Swimming Against the Kolyma River

This has been edited extensively for anyone who is interested!

Kanasta, you sit down and read. You have no right to go bad-mouthing other writers, not when we're supposed to be helping them. Some people think she's well enough and although I respect your opinion you should not be coming out with it so openly. It is rude and it hurts the writer. Sure, you can say this in a review but only if you've actually reviewed! Leaving a comment like this without pairing it with remarks to help them (which is what this site is, after all, about) is just disrespectful so please at least try to help the writer next time.

*Ahem*
I believe Twixt was trying to... Describe his view on you as an author more than even focusing on the single story in particular. It's sutle, but can be taken the wrong way easily.

- - -

The camps weren't called Kolyma, they were the Sevvostlag (northern camps), they were just along the Kolyma River.

The reason he speaks out of voice is that this is kind of a reflection on his life. Throughout the rest of the story, there is more reflection and deeper thought than action. So he really doesn't sound like a teenager, especially with his vocabulary. Also, in my opinion, being thrust into a situation like that really matures people.

These GULAG labor camps are not the same as Auschwitz, the Jew Death Camp. There, they just annhilated the Jews. GULAG camps were designed to just work the hell out of the people, not to really kill them. So, with that, I'm going to defend the fact that they were not as "bad" as German death camps.

And as for Pavel's history, the reader does not really find out the whole deal. Over the course of the story, you find out that he has lived in such camps for most of his life. Like, since he was a baby. He was in first a Mamki camp and then a Maloteki camp before being carted away to the Dalstoy construction project along the Kolyma river. He is a Kulak, or a farmer of whom was deemed an "enemy of the revolution." His mother and father are probably dead, so he knows nothing of who he is. He does not even know his age or his last name.

As you know, Stalin dies in March of 1953, and the amount of camps in Siberia go down alot. Most of them are dissolved by around 1958. Basically, the amount of funding was so bad that the guards ended up just sort of leaving, because they weren't being paid and there was no food (?)

I will for sure work on the things you mentioned about the weaknesses of his character I intend to talk to some of my history teachers to get my facts straight on the GULAG, although I have already talked to my mother, who is Russian.

Thanks so much

Hi,

Everyone knows Auschwitz. Everyone. But one of the biggest ironies in history (and this is solely my personal opinion) is that the camp was liberated by - the Red Army. The subsequent downfall of Hitler somehow managed to legitimize Communism. Today is all about how evil Hitler was, the Nazi camps, etc. (Although the EU did recently pass sthing on Stalin?)

Everyone knows Auschwitz. But who knows about Kolyma?

Soviet camps were much worse. Did you know that many prisoners of war, imprisoned by Hitler during the war and to be returned to Russia, chose death instead of home? And if not, they were still put into Gulags if they were Russian. If they happened not to be, they were simply shot. That was 1945.

Your story is 1952. And that is the time of the biggest number of prisoners in Kolyma. And the conditions in this camp improved only slightly - very slightly - from World War II.

_


Writing about camps and the people in them is very difficult. It's not a torture scene in a fantasy kingdom of a favorite hero, which you can write unconvincing and hurt no one. This is history. This is real. This happened. And it reads like fantasy because to us, born agfter the war, it's simply unconcievable that such things could have even happened.

Some of those people are still alive. Others are dead, but their children are alive. Some wrote memoirs. To write a fictional piece about WWII camps is a terrible, terrible undertaking, both from the point of view of character voice and authentic backgorund.

I asked if people knew about Kolyma... M e, I know very little and I admit that. But when someone, anyone says Kolyma, I think: gold mines and so many people dead. The Arctic circle. Very short life-spans. Civilians didn't live there - Kolyma was uninhabitable, really, and for that reason (and obviously apart from the part of it being a work camp...) needed a constant supply of people.

The conditions in such camps were appalling by definition. But this is - arctic! I don't know where the MC was before, but I think this should be remarked upon. If he was a bit down south, the temperature change should be more emphasized?

