by Aric Davis
ALSO BY ARIC DAVIS
Tunnel Vision
The Fort
Breaking Point
Rough Men
A Good and Useful Hurt
Nickel Plated
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 by Aric Davis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com Inc. or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477849347
ISBN-10: 1477849343
Cover design by Mark Ecob
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957296
For Megan, every single word
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
1945
I do as I am told, and it is easy work, for there is not much I can do. I help carry things that are handed to me, but often I trip in the snow. I eat little, though everyone wants to share with me. My eyes see nothing. The world, for all of its supposed glory, is just a haze to me, a fog through which the brightness of the sun and the darkness of night are indistinguishable. Yet I suffer. I suffer as we all must in a war, and that is all right, for I have known precious little else. I sweat and I starve, and while the women around me falter and die, their souls leaving their bodies like inconsequential things, I feel their deaths like knives in my belly. I have never been struck in my life—even the men here won’t beat a blind girl—but this is just as bad.
I live in a long house with people from all over Europe. Strangers at first, we are like sisters now, but I would trade all of that in an instant for freedom with my family. When they die, it is not the pain I felt when my mother or grandmother died. It is not me. They don’t die quickly enough, though, because God has forgotten us—I know that now. We were supposed to be his chosen people, but that is not the case. We are fodder. We are the walking dead.
There is no food. Even the guards complain. They blame us (but never me). They blame the Americans. They curse the Russians under their breath. They who have been our hell are waiting to die themselves now. This is not good enough for me, not anymore. I want unholy things for them. I want the things in the Torah that my family never spoke of. I want hell for these men. I don’t care if I die—all of us owe God a death—but I want the men who did this to us to die first. There are times that I think they might, but God is a comedian, not a butler. He ignores my prayers, but he keeps me alive. I know this happens so that I may suffer, but I do not know why that might be, nor do I care. We all owe a death.
We can hear the fighting sometimes, but there is no comfort in that. Artillery fire means that the smell of death is stronger, that more of us are yanked from the lines to die. But not little Ora. Never poor, blind little Ora—not her.
They whisper about me at night. I can hear them wondering why their own children, their healthy children, were chosen during the sorting, but the cripple has been spared yet again. I have no answer for them, because I am not God. I am just like them—a captive waiting to die—and my thoughts on the matter mean far less than a stick on the fire or a crust of bread. Far less than the ovens or the showers or the stacks of frozen dead that border the fences that I have never seen and will never see.
Every day here is death, and only the cold can convince me that we are not already in hell. I could even accept my death, but my turn never comes up, and even though the other women hate me, I never have my food stolen. I live. Either God is more of a jester than I ever could have imagined, or a crueler fate has been planned for me, but I always eat. I always wake, and I never am ordered from the line. They hate me for it, but no one says a cruel word to my face. My mother and grandmother have been murdered—everyone I care about dies here—but they never kill me. Never Ora. That is my burden: to live.
It could be worse. That is one thing you become aware of in the camps—that things can always be worse. There is no hope here, only mistrust and hunger. Some of the women believe there are those among us who report to the guards in return for special treatment, but even if there are, I don’t think it matters. This isn’t a game, every day is life and death, and who could blame someone for doing whatever she could to stay alive? This is a place where babies are clubbed to death, where women are dragged from their bunks and shot down like dogs. There is no cheating here, only scrabbling hands fighting for something to hold on to in the blackness. When there is no prayer left for a religious people like us, there is no hope. Still, we strive to live in this world that wants nothing from us but a final breath.
CHAPTER 2
1999
Cynthia Robinson stayed with her grandparents while Mom and Dad went to Vegas for a liquor store owner’s convention. She was far too young, at the age of nine, to know exactly the nature of the products that their store sold—aside from snacks and slushies—but she did know that the trip to Vegas was very important and that it happened every year.
Typically, Cynthia didn’t mind the time away from home. She loved her paternal grandparents dearly, and they loved her back, but this time was different. Cynthia had never been scared before when Mom and Dad would leave. She was homesick of course, but she was never scared, never filled with a dread that made the simple act of eati
ng difficult.
Cynthia had heard the word “divorce” before. Kids on the playground used it sparingly, with the kind of reverence afforded only the foulest curse words. When Jimmy Keebler’s folks had unexpectedly split last May—sending Jimmy to Lake Tahoe with his mother, his father to parts unknown—the word had for a while been heard more often and was as welcome as the recent arrival of June’s mosquitoes and hot weather. Cynthia had been OK, however. She viewed the whole thing as more of a curiosity than anything else, something which could never happen to her.
