3. The Dance

The following morning I was still debilitated even though my body felt like it had slightly recovered. My muscles were relaxed, but my soul, Alex, was thoroughly exhausted. The swelling in my legs was gone, and despite the fact that I kept feeling dull pain in my temple and back, it was less prominent than before.  My nerves, however, were strained to an extreme. I could not shake off the memory of the previous day’s occurrence at the evening check from my mind. The sight of the father and son embracing each other and the severe beating they had received, I could not erase from my mind. I saw life slipping away from them and my heart constricted in pain. I had never seen them before, but strangely enough that night they were closer to me than any family member.  

It is difficult to recreate what was going through my head at that moment, but you have got to know, Alex, that I remember it as clearly as if it all happened yesterday. Time never healed some wounds. You already know that . You saw how I failed to dance at your wedding. But I’ll get to the dancing part later on. During that first frightful night, I did not sleep. If only I had drifted away into sleep for a little bit to escape that place. Were I to have a bad dream, at least I would have been transported to a different place. One can awaken from nightmares, but one cannot be awaken from reality.  

Not only did I not sleep but what was worse is that I kept imagining somewhere beyond the wire fence two women; one was a mother, holding a daughter in her embrace. Both of them were waiting with faint hearts for the door of their little rustic fence to swing open, and to see at last their loved ones. How would they react at the news that the father and the son from the Rusev family would never come home? Of course, at that time I was not aware what the outcome of the beating had been, so I only assumed. I could guess the outcome because that small hateful pocket mirror did not escape my memory the entire night either.   

What was it like to see your reflection for the last time? What was it like to see your eyes, face, the creases on your forehead and your life emerging to the surface from the past, for one short moment? And then… I flipped around since my back was numb from the hard wooden crate, and I noticed that I was not the only one who was awake. Evidently, others too could not fall asleep while reliving their real nightmares. Another thing did not give me peace either, Alex. I was wondering what allowed Dimitrov’s conscience to go home to his wife and children, and continue to live his life as if nothing had happened? 

Later I had the opportunity from a first-hand experience to get an idea of what sort of man the Senior Lieutenant Vladimir Dimitrov was, and what allowed him to reconcile in the same person the roles of a father and husband with that of a monstrous overseer.  He was merely a fanatic to whom our lives held no more value than that of a hen. The meaning of our existence lay in fulfilling our daily duties of quarrying rocks and being of use to the Party. If it happened so that we could no longer fulfill our “duty”, we, the enemies of the Party, became useless. But let me get back to that first day of work at the camp. That first day has impacted my entire life, from that time on. 

When the bell dinged it was still dark outside. All of us in the barrack jumped to our feet, and in a matter of seconds got into our prisoner rags, and ran out of the dormitoryfacility. I was new to the camp routine, so having no clue what to do, I followed the crowd. I was experiencing everything for the first time; nevertheless, I was well aware that I needed to quickly find my way so that I would not lag behind the main group, and thus draw attention to myself.

Alex, throughout the years of silence, after I was released from the camp, I meditated quite regularly on what had happened there. Often, I would try to remember the initial impressions from my stay and that, in some masochistic way, appealed to me. I could not share them with anybody because I wanted to protect you, and yet nobody could keep me from freely confiding in myself. Surely, I remember numerous things which drew my attention that morning, but what struck me the most, out of everything, was the silence of the other inmates in the camp. All of them, without making a sound and with faces lacking expression, jogged, following a familiar route which had been planned out ahead of time, and which was still unfamiliar to me.

Hurriedly, in a single-file line, we used the toilet and splashed our faces with cold water from a number of buckets. We got into a line again; this time to receive our morning portion of food. 

Throughout my stay at the camp, with few exceptions, the food remained the same. We ate twice a day. For breakfast, they “treated” us to a quarter of a loaf of bread and some liquid which was supposed to be tea; it seemed, though, that it was merely sweetened water. For dinner, we received bread again, but this time the water in the metal bowls was salted with a few beans floating in it. This was repeated every day; they simply gave us something to put in our bellies so we wouldn’t die of starvation. They needed us, or at least the stronger ones. They knew it too. 

After taking in our food rations, at the command of one of the guards in uniforms, we formed a line and quietly began waiting for something. That first morning I still did not know why we did it, but as it turned out we were waiting in line to be directed to a stone quarry. Once at the quarry, we would have to break rocks and load them onto train formations. This was the nature of the labor, but in reality this was a scrutiny of a place for human torture and destruction. I broke there, Alex. They managed to break me, starting from my first work day.  

