Germany surrendered the same day we arrived in Moscow. The highest-ranking asshole left alive signed the German Instrument of Surrender—good name for a piece of paper—and poof. Nazi Germany ceased to exist. Just like that.
I thought it would mean… more to me. I don’t know what I thought. That it would put an end to all the suffering, restore my faith in humanity, something like that. I think they just ran out of people to kill. The dead are still dead, the burned still burned. The war in Europe is over but it rages on in the Pacific. More bombs, more death, more bodies floating in rivers.
They’ll put some Nazi leaders on trial, but the rest of them aren’t going anywhere. The policemen who shot families on the street. The baker who told the Gestapo his neighbor was a Jew. The kind people who stood by and did absolutely nothing. They’re all there. I’m still here.
What I really hoped for was to feel like myself again. I thought it would erase what I’ve seen, what I’ve done. But you can’t make the past go away. The war has smeared all of us, and those stains won’t come off in our lifetimes.
Oh, and I fucking hate Russia. Mother said I would. Of course, she said it because she knew I’d want to decide that for myself. I thought: It can’t be that bad. I’m sure I’ll find something to like. New place, new friends. It’ll keep my mind busy. Maybe I can stop thinking about what I did. Maybe I can stop thinking about Bad Saarow. I helped her pack. I didn’t whine, not once. Now I can’t say she didn’t warn me.
She never said anything about moving into a haunted house. Our place was built at the end of the century. They call it “Art Nouveau.” I doubt it was ever “nouveau.” When electricity came along, they stapled the wires on the walls and ceilings and painted over them. The lights flicker whenever I walk by. I swear, we live with the spirit of the previous owner and he’s just as pissed as I am about the water heater. My guess is he killed himself after staring at green walls for too long, that or the seizure-inducing roses on the kitchen wallpaper.
I barely understand why we had to leave. I sure as hell don’t know why we had to come here. Mother said we’re going to build rockets, but there had to be better places than this. The Soviets torched everything west of here to slow the Germans’ advance, and the Germans burned it all again on the way out. There’s nothing left. No farmland, no livestock. There’s nothing to eat, anywhere. Moscow’s just fog and slyakot, mud and melting snow taking over the city streets. The people are great, though, except one in seven is dead and the other six are famished.
It’s the Soviets that defeated Hitler. For every American soldier who died, the Soviets lost eighty. We haven’t met anyone here who didn’t lose a close friend, a husband, a brother. They’ll rebuild everything, of course, with slave labor: two million prisoners of war and just as many Soviet dissidents Stalin had arrested. No wonder these people are paranoid. This whole place is a prison without walls. And if you don’t play nice, you get sent to the one with walls, and forced labor, and death. There’s lots of death, and brainwashing. Millions of little brains being washed. School is bad enough, but the youth organizations are just… I’m a proud member of the Komsomol. We’re the end of a long assembly line for perfect Soviet citizens. You start at seven—because why wait?—and join the Little Octobrists, then you graduate to the Young Pioneers at nine. They’re like Girl Scouts. Creepy, zombified propaganda-spewing Girl Scouts. Joining is voluntary, of course. You have a choice, unless you really want to go to school, get a better job, or not have your neighbors look at you funny, or not add a tenth circle to this fiery, everlasting hell. I volunteered. Mother said I had to.
I received another letter from Hsue-Shen.
My dear Sarah,
It is with a profound sense of irony that I have accepted a commission in the US Air Force. I cannot vote or marry but I can apparently hold the rank of colonel. The commission is only temporary. I shall travel to Germany to interrogate a group of rocket scientists who surrendered to American forces shortly before the Reich fell. Though their expertise would no doubt prove useful, I shudder at the prospect of welcoming anyone who enabled Hitler in the slightest manner.
I understand and respect my friend’s reluctance. That is why I chose him. Von Braun’s value is obvious, but that of those who were captured with him is not. Few people understand the science well enough to weigh their knowledge against their character. This entire endeavor is but a moral compromise, but if one is to make a deal with the devil, one should at least be able to negotiate the terms.
—MOTHER! THE WATER HEATER BROKE AGAIN!
—Then get out of the shower.
My daughter is having a difficult time adjusting to our new circumstances. She believed the war’s end would be an end, but for her it is only the beginning. Cold water and stale bread are also not helping.
—I’m freezing! Oh, and there’s definitely something moving inside my bedroom wall.
—It’s only the wind, Mia.
—Seriously, Mother. What are we doing here?
—We are giving the Americans someone to compete against. We are going to build V-2s, then make even better rockets.
—Great! Why are we in Russia? Rocket scientists are in Germany, not here.
—Do you wish to go back?
—Fuck no!
—MIA!
—Sorry.
—Do you know where Wernher von Braun is at this very moment?
—Hmmm. It’s the middle of the night in America, so I’d say in his bed.
—Witzenhausen. Von Braun is in Witzenhausen.
—That sounds suspiciously German.
—It is. The Americans have not deigned to debrief him yet. I had to pull some very reluctant strings in Washington to make sure they send someone.
—Are you telling me I went to Germany for nothing?
—I am telling you we need to put pressure on the Americans.
—How? Wherever he is, Mother, von Braun’s not here. The Soviets may have been good at this before Stalin, before the purge, but they’re so far behind now… We’re not going to build rockets ourselves, Mother.
—Then I suggest you find someone who will.
—There’s no one! The Soviets aren’t up for this any more than the Americans were. It’s the Germans that build rockets. That’s why I went there in the first place.
—Get some Germans involved, then. The Americans will only take about half of the people you gave them. You left over twenty-five hundred people behind in Bleicherode, if I remember correctly, and a good third of the people working for von Braun never even left Peenemünde, which happens to be inside Soviet-occupied territory. There are plenty of people left with some knowledge of the V-2.
—I don’t know, Mother. I mean, there are V-2 rockets out there already. They exist. What good is making one with a hammer and sickle on it?
—We are creating a race and the Soviets do not have anything to race with. It will take them years to get a working rocket. You can give them a V-2 in ten months.
—That seems very optimistic. I think it would ta—Wait a minute. I can?
—Yes, darling. You know enough. Give the Soviets a working V-2 and you will get the Americans’ attention. Make it cross an ocean and I guarantee von Braun will get his own research center and all the resources he needs. Then you can race him higher and higher, all the way to the stars.
—Me…. What will you do?
—I will support you as best I can, of course. I also need to find old air.
—Old what?
—Air. I require air from the past. I need air from centuries ago, as far back as possible. I need… old air.
—That sounds fun. Do I dare ask why?
—No, Mia. You do not. I am too tired for science this evening. Tonight, you and I are carving.
—We are?
—We are performing the Maqlû.
—What’s the Maqlû?
—It is an ancient ritual.
—I figured that part, Mother.
—My mother and I did it together, before you were born. We would sit on her bed. It was rare for her to let me inside her bedroom. We would light a candle on each of the nightstands, barely enough light to see what was in front of us. In the winter, the draft of cold air from the window would make the flame waver. I tensed with every flicker. I think my mother enjoyed scaring me.
—What does it do?
—It was meant to protect against witchcraft, evil sorcerers.
—Don’t tell me you believe in all that.
—I did at the beginning. Perhaps not, but I wanted to believe. I was much younger than you are now. There was a sense of danger to the ritual. It had the allure of the forbidden. Now I find it quite soothing. But enough talking. I will get what we need for the Maqlû. You get us some iced tea from the refrigerator.
—Fine.
—With some ice, please.
—I know!…
—… Thank you, Mia. Now take this block of wood and start carving.
—Carve it into what?
—The evil sorcerer. Anyone who wishes to harm you. I would suggest the Tracker.
—I don’t know what he looks like.
—It is a piece of wood, Mia. A human shape will suffice. When we are done, we will drown it in ink, then crush it while we recite the incantations.
—We’re making voodoo dolls. How exciting.
—Do not make fun of your mother. As I said, it is… soothing. You’ll see.
—…
—Mia?
—…
—Mia! What are you doing? Stop staring at your tea and start carving.
—Look.
—No, Mia. I will not look at your tea.
