Page 22 of Savage Truce

With wide eyes and ragged breaths, I watch as the gate is unlocked. The three men are forcefully pulled out of the pen, and when the other women begin to sob, I swear the terror coming from the captives makes the very air vibrate.

One of the soldiers slams the butt of his rifle into Boris’ face, and it sets the other guards in motion. As the men are beaten horribly, the other women all drop down in a line beside me, curling into small bundles and covering their heads.

Unlike them, I can't make myself look away as the men are beaten to death, the stench of blood hanging in the air foreshadowing what awaits me in the very near future.

Despair weighs heavily on my shoulders as I stare at the gruesome sight.

The soldier who’s in charge barks something, and because I’m the only one looking up, his cruel gaze locks with mine. “Get to work. Make food. Clean. If no work, then die.”

Not wanting to piss any of them off, I get up and limp out of the pen. “Where is the kitchen?”

He points to the metal doors. “Left side.”

I notice a tear by his sleeve, and hoping I can get my hands on a needle and some yarn, I dare to mention, “I can fix clothes as well.”

Luckily, I don’t get my butt beaten, and the man nods that he understands.

When I cautiously move toward the door, he starts shouting in Russian. I jerk with fright and glance over my shoulder, but seeing the soldiers are focused on the other women who are all still sitting huddled, I hurry away.

Just as I enter the factory, Ms. Fedorova and the others start crying and screaming. I catch a glimpse of each of them being dragged out of the pen by a soldier.

The men begin to tear at the women’s clothes, and as the horror of what’s happening to them knocks the air from my lungs, I hurry inside and get as far away as possible.

I keep glancing wildly around me while their agonizing wails sound up, and noticing the other men look at me with disgust, I ignore the pain and jog toward the doorway that I hope leads to the kitchen.

My body trembles something fierce as I enter the room and take in the large steel table covered with sacks of potatoes, flour, onions, cabbages, and a meager supply of spices.

A soldier appears in the doorway, his sharp gaze following me like a hawk. I open drawers and steel cabinets, finding knives and large pots.

My breaths keep sawing over my dry lips as I open the nearest sack of potatoes and start peeling. With my eyes constantly jumping between the soldier and my hands, I struggle to process the shock of what’s happening.

I never liked any of my family, but I wouldn’t wish what they’re going through on my worst enemy.

The one in charge suddenly stalks into the kitchen and tosses two bags of laundry on the floor. He sets down an old cookie tin, which I seriously hope contains needles and threads.

“Fix all!” he barks.

I nod like crazy, peeling the potato as fast as I can to show him I’m a hard worker.

He stares at me for long, unnerving minutes, then says, “No food for you. Too big.”

I nod again.

My tongue darts out, and insane nerves tighten my stomach as I gather every ounce of strength I have to ask, “How many people am I making food for?”

He glances out the door, then shrugs. “Fifteen… twenty men.” Gesturing at the table, he adds, “Make all. Celebrate.”

My head bobs up and down as I continue to peel potato after potato like my life depends on it.

Maybe they won’t hurt me as long as I work.

I’ve lost all sense of time, and once the potatoes are boiling, I find packs of minced beef and whole chickens in a freezer.

Deciding to fry the chicken, I stay busy, and slowly the uncooked pile grows smaller, while steaming platters of food begin to take up the space on the large table.

My leg begins to feel numb from all the pain, and I glance at the cookie tin, hoping I’ll get a chance to stitch up my wound tonight.

Suddenly, the soldier who’s been watching me non-stop calls out something, and the next moment men pile into the kitchen.