The Divide

by Jolina Petersheim

  He asks, holding up the paper, “Did you have to do this?”

  “Nope,” I say. “There are too many of us to go through such formalities. They must do this for the ones who straggle in.”

  Moses nods and clicks the pen twice. Sighing heavily, he flips through the pages, writing N/A in every ruler-straight line but for the last one. Leaning closer, I see that he wrote Married. On the blank line beside Spouse, he carefully printed, in all caps, LEORA EBERSOLE-HUGHES.

  It feels like someone’s kicked me in the chest. “You’re kidding me.”

  Moses shakes his head. “We got married,” he says. “Yesterday.”

  My mouth goes dry. I make an effort to swallow before asking, “What?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I heard you. I just can’t believe it.”

  He says softly, “You’re not the only one.”

  “And you chose to come here. On your—your honeymoon.”

  Moses looks up, his expression brimming with happiness, so I know he’s telling the truth. “That’s why it was so quick,” he says. “I didn’t want to come here unless we were married.”

  “That’s irony if I ever heard it.”

  “What?” He frowns. “Why?”

  But I say nothing because nothing can change.

  My uncle files through the serving line the day Angel and I are randomly selected for kitchen duty. Giving me a wolfish smile, he leans across the picnic table. A silver whistle swings like a pendulum in between the tabletop and his chest. “Like your new job?” he asks.

  I keep my eyes focused on the pot, scraping out one last greasy scoop. Four prisoners move around him, preferring to eat later rather than disturb a guard. “What do you mean?”

  He says, “Yvonne told me you acted like you didn’t know where the community was.”

  “Who’s Yvonne?”

  “The head guard.”

  “So you’re saying kitchen duty’s some kind of punishment?”

  That smile again. “I bet you’ll be a little more talkative next time, won’t ya?”

  The night the ARC came marching in and, within hours, transformed the fairgrounds into a detention camp, I believed my uncle and I were in the same perilous position, and I was shocked to feel a twinge of warmth for my dead dad’s brother. Now, though, I realize he’s never been in the same position as me and was possibly one of the very people who allowed those guards to quietly dispose of the few refugees who were willing to ask questions or fight back.

  “What does Yvonne want with the Mennonites anyway?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look at me. “They know how to work the land better than we do.”

  “So, what?” I ask. “You’re going to turn them into slaves?”

  “It doesn’t matter what we’re going to do. You need to tell me where they are.”

  I hold his gaze steady, a challenge in my own. “I don’t know.”

  Spider veins on Uncle Mike’s nose and cheeks disappear as his face grows red. “You’re lying through your teeth. Where was Colton the whole time you were staying at the warehouse?”

  “Everything okay, Sal?” I automatically turn at the question and see Moses staring my uncle down. My uncle lifts his chin, padded with fat, since he’s consuming more than the minimal daily calories the ARC distributes to keep us tired but alive.

  “Be careful,” he warns. “Blood ties might not be as thick as you think.”

  I grip the ladle tighter. “I already know that, Uncle. Or I wouldn’t still be in here.”

  Moses

  I could swear I haven’t slept, but I can see the fairgrounds swirling with the pale-gray mist that always seems to rise with the dawn. A few refugees are already sitting up in their tents, their dark shadows drawn across the white canvas like old-fashioned daguerreotypes. The fairgrounds, even at night, never grow quiet. Someone is always crying or fighting or making up the fight. So I don’t sleep as much as I doze in between these nocturnal interruptions. This is why I see the ARC guards cross the campground over to me. I’m lying on my side next to the fire, which has burned down to nothing but a round bed of hot coals. The grass is my sleeping bag; my backpack, my pillow. I get up before the guards reach me and face them head-on. The guards, each carrying a gun, stop walking. But they are mannerly enough not to point the weapons right at me.

  The guard on the left asks, “Are you Moses Hughes?”

  I nod.

  “You’ve been called in for questioning.”