—Not the tea, Mother, the ice.
—I have seen ice before. Now can we please—
—Closer, Mother! Bubbles!
Where is she going with this?
—I see there are small air b—
Air bubbles.
—Yes! Unless I’m mistaken, that’s air that was trapped when the ice formed, air from whenever you made the ice. Yesterday, or last week.
—Old air. This… is…
—I know, Mother. Now all you need is to find old ice. Somewhere with lots of snow—Antarctica, maybe Greenland… If there is melting in the summer season…
—It would create a fresh layer of ice each year. Count the layers to date the ice. Like the—
—Like the rings on a tree…. Can I have my drink back now? I thought we had voodoo dolls to make.
—I’m sorry, Mia. This is just—
—I know, Mother. I know.
I don’t know how it’s possible but my uniform is getting itchier with time. What do they make them with? Asbestos? These Komsomol meetings are a complete waste. I’m supposed to make rockets, not to reminisce about the great sacrifices placed on the altar of the Motherland in the name of freedom and independence. Seriously, who comes up with this nonsense?
Still, I have no idea how I’m supposed to speed up a rocket program that doesn’t exist. I mean, there are a handful of Soviets working on different things, but none of them are where we need them to be if we’re going against von Braun. Mother is right. We’ll need some Germans to help, but which ones? Even if I knew, they’ll need to work for someone, somewhere. I can probably get German scientists to build a German rocket, in Germany. That I can do—
—Nina?
But if we want the Soviets to race, we’ll need some Soviets. We need a Soviet something to approve a Soviet program, a Soviet chief designer, Soviet money. I don’t know how—
—You’re Nina, aren’t you?
Shit. I keep forgetting Nina’s my name in this hellhole. Who wants to know? Oh, behind me. Another Komsomol. She’s…
—I… Yes. I’m Nina.
—You’re not from around here, are you?
She can talk. She stands out like… well, like a black girl in Moscow. Come to think of it, she’s the only black person I’ve seen here. She’s also taller than me. No one’s ever taller than me. Where am I supposed to be from again? Oh yes.
—We’re from Uzbekistan.
I have no idea if we look Uzbek or not. I’ve never met an Uzbek before but, apparently, neither have most people.
—Neat! Come with me. Quick!
What? Come with her where?
—Where are we going?
—Through here, behind the building. Hurry! We don’t have much time.
She’s… skipping along. I don’t even know why I’m following her. This feels like a couple of ten-year-olds hiding from their parents. Are we hiding? Oh, she’s stopping now. She’s digging through her bag. A cigarette. She’s lighting a cigarette.
—Isn’t that against Komsomol principles?
Smoking, drinking, modern dancing. The marks of hooliganism and decadent fascism.
—I think we’re allowed one vice. Just one.
She’s handing me her cigarette.
I… I took it. What’s wrong with me? I just took it from her hand. I couldn’t say no. The tip is still wet from her lips. This feels… intimate, someh—WHOA! Head rush. Holy cow, that’s rough. I’m doing my best not to—
*cough* *cough*
I feel… dizzy. She’s smiling. Is she making fun of me? She hasn’t stopped smiling since we got here. It’s a beautiful smile. Childlike, careless. Now I’m self-conscious about everything. Is my face all red? How does her uniform fit her so well? I look like a fool in mine. Another drag.
…
So this is what smoking feels like. Light-headed and super awkward.
Why does she keep looking at me? She stares while she smiles. Few people can do that, look someone in the eyes for more than a second or two. Those who can do it with intent. They want submission. Not her. She just stares, with… insouciant abandon. I find it impossible not to look back, but I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m fidgeting. Why am I fucking fidgeting?
—I have to go. See you next week?
What? No, don’t leave. She’s putting out her cigarette, skipping back the way we came.
—Wait! You never told me your name!
—I’m Billie! Bye, Nina!
Billie? I have so many questions. She’s gone now. I wanted more. More of… something. Oh shit, I think I’m going to be sick.
—What was it like, Mother?
—What was what like?
—Hiroshima.
—… I don’t know.
How could I? No one saw it. Those who did are dead or dying. The Americans did not televise the murder of countless civilians. Newspapers used words like “terror” and “devastation,” but even a thousand words are not worth one picture. The only way Mia and I can experience the event is through science. We can do the math.
Come.
—Where are we going?
—Come with me!
—Outside? But it’s raining!
—You will survive. Here. Look at the sky and choose a point about two thousand feet above your head. That’s where it would have happened, where the bomb exploded.
—It didn’t detonate on the ground?
—No. Up in the sky. Within… a millionth of a second, the temperature at that point reached tens of millions of degrees and vaporized what was left of the bomb. The expansion created a pressure wave, probably over a million pounds per square inch, moving outwards at… three thousand miles an hour, give or take. Now imagine a one-mile circle all around you. That is nine or ten blocks in every direction, from here to the Bolshoi. Somewhere between three and four hundred city blocks. About one second after the explosion, everything in that circle was hit by a wall of air moving at supersonic speed. Every building was ripped apart or toppled over. Bodies were squeezed like lemons, compressed with enough force to rupture most internal organs. The same circle was hit, almost instantaneously, with a lethal dose of neutrons and gamma rays.
—What does that do?
—It does not matter if you were inside that circle. Look up again. At the point of detonation, the air surrounding the weapon was bombarded with enough X-rays to form a ball of burning air many times brighter than the sun. Within ten seconds, that ball of fire had reached the edge of the one-mile circle, blowing burning debris and broken bodies at hundreds of miles per hour. Anyone who was still breathing was burned alive instantly. By then, the air blast would be two or three miles ahead, still moving incredibly fast. Then came the heat, visible and infrared light. It caused blindness, third-degree burns up to ten miles away, perhaps more. In about a minute, tens of thousands were dead or dying. Just as many were burned or injured.
—Hell on earth.
—A quick death for most. The ones who did not die will experience hell.
—Neutrons and gamma rays.
—Yes. Living cells will absorb the energy. If they absorb enough—
—It’ll kill them.
—Not directly, no. If you were close enough for that to happen, the firestorm would have hit you first. But it will damage cells, enough to stop them from making proper copies of themselves. When the cells die their natural death, their imperfect offspring will not survive. The faster the cells reproduce, the more sensitive they are to radiation.
—So the brain—
—You figure it out, Mia.
She does not need to hear me say it. She knows enough to play it out in her head. Bone marrow will die first, but it will take a month before it causes severe internal bleeding or infection sets in. Epithelial cells in the intestinal tract will be next. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Death will come faster, a couple of weeks. Nerve cells are slow to regenerate so they will die last, but with enough exposure, they will die. Seizures, convulsions. Dead in a day. Brain cells do not reproduce, so they will not be destroyed. Too bad. I would prefer not to be conscious for this.
—Mother?
—What is it, Mia?
—Did we do this?
—…
—Mother?
—No, Mia. That was not us. You are soaking wet. Go back inside and get rid of these clothes before you catch your death.
A white lie, perhaps. The truth is more complicated than yes or no. The work of thousands, tens of thousands, went into that project. A million small pieces of knowledge interlocked in just the right way. Some of the pieces were ours, undoubtedly, but we did not put the puzzle together. That will have to be enough.
—Aren’t you coming in?
—I think I will stay a bit longer.
I like the rain. It’s a new dawn. The age of gods is over. The era of man began when a neutron struck the nucleus of a uranium atom. The emperor did not just rule over Japan, he was a direct descendant of the sun goddess. A divine being was just cut to size by science. The last living god bowed to man. Nothing will ever be the same.
—I don’t know what’s on your mind, Mia, but you need to focus. We have work to do.
I am focused, very focused. Just not on this.
—Yes, Mother…. Did you know hundreds of Afro-Americans came here during the thirties?
—They were recruited by the state, were they not?
—Yes. How do you know? Never mind that. Why would anyone want to move here, under Stalin?
—I can think of many reasons. Jim Crow laws, the Great Depression. I would surmise many were simply looking for an adventure. Is this about your new friend?
—My fr—Yes. Her father studied agriculture at Tuskegee University. He brought his family here to teach the Soviets new cultivation techniques.
