We miss and remember our beloved Sophia Petrova, who has lost her life in a cruel twist of fate.
Beneath the photo, high school students had left some comments in the guest book. In a daze, Emma flipped through the pages. There were so many – too many to read them all. I don’t want to see this, she thought, her mouth dry as sandpaper. I don’t want their pity! They don’t understand, how could they…
Resolutely, she closed the site, suddenly noticing her body was shaking. Be strong, don’t let your sorrow drag you down… The words Uncle Peter had repeated to her time after time these past few weeks. And she’d tried, honest to God. But it was no good. She simply couldn’t.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut tightly, swallowed hard a few times, then took a slow breath. Her uncle would get home in less than an hour, and that would mean her chance to investigate further without being detected would be gone.
She opened the search engine and typed in the address listed on Sophia’s note. Photos of a white-plastered mansion appeared on screen, surrounded on all sides by a giant veranda and Corinthian pillars. If this is indeed Frieda Groonewald’s home, the woman has to be at least twice as rich as Uncle Peter, Emma thought. The neighborhood was on the edge of the Korenburse District, in the southernmost part of Amsterdam. Emma saved the map pointing out the location of the house, then went back and entered the name of the mysterious woman into the search engine.
The search rendered dozens of results – websites, photos of a beaming lady sporting an impeccable haircut, registrations of donations… Apparently, Frieda Groonewald was a crypto-analyst, an avid lover of dogs, and a subscriber to at least two different gyms. Moreover, she regularly donated money to the Homeland’s National Army, the military department of Nethergermany, but that was no surprise – everyone did. Save for the farmhands and the State store managers, Emma pondered as she scrolled down to take in all the info, not feeling any wiser when she got to the end of the page. And of course the same went for the criminals, the start-ups, and the mentally retarded – they weren’t among the people donating money either, but they weren’t really a part of society. They weren’t Aryan. Because they didn’t belong to the supreme race, Uncle Peter always said, they had their own place to live in the Ghettos. Normal people needed the remaining space far more urgently than those outcasts did.
News items. Emma’s body cramped up when she clicked on the newspaper site. If this was the same Frieda Groonewald she’d found before, the woman seemed to have aged at least ten years between the time the former pictures were taken and the photos used in this news report. Her hair no longer looked flawlessly coiffed. Instead, it stuck to her forehead in loose, unruly strands. And maybe it was just the way the picture was taken – in black and white, and rather grainy as it was displayed on the site – but Frieda also seemed to have dark rings under her eyes. And yet, the look in her eyes wasn’t subdued. It somehow seemed to challenge the invisible photographer as though mocking both him and the audience.
Trial against former HNA benefactor will start on Monday, the headline read.
Frieda G, a household name with the HNA thanks to her crypto-analytic efforts, has been confined to her home for an indefinite period of time, the house arrest necessitated by the lawsuit initiated by the Constitutional Court in Karlsruhe, Great Germany. The exact reason for her arrest hasn’t been made public, although a source within the HNA divulged to this newspaper that it involved indictment for tax fraud. Another source wishing to remain anonymous implied that her detention was due to an endangerment of national interest.
The article listed had been published on the second of February, 2013 – just two days before Sophia’s accident. Emma felt a cold shiver running through her body, and it had nothing to do with the draft penetrating the room despite the closed parlor doors. Be strong, don’t let your sorrow drag you down… She forced herself to focus her attention on the computer screen and let the words sink in.
Frieda Groonewald – patriot or freedom fighter?
Realm spokeswoman and crypto-analyst Frieda Groonewald was taken from her residence in Amsterdam by the police last night. She had been kept under house arrest previously. At present, Groonewald is being interrogated.
Groonewald, who had been acting in the capacity of crypto-analyst for the Realm since 2008, worked for the HNA at the Nethergermanic department. Confiscation of her computer and documents has been confirmed. Groonewald’s workroom near Nehelennia Canal has been shut down indefinitely.
The unexpected arrest coincides with the riots having recently flared up in parts of Amsterdam, Yssel Island, and the Northern Netherprovince, which appear to originate in the Ghettos. The Realm has imposed a stricter curfew outside the Fence as a precaution, and asks all citizens to be vigilant.
Riots like these have occurred throughout the Realm since last year and seem to be mainly centered in the Nethergermanic area. So far, Highgermany hasn’t suffered much from such insurgencies.
The rebel group, who has identified itself as The Star, has made it clear through several rebellious acts that they wish to destroy the glorious structure of the Realm by means of unrestrained violence, ever since our Fuhrer Diederich Hoffman was taken ill. The Homeland’s National Army has identified these people as terrorists. They warn people to watch out for suspicious parcels or bags left behind in crowded, metropolitan areas. The Star often claims its terrorist actions by leaving their logo at the scene – a red Star of David. This symbol, a historical Jewish icon, was adopted by the honorable Founder of the Realm, Fuhrer Adolf Hitler, to be used as a mark to distinguish between Jewish and Aryan citizens. The fact that the Star has adopted this symbol as a sort of honorific implies an affiliation with pre-Aryan ideology, according to an HNA spokesman. This philosophy was officially banned after the Germanic Victory in 1945.
