he had argued with himself no one person could be completely perfect, so what were they trying to accomplish?
They would fail, that much he knew for sure. But not before everyone he knew here including himself were dead. He often thought back to when he had actually once lost his temper. His placid pale demeanour erupting into a blush of rage; as he fought them desperately, to save his books of all things. What savages would burn books? As he was beaten and restrained, forced to watch his precious literature burn he had realized with horror that these people weren't human. He had also come to the abhorrent conclusion that if they could burn books they could and would easily burn people.
He hated that he was always right.
Where he was he didn't know or care, he just knew that the outcome would still be the same. He just carried on existing, as living required hope and that was nearly absent here.
Anyway he had accepted that he would get shot in the head one day; he was clever, much too clever. The longer he hid this fact the longer he stayed alive, which he only did to spite he captors. The problem was he had never looked very healthy per se; so he worked doubly hard to compensate, as in fact he was very strong physically. On the outside he was quiet and docile, but inside he was a turbulent storm of emotions and intellect that was always thinking of the next move.
It was lucky that they didn't know his actual age, where he was from, who he really was. If they knew, there was no doubt he would have been utilized to his full potential to aid them. This was something that would not happen.
What disturbed him the most was that when ever he looked at those in charge he didn't see faces any more, only cruel evil sneers of hatred. He had decided that he would only look fully into the face of the man who was going to kill him. He was going to pour all of his being into that look; so whoever shot him would know of the terrible thing that they had done and that they would never win.
When he looked around him and saw the old and young he felt a great sadness and disgust inside himself. Everyone was going to die; all those possible generations were going to be obliterated. In one of his weaker moments he had almost cried, moved to tears because of all the world changing people who were going to have their existence stolen from them. He imagined all the poetry, literature, scientific theories and discoveries he and the world would never experience.
In fact he supposed he could have been responsible for some or it. He wasn't arrogant, he just knew his strengths. One thing he was grateful for beyond words was that all of his own work was safe, but that wasn't why what he was grateful. All of his work had been taken to safety by his family. His brothers had taken his masterpieces and work in progress projects. His brothers were safe. They had gotten out and now safely resided in England. They would live, they would go on. Every miserable night he would thank God with all his being for caring for his treasured, beloved brothers.
His people were going to be stamped into the ground. He only hoped the rest of would remember them. Mourn them.
In the last letter he had sent to his brothers he had written of his suspicions, hopes and fears for the future. He had written of his disgust at what was most likely going to happen to him and those poor souls who now had no hope of escape. All his thoughts were inked beautifully into gold filament paper. He had known at this point that it was futile trying to get out so had gone underground. He had told his brothers how much he loved them and to carry on.
To remember him, but not to hope for the best.
He knew his brothers; like him, could be logical to a fault. But they would struggle to accept their eldest brother's fate. At the time he had written the letter, he knew that he was soon to be betrayed.
The man who was hiding him had had his family's lives threatened. He had heard the threat as he had pressed his head delicately against the drywall. The man protecting him had assumed that he was asleep. The reason for this being he had taken to eating sleeping pills to stay silent. Usually he didn't sleep much at all, but by taking the pills he would be rendered almost silent and undetectable in his hiding place.
On this one day he had decided to forgo the medication for no reason at all. On hearing of his impending betrayal he had written the letter. In the evening when the man bought in food; he had pressed the letter into the man's hands and begged him to make sure it reached its destination. He then let him know he knew what was going to happen next evening.
The man had wept from shame, but he had shushed him and let him know that he understood. He wasn't worth the lives of his wife and children. The man had continued to cry and he had held him securely telling him there was nothing to forgive, all he had to do was post the letter. He knew it would be done.
The next evening his hiding place was revealed to the hated enemy. He had lain on his cot and stared up at the ceiling, staying as still and incongruous as he possibly could. They screamed hate at him then descended. Hitting, kicking, slapping and punching. Hurting. He had been beaten before and sometimes; if mood had struck, he would fight back, satisfied at landing a few blows of his own. But this time he hadn't fought. There was no point. The beating he had received had been the most painful experience of his life. Not because of the physical pain, but due to this beating and capture signifying the end of his freedom, probably his life.
