After: Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia

Mama looked at me. It was as dangerous now to agree with such a sentiment as it had been to deny it just weeks before.

The girl must have taken Mama’s silence to mean accord. “What happened next?” she asked. “When you were let into the town hall. Were you told right away what had become of me?”

“A colonel sat at the desk,” Mama said. “All the town officials had been executed, and the colonel was now in charge. He gave us permission to tell him our names. Then he pulled out eight files, one for each of our taken children. We begged him to tell us what was in the files. We swore we would do anything to keep our children alive.”

“These were the animals who had no feelings,” I said to the girl, but she paid me no heed.

“The colonel made each of us swear our gratitude to The State for taking our children, our fealty to The Leader, all wise in his decisions,” Mama continued. “We swore to that. We would have sworn to that and more to keep our children alive.”

“So you swore falsely,” the girl said. “Or did you believe The Leader was all wise, that his decisions were always the right ones?”

“I believed my Maria had been seized from me,” Mama said. “And that I had one chance and one chance only to find out what had become of her, perhaps to save her life. I’m sure the woman who raised you would have sworn what I swore, what the women by my side swore. And the colonel was satisfied. He believed us, he said. We were loyal citizens, worthy of being told where our children had been taken. But there were papers to be signed, protocol to be followed. He could only reveal the contents of the files if we came in the next morning with our entire families, our husbands, our children. Our husbands would be needed to sign the papers, and our children, in case there was any negotiating to be done. We fought among ourselves to be the first to kiss his hand, and then he dismissed us.”

“And the next morning, you all came,” the girl said. “And the colonel told you what was in each file.”

“We all came,” Mama said. “With our husbands and children. We presented ourselves at the town hall, and were escorted to the colonel’s office. There he sat, as he had the day before, flanked by a dozen soldiers who served as his guards.”

“He had no need for dogs,” I said. “His soldiers were fast enough.”

“Shush,” Mama said to me. “Maria has no interest in your version of this story.”

“It is a story,” the girl said. “But do go on.”

“The colonel told us he was a very busy man,” Mama said. “He would get to us when he could, but we were to stand there, not moving, not making a sound, until our time came. The colonel had slave laborers to fan him, to give him food and drink; and the soldiers, of course, were used to standing at attention for hours. Yet we did as we were told, and didn’t move. Finally, a little boy, our neighbors’ youngest son, began crying. He was only two, and he was tired and hungry and hot. We all were, but he was the youngest, so he cried. The colonel gestured with the quickest of nods, and one of the soldiers left his side and bayoneted the boy.”

I looked at the girl to see her reaction. But I didn’t know her well enough to read the emotions on her face.

“The boy’s parents, his brothers and sisters, were taken outside,” Mama said. “The colonel ordered a soldier to open the window so we could hear their death cries. Then he returned to his work. We continued to stand, terrified the sound of our breathing could lead to our slaughter.”

“The room filled with flies,” I told the girl. “Attracted by the little boy’s blood. Mosquitoes stung us mercilessly.”

“One of the mosquitoes stung the colonel,” Mama said. “A child laughed. Isabella, I think.”

I didn’t deny it.

“The colonel was enraged,” Mama continued. “First we had interfered with his work. Then he’d fallen victim to our vermin-laden bodies. Our disrespect for him proved our disloyalty to The State, to The Leader. The parents threw themselves at his feet and begged for the lives of their children. The soldiers stood there watching us, laughing.”

I heard that sound every night before falling asleep. The buzz of the flies and mosquitoes. The howling of the parents. The laughter of the soldiers. That had been my lullaby for the past ten years.

“The colonel ordered the parents to get up and stand with their children,” Mama said. “The Leader was merciful, he said. The State benign to all who lived there. The soldiers stopped laughing, and we felt the faintest glimmer of hope.”

“The Leader was merciful,” the girl said. “The State benign. Only those who deserved it were ever punished.”

“The colonel instructed the fathers to pick one child from their family to die,” Mama said. “They weren’t to speak, just to select a single child. The colonel was benevolent and we were given permission to say farewell. Each child was kissed by their mama and their papa, while their brothers and sisters watched in silence.”

I sat there remembering the feel of those kisses, the last time either of my parents had kissed me.

“The colonel turned to the seven of us,” I said, the story now mine to tell. “He asked if we understood what our fathers had done, what was going to happen. Two of the children were too young to answer, but the rest of us said we did. He said under ordinary circumstances he would tell the soldiers to kill us swiftly, but because one of the children in the room had laughed when the mosquito stung him, the soldiers would be instructed to prolong our deaths so that we could suffer as he had suffered. He asked if we agreed with the justness of our punishment, and we said we did. He asked us then if we were willing to thank him, as the representative of The Leader, The State, for the agonizing pain we were about to endure. All of us, even the little ones, thanked him.”

“And the colonel showed you mercy,” the girl said. “He let you live. He must have because you’re sitting here, in this room with me.”

“He showed us mercy,” I agreed. “He let us live. But he said he still needed a demonstration of our loyalty. He told each of the seven of us to pick one of our parents for the soldiers to kill. Our mother or our father. The decision was ours. We were to kiss the parent we selected for death. I kissed Mama. I kissed her twice so the soldiers would understand who I’d picked to die.”

“It was a test,” the girl said. “Another test. Mama is here, the same as you are. The colonel showed all of you mercy.”

I shook my head. “All the other children wanted their mothers to live,” I said. “Papa was told to stand with the six mothers, while the other fathers and Mama stood by the children. But the colonel played a joke on us all. He ordered the soldiers to bayonet the six mothers and Papa. The parents we’d chosen to live were the ones who were killed. The colonel laughed along with the soldiers as our parents lay dying on the floor. He pointed out to the seven of us that our parents had sanctioned our deaths. Not a single one had murmured a word of protest when he’d described the horrible fate that awaited us. Then he pointed out to the parents left alive that their children had chosen them to die. Now, he said, we could understand why our loyalty must be only to The Leader, to The State.”

“The colonel told us to dip our fingers in blood and make a mark on our child’s file,” Mama said. “One by one, he told each father that their missing child had been sent to a death camp, and because of the disloyalty we had shown today, there could be no negotiations. Finally he got to my darling Maria’s file. She alone was safe, adopted by a family with position and power. Her beauty had saved her.”

“We were pariahs after that,” I said. “Of all the mothers in the room, only Mama had been allowed to live. Of all the children taken, only Maria was allowed to live. None of the villagers would talk to us, not that day, not for years.”

Mama spat contemptuously. “They were always jealous,” she said. “Of Maria’s beauty. Of mine.”

The very next day, I remembered, Mama had made a new friend. The colonel came over, and within weeks, Mama was friends with the other officers as well. As she aged and her beauty faded, her only friends were the soldiers stationed in our village. But even the lowest of soldiers had more power and position than any of the villagers, and Mama was given food, clothes, protection.

I was given nothing. The day after Papa’s death, I was sent to the fields, along with all the remaining children, to work for the little food my family was allotted. Mama took her share from me, while I got nothing from her friends the soldiers, until I was old enough and they befriended me as well.

The partisans sensed my bitterness and anger, and, knowing I was in a position to hear things, recruited me. I spied for them before I knew what the word meant, and I fought alongside them. Sometimes, in spite of my