—This is fascinating, Mia. Now can we—
—She was an actress. Kind of.
—Who was?
—My friend. Billie. She made a Soviet propaganda film about racism when she was eight.
—I would love to meet her someday, Mia. Can you please focus on the task at hand?
—I’m sorry, Mother. What can I do?
—I told you before. You need to start a research program, put a team together.
—But I don’t know how! I don’t even know who’s in charge, here or in Germany.
—Don’t worry, Mia. Neither do the Soviets. Right now, there are a handful of Russian scientists in Germany. In Bleicherode, where you were. Boris Chertok is running what they call Institut Rabe.
—Rabe. What does it mean?
—Some German acronym for rocket building, I suppose. Things are more complicated here in Moscow. They are still bickering over who should be in charge of the technology. NKAP—that’s aviation—thinks it should be theirs. The People’s Commissariat of Ammunition wants it, so does the People’s Commissariat of Armament. Our man is with the Main Artillery Directorate, General Kuznetsov. He more or less single-handedly decided Rabe was under his command, and no one objected.
—You said “our man.” We have a man?
—Yes, Mia. We do. For the time being, he believes he is working for a secret commission only Stalin knows about, but it will not last. You will need to make more permanent arrangements.
—A secret commission. You made it up?
—I did. We had nothing to blackmail Kuznetsov with, or anyone else here for that matter. I had to spend a fortune on a low-ranking government official just to create the paperwork. Fortunately, there are more commissions and committees here than anyone can remember. You first priority should be to find a suitable general, or a member of the Politburo.
I’ve watched Mother do it but I never turned anyone before. It’s not that hard from what I’ve seen. Debt works best, especially the gambling kind. Ask for something illegal but harmless at first. Threaten and squeeze for more. Rinse. Repeat. Like most things, guilt doesn’t last. Habituation is a horrible thing. We’ve done it a thousand times over generations, amassed file after file of everyone’s dirty little secrets. Mother says we could overthrow governments if we wanted to. I don’t know if that’s true but we could sure run one with the money we’re spending.
My grandmother had hundreds on the take. Scientists, government officials, a whole network of people gathering information for us. Some of it is pretty bad, but the most useful is usually petty crimes, love affairs. It’s amazing how many people will end up selling state secrets because they couldn’t keep it in their pants.
—Do we have enough money for this? I mean, we’re still paying a ton of people.
—We have enough, Mia.
—How much?
—I have shown you the accounts, what documents we need to move money around.
That she did. Lots of paperwork. People can’t hide money, they just can’t. We have to make sure it comes from somewhere. Family trusts from long-lost relatives, research grants from some obscure foundation. Yuck.
—I know, but how much do we have?
—Difficult to say. Most of it we owe to the Eighty-Seven. They made a fortune in the Dutch East India Company. You can do the accounting. You should know where the money is.
Aaaaand. She wins. She knows how much I hate accounting.
—It’s okay, Mother. You know about these things a lot more than I do.
—It was not a suggestion, Mia.
I really don’t like where this conversation is going.
—Mother, what is going on? You do the accounting, you buy people, you get the Russians to build V-2s. Why me? Why not you? Why do I have to do all this?
—Because it is time, Mia.
—Time for what?
—It is time for you to have a child, time for us to be the One Hundred.
Fuck no! I know the rules. Mother and me plus one is three. There can never be three, not for long anyway.
She’s my mother. I’m not ready for her to go. I’m not ready for anything without her. She’s my protector, my guide. She shows me the path and I follow. It took a hundred generations to get us here. I’ll mess that up in a week. I won’t ruin everything because Mother is having a midlife crisis. We are the Ninety-Nine and I live in her world. I like it there. I trust her a hell of a lot more than I trust myself. I’m not… right. I still hear the dead in my sleep.
“Don’t you want to know what happened in Bad Saarow?”
I’m a mess. I shouldn’t be in charge of anything. I’ve been trying to run things for about five seconds and already the Allies are accusing the Soviets of breaching the agreements on the liquidation of the German war machine. They’re right, we’re not dismantling anything. We’re building more rockets, German rockets the Americans already have, but at some point we’ll want to work on new designs. If they send inspectors, they’ll know what we’re working on. They might know already. Russians are supervising but they aren’t learning anything. We have a bunch of Germans trying to build a German rocket, in Germany. For the most part, they’re all free to move around. Anyone could talk, defect. This was a bad idea from the start.
Mother knows it but she won’t say. She wants me to figure it out for myself. I have, but it doesn’t mean I’m any closer to a solution. The scientists here aren’t up to the task, not even close. They were ahead of the game not that long ago, but Stalin has a way of ruining things. I wasn’t ready for any of this. I need Mother. That’s the one thing I know.
“It is time for you to have a child.” I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’m nineteen years old and I’ve never had sex! Does she think I don’t want to? I want to. I want what every girl my age has. There’s so much I’ve never experienced. I can calculate thrust coefficients with my eyes closed but I don’t know what it’s like to sleep next to someone, to feel their chest move with every breath, or how much heat two bodies can generate. Shit, I even crave the physics of it. I want someone to make me feel… normal. I want it with every fiber in my being, but I won’t kill my mother for it. I won’t watch her die, even if it’s what she wants. I’ve seen enough death already. Fuck her. She can’t die.
I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she thinks I’ve been with someone before. She gave me a diaphragm when I turned sixteen. Thanks, Mother! I had to ask a friend what it was. That was… embarrassing. She should have known I’d never use it. As if I’d trust her life to a piece of rubber. If there were a pill, maybe. For the longest time, I thought: She must know, she knows everything. Now I’m not so sure. She knows everything about us, but I don’t know how much she knows about me. There is a me.
Does she know I’m seeing someone? I do my best to complain every time I leave for brainwash group, but I’m sure Mother senses I’m not as reluctant as I used to be. Billie—I love that name. She… She’s not me. That’s what drew me to her. She knows things I don’t. She wants things I don’t. I don’t know what I want. I’m not… attracted to her, I think, not the way she is to me. I don’t know. I’ve never felt those things, with anyone. Maybe that’s what it feels like. I keep asking myself if I want to be her or be with her. I don’t know if there’s a difference.
She kissed me— We kissed once. I like the way she kisses. It’ll never lead anywhere. Not here, not with me. Maybe that’s why I let myself enjoy it. It’s unsettling, in a good way. To be close to someone, to look at her and see something familiar and yet completely different, to look at a woman who’s not me… I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, but I feel… unique when I’m with her. I feel good. I’m me. There is a me.
Maybe that’s what bothers me most. Maybe it’s not Mother I’m so afraid to lose.
I look at Mother and I see glimpses of myself, but some of it I don’t recognize. I haven’t lived enough yet. I’ve never seen myself her age, but she has. The flow of time is the river that separates us. It’s a one-way mirror neither of us can put down, and I don’t want to switch sides. Mother is us. She bears the weight of a hundred lifetimes. She’s her and me, and everyone that came before us. She feels their pain, cries their sorrow. Mine, too. She knows what I think and feel, what I fear. She knows me better than I know myself. We are the Ninety-Nine.
I’ve seen myself pregnant before. I’ve had dreams about it, bad fucking dreams. I’ve seen Mother rip through my stomach and crawl up to my face. I’ve seen myself do it. Bloody, small versions of us, limbs bent and broken, speeding up my body like a spider. Each time, I bleed to death while my child whispers: “Ma. Ma.” I’ll die if I have a child. I know it. Not like that—I won’t stop breathing. I’ll still get up every morning—but I’ll die. There won’t be a me anymore.
Mother said it. She’ll be born and I’ll lose myself, instantly. One look at her, that’s all it’ll take. I’ll see myself staring back and I’ll know I’m on the wrong side of the mirror. I’ll know that I was never me. I was her the whole time. I was always the Kibsu.
