- For Teachers
Please, would you proofread the eight part of my short story "A Flat", please would you proofread it.
A few hours passed before the door opened, but instead of someone apologising him, two brawny guards came inside and ordered him to follow them outside in the brightly lit corridor. He could feel the smell of garlic and slivovitz in their breath and stale sweat emanating from their strong bodies.
They walked down the corridor and then ascended the concrete stairs and walked down another corridor until the guards opened the door without knocking at it and shoved him inside the small, windowless room. A man in his forties sat at the table, smoking and leafing through some papers. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt which sleeves were rolled up above his elbows.
The room was lit by one single lamp hanging above the wooden table. “Please, take your seat, comrade Ivan,” he said and pointed at the wooden chair across the table from him. Ivan sat down, his eyes following the coils of smoke coiling upwards.
“Who do you work for?” asked the interrogator.
“I don’t understand,” Ivan answered.
“Your bosses? Who are they?"
When Ivan remained silent, not knowing what was all about, the interrogator said, “Who ordered you to photograph the house of comrade Janko?
Upon the hearing of the words “photograph” and “comrade Janko”, Ivan’s brain finally started to function properly and he understood that he had put himself in deep trouble.
“Nobody ordered me,” he answered. “I was desperate. I’ve been waiting for the flat for years and I couldn’t see my children living in squalor any longer. I’ve nothing against comrade Janko and I don’t begrudge him his life in luxury. I just wish to see my children growing up in some better place.”
“When comrade Janko heard what you had done he was so upset. Someone told me that he had said that if he had seen you with the camera on that morning he would have shot you on the spot. You know well that comrade Janko is one of the greatest men who had ever lived in this city. He won’t stand any nonsense.”
The interrogator inhaled the last lungful of smoke and ground the cigarette butt on the metal ashtray which was already overflowing.
“People like you are the most dangerous. You are spreading lies and defeatism and you are the enemy within.” He talked in a loud voice and his face became purple and dozens of wrinkles appeared on his forehead. He clinched his fists, lift them up in the air and hit the surface of the table which such a force that the ashtray bounced up and fell to the ground spilling the butts over the bare concrete floor.
“Who is the leader of your organisation? Give me the name!” He shouted and his dark eyes stared at Ivan with an intense gaze.
Ivan’s heart began pounding furiously and his body trembled. He believed that the man in front of him must have been a schizophrenic who had somehow escaped from the mental hospital and now was playing the role of an interrogator. How otherwise explain these absurd accusations which only an unsound mind could make.
“I was never interested in politics,” Ivan said meekly. “I’ve always believed in the Communist party, in the Marshal, in Marx and Engels...”
“You’re are all the same,” the interrogator said, drops of sweat sparkling on his forehead. “But remember one thing: you all admit sooner or later and those who refuse never leave this place alive.” He then pressed a hidden button somewhere under the table, the door opened, and the same brawny guards came inside and took Ivan away.
Later, they gave him some food, a bowl of a thin soup and a chunk of bread which he ate absentmindedly despite feeling hunger. His thoughts were with his family. What was his wife doing now without him? What was she going to say to the children what had happened to their father? Is there anyone she could ask for help? Anyone who could confirm his innocence?
TO BE CONTINUED
Last edited by Bassim; 07-Jan-2011 at 18:51.