An employee from Groonewald’s household has told this reporter that she once came across photocopies of pamphlets depicting the red Star of David…
No! Her head spun with shock as Emma slammed the laptop shut. This was going too far. It was simply impossible that Sophia – her Sophia – had been involved with people like that. Terrorists from the Ghettos. They were the kind of people they needed to be protected from, the reason that security people activated the electricity on the Fence at night, why they drove around in an armored car with their driver Rutger carrying a gun…
Emma buried her face in her hands. Calm down, she told herself, but it was no good – her thoughts were jumbled, scattered around like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle.
Breathe… just breathe... Surely there had to be a different explanation, dozens of them, in fact. Maybe Sophia had nothing to do with the note. Maybe someone had slipped it into her pocket unnoticed. But it was Sophia’s handwriting, a little voice in her head told her. You know it’s hers.
Emma got up and went into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. Her hands trembled as she lifted the glass to her lips. Only after she drank all of it down with unsteady gulps and leaned her lower back against the kitchen top did she manage to chase away the dark clouds that seemed to have gathered in her mind. Once Lorelei and Uncle Peter came home in a little while she’d tell them what she’d discovered. Emma could vividly imagine the expressions on their faces, and in her head she could already hear her uncle’s voice telling her to keep her head low and consider carefully whom she wanted to share this information with. He’d tell her not to be stupid and not to stick her head in a field riddled with landmines. And Lili would give her the same warning look she’d left her with in the bedroom earlier today. Emma, please be careful…
And yet – and yet... Her uncle and cousin had never loved Sophia she way she did. Twin sisters shared a connection even before birth. They’d shared their blood, their nutrients in the womb, and their first breath. And didn’t this mean more than the oath she spoke at school every day, swearing her allegiance to the Fuhrer? Didn’t her love for her sister exc
eed her loyalty to the powerful German Realm?
Emma’s head started to pound once more. She turned on the tap and splashed water into her face. If the speculations in those news articles had any truth in them, Frieda Groonewald could tell her more about the meaning of that note. But would that be safe? Had she been released in the meantime? And if so, why would Frieda trust a girl like her? After all, Emma wasn’t sure what Sophia’s link to The Star was, exactly…
Please stop and think for a moment! How could she even consider this? She didn’t know the woman, and if the charges against her were correct, visiting her would amount to high treason. What would Uncle Peter think if she were caught? They’d send her to the SIDR, no questions asked, and they’d probably arrest Uncle Peter and Lorelei as well…
Emma stared at her hands stiffly clasped together on the kitchen top. Her knuckles had turned white and her nails were digging into her palms. The Siberian Institute for Discipline and Re-education – the newspapers never mentioned that place except very briefly, but Emma knew one thing for sure. People who were sent there never returned.
3
Digging for mines
Emma
THE gates of the Fence slowly inched closed behind the public bus. In her window seat Emma was nervously clasping the purse in her handbag with her fingers, afraid someone would snatch it from her as soon as she left her safe haven behind. Some other passengers were traveling on this bus, too – a woman with upswept, curly hair and a pearl necklace, a couple with a sleeping baby, and a few elderly people talking quietly among themselves. No one seemed scared to leave the guarded area behind and ride this bus onto the highway. And why would they? Up front, a guard was occupying his own seat wearing a uniform almost identical to Rutger’s, a sidearm strapped to his waist. He looked just as relaxed as the other passengers, his head leaning against the bus window and his foot tapping out the rhythm of the song pouring from the speakers close to the driver.
Emma forced herself to unwind. A patched blanket of dark, bare acres of land extended all around them in a flat landscape dotted with agricultural businesses and narrow buildings housing the State laborers. These laborers were the ones who couldn’t pay their debts to the State – they, or their families. Emma knew of entire generations born in servitude because their grandparents couldn’t pay their taxes. Sometimes, she worried about Uncle Peter. If he was no longer able to pay his housing expenses, would they all be forced to become laborers too? It seemed such brutal and exhausting work… Most farmlands were surrounded by rows of barbed wire, and every entrance was guarded by electric gates. Emma wasn’t sure whether the fencing systems had been installed to keep Ghetto thieves out or keep the laborers in. The few times she’d traveled to Yssel Island or other cities with Uncle Peter, she’d felt safe in Rutger’s car, traveling down the secured route specially paved for state cars. Emma took a deep breath. Sophia, what were you thinking?
On the Nehelennia Canal, a slow boat passed by. It was a pleasure boat decorated with little flags wrapped around the mast. People wearing raincoats huddled together on deck until the heavens burst open and drenched everything in the blink of an eye.
Emma pulled her hood up and tucked her hands away in her pockets. Even the skies seemed to want to tell her to turn back, issuing a warning to steer clear of the mansion in front of her.
She still could. The street was empty, the silence only disturbed by a calico cat flashing out of a back alley on its way somewhere. Emma followed it until she ended up at a tall, steel fence separating the driveway and the private grounds from the main road.
