by Phoebe North
“Yes,” I said faintly. “It must have been hard for her.”
“You have no idea.”
My father pressed his mouth into a line; he wouldn’t say another word. Instead, he got up and spilled out the remainder of his tea into the sink. I guess he wasn’t thirsty, not anymore.
“Go to sleep, Alya,” he said, and kissed my hairline. Without waiting for me to follow, he trudged up the stairs—to where Momme waited, tucked beneath the covers in the bed they shared.
In the bed she would rather have shared with Miriam. Miriam, my teacher. Your mother. Her lover.
Lover. I feel my tongue form the syllables even now, as I write you this. They loved each other. In flesh. In heart. I know it now, see it so clearly in every breath of laughter and little word they shared. I see it in the way your mother looks at me, as if I’m some sort of ghost. Did you know, Benny? Have you always known? Did it make it strange when I first wrote to you? Did it cast a shade over our kisses—like it was merely something that fate had decided, like it was something out of your old books, and not our own hearts that planned our course?
Do you know why it ended?
Of course, it would have been forbidden. For two women to love like they did. But Momme is stubborn. She wouldn’t have let something so important fade without a fight. A fight. What was theirs about? After ten years or more of sharing kisses in the dark, they had an argument. And then were torn apart, until you and I and the Council’s plans conspired to stitch their lives back together.
Does this change anything for you? It doesn’t for me, though it raises half a dozen questions even as it answers so many more. Who were our mothers when they were young? What tore them apart? And how can we avoid their fate?
Benny, I love you. I love you. Please tell me that you love me, forever and always, too.
Yours,
Alyana
86th Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
Benny,
I was dreaming about work. Your mother was telling me to get Mar Schneider’s cake ready for pickup, telling me what words to write on it with the bag of frosting. But no matter what I did, the letters came out wrong—like gibberish, like nonsense. HBATHY RRRTHDY, HAPPPPPPTH, BIRADAD HAP. Soon, the cake was smeared with blue, incomprehensible. Miriam was yelling at me, even though she’s never yelled before, and I clutched the bag of frosting to my chest and hoped she would stop, squeezing my eyes shut.
And then they opened, and I was in the darkness of my room, but the yelling hadn’t stopped. She was there, your mother, somewhere in our quarters. Her voice shook with anger. Momme’s did too. I climbed from bed, setting my bare feet so carefully against the floor that I thought I might glide down the hallway. I came to rest at the top of the stairs, just past where they could see me. All I could see was their shadows: Momme and Miriam, by the door. Tateh, sitting at the galley table, his head in his hands.
“He told me he was in love. And I believed him! I should have known it was all one of your plots. I should have known that you were behind this!”
“Behind what? You think I’ve been playing matchmaker for our children?”
“I just came from my quarters, where he admitted he’s one of you!”
One of you. What have you been keeping from me, Benny? What secrets exist between me and my parents, me and you?
Your mother went on: “He’s just a boy, Liora. He’s too young to get involved—”
“A boy? He’s nearly nineteen years old! Perhaps he would have been married years ago if you hadn’t kept him tucked so tightly under your wing.”
“I had to keep him safe! I know what comes to men with his job.”
I leaned forward on the stairs. Your job? Librarian? It made no sense. I could think of no safer vocation. Apparently Momme agreed with me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No idea! Three of the past six librarians died before they reached old age. Do you think I don’t know what they do for your little cult? Running messages like some kind of speedy delivery service, with no thought to the danger that they might face?”
“He’s in no danger. He—”
“I don’t care what you have to say. I won’t have this marriage. I won’t have him living under your thumb.”
I heard a rattle of plates, like Miriam had pounded her fist on the table. That’s when I rose to my feet. Never mind that I was wearing only a nightgown, that my feet were bare and my hair tied back in a frizzy cloud at the nape of my neck. I didn’t care, not then.
The only thing I cared about was you.
“He won’t be living under anyone’s thumb but mine,” I said, standing at the bottom step, my hand curled around the newel post. “I love him and I’ll be sixteen soon and we don’t need anyone’s permission to be wed.”
“Alyana,” Tateh said sternly. But I wouldn’t hear it. I just held my chin firm.
“It’s not a plot. He loves me, Miriam. Like you once loved Momme. And just because your hearts were broken doesn’t mean that mine will be!”
They stared at me, Momme and Miriam both. Miriam’s eyes were wide, so like yours. Momme’s mouth had fallen open—so like mine. I didn’t care, didn’t wait for an answer. Before any of them could, I turned on my heel and stomped back up the stairs. When I reached my bedroom, I slammed the door behind me, sat down at the desk, and began writing you this letter.
No one came to comfort or reassure me, but that was all right. They didn’t have to. I was fully capable of reassuring myself.
Their voices still floated up the stairs and toward me, though, once their stretch of shocked silence wore out.
“She doesn’t know?”
“Of course she doesn’t know. She’s still a child—unlike your son.”
I clutch my pencil hard in my fist. A child! Well, I’m not a child, Benny. You must know it. I’m a woman, and soon, I’ll be your lover. Your wife.
