23 May 2013 fiction, Marina (2 drafts)

Draft 1: 

Marina believed in the romanticism of life. It’s one of the qualities I most wish I had. She could take something small and believe instead in its enormity. She took joy in stories such as the man and the starfish along the beach.

Her favorite creature was a caterpillar. Not a butterfly, she believed them to be cliché. But a caterpillar. A slimy little worm with a fat roll for a body and eyes black with longing to develop, to change. She collected them on her finger, picked them right out of the grass and let them crawl to their little hearts’ content. It made her smile, and she would look up with her big blue eyes. “Wanna hold him?” I never did.

            I remember the way Marina used to smile at me. Her gentle lips would curve, and her red nail polish would sparkle as she brought her fingers to cover the cherry abyss of soft words.

Time was kind to Marina, I can attest to that. As she grew into her eyelashes and gained the swirl of her hips that every woman needs to truly conquer sensuality, I remember watching in awe. How life could develop that way amazed me.

I remember the day when Marina’s smile dimmed. We were listening to the radio for the first time in weeks; the war was raging and we didn’t want to get out of touch. War in its infinite ugliness took away the bliss of ignorance.

The words stung like daggers. Well, one word in particular, really: deportation. As if my yellow star wasn’t dangerous enough. You could be beaten to death in the streets simply for looking at someone the wrong way; it didn’t matter because the star was a toxin. It made you hideous to look at, a waste of god’s energy manifested into a spirit of supposed worthlessness. The toxin was so strong that eventually you were forced to believe in it.

Marina looked at me with fearful eyes, but they lingered only for a moment. Something stronger pulled at her; she blinked and turned toward the bedrooms. Her ears cocked, she stood silent as a mouse and still as a cocoon, waiting for a muffled cry to push her fear underneath her instincts.

The ghettos were awful; I remember them as the worst kind of prison. Humiliation was the main focus of all those around us. It was as if we were vermin. Crammed into little spaces meant to quarantine us in our disease spread by the toxin of the yellow star.

Marina would occasionally bring me food, but she never ventured past our secret meeting spot: just outside the ghetto. I spared her the details regarding my living conditions; to this day I will never know whether she actually knew what they were like.

I remember that day my worst nightmare became a reality. Deportation was no longer just a phrase, and the day came for me to take my turn. I spent days on end crushed against the walls of a car meant for cattle. I suppose it was fitting. To be treated as an animal from the very beginning. The fear was the worst. I feared for myself, but mostly I feared for Marina. She couldn’t live without me, without my income, without my reassurance that things would be okay. A beautiful Christian girl, I believed, was next. How naïve. Her beauty was what saved her.

Days in the camp were long, bitter, painful. Mocking signs, dirty faces, and stinging words almost killed me. But nothing could ever compare to the day when I saw Marina again. She was behind bars, but it was I who was on the wrong side. A man held her hand, smacked me across the face for taking too long a glimpse. She was more beautiful than I remembered, but her smile was not the same. Everything about her seemed wrong.

I became numb. To understand was to die, I believed, therefore I refused to comprehend. I moved with the motions of a corpse, and did not wish to see Marina again. Little did I know that Marina was yet another matter with which I had no say.

The next time I saw her was the last. It was the end, the final destination, the time for me to see my god. The god of tolerance, the god of hypocrisy. As I was undressing to take a final shower, I saw her again. Her lipstick cherry red, her eyes a dull gray, her nails gripping a key.

We were separated by a wall of people, and I was forced head-on into a man who moved me into the chamber, the deathly shower. As the door was closed, I remember closing my eyes and taking one last deep breath.

Suddenly the door creaked open again, and a hand grasped me, pulling me out of the chamber and into the “fresh” air again. As I blinked open my eyes, I caught one last glimpse of cherry red lips as Marina swallowed the key and closed herself inside.

The tiny space was not mine to keep; I was forced to trade my death.

I hope she dreamed of caterpillars.

  

ALTERNATE ENDING

            The next time I saw Marina was the last. It was the end, the final destination, the time for me to see my god. The god of tolerance, the god of hypocrisy. As I was undressing to take my final shower, I saw her again. Her eyes were gray, her lips were pale, and her nails were chipped. She gripped the hand of a man in uniform next to her, and did not blink once. She watched as people piled into the room, and I truly believe she did not see a single one of them.

            We were separated by a wall of people, but luck pushed us together once again, and I was brought to the front of the line, inches from Marina and her soldier. She saw me and finally blinked. She dropped the man’s hand, and brought both her own hands to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. She stared at me, searched my face with every ounce of her being, pulled at me with every bit of her mental strength.

The moment was brief, and I was pushed forward again, into the showers. Before the door closed, I saw Marina reach for me with both arms, tears absolutely overtaking her. The door shut and I heard her screams. I heard her pleading, I heard both her fists on the door, and as I took my last breath, I believe I heard Marina mirror me and fall to the floor.