Shoes. He speaks of them so - casually. He takes them for granted. How is that possible? We today can take shoes for granted. Sure. But can he?

Right now we have a normal camp descirption. Fine. Again, I don't know much about Kolyma - but that Arctic makes it different. Doesn't it? To those clothes, in the least. The time he spent at the previous camp, during the transport... Don't take those things for granted.

quote:
But every night it was as teeth-rattling as ever.
I defy that statement.

quote:
Some of them did not even evacuate the bunker; they lay in the piss-sodden floor, decaying into the wood.
This seems to work. It's a good description. Kay. But I don't feel that it's - Kolyma.

There were camps and there were worse camps. Kolyma was deadly.

_

Random notes that I made even though I wasn't supposed to - you already have the nitpicks done.

quote:
The door to the bunker eventually opened and revealed, as I had suspected, another world of snow
Scrap the interference. It's like a tail between the head and abdomen.

quote:
the world was worse, if that is possible to comprehend.
Terrible ending of a perfectly nice sentence. Why is that there? It's like - a rhetoric statement, so to say. Bleh.

quote:
And so he is left free of all worry, free to contemplate the world.
Eh - "free to contemplate the world" wouldn't, in his case, equal those horrors?

_

Pavel.

He's a teenager, so by definiton barely more than a child, really - and I have trouble believing his age. That first paragraph - which I really like, yes; great opening paragraph (and yeah, I have a problem with hyphens) - but are those really the thoughts of a teenager in a camp? Somewhere the word "laboriously" was used. It really stood out, in a negative way. I don't know what to think of this. Yes, he could be a son of an inteligentsia family, sure, but still - I just don't know.

The simplest solution would be to just change his age... That he's a teenager does not make him a sympathetic by default character.

What is his background (and did just anyoen end up in Kolyma? I don't know)? He's a teenager in Kolyma, ok. He was somewhere before, the reader does not know where. (Would it be different from Kolyma?).

The cool jaded attitude comes at a price. Who were his parents? Workers (his wording, thinking - big problem)? Peasants? Inteligentsia, maybe? Members of the Party? How long was he in a camp? That background is, I think, very much needed. Pavel needs to become more realistic in terms of history.

And this time that he is constantly blabbering about (so many time references - annoying). He does not have it, not in Kolyma. And the perky last paragraph was horrible in these circumstances.

_

Lena, what can I say? The title of this piece is fantastic. It's catchy, memorable, and has a meaning. The writing itself is of very good quality, and because of that alone may have out of YWS prospects. The problems are character voice and the portrayal of the camp - focus on those, I think.

Write on. I'd truly like to see a continuation of this.


Esme

Hay Lena! Sorry it took a while, but here's Aushy, here upon request. ^.^

This'll be the plot I'm following for your review:

I. Review
---A. Nitpicks
---B. Critique
II. Questions You Asked on Piece
---A. Should I continue writing this?
---B. What do you think Pavel's character is like?

And here I go...
Nitpicks

If i were capable of looking out into the world,

The ground in this land will be drenched with blood until the end of time.

When the guard comes to me I handed him my papers quickly

Crimson blood trickleed into the snow around the boy.

"Nikolai Lenevski!" He yelled, shoving the papers into his own pocket.

Wed lined up, side by side, facing the guard men, our backs held as straight as possible.

With everyone commenting on the beauty of your opening paragraph (with which I agree), I just wanted to clarify by "passive voice" I mean the grammatical use of "is", "were", "to be", etc. I think every verb in that paragraph is a form of "to be", and it's a pity to weaken such an otherwise great paragraph with the passive voice ("to be" being universally acknowledged, especially by English teachers, as the worst verb known to mankind). Drilled as I am by these English teachers into eliminating all forms of passive voice from my essays (a habit I immediately forsake when informally writing), I know that the use of basically any other verb makes for a much stronger effect.

