Vanja forced herself to close the zipper. Now that she knew what was inside, holding it made her fingers tingle. She had a sudden vision of the contents escaping, slithering up her arms. The thought made her throat burn. She backed out of the bathroom with the toiletry bag in both hands.
“Ivar?”
Ivar’s hand and fork stopped midway between the plate and his mouth. “Yes?”
“I need to scrap this.” She turned around to show him the bag.
Ivar looked at what was in her hands, then at her, and nodded curtly. He rose from the table, went over to a cabinet under the sink, and pulled out a box. He opened the lid and held the box out to Vanja, who carefully placed the toiletry bag on the bottom. Then he put the lid back on and left. Vanja heard the front door open and close. Ivar came back in and sat down at the table.
“I apologize,” Vanja said.
Ivar smiled at her for the first time, a small smile with lips closed, and his face softened. “Don’t worry about it. Make sure you eat something.” He returned to his book.
Vanja fetched a cup and a plate and looked out the window. It still wasn’t raining. In the frying pan she found reheated leftovers from yesterday’s dinner; the pot contained coffee, so strong it was nearly brown. Vanja let the grounds sink and tasted it. It tasted unfamiliar, spicy and both sour and sweet, made from some mushroom unknown in Essre. She filled her plate and sat down across from Ivar. From what she could make out of the upside-down text, he was reading about plant-house farming.
When Ivar had emptied his plate, he stood up and closed the book.
“I’m off to my shift now,” he said. “Nina’s already at hers. She started early. You’re on cooking duty tonight. But you don’t have to get anything from the store. There’s plenty in the pantry.”
Vanja nodded. “What time?”
Ivar shrugged. “We’ll be home around five.” Saying nothing more, he washed his plate and left.
“Let’s mark all the things in here,” Vanja sang under her breath, letting her eyes wander around the room. “Table, chair, and a pot here; stovetop, fridge, and pantry there. We mark all things in our care.”
“The Marking Song” was part of everyone’s life, from the first day at the children’s house. When Vanja was younger, marking day at the children’s house was the best day of the week.
Her teacher Jonas would walk around the room, pointing at objects one after the other. Sometimes it was hard to make the name of a thing fit the rhythm of the song, and they laughed. Vanja’s voice was the loudest. Then they’d sing “The Pioneer Song” and “When I Grow Up.” Afterward it was nap time.
It was not until much later that they were told the reason for all this marking and naming. It was a special lesson. The children had spent several days before this lesson retouching signs and labels, singing extra rounds of marking songs. Teacher Jonas monitored them closely, punishing the careless. Finally, the children gathered in the classroom. The lecture was short. Teacher Jonas stood at the desk, his face tense and grim. In a silence so complete one could hear one’s own pulse, Jonas spoke. His powerful voice sounded thin.
A long time ago, when the pioneers came here, they built five colonies. Now only four remain.
When the lesson was over, the children spent the rest of the day singing marking songs and retouching signs and labels with a new intensity. It wasn’t a game anymore.
Vanja had been in a storeroom, tasked with marking pencils and rulers, and she took to the job in earnest. Pencil pencil pencil pencil pencil pencil, she had chanted, touching the pencils one by one, until the stream of words inverted and made a sound like cil-pen cil-pen cil-pen cil-pen cil-pen cil-pen, and the row of pencils had shuddered and almost turned into something else, and she realized that this is how it happens, and her whole chest tingled. Right then, the door to the storeroom opened, and Teacher Jonas was in the doorway. He looked at the row of pencils, then at Vanja. “I saw that,” he said. Then he grabbed her by the arm and steered her into the classroom.
The other children were already in their seats, except for Ärna, who was standing at the teacher’s desk with a strange expression on her face. Teacher Jonas pushed Vanja ahead of him and made her stand next to her sister. Vanja looked down at her shoes and waited. He was going to tell the others what he had seen, and she would be sent away. The silence seemed endless. She was about to look up when teacher Jonas spoke. “Vanja and Ärna’s father, Anvars’ Lars, has been taken into custody on charges of subversive activity.”
A murmur rippled through the classroom. “We have just talked about Colony Five and what happens when rules are broken. Now you all understand just what a terrible thing that is. A truly terrible, terrible thing. Do you want to destroy our community, to ruin everything we’ve struggled so hard to build?”
He turned to Vanja and Ärna. Vanja’s head filled with a buzzing noise. His voice seemed remote. “It’s important that you girls renounce your father and his actions. Because you don’t want to be traitors like him, do you?”
“No.” That was Ärna.
“Then say after me: ‘As a loyal comrade of the commune, I renounce Anvars’ Lars and his actions.’”
Ärna repeated his words, her voice so bright and loud Vanja could hear it through the growing roar in her ears. Vanja had to be guided through the sentence word for word, three times until Teacher Jonas was satisfied. Then they were allowed to return to their seats.
Teacher Jonas held a speech about the importance of reporting infractions immediately and renouncing anyone who tried to bring harm to the commune. After class, teacher Jonas took Vanja to see a committee official.
Teacher Jonas told us about what happened with the pencils, the official said. You’re just a child. You didn’t know that what you did was wrong. Now you know better.
Yes, Vanja had replied, eyes downcast. I know better now.
We will be watching you, the official said.
It was time for Vanja to register at the commune office in Amatka. She left the house dressed in two pairs of trousers, with three sweaters under her anorak and her notebooks in her satchel. She pulled down the anorak sleeves over her hands. The sky had brightened to a light shade of gray. Farther down the almost empty street a woman in bright yellow coveralls pulled a cart from door to door, collecting scrap boxes. Vanja turned away with a shudder and started walking toward the center.
The commune office of Amatka had rounded corners and small, recessed windows. Like all central buildings in all colonies, it was built from concrete, that rare material that the pioneers had brought with them. And like all other things from the old world, concrete didn’t need marking to keep its shape. It was solid, comforting. The plaque next to the entrance read Central building constructed and erected year 15 after arrival. Long live the pioneers! Long live Amatka’s commune!
Immediately inside the entrance, a lanky receptionist sat behind a counter. Vanja showed him her well-thumbed papers and received two copies of a multipage form to fill out. Complete name, age, home colony, temporary address in Amatka, profession, names of children and their place of residence. Education, employment history, and other skills. Was she aware that she might be drafted should any of her skills be needed by the commune during her residence in Amatka? Did she have any diseases or other conditions of which the commune should be informed?