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Part 4: MEETING RESISTANCE
I won’t bore you with the next six weeks; suffice to say the days continued in their turn. We lost a prisoner each day to the song, and every morning a new one appeared as if by magic. Vulture stole a lighter, and each morning it was confiscated. We drank our gruel in the trucks and we lined up and shovelled snow. And every day the song rang out as the sun filled the arch of the bridge. And every day I hummed back, waiting, wondering.
I pestered others about the song.
‘I don’t know,’ Ox said. ‘It’s just a song from my childhood. A ragtime ditty my momma used to play for me.’
‘It’s a rousing anthem of our captors,’ Quisling mumbled most times, a blatant lie. Other times, when I pressed harder or had some method (usually the lighter stolen from Vulture) to threaten him, he cringed and wailed that he could never remember the song.
‘Sod off!’ Vulture sneered. ‘I don’t care what you think of this song, I’m not telling you what I hear!’
When I approached Chief about it he asked me, ‘Are you so intent on following this song to its source?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. He sighed and opened up his book.
‘We can go over this every day: you’ll come up and ask me about the song; and I’ll respond by refusing to indulge you. I think you’re suicidal and this is the way out you’ve chosen for yourself. Well you can count me out of it.’
‘So that’s why you won’t help?’ I asked. ‘You don’t want to feel responsible for my death?’ Chief shrugged.
‘One reason is as good as any other,’ he grumbled. ‘Your life is not in my hands, either way.’
No matter how many times I asked Chief, he refused to discuss it any further.
That left the Old Timer as my sole source of information on the song, and Chief’s presence seemed to keep him on a short leash. We often spoke only on the ice.
Chief continued to ignore me as we worked, hauling snow at the far end of the line while I stayed in the middle. The Old Timer and I muttered together, and I received my fair share of beatings as a result – the worst day came as I closed in on the information I needed from him.
‘You know something about the song,’ I insisted. ‘Chief doesn’t want you to tell me – what is it he doesn’t want me to know?’
‘I’ve already said too much,’ the Old Timer muttered back. ‘Go bother someone else!’
‘I’m not giving up on this,’ I said. ‘You mentioned I need a song of my own – do you know about it?’
‘I don’t know anything about any song!’ he hissed. ‘Leave me be!’ I paused in my work and leaned in close.
‘If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to just walk out there and trust my luck. Please?’
That was the first time I got a beating that day. Two pairs of hands grabbed my arms and dragged me to the trucks, where the guard captain jabbed the butt of his rifle into my stomach. I collapsed to my knees in the snow, feeling more jarring thumps to my back and arms from the other guards until I was curled in a ball, waiting for the attacks to cease. At last it did. I was hauled to my feet and propelled back onto the ice, where I took up my place and returned to work. The Old Timer was a few feet ahead of me, so I picked up my pace to catch up with him.
‘Just… stop thinking about it,’ he murmured eventually. ‘Get on with your work. Keep hope in your heart of seeing another day. And close yourself off to the song. It can’t be worth it.’
‘Whatever’s on the other side of that bridge is better than day after day shovelling this snow,’ I replied. ‘You know something. I want to know it, however small or useless.’
‘Whatever I could tell you would be of no use,’ he said. ‘It won’t help you get through.’
‘You don’t know the song? I figured – if I knew a song that could stop the guards I’d never stop singing it. But I still want to know.’
‘Nothing to know,’ the Old Timer insisted. ‘Better to keep your head down and work.’
I jabbed my shovel into his, dumping his load of snow back onto the ice. He shot me a dark look.
‘We keep our heads down every day,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t get us anywhere but here, on the ice, every day.’
I must’ve spoken too loud, because I was dragged away again. This time as I was bludgeoned in the stomach, the Captain met my eyes as I folded up.
‘You think you’re too good to be here?’ he asked quietly. This was the first time the Captain had spoken to me directly; in fact, I had never seen him speak to a single prisoner. He would bellow at us from the doorway of our camp, or he would tell us to fall in line when we strayed in our work, but he never spoke to us as people.
‘No sir,’ I groaned, my breath coming in fits as I fought around my bruised stomach.
‘Because it sounds like you think you’re better than everyone else,’ the Captain said. I was hauled to my feet, standing agonisingly straight, as the Captain continued: ‘You keep your head down and work every day, but today you speak up! Is the work boring you, prisoner?’ He drove his rifle butt into my armpit, and I groaned and cringed into it.
‘No sir!’ I cried. The Captain turned to the rest of Camp F, who had paused in their shovelling to watch the spectacle.
‘Perhaps you’re too tired to work!’ he announced, and I could see his gaze travelling over the other prisoners by the way they dropped their eyes and hurried back to their shovelling. ‘Perhaps your lame leg and deaf ear are too much for you, in which case you are an invalid! And Invalids take a walk to the Long House! Are you an invalid prisoner?’ He struck at my bad knee, and something clicked painfully. I paled, sweat dotting my brow and bile crawling up my throat. The soldiers held me up still, and I swallowed, my throat feeling hot and raw, and shook my head.
‘No sir,’ I drawled, my mouth barely working over the pain. The soldiers dumped me in the snow, the cold numbing the pain as much as a drop of water quenches a roaring fire. I got to my feet slowly, painfully, testing my leg with every step – I would be limping for the rest of the day, if not for the whole week – and I returned to my position. The line had barely moved, so I caught up to the Old Timer fairly easily. I glanced over to the trucks: the Captain was staring down the line of prisoners.
‘Tricky to talk now,’ I murmured. ‘I need to know what you know.’
‘You just got a beating for talking out of turn!’ the Old Timer whispered frantically. ‘Don’t give them cause for another one!’