—You’re lucky. You might not always feel it. You might not feel it now. But you are. You have everything. A nice apartment—small, but cozy—in New York City. I like this place. I’ve been here two hours and I like it already. You’re a—what is it you do again? You told me when we met. Oh yes. You’re in family finance. I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that means. I imagine it’s a valuable service. You do whatever it is you do and people are better for it afterwards. I bet you’re good at it, too! You must get some sense of accomplishment, some pride for what you do. There are bad days, of course. I’m sure you feel worthless at times, but overall you strike me as a happy person. Are you? Don’t just stare at me. Nod or something.
Oh, you wish you were more. I understand. Everyone does. You wish you were… special. Well… Let me give you some advice, honey. Don’t. You’re not. You’ll never be special. You’re as ordinary as they come. You’re the luckiest woman in the world.
Me and my brothers—did I tell you I have three brothers?—we’re special. We’ve been told from birth how special we are. We’re not like you, that’s for sure. We’re… stronger. We’re—how do I put this in a way that’s not insulting?—we’re more… intelligent. I must sound so full of myself right now. Believe me, I’m not. I wish I were like you. I wish I were in family finance. But I’m not. I can’t. You see, my brothers and I, we have a mission, a function. We were born with purpose. We’re like medieval knights on a holy quest. Do you want to know what that quest is? What our GREAT mission is all about?
—Please, sir. Please don’t kill me!
—Did you just call me sir? Sir was my father before we killed him. My name is Charles. Call me Charles. Seriously, I’m twenty-four years old, do I look like a sir to you? The use of honorific indicates distance. I felt quite the opposite. I know you were being polite but I felt a connection, like I could share things with you that I don’t get to share with most people…. Now I forgot what I was saying. DAMN IT! Don’t interrupt me again. I was telling you about our quest.
We… we’re hunters. We hunt people. This is when I’m supposed to say they’re bad people, that they deserve it. The truth is I’ve never met any of them. My father never met them, neither has his father. They have something, apparently, a machine that we want. Something that can save… more people than you can imagine. I’ve never seen it, of course. No one has. Maybe it doesn’t exist. All I know is that these women left Germany and landed here, in New York. Only we won’t find them in New York because that was thirteen fucking years ago. That’s how we measure how close we are, not in distance, but in time. To be honest, thirteen years is as close as I ever got.
Do you understand what I’m saying? We spend our whole lives, every hour of every day, chasing people we’ve never met, looking for something we’ve never seen. It’s been like that for… Do you know how amazing your life looks to me? What I wouldn’t give for just one day of family finance? I envy you. I… envy you.
—Please! I don’t want to die! PLEASE! HELP ME! HEEELP!
—Shhhh. You’ll wake everyone. Now I’m going to have to gag you.
—NOOO! HMMM…
—Stop it! I don’t want to kill you. Not like that. I’m not a maniac. I just want… I thought we were sharing… I wonder why they call this duck tape? It’s green. Ducks aren’t gr—
I’m sorry. I thought I heard something…. Why’d you have to scream? I can’t see half your face anymore. I liked looking at your face. To be completely frank, I also find begging quite unbecoming. It makes you look—I don’t know—stupid is the first word that comes to mind. I don’t want to think of you that way. Don’t be like them. They all beg. What do they expect? Sorry to have bothered you. I was going to kill you, but you said please, so… In this particular case, I’m willing to take some of the blame. I did use some rather graphic language earlier. I—
There. You must have heard that? I think there’s someone at the door. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. That was a joke. I know, you’re tied up. Not funny… I have redeeming qualities but I do lack a proper sense of humor. My whole family does.
Yep. There’s someone at the door. He must have heard you. Now you’ve done it. I’m going to have to open the door and kill this fellow before he wakes up more neighbors and I have to kill them, too. You understand how bad this can get, don’t you? It could turn into a vicious cycle, very vicious. Watch this.
What can I do for you, young man? There… it’s done. Don’t fight it. Now if you would please fall forward so I can close the door. Thank you.
This is really going to ruin the carpet. It’s a shame. I could imagine myself living here. Did you see how quick that was? This man was alive—what? three seconds ago—and now he’s not, or he soon won’t be. I don’t think he ever realized what was happening to him. Maybe he did. Who cares? He’s dead. You did that…. Yes. I was instrumental in the man’s demise, but you, you started that chain of events. Maybe his wife is waiting for him to come back, maybe his kids are. What do you think will happen if they come looking for him? All because of one scream. And for what? You don’t seem particularly pleased. I know I’m not. Look at him! Was it worth it?
I realize this may seem somewhat cruel to you. I hope you find some comfort in knowing it wasn’t a random act. I think you’ll see what I was getting at very clearly in a few minutes. I’ve told you a bit about my life already, but there is something else I’m trying to explain to you, something I would rather not share with someone who’s bound and gagged. Now if you want… If you want, I’ll untie you and take this off your mouth so we can have a civilized conversation. Is that a yes? Very well then.
I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize these were so tight. I’m going to rip this off quickly, it might sting a bit. Again, I apologize. Are you comfortable? Just nod. You’re still in shock. I hope you’re calm enough to listen to what I have to say. I’m not going to hurt you if you just listen.
—Please. Please don’t hurt me.
—Isn’t that what I just said? I just said: “I’m not going to hurt you if you just listen.” Your answer to that is: “Please don’t hurt me.” You see how someone might interpret that as a sign that you weren’t listening? Again, I’m willing to cut you some slack given these unusual circumstances, but you should really make an effort. Anyway, moving on. As I told you before, the life we live, it’s… unrewarding. You’re taken over by this… unbearable numbness is how I would describe it. Case in point: a minute ago, I killed a man and I got nothing out of it. I felt nothing. There were other factors at play, or course. It happened really fast. I didn’t know the man. What matters is that I didn’t feel a thing. I don’t feel anything, except…
Look at you! You’re terrified! It’s beautiful to watch. I wish I could feel that. I would give anything to feel something this intense. You don’t know how much I envy you at this moment, and while this may seem insignificant to you, that ounce of jealousy going through my veins is about as much feeling as I can hope for. Envying you is the highlight of my day. I thank you for that.
There are moments, like this one, where… I told you I thought we had a connection. Watching you lie in bed, scared beyond your wits, I developed a certain fondness for you. Have you ever had a dog? You don’t need to answer, it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that—Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit. Shhhhhh. See. I told you it would be painless. What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to watch you die, and when the life is gone from you, I might feel something other than envy. I wish you knew how much it would mean to me, how grateful I’d be if I could, even for a moment, feel remorse.
—I’m not ready, Mother.
I know she is not. I saw the despair in Mia’s face the moment I told her, but I did not need to see. I remember walking into our ship cabin like it was yesterday, the emptiness of it. The room was unremarkably tidy, my mother’s clothes still hanging in the small closet. I still cannot say exactly what was odd about it. It felt… staged, artificial, the way your neighbor’s house looks when they invite you over for the first time. Magazines angled just the right way, a tennis racket conveniently forgotten by the doorway, a book that was never read left open on the coffee table. I knew my mother was gone and that she would not come back. I knew I would never be the child again. I was not ready.
—I know.
—I need more time.
I did, too. There were no warnings, no signs. Mother did not leave any subtle hints, or they were too subtle, or I was not smart enough. All I know is that my world ended in that third-class cabin. There was nothing left. Only me and a bright-eyed child who did not know why her mother was crying. I should have known. I knew the rules. I knew there couldn’t be three, but I still saw us as two. My mother. My daughter. I was just a spectator, the one taking the picture. It took some time before I felt like I could do anything on my own. I just went through the motions, making sure my daughter was fed and sheltered. In her own way, it was Mia who kept me going. I owe her my life. I owe her time.
—I understand, Mia. I will give you some time.
—How much time?
—I will give you… enough.
I can tell she was expecting more resistance. She probably had a whole speech prepared. I would not be surprised if she had spent the entire night memorizing it, weighing every word, fine-tuning her rhythm. I should have given her the satisfaction, but I do not want to lie to my daughter again.
—Okay.
She is smart. She got what she wanted out of this conversation. She has nothing to gain by talking, but everything to lose. Now let us see if I can get what I want.
—I will give you some time, but you will have to give me something in return.
—What?
—Quid pro quo. You have to be in charge. You have to take care of things.
—I thought I was.
