Dp Life Quotes

One thing that I find very weird here in Australia is Latvians in Australia celebrate Latvian traditions by a calendar, not by the seasons as they do in Latvia. It’s a bit strange for me, everyone said a few weeks ago, ‘Merry Christmas,’ in Latvian, or maybe Winterfest, and here I was sweating like a pig saying, ‘Merry Winterfest!’ – Viktor Brenners, 2nd Generation DP

He understood why she kept him away, why they had connected so strongly, why he couldn’t forget her. None of this made sense in traditional terms. This wasn’t something he could share with anyone. This was his truth. This was something he knew inherently to be true. He understood this in his soul.

Ian sat and listened in the studio, headphones around his neck, staring at the floor. That was his heart they’d just heard.

In the bedrooms some of the men were fighting two women. One threw a knife and aimed it at Isabel's face. He missed, and the knife embedded itself in the wall behind her. Isabel grabbed her weapon, but Roman had already entered the room. He pushed Isabel aside, threw the knife at the assailant, then pointed the weapon at the other man. "Where is my mother?" he demanded. in a loud and scary voice. "How should I know, for all..." Roman interrupted him with a shot. He passed the gun to Isabel, took the machine gun from her, and proceeded to the next room. There, Sissy and Ostap were holding two men at gunpoint. "Move aside, my wife," Roman commanded, as he took hold of the DP machine gun. "Where is my mother?" I don't know where she is," Roman no longer listened. He repeated "no, no, no," his expression echoing the denial. The other man raised his hands defensively. "I'll only ask once," Roman declared. "I don't know where your mother is!" the man yelled. Roman shot him. In the living room, Nikura pinned four men against the wall. As they tried to avert the inevitable, one of the Soviets offered a different tactic. "I know where your mother is," he claimed. "Jock told me." "Where is she?" "I want my life in exchange for..." Roman didn't let him finish the sentence; he shot him. "Where is my mother?" the remaining three men demanded again. "In Castropol," an enterprising Soviet offered, "I'll make one phone call..." But it was Isabelle who shoved Roman aside and unleashed the machine gun's fury. She aimed and fired again. The lead bullet from the second burst silenced the two who had yet to speak. "I had a good feeling about the last one," Roman said. "I think he knew something.

She is so good, your wife.” “Yes,” said Alexander. “So fresh and young. So lovely to look at.” “Yes,” said Alexander, closing his eyes. “And she doesn’t yell at you.” “No. Though I reckon she sometimes wants to.” “Oh, to have such restraint in my Bessie. She used to be a fine woman. And the girl was such a loving girl.” More drink, more smoke. “But have you noticed since coming back,” said Nick, “that there are things that women just don’t know? Won’t know. They don’t understand what it was like. They see me like this, they think this is the worst. They don’t know. That’s the chasm. You go through something that changes you. You see things you can’t unsee. Then you are sleepwalking through your actual life, shell-shocked. Do you know, when I think of myself, I have legs? In my dreams I’m always marching. And when I wake up, I’m on the floor, I’ve fallen out of bed. I now sleep on the floor because I kept rolling over and falling while dreaming. When I dream of myself, I’m carrying my weapons, and I’m in the back of a battalion. I’m in a tank, I’m yelling, I’m always screaming in my dreams. This way! That way! Fire! Cease! Forward! March! Fire, fire, fire!” Alexander lowered his head, his arms drooping on the table. “I wake up and I don’t know where I am. And Bessie is saying, what’s the matter? You’re not paying attention to me. You haven’t said anything about my new dress. You end up living with someone who cooks your food for you and who used to open her legs for you, but you don’t know them at all. You don’t understand them, nor they you. You’re two strangers thrown together. In my dreams, with legs, after marching, I’m always leaving, wandering off, long gone. I don’t know where I am but I’m never here, never with them. Is it like that with you, too?” Alexander quietly smoked, downing another glass of whiskey, and another. “No,” he finally said. “My wife and I have the opposite problem. She carried weapons and shot at men who came to kill her. She was in hospitals, on battlefields, on frontlines. She was in DP camps and concentration camps. She starved through a frozen, blockaded city. She lost everyone she ever loved.” Alexander took half a glass of sour mash into his throat and still couldn’t keep himself from groaning. “She knows, sees, and understands everything. Perhaps less now, but that’s my fault. I haven’t been much of a—” he broke off. “Much of anything. Our problem isn’t that we don’t understand each other. Our problem is that we do. We can’t look at each other, can’t speak one innocent word, can’t touch each other without touching the cross on our backs. There is simply never any peace.” Another stiff drink went into Alexander’s throat.

mighty smug with their present, howsoever unenviable or contemptible their lives and the attitudes might appear others to be.  While nearsightedness is not exactly an affliction (but just the thing a good doctor or spiritual healer might prescribe for leading an uncomplicated and happy life), farsightedness is nothing less than a full-blown syndrome. Forever whining, carping, criticizing, castigating, berating and bemoaning every aspect of national-societal life, the lot of the farsighted is pathetic indeed. And, this, when they have far less reasons to cavil, enjoy as they do generally a far better station in life than their nearsighted

Sometimes I wonder will the pain ever ease. Will I ever be enough for you to know what you mean The sins of my past have been collected But at the expense of being awakened Every hurt, every tear, every insecurity returned Is being pulled back when there was no fear I've let go and you should to The shame and humility will never ease I've learned to let go and be me Will it ever be enough? Or should I hide? Will the pain you stake claim be the fall to ruin the life that we both claimed I feel hollow I feel alone But what hurts most of all is the torment inside You hurt, but so do I I hate seeing the way you hide I can't continue on a journey knowing we're fine Because I see the truth in your eyes

I never want you to think you’re anything less than my whole life.

It was as if Blightey had to go on teaching others and then torturing them to death in order to generate some spark of pleasure in his life.

If there is a problem in life, find a solution.

Yet the only eyes Ace fixed on were Julie’s. Life had returned to her, and a great mixture of sadness and joy wrestled in his heart. She cried. He cried. He ran to her with all the strength he had left, and she ran to him. They collided in an embrace, each of them squeezing tighter than the other. She heaved with sobs. Though he tried, Ace felt as if he couldn’t squeeze hard enough. No matter the force of the embrace, no matter the number of tears from his eyes, nothing amounted to the explosion of joy rushing through him.  “I’ve missed you so much,” Julie said. “I’ve missed you too,” Ace said. He squeezed tighter still. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t ever leave us to wonder about you.” He pulled from the embrace and they stared at each other. The tears had washed some of the dirt stained on her cheeks, but her smile somehow was the brightest and most rewarding smile he’d ever seen. “We stick together, Julie.” Another tear ran along his cheek. “That’s never going to change again. Understand?” She

Better to set yourself up for disappointment than to accept it as a fact of life.

Make your motto “Spirare est Vivere” (“To Breathe is to Live”). Pay attention to your breath. Enjoy deeper breathing and watch it improve your life.

But Soobzokov escaped from a truck full of Nazi prisoners and began a postwar journey that would take him from a DP camp in Italy to a refugee enclave in the Middle East and finally to a new life in Paterson, New Jersey. In his official records, Soobzokov now listed himself as an ex–prisoner of war forced into hard labor by the Nazis.