  I smile in an effort to keep the mood light. “Don’t tell me I’ve already broken the rules.”

  The guard on the right I recognize as the one who was all business when I came here to see Sal before the camp was locked down. He says, “You’ve not broken any rules. There’s just some information in your profile we need you to clarify.”

  “Before sunrise?”

  The guard on the left says, “It’ll be easier on you if you come along.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.” But the compliance is subterfuge. They know I have no choice.

  The guards don’t touch me until we reach the cement path leading up to the white tin building. Then they each seize an arm and force me toward the entrance. I have made no effort to resist them, so I’m not sure if they think I’m suddenly going to run for it (and where could I run with the gates locked?), or if the manhandling’s for the benefit of someone watching from inside the building. Perhaps the same someone who had them bring me in.

  The tin door slides open, and we walk into the square of darkness. The cement floor is cold against my feet. A kerosene lamp hangs from the rafters, which cross overhead, but it’s not enough illumination to see the warehouse clearly. The building is almost empty, but as my eyes adjust, a long white table becomes visible toward the back.

  The guards lead me toward this, their fingernails in my arms communicating nonverbal warnings. Three guards, dressed in black, materialize and take seats at the table. A pale woman—dark hair and severe features—sits between two men. The man on the left is Sal’s uncle. The sight of him causes my stomach to tip with fear. The guards on either side of me step back. I turn and see they’re standing with their guns bracketed over their chests.

  The female guard says, “Do you know where the Mt. Hebron Community is located?”

  I look at her, trying to gauge her motivations and, therefore, my approach. “No.”

  The woman sits up. The folding chair supporting her creaks. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.” I hold her gaze. Mike slides a page across the table, and the woman picks it up. One of the guards behind me turns on another kerosene lamp, and the room flares bright. I blink against the shift.

  The guard resumes her interrogation. “It says here that Leora Ebersole-Hughes is your wife.”

  I grimace at my stupidity. I wrote Leora down as my spouse partly because seeing it printed helped me believe my luck, and partly because I knew Sal was reading my answers, and I sensed the importance of letting her know where things stood. But now I understand that I have inadvertently risked my wife by wanting to protect her, and us.

  Mike says, “I know Leora’s dad, Luke Ebersole. He used to work for me.”

  A Doppler of my heartbeat roars in my ears, causing me to wonder if it’s audible to the five gathered here. “Leora left the community,” I say. “Before we were married.”

  The woman just watches me, her dark eyes as brittle as a beetle’s husk. “So you’re still insisting that you have no idea where the community is.”

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “I have no idea.”

  The woman’s lips press together, blending the twin slashes into her skin’s colorless hue. She flicks out a hand. I turn to see what she means when the guard gives me the courtesy of showing me by driving his fist into my stomach. Breath drains from my gasping mouth. I hunker over in an effort to protect myself, but the other guard takes hold of my shoulders and forces me up. The first guard pummels me again. This dual assault is so perfectly coordinated
, it’s clear they’ve performed it many times. The frame of my vision is edged in black. I blink hard, wheezing, and the woman repeats, “Are you sure you don’t know where the community is?”

  I spit out, “No.” I brace my abs, so the punch to my face takes me by surprise. Pain explodes across the bridge of my nose. Warmth trickles through my tented fingers, and then my teeth are coated in the nauseating, salty wash of blood. A chair pushes back. Boots march across the floor. Someone stops in front of me, but my eyes are streaming too much to look up.

  “You get one more chance.” It’s the woman. Her breath is redolent of the kind of dental hygiene only available in the old world.

  I force my eyes up to hers. “I already told you the truth.”

  The woman nods. A force comes down on top of my head, as if intent to cleave my skull. Before the lights go out, the screen of my mind defaults to my last image of Leora.

  Leora

  I WAKE INSIDE my family’s cabin with the taste of dread thick on my tongue. Fifteen miles away, my husband is trapped inside a detention camp.