She is, sometimes. She dips her toes into her new life but she won’t dive in. She’s a dilettante, a substitute teacher, the babysitter watching someone else’s children.
—Not like that, Mia. I mean really take care of things. We have been in Moscow for nearly a year and the Russians have not made any real progress. Neither have the Americans. They are utterly convinced they have the ultimate weapon. Such shortsightedness. I want a race, Mia. I want them to build bigger and better rockets, not because they want to, but because the other one will if they don’t. You need to speed things up. You need to get us there. You do. You must not rely on me anymore.
—What about you? What will you do?
—I would like to continue my mother’s research before I go. I need to know if this planet has a future.
—Before you go? You say it like you’re planning a vacation or something.
—In a way. You can help with my research if you want. I would love to spend more time with you. What I would really like is to see a man in space before I die. Can you do that for me, Mia? Can you make that happen?
—I’ll try, Mother.
—You’ll do more than that.
She will. She might not like what it means for her, but she is us. She has the will of her ancestors, their determination. A hundred life spans of refusing to give up is coursing through her veins. She may not be ready to accept it—she sees it as weakness—but it is in her. It has always been. She will follow her instincts. She will watch herself do things she never thought possible.
Right now, she is thinking about what she has to lose. Me, the person she thinks she is. But there is a part of her brain that craves all this. She is a Labrador who fell into a lake for the first time. Her instincts will kick in. At first, she will be surprised that she can swim at all. Soon, she will not want to get back to shore.
—…
Her brain is working overtime. I know that look too well. It starts with a feeling, not a thought. The urge to act, to do anything. Throwing paint at the canvas. Out of the chaos, a shape emerges. She cannot quite make out what it is, but she knows it is there, begging to be seen. She can either freeze, afraid of losing what little there is, or trust herself and throw more paint at it.
—Mia?
—I know what to do.
There it is. She is starting to believe.
—What?
—I know what to do, Mother, but you’re not going to like it.
Of course I won’t. I am losing my little girl. I am no more ready to lose her than she is to let me go. She is my daughter, a reminder of what I once was. I love watching her grow and slowly turn into us. Mostly, I love that she is trying not to, clinging to her sense of self at all costs. Resist, Mia. You will lose, but the fight is worth it. Those days will never come again.
—What am I not going to like, Mia?
—I have to go back to Germany.
She has that long scar on her left shoulder. Not straight like a cut. It twists and turns, like a river on a map.
—Billie, look at me! It’s only for a few weeks.
—I don’t want you to go.
I don’t want to go either. That’s not true. I do. I didn’t tell Mother the whole reason why, but I do want to go. At least, I did an hour ago. Now I’m lying next to Billie and every bit of certainty has gone out the window…. All she had to do was turn her back to me and I feel like I’m already a thousand miles away.
—I have to.
—Why? You’re not the only interpreter in Russia. Tell them to send someone else. Tell them you’re sick.
—It doesn’t work like that, Billie. You know it doesn’t.
I meant that. Now that I got myself assigned there, it’d be really hard to say no. Stalin’s pretty much removed that word from the vocabulary.
—You want to go. I can see it.
I don’t know what this is. Jealousy? I look at her and I see… strength, independence. I marvel at it but I also worry that she doesn’t care, that I can’t reach her. I worry all the time. Now she’s showing me an ounce of frailty and I can’t feel anything but guilt for making her less than she is.
—Billie, I—
—Forget it. You want to go, so go.
—Billie! I care about you.
So much.
—Does your mother know you’re here?
—What?
—Your mother. Did you tell her about me?
Touché. I don’t know why that hurts, but it does. Guilt I can live with, but I wasn’t ready for shame. What stings the most is how deliberate it was. This was meant to wound.
—Do you want me to leave?
Her face changed. That carefree grin of hers is gone. This is more restrained. A soft smile that barely dimples her cheeks. I don’t think it’s conscious, but part of her knows she went too far.
She’s lifting the covers. She wants me to move closer. For a second or two, it felt like our roles were reversed, but it’s over now. Billie’s Billie, and I’m… unsettled, overconscious of everything. I feel the cold on my exposed shoulder. I feel my fingers tingling, the texture of her skin. I want her. I want to get closer and closer and never stop. Even with our bodies pressed against each other, I want… more.
—Where did you tell her you were going?
There was no tone here. She really wants to know.
—To my mother? To the library.
—The library!
—What’s wrong with the library?
—Is that what I remind you of? A dusty old place full of forgotten things. I’m not that boring, am I?
That she is not.
—I love the library! It’s full of adventure, mystery.
—Like me!
I… Why am I crying? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is what I wanted. Her hand running down my side. Her lips sending shivers down my thigh. But it’s too much right now, or too little. I feel exposed like an open wound. I’m shaking like a fucking leaf.
—Stop.
—What’s wrong, Nina?
—Nothing. I just…
I can’t put it into words. I’m terrified. I’m scared of everything. Of what I am. Of leaving her. Of what Mother wants me to do, of what might come of it. I don’t want who I was to end. I don’t want this to end. I want this moment, now, to last, frozen like an ice sculpture. But it won’t. It’ll melt and disappear. Everything does.
—I don’t want to lose you.
—Then don’t!
I wish it were that simple.
—I’m afraid, Billie.
—Of what? What are you so afraid of, Nina?
—I’m afraid you’ll grow tired of me.
—I will.
—…
—But not before I figure out what’s in that big head of yours.
And just like that, I’m not afraid anymore.
It hasn’t been a year, but Germany is a different country. The bombs have stopped. The nightmare has ended, but it feels as though no one is fully awake. The Germans are in shock, stunned, stripped of who they were and everything that held their world together. It doesn’t matter what they believed in, it’s gone. They were promised the world and lost everything. Those who believed feel cheated, robbed by one man’s stupidity. Those who didn’t are defeated just the same. There’s no prize for having been ashamed early.
The real healing won’t begin until the occupation ends. Half the men are dead. The other half are crippled, hollow. Women will face the cold and famine like everyone else, but their war began when the fighting stopped. Allied soldiers defeated the men but they won’t leave it at that. I hear the Red Army is the worst. War means rape—it always has—and this was the biggest war of all.
Me, well, the uniforms are different but the stares are the same. I’m scared shitless everywhere I go. I see shadows that aren’t there, hear footsteps no one is taking. I tell myself I don’t believe in the Tracker, but he is everywhere around me. He’s not alone. Dieter, the SS. I see their faces everywhere, in everyone. I’m haunted by the ones I killed and the ones who would kill me.
I swear every waiter in this café was an SS officer. I’m only half imagining things. Most of them couldn’t find a job anywhere but working tables. Breathe, Mia. Just do your job and get the hell out. If this is what it takes to keep my mother alive… I’ll do what needs to be done. Send a man to space. Shit, I’ll send everyone to space. There’ll be no one left here but Mother and me. And Billie. I’ll keep Billie. I wish she could see me now. I’m a different person when I’m around her. That’s funny. I am a different person around her. I wonder what she’d think of me if she knew what I am. She’d probably run away screaming. Maybe not. Billie doesn’t scare easy.
I can’t think about her now. I have to focus, for real. I have some ideas, some designs I’ve been working on, but I need help. I need the Soviets, or von Braun. They’ll get it done. I just have to… motivate them enough. Mother says Moscow will have nuclear weapons in a couple of years. They’ll want a rocket to put it on. Point a hundred of those at the US, there’s your motivation. I have another idea. If it works, it’ll scare the hell out of the Americans. It’ll put the fear of God into them. I want a Soviet threat hanging over their head, literally. I want—Oh, I think my date’s here. Colonel Sergei Korolev.
—Over here, Colonel! Please, sit down.
God, I hate my accent in Russian. I sound… I don’t know how I sound. Weird, mostly.
—I am here to meet with General Kuznetsov.
I might have mentioned the general. I’m not exactly at the top of the food chain in this Soviet mess. I’m not really in the food chain, or a citizen for that matter.
—I know, sir.
—Sergei.
—What?
—Call me Sergei. They made me a colonel so I could work in military installations, but I am not a soldier.