On the third night in Nan and Pop’s house in Lansing—a night that saw her snap awake, sweating and clammy—Cynthia knew differently. Mom and Dad were going to get divorce, and they were discussing it right now in their hotel room in Las Vegas as calmly as if they were talking about whether they wanted burgers or tacos for dinner on Wednesday. They had been fighting, though. The fight was terrible, unlike anything Cynthia could ever have imagined. She couldn’t remember the awful things they’d said to each other—nothing beyond the words “affair” and “divorce,” which were bad enough—and was glad she couldn’t. The thoughts had twisted her dream into a horrible nightmare, and when she jolted out of sleep she knew none of it had been a dream at all. Cynthia was as sure of that as she was that Mom’s eyes were red and puffy now and that Dad’s voice had gone from angry to very sad. She walked to the bathroom, feeling sick but in a way she had never felt before, and knelt next to the toilet. She felt small, afraid, and alone, but there was a voice inside of her telling her she could not tell Nan and Pop about what she knew. Not because they would be upset—though of course she knew they would be; not even adults liked the “divorce” word—but because she couldn’t imagine how to explain how she knew about the divorce at all.
Cynthia sat next to the toilet for the better part of an hour, listening to the noise of the old house and the ticking of the dining room clock, before finally returning to bed. She felt no better when she got there, but going back seemed a necessary thing, since she would have no idea how to explain why she was in the bathroom. She loved her grandparents very much, but even at her age she knew that things like divorce couldn’t be discussed until Mom and Dad were back and told them in person. It would be wrong to know too soon—wrong and maybe even a little scary. Not as scary as the word “divorce,” but almost as bad.
Cynthia could see it on Nan’s and Pop’s faces the next morning when she came down to breakfast. She wanted to ask them if they’d somehow overheard her parents’ conversation in Las Vegas, like she had, but she knew it had probably just been a phone call that had shared the sad news from across the country. Cynthia took her place at the table, but no one spoke. Finally, Pop left, his exit punctuated by the opening and closing of the door that led to his workshop in the garage, and then Nan placed a bowl of cereal in front of her. Cynthia stared at the cereal, sure she didn’t want to eat, but also knowing that she was a child and when a child is given food, she must eat. Cynthia stole glances at Nan while she ate, a Nan who suddenly looked older than she ever had—old and something worse. Nan looked defeated, as though her years on earth had finally caught up to her and the smiling woman who delighted in her granddaughter and gardening might never come back.
When Cynthia was done eating, she carried her bowl to the kitchen, dumped what was left into the sink, and then rinsed the bowl as she hit the switch for the garbage disposal. Nan jumped when the grinding started, but Cynthia could tell she wasn’t too concerned, because she didn’t turn to make sure Cynthia was OK. Everyone is different, thought Cynthia, but even worse was the idea that nothing might ever be the same again.
Cynthia left her bowl in the sink, then walked into the living room and pushed the button to turn the television on. It was Sunday, and there was a man talking about God on the box instead of the cartoons she would have preferred, but Cynthia found herself beyond caring. Nan was in the dining room; Pop was in the garage. Mom and Dad would be home soon, but everything was falling apart. Cynthia watched the churchman until another churchman took his place. Both of them reminded her of the videos she wasn’t supposed to watch on MTV. Both men craved the eyes upon them, just like the preening singers in the videos, rather than any real connection with their audience. Cynthia watched as the second churchman faded to football, and at some point she herself faded into the couch, honest sleep finally taking her away from the madness. There were no journeys to be had, no impossible truths. That would come later.
Cynthia awoke to the sounds of an Important Talk. The Important Talk was happening at the kitchen table, and she could hear Mom and Dad speaking with Nan and Pop. The adults were all trying to be quiet, but Cynthia could hear frustration in her grandparents, anger in her mother, and worst of all, fear in her father. Dad was never scared, not of anything. Dad had been in the army. Dad had flown on helicopters and one time beat up two bad men who tried to rob the store with guns and left with their tails between their legs.
“I want to fix it,” Dad said, and Cynthia could tell without any effort that he was lying, just going through the motions. Dad knew he couldn’t fix whatever the problem was, and she knew he didn’t intend to try.
“Well, of course you can,” replied his mother, but Cynthia knew Nan was lying as well.
