Here's the first part of a 'novel' I'm working on -
it's dedicated with affection (and in the hope that it won't offend) IM,
and to the memory of Makar,
to both of whom CruxForums owe so much.
Eighteen years hard labour! Eighteen years! I’ll be forty-five … no don’t even think about that, it’s the death sentence, a long, slow, freezing cold death …
The train-truck shudders and creaks its way across the endless tundra. I glance around in the dim light through the wooden slats that imprison us at the female bodies huddled together, silent, glazed, hopeless… one in the corner, pale, slim, no more than a kid …
Like I was when we were ‘liberated’. Eighteen years, that’s how long I’d lived then. Those last few days, bombs thudding, guns rattling, shells whistling past, planes droning over. Yet all we could think about was food, getting it wherever we could, scrapping mouldy potatoes, digging for roots, picking berries, guddling for tiny fish in the swamp, anything we could find. Mamma refused to eat, she made my sister and me have it, though we could see she was growing weaker by the day.
The Germans had pulled out, burning, destroying, smashing anything that could possibly be of use to the Red Army. We, in our battered little farmhouse, were stranded, out in a smouldering no-man’s land. Then the Russians came, tanks first, rattling past in a deafening roar, then truckloads of soldiers. We stood outside to watch, pale, disinterested. We’d seen the Germans – I was only thirteen when they arrived, spruce and polished in their dark uniforms, wretchedly ragged when they left. The Russians didn’t look much different, tired, dishevelled, but cocky with the scent of victory, some of them singing deep-throated tunes like we kept hearing now we’d started listening to Radio Moscow.
Borys, the crazy old pig-keeper, had gone on mumbling all through the war about how much better things would be under Communism, we wished he’d shut up, Mamma said he’d only get us all in trouble with the Gestapo. Now he was across the track, grinning, waving a tattered red curtain by way of a welcoming flag. But we girls had no hopes for heaven on earth, just enough food for mamma and us two was all we asked – and the sight of sweaty young soldiers, most of them no older than we were, was worth coming outside for. One truck passed close, the boys in it whistled, we blushed, waved back to them.
The Red Army moved on towards our little market town, we went inside for a supper of a handful of mushrooms. Borys staggered in with a bottle of village vodka he’d been hiding, he’d obviously already started celebrating. Mamma politely refused it, but her hollowed-out eyes lit up when he produced some strips of dried pig-skin, she begged him to take a few kopeks in payment, but he wouldn’t, “Everything’s common property now!” He lurched back to his hut, chanting a confused apology for The Internationale. We – even Mamma – chewed on the pig-skin like it was priceless pâté.
•••
We were woken by a loud lorry engine, shouting, hammering at the door. Mamma, still up, clearing the house in her anxious way, opened the door a crack and peeped out. “Devochki! Devochki!” men’s voices shouted – we recognised, “Dziewczynky” we’d say, “girls!” It’s us they’ve come for!
“Nie! Nie!” Mamma cried, trying to push the door shut, but a huge kick with a booted foot cracked it off its hinges, and in seconds eight burly men were in our kitchen, Nastusja and I in our nightshirts, clinging to each other outside the bedroom door.
One of the men, with chevrons on his lapel, a sergeant or something, was holding a whip, an old cart-whip. He’d have picked it up in a farmhouse, they’re common enough, not much use since all the cart-horses were turned into meat. He waved it unsteadily at us two, signalling us to come into the middle of the room – to be inspected.
In the light of our one oil-lamp, I could see their faces, ruddy and grinning, they’d obviously been drinking. I recognised them, the lads who’d whistled at us. They still excited my young breasts, but they looked threatening now.
Without warning, one of them lurched at me, grabbed at my hips, started hauling up my nightshirt. I cried out, made a feeble attempt to push him away, hearing mother shriek “Nie!” yet again – another man pushed her to the floor and held a pistol to her head. I knew I had to co-operate, lifted my arms – two or three others were groping at me now.
Suddenly Nastusja screamed, “leave her alone! Bastards!” and flung herself at them, her fists flailing. “No, Nastja!” I yelled, “Don’t! You’ll only….” But it was too late, they’d all turned on her, leaving me shaking as my nightdress slipped back down over my body. My sister had gone wild, she was a powerful young woman, could throw a punch like a boxer, and she was struggling, biting, kicking and twisting like a fury as seven tough men fought to subdue her.
