by JT Lawrence
Taking Care of Our People, said the State-sponsored posters. Pregnant women need support, the street-corner holograms said. If you know someone who is expecting, please report it to this number.
Mom dressed me in my softest pyjamas and wrapped me up in my winter robe, then tucked me under a blanket on the couch in the sitting room. Dad had made me a hot chocolate, and I cried when he gave it to me. His tenderness was too much to bear.
“Shhh,” he whispered into my ear as he hugged me. “Shhh.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I cried.
“Hey,” he said, taking the hot mug away from me and setting it on the side table. He went down on his haunches, took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Listen to me. You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“I do,” I said, “I do.”
He hugged me harder and kissed my temple. “We’ll find a way to sort this out.” He cast a worried look at Mom, who was standing on the other side of the room with her arms crossed and a tormented look on her face. He passed the hot chocolate back to me, and they sat with me all night. It was a vigil for what could have been.
"What about that pill?" asked Dad. The one on the black market that was more of a rumour than an established fact.
“Impossible to get,” said Mom. “And they’ll be able to trace it in her blood when she miscarries.”
"We can get a doctor," said Dad. He looked around the sitting room, paranoid, perhaps wondering if there were micro-cams hidden in the ceiling.
“They’re so deep underground,” said Mom, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t know where to find a willing doctor.”
Since the State had censored the internet, it was almost impossible to get information like that. Messages were scribbled on shreds of paper and passed from hand to hand, but we didn't have the right contacts.
Social media addiction leads to anxiety and depression, said the State Minister of Mental Health. Over-exposure of online activities causes illness. It’s imperative to Protect Our People.
“We’ll go overseas. We’ll go to Sweden. Or Switzerland.”
But we all knew that wouldn’t work. They pricked your finger before allowing you to check in on any flight and ran it for over a thousand medical conditions, including pregnancy. Pregnant women weren't allowed on aeroplanes anymore. The State coddled civilians to the point of suffocation. A percentage of pregnant women go into labour while flying, the digital pamphlets said. Why Take the Risk?
Abortion was punishable by death, and back-alley abortions usually resulted in the same sentence but implicated more people. The foetus was the size of a beetle, but I was forced to incubate it or face execution. Watching with horror as my sixteen-year-old body expanded, I’d yearn for the relief and oblivion death would bring, but being executed by the State terrified me. I’d seen people being stoned to death before; fear flared up inside me when I imagined what it would be like. I couldn't do that to myself, or my parents. The electric chair and lethal injection were for less serious crimes—murder and manslaughter—but "baby killers" were seen as the most barbaric. An Eye for an Eye said the banners the women in black robes held up. All Life is Sacred.
Justice for any crime was swift in the State: the day of arrest to the day of conviction took no longer than a week. Once sentenced to be put to death, the women in black would lead the criminals out onto the stained sandy plain and tie them to the wooden stake buried deep in the ground. They’d ring the bell, and rubbernecking passers-by would stop to watch. A child in the crowd would be encouraged to throw the first stone. All you could hope for was that no loved ones were watching and that the people would kill you quickly.
After weeks of talking and trying to come up with a solution, we understood there was no way out of our predicament. We were forced to report what had happened, and the pregnancy that had resulted from it. When I reached the end of my first trimester, we were notified that the father of the child had been released from prison—a penal labour camp—a year early, for good behaviour, and was to be awarded joint custody rights. It was too much for me. I fled to the bathroom, ready to swallow every pill in the medicine cabinet, but my mom pulled me away. A panic attack roared inside me, and I hyperventilated and collapsed into her arms. I wanted to die, but not even that option was available to me; I could not access even the most basic of freedoms. Saving Sacred Lives!
The child’s father would be allowed in the birthing room, said the report from the court. He’d be able to hold the baby and snip the umbilical cord. We were to divide our time with the child in a “fair fashion”.
