by Attila Orosz
New Dawn
Attila Orosz
Second e-book edition
Published in 2017
by The Unseeing Eye
Budapest, Hungary
Copyright © 2017 Attila Orosz
All rights reserved
ISBN 978-963-12-8546-8 (epub)
ISBN 978-963-12-8547-5 (kindle)
ISBN 978-963-12-8548-2 (pdf)
To those who fell victim to people smugglers, or the negligence of the developed world, while looking for a chance of survival.
May they rest in peace.
Chapter One
Jumaane perched on the edge of the concrete wall that stood between him and freedom. He was peering into the darkness, trying to measure the distance to the ground. Safety was on the other side, with the promise of peace and an end to all suffering; but the wall was high, the ground below dark, and he could not see where he would land. He drew a deep breath, trying to summon his courage. His heart beat faster, and for a moment he forgot about the hunger, the cold, and the exhaustion. He felt that this was the place he had been looking for, that this might be a new start, the chance of a new life. Only one last jump…
Few of his companions had survived the hunger and the cruelty of the smugglers, and most of those who had made it alive to the shores of Europe had soon died of cold or starvation in the weeks that followed. There was no way of telling how many days they spent running across unknown lands, empty settlements, and cold wilderness. They met few people, trying to keep out of sight, out of their way. None of them knew where they were headed but, after what felt like weeks in the strange wilderness and rummaging through abandoned villages, they arrived at the wall. They could not know what was on the other side, but it could only be better than what they had left behind.
When he scaled the wall, he did it without thinking or precaution, together with those who had made it that far. It was easy to climb; there were plenty of hand and footholds to grab onto. He was exhausted, but his resolve gave him strength. Safety was there, so close. He only needed to summon up a little more courage.
Then the searchlights lit up, and the climbers began to fall off, one by one. He heard distant gunfire; it probably came from the watchtowers, visible on both sides, hundreds of metres away. There were no rapid explosions of machine guns, which he was used to hearing at home. These were single shots, with long pauses of dreadful silence between them. Some of them missed, bouncing off, or burrowing deep into the wall, but most hit their targets.
Jumaane kept on climbing amidst the ricochet of bullets as people quietly died around him. Those who had banded together for the journey through the land, who had survived the horrors of the sea, people who had nothing left to lose, were being denied a chance to reach safety. He could do nothing to save them, barely hoping to be able to save himself.
Only two of them had made it to the top, and now Jumaane was crouching some feet away from his former companion. They had travelled together this far, but freedom was near now, and they did not need each other any longer. Their companionship was born out of desperation and, now that they were so close, Jumaane felt the duress that kept them together melt away. He was on his own, and so was the other man. His future was his own now, and it was one leap away. He saw the other man in the distance looking down, getting ready to jump. Then a searchlight lit the top of the wall again, and they both dived into the darkness.
It was a long drop and he rolled on his back when he reached the ground until he came to a halt. His legs ached; his left ankle was red hot pain. He had hit his head, and the world became a blur. He could faintly see the other man get up and limp away, disappearing into the shadows without looking behind.
Then he heard gunfire and a thud. Jumaane strained his eyes, trying to see if the man got away, but he could only see the motionless darkness, contrasting with the sharp beams of searchlights as they moved across the black grass. He pressed himself against the stone wall as tightly as he could, and dared not move. He lay low to make sure that the lights did not follow him. He tried to be as still as he could, holding his breath and closing his eyes, until the dull pain in his head subsided somewhat. When he opened his eyes to look around, nothing moved, and even the lights began to fade. He lay there for what seemed a long time after the searchlights died away, but still nobody came for him. There was no more sound of guns being fired. He had made it. The land where there was no fighting, no hunger, and all men were free, was real. And he was here now. So far away from home, Jumaane felt for the first time that he might yet find peace on Earth.
***
After a few more minutes of lying still, when he felt sure that nobody would find him, he got up and instinctively reached for his only possession, the small photograph he carried in his pocket. It was gone. He shuffled around a little, trying to find it in the darkness. He had kept the little frameless picture safe throughout the long journey; he could not just lose it now! He crouched down and felt the ground with his hands. The grass was hard and crumbled under his palms, like pieces of charcoal, but he felt nothing else. He got down on his knees and swept the ground, but the photograph was not there. Sweat broke out on his forehead. What if he had lost it on the other side?
Then something seemed to move far ahead in the darkness. Jumaane stopped. He held his breath. Nothing. He looked for more movement, but only saw the motionless night. He began to crawl backwards slowly and as carefully as he could, then pressed his back against the wall when he reached it, and tried to stay still. Everything remained quiet, so he let out a shallow breath. He thought to risk getting up again when he felt a familiar texture under his palm. Jumaane picked up the frayed piece of paper and kissed the treasured image with a deep sigh. It was the only thing left he could hold onto.
He put the photograph back into his pocket, then started to creep away from the wall, moving as slowly as he could. He dragged himself on shaky elbows, keeping his head close to the ground. He could feel the hardened grass crumble into pieces of charcoal underneath him. He smelled burned leaves and smoke, mixed with a stinging chemical odour.
