Winfred

18

Official Report

British Intelligence

Code: 3986

Kathleen Winfred

Not Like the Others

It did not take long for me to figure out what Pirot had meant about Von Steubon. My enlightenment came on the same day that I decided that I was too tired to go on.

It was January, and it was snowing again. We were shoveling the road...again.

It was cold, so cold.

I remember that the thin shoes I was wearing could hardly keep out the cold, and they eventually were overcome by the wetness of the snow as well and my feet became wet.

I had become even thinner by this point, and my stamina was almost nonexistent. I made the best possible effort to stand up, to keep going, to make my tired arms move the shovel. 

But the snow was heavy, and I was nearing the brink of complete exhaustion. I was shoveling next to Virginia, and she constantly whispered words of encouragement to me. 

Eventually, it was all too much. My feet had become wet and blistered, and altogether too cold. I could tell from the sticky feeling in my shoes that they had begun to bleed. It became to painful for me to pick up my feet and continue walking. I tried to use my shovel for support.

And then I collapsed. I found that I physically could not keep going. My stomach was empty; it felt as though it were shriveling, twisting in on itself. My feet were in such pain, pain that was thankfully numbed somewhat by the cold. My hands were stiff and I panicked when I could not move my arms with the degree of responsiveness of a healthy person.

I had already made up my mind that I was going to die here when the soldiers advanced on me. 

They mocked me.

They called me names I will not repeat. 

They kicked me, as they had kicked Virginia. I caught her wide-eyed, shocked gaze when I briefly opened my eyes. She began to step forward but I managed to find the energy to shake my head, and Jessica came forward to stop her. 

One of the soldiers grabbed me roughly by the hair and that pain pushed me over the edge and I threw up again. However, I had nothing to throw up, so I lay there, dry-heaving, on the ground. When it was finished, the soldiers came forward again. I could not move; I was so weak already and the dry-heaving had weakened me even more. I closed my eyes and waited for the soldiers boots to pummel me once more.

But they never did, because they were stopped when Von Steubon arrived. My confused mind briefly wondered why he never showed up at the shoveling until something like this happened. 

"Enough," he said. I remember the silence that fell. I could hear my own breath rasping in my throat. 

When Von Steubon ordered me to get up, I gave it my best attempt, and managed to drag myself into a half sitting position, from which I tried to stand.

I almost fell over, and it was clear to me that I physically could not stand. This only caused me, in my delirious state, to panic. I feared that death was coming for me.

My knees buckled and the ground was suddenly rushing towards my face. I smacked my jaw on the hard frozen ground. (I would later be amazed that I had not broken something, as I was completely unable to move my arms to block my fall.) I heard the sounds of Jessica's tears and a soldier telling her to shut up. 

Then Von Steubon was next to me, gripping my arm tightly, and jerking me roughly to my feet. If I had been coherent, I might have admonished him for almost ripping my arm out of its socket, but I could say nothing, other than small mutters, incoherent to anyone listening. 

Von Steubon half-led, half-dragged me back towards the prison. I almost fell again, and his grip on my arm tightened.

"Walk," he told me, harshly, and I tried. God, I tried. 

I remember vaguely realizing that his heavy-handed grip seemed to be meant to support me, rather than to hurt me.

He brought me to a small room, furnished with one desk and two chairs, one on either side of the table. It seemed to be a sort of interrogation room, and I wondered if he was going to interrogate me. I became afraid that he would, because if he did, I could not answer.

The room was heated by a small stove in the corner and I remember how lovely the warmth felt. Me arms began to move at my command once more, and my fingers began to sting with the return of warmth. There was nothing else, however, now that the cold was gone, to numb my feet, or the large cut I only just realized I had received on my forehead. 

Von Steubon's face remained impassive, as he set a washcloth on the table before me. 

I believe he meant me to clean up my face, and the blood which felt sticky on my head. I felt too exhausted to reach for the rag, to raise my hands and care for myself, even when given the opportunity. 

He seemed to realize this, because his frown deepened. However, he stepped forward and picked up the rag, leaning over me and beginning to roughly clean the wound on my head. He remained frowning and sullen the entire time.

Finally, he finished, and I thanked God, because the roughness of the rag had really been starting to pain my wound, aside from the fact that Von Steubon was not gentle.

He went to the door and opened it a crack, muttering something to someone on the other side. Moments later, he left the room, only to return soon after carrying a bowl of some good-smelling food, from which steam was still rising. 

My stomach twisted in knots, the ache of hunger almost overwhelming me. I thought that, if only Von Steubon would give me that soup, I could find the energy to eat it. 

I was entertaining irrational thoughts of trying to overpower him, claiming the soup as my prize, when he set it down roughly before me, a bit of broth sloshing over the edge of the bowl.

"Eat," he commanded me.

I took the spoon and began to eat, hungrily, taking bite after bite as quickly as I possibly could. 

"Slowly!" he admonished me, his voice harsh.

I realized the sense in this command, and began to eat more slowly. After all, I am sure he did not want me to throw up all over him again from eating too quickly. 

Von Steubon turned abruptly and made his way towards the door, presumably to leave.

"I'm still not sorry for vomiting on your boots," I said, loudly enough for him to hear. (Virginia must have rubbed off on me.) 

He departed without responding to that comment.