She tried the best she could to trace her steps. Perhaps if she paid close enough attention, she would be able to get a bearing somehow. At least, she could figure out the length of time it took to get from wherever she had been to wherever it was that she was going. Yet, as she walked straight forward for—what, five minutes?—and then turned around and around—what… three times?—only to head in what she could swear was the exact opposite direction for—two minutes? maybe?—she realized that keeping track of her route was as futile as trying to sleep in the second side-sleep position.
Screams of pain echoed throughout the halls. These were punctuated by raucous laughter and the ever-present clang, clang, clang on cell doors. “The poor bastard is probably getting the fire hose…” Lena thought sorrowfully. She knew what that felt like, and screaming was most certainly warranted.
Finally, after several more twists, turns, spins and back-tracks, she heard what sounded like a wooden door opening in front of her. Stepping (what she assumed was) through, she felt a mild change of pressure and echo as she walked forward. “America can’t you see… its political slavery!” the hit song by The Dead Weights played softly from an unseen radio in an equally unseen corner of the room.
“You can leave her here, Sergeant.” a brusque male voice spoke in a commanding tone. “I’m sure young Lena and I shall be fast friends. Won’t we, Lena?”
Lena didn’t know how to respond, so she decided silence was the best course, overall.
“I can see our newest charge is rather shy,” the voice spoke again. “Perhaps if we just remove that sack from her head, we can start building some trust. No?”
With that, the cord around her neck was loosened and daylight began filling her vision until the sack was fully removed, and the room was exposed to her. She was in a small room, sparsely furnished, with large windows covering the back wall. She could see the rainy cityscape of Berlin bustling away happily as if this horrible place never existed. In one corner of the room was a plain desk stacked high with papers and folders. On the other side of the room was a chair facing a bright white wall. The wall was extremely smooth and freshly painted, so as to glow in the sunlight streaking in through the large windows.
“So, Lena.” the man began. He was tall and heavily set with muscle. His dark gray uniform was absolutely immaculate with sharp creases, and his boots were spit-shined to such a degree that they appeared to be mirrors in the sunlight. He had a strong, almost handsome jaw. Yet his gray eyes were of an intensity that made the man appear cruel and capable of anything.
“It appears we have a problem,” the man continued. “You were arrested… what, fifteen days ago?”
“I don’t know.” Lena answered honestly. She had no idea how long she had been inside this prison, yet somehow the idea of ‘fifteen days’ surprised her. Then again, the fact that it was daytime surprised her as well. The black cells had that effect on you.
“Perhaps a little courtesy is in order, no?” the man spoke with an acrid tone. “I am an adult. You are a child. When children speak to adults, they refer to them as ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’, do they not?”
Lena was taken aback by the insinuation that she was a child. But she knew this was not the time to pick a fight over something so trivial. If she really had been in that terrible cell for fifteen entire days (to her, it could have been anywhere from a week to a year), she couldn’t stand the thought of another fifteen. And if calling this man ‘Sir’ was what it took, well, it was a trifling pittance to pay.
“I… I apologize S-sir…” Lena stuttered, hoping that she didn’t sound fake, “I’m just a little…”
“I’m sure you are ‘just a little’ many things, you brat!” the man spat at her. “When I want to know what those things are, I shall tell you!”
“Y-yes… Sir…”
“I don’t know what sort of things your parents and your teachers are teaching you these days, but in my Germany, children respect their elders. And that means children speak only when spoken to.”
“Yes… S-sir.”
“And you are a child, aren’t you?” the man glared.
Lena hesitated. She had only known this man for a few minutes and she already hated him. Yet she had to do what was needed to improve this situation—fast. Placating him was still a small amount to pay for the respite of being away from her horrid little cell.
“Y-yes… yes, Sir.” Lena stuttered.
“Lena…” the man menaced, moving closer, invading her space as he towered over her. “Tell me what you are.”
“Sir?”
“You are a child, Lena. Tell me what you are.”
Again, Lena hesitated. Maybe it was the fact that he had moved into her bubble without her permission; maybe it was what she felt to be a profound disrespect; maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t do a single proactive thing about her situation. Either way, she really didn’t want to say it. Whether she meant it or not, she was allowing him a victory that she would hate to relinquish. Then again, was there any real winning for her in such a place?
“I’m… I’m…” the words caught in her throat, “I’m… a ch-child, Sir.”
“That’s right. You are a child.” The man backed away obviously feeling victorious. “Tell me, Lena. How do you feel about our wonderful country?”
“I… I think it’s w-wonderful, Sir,” Lena responded. She wasn’t lying, per se, just stretching the truth on a few minor points.
“Tell me what you love about it, Lena!”
“I l-love… the trees, the… uh, the city… the… uh…”
“Are you sure you love these things about our country?”
“Yes, Sir.”
With this, the man stomped over to his desk and grabbed a folder filled with loose pieces of paper. Shuffling through them, he picked out a paper in the middle and pulled it out.
“Weak and powerless I feel…” he began, reading off of the sheet. Instantly, Lena recognized the lyrics to one of her songs. “The shadow of the modernity replaces where my heart should beat, and I become stone-like.” On the word ‘stone-like’, he raised an eyebrow before reading more. “While my stone self awaits a new rain to wash me away, seasons never change for I am trapped inside a razor wall.”
The man paused, before speaking in an irritated tone, “Tell me, Lena. Do these words sound familiar?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do these words sound like the words of a child who loves her country?”
“No, Sir.”
“Do these words sound like the words of a child, who should be seen and not heard?”
“No, Sir.”
“Lena, tell me what you are.”
“A child, Sir.” Lena snuffled a bit, as she said this. She could feel the warm red flush of shame spreading across her cheeks.
“And as a child, Lena, what should you be?” the man glowered at her.
“S-seen… and n-not… not heard, S-sir.”
“That is so correct, Lena!” the man yelled, crumpling up her lyrics in a fist and poking Lena roughly in the chest. “You should be seen and not heard! And yet…”
The man marched over to his desk once again and began rifling through a different set of folders. He was no doubt searching for more damning evidence. Finally, after much pomp and circumstance, as if to accentuate how very many strikes Lena had against herself, he found what he was looking for. He then walked back over to Lena, poking the piece of paper sharply with a finger.