Jorn was 22. Shoulders like a door, hands full of calluses from construction and iron. Sunday evening, he clicked the Carrara chastity belt on himself. Black steel, cold against his skin. “Thirty days,” he mumbled to the mirror. “Discipline. Focus. No distractions.” He placed the key in a tin on the cupboard. Back to work tomorrow.
Monday morning at 5:12, the air raid siren went off.
Sirens. Explosions. Shattering glass. Within an hour, tanks were driving through his street in Enschede. War. No drill. No time.
They arrived in the afternoon. Soldiers with strange flags, a strange language. Jorn fought. Got a butt to his temple. Then black.
He woke up in a truck. Hands tied behind his back. Next to him were six other boys from the neighborhood. Blood, fear, diesel. No one spoke.
Camp 17. Barbed wire, mud, watchtowers. At the intake, they had to undress. In line, in the cold. The guard with the scar stopped by Jorn. Looked. Tapped the steel of the Carrara with his rubber truncheon.
“What is this?” he snarled in broken Dutch.
Jorn clenched his jaws. “Mine.”
The guard didn’t laugh. He shouted something. Two others came. They pulled, yanked, cursed. The lock wouldn’t budge. Italian craftsmanship.
The commander was brought over. A skinny man with hollow eyes. He examined Jorn from head to toe — the muscles, the posture, the refusal to bend. Then he looked at the steel.
“Ah,” he said softly. “You like cages.” He gave an order.
They dragged Jorn to the workshop. An old shed, stinking of oil and rust. On the workbench: a welding machine.
“We will help,” said the commander. “So that you never have to doubt again.”
Jorn roared, fought, and was subjected to electric shocks. They pinned him down. Four men. The welder put on his hood.
The first thing he felt was heat. Then pain. Then the smell of burnt flesh where a spark came too close. He screamed until his voice broke.
When it was finished, they lifted him up. The Carrara was still there. But the lock was gone. Welded shut. One piece with the steel. Permanent.
The commander patted him on the shoulder. “Now you really are one of us.”
Weeks turned into months. Roll call in the snow. Hauling stones until your hands tore. A porridge of water and flour. Jorn grew harder. Quieter. His body remained strong—he had to be—but his eyes changed.
At night, on the hard bunk, he lay awake. He felt the steel. No longer his choice. Their brand. Every cold snap, every kick, every humiliation—the Carrara was there. A witness who wouldn't let go. The other prisoners looked away at first. Later, they didn't anymore. “Iron Jorn” they called him. Not because of the muscles. Because of the steel he wore. Because he wore it without breaking.
After 314 days, liberation came. Shots, screams, the gate flying open. Soldiers with the Dutch flag. Medics, blankets, weeping mothers at the fence.
A doctor in the field tent pulled back the blanket for an examination. Stopped. Stared.
“My God… that… that we can’t do here —”
“No need,” said Jorn. His voice was hoarse, broken, but firm. “Leave it alone.”
The doctor looked at him. “We can refer you. Hospital. Specialists. Angle grinders, surgeons —”
Jorn shook his head. He sat up straight. Every muscle ached. Except for that one spot. That spot hadn't felt anything for months.
“I put it on myself,” he said. “They stitched it up. But I decide what it means.”
He walked out of the tent. The sun hurt his eyes. Free. And yet, not.
At home, there was nothing left. House ransacked. Key gone. Family… silence.
Jorn didn't go to a doctor. He went to the gym. The only one still open. He loaded the barbell. 240 kilos. Did his set. Put it down.
The steel was still there. Would always be there.
Not as punishment. Not as a cage.
And scars, he thought as he brushed chalk from his hands, you don't choose scars.
You carry them. Or they carry you.
