The Story of my MissionThe Power of a Friend
I remembered slipping out of my
deep sleep into only semi-conscious state. I always woke up ten minutes to
a half-hour before the sound of the sirens that pulled my tired, swollen
body off the rock hard bed from which it rested. Although this short
period of time was the only personal time I had, I usually hated it.
Memories from the trial clouded my mind, and the pain of the eternity that
I had spent here weakened my soul. I was in constant fear of the sirens. I
knew they would go off, but when? Sometimes my heart even raced with
fear.
I had been there for about four
years. I used to keep track of the days, but then they started to slip
together. Losing track of the days slowly led to losing track of the weeks
and months. My only sense of the time was the seasons. I had often worried
about losing track of the years. Although time is not all that important,
knowing it provides security; not knowing it leaves you in complete
blackness.
My heart raced in constant fear
of the sirens. I wanted to rest my tired body, and even more my weakened
mind. I guess this torture would not have been as bad if my crimes were
true, and not made up by the Russian government. Ten years rung in my head
constantly.
My depression was even stronger
that morning. I remember thinking, "I wish I had a friend, someone to
encourage me, someone who was on my side." As tears started to fill my
eyes, I felt a hand touch my shoulder, and heard a voice that said, "It is
okay. It will be okay." What a calming effect that had over me. My heart
stopped racing and the worries in my mind disappeared, for a
while.
Still lost in the dwindling
hours of the night, waiting, my heart began to race again. I wished my
neighbor would have woken up to calm me again. I used to think of the
memories I had before my imprisonment. My family was so great and loving.
They taught me to think, to love, and to live life. Most of those memories
had vanished by then. The pain of this camp slowly erased
them.
I began to wonder if my
memories had really happened, or if they were a dream. At the camp reality
and the unreal seemed to slip together, and all of it became a figment of
my imagination.
My mind had nothing to focus on
but the pain I would experience that day. I was torn between wishing the
sirens would go off at that instant, and wishing that they would never go
off. I did not know what was more painful, the thought of the pain, or
that actual experience. When they finally did go off I remembered slowly
sliding off my bed onto the cold floor. We had very little time to get up
before the guards came in and started to punish anyone who was not on
their way to the showers.
I have done the actions so many
times by now, that I never even thought about it. My day was one big
routine, and all of it was done by instinct. That day, my body was too
tired to pull itself off the ground. I tried and tried in fear of the whip
that I knew was coming. I thought for sure I was going to get the
lashings, but then I felt two hands slip under my arms and pull me off the
cold, hard floor. It was such a little act of kindness, but it helped me
out so much. With it I avoided the whippings. After gaining my balance I
turned to thank the owner of those two kind hands, but by the time I
turned around the owner had already resumed his work. Of course, the
guards were very good at keeping the interactions between the prisoners
from happening. It was all part of the torture. Without interacting with
others we became slaves to our own minds. I knew that whoever lifted me up
did it at the risk of many lashings if one of the guards would have
seen.
I slowly walked to the showers
as the guards would yell, "Move it!" The same thing happened everyday. I
thought my body would get used to the ice cold water hitting it every
morning, taking away all the heat I had built up over the night. It never
did. Instead it got worse. The showers were effective in shocking me
awake, but it left my body in a state of coldness that did not go away
until that night when I crawled under my covers.
As I walked my chilled body
back and proceeded to dress I couldn’t help but to think how instinctive
my life had become. The camp was very efficient in turning us into
machines. I felt like I could do everything blind folded and without
putting any thought into it. In the four or so years I have been here, the
camp forced me to stop thinking. They reduced my human intellect into that
of an animal. I knew it, and knowing it only made things worse. Sure, I
would think of things in my mind, work out problems in my head, and even
create dreams filled with happiness. Without the ability to express the
emotions that came from these thoughts, it was all done in
vain.
I was filled with thoughts,
ideas, and emotions, but at the same time I was stuck in a place where the
expression of just one of these feelings would bring a severe punishment
and many days of torture. Thus, my mind had begun to enslave me as well.
It would create things of such great joy that would later torture me by
knowing that the possibility of such was completely
impossible.
As I slowly dressed, I couldn’t
stop thinking about the remaining six years I had to spend here. My body
was getting older and more tired. I did not know if it could keep the pace
the whips forced it to keep. As I slid on my old boots, I remembered when
they were new. Back then they used to keep my feet warm, but now the holes
let in cold air and snow. I wondered if I would ever get new boots, or a
new coat, or new gloves for that matter. Here I had no control over my
life. I was at the complete mercy of the camp.
Breakfast was the same thing we
always had. It was very plain food, that way we would not eat that much.
