The Survivor
The Survivor
by David Michael
“If I tell you my story,” the old man said, looking at his hands, twisted together in his lap to keep them from shaking, “you will leave me alone, no?”
The filmmaker, a young man in his thirties, looked pained. “We’re just trying to preserve our shared heritage–”
The old man looked up, looked hard at the younger man. “Shared heritage?” he said. “What have you shared?”
The filmmaker held up his hands in a placating manner. “There are so many stories,” he continued. “Stories that haven’t been heard. Most of the survivors, like yourself, are getting old. Many have already died.”
“They … they are the lucky ones. They got to live in silence, die in silence. Now …” The old man paused. “Now you want us to break our silence, the silence that has held our lives, our souls together? Make us live again with the fear, the nightmares? You want us to rip away the scar tissue that has helped numb us, so you can make a film?”
“That’s not it at all,” the filmmaker protested. “This is for posterity. For my children, and my children’s children. So that the world won’t forget–”
“Yah, yah, yah,” the old man said. “You want me to tell my story. Then you will go?”
The filmmaker forced a smile, and a nod. “Yes.”
The old man looked back at his hands. “Good.”
“OK,” the filmmaker said. “We’re rolling.” The old man didn’t look up, so the filmmaker went on. “What do you remember?” he asked.
“I remember,” the old man whispered. “I remember everything.”
He remembered it all. The years of simmering hatred, the feeling of the world constricting around him and his family. The disappearance of his wife, leaving him to care for their daughter.
“Start from the beginning,” the filmmaker said. “Tell me everything.”
He remembered the night the hatred exploded, shattering across the land. Fire and broken glass and blood. They hid in their basement, behind a pile of broken crates and trash, listening as the looters and the arsons entered their house, their lives, pulled apart the pieces of each, leaving them scattered and defiled. They huddled together, alone, until the fire drove them from the house.
“Hatred,” the old man said. “There was hatred. Everywhere. We … we do not understand this hatred.”
“You and your daughter?” the filmmaker asked.
“None of us,” the old man said. “We do not understand. They took my wife. She was visiting relatives. She did not come home. My daughter and I, we try to go on.”
“What was your wife’s name?”
The old man ignored the question. “We tried to go on,” he repeated. “But … but the end came.”
“The Night of–”
“Yes,” the old man interrupted. “That was the night. Do not give it a fancy name. It was a night of hatred, foul and stinking. We ran. We tried to live in the shadows. But even the shadows could not hide us, when the hatred burns so bright.”
His daughter, fourteen, so beautiful, only just becoming a woman. They struggled to hide her beauty, pass her off as a boy. They hid in the day. They looked like vagrants, and vagrants were targets too. When they could, they hid within the thin veil of conscience some of their friends still retained, moving from one to another as the veils were worn out or penetrated. Too soon, they were again on their own, in a world that hated them even more. It had been a year since that night. His daughter was more beautiful than ever, and he despaired of what would happen to her.
“What happened then?”
“What do you think? They found us. We were not hard to find then. An old man and his foolish daughter who would not leave him and save herself. She was still dressed as a boy then, and they did not care yet what she was. They only saw us as filth, to be gathered up and disposed of with the rest of the trash.”
They were held in a pen with many others, all men, the women having been separated out. The men, they were told, were being sent to the farms and the mines, to work as slaves. The women … They were not told where the women were sent, except in hints, winks, and innuendo. Some women, they said, would be working alongside the men. Sooner or later. When they had no other use. Men cried and cursed, those who did not curl up and whimper. He and his daughter clung together, determined that she would not be discovered. Some of the men with them learned about her, but they did not give her away. They joined him in protecting her. Then came the transports.
“How long were you held?”
“We were not counting the days,” the old man said. “We only tried to survive them. She and I and the rest, those who had not given up already. They lied to us, told us we were to be made slaves.”
“What about your wives?”
“They told us nothing, letting our fears eat at us, or they hinted, to further feed our fears. They laughed at our distress.”
They were herded into the transports, packed and pushed in making each breath a struggle. Worse than cattle. The stench of humans in pain, fear, panic, burned their eyes and clogged their noses. He and his daughter held each other tight to keep from being separated.
“When did they take you …”
“Do you think I kept a calendar? We were taken when they took us. We rode for hours. We slept standing up, hoping that we would not slip down and be crushed to death. To this day …”
“What?” asked the filmmaker, leaning forward.
“To this day,” the old man repeated, pulling away, “I do not like people to stand too close to me.”
“I have an idea,” his daughter whispered in his ear. “To save us both.” He already knew what her idea would be. He didn’t want to hear it. She told him anyway, always strongwilled, like her mother. “I am beautiful,” she said. “I will purchase our freedom with my beauty.” “No,” he said. “It is too much.” “I will do this,” she insisted. He knew, though, that he could not stop her. She would not listen. “Save yourself,” he said. “Leave me. You cannot save us both.” “I will try.” “Please,” he said. “Please. Save yourself.” “No, Papa. I will save us both.”
“What happened?” the filmmaker asked. “When you arrived … where they took you?”
“I was made … I was made to help them.”
“Help them?”
“I was branded. I was given a broom and made to sweep up the ashes … and the bones. I choked on ashes every day for … for …”
“Two years?”
“It felt like an eternity. They gave us food and water, me and those few of my unlucky people who had been chosen like me.”
“Why were you picked?”
The old man stared at his hands a long time. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”
But he did know. His daughter had bought that for him. She had saved him as she said she would. Then they had been separated, pulled apart, taken in different directions. He had been given a brand and a broom, and she…
“What happened to your daughter?”
“They … they …” The old man struggled to control his voice, his hands, clenching both to make them obey his will. “They took her from me.”
She saved them both, he hoped, he wished, for nearly a year, that she had gotten away. Then, on a day just like any other, after they finished their work, he and his … co-workers … were pushed into a room. They feared the worst, but maybe it was the best, that they should die now, to pay for their living when so many they had known were dead. But then women had also been pushed into the room. Naked, tired, sagging, old … used up. “Have fun,” said a voice, “they are yours for the day.” Then a dark chuckle. One of the men threw up. Others began to shuffle forward. And then he saw her. His daughter. Thin, battered, bruised, broken. Her head and her eyes cast down, not looking, not caring when one of the men chose her. He cut in, still strong enough, with his rage, to force the other man to make another choice. He looked at his daughter. She did not look at him. He said her name. She looked up then, but then away again. She was shamed. He could feel her shame. He shared it. He touched her cheek, a gentle stroke. Then he put his hands on her throat. A question. She nodded. He saw tears in her eyes. Felt the same in his own eyes. Then he squeezed and squeezed until she died. The last good thing he was able to do for her. He thought they would kill him for what he did. But they only laughed. They rewarded him. They kept him alive. To train the next batch. That made it worse, harder. She had saved him again.
“Did you ever see your daughter again?”
“No,” the old man said.
“Did you ever try to find her?”
“Of … of course.” The old man remained quiet then, clenching his hands in his lap, trying to force back the memories. “Will you,” he said after long minutes, forcing himself to look up, to look at the young man sitting across from him. “Will you go now?”
The filmmaker looked disappointed, but he switched off the camera. “Perhaps some other time?” he asked.
“No,” said the old man. “Never again.” He paused, then repeated, “Never again.”
Copyright © 2006 by David Michael. All rights reserved.
A Short Story a Day » 100 Stories said,
July 21, 2006 @ 3:29 pm
[...] I guess it’s a milestone: “The Survivor” is my 100th posted story for this project. [...]