While we were obediently standing in line, I had the opportunity to freely… Freely - how humorous  does this word sound when used by someone who does not possess his freedom… But let me not get on rabbit trails - I had the opportunity to observe the setting around. The camp was surrounded by a tall wire fence and was enclosed by low hills which were still green. I had arrived at the camp in early fall. The temperature wasn’t low, but we were located on the path of a draft, so a slight chill could be felt. I am describing the weather because it was more than once used by the superintendents as a means to wipe out the campers, marked for destruction. 

The uniformed guards were marching in a notable manner in groups of three, with machine guns hanging from their shoulders, and occasionally halted their pacing to light a cigarette and talk to each other about something unclear, all the while throwing such glances at us, the crowd of miserable prisoners, that they caused the cold outside to become even colder. Don’t smirk, Alex, quite frankly, I did exaggerate about their glances, but only a tad bit.They were observing us to check whether we had allowed ourselves to get out of line.

It wasn’t long before an average-sized overseer with a beer belly and a face of an account came into sight; he turned out to be Ivan Mladenov himself. He had a rank of a Major and his position was that of the Assistant Commander at the camp. How many evil things this man did, along with Dimitrov and the rest in their circle, I cannot tell because we would spend the whole day here. This same man, Mladenov, whispered something in the ear of one of the armed guards, after which he turned around and left. The armed guard approached us and led us toward the path to the stone quarry, all the while shouting commands as if we were soldiers. We turned left and quietly, one by one, started out for the goal. Our goal were the rocks which were already waiting for us to break them into small pieces.

A little before we went out of the camp zone, I glanced at the outhouse. There, behind it, I noticed two sacks. They were full of something and were stained in brown. At least that is what I could make out of them from the distance at which I was standing. My initial thought was that they contained flour, but then it occurred to me that it would be strange for food supplies to be carelessly thrown behind the smelly toilettes. Then I remembered the previous evening’s check, and forgetting that silence was to be preferred within the prisoner community, I turned to the man walking in front of me and quietly asked: 

“What happened to the father and son? Where are they?”
“Shut up, you fool!”, the man in front of me replied without any hesitation. 
He turned around and looked at me in rage. Then I saw that he was one of the “superintendents” who had beaten the Enchevs. The “superintendents” possessed a wide range of liberties; nevertheless, when we were traveling to and from the quarry, they were a part of the line. The armed uniformed guards were the only ones walking on the side, so they could keep an eye on the order of the procession.

I, of course, remained quiet and made a vow to myself that from then on, in order for me to survive, I would keep my mouth shut at any cost, and would only open it if absolutely necessary and with extra caution applied as to what I said and to whom I spoke. 

I vowed that silence would be my defense strategy. Know this, Alex, once one ceases to talk, it becomes very difficult for him to have normal conversations with others. Now do you understand why I am the strange man that I am? The fear and the self-preservation instinct formed in me, most distinctly, during all the years I spent at thеcamp, where I had been thrown to be converted.It’s pathetic, I know, but I saw no other way for me to survive.  

 

I went on a rabbit trail again. My mind runs in a hundred different directions. I have been silent for so long that now I do not know what to do with the words and how to connect them to my thoughts. I am sorry. Let’s go back to the story. That same evening I found out that Russy and Georgi Enchev were in those sacks. The father had died during the beating, whereas the son had passed away from his wounds at around five in the morning. I saw a lot during those two years at the camp, Alex. I cannot remember a number of insignificant incidents, but those sacks I could not forget. 

 

When we returned to the camp margins that evening, they were still there. It was only when the number of sacks reached four that they took them away. Five days later. Until then, they remained behind the outhouses, as if they contained some sort of non-perishable material. If only they had been full of flour or wood specks, but no; they were full of human remains. Have you ever smelled rotting flesh? It reeks so badly that it can cause you to black out.They remained there for five full days, and we had breakfast and dinner only several meters away from them. How could you eat when you feel like is throwing up?  I suspect that they intentionally did not move them from there, so they could torture ussome more. They succeeded.    

 

It was the evening of the fifth day when a truck pulled in with two of the campers loading the bodies on it. Later on, I came to find out that the truck was ironically named the “postal vehicle” due to the fact that it would often transport the sinister postal packages to the place where the contents were to be buried. The other horrifying thing was that the truck would bring back those same sacks, which would remain empty behind the outhouses… until they were filled up again.  The fabric had soaked in the stench of corpses so much so that, even with the absence of bodies, the sacks continued to reek of rotten flesh. The stench of death would accompany me throughout the entire time, so toward the end I ceased to even pay attention to it.  

