JACOB’S CELL
Jacob couldn’t believe his dilemma. He had actually been imprisoned because of his faith. What had happened to his homeland?

Fiction by Rick Barry

JACOB IVANOV OPENED HIS EYES. As soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t. Above him was the familiar ceiling of rough cement. A naked light bulb dangled crookedly, its power now cut off. High in the wall over Jacob’s bunk, a hazy, gray light filtered through the barred window.

So, it had been no dream. He was really here, still locked inside the cell where he had spent more days than he could count. With each new dawn Jacob opened his eyes with a sliver of hope that this place had been nothing more than a twisted nightmare.

The battered mattress beneath Jacob’s body barely cushioned him from the rusty bed frame. Even now, as he lay motionless, he could feel where each of the creaky springs supported his weight. He wondered how many prisoners had died on that thin padding.

Jacob’s eyes meandered back to the barred window. “Should I try looking out this morning?” he mused. “Will I be able to see her today?”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jacob mustered his strength and pulled himself to a sitting position. The chipped cement floor was chilly on his bare feet, but not intolerable. Winter would be worse. Today, though, when the sun had risen higher, the cell should warm up a little.

Keeping to his morning ritual, Jacob slid to his knees beside the bunk. “Dear God,” he began aloud, “help me to stand firm for You. Yesterday, when the warden offered to free me if I would sign a statement that I reject my faith, I almost agreed. Forgive me for my impatience to be free. Thank You for strengthening me in my weakness. And please, send me a copy of
Your Word to warm my heart in this cold place.”

Breathing a weary “Amen,” Jacob glanced again at the little window above the bunk. His heart longed to see her again. After all, she was the only woman he ever got to see these days.

“Not yet,” he decided. “It’s still too early.” He reminded himself that on foggy mornings he couldn’t see enough to make the strenuous climb to the window worth the effort. Better to wait, just in case.

THE LONE CHRISTIAN
Jacob rose to his feet and regarded the heavy door. How sick he was of that locked portal! Peeling flecks of gray paint covered its ugly surface. On the floor beside it stood his aluminum bowl and cup, mutely waiting beneath the food slot where he had placed them the night before.

“Hmm. Too early for breakfast.”

The thin gruel that Jacob received twice a day barely qualified as food. Surely it could not provide many nutrients. But at least the stuff quieted the nagging in his stomach for a while. Even better were the days when the gruel arrived still lukewarm. Running his tongue over cracked lips, he hoped breakfast would not be long in coming today.

He eyed the glass peephole in the door. Was a guard watching him that very moment? He shrugged. Impossible to know for sure. But from the warden’s sarcastic remarks, Jacob understood that guards sometimes spied on him as he prayed. They simply could not understand why he continued to kneel and talk to someone they could not see. Insanity, some of them concluded. Religious fanatic, others declared.

While he waited for his meal, Jacob decided to stretch his muscles. Beginning at the door, he took five steps along his bunk and stopped, his nose nearly touching the wall. He had done this so often that he no longer noticed the bedbugs and roaches that previous occupants had smashed there. He turned left. Four more paces brought his eyes within inches of the next wall. Turning left once more, he took five paces back to the door, carefully avoiding the bucket in the corner. After all, existence in the cell was already wretched. Jacob didn’t want to worsen his plight by knocking over the crude toilet. If the guards wouldn’t provide water for washing his body, it was certain there would be none for scrubbing floors.

As Jacob paced the rectangle of his cell, his mind drifted back to earlier, happier times. The days before he had been arrested.

SQUANDERED FREEDOM?
Back then, he had felt strong and athletic. He had always worn clean clothes. Now, however, the black, sweat-stained prison garb was his entire wardrobe. His strength was just a shadow of what it once was. Merely plodding around the cell made him breathe hard. Jacob was barely out of his school years, but he felt older than his age—much older.

We had so much freedom, he thought. But usually my friends and I squandered it. Sure, I went through the motions of going to church, but my heart wasn’t in it. So many people like me—even my parents—were too busy chasing pleasure to worry about the changes in our land. No wonder the atheists were able to seize control.

His grandfather, the one who used to live in Moscow, had wagged a finger in Jacob’s face and warned him not to underestimate ungodly men. “I have known dedicated communists,” the elderly man declared more than once. “A man who turns his back on God has no reason to live a moral life. Even worse, a man who hates God hates God’s people. Such zealots will take over this country if good people sit on their hands and do nothing!”

Jacob sighed. I used to laugh at his predictions, he told himself. But he was right. Not until too late did I open my eyes and realize where our government was headed. Yes, I finally got serious about my faith. But by then it was too late to accomplish much good. Instead, they just arrested me to shut me up. Maybe prison is what we Christians earned for not actively living our faith.

Still pacing, Jacob winced at the memory of the many times he could have shared a word about Jesus with friends or neighbors — but didn’t. He wished he could turn back the clock and live his life differently, not being so self-centered. He also regretted that he had committed so few Scripture verses to memory. But it was too late. The past could not be altered. All he could do now was worship God alone as best he could.

HOPE ACROSS THE WATER
Just then, a cheery ray of sunlight spilled through the bars of the window. Jacob paused and held his fingers in its brightness. The light’s delicate warmth fetched back memories of days when he could freely walk and run in the park.

Should he try to see her now, or should he wait a little longer? Jacob’s impatience settled the matter. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to see her again, and he might not have the strength to climb up there for many more days.

Turning to the bunk, he folded back the flimsy mattress and exposed the bare springs. Next he shuffled to the corner and retrieved the smelly bucket. He was grateful for its wooden lid. The bucket in his previous cell was not covered. If not for this lid, he reflected, I wouldn’t have a way to perform my little trick.

Placing the bucket on the bedsprings, Jacob stepped up and steadied himself beside it. Gingerly placing his right foot on the middle of the lid, he hoisted himself until his hands caught the bars overhead. Finally, standing on the tips of his toes, he managed to pull his eyes up to the window. Holding himself in that position was a strain, but this morning the exertion proved worthwhile.

“Yes!” he exulted. “There she is. I can see her today!”

Despite the discomfort of his position, Jacob’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. Across the water — difficult to see from the cell but still visible — stood the huge, pale-green statue of a woman lifting a torch to the sky.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

Is Jacob eventually set free? Or does he die in the cell? Either way, will his life become a bold witness for God? You decided! Watch www.breakawaymag.comlater this summer to read the winning entries in Breakaway’s Fiction Adventure contest.