Below Blue Skies

Irene Scott stepped out of the dim and grey confines of her ground floor unit and into a sun-soaked gust of spring air. It never ceased to amaze her, in her seventy-seven years of life, that days like this one still occurred. Warm, dry, and radiant. She could smell the earth beneath her feet, the concrete apartment blocks baking in the sun, and ever so faintly the scent of flowers in bloom, blown by the wind from some far-off place. The natural elements beamed with sheer happiness. Such a stark contrast in disposition to the one million residents of the City of Newland.

Days like these were full of aching for Irene. Memories she had long tried to repress rebelled against her efforts and broke the surface of her thoughts. Although in truth she supposed that perhaps the memories were always there, and she had learned to live with them on greyer days. But spring days like these always brought back the one she tried the most to forget. Irene started walking. Every afternoon, rain, hail, or shine, she would walk for forty-five minutes around the blocks of units that formed the complex in which she lived - Complex 452 of Newland City. Most people kept to the private spaces of their living quarters if not at work or school. The citizens of Newland learned over the years that life was as free of trouble as it could be if you didn’t draw attention to yourself. The city consisted of grey concrete buildings, surrounded by dirt and footpaths. Despite the dull surroundings Irene delightfully soaked up every second of the forty-five minutes she spent walking each afternoon. There were still small pleasures that the government couldn’t rob her of.

After the war fifty-one years ago the new government stripped what was left of the city and its people of all art, all music, all beauty, and creativity. Gardens that hadn’t been obliterated were left to ruin and die. All books, radios, and televisions were confiscated. Picture theatres were gutted and turned into government buildings. Shopping malls were bulldozed. The government distributed weekly rations of food and enough bus passes only to get you to and from work each week. In school, children were only taught basic English and mathematics before learning what was necessary for their allocated career. Talent could not be nurtured because it could not be discovered. Talent was bad. Talent bred inequality. If one could rise above their peers then one could presume they were better than their peers. Talent gave rise to arrogance, envy, greed. Individualism was dangerous. Individualism gave rise to freedom of thought, and freedom of thought was a threat. The highest aim of this world was oneness. Sameness. Equality. Irene sighed. Her bones ached as she walked, and she was sure that every day her joints grew stiffer, but she refused to give it up.

Today was Wednesday. Every Wednesday Irene would walk to the edge of the complex where she would meet a friend and fellow resident of Complex 452. Mr. Vadim Ivanov was a tall, stout man in his fifties with dark hair and kind eyes. He was of the unassuming sort, and he did his best to quietly care for those he loved. As she approached the border fence of the complex she could make out the tall dark figure of Vadim walking toward her. He gave a slight raise of the hand in acknowledgment. In many ways, Irene felt that Vadim had been a sort of son to her. She had known him from the time he was a young man and they had both silently assumed the duty of looking out for one another in the way of mother and son. As he reached her Vadim suddenly turned to look behind him toward the direction of downtown Newland, an expression of weary sadness crossing his stubbled face.

"What is it?” Irene asked alarmed, but careful to keep her voice low.

"Just the Youths’ For Equality marching again.” He sighed in discouragement.

Irene turned her ear toward the city where she could very faintly hear the distant chanting.

"FREEDOM IN EQUALITY! EQUALITY IS FREEDOM!"

"They will never know…” Irene murmured.

Vadim nodded, the downcast expression lingering in his eyes as he remained looking toward the city. Turning back to her, he discreetly placed the small paper parcel he’d been holding into Irene’s spotted and boney hand. In exchange, she took the small, wrapped fruit loaf from the crook of her arm where she’d been cradling it, and placed it securely in Vadim’s large hands. For many years now Vadim and Irene had made this secret weekly exchange. Vadim would make his special blend of tea for her, a mixture of black tea leaves and various herbs and spices. She had no idea how he got his hands on such a variety of spices that were never distributed in the weekly rations, but she knew that people had found their secret ways to source and supply such things. And as he had his ways, she had hers and she relished in the smell of the fragrant fruit loaf that she baked for him each week in return. She looked at Vadim’s stubbled, ageing face.

"Try not to worry too much." he said sensing her concern, although the discouragement still lingered in his eyes too.

"Stay safe,” he said quietly, patting her hand. “I’ll see you soon.” He turned and walked away.

