Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  She had to be very careful, though. The fire-hose was but one sadistic punishment in a long line of options spanning from bad to unimaginably worse. She could be denied rations, switched to ‘loaf des Elends’ (affectionately referred to as either ‘punishment loaf’ or ‘cheerful loaf’ depending on the guard), force-fed aforementioned cheerful loaf through a tube, denied chamber-pot cleanings, or simply have her clothes taken away (a punishment often used in tandem with an overflowing chamber-pot). If she really messed up, they would shoot tear gas into her cell. That had only happened once, but Lena had passed out and begun to drown in a pool of throw-up and saliva after a few minutes of choking. She had to be removed from her cell for reviving while her cell was (poorly) cleaned, and even then, it still made her eyes burn terribly. She didn’t remember what she had done to earn that—she just vowed that whatever it was, she would never do it again.

  Her cell was small—perhaps five feet by six feet wide, and fifteen feet tall. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a dark gunmetal-concrete color and they were arranged in a sort of hexagon shape. The only notable feature (comparatively, at least) was the cell door. It was a massive door for the size of the cell. She had only seen the breadth and depth of it once, but no man or creature could ever pound its way through. Certainly, Lena’s 90lb frame would never pull that off. A hole for her food was present as was an eye-hole that almost never opened.

  She had a small sleeping pad with holes in it, and a wormy hair-cloth blanket that smelled like piss, fear, and diarrhea. These ratty accouterments provided almost no warmth at all and served to further the impression that she was human refuse—a mere imposition to be discarded when it suited her jailors.

  Nights (if days and nights existed normally in here) never seemed to last more than a few hours. She had no windows in her cell so her only way of determining time of day was the lone light-bulb in her cell that seemed to click on or off at random. When she was awakened, it was the morning-stretch position first, with her back against the wall. After this, it would be the first contemplation position, wherein she would scoot forward two inches and sit with no back support, her face tilted down at precisely 45-degrees with her hands resting on her legs; and God help her if her eyes were pointed anywhere but forward. She hated this position. The wall was so close to her back, but the sweet support might as well have been a mile away for all the good it did her. This position would be followed by the breakfast-eating position where she would kneel, tray on her thighs (with the tray always trying to slide off of her lap) and eat to the tempo of her taskmaster.

  “Spoon up!” he would shout. Then she would place the spoon inside of her mouth to gobble up what food she managed to fit onto it. “Lower spoon!” he would shout again, followed by, “Spoon food!” If she followed any of these instructions too slowly, her food would be taken away from her hastily, followed by minutes of those dreaded batons clanging on her cell door over, and over, and over, and…

  “Eating time is over! Stand up! Face the wall! Hands on head! Legs spread! Head at ninety-degree angle! Eyes...”

  She complied, and soon enough her cell door slammed open. A man with heavy boots stomped in, pushing and shoving against her as he removed her food. Once her food was gone, the cell door slammed closed, followed by the baton clanging against it for long seconds. This was followed by more instructions.

  “Second contemplation position! Sit two inches from wall! Knees against chest! Arms at side! Head at 45-degrees angle facing up! Eyes forward!”

  Of all the positions, this was the second-worst. It is unimaginably hard to keep your knees pressed against your chest without your arms wrapped around them. After a few minutes, your stomach burns, your thighs begin to tremble, and you just feel awful. It was still better than the third contemplation position, wherein she would be forced to kneel half-way with her arms bent forward, as if sitting in an invisible chair. That one was terrible.

  “No shaking! No sounds! You are here to consider your crimes against the State; not feel sorry for yourself!” These instructions were followed by more seconds of the baton clanging against her cell door.

  Despite spending much of her days sitting in these contemplation positions, the never-ending state of sheer panic prevented much actual thought at all. For first few days (or what she assumed were days), any thoughts were divided between immense discomfort, fear, and trying to figure out how she could get out of this situation. It had consumed her. “Maybe if I just…” was the ever-present thought. “Maybe if I just…what? What in the world could I do?! But I have to do something…anything!” Yet after a week’s worth of complete and abject futility, the second series of ‘days’ were divided between desperately trying to think about what the guards said she was supposed to be thinking about and trying to wish herself back into two weeks ago.

  Every now and again, however, Lena felt brave. When she did, she would allow herself the indulgence of regret or worry, thinking about Hans and her poor mother. What terrible fate must have befallen her mother?! Surely the State knew of her poor mental health; but if they hadn’t (or just didn’t care), how would her mother react to a bunch of angry Secret Policemen charging into her house? By now, every inch of her mother’s apartment would be bugged. This meant that they had to have encountered her somehow. Lena felt terrible—if her poor mother had experienced a heart attack or been put under State care, well…the implications were all Lena’s fault.

  When Lena’s thoughts drifted to Hans, however, she didn’t know how she felt. Intuitively, she felt that this was all his fault. After all, he was the one who had been reporting on her and her precious scene. Then again, so had everyone, apparently. Hans had been the only one to feel even mildly bad about that and try to make it right.

