The Sunday Night Question

The prisoners worked in a factory.

They turned human waste and garbage into fuel.

The smell never left.

Not much food.

Still, they kept going.

Then one night Allied bombers came.

The factory was destroyed.

The next morning they were marched to the ruins.

The guards pointed at a pile of rubble.

The prisoners loaded it into carts.

Moved it across the camp.

They thought they knew what came next.

The factory would be rebuilt.

The next morning the guards gave a new order.

Move the pile back.

So they did.

The next day they moved it again.

Then again.

Week after week.

The same pile.

Back and forth.

Again.

One prisoner started sobbing and could not stop.

Another started screaming.

One prisoner ran for the electric fence.

The guards shouted.

There was a flash.

Soon, others ran.

Some were shot.

Some reached the fence.

Most people have never lived in a prison camp.

But many have moved rubble.

Not with a shovel.

In their own way.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Year after year.

Sunday evening.

The weekend isn't over.

But it feels like it is.

And a question starts creeping in.

How much longer can I keep doing this?