Later that same day, as the cool breeze of evening blew through her open windows Irene sat at her kitchen table, unable to keep her thoughts from what had disturbed her that afternoon. She heard the chant echoing in her mind, freedom in equality, equality is freedom. It broke and disturbed her heart to think that the younger generations had been so indoctrinated with falsehoods that they could so reverently and fervently fight for a cause that stripped life of beauty and meaning. They had been born into a colourless world, brainwashed into believing a lie, so easily deceived because they knew nothing better. They had never known the beauty of music, the way it would pass through your ears and into the realm of your soul, sweeping and lifting you to heights you had never known. They had never known art, sitting in wonder at how a painting could reach out and whisper to your heart “I know”. They had never fallen in love with a character from a book, a person you knew was nothing more than words on paper, but who you felt you knew with all your soul regardless. Irene remembered the first time she had listened to jazz music. It had been like water for a parched throat. Soft like velvet, smooth like honey. Vanilla, crisp apples, champagne. Like the warm feeling you got after a glass of wine, the twinkling lights of Paris at night, the half state between awake and asleep, like requited love. Like the colour of her son's hair: golden. The generation that filled the streets with their chanting would never be able to comprehend. All they knew were the dull, concrete walls of the city and the lies they were told. Equality. Equality without courage. She had been startled at hearing them, it had sounded like they were protesting in the face of open rebellion and she wondered what the point was when the people of Newland were so submissive and worked so hard to stay unnoticed. Perhaps, like her’s and Vadim’s weekly exchanges, there were smalls acts of defiance occurring everywhere, and it was starting to be noticed.

Irene picked up the parcel of tea she had left on the kitchen table. She had not noticed when Vadim gave it to her that it seemed heavier than usual. She fumbled with the paper wrapping, feeling how much her fingers ached today. A note slid out of the small parcel. Irene put it down and looked nervously at the note on the table, unsure what to make of it. Her heart started to pound lightly as she read,

'Irene, I found this when walking in the city last week. It was half-buried in the dirt behind a quiet building. I remembered you had told me you lost a golden locket once. There is a photo inside. Vadim'

Her stomach fell. A tremor started in her fingers as she picked up the parcel and let the locket fall into her wrinkled palm, her heart stammering and skipping as she looked at the dull and dirty gold. Could this be her locket? With her boney fingers, she worked to pry the locket open. Irene breathed in sharply, a lump swelling in her throat as she looked at the dusty, faded photograph inside. It was her little boy. The son she had lost in the ravages of war, on the same day she had lost this locket. Fifty-one years ago. He smiled up at her from the locket and her tears fell to the table. She looked into the face of a boy she had never forgotten, his eyes radiant, his hair shining.

She remembered all too well how she had found him. She had lost him in the chaos of the final bomb raids as they ran through the city, his little hand held tightly in hers. A stampede of people pouring forth from a building in flames had swept him away in the smoke and ash. She pushed through the shrieking bodies and fallen debris, trying desperately to follow the sounds of his cries amidst a thousand others. The ground shook with explosions near and far, and the air was filled with the wailing sounds of war.

It was not until some time later that she found him, lying amidst obliteration, his blue eyes staring lifelessly toward the sky. His golden hair was turned grey with ash and dust, and the tears that ran rivers down his cheeks were still wet. Irene stumbled toward him and wept uncontrollably over his body, her sorrow and tragedy lost and made insignificant in a sea of others.

The war had stolen too many lives to be numbered, and many of those who didn’t die in those days lost their lives to cancer or other illnesses in the decades to follow. Irene had spent too long wondering why she had survived, passing the days in wait of death. Too great a price had been paid for the purposeless existence that followed. She remembered looking up to the sky as she held her son, and was shocked to see it so blue, glowing brightly as ever. As she stumbled through the mess of the city streets she came across a small courtyard, the flowers on its trees still blooming under a layer of ash. She felt betrayed. Amidst a day so full of unspeakable tragedy, the sun still shone, and flowers still bloomed. Nature paid no heed to their lives, but carried on, day after day despite them. That was all she felt she had learned from life, that it kept moving whether you were ready or not.

As she sat at her table looking into a face that would never grow old, she was filled with fresh and terrible grief for her loss, and the losses of so many. Anger welled deep within her as she thought of all that had been stolen by the hands of an oppressive government. The evening gave way to nightfall, and anger gave way to resolution. Still at her table, clutching the locket in her hand Irene vowed to spend her few remaining years resisting. She would do this for her son; for his golden hair, and for the bright blue skies that refused to obey the orders of a dark world.