Story 1) Prison Window

|||||Prison Window |||||
By yuez

At first glance, it was a worthless piece of junk. The thin rectangular frame, red with rust and jagged with corrosion, hid its once sturdy origin as a top-grade Soviet steel. Its prestigious credentials made it a perfect candidate, not for building steady civilian homes, but for being a potent symbol of lost freedom. The narrow opening of the window frame, barely ten centimeters wide was adequate enough to keep the skinniest convicts from escaping.

Yet it was this very frame that preserved my life in the darkest of days. In spite of its narrowness, it still allowed moonlight to pierce the solitary darkness of my cell, giving a respite to despair. The unrelenting metal also held the very granite ceiling that crushed my fellow comrades, enabling me to live, and tell my tale. But never in my newfound, post-war life, would I ever dream of seeing it again, in the busy marketplace of modern Shenyang, fifty years the Korean War.

*

The straight-backed Communist officer, with his tanned, gaunt face scarred by the fires of war, paced around impatiently in the room. In the piece of paper held in his hand, contained the identifications, and subsequent fate, of his prisoners. Yet, before they could be disposed of, the fate of his very own life depended on their confessions.

“Our Great Leader’s magnanimity knows no bounds. Do a service to the people, why be a running dog of the American Imperialists?”

“NOOOOO. I know nothing!!”

One by one, my comrades were dragged out of their prison cells for interrogation. The officer had deliberately kept the torture chamber door ajar, allowing the torments of those inside to be heard. Four weeks into this ordeal, I became familiar with the ‘itinerary’; a defiant curse, desperate screams, groans of pain, and finally silence.

That is just as well. Dead people don’t reveal secrets. In this battle of wits, the enemy kept us alive to confess military information. On the contrary, we wanted death so we could protect our fellow comrades outside the prison walls. While it is a matter of time before someone dies, an honorable one is always preferable. From what were ten prisoners in my cell, only me and a fellow pilot was left alive. I had preferred a quicker death, but even this small favor could not be granted.

The officer came out of the interrogation room, holding a pair of rusty, bloody scissors. They had been cutting fingers off stubborn prisoners, in their desperate attempt to extract information from them. I was unnerved by this prospect, but since I am going to die anyway, does it matter if my fingers enter Heaven first?

“David Putter! You are next!”

My last cellmate screamed as the North Korean soldier dragged him out to the room, cursing his tormentors in every single way possible. As the prison gates closed again, the metallic echo that resonated sounded like my death knell. I could do nothing but lie motionless on the cold, stony floor, waiting for the tortured screams to come again. Soon, it will be my own voice screaming.

Or will it be?

Before my eyes, cut onto the walls of the prison, was a thin, elongated window. It was a special window, a symbol of hope. For from this tiny opening, we savored the fresh outside air, listened to the sounds of US warplanes bombing our enemies, and admired the stars of the night. Tears flowed down my eyes as I recalled how my cellmates climbed on each other’s shoulders, taking turns to peer at the outside world, or even attempting the impossible task of escaping.

It must have been a dozen times. A hundred times perhaps. Panting, grimacing and groaning, we had all taken turns to attempt an escape through the tiny cell window, using whatever tools available, such as wooden chopsticks provided during meals, and even our teeth. None of us succeeded, although after each failed attempt, we could not help but laugh bitterly at ourselves.

“Now I regret not going for those slimming programmes!”

“I wish my head was smaller!”

“My torso more flexible!”

But those moments were gone. Locked alone in the cell, with everyone else vanished from my sight; I was mentally prepared to eat my Last Supper. I was about to give my life for Freedom, at last. Instead of fear, a strange sense of pride engulfed me. It was bittersweet, like the water I tasted when the black rain fell through the tiny window, a placid mixture of water and soot from burning cities.

A sudden rattling of metal bars shook me from my stupor, and I saw the prison guard push a bowl of rice gruel into my cell, leaving without a word. Dragging myself across the dusty floor, I sipped the disgusting white liquid, spitting it out in no time despite my unbearable hunger. Then out nowhere, a rational voice spoke in my head.

As long there is life, there is hope.

I slowly pushed myself up, standing to face the window. Perhaps, I thought, it isn’t as small as it looks. Fed on this excellent North Korean POW diet of rice gruel for a month, I am perhaps sufficiently thin enough by now? How would not I know if I don’t try hard enough?

It is now or never.

I examined the window closely. One meter in height, fifteen centimeters in width, reinforced by steel on its edges. Located two meters above the ground, it was perfectly reachable by jumping, and possibly a determined escape. I began to tell myself that this is just like a game I used to play in childhood, when I broke into my New York apartment window after forgetting my house keys for the umpteenth time.

I would have roared like an injured tiger, but alerting the guards is the last thing on my mind. Stealth is crucial to escape. Like a nimble Ninja, I pushed my legs off the ground with all the strength I can master. My effort failed. With a dull thud, I slammed face first into the wall, breaking my nose and feeling warm blood dripping.

The spirit had been willing, but the flesh was weak.

I had forgotten how malnourished I had been, so weak that I could hardly jump. As I wiped the blood off my broken nose, I turned around fearfully for any signs of guards approaching, but there was none. David’s screams had begun to fill up the entire prison walls, his wails of agony echoing across the prison chambers, and filling my heart with an unspeakable terror. Yet this had given me cover to escape, as the guards could not hear my movements with the loud screams all over the prison.

