Chapter 7
T'Pol and the other new prisoners had been ordered to follow their guards to a small building across from their barracks. The building was brightly lit and T'Pol squinted from the unpleasant light. T'Pol walked in a line behind Vian and saw an officer hurriedly tattooing prisoners arms with numbers. The man was very young, probably around nineteen. He was sweating and his hands were tremulous as he tattooed the women's arms. This man didn't want to be here. He paused when he saw young Vian, who gingerly put her arm out, and shook his head. The officer rapidly tattooed the numbers on. Vian grimaced from the discomfort. T'Pol was next and she had no choice but to roll up her sleeve and allow the numbers to be etched onto her skin.
835014. T'Pol's new designation. T'Pol said the numbers over and over again in her head. 835014. 835014. It was memorized. She would remember it if the time came to give her name, or label.
T'Pol rolled her sleeve back down and followed Vian and the other women out the door they had come in. The sun was now rising higher and faster by the minute. The breeze started to grow some warmth to it and was pleasant for a little while.
The guards rounded them up in a line and looked each one over, assigning their jobs. The guard came to T'Pol and looked her up and down. He had a clipboard and made notes.
"How strong are you, Frau?" The officer's voice was monotone and bored.
"Strong enough."
The officer eyed her suspiciously and resisted an urge to smack her for her disrespectful response. But his job was not to hurt the fools; it was to assign them their work detail. The beatings would come when the woman tumbled over in fatigue and pain. If she cried out, the beatings would only become more severe. It was an efficient way to keep them all in line. Although, only after a short while, the woman would then become savage, and more drastic measures would be taken. Such as the gas chamber or Decimation, one of the, if not most, frightening ways to die. But this woman seemed surprisingly calm and motivated to live. That would change shortly. As a matter of fact, the officer was almost sure that everything about this woman would be swept away in a pool of blood and torture. She was nothing. She was number 835014 as she stated calmly and coolly. One number of many. Too many. Too many worthless souls.
"You say you are strong enough.then you shall work in the mines."
An officer stepped behind T'Pol and put a gun to her back. The guard proceeded to Vian. She stood as straight as she could, but her expression showed great fear and instability. The guard sighed. He didn't like his job too much. He really had better things to do than enlist these people to jobs that would only kill them in the future. Half of these women would be dead within twelve days. The children and elders were usually the ones do die first. All the guards here were vicious and unmerciful. But, serving in this war was his job and he did it whether he wanted to or not. The guard suddenly thought of his own daughter at home, warm in her bed and he knew that this girl had a father somewhere who worried about her with every moment of his imprisonment, and he immediately ordered the young girl to the kitchen to peel potatoes. She seemed somewhat relieved. So did the woman who relaxed her shoulders a bit.
T'Pol nodded to Vian and then allowed herself to be taken at gunpoint to the mine.
***
Commander Tucker really wanted to put his shovel down. But doing that a few minutes ago only earned him a punch in the face and a kick to his stomach. He didn't dare put his shovel down again. Blisters formed quickly on his hands as he thrust the shovel into the hard dirt.
Dig. Throw dirt to pile. Dig again.
It was very consecutive, the same thing over and over again. The sun had now risen to a much higher point, and the smoldering heat overwhelmed the encampment. Trip could tell even the guards, who did just about nothing, were uncomfortable in the heat.
As Trip dug, he thought about T'Pol's theory. How these people could adopt a language, customs, and just about an entire civilization and use it to turn against their own people. Trip thought about the German Shepherds too. How these reincarnated Nazis must have even sneaked onto Earth and stole some of the animals. And, apparently, weaponry as well. T'Pol's theory did make a lot of sense. During the 1940's, space travel and aliens wasn't exactly given that much thought. It was true that, literally, any vessel could've come right on over to Earth and taken on to this brutality. They copied so many things, right down to the swastikas patched on their arms. It was sick. This whole thing was just plain sick. And it hurt Tucker even more to realize that this really was their fault. It these aliens had never seen the torture that was displayed on Earth, this probably would've never happened. Or not have been so bad.
