Softness of Doves

Spoiler! :

Hi! This is Entry 1 of Gretal ( my characters') autobiography. I haven't thought of a name yet. I wanted to write this historical novel in a totally different way: tell me if you like it. This is based on a true story of an elderly German friend, who escaped the NKVD and a POW camp. It means a lot to me to write about her life, and so I'd love your thoughts. BTW, if you haven't alread, check out my prologue to this story befor eyou read the actual thing. Link: topic81976.html. It's only short, and it is designed to help the reader get into the story a little. Enjoy the prologue and the 1st entry!

Entry I – February 16th (according to my calculations) 1949: -

This morning, we were greeted with sunlight; beautiful, rare rays from the elusive sun. The tent was burning mellow amber – a surreal spectacle. It was the normality to awake to the sight of a murky sky sweeping flaky white to the earth. The sudden appearance of the sun seemed rather miraculous: a gift from God. Our spirits soared.

Not one of us spoke the question upon our lips: was the hip-deep snow beginning to melt? We had been stationary for so long. A glimmer of hope flickered within me; we may’ve been one step closer to getting home. Hannah dared venture out of the tent. She yelled. We scrambled off our blankets and found ourselves up to our knees in slushy white. How joyous we were!

I’m sorry – you’re probably wondering who Hannah and these ‘others’ are. Allow me to explain. I share this makeshift home with my fellow escapees: Hannah, Petrus, Nikola and Justus.

Hannah is my older sister. She’s tall and thin, her face having aged beyond her years. The sag of her skin and the creases surrounding her clear grey eyes are hardly surprising: Hannah’s been through so much during the past few years.

My sister was three months pregnant when we were hauled into the back of the NKVD’s van.

I remember it like it was just yesterday. It was a warm day, hazy and heavy. The war had just finished. Hannah and I were loosed by the German army, and, with no money lining our pockets, we decided to try and elude the soviet forces lingering around our old neighbourhood and return home to gather possessions. It was evening when we made our move. We managed to get inside without a glitch. Unfortunately, I accidently smashed a wretched old glass, and alerted the Soviets to our position. The NKVD surrounded our old family home. We were dragged out with ruthless indignity.

I tried to tell the guards in my poor Russian that Hannah was pregnant, but my efforts were of no use. They didn’t understand a word, and, even if they did, they most likely didn’t give a damn.

They slung us into the rear of their beastly truck, where we were met with the sight of dozens of startled faces shielding their eyes from the sudden exposure to light. The force used to hurl Hannah into the truck forced her bastard baby from her womb. The stench of woman blood and placenta was wrenchingly overpowering. With absolutely no ventilation, the smell lingered for days. Some would wretch and curse under their breath; others covered their noses and kept silent. Most had the decency to withhold their complaints. Eventually, the pungent tang of urine and faeces took over.

They were all strong: the people we shared that stinking, humid truck with for several weeks. Most had been hardened by the things they had seen and heard. Their experiences had numbed their hearts.

The numbers of prisoners continued to multiply until the unrelenting Journey came to its conclusion.

Nikola was one of the last to be taken captive. I and few of the other women had done our best to stop Hannah’s bleeding and had tried to prevent infection, but we were by no means experts. Nikola was a trainee nurse, and a pure blessing when thrown into the hungry belly of the NKVD’s truck. She helped Hannah and restored her back to a measure of health. Nikola and I and Hannah formed a close bond of friendship. As fate had it, we were assigned to the same tin shack, along with another woman, a reserved, slightly sour-mannered widow, named Michaela.

Nikola is irritatingly beautiful. Her chestnut locks coil to form the most perfect, angelic curls, and her eyes are as glassy and glinting as dewdrops. It sickens me when I look at her. Not only is she pretty, she is also sensible, hard-working, and emotionally strong. We are the same age, but she is by far lovelier and cleverer than I.

Justus and Petrus are twin brothers, being nineteen and twenty-four respectively. In the camp, they and their elderly grandmother occupied the shack directly opposite ours. I keenly remember the day we befriended the Kaufmann family. It was the evening we arrived at the Camp. I’ll tell you this part of the story from the beginning, but not now. I’m working by the light of the dwindling flames of a log fire, and the others are desperate to stomp them out and get some sleep. I’d better be joining them. Until another day,

Gretal