At first I was able to eat a lot of it, but I came to a point where I
could not stand to eat it. I used to have to force it down. After forcing
it down for three years, eating was just as instinctive and routine as the
rest of my day. Nothing brought thought; nothing required effort from my
mind. I just did as I had always done. After breakfast came the march
through the cold snow. Being cold was a part of life. Just like eating
breakfast and taking showers, being cold and surviving was just as
instinctive and routine as everything else. The first few months I was
here I remembered the pain was so excruciating that it brought me to
tears. Crying was useless now. It used to make me feel better, but its
effect was greatly weakened over time. After countless nights in tears, my
mind slowly lost the idea of emotion. I guess it had to for
survival.
Since it snowed that night, the
fresh powder entered in the holes of my boots as I hiked to the work site.
When I finally got there my feet were frozen to the point of numbness. It
hurt so much. My body was so sore, and cold, and tired that the thought of
anything but lying down to bed that night would have turned my brain
numb.
As I grabbed the hammer and
cutting tool and started to work, I shut my mind off. Thinking at that
moment was too much for me. I slowly chiseled the rock making the round
edges smooth and straight. I did it without any thought at all. It was
what I did everyday.
After a couple of hours my
hands and arms begin to hurt. The idea of not being able to finish today
alive slowly entered my mind. I tried to imagine walking home to my bed
later that day, but then my feet reminded me of their bitter coldness. I
thought of pulling the covers over me, but then my arms and hands reminded
me of their pain. Then my heart began to race. Was this the end? I stood
there hammering away at the rock in complete fear. My mind began to spin.
The world around me started to close in upon me. I felt myself being
pushed out of existence.
Just then, I heard something,
but what? I listened - "Goran Yankovic." What was that? My name. I had a
name. I have not heard my name since ... the trial. My life before I was
here suddenly flashed before my eyes. I could remember my family, my
friends, my job, and most importantly myself. As I started realizing these
facts the world came back to me.
I felt a hand on my shoulder,
and then I heard the words: "Look at what you have done." I looked down at
the rock, now almost square. It was an interesting thought. I did that. It
was almost perfectly square, and I did it. I then looked up and saw the
wall where all the stones were going. What a beautiful wall. The stones
fit so perfectly together. I then started working faster and faster to
complete the stone I was working on. I then thought to turn and thank the
man who saved my life, but again it was too late. When I turned around, he
wasn't there. I didn't know how the guards didn't see him. What he had
done was a miracle to me. I didn’t know how he knew I needed help until
much later.
With one simple sentence and
the touch of a hand on my shoulder, my full vision had changed. Before I
used to let the camp determine my fate, and my life. After that simple
sentence, I determined my life and my fate through the camp. I began to
express myself through the work they made me do. I remembered going home
that night crying, not because of the cold or the pain, or even the
thought of being here, but because of joy. It was an emotion that I had
long forgotten.
Laying down on my bed that
night with a smile on my face was the best moment I had in that camp. It
was a great contrast to that morning. I also wondered who had helped me
out so much that day.
Throughout the next six years
in that camp, he came to me every once in a while, always when I was down.
I never did get a chance to thank him. He even calmed me down in the few
years after the camp, when I was adjusting back to normal life. I wasn't
sure if it was the same person every time, but I thought of Him as the
same person, because His effect was always the same. I also remembered the
day when He stopped me on the street, in front of two young American
missionaries and said, "Listen to them." At first I didn't have the desire
to stop them, but I started paying attention to them. My curiosity grew
until one day I finally stopped them and asked who they were. Then the
phrase: "Listen to them," returned to my mind. They started to teach me
about Christ, and the Bible. They wanted me to pray and ask God if it was
all true.
At first I thought it was all a
stupid idea. Religion never set well with me after the camp, but the
phrase: "Listen to them," kept coming back into my mind. How could I
ignore that voice that saved my life so many years ago? I had to pray
about it.
As I prayed I finally met the
owner of that so powerful yet humble voice. I knew in an instant that it
was Christ, and he said, "It's true." Tears came to my eyes as I wanted to
thank Him for saving my life. It seemed like he read my mind because just
as the thought entered my mind He said, "If you want to thank me, join my
church and do unto others as I have done unto you."
I then thought to ask why He
choose me to save in that camp and how He knew I needed help. He told me
that He tries to help everyone, but only the humble listen. He also showed
His love for me, and then His love for everyone. He did it in a way that
did not negate his love for me in anyway, but He just showed how He can
truly love everyone.
His influence has spread into the hearts of many. His true friendship is shown by everyone in their friendships. I met many more great and powerful friends in His church that have helped me out so much. I am so thankful for their great friendship. They truly resemble my friend who saved my life. What great power a true friend has.
©Christopher Slade, 2000