Positioning myself at one end of the tiny prison cell, I dashed forward and leaped towards the window. With this final, insurmountable effort, my desperate fingers miraculously clasped onto a steel bar on the window. Panting frantically, I devoted every ounce of energy I had into this escape effort.

I must try to escape.

I pulled with all my might, kicking desperately against the wall, sweating profusely, even crying. David screams kept getting louder, more tortured. Nonetheless, it would be a matter of time before his screams disintegrate into pitiful wails, and eventual silence. By then, the guards would come for me, their final victim. Time is running short.

Squeeze!

My eyes finally caught sight of the world beyond the window. There was a metal fence, and beyond that fence laid vast grassland, and a river streaking across it. Bit by bit, my face squeezed into the window. First inch. Second inch… Third. Gritting my teeth, I hunched my shoulders and tried pushing them through the darned opening. It didn’t seem to budge, for the steel and rock was too solid. Why are we not like machines, which can dissemble and assemble themselves easily? Why? Why?

The window ledge was wet with my sweat, and my fingers were beginning to feel numb. Against all willpower, my tired muscles began to give way, slowly and gradually. Even my heart, which was beating with excitement seconds ago, seemed to be worn down by fatigue. I clung onto the ledge as long as I could, before the window seemed to be wretched away from my grip. Slamming onto the ground, I lost consciousness.

*

I was dreaming. I was flying solo on my plane, navigating the North Korean skies, and dodging anti-aircraft fire. My rudder had been hit, and my engine was beginning to burn out. Desperate, I pressed the faulty ejection button repeatedly, but it failed to work. As the ground loomed nearer, I pushed open the cockpit cover, and leaped into the air. I landed with a loud splash on the river, right in front of an enemy patrol.

“US Bombers! US Bombers!”

Opening my eyes, my face received the faint sunlight shining through the thin window. My eyes, blurred with tears, caught a glimpse of huge US planes flying across the sky. Every time they flew past, the North Koreans would panic, cease all activities and seek refuge in bomb shelters, leaving their prisoners to their fate; a prolonged life or a fiery end.

There were no more sounds from the interrogation room. David was probably dead by now. My escape attempt had failed, and the fleeting glimmer of idealism had given way to resignation. How can the tiny window be my route of escape? I had been too silly. There was nothing left to do now, except to wait for death.

*

I do know when the blast came, except that a searing pain on my left leg jerked me into consciousness. Smoke, dust and scotching heat surrounded me, threatening to burn into my skin. Could this possibly be the fire of Hell? I raised my hands and touched my face, hair and parched lips. They seem very real and solid, nothing like a dream, or afterlife. Nonetheless, it makes no difference. If I am not to be tortured to death, I would be burned alive in this raging fire.

Opening my eyes slowly, I surveyed my surroundings. Is this a dream? The dimensions of the cell have changed, and the window was now above me, save for miraculous gap remained between my body and the granite ceiling, with the window opening barely ten inches from my face. Through the window, I saw dozens of American bombers streaking across the sky, and then disappearing into the horizon.

I understood now, the Americans had dropped a bomb on my prison by mistake, killing most of the prisoners inside. While my luck was big enough to survive the initial impact, it was perhaps not sufficient to prevent me from being burnt alive. Suddenly, the idea of being killed instantly by falling concrete seemed attractive.

Shutting my tired eyelids, I waited as I felt the temperatures rise steadily around me, listening closely to the sound of flames licking away at the metal, wood and dead bodies. I could imagine a situation more bitter and ironic; the prison walls had collapsed, my captors killed, but freedom still remained elusive.

I do not know how long I lay trapped in the rubble, it seemed forever. My thoughts drift back to the happy old days, when I tasted my first ice cream, scored my first touchdown, and held hands with my girl Julie. I recalled my last conversation with her, before I left for American bases in Japan. She must have been very worried for me. How I longed to return to her!

The sound of planes approaching came again. I opened my eyes, wondering if it is another round of bombing. Thankfully, they were transport planes, not B-52 bombers. Tears began to flow down my cheeks, as green flowers appeared blooming en masse across the horizon, weighed down by tiny figures. They were jumping off military planes streaking across the sky, each with the familiar stars and stripes painted on its cockpit.

My fellow countrymen are parachuting into enemy territory. They would land near the prison, and rescue me from the rubble finally. There was a flash of lightning and rumble of thunder, and drops of water began to fall through the sky, drowsing out the fire timely. The raindrops fell through the window, mingled with my tears and sweat, and I licked them happily. My ordeal is going to be over.

*

“Where did you get this window frame?” I asked the Chinese seller behind his booth.

“Next to the ruins of former Yongbon prison. The North Koreans across the border sold it to me for a living. Good Soviet metal. This is!”

“Alright. I shall buy it. How much?”

Staring at me in bewilderment, the scrap metal seller could not comprehend why an eighty plus Caucasian man would want to buy this rusty junk. I paid 10 Yuan to bring the remains of the old Yongbon Prison window frame back home, a ridiculously high price for the seller. But to me, it was priceless. This was a broken window that gave me hope, in the darkest of days.

-end-