So tell me, tell me please: What is it that I don’t know?
Yours,
Alyana
88th Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
Benny,
Yes. I think it’s time, too. Meet me at our tree tonight. We’ll talk, okay?
Yours,
Alyana
89th Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
Benny,
Sixteen today! This morning at breakfast Tateh asked if I was “sweet sixteen and never been kissed,” but then Momme gave him a look that said it really wasn’t very funny. She hasn’t talked to me much since her fight with Miriam. I think she’s still holding a grudge. Let her. Today is my Birthday Day and the day I can let the whole ship know that I am yours and you are mine. You are no longer a secret, kept tucked inside my pocket. I can climb the clock tower steps and shout it out in every direction if I want.
I keep thinking about what you told me last night, about the rebels, and how you are one, resisting the Council at every chance you get. The Children of Abel. You all sound very brave to me—like something out of a story. In a way, it’s a little difficult for me to imagine. All those secret meetings in the library you told me about, and your efforts to subvert our leadership at every turn. But at the same time, it makes sense. It explains Mazdin Rafferty, why you and your friends might hold him down and hit him, even though I still don’t think you should have lost your temper like that. But he took something from you, from us, from all of us—a job that could have gone to someone who deserved it, someone who could have helped us all. Instead, we’ll have an unqualified schlub who will someday run our hospital. Who wouldn’t be angry about that?
You asked if I’d join you, though, and I’m just not sure, not yet. Today at work, your mother had a pie for me, and she called the rest of the staff in and they all sang songs, and after I cut into the crust, two pieces of gelt shone out from the filling. My first wages. Then, when eve
ryone was done with their slices, she shooed the rest of them away. We sat together, having seconds, my rebbe and me.
“I suppose you know now about the Children of Abel,” she said.
I scraped my plate clean with the side of my fork.
“I do,” I said.
“You should know, Alya, why the Council assigned you to me.”
“It’s not because of my natural inclinations as a baker?” I asked, letting my lips lift up in a haughty smile. Miriam didn’t find it funny.
“The vocational counselors came to me the day before your Vocation Ceremony. They know that I’m a good, Council-loyal citizen. They want you to be one too. I’m supposed to steer you away from a dark path. And a dangerous one. I only want you and Benny to be safe.”
My gaze shot up. “Do they know about him? And my parents? Do they know they’re traitors too? Have you told the Council?”
Miriam’s frown was deep. “No. Never. I would never betray my son. And no matter what happened between Liora and I . . . well, I would never betray her, either.”
I put my plate down on the knife-cleaved countertop. “Just what happened between you and Momme, then? No one will tell me. Not even Benny. If you care about me so much, then be honest. Please.”
I didn’t expect my voice to come out as such a whine, but it did, the word lingering in the air long after I’d spoken. Miriam sighed, and put her plate down too.
“I was never a Daughter of Abel. I just loved Liora, that was all. I thought I could be a good mother and wife and still sleep beside her on lonely afternoons when business was slow and my children were away at school. I was naive. Your mother asked me to do something. Something I couldn’t—couldn’t stomach.”
“What?”
Her eyes went to the pie, like the answers could be found there within the remaining slice. And maybe they could.
“I was to bake a pie for the captain. A meat pie. Filled with ground lamb and peas and carrots. And poison, Alya.”
I winced at the nickname. I winced at the truth.
“Momme wouldn’t—”
“She did. Your father, too. And their fellows. They want to destroy the Council, and our way of life. And I never blamed them for that. I know what it’s like to be trapped in a loveless marriage, to have no hope for freedom or a brighter day tomorrow.”
She reached out, wrapping her flour-dusted hands around mine. When she lifted them, she drew my gaze upward until we were staring into each other’s eyes.
“But you’ll live a better life than me. Than Liora, too. You don’t need the Children of Abel, Alyana. You have Benjamin. I see now that I was wrong. It’s not one of your mother’s schemes. It’s love, true love. My son has never been so happy before. You are his bashert, as Liora was mine, but the two of you could have a happy life together. You can lead him away from this murderous life. Please, child. If there was ever any love between our families, let there be hope now.”
Part of me wanted to snatch my hands away. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Because she’s right, Benny. We have a chance to make good on everything that ever went wrong between my mother, and yours. A chance at love. At happiness. At a future. We don’t need the Children of Abel for that. All we need is each other—right?
Yours,
Alyana
91st Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
Benny,
It was so strange to see our families all gathered around one table once again. Tateh, doing his best to make small talk with your father. Momme, slicing the roast with a wary look in her eyes. Miriam, rolling hers at the chatter of the men. You were so quiet, sitting with your hands folded in front of you, that I felt the need to plug up every hole in the conversation. That’s why I couldn’t stop talking, even though I’m sure I sounded foolish. The truth is that I didn’t want there to be a moment of silence. I was afraid that if there was, Momme and Miriam would fall back to fighting again.