He had been dragged semi-conscious to the army vehicle, dripping blood along the way. His light skin has been marred with countless bruises and he had been conscious enough to guess that he left wrist was probably broken. Luckily he was ambidextrous. He definitely had many ribs broken and his teeth didn't feel as secure within his mouth. He had blacked out and woken up on the cold hard floor outside. He remembered shivering and looking up at the stars, desperately hoping he would survive the night. His instinct to live then was pathetically urgent. The clothes he had been wearing were thin; not nearly enough to warm him. Considering his weight he realized that he was thoroughly stupid to insist on wearing what he always wore. As his body began to go numb he smiled to himself, strangely grateful that if he was destined to die that very evening, at least he could gaze upon the night sky.
When he had woken up again he was inside, still pain wracked but warm and bandaged. Someone was taking care of him. Weakly looking around, he could see that he was in a make shift hospital environment. There were several other people in beds. A smiling face had appeared in front of him whispering soothing words of comfort; he felt a minute prick in his arm. He felt his pain evaporate and sleep then clouded his dark eyes.
It had taken three months for him to recover from his injuries; he had hated his forced bed ridden state. Life in the Ghetto was horrendously over crowded. There was hardly any sanitation, hardly any food. Danger constantly encircled the Ghetto due to the sadistic armed soldiers around the perimeter. However he was content there. He was able to pay back those who had cared for him by offering his medical expertise. His scientific knowledge was invaluable in producing drugs that were in short supply. Unlike his former hiding place, here he was able to interact with others and keep his mind fully occupied. Most of those he met and helped in the Ghetto were good people, friendly people. They were filled with humanity. Even though he had never considered himself very religious, he found observing the orthodox ceremonies of his people soothing. Even though their circumstances were dire, they continued to live as best as they could. They inspired him so much.
He had at first thought that they would stay there until the war was over, that they would be liberated by the victors. (He had already predicted that Germany would not win.) Then as he observed from the hospital window one evening; the murder of an elderly couple holding hands together in the cold, he knew that no one was coming. At least not any time soon.
The day the Ghetto was emptied would forever stay with him. He had recoiled with disgust at the murder of some many. Suitcases had littered the streets and the cries of men, women and children sung through the air. The screams of terror as the men and the women were separated cut through him like a blade. The constant gun fire faded away into the background, merging in with the patter of the rain. He knew that those in the hospital were going to be euthanized to spare them the horror of being murdered. Many males were being dispatched, especially those who were tall and strong. They were getting rid of those that they believed would be a threat to their regime. Later on, he despised himself for being glad that it was them rather than him. One young boy had run away in fright, away from his father, away from all that was happening. He had watched as two soldiers retrieved the terrified youngster. Their superior had aimed a shotgun straight at the child's face and fired without a thought. The wounded were killed, those that fought back were killed, and those that shouted in anger were killed. He had seen someone new in the militia in the distance; he supposed that this being was responsible for the carnage. Their laughter and enjoyment had sickened him. He hadn't believed that he could see so much blood and bone, hadn't believed that he could see so much apathetic slaughter in one day. He felt like something was very wrong inside of him as he was herded into a dingy truck and then a foul smelling train.
The misery and abject despair he felt around those squashed up against him was unlike anything he had felt so far. Instinctively he knew that wherever they were destined for was going to be far worse than what they had already experienced. They were going to suffer more then what they had already suffered so far. And he was always right.
And so he had arrived at this concentration camp; dreading what he would witness, what he would be made to do. He was no fool; he had seen the skull and crossbones on the hats of the military superiors, the SS. He and all those around him were here for only one reason, to die.
In this place time didn't exist, only the feeling that he and all the others were stuck in a perpetual nightmare. Of course saying that, he felt a great relief at still being with his people. Those who were like him, who were being wrongly tortured and persecuted. He needed them especially after their first task of breaking and laying Jewish tombstones to make a main road. Dispiritedly they had worked to desecrate the dead, who weren't allowed to rest in peace. He felt secure at night when he lay down on the uncomfortable hard wood, listening to the many male voices conversing. He tried very hard to ignore the nagging feeling inside of him that knew most of these voices would one day be forever silenced. There were so many people who slept in this ramshackle shed, but he didn't sleep. He listened instead to the snores and breathing of those around him, relishing being around actual people. In his normal life some called him an insomniac eccentric recluse, and those who truly understood him knew this mostly to be true. Though not very social by nature this hadn't stopped him from teaching at Universities, from writing, from discovering. When he lay awake at night; watching everything that had happened behind his eye lids, he discovered that he was a humanitarian. His new found ability to be able to care sometimes made him agitated. He didn't like to care for a doomed cause. All that was really left to him was to hide his identity and wait for death to take him. As long as his brothers were safe; he L Lawliet, could live with that.