Softness of Doves

Assigned to our grouping was the young man was stood before me. He possessed somewhat girlish features: a slight nose, rounded lips, and an oval face.

It was chillingly cold and stung the calluses upon my palms.

We ploughed the concrete-like soil until our hands bled and sweat was gushing off our bodies.

The last hour, or maybe two, dragged on. I kept looking over for a nod or a signal from the guard to indicate that we could finish.

In a deep, sultry tone of voice, the Soviet guard growled: ‘Trans.’

Everything inside of me leapt.

My fellow team-mates and I separated, quietly wishing one another goodnight.

The night air was cold; the aura eerie, and so I ran back to the shack as fast as my blistered feet would take me.

"How old are you?" I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

A squeak emerged from his mouth, "Thirteen."

Heya,
This was really good... If that's the right word! I loved the title it drew me in. You need to work on you're grammar and punctuation before you post things it really takes away from the story but overall I thought it was pretty great. The amount of feeling that needs to go into a holocaust is a hell of a lot and you had some. I thought it was good!
Love,
Evenslilyx

Hi Amelia!

Side note before I begin: you accidentally posted this chapter twice, so I deleted the unliked chapter for you. ^_^

A filthy shovel was slung at my feet.

It thudded to the ground; sent a sharp clang rippling through the sodden earth.

‘Beest rayeh!’ balled a young Russian guard.

The irritatingly repetitive phrase allegedly meant “hurry up” in Russian. He seemingly lacked any sort of grasp of the German language.

I have decided that he shall be known as “Pretty-Boy”.

Assigned to our grouping was the young man stood before me.

It stung the calluses dressing my palms.

I could tell that the other women’s minds were troubled by the horrifying, sickening question plaguing my own.

Were we digging our own graves?

We ploughed the concrete soil until our hands blend and sweat was gushing off our bodies. It was a rather unnatural occurrence, considering that our extremities were numb; frozen, and our faces stung stiff with the slaps of bitter wind.

It was terrifyingly black when we flung our shovels to the ground and trudged exhaustedly to our shacks. We finished digging at eleven o’ clock; an unearthly time.

The last few hours of our labour dragged. Fortunately, Pretty-Boy felt sound asleep by half-past ten, and so we were able to slow our pace a little. The triumphant, simultaneous clang of our metal shovels woke him with a start. We tittered silently as he sprung from his spot, surrounded by stubbed-out cigarettes and a half-drunk bottle of vodka.

‘Move!’ he screamed. The pride of fulfilling his duty to stay awake was clearly in tatters.
His tone was aggressive. Our crooked backs snapped straight, and we obeyed at once, slowly backing away. He scrambled for his gun, and clutched it fiercely; protectively. Pretty-boy thrust the barrel forward. Our tired feet sprung back into action, and we sprinted away.

In the same split second, a hostile clash of metal and stone echoed through the tiny shack.

A petite, hooded figure was squatting – cowering – over our small, wooden table.

A puddle of rippling water had pooled in a dip in the concrete from where the tin cup had been knocked.

The person bundled within the cloak was a youth, who had clearly just wet himself.

I sighed deeply. I was embarrassed for the little mite.

The youth slowly turned his head. It was a boy.

His gaze was cold, piercing; epitomised a lack of innocence. His cheeks were sallow; cavernous.

The lad was, judging by the maturity of his features, clearly a teenager, and yet, going by his physique, appeared not a day older than seven or eight.

The cold fact-of-the-matter hit me hard, and alarm-bells began pounding in my skull. My empty stomach growled viciously.

The boy was starving to death. And so would we.

‘How old are you?’ I managed to spit out.