The voice of God was ever-present, coming from the shabby radio. Despite the crackling medium, the voice boomed on. She listened carefully, although the words had no meaning to her. But the intent, the intent was clear. Punishment.
The man did not always speak. Often enough music flowed through the speakers. It reminded of war and if luck would have it, it could bring fading memories of peace. Still, she did not welcome it. Their voices tired, the pace too fast and the instruments grating on the senses. Mother sang lullabies instead.
The soldiers didn’t talk much, especially not to the group of refugees. The Americans were their guardians and enemies at the same time, wary and distrustful. Still, they helped and brought them to the Gates, didn’t they?
Gates wasn’t this place’s real name. Didn’t dare to ask mother what it was actually called. Still, there must be some truth to a name? They went through hell to get to the camp, surely, her family would see better times and places. She held the childish notion, that the Gates could open and give a glimpse of Heaven.
Something prickled on her skin.