Little Views

The morning dissolves slowly. The day barges in brutally, with a crowd of people filling the streets. I am in the safety of the twilight at the bottom of a creaking wardrobe. I reach for images which exist within me, even though I am not aware of them until I dig them out, scratch them out from under the surface, unearth them. A slit, a wound. Open. Bedraggled. They emerge.

A slight young girl, in front of her a man in black uniform with a huge, snarling dog. He is holding the dog on a lead, while Donia and other girls, who all look alike, stare at him. He is swaggering a bit. Showing off here in this barn. Just a stopover along a death march route. The girls are supposed to watch because he’s got a great dog which is about to do an impressive trick. The barn is lined with shelves. The kind for storing hay. The winter is frosty. The man releases the dog and orders him to jump onto the first shelf. How proud he is of his dog, so good at fetching and following commands. He gives the command: Jump. The dog jumps. The shelf is about two meters high, maybe a touch lower. The dog almost reaches it with his front paws but doesn’t quite make it. The man orders again: Jump. The dog jumps again. This time his head reaches the shelf, but, again, he doesn’t quite make it. The man is visibly rattled, the girls...