He doesn’t look like one. Big eyes, big chin, with an even bigger grin stapled above it. He looks like a boxer, or a baseball player. He must be near forty, but it’s like he forgot to grow out of his baby face. I like him. Even the way he carries himself is endearing. He seems… curious, not as pretentious as the others. Humble is a bit of a stretch, but he might not be as big an ass as the other geniuses I ran into.
—I apologize, sir. The general couldn’t make it, but I can speak for him. Please sit, you and I can talk.
—Why would I talk to you? Who are you?
So much for that. Of all the people who could judge me, this one’s a fucking criminal! He’s a decorated genius criminal, but still. Someday, I swear, I’ll have actual power and people will have to listen to me. It would be so much easier, not to mention faster, than this degrading show I have to put on every time. Here we go again. Puppy eyes.
—I’m terribly sorry, sir. My name is Nina.
—Your accent, it’s—
I know. I know.
—I’m an English interpreter. I work in the Podlipki office. I realize you were expecting someone else. I know how frustrating that can be, but if you give me a few minutes of your time, I think you’ll like what I have to say.
—I meant no disrespect, ma’am. It’s just that you are not in uniform, and I cannot discuss what I am doing with a civilian. I could get in trouble.
Maybe not a dick. He’s hard to size. He is handsome, though. Quite the flutter bum, actually. I don’t know why I’m just noticing.
—Oh. I don’t need you to tell me anything. I’m here to ask you if you’d like to be in charge of a rocket program.
Come on, Mia. You can do better than that. You sound like a traveling salesman. Would you like to buy an encyclopedia?
—What program?
—The… Your program. You’d have your own team. You’d run the research.
—I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Nina—can I call you Nina?—but no one is going to put me in charge of anything.
I am! I’m going to put him in charge because… Because I want to. Also because Stalin doesn’t pay his people and I found someone at the Politburo who owes a shit ton of money to the Russian mafia. Maybe I need to rephrase that.
—What if they did?
—…
He’s just staring at me, smiling. Is he thinking or is he flirting with me? Still staring. This is awkward.
—Sir?
—Why me?
—The work you did at the Jet Propulsion Research Institute was phenomenal. You’re… good. That’s why.
He is good, but I picked him because he wants to go to space.
—There were plenty of smart people at the research institute, plenty who were not arrested for treason. What makes you think they would like my help, or that I would want to help them?
—You’re here, sir, extracting German technology.
—They did not leave me a choice. All I want now is to go home to my family.
—Well, you have a choice now. This is your choice.
Except I really need you to do what I want. It’s like a choice, but with fewer options.
—Do you know what they did to me? What the government did to me?
—I know enough.
He and most of his colleagues were arrested during the Great Purge. They said he was slowing down work at the research institute. Stalin labeled them “members of an anti-Soviet counterrevolutionary organization.” Korolev was tortured for days until he “confessed.” The charges against him were eventually reduced to sabotage. He got a new trial. Only he didn’t know. He was already on his way to the gulag. He went to a gold-mine prison with six hundred people. Six months later, when they found him, there weren’t even two hundred of them left. Now he has to work for the people who did that to him.
—I’m not sure you do. Look.
—EWWWWW. GROSS!
Shit. I can’t believe I said that out loud, but the man just handed me all his teeth! Seriously, who does that?
—I—
—I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean that. I just—Who did that to you?
—Scurvy did that to me.
—Oh. I thought—
—Yes. The torture was bad but not as bad as the cold.
—I’m terribly sorry for what you went through, Colonel. I am.
—Sergei, remember? You do not have to be sorry, you did not do anything. But if this is my choice like you say, then my answer is no. I do not want to build weapons for them anymore.
Oh, no. I could be curling up under the covers with Billie right now but I’m here, doing this. Time for a speech.
—I… I think you’re lying, sir. I’m sorry. I do. I think you love science more than anything else. You send things up on a world designed to keep them down. I think you’d build rockets in your backyard if the government didn’t want your help. Regardless, I think you’ll want to see this through.
—See what through?
—Space. We’re going to space.
—Ha! You are funny, young lady. No one cares about space. No one. What people want is to make bombs. Always more bombs, until we all vanish without a trace.
He’s a pessimist. He seems happy, though. A happy pessimist. I don’t know why but I like that. Expect the worst in people and you’ll never be disappointed, I guess. Maybe that’s happiness.
—You do. You care.
—…
—I know you, sir, a bit. I know you’ve read The Problem of Space Travel by Potočnik. You’ve talked about it. I know you’ve thought about going up there, what it would mean, what it would take. Yes, they’ll want you to build missiles, but the rockets are the same. There’s also something special I’d like you to work on. I want to send something up there. I want to send it up and not have it come down. You can do that, can’t you?
—You said I.
—What?
—You said I want to send something up there. I don’t want it to come down. I, not they, not we.
Oops. I might have gotten carried away a little. Am I in trouble? No. I don’t think so. This is the one good thing about not being a white man. It won’t be hard to convince him I’m just a spectator in all this.
—I don’t know what you mean.
—Who are you?
If I could answer that question, I probably wouldn’t be here talking to him.
—I told you, my name is Nina. I’m an—
—An interpreter, I know.
—It doesn’t matter who I am, sir. Pretend I don’t exist. But if you say yes, you’ll have your own department. They’ll want a working V-2 before they let you build anything new—they have no imagination—but you can use any of the German scientists to get it done. Then the fun begins.
—I could use any of them?
—Any of them. You can have Gröttrup. You can have his entire team if you want. All you have to do is say yes.
—…
—Please say yes.
—No.
—NO?
—No. I am sorry. You are right. I love this with all my heart, but not as much as I love my family. I have put them through enough already. When they let me out of prison last year, I had not seen my wife in five years. I have been away from my daughter for most of her life. Like I said, I will do what they want me to do but I am not staying in Germany. I will go back to Moscow, back to my family.
—That won’t be a problem, sir. You can see your daughter—Natalya, is it?—every day. You can see your wife. You can take her to work.
—I will not bring them here. They have a life at home.
—Of course not, we’ll do everything in Moscow.
Almost. I’ll set them up on Gorodomlya Island, about a hundred miles northwest. They’ll be part of a new research institute I’m getting our man at the Politburo to create. Everything will be in one place, close to home.
—In Russia? But the Germans are here, in Germany. That is… why they are called Germans.
—You let me worry about that, sir. All you have to do is say yes.
Time to get ourselves some Germans.
Hmmm. That beer is good. I’ve earned it, even if Mother will be mad. I can hear her already: “Mia! Did you kidnap seven thousand people?” It does sound kind of bad when you put it like that. I’ll admit, what I did was a little radical, but she said herself we couldn’t keep things the way they were. I had to do something. That was something. It was really something.
Technically, I didn’t kidnap anyone. We asked them to come to Moscow. I even wrote them a note. “As the works in which you are employed are being transferred to the USSR, you and your entire family will have to be ready to leave for the USSR. You and your family will entrain in passenger coaches. The freight car is available for your household chattels. Soldiers will assist you in loading. You will receive a new contract after your arrival in the USSR. Conditions under the contract will be the same that apply to skilled workers in the USSR. For the time being, your contract will be to work in the Soviet Union for five years. You will be provided with food and clothing for the journey which you must expect to last three or four weeks.”
Okay, we weren’t really asking, but you can’t just ask thousands of people if they want to move to the Soviet Union. Some of them are bound to be less than enthusiastic about the prospect of living under Stalin. I was. So maybe it wasn’t the most voluntary thing ever. We told them they were being mobilized. At gunpoint, yes, but kidnapping is throwing someone in the back of a van. These people packed their things. They brought their books with them, photos, even furniture. I mean, in theory, they could have said no. I don’t think they’d have shot anyone.
We had to get them all at the same time before the word could spread, so we did it in the middle of the night. We let them pack their belongings. Some even took their pets with them. It’s definitely not kidnapping if your pet comes along. I don’t know why I’m justifying myself. Mother wanted me to be in charge, that’s what I came up with. If she doesn’t like it, she can take care of things.
It wasn’t even that many people, around twenty-two hundred engineers. But their families came with them, so… more. Oh, who am I kidding, it was fucking spectacular! A hundred trains. A hundred! Moving von Braun’s people looked like a small-town parade compared to this.
