2. The Reception

The opening of his eye coincided with a sharp excruciating pain in his back, and a slightly duller throb in his right temple. He had been out for a short while, and was now regaining consciousness. It was cold and foggy, and he felt a strange thick substance in his mouth. He tried standing to his feet but his body refused. His ears were filled with a ringing which resembled that of a ship siren in the highest octave possible, and his hands were shaking like those of a hundred-year-old man. Rude voices were alternating; some came in from a close distance and others from afar off, all the while ruthlessly penetrating through his brain.  

Two strong hands seized him by the underarms, and roughly attempted to straighten him up; however, the past few days of starvation and beatings in the Militia Headquarters in Vidin, and especially after the shower of blows with clubs on his head and body, had left him so stiff that he could not move any part of his body. A fist in the face followed, accompanied by a curse and drops of greasy saliva.

What a reception! What was to follow after that? He refused to meditate on it. After all, he was indifferent as to whether he would survive or not. The only thing he cared for now was for that unbearable pain to cease. The pain did not cease, but rather it only kept pulsating. It kept marching through his crushed body in a perfect rhythm, and it was chanting those same words he had first heard, addressed to him, in that dark room a week ago: "Christo Aleksandrov: Enemy, Guilty, and Traitor."    

Slowly his sight began to clear up as the sound and picture in his mind became synchronized. He glanced around. Some people in rags were hustling about, looking scared, surrendered and unobtrusive. They kept appearing and vanishing through the damp and sticky fog. Two wolf-looking dogs were barking in a rage at somebody, whom he could not see because his back was turned toward him. The mutts were tied close to a flimsy barrack, and the person in front of them, on his knees, was staring at the ground. For a moment, Christo pictured what would happen if the animals were released from the restrictions of the chains. His sense of justice for the dogs would have turned the wretched man into a pile of ground human meat.   

The pain seized his back and right temple once again. It hit him forcefully, but this time, it suggested something different and horrifying; it suggested a desire for life. It convinced him that not everything was lost; he could still breathe, walk, run, touch and feel. He did not want to die so young. He wished to live not only for the sake of his wife and two boys, who were waiting for him back home, but also for the sake of life itself. He did not wish to wave good-bye to the air, clouds, sky, water, and all the other seemingly insignificant joys, which every new day undeservedly gifted him with.

The pair of hands turned into two pairs which dragged him into a dark wooden facility. There was nothing in the room except numerous wooded benches that looked more like significantly larger tomato crates. The thick substance in his mouth had changed its physical state. It had turned into a solid scab which covered his lips. The crate beds and the empty room began moving clockwise, and he was once more on the verge of losing consciousness. After attempting to regain his focus, he succeeded: his consciousness preserved.   

He recalled fragments of the last few nightmarish days. There were faces deformed in anger, rooms for interrogations, pain, perplexity, rage, insults, alternating silhouettes which were asking unclear questions, pain and more pain. Before all these things occurred, it seemed like nothing had happened. He had the sense that, all he had gone through prior to this, had happened to a different person: His childhood, youthful excitements, his first encounter with his wife, Mara, the birth of their three boys, the turmoil from agonizing grief at the loss of their youngest, Boril, the time when his dreams were beginning to take form and he had seen himself as a future history teacher, if it wasn’t for… if it wasn’t for the change that had begun to take place.  Those strange, sinister, mad, evil times had unfolded. They had emerged with the coming of the communists to power, and they had brought destruction after themselves. First, upon going to the Town Hall for an inquiry, his uncle Ivan and his cousin Stephan, had disappeared without a trace, and then, years later, his suspension from university, the inquiries at the Militia Headquarters, and the impressionistic feeling of oppression and despondency had followed. He did not remember much; He remembered, however, that every time he had forced himself not to voice his thoughts, a cloud of hopelessness had come and hung over him, hiding the sky above.  

Someone entered into the room. He knew it by the breathing, the aroma of bread and the scent coming from the aluminium vessel, which that someone placed next to his head. The silhouette stayed for a few moments and left. An unexpected tide of energy immersed the beaten man. He mustered all the remaining strength he had, and, after all, managed to sit up.

After the room slowly ceased spinning, he hungrily bit off a large piece of the stale bread, and, with both hands, lifted the aluminium bowl. The contents of the vessel mysteriously suggested that they were bean soup. The man identified the dish by the few beans that had found themselves in his mouth. The liquid in the bowl was a bland imitation of bean soup, but to him, it felt like the main specialty, in a luxurious restaurant, prepared by a chef who had acquired his culinary education in Paris.  