"Los! You're slowing down! Los! Do you want to die, du Feigling?"
Trip remembered the word well from his German class. His own teacher called him that once.
Mr. Keigaen. The German teacher from Hell. Trip could remember the conversation like it was yesterday.
"Mr. Tucker, I don't know how you've even managed to get this far in my class."
Mr. Keigaen squinted his eyes at Trip's paper. The old man grunted as he looked the test over.
"Hm, yes, most unsatisfactory. And I'm sure it's because of a certain 'distraction,' hm?"
Trip bit his lip which quivered every so slightly.
"Sir, I don't know what do say-"
"Obviously not! Almost every answer on this page is incorrect! I wouldn't trust you to have a conversation with a German mute!"
The insult had hurt, but it wasn't enough to make Trip angry. Right now, all that was important was that he might get a second chance to take the test. He was sure he'd do better.
"I doubt you'll do any better, Mr. Tucker. And to tell the truth, I'm not the least bit surprised. If you weren't so busy ogling the females in my class, you might actually have learned something!"
Now that hurt even more. He wasn't ogling anyone. Sure, he had a little crush on the one Fiona Dawson, but it wasn't as bad as Mr. Keigaen made it sound. And Trip wanted to make a point of this, or his reputation just might go to pot.
"Sir, I'd really like to make it clear that I don't 'ogle' anyone-"
"Oh, for goodness sakes, Mr. Tucker! You are an embarrassment to this class," Mr. Keigaen tossed the paper to his desk and continued to talk, "Did you know, that the Germans have a word just for the kind of people like you?"
Trip didn't say anything to this. He only listened.
"The word, is 'feigling,'" Trip tensed up from the sound of the word, "Do you know what that means, Mr. Tucker?"
"Yes, Sir, I do."
"Please, Mr. Tucker. You tell me, what does it mean?"
Trip put his hands behind his back and grit his teeth. "It means 'coward,' Sir."
"That's right, Mr. Tucker. That's exactly what it means, and that's exactly what you are. Now get out of my sight."
Tucker dug a little faster and harder as he reflected on that conversation. How it hurt when he walked out of the classroom and saw Fiona Dawson on the other side of the door. How sad her face was as she walked away despite Trip's protests. From then on, Trip hated that word. Hated its very existence in the universe. ***
At first, the mine work was pretty simple. Dig for the special mineral rock, put it in the coal car. But after a while, regardless of T'Pol's strength, the work became tiring. The weather wasn't so bad though. Vulcans liked the heat and were accustomed to it.
A guard was posted every couple of feet. They kept a watchful eye on everyone. T'Pol thought about the guard who had assigned them their jobs. How when he saw Vian, his complexion softened ever so slightly. Then giving her a safe and easy job like peeling potatoes. It was easy to see he wasn't exactly like the others. Not as ruthless.
Thinking about these things seemed to make T'Pol's job go by faster. But then, T'Pol felt the unmistakable sensation of being starved. T'Pol realized that she'd hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and she was becoming dizzy. T'Pol straightened her spine and eased the annoyance of the pain into a separate section of her mind so that she didn't feel it anymore. Besides, pain was only a messenger. It could be dealt with. Though the sub-commander doubted the captain, the chief engineer, or Vian were capable of performing meditation of this high level. T'Pol would work with Vian at the end of the day and try to teach her.
"Frau! No time for rest! Los!"
A guard stood behind her with a whip held ready in his hands. The man grinned as he slapped the whip onto his hand. T'Pol swallowed and took the pick in hands. Another guard watched her closely and waited to see where exactly she would swing her tool. T'Pol launched the pick into the rock.
"Gut Madchen." The guard said.
T'Pol imagined that he said something like "good girl." T'Pol didn't like it, but it was better than being whipped.