But they didn’t. Isn’t that miraculous? Sure, they hardly even smiled at each other until Tateh’s toast over dessert, but they didn’t shout or share cross words, either. I know that their friendship will never be what it once was, if we can even really call it a friendship and not, in truth, a love lost long ago. That hope has coasted away through empty space, just as silently as any spaceship. But tonight they proved they can be civil to each other. Maybe someday, after we’ve stitched our families back together with the thread of our marriage, they’ll be able to see the children we’ve made and know that their love never really died, not completely. Because I see your mother in you, and tonight, after your family left, Momme told me that she does too.
She says that you’re a good boy—a good man—with a quiet sort of righteousness. Those were her exact words, Benny. A quiet sort of righteousness. From her, that’s the best sort of compliment. Then she told me that she’d once been filled with rage when Miriam had denied her, resisting the Children of Abel and their plot. She’d thought it had meant that Miriam hadn’t loved her. Now she says she sees how it was different. Miriam thought that they’d be able to achieve tikkun olam through their love, that affection alone was sufficient. She’d been hopeful, naive, fierce. Not filled with hatred, like Momme was. Momme had been so angry that the Council conspired to make their love forbidden, she’d been blinded by it, losing sight of what really mattered: what the two of them shared in quiet moments, alone.
It was strange to have my mother tell me these things. I blushed to hear them, like a little girl visiting the hatchery for the first time. But I think Momme believes it’s time to share these truths with me, and for our relationship to change. I’m no longer merely a daughter, a child. I’m a full citizen, and soon, after the reading of our bloodlines, after I’ve held your hands in mine and said those vows, I’ll be a wife and a mother, too. I’m her equal. She speaks to me like one, treats me like one, no matter how uncomfortable that might be for me.
But I suppose I’ll get used to it—just like I’ll get used to our new quarters, to sharing a wide bed with you instead of this narrow one I lie in now. I can’t wait to sleep tucked against you, our hearts beating in unison. Until then, I feel as if our song is unfinished. Our chords were plucked out of the air when we were only children; these notes lingered, but didn’t fade.
May we sing together soon.
Yours,
Alyana
97th Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
Benny,
I don’t believe it. I can’t. My bones deny it—my spine, my jaw, my every rib knows that it is not true, that there must have been some sort of mistake.
But the Council doesn’t make mistakes. That’s what Momme said, after we returned to our quarters tonight, and she pounded her fist against the galley table so hard that all the dishes rang out like bells.
Still, an error. It must be. Our families have known each other all these years and we never knew that we were third cousins—and our mothers second cousins, too. It doesn’t make sense. We should have known. I stare down at the printout the woman at the records office gave us, tracing the names with my index finger. Jacob Stein, grandfather of Miriam. Sylvia Katz née Stein, grandmother of Liora. Brother and sister.
Cousins. We’re cousins.
I feel a knot in my stomach about it. There are things the Council has done that I don’t agree with—doling out the choice vocations to their sons and daughters, keeping women like our mothers apart. But no matter what you believe about the Council, we all know how important maintaining the bloodlines has become. With a ship this small, inbreeding is likely. I close my eyes and picture our children. Once, I imagined them to have dark, curling hair like yours. The boy would have your crooked smile. The girl would have the dimple in your chin. Now all I can see are the problems that would result. The boy might be covered in a fine coat of fur. The girl might have seizures from water on the brain. It would be awful, and it would be
all our fault.
Because we were selfish. Because we dared to love.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
And yet I can’t stop thinking of how you looked before. Before we knew all this, when we walked into the record’s office with our palms stuck together, sweaty from nerves. Your head was held high; your shoulders were squared. You wore a shirt in dark linen, a pair of freshly pressed pants. Your old leather boots were polished to a shine. You didn’t look rich, but you looked fine—handsome and proud. Your eyes gleamed as you looked toward the future, our future, together.
I wanted you. Even with both of our families crowded around us. My brother gazed at me, smirking, as if he knew what was in my heart. Your sister wore a grin that stretched from ear to ear. My mother and father stood, their arms locked together, united in their love for us, even if they never loved each other. And still, I wanted you. Wanted to kiss your stubble-strewn cheeks. Wanted to bruise my lips against yours. Wanted our lives and our love to begin in earnest. My desire was a bright white line cutting through me. My desire was a spark in the darkness. Electricity. Heat.
It’s not wrong. It can’t be wrong—what I feel for you, and what I know you feel for me. It was a mistake. It has to be. It must be. Tell me it doesn’t matter. Tell me you’ll still be mine! I’m crying so much as I write this. Do you see my tears? Know they’re for you, for us, for our future. Lost.
Yours,
Alyana
100th Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
Benny,
I suppose by now you’ve heard the news.
I have asked Arran Fineberg for his hand. He said yes. Assuming that all goes well with the reading of our bloodlines, we will be wed in two weeks.
It was your mother’s idea. She came to me after work, after eight days spent soggy with tears, drew me to her, and rocked me in her arms. Then, as I dried my cheeks, she said to me, in a dulcet tone: “Find a good husband, Alya. A Council-loyal man. Before they make your match for you, or worse. Find a way to live on.”