A smile formed on his wounded face. It did not matter that his temple continued to throb in pain, or that the scab on his lip had split up and a thin streak of blood was streaming down his chin; He felt like a human again. After gobbling down the food, he put aside the aluminium bowl and relaxed on the wooden bed. A heavy exhaustion overtook him and he closed his eyes, losing once again touch with time. Whether he had been asleep for a minute or the entire twenty four hours, he could not remember, but the sound, which had suddenly come from the outside and had filled the whole room, immediately drew his attention. It had, out of the blue, appeared in his dream, and had clutched his head, reminding him that he was not  placed in a hotel room, but rather in a barn-looking facility where he had to lie down on an uncomfortable wooden bed, and that his body had almost been grinded into minced meat.

The noise outside kept ringing. It was coming from somewhere close by, and it evoked a memory of the heavy bell from his childhood. Even though, now, the man clearly realized that the heavy sound of the bell was not the one, bringing the festive mood that would flow from the church steeple, which he had been so used to. This muffled sound brought news of a coming threat, and promised trouble. He caught some anxious movement happening outside. The door slammed opened. Two of the men in rags came in. They approached him. One of them took the bowl and the other one seized his arm and began pulling him.

“Get up!” the second man said sharply in unison with the sound of the bell. “It’s time for the evening check.”
“Evening check?” moaned Christo and continued weakly, “I can’t stand up. Everything hurts. I tried a while ago, but my body does not correspond. I really can’t.” 

“You have to get up right now!” commanded the same ragged man, and then proceeded to clarify with a dark grin, “No body skips the evening check. The only ones freed from it are those in the sacks. Only they are freed. Forever.”

 

The man, who was holding the bowl, laughed and added:

“If you do not get up right away, they might get you a sack too. You’ll not only be able to skip the evening checks, but you won’t have to quarry rocks either. Convenient.”

  

The countenance of both men suddenly became somber, and they hurriedly took him by the underarms and jerked him up. This time his legs did not betray him. He remained standing in spite of the fact that the barrack began spinning once again. This time the swaying did not last long. He thought he would be sick, but he managed to pull himself together. Supported by the two men on both sides, he was expediently carried to a clearing, located at about a hundred meters from the facility containing the crate beds. While he was dragging his feet in that direction, he saw that those same frightened, surrendered and unobtrusive people in rags, whom he had seen earlier, were now standing in straight lines like cold stone statues. The two men left the beaten person at the end of one of the rows and withdrew to take their own places in the line.

Christo noticed that, aside from the group of ragged men to which he belonged, there were a number of other people. Dressed in the same uniforms, they were armed with machine guns, pointed at the pitiful crowd of prisoners. The latter circumstance prompted the beaten man to move his gaze and focus it on the other key personage; he was a part of the ones in charge of the place: A tall man, with his chest puffed out and hands clasped behind his back, was pacing back and forth; he had a reddish face, glasses with thick frames and chestnut hair slicked back. He appeared confident and strict.  He was constantly changing moods during his never-ending harangue. In one instance he would scream like an enraged docker, and in the next his tone would become either mocking or promising. The words coming out of his mouth were unclear. He was slurring. His style of speech suggested that he possessed a high rank but very low intellect, which was evidently his companion in life, even beyond the wired fence.    

At the beginning nothing seemed to be happening. The tall man was slowly and meticulously drawing their attention to insignificant and boring details of the regulations of this “Disciplinary Labour Institution”, as he called the camp in numerous instances, plainly showing a keen liking for the sound of his own voice. From time to time, he would cease pacing and stare down at one of his miserable listeners, and after making sure the person in front of him had his gaze humbly on the ground, he would resume his meaningless speech.  A check came next in order to determine whether all the inmates were present. It consisted of the reading of names, followed by “here” in response. The check lasted no more than fifteen minutes. 

It was fifteen minutes, but to Christo it seemed like it lasted a whole eternity. Throughout the check, the man could barely stand on his feet; nevertheless, he knew quite well that this was not the time to complain. He summoned all the strength he had left to remain standing, and that is why, when the listing of the names was finished, he thought, with a sigh of relief, that prostrating himself down on the rough wooden crate would be a most pleasant moment. Never before had he been in such a despairing need of sleep. He was anticipating going back to the barrack, when the disagreeable sound of the voice of the red-faced commander reached his ears.   

“Russy Enchev, step forward from the line.”

The command sounded strict and was followed by a hushed pause. Christo became frightened. An unusual silence came over the camp and caused him to tense up. Anxiousness could be easily sensed in the air. There hadn’t been too much noise before, but now a silence fell over them like the silence of a graveyard.

A man, around sixty years of age, took a step forward. He was short, bald, and eminently thin. He stood a few steps away from the man with the red face; after recovering from a long and loud coughing fit, he quietly apologized and sheepishly looked down at his feet. His hands were shaking so violently that even Christo noticed them from the place where he was standing.