 

The road to the quarry took about half an hour to travel at a fast pace. There was no way to walk leisurely because, if any of us did reduce his speed, the guards would remind him with a blow that slowing the pace down was prohibited. It would often happen that some utterly exhausted camp inmate would lag behind the group, so subsequently the cornel clubs were used on his back resulting in either adrenaline kicking in, so the man would catch up with the procession, or in the man giving up. If the latter was the case, his fate was decided. That was the reason why the sacks behind the outhouse were rarely empty. And the beating, Alex… The beating was ruthless, and it did not cause a man to suffer from the blows alone; humiliation left incurable wounds in the soul as well. 

 

There were, among the inmates, numerous educated, intelligent and prominent individuals, whom the communists had put into a category of “former people”. This meant that those people had once, in a time past, possessed the right to a voice, but with the coming of the new régime that right had been forfeited, and they could no longer dream to have a voice, dignity, or future. Those were privileges which only the representatives of the proletariat possessed. I am not sure whether you can imagine what it was like for former political activists, spiritual leaders, doctors, lawyers, officers, writers to be spurred on like smelly cattle by simple, cruel, and dirty peasants.  Indeed, those were our guards, Alex. What could we do since they were the ones possessing the power with its distinctive symbols of ranks and machine guns. 

 

That first day when I arrived at the stone quarry, I was so tired that I was about to give up and fall to the ground to rest, even if for the last time. Nevertheless, I pulled myself together and attempted to hide the fact that my strength was on the verge of abandoning me. The superintendents, not caring about my physical condition, handed me a big hammer, and, along with the rest of the “slaves”, sent me to quarry rocks. They divided us in three groups. The first one, which I also ended up in, had the task of breaking large blocks of rocks into smaller fragments. The second group was supposed to transport the ready material on wheelbarrows to the train formations located at about 500 meters away. The third group was to expediently load the rocks from the wheelbarrows into the train cars.   

 

Not long after I had begun striking the rocks, my muscles stiffened and my hands started to ache horribly. The thought of what would have happened if, instead of the hard rocks, our hammers struck the hard heads of our guards crossed my mind. We would’ve surely overpowered them. Some of us would have been taken down by the bullets of the guards’ machine guns, but most of us would have survived. The issue lay in what we would have done afterwards. Where could we run? Hadn’t the entire country been turned into an enormous concentration camp? Even though we could have escaped beyond the gates of our Correctional Labor Facility, the regime outside, seemingly lighter, was yet another prison. 

 

I kept hammering those rocks. I imagined that the white surface I was hitting was the head of Dimitrov or Mladenov - and yet that was of little comfort. Desperation overtook me once again. I could not accept the thought that my young life would meaninglessly pass by, and would find its end ingloriously in the agony of this detestable stone pit. I was on the verge of screaming in horror, but I managed to clench my teeth and utilize the only safe strategy -silence.  

 

The stone quarry was situated in a picturesque location which was surrounded by hills, enveloped with impenetrable thick woods. Needless to say, we, the ones who were tirelessly slogging there, had neither the intention nor the ability to relish the beauty around us. If anyone happened to drop their hammer to straighten up and unseeingly look at the scenic view, one of the superintendents or guards would immediately approach him with a cornel club and the resting camper would receive a few blows as an invitation to get back to work. Remember this, Alex, cornel clubs are a very successful motivator.   

 

From the time I spent in heavy manual labor at the stone quarry, something else left an impression on me. The silence. It was so tangible that you could hear it like a sound. I’m aware it sounds bizarre, but I could really hear it. The sound of striking the rocks, the shouts of the guards, the song of the birds, and the groaning of the inmates only further underlined the silence. It almost appeared as if the hills and trees around were seated on the first row, watching a theatrical performance. Breathless with anticipation, they had their gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before their eyes, closely observing us, sympathizing with us, or simply quietly enjoying the entertainment we had brought to their peaceful existence.        

 

I apologize that my story is chaotic, but now that I am actually talking about what happened in those days, I sense I need to give voice to everything I felt there. It’s silly but I do believe that if I keep quiet again, I will forever be lost. My person will be wiped out. This is the reason I am sharing all this with you, Alex. The truth about what we went through and felt could not remain concealed. It shouldn’t. I owe it not only to myself but also to the father and son from the Enchev family, and to everyone who left their lives on those insensate rocks. I owe it to you, your wife, and your future children.   

