Stephen Shooster make the ethanol. You could smell it throughout the area where I worked, a sickly sweet smell that was always present. I was running all over Walter’s section of the plant. I remember a few times I even climbed to the top of the vats around the long circular staircase and surveyed the whole area. In retrospect, I was on top of a bomb. I had a lot of leeway as Walter’s assistant. I got to know many of the civilian workers and other prisoners. I felt they all liked me running around with my friendly broken smile. I’m sure while I was running around Walter watched me out of the corner of his eye and, like a father, didn’t mind. As long as I was in his domain, he could decide what I was and wasn’t allowed to do. He never stopped me. The base product of the ethanol we were producing was coal, a special type of coal. The giant vats were helping to extract the liquid energy out of the black rock. I don’t know the chemistry or the engineering, but I do know that it took tremendous amounts of coal to do this. The result was a man-made mountain of used coal called Koks (coke). We disposed of the Kok on the edge of the compound near the fence that surrounded the factory. Many of us realized that in the event of an air raid this would be a good place to hide. It was about 2 km from the factory and would not be a good target. Even if a stray bomb fell that way, it could absorb a pounding. With all the concern for safety at the factory, there was none for us in the event of an air raid. Even though Walter did not talk much, I was not restricted from talking. So, I talked to everyone, a little here, a little there; nothing to draw attention to myself, just small talk and practice with my language skills. Whenever I spoke it was in the language of the person I was speaking to, they appreciated my understanding of their native tongue. Doing this made for better friendships. Carefully embedded into this small talk was useful information. The civilians were the best source of information. Since they went home at night, they had access to the news. I wanted to know all I could about what was going on in the outside world. Their informa- tion was sketchy, but I knew for sure, that the war was still raging, giving me hope for rescue. The British were also teaching me English and their favorite thing to teach me was how to curse. The British, or perhaps more specifically, the Scots, were cursing constantly, all day long. “No fucking bloody way,” They would say about this or that, the pain and humor at once inseparable. I had never heard language like that. I was surprised, but soon I learned how to mimic them. Whenever I did, they smiled approvingly. I smiled back, my two cracked front teeth revealing the abuse I had
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