 

“Resident Enchev” the tall man with the red face began speaking, “it has been brought to my attention that today is the third day you have not fulfilled your duties. Is that true? It is. Why, Enchev? The Party feeds you, takes care of you, does everything in order to discipline you and turn you into noble people, and you… how do you repay her? By being lazy. Or do you think this is some sort of a sanatorium or a luxurious resort? Huh? ”

“I am sorry, Comrade Dimitrov” quietly replied Russy Enchev while attempting to suppress another cough, “it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t happen again” mimicked Dimitrov as he began laughing so loudly that his face turned even redder. “It won’t happen AGAIN. It’s happened three times already, Enchev: You slacker. I have heard so many promises from mutts like you: ‘It won’t happen again’, ‘Tomorrow, I will fulfil my duties’, ‘I will work hard for the Party’: Trash. You wanna slack and avoid consequences. Isn’t that right, Resident Enchev? Where’s your son?

 

An invisible breath, like a breeze in a cold winter night, swept through the rows of ragged prisoners for the period of a split second. Christo felt it on his skin. He sensed it with his soul. He perceived it with his mind. The breath rushed through swiftly; even so, as it did, it left behind the destructive reality of the place Christo had found himself in. A vile desperation gripped the skull of the new inmate.  For the first time in his life, he came to the clear realization that hopelessness hits harder than any militiaman; he knew that these blows hurt more than the ones from a cornel club. His mouth became dry and his eyes misted over. Christo felt as though that small bald man, who was standing in front of the lines, was his closest person in that moment. He was his friend, relative, brother, someone who was more connected with him in his fate than any other being on earth.

 

“Where is your son?” asked Dimitrov with a tone of a sadist who took genuine pleasure in the suffering of his helpless victim. Then he gave a loud shout, “Resident Georgi Enchev, step forward from the ranks immediately.”

There was a brief movement within the lines, and a man of about thirty-five years of age stepped forward. He was tall with short black hair which was grey around the temples. The man took several big steps forward and moved next to his father; just like the older man, he anxiously began staring at the ground. Four “superintendents”, who had been assigned from out of the prisoner crowd as such, came forward, at the signal of Red Face, and stood on both sides of the father and son. As Christo watched the movement of the people in the yard, he was led to believe that this was not a new sight to be observed in this place. It flowed like a well-rehearsed play in which the actors knew when to stand, talk, stay silent, and move in any given moment.

 Dimitrov and the four “superintendents” were flawlessly playing their parts in this sinister performance. Red Face approached Russy and Georgi Enchev, dug one hand in his pocket and held out a small square item in front of the father. Christo guessed it was a small pocket mirror. Without moving his head, using only his peripheral vision, he attempted to find out whether the scene, which was being played out in front of them, was of any interest to the rest of the ragged audience. Everyone had their eyes on the ground. He thought it odd; nevertheless, he continued to watch the play. He was not sure about the rest, but, to him, it was a premiere.  

“What do you see, Resident Enchev?” Dimitrov turned to the short man while holding the mirror in front of his face.
“I see my face.” Enchev answered with a parched mouth.
“When did you last see it?”
“This morning”

“Wrong.” Red Face slowly moved his gaze from Russy Enchev and looked at one of the “superintendents”; he gave him a barely noticeable nod and then carelessly stated: “Wrong answer, Resident. You are now seeing it for the last time.”

 He turned around and slowing started for the Overseer’s Quarters. The “superintendents” waited for Dimitrov to take a few steps, and then threw themselves on top of the short, bald and thin man who was about sixty years of age. Three of them were throwing fist punches and were kicking him, while the fourth one was thrashing him with a thick cornel club. Of course, as was expected, Russy Enchev’s son did not remain passive; he threw himself on top of his father’s body trying to cover it so that none of the blows would land on him. Both bodies intertwined and there was no way for them to protect each other. The severe beating, like a deadly avalanche, covered the father and the son. 
“Stop. Leave him alone. He’s sick.” quietly cried Georgi and then fell into silence.

Christo looked stricken. The rest of the prisoners, with their eyes still on the ground, slowly started for the barracks. Christo could not move. His feet had turned into lifeless stones. Was this lifelessness about to overtake his entire body? Was he going to turn into the other ragged stone statues that inhabited this cruel Disciplinary Labour Camp? Suddenly, somebody gripped his arm and yanked him forcefully.

“Move!” that someone screamed in his ear. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want to see your reflection in that mirror for the last time too?
Christo started toward the “barn”, which now seemed like an escape island; he was supported on one side by the stranger who had just rescued him. Nevertheless, there was no way of escaping; there was no way of forgetting and no way of falling asleep. He stayed awake all night long.