Mom was not talking, but Cynthia had a feeling that hers was the only voice in the room that really mattered. This wasn’t a problem Dad could chase away. It wasn’t one that Pop could fix in the garage, nor one Nan could fix with her sewing machine. This was worse, and if Mom wasn’t talking, then everyone else was just wasting air.
“No, you can’t,” Mom said to Dad, and Cynthia felt the tears begin to flow. It’s really happening.
“Yes, he can,” said Nan. “Be reasonable, Ruth. Think about what this will do to Cynthia.”
“All I ever do is think about my daughter,” said Mom, and Cynthia could hear the rage in her voice over the lie. Mom cared about her—she knew that—but Mom also cared a lot about shopping and having her hair just right. Mom liked things so neat that it was hard to know where Cynthia was even supposed to play, and though she knew her mother loved her, she was also well aware that Mom had other things on her mind than just the occasionally inconvenient child she was raising. “You need to share some of the blame in this, Nick. You know very well this is not just a decision I’ve made out of the blue sky. We can all have a nice long talk about that, assuming—”
“Not with Cynthia just a room away,” said Pop, anger creeping into his voice, and Cynthia wanted to rush to him and throw her arms around his neck. She could hear the caring in his voice. She didn’t know how she could know that, but she felt sure of a few other things. Dad didn’t want divorce, because he didn’t think that he was supposed to get it. Mom wanted it because she wanted to be right, no matter the consequences, and she was willing to suffer for it. Nan just wanted things to stay the same, no matter the reasons, but Pop was different.
“Dad, she’s asleep—”
“No, now you hush,” said Pop. “She was asleep when you two came in, and for all any of us knows now she’s awake.”
Cynthia could see the threads of their conversation in the air around her, beautiful and ugly swirls, the most vibrant of them the things that weren’t being said. Pop’s rage was a red ribbon. Pop cared—he cared a lot—but unlike Nan, he wasn’t just sad; he was angry, too. Not at Cynthia but her parents. As best she could tell, Pop was mad at them for being quitters, for not having the guts to suffer through the affair, like he had. What does that even mean? This had to be a dream, but she knew better. Cynthia pulled a blanket around her and stuffed the ends in between couch cushions so that she was held in place like the stuffing in a ravioli.
“Dad,” her father insisted, “she’s asleep. We were just in there.”
“It doesn’t matter either way,” said Mom. “If she’s awake, then she’ll figure it out that much sooner. It’ll be better for everyone.”
<
br /> Nan started to cry—Cynthia could hear her. She could feel it in a way that she’d never felt before: Nan was dying in pieces. She was terrified that something she’d never considered was happening, her son succumbing to the same selfish urges she had suffered from.
“No,” said Pop. “This is not how Cynthia is going to find out that her parents are too good for their wedding vows. If this is how you two think you want it, then she can stay here until you both have the common sense to either call this shit off or tell her in person. Cynthia deserves better than this.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what my daughter needs,” said Mom, and then there was the noise of a chair sliding across the floor, and Mom was on the move.
Cynthia dove face-first into the couch, feigning sleep but knowing it wouldn’t matter even before she felt Mom pulling her from the couch and to her feet. Cynthia stared at her mother. Somehow Mom was grinning, but the smile was cruel and false.
Pop and Dad burst into the room after her, and Mom said, “Looks like she is up, Tom. My daughter and I are going to go home, and then we’re going to pack. Nick, please have the courtesy to wait until we’re gone to come home. I’ll leave the car in the driveway.”
“Ruth, please,” said Dad, a swirl of beautiful purple curling over his head, like a snake missing its head. “You two stay at the house, keep the car. I’ll get a place. We’ll figure this out. You don’t need to make it like this. It doesn’t need to be like this, not before we’ve had the chance to work on it, to fix—”
“You had ample opportunities to fix your zipper, but you were too selfish to bother trying,” said Mom matter-of-factly, though from where Cynthia was sitting, Dad’s zipper appeared to be working perfectly. “Cynthia and I will be as fine without you as we were with you—and let’s face it, Nick, you don’t really care.”
Dad’s face hung dejectedly as Mom spoke, and then Cynthia was ushered out of the house by her mother. The sun was low in the sky as they left, and she watched out of the window as Mom pulled away from Nan and Pop’s house.
Dad was standing in the yard staring at them, and next to him were Nan and Pop. Cynthia could see the tears on the faces of both Dad and Nan, but Pop was just staring after them, looking more miserable than any of them, even with his dry cheeks. He’s sad because he knows about affair and divorce, thought Cynthia, and then Mom rounded the corner and the thought was gone, as though a string between them had been snapped.