But the sergeant wasn’t taking part. He was leaving it to his men, while he looked around our kitchen. I saw him smile cruelly when he picked up a tin tray. He crossed to the table, pulled out one of the wooden chairs, stamped with his boot through the straw seat, and placed the tin tray over the hole he’d made.
By now they’d just about got Nastja under control, two men gripping each arm, another pistol-whipping her across the face, his colleague using mamma’s rolling pin to crack her bare shins to try to stop her kicking. Mamma was kneeling, sobbing, her guard still holding his gun to her head.
The sergeant gave an instruction, they dragged my sister back to where he’d placed the chair and was holding it ready. They forced her to sit on it, tugged her arms behind it, one of them slipped quickly outside to their truck and returned with a hank of barbed wire and a heavy pair of Red Army issue wire cutters/pincers. As she squirmed and squealed, I thought of Borys’s pigs being bound for slaughter. They wound the wire tight around her bare wrists, twisted it even tighter with the pincers, bound her securely to the back of the chair, making doubly sure with further strands of wire around her upper arms.
Now the sergeant drew a knife, held it in front of Nastja’s face – she glared, swore at him, then yelped as he slashed it across the top of her nightshirt above her breasts, ripping it under the arms, tearing the shoulders. After that, it was an easy job for a soldier to pull it down and off her, along with the knickers she had on underneath. They tied another piece of wire tightly around her starveling’s waist, I could see the barbs piercing her white, hollow abdomen, dark blood oozing. While two were doing this, her legs were forced apart by the others, her feet pulled back and wired to the crossbar between the chair-legs, so she was fixed, naked, exposed.
Her eyes were blazing, as if challenging them to do their worst. The sergeant picked up his whip again, stood feet wide apart, much steadier now than when he’d first invaded us, a look of concentrated hatred on his face. Suddenly, he raised his arm and swung a vicious lash right across her breasts, she squealed, tossed her black hair back, the soldiers cheered.
She soon recovered her composure, swore at him again in Polish. Again he lashed her, and again, catching her face so her lip started bleeding, cutting weals across her collarbone, upper arms, ribs, raising red bruises on her breasts.
Still she was defiant. It was a contest between my sister’s naked, defenceless defiance and ruthless determination to break her. I was horrified, terrified, yet feeling excited, eager to cheer her on – but I knew better than to shout, that gun by mamma’s head urged restraint – I was even wishing I could be bound to a chair alongside her.
But now the sergeant had another tactic. He spoke quietly to one of the men, who took the oil-lamp from the table and brought it towards the chair. I saw Nastusja shrink, heard mamma quietly croak another “Nie!”, shuddered as I realised what was coming.
Two soldiers held the chair and Nastja’s shoulders in a tight grip as their colleague positioned the lamp under the chair, under the tin tray. Instructed by the sergeant, they adjusted the wick so the light was quite low, and the room was in shadowy darkness except for the terrible brightness under my sister’s bare bottom.
At first she just panted, wiggled slightly, testing how far she could move – not much! Soon, her twisting became more vigorous, her legs and hips thrusting against the tight-twisted wires tearing at her skin, her upper body squirming so her bruised breasts tossed in the glimmering twilight, her raven head swung back and forth. The kitchen filled with a sickly scent of cooking flesh, the taste of the dried pig-skin refluxed in my mouth. She was gasping, trying not to scream, but her resistance was breaking.
Suddenly she gave out a deafening shriek, began hurling her body furiously, the men had to grab hard at the chair to prevent it from tipping. The sergeant started whipping her again, harder and harder the louder she screamed. “Go on cunt, yell for mercy!” he shouted. Still she responded with Polish swear-words, more and more vicious grew his lashes…
Her head suddenly dropped forward, “Stop! Stop, please stop….” She was sobbing. Her tormentor just laughed. “That’s more like it, Polish slut … beg for mercy, beg the Red Army to fuck you to death, beg for anything but this….”
It seemed endless, the wait, Nastja was jerking, gasping, yelping, yet still not speaking the words they wanted to hear. She seemed delirious, her eyes were glazing over. And my whole body seemed to be sharing her struggle, my heart pounding, wild excitement was racing through me. Suddenly, out of the silent darkness of the corner of the kitchen, I heard my own voice so loud it echoed in the roof-space, “Stop!!! Leave her, please let her go …. Do it to me!!!”
it's dedicated with affection (and in the hope that it won't offend) IM,
and to the memory of Makar,
to both of whom CruxForums owe so much.
