Zofia listened intently, her thumb still in her mouth. Dominik hadn't seen her with her thumb in her mouth since she was three. Maggie turned and knelt to her as she had done with Lucja. “And you, Zofie. Do you remember when you got sick last year, and you were lying in bed because you couldn't go to school?”
Zofia nodded.
“I wanted to send you back to school the next day, but your papa insisted we take you to the doctor. He heard something funny in your cough. The doctor listened to your chest and examined you. Do you remember?”
“I didn't like it,” Zofia said, taking her thumb out of her mouth and then promptly sticking it back in.
“He found you were really sick. You had to stay home for a long time, and if we hadn't gotten you medicine, you might have died.”
Zofia knew this was all past, of course, but she still looked frightened. “I had no-mona.”
“That's right, you had pneumonia. Your daddy knew there was something wrong with you, and he got the doctor to get you medicine. If it wasn't for him…” She had to catch herself. Dominik moved towards her and stopped, not wanting to break the bond between them.
“The ship is ready,” Harald said from some distance away. “Try to hurry it up. Please,” he added.
Maggie got a hold of herself and looked at her daughters. “So you see, your papa is the best at taking care of you. He was trying to save all of us by bringing us here. He can still save you two, but he might have been… he might just have been a little too late for me.” She pulled the girls close and gripped them to her chest.
Zofia was frightened. “Mama! Mama, you're hurting me.”
Maggie let go and tried to smile. “I'm sorry, baby.”
And then Private Gantte was at her back with the pistol, and it was time to leave. She wheeled on him. “Don't you dare point that at me with my children here!” she screamed at him. “I'll come with you, but you put that thing away. Have you got that?”
The young man was so surprised he took a step back. He did not put the gun away, but he lowered it to his waist and crossed his hands.
Maggie rushed to Dominik and planted one more kiss on his lips. Before he could whisper goodbye, she turned and began to walk away with the young man. Private Gantte gripped her by the elbow but did not point the gun at her again. He stopped once to salute Lieutenant Dietrich on his way out, then turned and walked Maggie away from the pier until they both disappeared into darkness.
4
The Adalgisa left the docks around midnight, skimming into the ford and bellowing black smoke into the sky. Presently, the boat began to pick up speed, bouncing up and down in spite of the calm waters. Dominik observed all this from the foredeck, holding his daughters close and wondering where Magdelena was at that precise moment.
As the buildings on the shoreline diminished, he thought of the home they had left behind. Not the people or the neighborhood, but the physical space itself. He thought about the desk in the corner of his office, a dark mahogany writing table that had been in his family for three generations. He thought of the portrait in the hallway of he and Maggie and Lucja, the one that had been painted when their oldest daughter was just a babe. He thought of the journals where he had published, filed neatly away in the kitchen drawers. Bottles of wine kept on the ground floor dating as far back as 1918. An old grandfather clock in his office with hand-crafted brass gears. All of these things and many more, now gone forever.
Then, he thought again of his wife. He thought of Magdelena with her raven black hair, and her smile, and her laugh that always reminded him of summer rain. Would she be gone forever now, to fade with the memories of his physical things?
No, he thought for the first time. There is no prison, no boat, no man that can hold the likes of my family, not for long.
Chapter 3: Knowing Better
1
“Try it again,” Dutch yelled.
The man turned the key and pushed the button on the control panel. The engine made a thunderous grinding sound, but it didn't start.
“You suck at your job, you know that?”
“Shut up,” the other man said, but he was grinning. It was a good day out, warm sun and no wind. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eyes, and he blinked, wiping his face with a gloved hand. He was hunched over, still staring into the network of wires and rods that made up the machine's twenty-year-old driver motor.
“You know, you're giving me wood all bent over like that.”
“My hairy ass is better looking than your last girlfriend, Dutch.”
“You figure it out yet?”
The man found the last two unconnected wires and jury-rigged them together, then pulled a piece of electrical tape out of his toolbox and sealed them. He stood up and dusted his hands. “That should do it.”
Dutch unscrewed the top on his water thermos and took a drink. He looked put-out just having to stand around and supervise, not that supervising was in any way a part of his job. “You sure?”
“Why don't you make yourself useful and go test it?”
Dutch chuckled. He stepped into the cramped quarters of the operator's cab. “Jesus. It's like a pig farm in here.”
“Yeah. Smells better than your last girlfriend too.”
The man stepped out to the catwalk and looked at the ground, some thirty feet below. A brown wasteland stretched in front of him, a flat expanse of sand and rock with boundaries of piled earth in all directions. He thought about how easy it would be to police the mine properly if anyone cared, but no one did. Not to mention, they were supposed to be security staff, not repairmen. As long as the money kept coming, however, he put up with it.
Most of the morning's shift workers were standing around in red vests, talking. A few were eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. No such luck for him; no rest for the wicked.
Dutch turned and pointed. “Hey, do you see that?”
Rising over the crest of the northernmost outcropping, the man saw a helicopter flying in towards them. Flying was the fastest way to get over the mountains, but he hadn't seen a helicopter in months. Even the mine supervisors came in via bus.
“I knew I was going to regret not bringing my rifle this morning.”
“Eh, it was either your toolbox or your rifle. You're a victim of circumstance.”
“That doesn't explain why you didn't bring yours.”
“I didn't want you to feel left out.”
The man checked his pistol — an M1911 tucked into his waistband — then pushed past his friend and slid down the nearby ladder. He jogged across the machine platform, ducked under the huge, diagonal conveyor belt, then hopped over another set of railings. He jumped down onto the machine treads, then another six feet to the ground. Dutch was right behind him. At the bottom, his friend grabbed a case concealed beneath the machinery and popped it open. The man watched, chagrined as Dutch took the long-range PSG-1 out of its case. Within seconds, he had snapped on the stock, connected the wires, and screwed in the bolts that would hold it steady.
“Didn't bring your rifle, huh?”
“Well, I didn't have it up there, did I?”
“How long have we been friends, Dutch?”
Dutch examined the rifle, now fully assembled, then slung it over his shoulder. “Long enough to know it's your turn to take point.”
He slapped his friend on the arm, then began jogging up a nearby hill. The man watched him go, wondering if they were being paranoid. Out here, he knew, there were no police, no government officials, nothing but the law of the Wild West. Better to be paranoid.