To be continued.
T'Pol and the other new prisoners had been ordered to follow their guards to a small building across from their barracks. The building was brightly lit and T'Pol squinted from the unpleasant light. T'Pol walked in a line behind Vian and saw an officer hurriedly tattooing prisoners arms with numbers. The man was very young, probably around nineteen. He was sweating and his hands were tremulous as he tattooed the women's arms. This man didn't want to be here. He paused when he saw young Vian, who gingerly put her arm out, and shook his head. The officer rapidly tattooed the numbers on. Vian grimaced from the discomfort. T'Pol was next and she had no choice but to roll up her sleeve and allow the numbers to be etched onto her skin.
835014. T'Pol's new designation. T'Pol said the numbers over and over again in her head. 835014. 835014. It was memorized. She would remember it if the time came to give her name, or label.
T'Pol rolled her sleeve back down and followed Vian and the other women out the door they had come in. The sun was now rising higher and faster by the minute. The breeze started to grow some warmth to it and was pleasant for a little while.
The guards rounded them up in a line and looked each one over, assigning their jobs. The guard came to T'Pol and looked her up and down. He had a clipboard and made notes.
"How strong are you, Frau?" The officer's voice was monotone and bored.
"Strong enough."
The officer eyed her suspiciously and resisted an urge to smack her for her disrespectful response. But his job was not to hurt the fools; it was to assign them their work detail. The beatings would come when the woman tumbled over in fatigue and pain. If she cried out, the beatings would only become more severe. It was an efficient way to keep them all in line. Although, only after a short while, the woman would then become savage, and more drastic measures would be taken. Such as the gas chamber or Decimation, one of the, if not most, frightening ways to die. But this woman seemed surprisingly calm and motivated to live. That would change shortly. As a matter of fact, the officer was almost sure that everything about this woman would be swept away in a pool of blood and torture. She was nothing. She was number 835014 as she stated calmly and coolly. One number of many. Too many. Too many worthless souls.
"You say you are strong enough.then you shall work in the mines."
An officer stepped behind T'Pol and put a gun to her back. The guard proceeded to Vian. She stood as straight as she could, but her expression showed great fear and instability. The guard sighed. He didn't like his job too much. He really had better things to do than enlist these people to jobs that would only kill them in the future. Half of these women would be dead within twelve days. The children and elders were usually the ones do die first. All the guards here were vicious and unmerciful. But, serving in this war was his job and he did it whether he wanted to or not. The guard suddenly thought of his own daughter at home, warm in her bed and he knew that this girl had a father somewhere who worried about her with every moment of his imprisonment, and he immediately ordered the young girl to the kitchen to peel potatoes. She seemed somewhat relieved. So did the woman who relaxed her shoulders a bit.
T'Pol nodded to Vian and then allowed herself to be taken at gunpoint to the mine.
***
Commander Tucker really wanted to put his shovel down. But doing that a few minutes ago only earned him a punch in the face and a kick to his stomach. He didn't dare put his shovel down again. Blisters formed quickly on his hands as he thrust the shovel into the hard dirt.
Dig. Throw dirt to pile. Dig again.
It was very consecutive, the same thing over and over again. The sun had now risen to a much higher point, and the smoldering heat overwhelmed the encampment. Trip could tell even the guards, who did just about nothing, were uncomfortable in the heat.
As Trip dug, he thought about T'Pol's theory. How these people could adopt a language, customs, and just about an entire civilization and use it to turn against their own people. Trip thought about the German Shepherds too. How these reincarnated Nazis must have even sneaked onto Earth and stole some of the animals. And, apparently, weaponry as well. T'Pol's theory did make a lot of sense. During the 1940's, space travel and aliens wasn't exactly given that much thought. It was true that, literally, any vessel could've come right on over to Earth and taken on to this brutality. They copied so many things, right down to the swastikas patched on their arms. It was sick. This whole thing was just plain sick. And it hurt Tucker even more to realize that this really was their fault. It these aliens had never seen the torture that was displayed on Earth, this probably would've never happened. Or not have been so bad.