Beauty and the Russian Beast
Eighteen years hard labour! Eighteen years! I’ll be forty-five … no don’t even think about that, it’s the death sentence, a long, slow, freezing cold death …
The train-truck shudders and creaks its way across the endless tundra. I glance around in the dim light through the wooden slats that imprison us at the female bodies huddled together, silent, glazed, hopeless… one in the corner, pale, slim, no more than a kid …
Like I was when we were ‘liberated’. Eighteen years, that’s how long I’d lived then. Those last few days, bombs thudding, guns rattling, shells whistling past, planes droning over. Yet all we could think about was food, getting it wherever we could, scrapping mouldy potatoes, digging for roots, picking berries, guddling for tiny fish in the swamp, anything we could find. Mamma refused to eat, she made my sister and me have it, though we could see she was growing weaker by the day.
The Germans had pulled out, burning, destroying, smashing anything that could possibly be of use to the Red Army. We, in our battered little farmhouse, were stranded, out in a smouldering no-man’s land. Then the Russians came, tanks first, rattling past in a deafening roar, then truckloads of soldiers. We stood outside to watch, pale, disinterested. We’d seen the Germans – I was only thirteen when they arrived, spruce and polished in their dark uniforms, wretchedly ragged when they left. The Russians didn’t look much different, tired, dishevelled, but cocky with the scent of victory, some of them singing deep-throated tunes like we kept hearing now we’d started listening to Radio Moscow.
Borys, the crazy old pig-keeper, had gone on mumbling all through the war about how much better things would be under Communism, we wished he’d shut up, Mamma said he’d only get us all in trouble with the Gestapo. Now he was across the track, grinning, waving a tattered red curtain by way of a welcoming flag. But we girls had no hopes for heaven on earth, just enough food for mamma and us two was all we asked – and the sight of sweaty young soldiers, most of them no older than we were, was worth coming outside for. One truck passed close, the boys in it whistled, we blushed, waved back to them.
The Red Army moved on towards our little market town, we went inside for a supper of a handful of mushrooms. Borys staggered in with a bottle of village vodka he’d been hiding, he’d obviously already started celebrating. Mamma politely refused it, but her hollowed-out eyes lit up when he produced some strips of dried pig-skin, she begged him to take a few kopeks in payment, but he wouldn’t, “Everything’s common property now!” He lurched back to his hut, chanting a confused apology for The Internationale. We – even Mamma – chewed on the pig-skin like it was priceless pâté.
•••
We were woken by a loud lorry engine, shouting, hammering at the door. Mamma, still up, clearing the house in her anxious way, opened the door a crack and peeped out. “Devochki! Devochki!” men’s voices shouted – we recognised, “Dziewczynky” we’d say, “girls!” It’s us they’ve come for!
“Nie! Nie!” Mamma cried, trying to push the door shut, but a huge kick with a booted foot cracked it off its hinges, and in seconds eight burly men were in our kitchen, Nastusja and I in our nightshirts, clinging to each other outside the bedroom door.
One of the men, with chevrons on his lapel, a sergeant or something, was holding a whip, an old cart-whip. He’d have picked it up in a farmhouse, they’re common enough, not much use since all the cart-horses were turned into meat. He waved it unsteadily at us two, signalling us to come into the middle of the room – to be inspected.
In the light of our one oil-lamp, I could see their faces, ruddy and grinning, they’d obviously been drinking. I recognised them, the lads who’d whistled at us. They still excited my young breasts, but they looked threatening now.
Without warning, one of them lurched at me, grabbed at my hips, started hauling up my nightshirt. I cried out, made a feeble attempt to push him away, hearing mother shriek “Nie!” yet again – another man pushed her to the floor and held a pistol to her head. I knew I had to co-operate, lifted my arms – two or three others were groping at me now.
Suddenly Nastusja screamed, “leave her alone! Bastards!” and flung herself at them, her fists flailing. “No, Nastja!” I yelled, “Don’t! You’ll only….” But it was too late, they’d all turned on her, leaving me shaking as my nightdress slipped back down over my body. My sister had gone wild, she was a powerful young woman, could throw a punch like a boxer, and she was struggling, biting, kicking and twisting like a fury as seven tough men fought to subdue her.