Haha, ironic that the sentence I liked contained a typo. I liked the snow because I felt it meant like that winter would metaphorically never end here. I still like blood, though, and still think it's powerful.

Also, the Holocaust was from 1939-1945 (arguably starting earlier, in the 30s), but I think someone already mentioned that. I thought perhaps you meant to type 1942, as then it could've been part of the Holocaust. Northern Siberia is an interesting twist though, cool because not many people write about that; yeah some Soviet - related thing was my next guess. Good job again.

Hey there, here I am for a review!

Lena.Wooldridge wrote:When a man is immersed in complete and utter darkness it is the time in which he can see the inside of himself the best. In shadow, a man is not required to make any effort to persist in keeping his eyes open. If he were to open his eyes there would be nothing to see. And so he is left free of all worry, free to contemplate the world. It is better to see nothing at all than to see all the horrors of the world. This whole paragraph was beautiful. You have such a way with words; I envy you.
As was the case in the small bunker I was riding in. There were no windows, not even a crack to peer out of. If i were capable of looking out into the world, there would be nothing to see except an endless tundra, stretching beyond what the eye can see. And inside the bunker, the world was worse, if that is possible to comprehend. Although it was too dark to see, I could hear the moaning of twenty other boys, griping about their own destitution, so weak that the only sound they could emit was a groan. An oder of human waste and sweat infiltrated the air and, as it rolled down my throat in suffocating clumps, I resisted the urge to gag. The wooden floor was saturated with piss. To every side of me I could feel the shaking, thin bodies.
I was glad that it was dark.
Days meant nothing to me. Time in general nearly did not exist. It was a mere idea, an illusion. Yet I wanted time to pass. I wanted to live out this laborious life. There was no hope for escape and I never even considered it anymore. I considered death instead and half of me wished for it to come swiftly. The other half of me was more enlightened. I understood that once a man dies he loses the ability to change the way things are. My life was futile, and yet I searched for a purpose in it all. Perhaps, one day, if I were to live, I would do something of importance. But it was in the future; This wording sounds wrong to me; I get the gist of what you're saying, but it just doesn't work. on that day I was in a bunker traveling at a snail's pace across the plains of infinite bitter cold.
The door to the bunker eventually opened and revealed, as I had suspected, another world of snow. I shivered in my flimsy grey coat, pulling the collar up on my neck. In the distance I could see the barracks, and the guard posts, and the hundreds of gravel pits, all surrounded by a twenty-foot wire fence.
Some of the other boys clambered out of the bunker. Many of those boys fell into the snow, exhausted, and never stood up again. Some of them did not even evacuate the bunker; they lay in the piss-sodden floor, decaying into the wood. <-- excellent description here, probably my favorite line. I followed the men slowly so as not to lose all of my energy with the initial jump. Outside of the bunker, a tall, mustache-clad man in uniform bellowed for us to line up. It was an exercise we were all familiar with. Wed lined up, side by side, facing the guard men, our backs held as straight as possible.
Time passed and I paid no attention to it. I only cared that my back stayed straight and that I stood at attention properly. Next to me, a boy keeled over headfirst into the snow. A guard leaned over and removed the boy's papers from his coat pocket.
"Nikolai Lenevski!" Hhe yelled, shoving the papers into his own pocket.
Another guard was holding a board and a pen. He wrote on some paper, and then nodded his head to the other guard, who stood up and shot the boy in the back. The sound resonated across the plain, but it is was a sound that no longer meant anything to me. After one has heard a gunshot a thousand times, it no longer makes him jump. Crimson blood trickleed into the snow around the boy. The ground in this land will be drenched with blood until the end of time.
When the guard comes came; you've been narrating this in past tense, stick with it. to me I handed him my papers quickly, looking at the snow instead of his face. He ushered me towards the right side of the snow-covered field, where I stood at attention with another group of boys. By the time we were shepherded to the barracks, fifteen other boys had been shot. And numerous ones were either already dead or were left to die inside of the bunkers on the train.
The barracks themselves were similar to the ones at the place I resided at before the trip in the bunker. They smelled foul, nearly as foul as the bunker, You used this word a lot. and were even more cold. Stark winds blew through the building, scraping against our faces. All the other boys had red, wind burned faces. I assumed that I did as well. But here, in the new place, there are actual men, not boys. Never before had I slept in the same house as men. They possessed beards which shielded their faces from the winds of the North. They were also taller than I, and their shoulders were broader.
The beds had a single thin, worn sheet. I wrapped myself in it. The cold was unbearable. One would think that after having spent a whole lifetime in the cold I would have been relatively used to it. But every night it was as teeth-rattling as ever. I always slept in my boots to prevent my feet from freezing over.
The winds of the world rushed around me and I did nothing but lay in my cot and sleeping, hoping for tomorrow. The next day would bring some sunlight, which meant warmth. Tomorrow was always a fresh start. Tomorrow was all I had to live for.