Just thinking of him made me feel sick, and desperate with dread. I wanted to vomit violently to expel everything inside me. I retched and retched, but nothing came out. I had flashbacks of the night it happened: the passionate kisses we shared, the warm beer breath on my neck, the skirt I was wearing. The court had made it sound like he had no choice but to tear my panties after I had said no; no choice but to cover my mouth so hard I couldn’t breathe. He had been my boyfriend, after all. We had been drinking, after all. He had a bright future before him, said the trio of judges. It wouldn’t be right to take that all away from him because of an isolated incident. It was decided that the blood on my torn underwear wasn’t there because he had forced himself on me, but rather because I had been a virgin at the time. It was unfortunate, said the judges, but perhaps we'd be able to patch things up and do the right thing for the baby.
It was that moment—hearing that my rapist would be in the birthing room and my life forever after—which made up my mind. I refused to be their flesh-and-blood incubator. Let them stone me to death.
11
A Tree in a Forest
The married couple, Eddie and Roberta, had to drag the old man into the plush reception of the EverAfter frail care centre.
“Pops!” beseeched Eddie. He was sweating with the effort. “Don’t fight us, please!”
“We love you, Pops,” said Roberta, her eyes shining with tears. “We’re bringing you here because we love you. Because it’s the best place for you to be.” Her jewellery flashed under the artificial lights.
“They can take care of you here, Pops,” said Eddie.
“Don’t call me that!” shouted the old man, trying to wrench his elbow away from Eddie. "I'm not your father!"
The smartly dressed receptionist left his station and came around the white marble counter, a concerned look on his face. He clicked a button on his silver headset; a modern Madonna halo.
“We need two orderlies at reception,” he said into the speaker.
The old man managed to break away from Roberta and kick over a metal tray nearby, the contents of which went clattering all over the floor, along with Eddie’s Rolex.
“Make that four orderlies, and a gurney,” said the male Madonna, then switched the headset off. He scooped the watch off the floor. “You’re the Malones, I assume?”
Eddie and Roberta looked up at him at the same time. “Yes,” said Roberta. “We called ahead.”
“Let go!” Pops roared. He was tall, and stooped, and looked a hundred years old—and that was being kind. His hair floated in an untidy cloud around his head, his skin was as mottled as an octopus’s, and his teeth were the colour of illegal ivory.
“Yes,” said Madonna, passing the Rolex back to Eddie. “We’ve been expecting you. Mr. Malone’s room is ready.”
"Phone my son!" shouted the old man. "Phone my son, and he'll tell you that I don't know these people and that I don't belong here!"
Eddie looked distraught. “I am your son, Pops.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled the ancient man, stabbing his dead branch of a finger into Eddie’s chest. His clothes were old and tattered, and every time he moved, he emanated a wave of sickly body odour. Not just body odour, but Old Person Body Odour. The couple was used to it, but the receptionist's nostrils flared. He gave the couple a sympathetic—if not shallow—smile. There was a reason he worked at the front desk, instead of as a nurse, or
an orderly.
As if on his mental cue, four well-built men appeared.
“Thank you,” Roberta said, finally able to let go of the old man and put her hand on her chest as a gesture of relief. The rings on her fingers sparkled as she fixed her hair. She turned to the receptionist. “His favourite dinner is spaghetti Bolognese, and he likes to watch golf.”
“I hate watching golf!” shouted the old man. “It’s as boring as hell!”
“He likes his tea really hot, and strong,” said Roberta. “Milk. One sugar. And he must have his dinner at seven on the dot, or he begins to get anxious.”
Eddie piped up. “He needs his sleeping pills at nine, or he’ll be up all night.”
“I’ve never taken a sleeping pill in my life!” yelled Pops. “I don’t even know who these people are!”
“It’s all on the admission form we filled in,” said Eddie. “It’s all there.”
Roberta watched the orderlies with an appalled expression as they restrained the old man.
“He’ll be okay here, with us,” said Madonna. “It’s an excellent facility.”