  “Oh god...” Lena thought, “My bandmates...” She had spent so much time with them. She had slept in the same rooms with them, snuck out after curfew with them, shared her most intimate secrets with them. She would have never guessed that they would betray her like this.

  But Hans had attempted to get her away from it all. Of course, she would have never gone with him. He had betrayed her worse than anyone! Why in the world would she have taken his hand? But what if she had?! She might not be here. Worse than even that, she considered the state of his precious face with those batons smashing into him again and again. He deserved to be punished for betraying her, but not that—no one deserved such a beating. Perhaps worst of all, Lena realized that if she had taken his hand, he would never have been beaten in such a fashion.

  The more Lena thought about it all, the more her mind soured, turning gloomier than it had previously been. She would have cried, but then she would get the fire hose. She knew this from experience. Instead, she chided herself for allowing her mind to wander, and set back to the task at hand—focusing on how badly her legs were shaking in the second contemplation position.

  “Clang clang clang clang clang clang...”

  As painful as it was it was, Lena had almost fallen asleep in the second contemplation position when the clanging started again. “God, I hate that so much...” she almost thought. Yet she was too scared to really think it—somehow, in some way, they would know she was thinking it and she would be punished. “God, could they really get inside my mind like that?” she wondered. And even though she knew that wasn’t technically possible, well, it was best to not risk it. These walls had eyes and ears, and those ears were supernaturally maligned against her.

  “It is time for your interrogation!” the voice yelled. “Stand up! Face the back wall! Eyes forward! Hands behind head! Interlace fingers! Spread legs! Lean forward at the waist...” the orders droned on for an entire minute, but Lena had stopped paying attention after the word ‘interrogation’. She had heard horrible stories of the things that the Stasi did during the interrogations. Up until this point she had retained a small, futile hope that it was something she would never have to undergo—now here it was. Ye
s, outside this prison, the Stasi ruled the public with an iron fist; but inside the prison, well, they answered to absolutely no one.

  Her world went dark, as a bag was placed over her head and cinched around her neck. The pressure of vertigo hit her immediately as unseen fists flew towards her face. Imaginary batons inched nearer and nearer to her while hands threatened to grasp her anywhere and everywhere, and she ducked down to avoid a surprise ledge or ceiling from hammering her brow. Whatever her eyes couldn’t perceive, her fear and imagination made up for them—Perhaps a more realistic fear was running into a wall, she realized as she began to be half-walked/half-dragged out of her cell. It was more realistic perhaps, but this place bred an amount of paranoia so extreme she could have expected anything.

  She tried the best she could to trace her steps. Perhaps if she paid close enough attention, she would be able to get a bearing somehow. At least, she could figure out the length of time it took to get from wherever she had been to wherever it was that she was going. Yet, as she walked straight forward for—what, five minutes?—and then turned around and around—what…three times?—only to head in what she could swear was the exact opposite direction for—two minutes? maybe?—she realized that keeping track of her route was as futile as trying to sleep in the second side-sleep position.

  Screams of pain echoed throughout the halls. These were punctuated by raucous laughter and the ever-present clang, clang, clang on cell doors. “The poor bastard is probably getting the fire hose...” Lena thought sorrowfully. She knew what that felt like, and screaming was most certainly warranted.

  Finally, after several more twists, turns, spins and back-tracks, she heard what sounded like a wooden door opening in front of her. Stepping (what she assumed was) through, she felt a mild change of pressure and echo as she walked forward. “America can’t you see…its political slavery!” the hit song by The Dead Weights played softly from an unseen radio in an equally unseen corner of the room.

  “You can leave her here, Sergeant.” a brusque male voice spoke in a commanding tone. “I’m sure young Lena and I shall be fast friends. Won’t we, Lena?”

  Lena didn’t know how to respond, so she decided silence was the best course, overall.

  “I can see our newest charge is rather shy,” the voice spoke again. “Perhaps if we just remove that sack from her head, we can start building some trust. No?”

  With that, the cord around her neck was loosened and daylight began filling her vision until the sack was fully removed, and the room was exposed to her. She was in a small room, sparsely furnished, with large windows covering the back wall. She could see the rainy cityscape of Berlin bustling away happily as if this horrible place never existed. In one corner of the room was a plain desk stacked high with papers and folders. On the other side of the room was a chair facing a bright white wall. The wall was extremely smooth and freshly painted, so as to glow in the sunlight streaking in through the large windows.

  “So, Lena.” the man began. He was tall and heavily set with muscle. His dark gray uniform was absolutely immaculate with sharp creases, and his boots were spit-shined to such a degree that they appeared to be mirrors in the sunlight. He had a strong, almost handsome jaw. Yet his gray eyes were of an intensity that made the man appear cruel and capable of anything.

  “It appears we have a problem,” the man continued. “You were arrested…what, fifteen days ago?”

  “I don’t know.” Lena answered honestly. She had no idea how long she had been inside this prison, yet somehow the idea of ‘fifteen days’ surprised her. Then again, the fact that it was daytime surprised her as well. The black cells had that effect on you.