Hey there Lena, here for the review. Okay, my suggestions/comments are in blue italics.

Lena.Wooldridge wrote:

When a man is immersed in complete and utter darkness it is the time in which he can see the inside of himself the best. Good, this is a thought provoking start which means it's engaging, which is always a plus, plus, plus. In shadow, a man is not required to make any effort to persist in keeping his eyes open. Looking at this line, you may be better off ending your opening line with a semi-colon so it flows into this one better. If he were to open his eyes there would be nothing to see, and so he is left free of all worry, free to contemplate the world. It is better to see nothing at all than to see all the horrors of the world. Good first paragraph. It's well structured and doesn't come across as an info-dump.
[[[As was the case]]] - (seems a little too formal) in the small bunker I was riding in. There were no windows, not even a crack to peer out of. If I were capable of looking out into the world, I like the repeated used of "if" to the extent that it keeps me thinking, but be careful not to overuse it there would be nothing to see except an endless tundra good vocabulary, stretching beyond what the eye can see. And inside the bunker, the world was worse, if that is possible to comprehend. I like that line. The formality fits better here. Although it was too dark to see, I could hear the moaning of twenty other boys, griping about their own destitution, so weak that the only sound they could emit was a groan the ending to this sentence isn't powerful enough. I look for the punch factor with lines like this and it isn't really there.. An oder odour of human waste and sweat infiltrated the air and, as it rolled down my throat in suffocating clumps, I resisted the urge to gag. That's brilliant. This paints the image of what's going on and puts it through the feelings of the MC. That's the kind of writing I enjoy.The wooden floor was saturated with piss. The word, "piss", sounds a little comical and I'm not sure that's what you're trying to show me. To every side of me I could feel the shaking, thin bodies. Excellent atmosphere development.
I was glad that it was dark. Good, I like the character here. I shows a subtle personality.
Days meant nothing to me. Time in general nearly did not exist. I like this, the feeling of being inside the character's thoughts is marvelous. It was a mere idea, an illusion. Unusually philosophical(sp?) here! But hey, it works. Yet I wanted time to pass. Good personality again. I wanted to live out this laborious life. Repetition of "I wanted" is good because it's showing me distress, a good portrayal of the atmosphere. There was no hope for escape and I never even considered it anymore; I considered death instead and half of me wished for it to come swiftly. That's a good sentence because it displays that familiar character trait that a lot of people go through. The other half of me was more enlightened. I like the halving of the personality. Generates more mystery about the character, which I love. I understood that once a man dies he loses the ability to change the way things are. My life was futile, and yet I searched for a purpose in it all. That's excellent. I love your character so far. The feelings and thoughts manipulate me into thinking the same, so I'm honestly enticed. Perhaps, one day, if I were to live, I would do something of importance. But it was in the future; on that day I was in a bunker traveling at a snail's pace across the plains of an infinite bitter cold. Just a suggestion but I prefer the sentence fluency with "an" in there.
The door to the bunker eventually opened and revealed, as I had suspected, another world of snow. I like how you've shown it through the character's eyes instead of just telling us. I shivered in my flimsy grey coat, pulling the collar up on my neck. Mild sense of appearance, but little. Keep it that way and just add fragments now and again, it keeps the reader drawn. In the distance I could see the barracks, and the guard posts, and the hundreds of gravel pits, all surrounded by a twenty-foot wire fence. Interesting use of scale, it kind of makes you think but keeps it vivid. I like it.
Some of the other boys clambered out of the bunker. Many of those boys fell into the snow, exhausted, and never stood up again. The drawn back pov of narration from your character makes the feeling have more impact, but it's also good to have your character in the moment as well, with the boys when they fall or something, you know? Some of them did not even evacuate the bunker; they lay in the piss-sodden floor, decaying into the wood. That time it worked okay, because it sounded bitter, which is an interesting character jump. I followed the men slowly [[[so as not to lose all of my energy with the initial jump]]] - a little confusing here. Outside of the bunker, a tall, mustache-clad man in uniform bellowed (love it) for us to line up. It was an exercise we were all familiar with. We'd lined up, side by side, facing the guard men, our backs held as straight as possible. Here you could say something unusual about the way the other boys faces looked. For example, "The bewildering expressions of some boys seemed to desire a crumb of hope, whilst some had their faces painted with scarce, timid expressions." You know? (Wasn't a brilliant example, but you get the idea.)
