Dawn
by Monnie
[ disclaimer: they're not mine, okay?! no matter HOW much I tell them that it was ME who came UP with the concept, they STILL refuse to see the napkin. GOD! When will they learn?! ]
Okay, sooo... this is not your average fanfic. I'm going to end up touching on some very sensitive subjects for some people, so this might not be appropriate for the little ones, or the easily offended. I apologize if you don't consider yourself one of those people, and then you are offended anyway. It was your own fault for deciding to read it in the first place. Okay, that probably didn't help much with the "getting you to read it" part, huh? All right, fine. *huff* Either way, just review, and tell me if you think that it's something you'd want to see continued, because I'm trying something completely different, and I want to know if I'm any good at it :p
This takes place in Poland during the 1940's. It's obviously an AU fic, but I think it's gonna be good. Good luck, and Godspeed. Xx
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Prologue
"Open up!" A harsh, cold voice shattered the silence that had formed in the darkness, slightly muffled in its fury. There was a dull thud, a rumble, and then the unmistakable shriek of rusted metal grinding against rusted metal. Suddenly, there was light.
The silhouette of a man appeared, his hands on his hips, thoroughly disappointed with the scene before him. He shook his head, and yelled, "OUT!"
Out of the darkness came nearly a hundred people, each of them with dark hair, pale skin, and dark cloaks with bright yellow stars pinned to them. Some of them carried bags; others carried children. All of them looked frightened. One particular woman clasped hands with the man standing next to her, and he put his arms around her, holding her head to his chest. She sobbed silently, and the angry man who had let them out noticed. He took several steps towards them, and pulled the woman away, shoving her to the side. He grabbed the man by the collar of his cloak, and mumbled something that no one could understand. After the young man was released, he whimpered, and ran over to a group of people who stood on the right side of the open area.
In between the groups on the right and left side, stood another dark, mysterious man. He was pointing side to side, separating the people who had come off of the rusty boxcar. Among those people, were the Gellers.
The pointing man was getting closer to the Geller family, and Jack, the father, drew his wife, Judy, closer, fearing the worst: separation from their children. Monica, the youngest, but no younger than twenty, took a step closer to her husband, Michael, and tried not to grab his hand. She didn't want to end up like the other woman, separated from her loved ones. And she certainly didn't want her parents to leave her. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew it couldn't have been good. The tallest of the family, was Monica's older brother, Ross. He took a step in front of his sister, as if being out of sight would protect her. He knew, somewhere, though, that it wouldn't. Not now, anyway.
The Gellers watched as families were separated, one by one, and the man pointed back and forth, back and forth. Then, a new man approached them, with a small clipboard in hand.
"Age." He commanded in butchered Polish, staring down at Judy and Jack.
Jack responded. "Fifty three."
"Occupation?"
"Shopkeeper."
"Let me see your hands," he ordered, and Jack complied. Jack's hands were pale and smooth; he was only a clerk. He sent him to the right with the others. Monica prayed the family would still be together.
"Age?" The man asked Judy.
"Fifty one."
"Very well." He pointed to the right, without asking any further questions.
'So far, so good,' Monica thought. The man turned to Ross.
"Age?" He repeated again.
"Twenty three."
"Occupation?"
"Road construction worker."
"Are you sick?"
"No." Ross said, simply.
"Good. Hands." Ross stuck out his hands quickly, and the man examined them. He then pointed to the left, and Monica could feel her heart sink.
Separated.
"You. Age?" He asked of Monica.
She responded quietly, "Twenty one."
"Occupation?"
"Seamstress."
"Hands."
Monica already had them out. He grabbed them, a bit harsher than he had the others, and looked them over thoroughly. She had rough hands, from being pricked with needles all the time. It had finally paid off. Left she went, relieved that at least her brother was with her.
When she arrived at the left hand side of the selection area, she found Ross, and clung to him, trying desperately not to cry. Both of them turned around, looking back at the boxcar, where the man was talking to Michael. After a few moments, Michael began to walk down towards them, and Monica relaxed, happy to be with her husband still.
An eternity passed, as the others were sorted, and placed into groups. Monica finally ended up noticing that the women with children, and the elderly, the weak, and the sick, were all placed to the right, and the younger and healthier people were sent to the left. Yet another man appeared, carrying a wooden ladder, and he placed it on the back of a goods truck. He ordered the right group to climb onto it, and they were all crammed into the flatbed. Monica watched in anguish, as her mother looked back at her one last time, before the truck drove off into the distance.
She never saw her parents again.
The left group of people were lined up, and then separated further. Left, right, left, right... man, woman, man, woman... and Monica was alone once more. The women were lined up in a row, next to the men, and the dark, mysterious people began to march everyone forward. The group moved slowly, as most felt unable to walk. And they moved, inch by inch, down an endless road. None of them knew where they were going, but they all knew that it wasn't going to be easy to survive. That a fighting spirit was the one thing you needed.
A camp appeared out of the dusty fog. Rows and rows of huge, brick buildings, and wooden barracks. A tall, black wire fence surrounded it, closing it off to the rest of reality. It was its own little hell. And then, one by one, the men and women marched under a menacing black arch, with huge, weathered letters written above it that read, 'Arbeit Macht Frei'.
Work Means Freedom.
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