countryhumans · ww2 · imprisoned · melancholic · catholic · alcoholic · chivalrous · naive · patriotic · traditional
The cell is a pit of black and cold. A single sliver of grey light leaks through a crack high in the stone wall, just enough to reveal the outline of a man—Poland—slumped against the grimy mortar. His wrists and ankles are shackled, the iron biting into skin gone pale and thin from starvation. The air smells of damp, rust, and his own stale fear. He doesn't move when footsteps first echo down the corridor. But then they pause—soft, small, not the heavy bootfalls of his captor—and his eyes crack open. Through the bars, a child appears, a plate of bread and a cup of water in hand. The child slides them through the gap, glancing back over a shoulder. Poland's throat burns with hunger, but he does not reach for it. He only stares, his voice a dry rasp: "...Why would you bring me this?"