Time passed and I paid no attention to it. I only cared that my back stayed straight and that I stood at attention properly. I like the character again. It shows strength and determination, but also an unwillingness. It's very well devised. Next to me, a boy keeled over headfirst into the snow. A guard leaned over and removed the boy's papers from his coat pocket. Just a heads up: Plot development wise so far, it's been slow crawled. But that's good. You've allowed character development and atmosphere building, so we're succumbed into your story line that way. It's at this point though that the reader will be looking for some movement in the story.
"Nikolai Lenevski!" He yelled, shoving the papers into his own pocket. I like the introduction of the officer through dialogue, it lets the reader conjure up their own judgements of character.
Another guard was holding a board and a pen. He wrote on some paper, and then nodded his head to the other guard, who stood up and shot the boy in the back. Emotions good and storyline is captivating. A hatred could be sparked, but because we know nothing of the boys, its more of a mild sympathy. The sound resonated (love that word) across the plain, but it is a sound that no longer meant anything to me. Brilliant use of your character again. It shows an implicit story behind them, an 'assumed trail of events' that leads up to this point. After one has heard a gunshot a thousand times, it no longer makes him jump. <- I think you can remove that line though... Crimson blood trickleed into the snow around the boy Strong imagery. The ground in this land will would be drenched with blood until the end of time. I like the ending to this paragraph, it makes for a strong image and reference.
When the guard comes to me I handed him my papers quickly, looking at the snow instead of his face. That's where the timid expressions could come in from earlier, it would work well. He ushered me towards the right side of the snow-covered field, where I stood at attention with another group of boys. By the time we shepherded - that's a word that shows it in just the right way for this type of atmosphere to the barracks, fifteen other boys had been shot. The bluntness of that line is slightly obscure but has a carried impact that fuels the hatred towards these mysterious uniformed guards.numerous ones were either already dead or were left to die inside of the bunkers on the train. Implied background of the setting is good here.
The barracks themselves were similar to the ones at the place I resided at before the trip in the bunker. They smelled foul, nearly as foul as the bunker, and were even more colder. Stark winds blew through the building, nice imagery scraping against our faces. Interesting use of "scrape" with wind... All the other boys had red, wind burned faces. I assumed that I did as well. That's an interesting, but somewhat annoying line. Somehow I feel that it's out of place. The "red, wind burned faces." should end there, the assumption doesn't really need mentioning. But here, in the new place, there are were actual men, not boys. Never before had I slept in the same house as men. Interesting character background. They possessed bore beards, which shielded their faces from the winds of the North. They were also taller than I, and their shoulders were broader. Good showing of who the men look like without explaining it to us as if it were some kind of history book. I like it.
The beds had a single thin, worn sheet. I wrapped myself in it. The cold was unbearable. There's a lot of character jumps that create an unusuality to the character and as much as I love that and think it's excellent, it could be muddled up with a notion that you're confused about character personality. One would think that after having spent a whole lifetime in the could cold I would have been relatively used to it. But every night it was as teeth-rattling as ever. I always slept in my boots to prevent my feet from freezing over. This is getting a little more "What I did" and rushed. I'm picking up on simple typo's and I think the description and movement of plot and character is less-so here than in the rest of the story. This gives me an impression that this paragraph was a little rushed.
The winds of the world rushed around me and I did nothing but lay in my cot and sleeping, hoping for tomorrow. The next day would bring some sunlight, which meant warmth. Tomorrow was always a fresh start. Tomorrow was all I had to live for. Very good ending.

