I am Not A Number

by Lisa Heathfield

  ‘You may stop,’ he says, pushing me back into the line between a child and an older man. ‘Have you learned your lesson?’

  I nod, hardly able to hold my head straight.

  ‘I didn’t hear your answer,’ the guard shouts. ‘Maybe you’d like to run again? Or have you learned your lesson?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. My voice squeezes out through my spiky breathing.

  ‘Good.’

  When he walks away, the man next to me puts out his arm to hold me up.

  ‘You did well,’ he whispers as finally the rain begins to dry.

  I barely notice when the general comes out again. I feel numb to everything, my muscles wound so tight that they block off all feeling. Around me everyone is silent. We all face towards the general as he raises his loudspeaker.

  ‘Welcome,’ he says. Welcome? His greeting is so out of place that I can’t be here. I’m at school, my head asleep on a desk, my legs aching from PE. ‘I want you to know that I believe none of you are a lost cause.’ I try to blink away his words, but I know that they’re real as they touch me and pierce my feet in place on the ground of this exercise yard. ‘But, somehow, along the line, you’ve been broken. And, as you are citizens of our country, it’s our duty to try to heal you all.’

  Heal us? I’m not broken.

  ‘The people who voted in John Andrews and the Traditionals are very passionate people,’ the general continues, his voice waxy and smeared through the megaphone at his mouth. ‘They love this country. And we want you to love it as well.’

  Is he mad? I did love our country. I still do. The only thing destroying it is the Trads. They’re the ones breaking it in the first place.

  ‘I see you as the lucky ones.’ The general’s smile is made from plastic, stuck on there like a wind-up toy. ‘We’ve chosen you to be the forerunners of this trial. We will show you the light and when you’re ready you’ll shine that light on the rest of the country. Until all we see is the glow of the Traditional Party.’

  I glance up at the sky, white as bone. It’s too far away to touch. Too far away to save us.

  ‘For now, we will do a roll call. You don’t need to concern yourself with anything else.’ And he lowers his megaphone. He’s finished with us.

  There’s a strange sense of cooped-up anger circling around us. It slides from my shoulders to grip me. I know there’ll be others here who want to escape right now, but none of us can. I shuffle forward with the rest of the line, one step at a time.

  As each person is signed off they are sent towards the dining room where, hopefully, there’s breakfast. We move slowly. My whole body starts to ache, so I try to imagine soothing my muscles in a bath. It’s too difficult to make the water hot, though – the heat from when I was running has flipped so cold that my skin feels like it’s covered in ice.

  It’s our duty to heal you. The general’s words echo through me. A trial. What trial?

  I keep moving forwards, small movements, until finally I get to the front. The general stares at me enough to make me look away.

  ‘What’s your number?’ he asks quietly, his pen hovering over the page.

  ‘276,’ I manage to squeeze through my clamped teeth. He finds it and puts a tick, each second stretched too long.

  ‘You may go.’

  And I walk across the yard, through the doors into the room where we eat.

  The bench holds me as I sit down. On the table in front of me are two buttered slices of bread and a glass of water. None of us wait to be told to start. I rip off the crust first. It’s dry to chew, so I gulp water at the same time.

  ‘Don’t eat too fast,’ a voice opposite me says. It’s Stan, from the kitchen. After every mouthful he wipes his moustache. He nods at me and I wait to put in my next mouthful only when he does. He must chew it a hundred times, so I do too. It’s disgusting mush by the end, but it’s better for my stomach this way.

  ‘Leave your plates,’ a guard shouts. I have to shove the last piece of bread into my mouth.

  We go outside and there are two lines formed. It’s clear that one is for the women and children, the other is for the men.

  ‘You are going to be working in separate areas,’ a guard shouts. I can’t see Luke or Darren or Conor, but no one complains, no one says a word.

  A hand grabs me and I turn to see my mum and Lilli standing there.