‘This is what I’m willing to risk,’ I said. ‘What do you know?’
‘I am not telling you! Just get on with your shovelling!’
‘We can keep at this all day,’ I muttered. ‘I may get killed for it. But I won’t stop until I hear what you know.’ I glanced down the line: Chief’s eyes were on me. He stared at me and shook his head slightly; I stared back until he looked away.
‘You’re crazy, Bard!’ the Old Timer whispered. ‘I know you mean well, but I’m telling you no good can come of it! Please just drop it!’
I looked to the bridge. The sun was rising through it – the song would echo through in a short time. I shook my head, dropped my shovel, and stood tall amongst my bent-backed fellows.
‘I refuse to work any further,’ I announced. The Old Timer looked at me and I mouthed: Tell. Me.
The guards stood rigid, confused. A prisoner had never so directly stood against them before. The captain motioned to two guards, who began to approach with the careful tread of men who were being dared to pull the sleeping lion’s tail. I glanced back at the bridge – it would still be too soon, I would be dead before I heard the song again.
‘You’re going to drop us in it!’ the Old Timer whispered. Over his frantic pleas, I heard muttering at the far end of the line. Would Chief stick his neck out to save me?
The soldiers grabbed me by the shoulders again, hauling me across the ice – they strode back to the Captain now I was in the certainty of their grip. They held me in front of him and I could see him, pale-faced, spittle dotting the corners of his lips as he struggled to control his temper.
‘I should have you shot, prisoner!’ he yelled. ‘What sort of example are you setting for your fellow man? I’ll break your bones, you layabout!’ This time he didn’t raise his gun, but landed a solid punch on my jaw – I rocked with it, but some teeth still felt loose. I could taste the iron of blood in my mouth and I groaned, red-flecked spittle dripping onto my jacket.
‘Captain!’
This shout from the man on the bridge, I thought. It was away and above, anyhow. And I could hear behind it the melodic clanking of shovels hitting ice flat. The Captain looked past me, and his face went further pale. Veins stood out on his neck and forehead and he gave a strangled cry and started back.
I heard from far behind me the sound of someone humming the song. My song.
That did it. I turned: the rest of the prisoners were standing in a line, shovels at their feet – all except Quisling, who still clutched his as though it were a talisman against punishment; and Vulture, who was startled at this display and keeping his shovel between himself and his suddenly-suicidal bunkmates.
The Captain shoved me aside and I fell onto my bad knee in the snow, grimacing in pain. He marched down the line, listening for the humming. I knew it had to be Chief – not only because I didn’t reckon the others would do something so recklessly suicidal for me, but also because he was the only one who’d have cause to remember the song.
Or so I thought. As the Captain approached Chief at the end of the line, someone else struck up the tune; Ox, towards me, started humming it. The Captain started and turned, Chief forgotten; so this was the plan? I wondered what would happen when he found someone who was humming it.
He neared Ox, and the Old Timer took it up. He spun again – before he got there, someone further down the line had taken it on. But there was only so long it could go on for before-
I didn’t have time to finish my thought. I felt the ache in my heart throb as the distant melody sang through the bridge. The sun kissed the stone arch and I was full with it. This time I remembered the words as clear as day, and I felt they were just for me.
I am locked in this tower
With only the cell’s rhythms for company.
Let my sight pierce the veil
That I may see who joins me in harmony.
What fear must they face
That bloodies their mouth and breaks their knee?
The world outside turns,
But it turns only the ice on our skin.
Young rebel,
How much do you bleed for me?
Young rebel,
The stakes are so high for you.
Young rebel,
It turns only the ice on our skin.
I felt something in me with those words. A voice, a strength… a bridge between myself and the mysterious singer. She had seen me. I would have to fight to see her. I got to my feet, unsteadily – this would be a great risk, but the reward would be heaven itself if I made it. I would have to, one limping step after another. I began to limp towards the bridge.
I don’t know exactly what happened after that – even Chief has refused to tell me – but one of the guards was not exactly under the spell. He tried to tackle me and I turned, grappling with him to push him off me. And then all of a sudden his gun was between us and-
I don’t know whose finger was on the trigger when the shot was fired. There was a thunderous explosion between us and I was knocked off my feet. Lying on my back, I felt the cold hard ice beneath me. I stared up at a steel-grey sky. I turned to look through the arch of the bridge one final time, for surely this would be the moment they killed me-
The guard above the bridge landed on his neck with a sickening crunch. The world had gone stock-still staring at him – the Captain, the soldiers, Chief, the prisoners, me – we all stared as though it would change anything. The man looked young – older than me, but still too young. His rifle lay behind him and his body lay awkwardly, one arm in front, one behind. His head was twisted to entirely the wrong angle, almost as though it were upright and staring at me, rigid horror freezing on that face.
The Captain broke the spell first.
‘Alright you good-for-nothings!’ he yelled. ‘Shovels away and back on the trucks, on the double! You’re on half-rations tonight for your behaviour, and we’ll just see about the rest of the week!’
Captain’s yelling shook us all out of it – we gathered up our shovels (the Old Timer took mine, handed it to me as he passed) and filed into the trucks, as the Captain strode towards his two flunkies and began berating them about gun safety. As he returned to the lead truck, one of the guards noticed Vulture going through the dead soldier’s pockets – he clipped him round the ear, sending him scurrying back to the truck. He got on behind me, pocketing the lighter as he did so – no matter how many times he lost it, it always found its way back into his hands. But I wasn’t interested in Vulture today. I turned to Chief.
He regarded me coolly. Then, as though some contract had passed between us, he gave a businesslike nod before settling back against the canvas to sneak a nap on the return journey.