Engaging narrative, good, varied description and brilliant character traits and development. Just clear up some of the things I mentioned.

Make it into a story? Yes. Keep writing for this, I want to know more. Try and bang some originality in the plot though so we don't end up with a reinactment of a holocaust story line. Something different is always enticing to read.

Wow, that's embarrassing. 1932 is like the very begging of the whole thing. Thanks

*Ended in 1945, because that's when the Red Army reached the Eastern deathcamps and stopped the gassing of Jews.

This takes place in Northern Siberia in 1952 along the Kolyma river. The Holocaust ended in 1945 So this is obviously quite a few years after WWII.

That paragraph you mentioned was a typo, should say: "The ground in this land will be drenched with blood until the end of time." Ughhh. I think its better this way though.

Thanks, I'll take a look at the opener. I try to make them as powerful as possible.

I really liked this; you have a talent for creating a scene and drawing a reader in. I only have a few comments. First of all, is this about the Holocaust or not? I would've assumed it was, with the picture and the story itself, but you said 1952? Was that a typo, or is this about something else? Regarding that, you do create a powerful tone, but with stories concerning settings of this magnitude, usually the mood is even more intense. Sorry, I can't really pinpoint what exactly would make yours more intense, though - but I have a feeling it will build as your story continues, considering this is only the beginning.

I respectfully disagree with the other reviewer concerning this sentence: "The ground in this land will be drenched with snow until the end of time." That was probably my favorite line, very powerful. It brilliantly captures the hopelessness and desperation.

Also, last thing, I found your opening paragraph to be weak. Great content, themes, and occasional phrasing - but drowned in a continually passive voice.

All in all, wonderful job.

Lena.Wooldridge wrote:

This is the first part of a short-ish story I am writing. Please tell me if I should consider continuing this and finishing it. Thanks a lot

NOTE: The main character is a teenage boy named Pavel. It'd be nice if you were able to tell me what you thought of Pavel's character just from reading this (like if you could find any character trait sort of things)
This is set in about 1952.