Calm down, Mia. It’s a good plan. The Russians won’t trust anyone with new technology, especially not the Germans. We use German scientists to get the knowledge they have now, but we don’t give them any new information or let them in on new projects. In a few years, their knowledge will be outdated and they won’t pose a threat to anyone. They can go home, no one will care. I’m saving their lives, really. Okay, maybe not. Still a good plan.
Mother, well, she’ll get over it. Unless she finds out how much money I spent and who I spent it with. She told me that the Russian mafia had this “code,” that they would never work with government. Well, that’s changing now, and this guy at the Politburo owed them a lot of money. Like a lot a lot. He doesn’t anymore. He just doesn’t know.
All in all, I think I did pretty well. I got myself a rocket program, a research bureau full of German engineers, and I even have someone to run it. Oh, and I didn’t get killed, by the Tracker or anyone else. I think I earned myself a beer.
One beer. Then I’ll go…. I’m nervous all of a sudden. I tried not to think about it. I told Mother I had to come. I told Billie. Hell, I tried to tell myself, but let’s face it, I could have done all this from Moscow. This is why I wanted to come. I don’t leave Berlin until tomorrow, and Bad Saarow is only an hour away.
I don’t remember ever being here. I feel like I’m in a brochure. Beautiful lake. Birds chirping on cue. Even the sun’s angled just right. Everyone’s smiling, all the time. It’s like they put something in the water. It’s gorgeous. I just feel really… out of place. I also wish I knew what I was looking for.
“I didn’t think you’d come back, not after what happened in Bad Saarow.”
Something happened here, only I don’t know what that something is. I just hope it was newsworthy or I’ll have spent the day digging through the local paper’s archives for nothing. I have hope. I mean, the bar for newsworthiness is… low. Heavyweight champion Max Schmeling at the local golf club. Plans for a miniature train. Oh, the town choir won some kind of prize.
This is interesting, sort of. A list of people who didn’t donate any money after One-Pot Sunday. Families were encouraged to cook a “one-pot meal” on Sundays during the fall and donate the money they saved for charity work. Hitler’s party took credit for it. Happy Nazi charity work, and if you didn’t give, they shamed you in the local newspaper.
Kuchen contest. I could use some cake right about now.
Memorial service for the victims of the… something-camp tragedy. “A ceremony was held on Sunday honoring the two young girls who lost their lives at the Glücklich Entenküken summer camp.”
…A few days by the lake. It’s beautiful out here.
“Ten-year-olds Gisela Mayer and Renate Neuman were brutally murdered…”
I’m dizzy.
“…brutally murdered by another campmate on September 16…”
Renate. I remember that name but that can’t be it. I wasn’t here. Renate. Blue eyes. Angel face.
I’ll cut you up, you little bitch.
No… This isn’t real.
All dressed up in her little white dress.
She’s calling me names. “Stinky Gypsy! Stinky Gypsy! My mother says Gypsies shouldn’t be allowed at camp!” They’re all calling me names. “Where’d you get that necklace? You stole it, didn’t you?”
My necklace. The one I’m wearing right now. They’re pulling at it. “Criminal! Stinky Gypsy stole a necklace!” The chain broke. She took it. Renate’s holding it over my head. “Give it back! Give it back!”
None of this happened. This is a dream. My dream. I can make it what I want.
A few days by the lake. It’s beautiful out here. Mother’s dropping me off. She looks so young. We’ll go boating, maybe some fishing. She’ll… “Stinky Gypsy stole a necklace!” NO WAIT! Where are you going? Give it back! The bathroom. They’re all laughing. She… She dropped it in the toilet. Wake up, Mia!
“The perpetrator, a seven-year-old child, was found covered in blood, the carving knife still in her hand.”
The knife.
I’m in the kitchen… I’m hiding in the meat locker trying to cool down. They found me. They drag me out. They throw some cabbage at me. Renate pours milk on my head. The milk is cold but I’m burning inside. The fever’s so loud I can’t hear their screams anymore. The knife rack is on the counter.
I’ll cut you up, you little bitch.
This isn’t real.
White dress. Cold milk. Knife.
I grab it with both hands.
This is a dream. My dream. I can do what I want.
Blue eyes. Angel face.
I want this dream to end! I want to wake up now!
I put the knife to her chest. She winces as the tip of the blade digs in. I push harder.
MAKE IT STOP!
…
She puts both hands on the wound to stop the bleeding. She’s looking at me in disbelief, still not sure if this is real or not. Someone pushes me and I fall on top of her.
…
“No one knows what prompted this tragedy. When questioned by the police, the child had no recollection of the event.”
Give me back my necklace!
White dress. Cold milk.
Her friend tries to stop me. I swing at her neck.
Screaming. Arms around my chest, my neck. I can’t move. I’m on the floor, wrapped in grown-up arms.
“The child had no recollection of the event.”
…
…
“I didn’t think you’d come back, not after what happened in Bad Saarow.”
Young Varkida lost her first child when the Tracker’s army slaughtered her village. She heard the dogs rip her daughter to shreds as she ran for the river. A week later, she came across a caravan and chose to travel east with them to the steppes. A small group of people constantly moving would be hard to find. It also provided a modicum of protection. Varkida needed a daughter, and she quickly found a suitable progenitor among the merchants.
Varkida was the seventh of her kind. She feared the Tracker, the Rādi Kibsi. She knew that someday more like them would come and kill everyone. Her task was to save a few, to take them away before it was too late. Varkida dreamed of ships that could traverse the heavens, of a million wonders her mother had described but that she would not live to see.
Varkida studied the sky almost every night. One evening, she left the caravan to track a star that hid behind a hill. It was late by the time she came back, and she made nothing of the silence. It had been a long day, she thought, everyone must be tired. She had ventured far enough, she had not heard the horde attacking. She had not heard the screams of the people the Tracker had tortured. She found a pile of torsos in the middle of camp. All the arms and legs were arranged around it like sun rays. She thought of running, but the Tracker had left no one alive and was unlikely to come back. Camp, as gruesome as it was, was the safest place to spend the night.
The next day she awoke to the sound of horses. She immediately recognized the small tribe of nomadic warriors whose path they had crossed a few days earlier. The caravan members called them the Arimaspi. Varkida noticed how nearly half of them were women. Even the sight of two dozen arrows pointing at her head could not dampen Varkida’s fascination with the intruders. Their double-curved bows were a lot shorter than Varkida’s. Their small size meant they could be raised without hitting the horse’s back. They had a much shorter draw and could be fired quickly while riding. The horses were short-legged with a large head, rugged animals perfectly adapted to the extreme temperatures. Varkida had never seen mounted warriors. For nearly two thousand years, the people of the steppes had been breeding horses and using them as livestock, but their use in warfare was usually limited to pulling chariots. Everything about these people was designed for speed and mobility. Ride fast, shoot fast.
The archers did not release their arrows. Perhaps they did not see Varkida as a threat. Perhaps her pregnancy was beginning to show. Varkida asked if she could ride with them and offered the caravan horses as tribute. A few months later, Varkida gave birth to not one, but two beautiful daughters.
A year after the twins were born, she was asked to take a husband. She chose the best archer of the group, a seventeen-year-old man, a year younger than her. Each warrior carried a bow and an akīnakah, a short blade, halfway between sword and dagger. Handling sharp objects came naturally to the Kibsu, but a father who mastered the bow would be beneficial for the girls. Varkida gave birth twice more in the first three years of marriage.
The four girls grew up together among the horses. The twins were supposed to look like each other, but by the time their youngest sister was eight years old, they were all mirror images of their mother. Different clothes and hairstyles could no longer hide the obvious, and the tribe members grew to believe that mystical creatures were living among them. Fearing punishment from the goddess Tabiti, the tribe exiled Varkida and her four daughters.
Varkida feared for her children, but the five Kibsu thrived on their own. The girls were accomplished riders. Each was given a foal as a pet. Horse and woman had grown up together and their connection was palpable. The girl’s father had also served his purpose. All five women were quick with the bow, which Varkida had greatly improved over the years. Their weapons were more precise and powerful than all, and the twins, even by Kibsu standards, were absolutely deadly with a blade.