  ‘Ruby,’ Mum whispers. ‘You’re okay.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer, as we’re pushed and moulded to stand in the right place. The guards don’t seem to mind that there are three of us together and Mum, Lilli and I stay tight by each other’s sides as our line is forced to start walking.

  We don’t go far before we’re herded alongside the building nearest the entrance to the camp. This one has windows that aren’t boarded up and, although most of them don’t have glass, at least they’ll let the daylight in. There’s no door on the building, so the floor inside the entrance is covered with leaves that have blown in and stuck together and turned to sludge. We’re taken past them into an enormous room with a high ceiling and long windows. There’s not a patch of furniture, just stacks of boxes in a corner. I haven’t the energy to wonder what’s in them. The bread was barely enough to touch my hunger.

  Mum suddenly leaves my side. I watch as she goes to Mrs Jesenska, who looks bewildered and even older without her husband.

  ‘Stay with us,’ I hear Mum say and she brings her over to stand in the line.

  A female guard watches from the front of the hall. Her face doesn’t seem to be as blank as the other Trads in this place and she looks at us as if we’re human beings, not animals to step on. But still Lilli holds my hand. Her other hand is clasped tight in Mum’s and she has a look of terror stitched on her face.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I whisper to her, but she doesn’t even attempt a smile.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ the female guard says. ‘We’ve got some sewing for you to do today.’ The murmuring among us is like a wave. Words rising together and dying down when the guard raises her hand. ‘This task is unsuitable for children, so they shall all be taken to be educated in the room next door.’

  Taken? Educated?

  I hold tighter to Lilli’s hand. I can feel her shaking.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ the guard says. And even though she doesn’t seem frightening, none of the children move.

  ‘They won’t be able to go at your pace in here and they will slow down the work.’

  There are too many questions that I’m afraid to ask. How long will they be gone? Will they just be doing schoolwork? In exactly the room next door, or further away?

  Near us, mums keep their arms tight around their children.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll be more willing if I show you where your children will be?’ the guard says. ‘Yes?’ And there’s nodding, desperate sounds of people agreeing. ‘Quiet.’ The guard raises her hand just the once and silence whistles through us. She points to a woman with a boy clutched in one hand, another on her hip. ‘I’ll take you. And you can bring your children.’

  I stare at the door that takes them all from the room.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ Lilli whispers.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Mum says. ‘Stand as tall as you can. They won’t say that you’re a child.’

  ‘You can stay with us,’ Mrs Jesenska says.

  ‘What if they ask how old I am?’

  ‘Then say that you’re fourteen,’ Mum says, her face still straight to the front.

  But that’s a lie. Lilli is twelve and they could easily check her records and find her out.

  The guard comes back in, followed by the woman and her children.

  ‘You can tell them what you saw,’ the guard tells her.

  ‘It’s just a room. It’s right next door,’ the mother says, still holding on to her sons.

  ‘Come on,’ the guard calls. ‘You might even find a biscuit or two waiting for you.’

  This is all it takes to make the firs
t children move. And others follow and then more. Because even without the promise of biscuits we can all see the guns, so really what choice do they have? There must be thirty children at least, some barely old enough to stand on their own, but I’m amazed how silent they all are.

  Two guards start to walk among the rows of the rest of us. I’m glad that Lilli can’t look at my face right now, as I’d know she’d see how terrified I am. All I can do is squeeze her fingers in mine.

  But one guard stops in front of her. He’s so tall, even taller than our dad. The air is colder just from having him here.

  ‘Your number?’ he asks.

  ‘274,’ she says.

  He taps his thumb on to his belt. ‘Age?’

  I feel my heart stop as I wait for her to reply.

  She breathes quickly twice. ‘I’m twelve,’ she says.

  ‘Then you’re a child.’

  ‘She’s not,’ my mother says. ‘And she can sew. I’ve taught her at home.’

  It’s a lie. What if they ask Lilli to show them?

  The guard doesn’t say another word. He just steps back and holds his arm out in the direction of the door. I want to tell him that she’s my sister. That in here I need her next to me.

