G21 WORDS

Executions

by JORGE ZENTNER

Translation by

MARK OSTROWSKI

Everything happened just as Mertov said it would. Mertov told me: They will do the same thing to you that they did to me. Everything will be the same. They will come looking for you, as they did for me, in the middle of the night and lead you to a small, windowless cell.

That's what happened.

They came looking for me in the middle of the night and led me down a long hall. At the end of the hall was the cell. It was a perfect square; light came from a lamp that was protected by metal bars. Everything matched Mertov's description. Air entered through a grating in the ceiling.

Move your face near the grating ( -- Mertov told me -- ) and you will notice a soft, silent breeze that has a vaguely damp smell to it. To do what I am telling you, you have to climb on top of the table.

I did as Mertov had said and I could feel and smell that current of air.

Up there, with my nose against the ceiling, I thought that such a posture, in my situation, was absurd; yet at the same time I understood that recalling Mertov's words and repeating his gestures, just as he had related them to me, made me feel less alone in the cell.

I could imagine Mertov, standing atop the table, trying to breathe in that feeble whiff of air; and then I found myself laughing at the ridiculous image of Mertov on the table, with his nose rammed against the grating.

And I laughed at my own image, which repeated Mertov's absurd movements.

When you have smelled it, as I have, you will understand, as I have, that the situation is as it was before you climbed on the table. But I too have laughed imagining the one who came before me, standing atop the same table, trying to smell the damp breeze coming from the grating. Think of this later on when, like me, you lie down on the bunk with your hands beneath your head.

I walked around the table a few times before letting myself slump onto the bunk.

They have a method, and the way that they apply it never varies. They will do the same to you as they did to me. It has been going on one day after the other, always the same. And should you explain it to the one who comes after you on the list, he too will climb on top of the table and put his nose to the grating. The situation will not differ at all for him either. And he will laugh, as I did and as you did, and then he will throw himself on the bunk and look for a while at the grating in the ceiling, until he falls asleep.

Mertov slept and dreamed that he went into a bar. He was dressed in a convict's uniform, yet no one seemed surprised. He walked over to a table that was half-hidden behind a pillar. He had already sat down when, standing next to the bar, he saw his father. Mertov went to the bar and asked him:

"What are you doing here?"

"Watching television," responded his father. "I am waiting for news of your execution."

"But... dad: why don't you watch T.V. at home?" Mertov asked. "This isn't a good place for you."

"My television doesn't work. I've told you a thousand times that that damn set is broken, but you don't listen to what I say. You promised to get me a new one and I'm still waiting."

The old man began to cry, and Mertov along with him.

"And mom? Have you left mom home alone?" Mertov asked between sobs. His father responded: "She already heard the news on the radio."

The television newscaster began to read the news. The volume was deafening; Mertov woke up.

"I'm not exactly sure whether it was the television or the guard's voice that woke me up," Mertov explained to me. "He had brought me a pack of cigarettes."

"Don't cry," the guard told me through the opening in the door as he handed me the tobacco. He seemed moved.

Like Mertov, before falling asleep I stared for a while at the grating where the air came in.

Everything is identical, for me, for you, for the one who comes after you on the list. Everything, except the dream, Mertov had said.

I can't say whether he was right about this as well. When the jailer's voice woke me up I tried to remember what I had dreamed, but my mind was blank.

"Don't cry," said the guard, and he passed a pack of cigarettes through the opening in the door.

I sat down on the bunk, as Mertov told me he had done, and lit a cigarette. I tried again to remember what I had dreamed, but the only dream that came to mind was Mertov's.

They let me finish my cigarette and then the door opened and the priest came in. The same priest will come to see you, and he will try to console you with the same words. Listen to him calmly. The sermon is not very long.

When he asked me whether I wanted to repent for my sins... I could not remember any. It was as if I did not have a past, or had lived in a lawless world.

He bid me farewell with his outstretched hands and the door shut after him.

Everything happened as Mertov had described it, and when the priest invited me to repent I had a similar feeling.

Afterwards I was alone again.

The prison functionaries performed the different steps of the procedure one after the other, without introducing the slightest variation. Nothing surprised me, since Mertov had told me beforehand what was going to happen. Nor would anything surprise the one who came after me on the list.

Don't get your hopes up ( -- Mertov told me -- ) since knowing the details does not give you an advantage. And if you tell the next one what happened to you, everything will be the same all over again. Tell him not to get his hopes up. There is nothing that we can do, except make sure that the procedure is performed, once more, without modifications.

A few minutes later two guards came into the cell and led me down the hall. They were the same guards that escorted Mertov; the description that he gave me proved to be exact.

Twenty meters from the cell door the hall split into two. Here there was another guard waiting for us with handcuffs at the ready.

I held out my arms so that he could perform his task comfortably, and when the metal rings tightened around my wrists they told me I should keep walking down the hall that branched off to the left. Accompanied by the three functionaries I made my way to the execution chamber.

They will lead you to the far end of the chamber ( -- Mertov had said -- ) and put you against the illuminated wall, lining up your body with the silhouette painted there. If you look carefully before they cover your eyes, you will see that the only ones armed are the five men in the firing squad. The officer in charge of giving the order is the bespectacled man standing a little further away, off to one side.

One of the guards, the same one who had handcuffed me, took out a blue blindfold from his jacket pocket and covered my eyes. I listened to the footfalls of the three men who were leaving and the sound of the door closing.

Just as Mertov told me had happened in his case, I listened to the bespectacled man's voice as he shouted out the command:

"Aim!"

Presently the firearms were set in firing position.

"Fire!" said the man with the glasses.

Like Mertov, I heard the terrible roar. The next one on the list will hear it also.

At that moment I remembered what I had dreamed, but it was too late.

This is the end. There is nothing else to tell.

MARK OSTROWSKI (mostrow@lander.es) was born in 1971 and lives in Gij—n, Spain, where he works as a freelance writer and translator. Some biographical information can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Cafe/1482/bio51.html. His most recent contribution to the G21 was a piece on Body Artist Paco Cao.

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