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Short Stories
Our book of short stories entitled "Ten Chocolates From the Box" has the honour of being rated number four on the highest rated list of e-library.net. Find out more about this wonderful book of short stories at the publisher's website.
I certainly hope you enjoy the short stories on these pages. Please take time to follow the links to my poems, and excerpts from my RCMP mystery novel, Body Traffic.
Alex Domokos
THE PRORAB
As a spoonful of sea-water contains all the elements of the ocean, similarly all the elements of the human society are present in a P.O.W. camp. In the various prisoner-of-war camps of the Soviet Union where I was held from time to time, I found people with leadership quality and those who had to be lead; the exploiter next to the exploited; the unselfish altruist next to the ruthless rogue, who was ready to kill for his survival. All elements of human society were mixed together in our P.O. W. camps. But, to my astonishment, I found inside of me all those characteristics too.
Day by day, as circumstances demanded, I found the thief and the law-abiding citizen, the altruist and the egotist, the beast and the saint alternating inside me. Being twenty-four at the time, I found this psychiatric laboratory quite fascinating. Soon I became arrogantly confident that I could evaluate the psychic make-up of anybody. I firmly believed that human behavior hid no secrets if we knew the composing motivations. Than came a lesson which shattered all my premature self-confidence.
The incident occurred in 1949, four years after the end of the war. Our camp was in Voronyezs, a medium size city in central Russia. There were four P.O.W. camps for Hungarian prisoners in the city, all working on the reconstruction of a demolished factory. Among us there were a few inmates who were unfit for work. One such fellow was a young guy with red hair and a freckled face who had lost a leg. He was a loner, a misanthrope; he radiated hatred. Any sign of friendliness was rudely rejected. He was particularly sensitive if someone inquired about the loss of his leg.
"It's none of your damn business!" was the usual answer. Because of his freckled complexion and red hair the nickname "the Fox" was soon pinned on him. My evaluation of him was that he was not only physically, but psychologically crippled as well. As far as I was concerned he was a sick man unable to say anything positive about anything or anybody. He was a beast in human skin.
Due to the city's location, the summer evenings were long. After wolfing down our "kasha" and bread for supper, we had an hour or so of sunshine to enjoy some friendly - or not so friendly conversations. There were three basic topics.
The first was food. Since hunger was a permanent condition, everybody described his favorite recipe. We all fantasised about some extraordinary flavor without the slimmest chance to prove our claim. Nevertheless, there were arguments over what was good, and what was better. In the tense atmosphere of the camp verbal arguments easily turned into fist fights. It was something exciting to break the monotony.
The second important subject was our repatriation. There were always some rumors based on hearsay. Even if the news was without foundation, the majority wanted to hear the good news. I was not part of that majority. I rejected those rumors because I saw the destructive effect of disappointment.
There was only one topic where there was no disagreement. It was our exploitation by the Soviet authorities. The "prorabs", as the Russians called their foremen, were the embodiment of that exploitation. They were harsh, merciless slave drivers. Without exception we hated them all.
"If I ever find myself face to face with my prorab in a dark corner he will not get away alive, I swear!" Remarks like this were common. The "Fox" sat nearby, outside our circle, but close enough to hear our conversation although he never participated in it. We were all surprised the day he shouted to the guy who made such a remark.
"Shut your mouth!" His indignation caught us all off guard. Lifting his crutch he poked it in the direction of the offender. His mouth foamed as he shouted:
"How dare you judge anybody? I'm sure you would be worse than he is if you were in his shoes. I wonder how you would have behaved in the coal-mine at the Donetz basin when all hell broke loose. Yes, our "prorab" was the devil--he shouted, insulted, drive us nuts. I hated him. Then came the day when the shaft collapsed. We were four hundred meters underground. Have you any idea how that feels? Trapped, while the gas hisses, the water gushes, and the thick beams snap like matches?
"All my comrades deserted me. All the loud-mouths, like you, escaped like rats! A big boulder caught my leg and I was pinned down - helpless. Then the "prorab" was next to me. Wielding his axe he signalled to me that he intended to cut off my leg. I knew that was my only chance. The water was rising rapidly and there was no time to waste. I nodded. At the first stroke I lost consciousness. I woke up in the prison hospital ..."
"What happened to the "prorab," I asked. His lips trembled as he answered.
"He went back into the mine. He rescued two more. The third time he went back, the whole shaft collapsed ..."
A deafening silence followed his words. My youthful pride of "knowing the depth of human nature" evaporated in an instant.
The following is a tongue-in-cheek story. The "friend" is actually a composite of several individuals I knew. I'm sure you've met him too.
The Political Refugee
I've known him since childhood. We were both excellent students, but he had that little extra "something" that set him apart and allowed him to excel. He was the one quick to retrieve the chalk when it was accidentally dropped by the professor; the one who greeted everyone with a broad smile and never involved himself in school fist-fights.
Our paths lead us in different directions after matriculation.
We met again in the dirty kitchen hall of a Soviet prison camp. The prison kitchen was like the throne-room of a tyrant in a Greek city state - the seat of power over life and death. As I made my way across the hall carefully clutching my soup bowl so as not to spill a drop, I saw him behind the counter. His round face had an oily shine in the yellow glow of the kerosene lamps. He rushed out and embraced me so heartily that a portion of my soup splashed to the floor. I had no time to lament the loss because my friend engulfed me in an avalanche of words.