Draft 2: 

Marina believed in causes greater than herself. It’s one of the qualities I most wish I had. She could take an abstract idea, an idea for the greater good perhaps, and make it fit her personality. She delighted in stories that involved small people fighting for something universal.

Her favorite animal was an elephant. She loved their size, the way they reached up to the sky with their beautiful gray skin, the way they could shake the ground with a simple step, the way the power inside of them was hidden behind a mask of peace. What animal, after all, considered the elephant its predator? With all its size, and what animal did the elephant make its prey?

I remember the way Marina used to smile at me. Her normally confident face would become soft, she would wrinkle her eyebrows and I relished in the fact that all it took to conquer this soft mountain was the image of my own simple countenance.

I can attest to the fact that time ripened Marina in mind and body. She grew into her thoughts; she learned to use her smile to gain approval, to gain assistance, to gain success. It was wonderful to watch, really. The way time could develop a person into something new and unique, it was fantastic.

I remember the day when Marina’s smile dimmed. We were listening to the radio regularly, Marina wished to learn everything there was to know about a war that had begun to take control. The words made me cringe, and I could tell that it hurt Marina to have to listen to a country’s ideas about honorability when my gentle nature had always taught her allthat  she needed to know.

One word was enough to hurt me: deportation. As if my yellow star wasn’t dangerous enough already. Looking at someone the wrong way, saying something, breathing too heavily, all could lead to brutality in the streets. It didn’t matter, the star was a toxin. It spread through your bloodstream like poison, turned all features of your humanity away, at least in the eyes of others. Eventually the poison became so strong even you were forced to believe in it.

Marina looked at me with fearful eyes, but the fear slowly faded as a greater cause pulled at the very fabric of her morality. It wasn’t her fault. She simply struggled to find the right way down a cluttered path.

The ghettos were more constricting than any prison. Humiliation was the main focus of all those around me, and I only saw Marina once or twice, when she would bring me things to read: newspaper clippings and magazines. Literature, keeping myself up to date, she believed, would be my salvation.

Finally the day came, and I was deported. As I was crushed against the walls of a cattle car, I feared for my own life, but mostly I feared for Marina. She wasn’t a bad person, and I prayed again and again for God to be kind, for God to protect her from the cruelty of this world. A beautiful and intelligent Christian girl, I believed, was next. How naïve. Those were the ingredients of her salvation.

Days in the camp were grueling. Everything around me was dehumanizing, and I remember wishing for the release of death. Nothing on the other side could be worse than this hell I was living in. But the day I saw Marina again was like nothing I could ever have imagined. We were both in uniform, yet it was I who in the wrong one. She stared at me, shocked, I believe, to see me where I was. As tears welled up, she slapped a prisoner in anger, then put her hand to her mouth in shock. I was pushed away from my view of her, or I would have kept watching. I wished never to see Marina again. In my memory she was still my noble savior, the one who kept me in line, the one who believed in the greater good only if it was just that: good. Little did I know that Marina was yet another matter with which I had no say.

The next time I saw her was the last. It was time for me to travel into the infamous showers. I had heard the rumors, I knew what was coming, and I was willing to breathe in the sweet poison of death. I was mentally dead already, and it was time, I believed it.

I saw her behind a fence of people, and I blinked to make sure I was not mistaken. She was shoving people forward, and she had not seen me yet. As the small room filled up, I was not sure if I would make it into this cycle of showers. Finally I came to the front of the line, where Marina was motioning people into the shower room. She saw me and all of her movements stopped. Her eyes were more gray than I had ever seen them, and she looked mentally worse off than I did. She stared at me for a moment that felt like an eternity, then finally ripped her gaze away. As she looked around and noticed that no other guards were paying attention, she grabbed my face and kissed me on both cheeks, forced me backward, and leapt into the gas chamber, slamming the door behind her.

I was too shocked to move, and I was forced out of the shower area, where I later learned that my luck had saved me: the showers could not run again that day. They were highly overused, and my life was spared.

The tiny space was not mine to keep, I was forced to trade my death.

I hope she dreamt of big, beautiful, gray elephants. 

ALTERNATE ENDING

The next time I saw Marina was the last. It was time for me to travel into the infamous showers. I had heard the rumors, I knew what was coming, and I was willing to breathe in the sweet poison of death. I was mentally dead already, and it was time, I believed it.

I saw her behind a fence of people, and I blinked to make sure I was not mistaken. As I approached the front of the line, I saw how haggard she had become. It pained me to see her this way, and I managed to slip by her before she saw me enter the gas chamber. As she began closing the door, she finally saw me, and whatever was left of her shattered. Her morality told her to open the door again, I could see the idea flash across her eyes. But a man with a gun behind her told her another story of heroism. She let go of the door and the weight of it forced it to close itself. Through the last crack of connection between the two rooms, I saw Marina sink to the floor on her knees and put her hands over her eyes.

I took a final deep breath, and Marina’s scream serenaded me as I floated upwards into the clouds.