After a long crawl, Jumaane finally crouched up and looked around. The towers were far away now and there were no searchlights visible. He waited and listened. There was no movement. He tried his legs, his ankle still hurt, but he ignored the pain. He got up and started to run with a limp.
It’s over! At last! As he ran, he felt all the pain melt away in his body, his hunger subsided and the feeling of cold, and the dampness of the alien weather of Europe no longer bothered him. Jumaane laughed, first just to himself, then out loud. He focused on gaining speed. He ran with heavy breaths and unsteady steps, but with the strength of determination and hope. He had almost forgotten what hope felt like, but now it was giving him life and made him light, urging him forward, making him feel that he could run forever. He ran into the darkness, into the freedom, into his new life, across the burned flatland, towards safety. The next moment he ran into a sudden sharp light and saw a soldier pointing a gun at him, shouting something he could not understand.
***
Lance Corporal Peter Markovic was looking at a black face through the sight of his rifle, illuminated by the sharp LED torch attached to his weapon.
“Stop right there!” he yelled at the unmoving figure. He felt disturbed by the sight, and strangely numb. The Lance Corporal was well prepared and had strict orders for such situations, yet he found himself paralysed and unable to act, or think straight.
It was an unusually dark night. Heavy clouds hung low overhead, and the lights of the towers were too far away to see by. All he could make out was a black face, carved with the deep lines of age and badly healed wounds. There was a patchy black beard and a balding head. The torn collar of a dirty, ragged shirt was still vis
ible in the circle of his torchlight, but the rest of the trembling figure was covered by the darkness.
Peter’s palms began to sweat. He could not pull the trigger, something was paralysing his fingers. He was looking into the yellow eyes of the illegal as they stared at him from their deep seated sockets. There was something in those eyes that made his hands shake. They brought back memories of childhood, when he had first seen a man die. It had been a black man too, or so he had thought, innocent as he was still.
***
Those days, before the construction of The Wall had been completed, riots and border breaches were still an everyday reality. News reports of migrants, who had made it across the defences and rummaged through the villages and small towns, looking for food and clothing, filled every TV station. The news was full of images of the destruction they had left behind, saying that they took everything they could, and often killed those who tried to resist. People had been warned not to confront them because they were dangerous; but rather to rely on the army who would do everything to protect their lives and property. Peter was too young to understand the words, but the images of burning houses, and black men struggling with soldiers and policemen made a deep impression on his mind. He had never met a black person, but he was often unable to sleep, afraid that they would come in the dark of the night and hurt him.
That evening, his family was having dinner in the small house his father was hardly able to pay for. They just sat down, his father talking about his day at work, his mother bringing food. It was a quiet evening. Peter sat there, looking up at his father’s tired figure and wondered what he was talking about, his words making little sense to a child.
Then the door flew open and a man rushed into the house, dashing for the laid out table, grabbing at the food with long black fingers. His father hit him hard on the head, and the black man fell to the floor. Peter heard his mother scream as she pushed him under the table, yelling at him not to move.
He watched the black face while trying to hide behind the tablecloth. It was nightmare coming to life; a black man came for him, and he had nowhere to hide. The migrant was looking at him with yellow-white eyes. Those eyes in the skeleton-like head looked more scared than he was, yet strangely defiant, and full of hate.
Peter heard his mother cry, and his father shout. He was paralysed with fear, his eyes wide open, staring at the face in front of him. The black migrant tried to move, but a hit on the back of his head rendered him motionless. The man did not move again. He was just lying there, with eyes fixed on Peter’s. His face was set, but expressionless, and the eyes slowly became less determined, more dream-like. Then a great loud noise came, and the eyes did not look at him anymore. Peter thought they looked like somebody turned off the light inside them.
His mother reached down for him and took him out from under the table, up into her sweet embrace. She was still sobbing, but she said that everything would be fine, and that he shouldn’t be scared, they were safe. His father stood there panting, holding his service weapon. When Peter looked down, the migrant’s head was all red and the back of the skull was missing. He wanted to cry, but he felt like fainting.
***
The Lance Corporal’s stomach was a tight knot. Looking at this face now, that brought back long forgotten memories, was already non-compliance, formerly unknown to him. His orders were clear: every illegal was to be shot without delay. Identification was easy. Every non-military person found within Zone-2 was considered an illegal, regardless of colour, or being a US of E citizens or otherwise. For Zone-2 and beyond, the term was generally used for those from outside The Wall, the fourteen metre tall and thousands of kilometres long concrete border-protection, marking the end of the United States of Europe. As far as he knew, it also meant the end of the civilised world. Beyond The Wall there was nothing, only chaos and the ruins of what was once called the Balkans.
