In These Pages

Hooded figures stooped in the shadow of a crumbling brick wall. Two, four, or ten Aleksander tried, wished, not to know. Braced against the whistling wind, his body shook. Please, no more. No more. There. Is. No need. Hugging a standard issue twill coat to him, Aleksander let the rifle slip in hand. A pair of stiff marchers deposited another soul with the rest, it collapsed. Reminding him of a loose sack of potatoes. Despite his overwhelming need to be away, Aleksander noticed this one was his today. The soldiers and sacks were respectively distanced in their own neat rows on either side of the courtyard. If one could call it a yard. Of course, each row faced the same wall, but each possessed a markedly different view.

“Men!” Sergeant Bransk’s boots slopped in and out of Aleksander’s sight. A sharp pain glanced through his hand. He eyed his knuckles. A whiteness there now matched that of the tiny snow crystals whirling about him.

“File up!”

The clicks of attentive spines snapped erect to his left.

“Readyy!”

Aleksander’s eyes snapped shut mechanically at the sound of cocking.

“Aimmm!”.

A deafening silence filled the space in Aleksander’s mind. His eyes flit open, and he swung the rifle up. Too high, tracking a purposefully meandering path. An infinitesimal, indetectable pause held him fast as he stared down the barrel at the focused Sergeant. Helplessly, Aleksander’s hands turned the weapon to a more bi-partisan target.

“Fire.”

Mud splattered; brick shattered. His sack remained a sack, stirring but undisturbed as a chorus of pain filled the open air. Snow crystals melted and tracked paths through the grime on Aleksander’s face. Bransk turned to him in shock as Aleksander dropped his rifle. The Sergeant traded wide eyes for a narrow snarl as he drew a pistol.

~

Desperation always hung thick in the air. Even considering the cold it condensed without warning. Those with weapons or not; those who yelled or did not; those with children or not. Got dragged away. The throng pressed to the first set of barricaded gates. Day by day the crowd grew. Week on week it swelled. When they were feeling kind-hearted, Militiamen held back their snapping Andonian mountain dogs. When do they feel? Marina thought bitterly. Watching with horror as one of the beasts buried its teeth into a gaunt man’s withered thigh. The crowd pulsated with a communal will. Inflammation and horror propagated in forceful waves. Our only hope is paper or the people. Thought Marina. She cried for every person to step through those gates, and the guardhouse beyond. A tear for a family reunited. Another for her own, divided. She watched as an elderly man attempted to force his way through cracks in the crush, dragging a disheveled young girl behind by her hand. Like the rest of them, without possession. Having brandished aloft his and the girl’s papers, a guard hauled them both over a splintering barrier. Militia sanctioned paper. It was only until after the coup that people really needed their papers. Now only New Andonian Federation sealed documents earned you the right to leave. Earned by family, connections, or bribery. As darkness fell, Marina turned her back to the gates, and worked her way through the waning crowd.

~

Head hung low; Aleksander peered through the cracked windowpane. Lights flashed in the street as patrols patrolled. Curfew was in effect. If you break it once, you do not break it again. Aleksander thought. After drawing the thin curtain closed, the oil-lamp was the last source of light in the cramped room. Putting a hand on the mattress Aleksander bent down to his knees. Letting out a low grunt as his rough shirt rubbed the gashes on his back. He cursed himself, not for the pain, but for his foolishness. How am I to feed you momma. He thought grasping the woman’s frail hand. It disappeared in his. Half rations and guardhouse duty. She shuffled softly, and he lowered his head to her hand. I have to make this work.

~

A swarm of milling vendors filled Warwick street. All of whom possessed only what they could carry and sell fast. The regime tolerated their presence by day. By night however anything left behind was broken or stolen. One man sat apart but was always a fixture. A grin lit up his face as he scribbled away, chatting to himself all the while. Marina recalled swarms of children crying and rolling around him as he painted scenes of comedy and tragedy. Waving and gesturing spindly fingers with an electric energy, while lines of mirth broke across his face. “What do you say to them old father?” She asked not unkindly, as she approached him. Startled, the man snapped his head up from a book.