They were attacked by another small tribe a few months after their exile. The Kibsu were outnumbered but made short work of the enemy. The survivors surrendered and begged to join the Kibsu tribe. Varkida saw the men and women kneeling before her. She drew her bow and quickly shot every man through the heart. She then turned to the women and told them they had found a new home.
The tribe’s reputation grew with their ranks. They were fast and fearless. Men did not dare stand against them, and women often left their own tribes to join them. Varkida had an army. Everyone from the Black Sea to Lake Baikal soon feared the wrath of the hama-zan.
The Kibsu had not encountered the Tracker for many years, but Varkida vowed to be ready when the time came. The enemy was ruthless, and she would respond in kind. The rules of the tribe were simple. Everyone would be fed and clothed but receive no wages. Those who wished to share the spoils of victory had to offer the head of a slain enemy as tribute. All could visit a neighboring tribe where they could have sex and return. If they became pregnant and gave birth to a girl, she would join the tribe and be cared for. A boy meant either leaving the tribe or leaving the child with the father. When they turned sixteen, Varkida gave the twins permission to have a child of their own. A decade later, the seven Kibsu led over six hundred women against the Zhou army at Haojing.
Upon their return, they learned of a Thracian incursion into the steppes. The Thracians were known as warlike, brutal, but the accounts of these killings left everyone but the Kibsu transfixed with terror. People skinned alive, bathed in oil and set on fire, children left crying among the corpses with their eyes gouged out. This, Varkida thought, had to be the Tracker.
That evening, the tribe sacrificed a horse to the gods. The horse’s forelegs were tied together. Varkida stroked its head a few times before pulling on the rope to take it down. She tied another rope around the animal’s neck, placed a stick of wood under the rope, and started turning. The crude tourniquet cut the air and blood flow to the horse’s head, and it died without putting up a fight. Varkida flayed off the skin of its belly, and her daughters and granddaughters joined in to cut off the flesh before boiling it. They drank the wine, burned the kanab, and the tribe’s chanting flowed through the steppes until the sun came up.
After a day of rest, the women mounted their horses and rode west towards the enemy. Five days later, they spotted the Thracian encampment near the Volga River. None of the women had ever seen an army this size. Silence spread through the tribe like rain in drylands, and four of Varkida’s riders turned and ran in fear. Varkida spotted three horse-drawn wagons and a tent forming a square on the south end of the encampment. She used the space between them as a unit of measurement. The crowd occupied an L-shaped area of roughly twelve by five wagon squares for the longer rectangle and two by four squares for the smaller one. She counted the number of people in her square and multiplied by sixty-eight. Twenty-two hundred men would soon be trying to kill them, give or take a hundred or two.
Varkida noticed that the Thracians were gathered in groups. This was no army, she realized. That horde was a collection of small tribes hastily put together for a single purpose. These people had never fought or trained together. They had likely met only a few days ago. The hama-zan would not be facing a disciplined cohesive unit, but dozens of small groups acting somewhat independently. The enemy peltasts carried a wicker shield but favored mobility over armor. They could handle a sword but their weapon of choice was the javelin. Varkida had seen Thracians before and knew of their tactics. They were skirmishers. They would rush towards their enemy, hurl their weapons at them, and retreat. They would repeat the cycle, thinning the enemy forces one volley at a time.
Varkida’s strategy was similar, but her tribe was highly disciplined. They had trained together for most of their lives and could anticipate one another. She knew that many of the men they were facing had never seen cavalry, let alone fought against it. Varkida would strike first, but she knew that surprise was fleeting. They had to destroy the enemy’s will to fight. Shock and awe were crucial, especially while so broadly outnumbered. She had her troops form a single line over a mile wide, and they sprinted towards the encampment. They held their bows steady. They did not scream or yell but instead let the sound of their horses drum fear into the hearts of the enemy. Two hundred meters from camp, they released their first arrows. Rushing at twelve meters per second, they would enter the range of the enemy javelins in under twelve seconds. Each archer fired a second and third arrow before turning around. Varkida did not need to signal her troops. The sight of her horse raising its head and shifting its weight to the rear was enough. The Thracians moved forward, but the women had learned to shoot from behind, turning their bodies and guiding their horses with their legs. Twelve seconds later, the Kibsu’s army was again two hundred meters away, and three thousand arrows had rained on the Thracians. Everyone stopped to regroup, and they launched another attack, then another. Each time, the Thracians ran forward as much as they could to get away from the river.
The women’s bow cases, or gorytos, could hold about seventy-five arrows and were still more than half full after six assaults. By then, a third of the Thracians were dead and their tribes had begun to spread out. Varkida looked at the other Kibsu. Her daughters and granddaughters did not acknowledge, nor did they need to. Within seconds, seven units of eighty women or so were storming towards the enemy.
The Thracians braced themselves for three more salvos and lowered their shields to run forward, but this time the horses kept coming. Unprepared for the onslaught, few had time to throw or even raise their javelins, and the riders easily broke through their lines while firing arrows at close range. The women never stopped. Each unit regrouped almost instantly and rode towards the next target the Kibsu leading them had chosen. The Thracians had never seen that sort of discipline. The women flew around them like swarms of bees, their arrows always on target. Two minutes after the battle began, the gorytos were empty and the women were on their feet, blades drawn. They all screamed at once and rushed towards the men nearest them. All the discipline they had shown on their horses made way for pure rage. One of the twins broke her sword inside a man’s skull. Bare-handed, she then approached a young peltast holding a javelin. He extended his weapon to keep her from coming, but the Kibsu kept walking. She didn’t stop when the javelin pierced her shoulder. She didn’t stop when it came out the back. She walked through it all the way to the man’s hands, grabbed the sword from his belt, and cut his throat. The next javelin came from the air and lodged itself inside her skull. She never felt it. Her daughter also died, moments later, when a battle-ax struck her neck. Two hundred women died on the battlefield that day. None of the Thracians lived. The handful that were left standing dropped their weapons and ran, but they did not make it far. One by one, the women’s swords silenced the screams and the pleas for mercy. There was no bounty to be shared, but by nightfall the head of every man had been offered to Varkida as tribute.
As the sun set and the tribe headed back east, Varkida turned and saw the horror they had left behind. Thousands of headless corpses lay in a sea of red. A mound of heads broke the sky. Her heads, she thought. They were given to her. She got off her horse and vomited what was left of her soul. At that moment, Varkida understood that she and the Tracker were the same. She knew who it was they were saving people from.
Varkida looked at her daughters and granddaughters and realized what she had done. She began as one, but they were now five. If each of the girls did the same, the Kibsu would soon be twenty-one, then eighty-five. In two hundred years, there could be sixteen million of her. Another two hundred and—she did not know if the planet could hold that many.
Varkida ordered a celebration to honor the fallen. The women drank and smoked and shared stories of the dead. When the night was winding down, she retired to her hut with her family. She told them about the future and her plan to change it. She told them they could not fight like the Tracker or they would become him. They had to be better. Varkida told her eldest daughter it was time for her to lead, and to teach her daughter to abide by the principles she had set. She gave them a set of rules they should live by and made everyone recite them a dozen times.
Preserve the knowledge.
Survive at all costs.
Don’t draw attention to yourself.
Don’t leave a trace.
Fear the Tracker.
Always run, never fight.
There can never be three for too long.
The Kibsu would live, she said, but they would live as mother and daughter. One daughter, never more. She prepared an infusion from haumala plants she had gathered herself. She poured three cups, kept one for herself, and handed one to each of her youngest. The family held hands for a few minutes before they drank the hot liquid. They all knew what would happen next. They had used this poison on their enemies before. One by one, their muscles would seize until paralysis spread to the heart and lungs. Varkida hoped it would be painless. Before her breathing stopped, Varkida asked the eldest to lean forward. She took off the necklace her mother had given her and placed it around her daughter’s neck before whispering in her ear.
—You are the Eight now…. Take them to the stars, before we come and kill them all.