This is a Clilstore unit. You can link all words to dictionaries.

Lithuanian classical writer - Forest of the Gods by Balys Suoga

V. First Night

We arrived at the place of our unknown destination right in the middle of the night.

They rolled us out of the truck, and set us up in rows of five men by a huge red brick building overgrown with trees.

Hm... If this is where we'll live, at least they'll give us a bed... A room, probably already arranged, — they wouldn't just be preparing the rooms for us now... Germans always knew how to organize... Expecting our arrival, this place was probably notified, as was the place in Tilžė...

Our beautiful perspective dreams were suddenly shattered when appearing from the devil knows where, an SS fellow, rather tall and skinny, crooked, with a flattened nose, under which he muttered something, began to wave his fist along our noses.

— Pfu — spluttered one of our own, having gotten a first in his cheek, — what kind of customs are these?

High, wide gates are seen ahead, intertwined with barbed wire. Some sort of shed is hung on the gate. Above it is a red lamp, pushed forward. From the shed, the snout of a machine gun sticks out, or some such aberration... Behind the shed, behind the gate — a long narrow yard, lined with these funny little hovels. Shacks — not shacks, barns — not barns; at night, there's no comprehending what kind of rot this is.

Suddenly, from the depths of the yard, surface two black men. Waving fat sticks, they quickly run to get us. One is tall and stolid with a voice which stands out as the singing dragon from the German opera, "Ziegfried." The second one — shorter by half, of the bruiser species — a night beast, speaking with a strong Polish accent.

A sharp curt command drove us up to one of these funny hovel like barns which showed itself to be living quarters. The black night men stopped by the door. One on one side, the other — on the other.

The Ziegfridish mouth bellowed with relish:

— Carry the pallets from one barrack to the other! 

With Jurgutis, I stood first in line — we were the first to step through the mysterious doors, guarded by two dark men.

— Hurry up, you alte Kamele — that is, you old camel! — two sticks whacked Jurgutis' back.

— Hurry up, you old carcass — I also got a label and two sticks on the neck.

Jurgutis and I were no exception — everyone got the same.

— Alte Kamele, — whack with the stick.

— Old carcass, — whack with the stick.

Everyone's rights were equal, everyone got the same except those who were sprighter and bounded like deer out of the way.

Hm... Anyway you look at it, the customs of this land are strange! I'd even prefer the old Asian greeting method, of rubbing noses with men...

Whack, whack, whack, — as many times as we went through those doors, that's how many times the sticks whacked. The third time around we already learned to stick out the pallets instead of our necks. Unfortunately, our discovery came too late: the pallets were already carried over.

Again the gargling operatic command:

— Go inside, in the barrack with the pallets; Lithuanians lay against that wall, Poles — by that one, Byelorussians — through the middle.

The sticked men, like senators of some kind, — once again by the door.

Everyone has the desire to hurry up and sneak past them and hide behind someone's back in the barrack. But when two hundred people want very much to jump through a small door very quickly — usually the door suffers. This time the sticks suffered: they broke, poor things.

— We landed in an insane asylum, or some such devil!

We tumbled, we toppled over as best we could, ignoring the ordered arrangement. Well, well, — we shall see.

The man of the bruiser species announced himself inside: he will be our boss for this night and for him, who will disobey, there will be — oho!

— There; this boss will be for one event, this — for another. He who dares look through the side window or knock on it — will be a cur's whelp, instead of being roasted like a goose.

Having established this type of order, this bruiser began tramping around the bosses. He snorted over there, snorted, swore, swore, ever slower and slower, until he became quiet.

— Is Stan finally asleep? — we sighed quietly.

Are you kidding! Suddenly he succulently cursed and again began tromping around.

— Hey, you, this and that, four legged and two legged old carcasses, bums, and curs, and another kind — he addressed himself to us — who has gold? Who has watches? Who has money? All this will be taken from you. We would be wisest to give it all to him. He'll also take bacon. He doesn't need bread — divide the bread up amongst yourselves. Well, who has gold? Who— watches?

A voice — shouting from the void. Two hundred people laying like lifeless flies. No one not only doesn't give anything but also doesn't answer.

— Hey, you, sons of all bitches, will you give me your watches?

Irate at our rudeness, he began to step through us. Strange was this man's habit of walking: he puts his foot where it lands: on someone's stomach, on someone's—chest on someone's — head. And the stick is still working — he has to lean on something: there's no light in the shed, a man could fall down.

— Hey, Judas, you're climbing on my head with your shoes, — someone shrieked in the dark.

— Dimwit, give back the watch!

Some kind of telling scuffle. The quickened panting of two men. An angry wheeze through the teeth.

— What has he thought of now?

Suddenly — some kind of breathless blow, something heavy and soft hit against the boss with good intentions and then buffeted to the floor.

— Which mongrel kicked the bruiser in the stomach? Who's kicking here like a rabid camel? Who's the bum?

Nope, there's no one like that. No one's admitting who so unroyally degraded that majestic stomach. Everyone's silent.

— For the last time, you dog crap, I'm asking: who kicked his stomach?

Look for fools somewhere else, — you'll find them in the dark! No one saw. There's no one here like that. Kickers and fools.

— Oh — so that's the way it is?! I'll show you!.. — What he threatened to do, there's no way I could write it down.

— Oh, Jesus, Mary! Oh God! — shrieking voices were heard in the dark.

The raging bruiser, no longer having the guts to step through the sprawled out forms, began clouting those laying near the boss with his stick — those which he could reach.

— From hell itself some of these arrived! — sighed my neighbor, a Pole from Bialystok, just in time to get hit on the head with the stick and now took me along with him under the pallet.

The bruiser simmered down after knocking a few more sides and necks with his stick. A human — not a machine: he tires.

He breathed with difficulty, burning with rage. For a time he talked to himself, muttering about bosses for this kind and this kind of activities, until he began to loudly snore.

His snoring was more pleasant that the warbling of a nightingale.

— Maybe that unlynched lyncher won't wake up till morning! If only the heavens wouldn't begrudge him the sweetest sleep! If only in his dreams some hangman would strangle him.

Morning wasn't far away, but...

Scientists discover dynamite... Why don't they discover an instrument which could give this night a quick little push and forever roll it away.

Short url:   https://multidict.net/cs/4386