"We know," nodded Roberta. "We know. We did our homework. We don't want to abandon him ... we just want the best for him. His state of mind—”
“I don’t know what your plan is—” said Pops.
“You’re breaking our hearts!” cried Roberta. “Can’t you see how much this is hurting Eddie?” There were tears in her eyes, and when she blinked, they escaped and ran down her cheeks. Eddie looked suitably hurt.
The orderlies struggled with the old man, who was still fighting tooth and yellowed nail.
“Be gentle with him!” shouted Eddie. “For God’s sake, he’s frail!”
“I’ll give you frail!” yelled Pops, who lunged for one of the orderlies with a knotted fist. The men in white uniforms increased their force.
“You’re going to injure him!” yelled Roberta.
“Londiwe,” said Madonna, and one of the orderlies looked up. The receptionist gave him a signal, and Londiwe stepped away and pulled an injector pen out of his utility belt. He moved towards Pops and darted the old man in the thigh with the tranquilliser. At first, the couple thought it hadn't worked, because Pops was still trying to land punches, but suddenly he stopped, swayed, and fell like a tree in the forest. The muscled men caught him before he hit the tiled floor. They heaved him onto the gurney and strapped his wrists and ankles with black velcro.
“Take him to his room, for now,” instructed the receptionist. “We’ll guide him through orientation later when he's feeling better."
“We’ll go with him,” said Roberta, moving towards the stretcher. “I don’t want him waking up all alone in a strange room.”
“With all due respect,” said Madonna, “it’s probably best if you don’t.”
“But he’s my father!” said Eddie.
"Mr. Malone," said the receptionist. "I understand that this is a very trying time for you. But at this stage of dementia, it's best for all parties involved to avoid traumatic situations. Your father is clearly upset by your presence—it’s not unusual at all—so let’s keep the contact at a minimum, for now.”
“I’m afraid he’ll fight the nurses and get hurt,” Roberta blurted.
"No. That won't happen. We'll keep your father sedated for as long as it takes him to settle in. The hardest part is over.”
Roberta nodded, wiping the smudged mascara from beneath her eyes.
“Thank you,” said Eddie.
Unconscious and secured to the gurney, they covered Pops with a heavy blanket. Eddie hugged his limp body; Roberta squeezed his cold claw of a hand. The old man’s mouth gaped open in a silent snore.
“Goodbye, Pops,” they said. “We love you.”
The receptionist gave the signal, and Eddie and Roberta held hands as they watched the orderlies wheel Pops away.
Eddie and Roberta put their sunglasses on as they left the building, and climbed into their black Mercedes. As they drove out of the EverAfter frail care centre’s parking lot, Roberta pulled off her wig, leaned back on the headrest, and sighed. “That was a tough one.”
“It was,” agreed Eddie. “I didn’t expect him to be such a fighter.”
“He’s much stronger than he looked on his file.”
"You were great, though," said Eddie, squeezing Roberta's knee. He put on a high-pitched voice and did his best impression of his wife. "His favourite dinner is spaghetti Bolognese, and he likes to watch golf.”
Roberta chuckled. "Next time, I'll change it up, so we don't get bored."
“Either way, you looked great as a red-head. And you deserve an Oscar. Who’s next on the list?”
Roberta opened the glove compartment and took out a piece of paper and a pen. She used the back of the pen to scratch her scalp, which was itchy from wearing the wig. At the top of the paper in her hands was the logo for a local dementia support group. She crossed off number fourteen: Miles “Pops” Malone.
“The next one is a woman,” she said. “In Killarney. Alice Germaine.”
“Are you ready to be Alice Germaine’s distraught daughter?” asked Eddie.
“Of course I am,” said Roberta, fluttering her eyelashes. “Are you ready to be her hand-wringing son-in-law?
“You know me,” said Eddie, adjusting his seat to get more comfortable for the journey. “I’m pretty good at hand-wringing.”
Roberta looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think we’ll go for quiche and Hallmark movies for Mom.”