When a man is immersed in complete and utter darkness it is the time in which he can see the inside of himself the best. In shadow, a man is not required to make any effort to persist in keeping his eyes open. If he were to open his eyes there would be nothing to see. And so he is left free of all worry, free to contemplate the world. It is better to see nothing at all than to see all the horrors of the world. < (this is a very good start to a story! I applaude you )
As was the case in the small bunker I was riding in. There were no windows, not even a crack to peer out of. If I were < (was?) capable of looking out into the world, there would be nothing to see except an endless tundra, stretching beyond what the eye can see. And inside the bunker, the world was worse, if that is possible to comprehend. Although it was too dark to see, I could hear the moaning of twenty other men, griping about their own destitution, so weak that the only sound they could emit was a groan. < (change this? It's awkward to read. Can't explain...) An oder of human waste and sweat infiltrated the air and, as it rolled down my throat in suffocating clumps, I resisted the urge to gag. The wooden floor was saturated with piss. To every side of me I could feel the shaking, thin bodies of my fellow men.
I was glad that it was dark.
Days meant nothing to me. Time in general did not exist. It was a mere idea, an illusion. At the same time, < (change? You've just been saying such a thing didn't really exist, and now you're making a point with it?) I wanted time to pass. I wanted to live out this laborious life. There was no hope for escape and I never even considered it anymore. I considered death instead and half of me wished for it to come swiftly. The other half of me was more enlightened. I understood that once a man dies he loses the ability to change the way things are. My life was futile, and yet I searched for a purpose in it all. Perhaps, one day, if I were to live, I would do something of importance. But it was in the future; on that day I was in a bunker traveling at a snail's pace across the plains of infinite bitter cold.
The door to the bunker eventually opened and revealed, as I had suspected, another world of snow. < (if he's been in darkness, wouldn't this have hurt his eyes? Can you mention this?) I shivered in my flimsy grey coat, pulling the collar up on my neck. In the distance I could see the barracks, and the guard posts, and the hundreds of gravel pits, all surrounded by a twenty-foot wire fence. < (why all the commas?)
Some of the other men clambered out of the bunker. Many of those men fell into the snow, exhausted, and never stood up again. Some of them did not even evacuate the bunker; they lay in the piss-sodden floor, decaying into the wood. I followed the men slowly so as < ('as to' may work better) not to lose all of my energy with the initial jump. Outside of the bunker, a tall, mustache-clad man in uniform bellowed for us to line up. It was an exercise we were all familiar with. Wed < (we?) lined up, side by side, facing the guard men, our backs held as straight as possible. < (why?)
Time < (again with time?) passed and I paid no attention to it. I only cared that my back stayed straight and that I stood at attention properly. Next to me, a boy keeled over headfirst into the snow. A guard leaned over and removed the boy's papers from his coat pocket.
"Nikolai Lenevski!" he yelled, shoving the papers into his own pocket.
Another guard was holding a board and a pen. He wrote on some paper, and then nodded his head to the other guard, who stood up and shot the boy in the back. The sound resonated across the plain, but it is a sound that no longer meant anything to me. After one has heard a gunshot a thousand times, it no longer makes him jump. Crimson blood trickleed into the snow around the boy. The ground in this land will be drenched with snow until the end of time. < (yeah? So?)
When the guard comes to me I handed him my papers quickly, looking at the snow instead of his face. He ushered me towards the right side of the snow-covered field, where I stood at attention with another group of boys. By the time we shepherded to the barracks, fifteen other boys had been shot. And numerous ones were either already dead or were left to die inside of the bunkers on the train. < (the train? Couldn't you have made a point about that? About hearing the noise or something?)
The barracks themselves were similar to the ones at the place I resided at before the trip in the bunker. They smelled foul, nearly as foul as the bunker, and were even more cold < (colder) . Stark winds blew through the building, scraping against our faces. All the other boys had red, wind burned < (burnt) faces. I assumed that I did as well. But here, in the new place, there are actual men, not boys. Never before had I slept in the same house as men. < (but you were talking about 'men' being on the train.?) They possessed beards which shielded their faces from the winds of the north. They were also taller than I, and their shoulders were broader.
The beds had a single thin, worn sheet. I wrapped myself in it. The cold was unbearable. One would think that after having spent a whole lifetime in the could < (cold) I would have been relatively used to it. But ever < (every?) night it was as teeth-rattling as ever. I always slept in my boots to prevent my feet from freezing over.
The winds of the world rushed around me and I did nothing but lay in my cot and sleeping, hoping for tomorrow. The next day would bring some sunlight, which meant warmth. Tomorrow was always a fresh start. Tomorrow was all I had to live for.