Hello everyone...I'm working on a new novel, and have just written a prologue. I expect it will intrigue you, but I just want to know if it got you hooked enough. I don't want to write the whole thing If it's not captured my readers' interest. Oh, and, nitpicks would be appreciated. Thanks everyone!
To a future generation:
We call it ‘Erfrierung’ or, ‘frostbite’. It’s a misnomer. We laugh over its inappropriateness when we have the energy. You see, it’s not ‘frost’ that gnaws at our bones, ravages it with sores and blisters; leaves our extremities blue and stiff: it’s a flesh-searing, sub-zero Blizzard gusting in from Siberia.
Apologies: I suppose that wasn’t the most pleasant of introductions. I’m Gretal, and I’ve lived on this earth for twenty-one years. As far as appearances go, I can’t really remember what I look like. The last time I stared at myself in a mirror, I was seventeen. I recall the simplest details of my appearance: I had hip-length hair: blonde and wavy. It seemed a travesty when the NKVD chopped it all off. I kicked up such a fuss; felt so ashamed when I was thrown to the floor and a guard played his hands about my groin. I soon learned the benefits of submission. My eyes were – and still are - plain blue. A little weight used to hang about my hips. It soon disappeared.
Personality-wise, I’m still the same Gretal, only older and wiser. I had to mask my true character whilst under the burning eyes of the NKVD. Thankfully, I never fully adapted the pessimism I outwardly wore. I’m naturally vivacious and impetuous, and it was difficult to restrain myself, but I learned the values of doing so.
I’m a positive soul; my optimism, though, often irritates the others. I suppose that when your fellows feel so down, they expect a shoulder to cry on – or at least a listening ear – not an overly-enthusiastic optimist with a perky outlook telling them to see the bright side of life.
I know this is all a little abstract. In fact, I’m not quite sure why I’m writing this all down. Keeping my fingers moving with a pencil certainly helps boost circulation. I’ve taught myself to write with both hands, so each can feel the benefits of flexibility.
I received a decent education and focused on my studies. Writing has always been close to my heart: my ambition as a school-leaver was to become an authoress. Then the war began, I signed up for service, and my aspirations slipped further and further away.
I was desperate to record the happenings inside the Camp. The NKVD guards who kept us captive wanted the foul mistreatment kept secretive, within the gates, and so it was a risky business. After one attempt, I dared not take the same risk.
It was dusk, and an empty cigarette box had circulated around the camp, eventually to be deposited under my mattress. It was large, and my hand-writing was miniscule. I began writing, and got away with it, for about a week. The NKVD did a strip search and found it hidden within the lining of my woollen coat. My precious coat was shredded and I was given a beating.
Now, I’m free. Granted, I’m a fugitive, but I have sweet freedom of speech. I’ve got the opportunity to pen the horrific truth about the Camp, and nobody is going to stop me, not this time. I suppose this is a little autobiography: the story of Gretal Schroder.
The dark’s setting in now, and so I’m heading inside the shelter to get some rest. Until tomorrow,
- G
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