He noticed the precipitation on the illegal’s face. Its mouth opened as if it wanted to speak. He had to focus. Either I shoot the illegal, or I’ll be executed for insubordination. It was an easy choice to make, but it did not seem so easy to do now. Despite all he had learned, in the face of all that he had ever been told, all he saw before him was a man shaking with fear. The eyes were now pleading, looking at him, burrowing deep into his own. He could not take his eyes off him. He saw tears there, this man had feelings. Something was not right. How can he— it be scared and fearful?
“Ne tirez pas!” said the illegal in a trembling whisper.
Peter’s head began to spin. He had never heard them talk. He did not understand what it said, but it sounded desperate.
“Wala risasi… tafadhali, wala risasi!” The black man was choking with fear.
Peter felt the weight of his rifle now. It was a lightweight weapon, and he was used to holding it all the time, yet somehow he was more aware of its weight now, it pulled heavily on his arms. His hands still trembling, he adjusted the rifle’s position, which made the sharp circle of light drop somewhat lower. He felt a relief as the black face faded into darkness.
***
Jumaane stood still, feeling as heavy and motionless as a rock. That was it then, he thought. He was gazing into the bright torch, attached to the rifle that was pointed directly at his forehead. Behind the weapon was a man in uniform, but blinded by the bright light he could barely make out the figure. The man had shouted something at him in a language he had never heard before, and moved so close to him, the barrel of the gun was almost touching him now.
Jumaane was trying to get a foothold on anything more solid than the rising sea of fear that roared in his ears with every beat of his heart. His legs were trembling. He tried to control them, but he only felt weak. Despite the chill of the night air, he was sweating. His ears were drumming violently, and his neck tightened, almost exploding with blood rushing through his veins. The other was looking at him, but did not move. Why doesn’t he just shoot?
He had tried to plead in French first. The language was brought to Africa by the white man once, and Jumaane was sure that they spoke French in Europe, but the man had not answered. He had also tried in his own tongue, with no answer still. His thoughts started to fade, tears filled his eyes. It was hopeless. He had been free for a moment, and it was probably all he could hope for in this life.
Then he saw the gun drop lower. The torch no longer blinded him, but his eyes were burning, and all he could see was a dim figure, surrounded by darkness. He won’t shoot me in the head, he thought. After all, black men and white men were not so much different. Black militia usually shot people in the chest; they said shooting the heart was a surer kill. So the white soldier must be thinking the same. Jumaane hoped it was true, and it would be all over in an instant.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of his family, when they had been still alive. He wanted to hold their image in his mind, to be the last thing he would see; but images of his wife screaming as the militants violated her, and the lifeless bodies of their children invaded his thoughts. He tried to force himself to see them alive, the way they looked on the photograph he carried. He tried to remember the day the picture was taken, he wanted to die remembering it, but all he saw before him was death. The smell of the charcoaled grass reminded him of his burning hut. The man in uniform was just like those that took his family away. Those had taken his reason to live, now this one would take his life too. He knew he would soon be joining his family, wherever they were now. There was no peace on Earth, freedom was a fancy, and Jumaane knew he was going to die.
Chapter Two
Alex Lewis cursed silently under his breath. He had watched the arrival drop in, quite literally, from the top of the fourteen metre high wall, and tracked him, only to lose him right before he could make contact. At the HUM HQ, they called them by code names, like ‘arrival’ when they first came in, then ‘transit’ while they were being delivered to the HQ, where they would be properly cared for, becoming a ‘delivery’, then later on a ‘cargo’. Alex was
only concerned with the first steps, getting the arrivals into transit and dropping them off into delivery status, ensuring their safety, and that they would be transported away from the hostile borderlands.
He was getting ready to make contact. He saw the man fumble in the darkness, crawl for a short distance, then start to run. Alex tried to reach him as quietly as he could on the crunching grass; drawing attention was the worst that could happen. He was sure he could outrun the limping man with little effort, but he had to move with as little noise as possible, and the pursuit took a lot longer than he had planned for. He was closing in, and almost made contact, when they both ran right into the border patrol, who had just come up from the tunnels right in front of them.
He was not sure if it was instinct that stopped him, or his reactions were faster than his recognition, but as the torchlight appeared out of nowhere and met the dark figure he was chasing, Alex threw himself flat on the ground. The black jacket he wore gave him cover, and now he pulled his dark skullcap lower to hide his face as much as he could. He was sure he had not been seen, even though he was lying only a few paces away. The border guard was only concerned with the arrival.
That’s it. There goes the transit; there goes another night’s work! He only had two days before the next departure of deliveries and not much chance for any more live arrivals, not with the borders being all quiet lately. And no deliveries meant no payment, only long and empty days with nothing to fill them, until he could expect to be sent out to the field again.
He heard the guard shout, and the arrival said something in a foreign language. He watched them stand there, gun raised at the black man’s head, and he held his breath. All three of them were motionless. The air became thick. Even the slight breeze seemed to have ceased and it suddenly felt unusually hot for the season. Alex watched the two men gaze into each other’s eyes, between them the weapon ready. He expected the explosion from the automatic rifle’s muzzle to tear the arrival’s head clear off from such a close range. But nothing happened.