  With so few men and so little firepower, the mission is unrealistic at best and hopeless at worst. But it is our only option. Moses and I were in complete agreement before he left, but only now do I realize what I’ve done—and what I’ve risked—by letting him go. I’m not sure I would make the same decision again, and this is what haunts me. It is too late to change my mind.

  I sit up in bed and look toward my sister, Anna. She was overjoyed by my reappearance two days ago and hasn’t left my side since. Even now, in her sleep, she remains close to me, and my heart aches at the thought that, when Moses returns, she and I will no longer share a bed. But if my husband does not return, I will be so gutted by his loss, I fear I will be unable to continue without him. The truth is, life is changing. I just don’t know to what extent.

  Finding no water in the kettle for tea, I leave the cabin. The worn cape dress and kapp I’m wearing feel like pieces to an outdated uniform whose symbolism I’m beginning to forget. But in my cowardice, I want to adhere to the community’s standard, so my outward appearance doesn’t notify them of the inward change. Though impetuous, I am glad I married Moses Hughes. However, I worry the level of grace that has been bestowed upon my family and me might be retracted if Bishop Jabil learned the truth. But I also cannot avoid him forever.

  Providence lends a hand in the confrontation. On my way to the spring, I see two men working on the schoolhouse roof, but their straw hats and raggedy clothing make it impossible to tell who they are. Seconds later, Jabil crosses through the opening in the wall, still holding his hammer, which he tosses from hand to hand. He dully says, “Sorry I haven’t been over.”

  “You’ve been busy,” I reply. “I’m sure.”

  “I have.” As he looks at me, intimacy adds depth to his eyes. I pivot on my heel when I really want to run. Jabil calls, “Hold on a minute, please.” He returns to the schoolhouse to give instructions to Malachi, who offhandedly waves a greeting. I wave back, knowing he will regret the gesture after his brother informs him of what I’ve done. Jabil comes closer before he speaks so he won’t unintentionally inform Malachi. “I’m sorry we had that disagreement.”

  I look around. Anxiety stiffens my lungs. “That was far more than a disagreement.”

  Jabil draws me away from the schoolhouse as Myron and Benuel pass through the wall gap into the community. “More like a crossroads, I guess,” he says. “But you chose correctly.” He swallows. Pulling off his leather work glove, he takes my hand. “By coming back.”

  I step away from him, and he lets go. “I came back for Anna.”

  “What?” His forehead creases, deepening the rare smile lines imprinted around his eyes and mouth. “Did they treat you well?” he asks. “At the militia?”

  I expel a shaky breath. He’s misinterpreting my behavior, imagining something dreadful happened to make me be this reserved. “Everything was fine.”

  “Then what is it?” he asks. “Are you still mad that I didn’t go with you?”

  “Of course I’m not mad, Jabil. I never really was. It’s just . . .” I don’t know how to say it. How do you tell your former fiancé you got married in the few days you’ve been gone? Pulling back from him, I determine that the guileless approach is best. “We got married, Jabil.”

  “You got—” He stumbles around the word, unable to repeat it. “To Moses?”

  I nod. “It all happened so fast. He asked me, and he was about to leave to enter the work camp, and we both knew he might never make it back.”

  But Jabil is no longer listening. “I didn’t mean it, you know,” he says. “When I told you you had to make a choice. I was just angry. I—I didn’t think you’d leave.”

  I hurt for him; I really do, and yet I am Moses’s wife, and therefore it’s no longer my place to bring Jabil comfort. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “You will heal. It just takes time.”

  He laughs, bitterly. His gaze is unfocused as he peers into the middle distance over my shoulder. “Time,” he says. “We still talk like that, you know? Using time like a barometer. A way to measure out what we have left. But we have nothing left.” He pauses. “And I’m glad.”

  My teeth ache from being set on edge. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  He looks back at me, his dark eyes like cut jet. “You didn’t.”

