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Me: Katherine Marie
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Poll #189732: The Autumn Layout Poll
Open to: all
So how do you like the layout?





Tuesday, the 30th day of November, Anno Domini 2004
Post Time: 0417 hours.
I can't sleep tonight.

I'm thinking on things I studied with Tommy.

Miss you much guy.
* 1 Ripple Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water
Monday, the 29th day of November, Anno Domini 2004
Words, Struggling to be Free:  Here's to Thanksgiving
Post Time: 2334 hours.
    On the late afternoon of 2 November 1943 the new commandant of Madjanek, SS Oberstumrmbannfuhrer Marin Weiss, a soft pudgy man who did not like to look anyone in the eye, recieved in code a set of instructions which launced his tenure dramatically: SUBJECT UNDESIRABLES. YOUR CAMP BADLY OVERCROWDED. HARVEST HOME ACTION.
    On 3 November when the prisoners mustered in darnkess, Syzmon Bukowski became aware of unusual movements, and before dawn Otto Grundtz came storming down the line picking out men at apparent random, whereupon the troopers who followed grabbed each man indicated, throwing him forward. Bukowski was so nominated, for what no one knew, but when he saw the others who had beeen chosen he realized they were all younger men with modest strength still left in their emiciated bodies, and he had to assume that they were going to be shot because they were taking too long in their dying.
    When the selections were made, twenty-nine of them, the men were marched away, as alwasy happened when there were to be mass executions rather than individual hangings. When they reached the three lines of electrified barbed wire that marked the exit from Field Four, the gates were opened and they were led out right through, then orderd to go left toward the execution ground, a hill where machine guns could dipsose of many prisoners at one time.
    It was now dawn, and walking bent against the bitter wind that blew in off the endless flatlands, Bukowski thought how pitiful it was to die for no reason at all. Professor Tomczyk had been hanged because he was trying to strengthen the moral resistance of the men in Barracks Eleven of Field Four. The moutaineer form the the Tatrac has died because he was a real revolutionary.
    But this group of young men had done nothing sepcific, they had uttered no battle cries for freedom, nor had they opposed the Third Reich in any detectable way. They were simply being shot, and he remembered his reslove not to die in this supine way, but he could devise no way to escape. He was powerless, unable to make even a protest and he knew it: I am so weak. I am ashamed.
    But then from the far end of the camp, from the fields near the main gate, came two other lines, one of men shivering in the thinnest of rags may of them barefoot and without caps--thin wasted men. The second consisted of women and children, hundreds of them or even thousands.
    Frail creatures, too weak to walk by themselves, often other women helped them. Spryest were the childredn, especially the young girls of seven and eight, who walked with a certain eagerness as if glad to be out of their constricted field at last.
    Almost every adult person in the two lines looked near death from starvation, and it was clear that these prisoners had recieceived even less food than those in the Fields Three through Six, and Bukowski wondered why this had been been. Then he was with horror that everone in these endless lines wore the Yellow Star. He was not going to be shot. They were.
    The codename for the Jew was undesirable, meaning that the leaders of the Third Reich had decided that there was no way by which these people of a different religon and, the Nazis claimed, a different race could be fitted into the great, clean Germany that was to evolve. Up to now, Majdanek had disposed of more than a hundred thousand Jews, but with the possibility that the Russian army might one day soon break through the German lines and overrun the great death camps like Belzec and Treblinka before the task of killing all the Jews in Europe was completed, the high command had decided, in a rush of panic, to get rid of all remaining undesirables now, when it could be done in an orderly way.
    A thousand Jews marched up the hill that cold morning, then five thousand, then fifteen thousand, more than the populaton of some places on the map labled cities, and the hardened men from Field Four, who had seen death in almost every guise, felt great pity for the old men and women who could barely stuggle to their place of execution, and overwhelming grief when they saw the children, especially the young ones not old enough even to dress themselves. Syzmon Bukowski was especially shaken by the awful parade, and as he approached the execution ground, he did not know if he could control his emotions.
    When he reached the top of the hill he saw that two squads of machine-gunners were in place on the western edge of a deep trench, and he realized that he Jews would be marched along the eastern lip, where they would be gunned won. His job would be to throw the piles of corpses into the trench so that the next batch of undesireables could be harvested.
    The first contingent was a mixed group: about forty older men, a few youths, twenty women and nine children from the age of two or three to fifteen. They stood in the dawn, facing their executioners, and the last sight they saw was the lovely skyline of Lublin, the medieaval towers of the churches, the fine high profile of the castle in whose chapel men and women like themselves would be tried that day, and shot, and tossed down the stairwells.
    Rrra-rrra-rrra-rra! The machine guns stuttered. Bodies slumped forward. Otto Gundtz and two other Gestapo officials walked down the line of the fallen, adminstering with their revolver the coup de grace to any body that moved. And then the cold, dispassionate voice of a commander: "Throw them in the ditch."
    All day the lines moved up the hill, all day, at ten- or fifteen minute intervals, groups of Jews took their places along the edge of the pit, and from the tangled bodies below they knew what awaited them. Some prayed, A few sang. Women reached to clutch children who were not their own, and boys in girls in their early teens simply looked bewildered.
    Rrra-rrra-rrra-rra! Hour after hour the dreadful killing continued, until more than eighteen thousand were slain, and as the lines began to dwindle, a man whispered to Syzmon: "When the Jews are finished, the shoot us too you know. They always do. Want no witnesses." So the dusk approached, Syzmon Bukowski, this honorable man, the son of a woman of superlative decency and the grandson of a woman who stood that for all that was good and decent in Poland, found himself hoping that fields would disgorge a few more Jews so that he could live a few more minutes.
    But on this day they did not shoot the burial crew. Someone forgot to give that order.
    Even when the deep pits with their awful panting were covered over in the careful way a farmer piles earth over his seedlings so that crops will grow, and when the hill showed only slight mounds running parallel one to the other, the day's work was not finishedd, for various typists in various buildings compiled endless lists of those executed--murdered in the Polish autumn--their numbers, names, birth dates, and regional deriviations, dates of death and presumed causes--and not a single Jew died unrecorderd:
Number 12,187 Grunwald, Nefaili 28-3-12 Roman, Jude 3-11-43 Lungenturbeklose
Number 12,188 Selig, Isreal 1-4-22 Ungarn Jude 3-11-43 Lungenturbeklose
Number 12,189 Kirschner, Solomon 14-3-22 Italien Jude 3-11-43 Lungentturbelose
. . . .
    The methodical masters of Majdenek saw nothing preposterous in recording that on 3 November 1943, an exact total of 18,431 people died at almost the same instant of tuberculosis, cariac arrast or the flu, and that all them happened to be Jews. SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Marin Weiss had executed his first important assignment with distinction.

