For All of Us

The water splashes—cold, sharp fingers to wake me—and I roll.

“Vstat’, yevrey,” the guard bites: Get up, Jew. I squint at the past-white sun flaring through the bars. The smell—pelmeni, I think—brings me to my feet and I sway, hoping. But of course it is not for me: A man has opened his cart on the street, selling meat pies. My porridge sits cold in the corner of my cell.

“Ne peremeschayte vozdushnuyu,” the guard says. He opens his mouth, grabs his throat and rolls his eyes to the whites. Don’t choke.

They still do not let me sleep, but the beatings are coming less and less. Abakumov tells me this is because Stalin has fallen ill. The others say he may even be dead. Let it be true.

I stumble to the corner and lift the bowl. The porridge leaches what looks like rust from the spoon, but I am hungry, so I eat. The guard bares his teeth at me, a savage smile.

More than the beatings, the starvation, the humiliation, it is these guards that wound me. With their ignorance. With their stupid hatred. That they might come to know me does not occur to them. That they might question me, rather than torture me in silence, and at least attempt to ascertain my innocence or guilt, they cannot grasp. I am bezrodniv kosmopolit, a man without a place, and they hate me for it. I am the symbol of their struggle—and every hurt they have ever felt, every injustice done to them by life or God or country, they see in my face. And they hate me for it.

What is this ache I feel? It burns in my gut and blackens my heart. I would tear open my chest to get it out. It is a terrible sadness.

“Pochemu ty plachesh’?” the guard asks. Why are you crying? His question is earnest.

“Dlya vsekh nas,” I say. For all of us.

(Photo credit: fmfm166 from morguefile.com)

This is my response for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge: Grasp. I welcome any and all constructive criticism, so by all means, lay it on me!

For more on the inspiration for this story, the Doctors’ Plot, check out this wikipedia article.