  “Perhaps a little courtesy is in order, no?” the man spoke with an acrid tone. “I am an adult. You are a child. When children speak to adults, they refer to them as ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’, do they not?”

  Lena was taken aback by the insinuation that she was a child. But she knew this was not the time to pick a fight over something so trivial. If she really had been in that terrible cell for fifteen entire days (to her, it could have been anywhere from a week to a year), she couldn’t stand the thought of another fifteen. And if calling this man ‘Sir’ was what it took, well, it was a trifling pittance to pay.

  “I…I apologize S-sir...” Lena stuttered, hoping that she didn’t sound fake, “I’m just a little...”

  “I’m sure you are ‘just a little’ many things, you brat!” the man spat at her. “When I want to know what those things are, I shall tell you!”

  “Y-yes…Sir...”

  “I don’t know what sort of things your parents and your teachers are teaching you these days, but in my Germany, children respect their elders. And that means children speak only when spoken to.”

  “Yes…S-sir.”

  “And you are a child, aren’t you?” the man glared.

  Lena hesitated. She had only known this man for a few minutes and she already hated him. Yet she had to do what was needed to improve this situation—fast. Placating him was still a small amount to pay for the respite of being away from her horrid little cell.

  “Y-yes…yes, Sir.” Lena stuttered.

  “Lena...” the man menaced, moving closer, invading her space as he towered over her. “Tell me what you are.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are a child, Lena. Tell me what you are.”

  Again, Lena hesitated. Maybe it was the fact that he had moved into her bubble without her permission; maybe it was what she felt to be a profound disrespect; maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t do a single proactive thing about her situation. Either way, she really didn’t want to say it. Whether she meant it or not, she was allowing him a victory that she would hate to relinquish. Then again, was there any real winning for her in such a place?

  “I’m…I’m...” the words caught in her throat, “I’m…a ch-child, Sir.”

  “That’s right. You are a child.” The man backed away obviously feeling victorious. “Tell me, Lena. How do you feel about our wonderful country?”

  “I…I think it’s w-wonderful, Sir,” Lena responded. She wasn’t lying, per se, just stretching the truth on a few minor points.

  “Tell me what you love about it, Lena!”

  “I l-love…the trees, the…uh, the city…the…uh...”

  “Are you sure you love these things about our country?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  With this, the man stomped over to his desk and grabbed a folder filled with loose pieces of paper. Shuffling through them, he picked out a paper in the middle and pulled it out.

  “Weak and powerless I feel...” he began, reading off of the sheet. Instantly, Lena recognized the lyrics to one of her songs. “The shadow of the modernity replaces where my heart should beat, and I become stone-like.” On the word ‘stone-like’, he raised an eyebrow before reading more. “While my stone self awaits a new rain to wash me away, seasons never change for I am trapped inside a razor wall.”

  The man paused, before speaking in an irritated tone, “Tell me, Lena. Do these words sound familiar?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Do these words sound like the words of a child who loves her country?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Do these words sound like the words of a child, who should be seen and not heard?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Lena, tell me what you are.”

  “A child, Sir.” Lena snuffled a bit, as she said this. She could feel the warm red flush of shame spreading across her cheeks.

  “And as a child, Lena, what should you be?” the man glowered at her.

  “S-seen…and n-not…not heard, S-sir.”

  “That is so correct, Lena!” the man yelled, crumpling up her lyrics in a fist and poking Lena roughly in the chest. “You should be seen and not heard! And yet...”

  The man ma
rched over to his desk once again and began rifling through a different set of folders. He was no doubt searching for more damning evidence. Finally, after much pomp and circumstance, as if to accentuate how very many strikes Lena had against herself, he found what he was looking for. He then walked back over to Lena, poking the piece of paper sharply with a finger.

  “And yet, here you are! Dancing around on stage with your clothes off, wagging your ass for a bunch of known criminals just…like…you.” His face moved mere centimeters away from hers, staring into her soul before continuing, “Are you truly a criminal, Lena?”

  “No…n-no, Sir.”

  “Are you absolutely sure, Lena?”

  “No…I…no Sir.”

  “This is the last time I shall ask, Lena. Tell me, are you a criminal?”

  Lena thought this through. He obviously wanted her to say she was, but if she did, would she spend the rest of her life in prison? Would he torture her? Would she ever see her friends again? And yet, if she didn’t say she was, then what? Would he do worse to her? Would she spend the rest of her life in prison until she finally admitted to it, regardless of the truth?

  “No, Sir, I swear I am no criminal!” she said, hoping to God she somehow convinced him of the truth of it. She saw a brief twitch in his face, like a vein was about to burst. He looked angrier than she had ever seen another human being look. She truly expected him to punch her or worse.

  “Tell me, Lena...” he began, flicking flecks of spittle on her cheeks and in her eyes, “Is it legal for you to smoke?”

  “No, Sir.” Lena began, and her heart sank.