for 50 years they kept him there facing 4 walls of concrete
and a small, thick slit where meals were left. for 50 years
they kept him there. after the Russians had captured him in
Poland they found little of his history and thought he was a
German soldier about 20 years of age and so they took him
back to Russia and imprisoned him there for not being able
to speak properly to any translator. for 50 years they kept
this Yugoslav man in the cell and let him pass his lifetime
fathering thin air, of days in the park with his unborn
children and holding long and happy intimate chats with an
imaginary partner. for 50 years he passed through the
shadows of change while he sang songs to occupy his mind
and sucked dry his imagination walking endless trails in a
12x10 foot cell. for 50 years the only records of this man were
his date of capture and some basic details like his family
name alongside some unusual words that he spoke and
ended up confusing his Russian captors with. for 50 years
and long after any murderer would have been left inside they
held him there and forgot him and called him 'the old guy
down in the last cell' without a razor blade or hemp or any
way of relieving himself.for 50 years they kept him there
thinking thinking and thinking a little more about what he
could have possibly done to have ended up forgotten and his
prison record left and stuck in the bottom of the filing cabinet
as the rest of the world enjoyed fresh air and commercial air
travel and pop music and the mini skirt. for 50 years he
watched two generations of prison warders fulfil their
obligations to the State and leave with pensions to live out
their days amongst family and grandchildren and friends
invited over for Sunday lunches. for 50 years with his
concrete wall family whose voiceless mouths could only
answer him with haunting flickers of WWII faces and
accents long forgotten by the younger generations. for 50
years he stood there and sat there and ate and crapped what
little oatmeal they gave him and what he could stomach. for
50 years his heart did not stop for one beat and it kept him
alive just enough to see the grey walls one more time and
the concrete floor one more time and one more time and one
more time again. for 50 years he slept and woke and slept
and dreamt of varied shades of grey that other people would
not normally recognise in their natural environment. for 50
years they freed his shit and piss and vomit, but stored his
tears and blood and pain safely between the thick concrete
and told him not to whimper or yell out or else they'd beat
him as it was affecting the sleep of the younger men in there
who needed their sleep. for 50 years he breathed still air and
could no longer even imagine what happened to the rest of
the world out there...
for 50 years this happened until somebody rediscovered his
prison record at the bottom of the filing cabinet and some
questions began circulating and letters went to various
offices and very little could be found on him. after 50 years
they had nothing on him and let him go and the kind, young,
fresh-faced journalists had jetted in and were already waiting
and offered to do a 2 min story but the guy didn't have much
to say and no matter how many times the media sat with
him he would stand up and walk away. so the media gave
him another 2 mins of their precious time to settle on a park
bench and they all came in and huddled close in a kind-of-
friendly way that only journalists could manage in 2mins as
they hooked their story about him and although he didn't
speak much they did the talking for him and told the
cameras and all the viewing audiences around the world for
2 mins what happened to him throughout his 50 years in
prison.