"Greetings, my friend! What a surprise to meet someone from home in this purgatory! This is the inferno Dante spoke of. You look terrible! Don't say a word...I know...I went through all the suffering as well! I was captured at the Don. There was no sense in fighting so we surrendered--but if I would have known..."
I was overwhelmed by his greeting but my pleasure was tempered somewhat by the fact that the warmth of my soup, the only ingredient in the tasteless brew that made it enjoyable, was rapidly cooling. I ventured a question:
"You work in the kitchen? What do you do here?"
"I have a thankless, unrewarding duty. I'm in control of the meal portions. I represent the common interest, you might say. You wouldn't believe how many crooks, cheaters and parasites there are among us who wouldn't hesitate to do just about anything to get a second portion! You have no idea! I have to be vigilant, and for what? All I receive are insults, accusations, or at best--contempt. They don't appreciate that without my control half of them wouldn't get any food at all! They don't understand that I guard their lives! But that's the price that anyone pays who works for the common good."
I felt dwarfed by his humanitarian goodwill.
"My dear Jozef," my friend said to the cook, "would you be so kind as to serve me my soup?"
The cook nodded and began to ladle a portion into a bowl.
"I take my serving last," my friend explained. Last it may have been but certainly not least. His bowl brimmed with the thick residue of the pot. There was potato galore and even meat. Meat! My starving eyes could not be deceived.
"Well, it was a long time ago that I, the poor son of a worker and you, the middle-class boy, were in the same high school," he said. "I haven't forgotten the humiliation I had to suffer because of my inferior social status. But--I'm a forgiving man."
His father was a jeweller and watchmaker. Rumours were that he was one of the wealthiest men in town. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I kept silent.
"Yes, you gentry boys, you got it all so easily. But, just to show you my goodwill, give me your soup bowl."
Here was something unheard of--a prisoner giving away food! My friend took my bowl and with extreme care he poured all the fluid from his thick soup into my vessel. While giving it back to me he filled his mouth with a portion of potato and said: "There you are. I saw some of your soup was spilled. For old times sake, take it," and he dismissed me with a royal gesture.
He was rewarded for his diligent kitchen work by an early repatriation as a "distrophic" a person utterly weakened by deprivation.
The majority of us enjoyed Soviet hospitality for several more years but finally we were also repatriated. I, having a bourgeois background, was exiled to a remote corner of Hungary. Here I witnessed the great event of free elections in a People's Republic. The electorate was free to elect the one candidate nominated by the single Party. To ensure the questionable outcome of the election was not sabotaged, the deportees were deprived of the right to vote. To make the election even more convincing, the Party sent orators across the country to tell the people what they wanted. My friend arrived as Party spokesman in a sleek limousine and we bumped into each other.
"Alex, my old friend," he cried. "Are you a spokesman for the Party as well?"
"Well, not exactly. I'm a deportee."
"Remember, I told you your middle-class attitude would be your downfall. I warned you not to be so proud and haughty. But it looks like I wasted my breath. You disregarded my good advice and here you are. The Party sets guidelines about fraternisation with class enemies but I'll make an exception and try to help you. Oh, there's the district Secretary! It would look bad if I was seen talking with you, and if I fall--who will help you?"
I understood his predicament. He was basically a good man, but under the circumstances...well, that was the best he could do.
After Stalin's death our deportee status was cancelled and I returned to Budapest as a bricklayer to build socialism in the capital. I understood why my pay was so low and why we were forced to live with another family in a small room. Chance brought us together once again in the turmoil of the East Railway Station. He greeted me with his legendary broad smile.
"Aha! Finally back in Budapest I see. Didn't I promise I'd help you? You see--I encouraged you not to despair. For those of us who survived the Soviet camps deportation was only child's play. I'm so sorry I can't stay and chat but I'm starving. Imagine! They elected me as an MP but at the Parliamentary buffet they serve only meat dishes on Friday. I'm sure they do that to frustrate the Catholics among us. But you know me, I stick to my moral principles. No sir, I won't budge. Well, I'm off to get something to eat. See you around sometime."
I admired him. He risked so much for his principles! It was good to know that there were people with moral standards after all, people who acted out of conviction and not from greed and self-interest. I was proud of my friend.
We didn't meet again until after the failed 1956 Hungarian uprising. We were both refugees on an ocean liner on its way to Canada. When he saw me on the deck he clutched me in a tight embrace. With tears in his eyes he said:
"How wonderful it is to see an old friend! Finally there's someone who knows my past and background. I was accepted on the ship because I was lucky enough to start English lessons a few months before the revolution broke out. You now I've always been willing to help others. Now I have a chance to act as interpreter and help with the refugees.
"But you see that young guy over there? He brags that he was a freedom fighter yet he's threatened me because I was a party member. Me! A man who only tried to help whenever I could! The ungrateful bastard doesn't understand that those who tried to help him had to be very careful how we went about it. What good would it have done if we displeased the Party and our positions were given over to the fanatics? But he refuses to see that. I'm relying on you to put in a good word for me.
He's an honest man and a good friend. He's asked me to help him out by writing a short account of his character and principles. I'm quite willing to oblige.
More Short Stories
Web site by: Rita Y. Toews