But the sergeant wasn’t taking part. He was leaving it to his men, while he looked around our kitchen. I saw him smile cruelly when he picked up a tin tray. He crossed to the table, pulled out one of the wooden chairs, stamped with his boot through the straw seat, and placed the tin tray over the hole he’d made.
By now they’d just about got Nastja under control, two men gripping each arm, another pistol-whipping her across the face, his colleague using mamma’s rolling pin to crack her bare shins to try to stop her kicking. Mamma was kneeling, sobbing, her guard still holding his gun to her head.
The sergeant gave an instruction, they dragged my sister back to where he’d placed the chair and was holding it ready. They forced her to sit on it, tugged her arms behind it, one of them slipped quickly outside to their truck and returned with a hank of barbed wire and a heavy pair of Red Army issue wire cutters/pincers. As she squirmed and squealed, I thought of Borys’s pigs being bound for slaughter. They wound the wire tight around her bare wrists, twisted it even tighter with the pincers, bound her securely to the back of the chair, making doubly sure with further strands of wire around her upper arms.
Now the sergeant drew a knife, held it in front of Nastja’s face – she glared, swore at him, then yelped as he slashed it across the top of her nightshirt above her breasts, ripping it under the arms, tearing the shoulders. After that, it was an easy job for a soldier to pull it down and off her, along with the knickers she had on underneath. They tied another piece of wire tightly around her starveling’s waist, I could see the barbs piercing her white, hollow abdomen, dark blood oozing. While two were doing this, her legs were forced apart by the others, her feet pulled back and wired to the crossbar between the chair-legs, so she was fixed, naked, exposed.
Her eyes were blazing, as if challenging them to do their worst. The sergeant picked up his whip again, stood feet wide apart, much steadier now than when he’d first invaded us, a look of concentrated hatred on his face. Suddenly, he raised his arm and swung a vicious lash right across her breasts, she squealed, tossed her black hair back, the soldiers cheered.
She soon recovered her composure, swore at him again in Polish. Again he lashed her, and again, catching her face so her lip started bleeding, cutting weals across her collarbone, upper arms, ribs, raising red bruises on her breasts.
Still she was defiant. It was a contest between my sister’s naked, defenceless defiance and ruthless determination to break her. I was horrified, terrified, yet feeling excited, eager to cheer her on – but I knew better than to shout, that gun by mamma’s head urged restraint – I was even wishing I could be bound to a chair alongside her.
But now the sergeant had another tactic. He spoke quietly to one of the men, who took the oil-lamp from the table and brought it towards the chair. I saw Nastusja shrink, heard mamma quietly croak another “Nie!”, shuddered as I realised what was coming.
Two soldiers held the chair and Nastja’s shoulders in a tight grip as their colleague positioned the lamp under the chair, under the tin tray. Instructed by the sergeant, they adjusted the wick so the light was quite low, and the room was in shadowy darkness except for the terrible brightness under my sister’s bare bottom.
At first she just panted, wiggled slightly, testing how far she could move – not much! Soon, her twisting became more vigorous, her legs and hips thrusting against the tight-twisted wires tearing at her skin, her upper body squirming so her bruised breasts tossed in the glimmering twilight, her raven head swung back and forth. The kitchen filled with a sickly scent of cooking flesh, the taste of the dried pig-skin refluxed in my mouth. She was gasping, trying not to scream, but her resistance was breaking.
Suddenly she gave out a deafening shriek, began hurling her body furiously, the men had to grab hard at the chair to prevent it from tipping. The sergeant started whipping her again, harder and harder the louder she screamed. “Go on cunt, yell for mercy!” he shouted. Still she responded with Polish swear-words, more and more vicious grew his lashes…
Her head suddenly dropped forward, “Stop! Stop, please stop….” She was sobbing. Her tormentor just laughed. “That’s more like it, Polish slut … beg for mercy, beg the Red Army to fuck you to death, beg for anything but this….”
It seemed endless, the wait, Nastja was jerking, gasping, yelping, yet still not speaking the words they wanted to hear. She seemed delirious, her eyes were glazing over. And my whole body seemed to be sharing her struggle, my heart pounding, wild excitement was racing through me. Suddenly, out of the silent darkness of the corner of the kitchen, I heard my own voice so loud it echoed in the roof-space, “Stop!!! Leave her, please let her go …. Do it to me!!!”
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. This was so gut wrenching to read and what a cliff hangar! Truly great writing Eulalia! Can't wait for the next part! (why do I say that so much on this site?
)