 

Thank you for being here and having the patience to hear me out. I truly appreciate it. But let me get back to the story of the dance. It happened at around 12 o’clock. I knew it by the position of the sun. The fatigue in my muscles had intensified, but the pain in my back, cause by the previous day’s beating, had become unbearable. I was just thinking that I was going to pass out of exhaustion when one of the superintendents shouted at us to pause our work. I dropped the hammer and, frightened, glanced about to see what was to follow. The rest of the inmates left their tools on the ground in like manner and, with heads bowed, they headed for a clearing at a close proximity to the edge of the stone quarry.  

 

They made us form a long line. I studied the faces of my brethren in fate, standing on each side, to see whether I could guess what would happen next. At first, I reckoned we’d be given lunch or at least take a short break, but I was quickly proven wrong. I could see containers with food no where around, and the faces of the other campers appeared even more laden.  My stomach dropped in anticipation of some unknown threat. The silence pierced my ears as if to remind me with its mocking tone that I was a pathetic coward. I truly felt like a small insignificant sissy, Alex, who was any minute about to break into a wail.  

 

One of the superintendents stepped out of the line and turned to face us, then in his repugnant voice roared: “Hey merry makers, are you ready?” While the others in unison shouted “Yes”, the only thing that came out of my mouth was hot air since I hadn’t the slightest idea what exactly I should be ready for. Suddenly, I heard a low noise which gradually grew louder and louder. My initial thought was that it was the thump of a coming storm. I looked to the sky in the direction of the mysterious thudding sound, but the sky was crystal clear. There was no sign of the weather changing in the next few hours.   Then I realized that the “storm” was gathering in the defile somewhere below us. I saw approaching smoke and associated the strange noise with some train which was passing through the valley. 

 

Until then, I hadn’t a clue that it was possible for this lonesome place to be visited by civilized people, who had no direct connection with the life of the inmates. The thudding came closer and just when, from behind one of the nearest hills at about 200 meters from us, the locomotive appeared, the superintendent yelled on top of his lungs : “On three… One, two, THREE!”  

My worn out line neighbors locked their arms with mine on both sides and dragged me to the left. I assumed they were running away from something, but, as it turned out, their movements followed a particular pattern. Two steps forward and one step backward. And again, two steps forward, one step backward. And then again.  

 

My feet instinctively picked up the rhythm and began copying those same movements. Two forward and one backward. At that moment, a thought came to me. The thought that we, the miserable voiceless prisoners, were dancing as if we were at a wedding celebration in a restaurant, instead of on an ominous stone quarry which had been a funeral agent for a long time. It had been a loyal accomplice in the burial of numberless people. 

 

The superintendent gave another roar, this time something between the lines of: “Come on, more lively! Joyfully! Yes, just like that!”While the merry row of round dancers writhed like a wounded snake, my mouth felt parched. Never before had I felt such humiliation. If I could choose, Alex, I would pick the cornel club beatings a thousand times over those horrid movements… two forward and one backward. It might sound like an exaggeration to you, but it seemed like every step that I took, during that insane, unreal round dance, tore a piece from my bleeding soul. Surely, the dance could not have lasted more than a minute or two, I can’t precisely remember, but those short moments turned out to be the longest in my life.  At the end I knew, not in my mind but in my heart, that I would never again be the same man. Something in me broke there, Alex. On the very first day of my occupancy of the camp. The most scary thing is that it broke not because of a beating, for example, but because of a dance.

 

Meanwhile the train had reached such close proximity that I could see the faces of the passengers. The superintendent roared: “Stop!” We froze in our steps. “Smile”, the low, detestable overseer kept on ordering the miserable dancers, and then yelled out one last command: “Raise your hands to greet them!” The inmates lifted their hands up and began waving them above their heads. I followed their lead but, instead of grinning artificially, I broke out into soundless sobs. Through my tears I could catch a momentary glimpse of the passengers on the train.  There were so many and all very different. There were young boys and girls, new couples, and elderly men and women. Children were waving at us with their tiny hands and foreheads glued to the windows of the wagons. They most likely took us for some merry bunch, having fun on an outing in the open air. Our gazes met for a moment. Then the train passed on on its way, and we stayed and resumed our rock quarrying until evening.