  ‘Quickly,’ the guard says. And Lilli lets go of my hand. She goes on tiptoe to kiss my mum on the cheek.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she says, her bravery pressing heavy in my lungs.

  And she goes from us, half running down the line. She doesn’t look back as she heads towards the open door and disappears through it. The room suddenly feels so wrong. The weight of those taken pushing on to my back until I think I’ll fall.

  Mum steps next to me and takes my hand. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘It’s just like going to school.’ But her words couldn’t be less convincing.

  Mrs Jesenska nods. ‘They’ll bring her back.’

  There’s a burst of laughter from somewhere down the corridor. It’s the children. Lilli somewhere among them.

  ‘See?’ the female guard at the front says. ‘They’re happy and it means that you can all get on with your work without interruption. So –’ she looks along the rows of women, her eyes finding us out – ‘this task today is very easy, even for those non-sewers among you. And you shall learn quickly.’ She makes it sound like an order. ‘You shall each be given a piece of red material and on it you shall sew your number. You shall stitch it thick enough so that it is clearly visible. It’s simple.’ She’s smiling again, but I don’t trust her. What will they do when they find out I can’t sew? And I doubt I’m the only one.

  We sit in silence as the material, needles and thread are handed out. I look at them in my lap, the slash of red balanced across my jeans.

  ‘You may begin,’ the guard at the front shouts.

  I stare at Mum and for an awful moment I think I’m going to laugh, but the look in her eyes stops me.

  ‘Just copy what I do,’ she says. ‘But with your own number.’

  The dark green thread feels almost like wool as I lick the end of it and push it into the gap in the needle. I have to look at it closely and pull it through the other side.

  ‘Now knot it,’ Mum says.

  I do and then I pierce the red material, exactly as my mum does, watching carefully as I stitch the number 276 into the cloth. When I make a mistake, I yank the thick thread free to do it again. And so I stitch and unpick and stitch my identity into the Traditional’s material. And there’s time now to think. Too much time to wonder how we managed to end up here. I glance at the guards with their guns and wonder if they’d really use them. When they took us from home would they have shot us if we’d tried to run?

  I stab the needle roughly into the material. Work until I’ve got it right, until it’s finished.

  Those who are good sewers and quick enough do the ones for the men. I wonder whose fingers have turned Luke and Darren into numbers.

  ‘Very good.’ The guard from the front nods when all the needles and thread have been packed up and put away. ‘From now on, these must be worn on your arms where they are clearly visible.’

  The silence among us is thick as Mum leans over, takes the material from me and wraps it over the top of my sleeve. She straightens the number, before she ties the ends tight.

  ‘Fine,’ she says. And now I have to tie my mum’s number to her arm. I won’t look at her face as I fix the material.

  There’s a sound from the front and the children are rushing through the door. Each one of them wears the slash of red, but their smiles are genuine and they look a million times happier than when they left us. Even Lilli looks better. Maybe they did feed them biscuits after all.

  When she finds us, Mum hugs her close.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’ she asks, her palms on Lilli’s face.

  ‘No. They were nice.’

  ‘Nice?’ Mum asks and Lilli nods.

  ‘Silence,’ the guard at the front shouts and almost instantly we’re all quiet again. ‘You’re to leave here and go straight to the dining room.’

  I look at Lilli’s face and wish I could see into her mind. How can the Trads have been nice? Has she forgotten that they’re the reason we’re here?

  I get into the line next to her and Mum, my arm gripped under the material stitched with my number. I need to forget it’s there, but I don’t want to touch it in case I loosen it. Instead I look at Mum’s fingers laced with Lilli’s and it flares a slice of triumph into me. Lilli is with us. And it’ll take more than a few biscuits from them to tempt her away.

  Mum and I walk with Lilli between us as we go with the other women from the sewing room to the outside. It’s so cold in the wind that for a moment I even forget how hungry I am.