"Los! You're slowing down! Los! Do you want to die, du Feigling?"
Trip remembered the word well from his German class. His own teacher called him that once.
Mr. Keigaen. The German teacher from Hell. Trip could remember the conversation like it was yesterday.
"Mr. Tucker, I don't know how you've even managed to get this far in my class."
Mr. Keigaen squinted his eyes at Trip's paper. The old man grunted as he looked the test over.
"Hm, yes, most unsatisfactory. And I'm sure it's because of a certain 'distraction,' hm?"
Trip bit his lip which quivered every so slightly.
"Sir, I don't know what do say-"
"Obviously not! Almost every answer on this page is incorrect! I wouldn't trust you to have a conversation with a German mute!"
The insult had hurt, but it wasn't enough to make Trip angry. Right now, all that was important was that he might get a second chance to take the test. He was sure he'd do better.
"I doubt you'll do any better, Mr. Tucker. And to tell the truth, I'm not the least bit surprised. If you weren't so busy ogling the females in my class, you might actually have learned something!"
Now that hurt even more. He wasn't ogling anyone. Sure, he had a little crush on the one Fiona Dawson, but it wasn't as bad as Mr. Keigaen made it sound. And Trip wanted to make a point of this, or his reputation just might go to pot.
"Sir, I'd really like to make it clear that I don't 'ogle' anyone-"
"Oh, for goodness sakes, Mr. Tucker! You are an embarrassment to this class," Mr. Keigaen tossed the paper to his desk and continued to talk, "Did you know, that the Germans have a word just for the kind of people like you?"
Trip didn't say anything to this. He only listened.
"The word, is 'feigling,'" Trip tensed up from the sound of the word, "Do you know what that means, Mr. Tucker?"
"Yes, Sir, I do."
"Please, Mr. Tucker. You tell me, what does it mean?"
Trip put his hands behind his back and grit his teeth. "It means 'coward,' Sir."
"That's right, Mr. Tucker. That's exactly what it means, and that's exactly what you are. Now get out of my sight."
Tucker dug a little faster and harder as he reflected on that conversation. How it hurt when he walked out of the classroom and saw Fiona Dawson on the other side of the door. How sad her face was as she walked away despite Trip's protests. From then on, Trip hated that word. Hated its very existence in the universe. ***
At first, the mine work was pretty simple. Dig for the special mineral rock, put it in the coal car. But after a while, regardless of T'Pol's strength, the work became tiring. The weather wasn't so bad though. Vulcans liked the heat and were accustomed to it.
A guard was posted every couple of feet. They kept a watchful eye on everyone. T'Pol thought about the guard who had assigned them their jobs. How when he saw Vian, his complexion softened ever so slightly. Then giving her a safe and easy job like peeling potatoes. It was easy to see he wasn't exactly like the others. Not as ruthless.
Thinking about these things seemed to make T'Pol's job go by faster. But then, T'Pol felt the unmistakable sensation of being starved. T'Pol realized that she'd hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and she was becoming dizzy. T'Pol straightened her spine and eased the annoyance of the pain into a separate section of her mind so that she didn't feel it anymore. Besides, pain was only a messenger. It could be dealt with. Though the sub-commander doubted the captain, the chief engineer, or Vian were capable of performing meditation of this high level. T'Pol would work with Vian at the end of the day and try to teach her.
"Frau! No time for rest! Los!"
A guard stood behind her with a whip held ready in his hands. The man grinned as he slapped the whip onto his hand. T'Pol swallowed and took the pick in hands. Another guard watched her closely and waited to see where exactly she would swing her tool. T'Pol launched the pick into the rock.
"Gut Madchen." The guard said.
T'Pol imagined that he said something like "good girl." T'Pol didn't like it, but it was better than being whipped.
To be continued.