“A concerned parent, are you?” That resolute grin warded off the creeping age of his beard. “Mother.” He added, with a glint in his eye.

“Your tales. Those stories. What do you say?” She repeated.

“Truth, lies. Stories from my own life, and of others. I offer them a feeling of life on the other side.” He said, as they watched one of his rabble scurry in and out of sight. Marina stared after the alley that had vanished the girl. She felt deflated as a pit opened inside of her.

“What of the mili---”. She started.

“No questions today mother. Tell me your tale.” He shifted aside on his rough woven blanket. He turned to a new page in his notebook.

~

Marina clutched the treasure to her. She felt its warmth, a protecting ward. Looking down at the little black book, she felt a catch in her throat, recalling the other night.

“It no longer has a use for me or I for it.” Said the old man snapping it shut. “It was passed to me for a purpose, and together we achieved that purpose”. He said, rubbing the cover fondly with a thumb. Marina did not doubt he was talking to the book.

“I do not understand father.” She said softly.

“When I was given this skinny old thing, I was told it could help me.” He said, peering into Marina’s eyes searchingly. “Now it will be there for you.”

“How…Your stories?” She said staring at the offering.

“Ohh they are all in here.” He said with a reassuring smile while tapping his temple with a forefinger.

“I will treasure them” she whispered again with a smile. As she remembered his response. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

She joined the first risers of the day. People stirred from their nests, slowly being revealed as shadows fled the white glowing sky. Murmuring grew and manifested as unrest. Barking cut through the still air. A crowd had begun to coalesce as the gate came into sight. Marina slowed to a halt, parting the stream. A protective warmth radiated from where the notebook lay tucked away. Retrieving it she flipped it over twice, examining it, sensing the rough cover. It was not even so thick as her smallest nail. Parting the covers with a thumb she levered it open, feeling pages slip by, and tickling.

She stopped.

The first page was typescript. And then. A seal. Taking page by page she searched. Foreign affairs. Property. Valid. It did not take her long to find what she did not know to look for. b. 1878. She met her own eyes. A tear fell from one set to the other as she snapped the papers shut. Sofia I’m coming.

~

Aleksander stared down the decaying mortar as he helped it along with a scraping nail. Closing his eyes, Aleksander let his head fall to his hand. The guardhouse is not the gulag, but the gulag probably has more visitation. Anything but the yard. He thought. “I need to get you out mother.”

Opening his eyes, a spider stalked with precision across packed earth. Picking across embedded gravel and detritus until it met his boot. A leg or two probed it with a testy curiosity. Abruptly the grinding of rust-on-rust jolted Aleksander to his feet. His stool flew one way, and the stalker another. A militiaman thrust a woman through the door and slammed it. The latter letting its indignance known with a squeak. Rushing up to the counter she fumbled with a small book. No, must be her documents.

“Papers woman.” Aleksander said, trying to disguise his amusement. There was no seal on the little books cover.

A crease formed on her brow. No face could disguise her energy. Pushing it across the aged wood, her eyes demanding attention. “These papers are as real as they come.”

Picking up the book, its dimples and wear gave Aleksander a sense of age unknown to any other documents he had seen. Aleksander turned has he cracked open the book. Funny. It feels oddly loose. Flipping through the few blank pages, his hand seized. A cavity was revealed, the book was cored. Momma. He ruffled through the stacked contents. This is what we need. The change in him was visible, she tapped the counter and bit a lip.

“Do you know what you have given?” He managed to croak.

“Only what I laid down.” She said, and after a moment of hesitation. “Not what you picked up.”

Approaching the counter again Aleksander deposited the notebook out of sight. Wordlessly he searched for and retrieved a set of falsified woman’s papers from the guardhouse lockbox. He then set to work with a number of stamps.

Unlocking the door adjacent to the counter Aleksander whistled and motioned to a pair of border guards. Meeting the woman’s eyes, he extended the papers to her. “I have approved you; they do not need to see this.” Nodding and biting her lip she took the papers. Resisting for a moment he held them fast. “Me and mine thank you.”

Leaving behind the building flanked by guards. “And mine, you.” She breathed.