  ‘How was it really?’ Mum asks Lilli. ‘In the room?’

  ‘I told you already,’ Lilli says.

  ‘You just said they were nice to you,’ Mum reminds her. ‘I’m just interested to know a bit more.’

  ‘They gave us biscuits,’ she says.

  ‘What type of biscuits?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Chocolate ones. And orange juice.’

  I’m caught between jealousy and suspicion.

  ‘Why would they give you that?’ I ask.

  ‘They said we looked hungry and because we’re growing we need to eat properly.’

  ‘I’m hungry and I’m growing too.’

  ‘We had to sew the numbers too and it was more difficult for us,’ Lilli says defensively.

  ‘What about the lessons?’ Mum asks. ‘They said they were going to educate you.’

  Lilli shrugs. ‘They just told us stuff.’

  ‘Stuff about what?’ I’m sure other women are listening as we walk.

  ‘About what society is like and what it could be like.’ She’s biting her nails, but Mum doesn’t tell her off.

  ‘So they tried to fill your head with lies,’ I say.

  ‘It wasn’t all lies,’ Lilli says. ‘They had statistics.’

  ‘They can manipulate those,’ I say and Mum glares at me to be quiet, but I don’t understand why.

  ‘Lils,’ she says calmly. ‘You have to understand that they’ll try to persuade you away from us. I’m sure we’re here because they want to find a way to make us all think like them.’

  ‘They won’t take me away from you,’ Lilli says.

  ‘Too right they won’t,’ I say. ‘They’re feeding you bullshit along with those biscuits.’

  ‘Enough, Ruby,’ Mum warns. Enough? I haven’t even started.

  Lilli twists her hair into a rope and starts to bite the ends. I want to tell her that she’ll get a hairball, but I don’t. I keep each and every one of my angry words inside as we head towards the dining room where, hopefully, there’ll be food.

  They feed us one sausage each and a spoonful of potatoes. That’s it. I never thought I’d be craving a pile of vegetables. I hope they’ll bring out more because I’m almost as hungry as when we came in, but when I finish my last mouthful a hand grabs
my shoulder.

  ‘276?’ the guard asks. His eyes seem hollow.

  Mum is sitting opposite me and she puts down her glass of water.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Come with me,’ the guard says. I feel Lilli freeze beside me as Mum stands up.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ she asks. Silence drops into the room as people stop moving.

  ‘The general has requested her,’ the guard says, his fingers tight on me.

  ‘The general?’ my mum asks. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the order.’

  ‘She’s not going.’ Mum looks panicked, but she can’t reach me and I can’t get to her as the guard pulls me to my feet.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I tell her. But I’m not. A stomach ache fires through me so suddenly that I almost double over.

  ‘No,’ my mum says, beginning to run alongside the table, coming around to our side. ‘You can’t take her.’

  ‘It’s orders,’ the guard repeats. I don’t want him to drag me, so I walk with him. Mum grabs his hand from my elbow.

  ‘You’re not taking my daughter anywhere,’ she yells in his face.

  He slaps her so hard that she falls backwards.

  ‘Mum!’ I shout, but the guard pulls me towards the door. I want to tell her that I’m okay, but tears are slicing through my throat and I know they’ll come out if I try to speak.

  I close my eyes in the daylight as I’m dragged across the grass. I open them only when I’m stumbling too much and think I’ll fall. The guard loosens his grip as we walk past the building where we sleep. We go down the side of another building and finally through a door.

  We’re in an empty corridor, with a grey floor and light blue walls. It feels cold and even though there are windows the sunshine has been snatched away.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I ask. But the guard doesn’t answer. It’s as if I haven’t spoken, my words as insignificant as a wisp of smoke. There’s only the sound of my feet alongside his, until we stop outside a white door and he knocks.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice calls and the guard pushes open the door and gestures for me to go in. The general sits behind a desk, the three stripes across his jacket shoulder. I feel small as he looks up, like he could destroy me just by stepping on me.