  Sal

  Angel’s cracking eggs against the rim of a large, stainless-steel bowl. She taps each egg twice—tap, tap, crack; tap, tap, crack—and sets the four-dozen fragmented shells into a mountain on the wooden countertop, where they will be glued fast within the hour. I’m hoping that, by the end of that hour, I will know if Moses left last night on his own or was forced to disappear.

  “Do you have to do it like that?” I snap.

  Angel says, “I don’t know any other way to crack ’em.”

  Striding over, I take an egg, tap it once against the counter, and crack the shell with one hand, smoothly releasing the egg white and yolk. “Like that.”

  Angel bows her head. “Are you really mad at me about eggs?” Only those who are used to being a catchall for anger know how to so expertly divine its source.

  Ashamed, I stay quiet for a long time. “I’m scared that a friend of mine’s hurt.”

  Angel blinks hard, but I can see the tears rising. “That’s no excuse to be mean.”

  I walk around the table and see her small fingers are gripping another egg. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gotten onto you like that.”

  Her head comes up. She looks at me with wariness but whispers, “Thanks.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. She stiffens, but I keep it there until I can feel her body relaxing. Only then do I ease the egg from her hand. “Here,” I say. “Let me teach you.”

  I pull my uncle aside the instant he moves to the end of the serving line. He glances down at me, his plate pillowed high with scrambled eggs, and jerks his sweaty arm from my grip. “I’m a guard now,” he seethes, glancing back at the others. “You’d be smart to remember that.”

  Ignoring this, I peer up at him with my hackles raised. “Where’s Moses?”

  There is not a spark of compassion or conscience in my uncle’s eyes. This, more than anything, frightens me. “Solitary confinement,” he says.

  “Solitary confinement?” I rear back, but Uncle Mike crosses the distance. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he pinches the strip of muscle between it and my neck, an old trick to make me behave in public without bringing any backlash on him. Steering me past the serving table into the rudimentary kitchen, he nods at Angel, who’s washing pots and pans in the stainless-steel, gravity-fed sink. He takes me past this, also, into the old concession stand, which now serves as our supply closet. The darkness cocoons us. No one can hear anything. Uncle Mike lets go of my shoulder. I stare up at his large, shadowed figure. My chest heaves and tears of rage spill from my eyes at being mistreated like I am s
till a child.

  “He’s in there,” he hisses, “because he wouldn’t tell us where the community’s located.”

  I say, “This is still about the community?”

  “It’s only a matter of time until the ARC finds them. You might as well cooperate during the process to keep your friend from getting killed.”

  Behind us, we can hear the refugees talking while dishing up the food the guards didn’t take. No doubt they’re thrilled I am not around to ensure they are getting the correct portions. My uncle watches me. “No,” I say, bluffing. “Keeping him alive’s not enough reason to tell.”

  He pauses, no longer my protector (did he ever truly protect me?) but a predator sizing up his prey. “I’ll get Moses out if you tell me what happened to Alex.”

  Bile, conjured by his request, scales up my throat. “What?”

  He repeats, “Tell me what happened to Alex.”

  “How would I know anything about that?”

  “He was looking for your community when he disappeared.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.” But my voice cracks, my discomfort sliding through.

  My uncle shrugs, lightly. “Have it your way, then. Moses is in pretty bad shape.”

  I stand as still as a statue, trying to decide which sacrifice I should offer before trying to save both. “You promise you’ll keep your word if I tell?”

  My uncle looks at me, and the vengeful hunger in his eyes promises nothing.

  Warm afternoon light bakes the pie-slats of board, striping the dark hole with light, but I still can’t see Moses’s face. “Leora,” he says. “That you?”

  “No,” I reply, swallowing against the sting. “It’s me. Sal.”

  “Can you get me out of here?” he says.

  “I—I’m trying.” I lift the boards off one at a time and glance over my shoulder toward the tin building, but no guards are visible from here. Lying on my stomach, I unspool the thick rope Uncle Mike gave me and feed it down through the hole. “You see it?” I ask.