After another second of hesitation, she rang the doorbell next to the interphone three times.
Trrrrrr!
In the silence that followed, the sound of the bell slowly faded away. Her mouth dry with nerves, she waited for something to happen, but nothing stirred on the other side of the fence. If someone was home, he or she would have heard the doorbell by now, surely?
Gingerly, she bent over to talk into the interphone. “Miss Groonewald?” Silence. Not even a blinking light was showing on the intercom. “H-hello? My name is Emma Petrova. I have a message for you.”
“You a meshuggene?” a voice unexpectedly hissed in her ear. Before Emma could whip around, someone grabbed her upper arm and tore her away from the gate.
“Let go of me!”
“Shh!” Her attacker was holding her arm in a death grip. He pulled her along toward the back alley and pressed his other hand down on her mouth.
Emma writhed like a snake to free herself. Her heart hammered in her chest and she felt the panic coursing through her veins, turning her blood to fire. Any time now he’d pull a weapon. And then she’d feel the blade of a knife against her throat… No, no!
“Sophia! Stop fighting me!” The strong arms suddenly released her. Emma spun away from her assailant, turning around to see who was behind her. It was a young guy, wearing a dark-brown sweater with a large hood pulled up to cover his head.
“What did you just say?” she panted. “Who…”
“It’s me, you idiot! Uriah!”
He lowered his hood. In the dim light of the alley, Emma stared into a skinny face under a mop of black, curly hair, and pitch-black eyes with long lashes taking her in with suspicion.
Uriah? Who in the world had a name like that? It was definitely not Aryan, although the name somehow did sound familiar. A name from a fairytale, something she’d heard many years ago. “A Jew?” she whispered. How was that even possible? The Jews had been exterminated more than a generation ago.
“Shalom, Sophia.” Was he mocking her? She could swear his gesture was almost like a half-bow.
My God, Emma thought. It’s true. He really is one.
4
At The Star
Uria
THE girl stared up at him as though he was a monster. She was white as a sheet, soaked by the rain, and trembling from head to toe. “You’re not Sophia.”
“I – my name is Emma…”
“Emma?” Oy vey, she was Sophia’s spitting image. He eyed her suspiciously. She cast her gaze down and peered at the closed gate from underneath her eyelashes. It was only just visible from the alleyway. Like it was still somehow relevant. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“No, I’m not. I swear.”
“Why are you here?”
“How do you know my sister?”
“Sophia’s sister?” Well, that explained why she looked exactly like her, but why had he never heard about a sister before? He narrowed his eyes and fixed her with his stare. She was wearing expensive clothes – a warm fur coat with a long skirt underneath. Sturdy shoes. Real leather, from the looks of it. “Is it true? Is Sophia dead?”
“… Yes.”
“Did you come here alone?”
The girl – Emma – nodded, her blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders. Now that he’d had more time to inspect her, he didn’t think she looked that much like Sophia after all. Emma’s shoulders slumped and she held her head low, as if she was scared to face the world full-on. And her mouth didn’t show a trace of the smile that Sophia had always worn. “Your message.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You said you had a message. When you spoke into the interphone. What is it?”
Emma slipped a hand into her coat pocket before she seemed to waver. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it…”
Uriah pulled up one corner of his mouth. “Well, you can talk to me about it, but kudos for not spilling the beans at once. You don’t know if I can be trusted. I’m Uriah.” He extended a hand. Emma didn’t take it immediately, but just stared at it. “I don’t have fleas, okay?”
“No. It’s just that – I’ve never done this before,” Emma mumbled, taking his hand and shaking it in greeting. Her fingers were stronger than he’d expected.
“What? Never met
people on the street?”
“Touched a Jew. They say it’ll make you sick.”
He forcefully yanked his hand out of hers. “Let’s hope that’s not true. Oy! I may have killed Sophia with all the filthy diseases I’m carrying! Why don’t you send me straight to the SIDR, you rich kid?”
Emma had the courtesy to blush. He turned away from her, ready to leave her behind when her soft voice stopped him in his tracks. “Uriah, wait. Please.”
He glanced back. She looked as though she was about to start crying – her eyes were red-rimmed and her lips trembled. Was it a trick? Sophia had never mentioned a sister. Maybe she’d had a good reason not to. After all, you never knew for sure who to trust.
Her distress seemed genuine, though. She just lost her sister, he realized. And she has no clue what Sophia was involved in. Uriah pressed his lips into a hard line. “You say stuff like that again, I’ll hit you.”
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. You don’t look like a rat at all, or...” She faltered, probably holding back the uncouth word about to tumble off her lips. “I’ve never met anyone from outside the Fenced area,” she whispered.
“Azoy? Your sister didn’t mind,” Uriah sneered, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Did something shift in her expression? For just a second, the reserved mask of Emma’s face fell away and he saw a flash of real, raw pain.
“Of course she didn’t. Sophia was perfect.”
Uriah felt a pang of pity. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard on her. “You think?” he said. “Sophia managed to let herself get caught. Hardly perfect, if you ask me.”
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