“Yes. Quiche and Hallmark movies,” said Eddie, turning a corner. He squinted into the sun. “What kind of quiche?”
“Ham and mushroom? With cheese.”
“Perfect.” He rounded another corner, heading out of the suburb. “How are we doing on the business side of it?”
“I borrowed her daughter’s identity with the data you hacked, and the bank accepted the medical history file and the power of attorney letter. The transfer of Alice Germaine’s funds into our account has been initiated. It couldn’t have been easier.”
“Excellent.”
“The Twelve Oaks Retirement Village in Illovo is expecting her to arrive this time next week, so I hope it’ll be transferred before then.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Eddie, as he accelerated along the ramp to get onto the highway. “It’ll be good to get Mom into a place where they can care for her properly.”
“Yes.” Roberta nodded sagely. “It will be the best place for her to be.”
12
Nachthexen
It wasn't about revenge; it was about love, and justice.
When I heard about what Mariya Oktyabrskaya did, I realised what was required of me. We had the same first name and the same passion for killing the fascist pigdogs that were invading our beloved Motherland and killing our people. I was only 23, but my destiny was clear.
I had never met Oktyabrskaya, but I knew all about her. She was a heroine, a zavodila, and her mission was tattooed on my heart. We had watched from separate towns during Operation Barbarossa as millions of German troops streamed over our borders and gunned down women and children who were fleeing the attack. We saw young boys shot, mothers cut down, babies slaughtered.
Mariya and I had travelled a similar road. I thought of her as my poputchik: a stranger who becomes a companion while you travel in the same direction. That night, after the first brutal invasion, a pristine layer of snow had fallen, covering the corpses we had not yet been able to move. White and stiff, they looked like toppled statues. I cried for weeks and could not get out of bed; my mind felt broken. The world felt broken.
When Mariya Oktyabrskaya heard her husband had been killed in battle, she sold her home and all her possessions. She sent the money to the Red Army and asked Stalin if she could have an army tank. A few months later, Mariya was a trained mechanic and tank driver. Her T-34 had the name "Fighting Girlfriend" emblazoned on the side, as per her request. In a time when few women knew how to drive ca
rs, Oktyabrskaya rode her tank to the front line where she mercilessly mowed down the enemy, earning the respect of her fellow soldiers.
When I thought of how Hitler had breached the peace pact I wished I could strangle the man. When I thought of my dead friends and family lying in the streets, their blood running in the gutters, I got so angry that I couldn’t breathe. But when I thought of my poputchik, I felt emboldened and strong. I believed I could make a difference, even if it meant I would burn.
I didn't know much about the Night Witches, but I had heard rumours. The motherland celebrated the aviatrixes for their bravery and determination. They wrought havoc with the Nazi war machine from the Caucasus Mountains to the outskirts of Berlin; they were loved in Russia and feared in Germany. Nazis suspected there was sorcery involved, saying the female pilots flew planes that sounded like witches' brooms and had night vision, like cats. The Nachthexen were so fearsome to the Germans that any member of the Luftwaffe who managed to shoot down one of their planes would automatically get awarded an Iron Cross.
I wrote to Raskova, applying to enlist in the all-female night bomber regiment she had formed. Raskova was also a zavodila; she inspired people through her courage and grit. I couldn't afford a tank, but I had excellent eyesight and good instinct, and a hunger to see the Nazis burn.
When Raskova accepted me for training, my belief in my destiny was confirmed. I packed a small leather case and the well-thumbed photograph I had of Vladik, my fiancé, and I made my way to Engels. He was the only living person left in my life who I loved, and who loved me. But he was away, fighting the Nazis, so I had nothing to keep me in my hometown except bleak memories and heartbreak. In Russian, there is a word that describes a deep longing, intense anguish, an ache of the soul. No word in English renders all the shades of toska, but when I thought of the simple, happy life I used to lead, and how much I worried about Vladik, I was overcome with it.