From Poland, based on many true stories of Poland, 1940-1945
* 4 Ripples Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water
Thursday, the 25th day of November, Anno Domini 2004
Words, Struggling to be Free:  Right now in Austin....
Post Time: 2125 hours.
UT is beating (the fake) UT 41 - 30.

I'm pretty happy about this.

And here comes Britney Jackson into the game for the Vols. *swoons*
* 2 Ripples Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water
Wednesday, the 24th day of November, Anno Domini 2004
Words, Struggling to be Free:  There sure has been a lot of stuff happening, yes?
Post Time: 2058 hours.
Mood: cold.
Both in the little world (my life) and the big world.

So what y'all reckon I should talk about?
* 8 Ripples Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water
Thursday, the 9th day of September, Anno Domini 2004
Post Time: 1808 hours.
Mix of gray above
Green, red, oranges...leaves changing
The autumn awaits
* 8 Ripples Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water
Words, Struggling to be Free:  You should be jealous.
Post Time: 1535 hours.
Mood: Wistfully Hopeful.
When I cam home yesterday I had "I love you Kitty Kate" wrote in green M&Ms on the counter.

I wonder what I'll find today.
* 3 Ripples Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water
Saturday, the 21st day of August, Anno Domini 2004
Words, Struggling to be Free:  Still alive, still kickin'.
Post Time: 1222 hours.
Mood: Activated.

Yeah, I'm still here. But I don't have a computer anymore. Me Mac finally kicked the bucket. And since it's summer and all I really haven't been inside much or at places with plugs. I prefer to spend as much time as I can with the sun shining on me, even if it has been unnaturally rainy here.

Just so yous know, everything is stable in me life, if not borderline good most of the time. Maybe I'll get another computer sometime soon, or when I get back in school I'll start using the ones there.

So until then...ta ta.

Oh, and feel free to comment your ass off, even if I don't reply, I still think 'bout yous--especially YOU NATALIE!!! :X

* 23 Ripples Made In The Waters *Toss A Pebble In The Water

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