63 years earlier
–
The young girl crouches under the staircase, huddled with the other tenants from their block, just as the flyer prescribed. Not that she believes it will do much good. She’s fairly certain a staircase won’t protect them from the bombs dropped by the many planes passing overhead. She does it only to keep her mother from panicking even more.
It has been six months since they received the last letter from her father, smuggled out of the labor camp where he was deported. Since then, her mother has gradually lost hope, almost visibly crumbling at the edges. Her hair is now almost completely gray, and the wrinkles on her face are deeper and sharper than ever before. Her laugh, once bright and contagious, hasn’t been heard in a long time. She misses that laugh painfully, but what worries her even more are her mother’s eyes. Over these last few months, they have slowly extinguished until no light remains in them at all.
She sighs. One thing is certain: she will be of no use to her mother and little brother if she allows herself to be overcome by self-pity and fear. She has to stay strong, even while hiding under a flimsy staircase as the bombers conduct a violent symphony of whistling bombs and devastating explosions around them, slowly fading into the distance.
They seem to have survived yet another bombing. Pure luck, she thinks, as she slowly crawls out of the shelter with the other tenants. Only her mother remains, still cowering in the far corner, small and fragile, like a frightened little bird.
“Mum, it’s over,” she whispers, gently tugging at the sleeve of her mother’s shirt. “We can go now. Otte is already inside.” Her mother looks up, with big, empty eyes. The girl tugs a bit harder, as if trying to rouse her from a deep sleep. “Really, Mum, it’s time.” At last, her mother’s eyes regain focus, and for the first time, she seems to recognize her daughter.
“Of course, sweetie, I’m coming. You weren’t afraid, were you?” The girl shakes her head slowly. “Mama is always here to protect you; you know that, right?” She knows her mother truly believes this, and that this belief is the only thing keeping her from total collapse. So, she says nothing, gives her mother a kiss, and helps her to her feet.
At home, it’s still dark, except for the light of a single candle. Their wood furnace hasn’t been used for so long that they now use it as a table. Their real table was burned weeks ago for warmth and cooking, along with most of the other furniture. The girl notices that an alarming number of window panes are shattered during the raid. It will be cold tonight. But that’s not her greatest concern. They can always start burning the floorboards. Her biggest worry is food. Otte is a tough little boy, but even he can’t hold out much longer. The food stamps they have collected are worth virtually nothing now. Her mother is too weak to fight her way through the crowd to the front of the issuing window, and she herself is too young to be allowed. She knows that what they need is nothing less than a miracle. And that’s exactly what she’s going to give them: a miracle. Tonight, she’s going to execute her grand plan. Tonight, she’s going to find her family food.
When her brother's breathing finally settles into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep, she climbs out of bed and cautiously makes her way to the door. She avoids the creaking floorboards with practiced ease. Days ago, she had greased the front door hinges with the last remnants of candle wax she had painstakingly collected over the past weeks. Everything is going according to plan, but as she closes the door behind her, the alarming feeling creeps in that Otte might be slowly opening his eyes. She hopes it’s just her imagination, because it’s too late to turn back now.
Walking through the abandoned streets, she knows the risk she's taking is immense. Being outside after 8:00 PM is strictly forbidden. Anyone caught breaking curfew faces jail time—or worse. That is... if they’re not hit by a “warning shot”, which has become a disturbingly common occurrence these last months. Rumors of a competition among night patrols, targeting desperate men and women, driven to the streets by hunger and despair after dark, have spread like wildfire. She isn't sure if there’s any truth to it, but the very idea makes her stomach churn.
She wouldn’t be taking a risk like this if their situation wasn’t so desperate. Hunger is destroying her family. They need food, and they need it now. Three sugar beets and a few slices of bread would be enough to alleviate their worst needs, but if everything went as planned tonight, she would return home with much more than that.
And maybe, just maybe, she’s not alone. Maybe God is on her side. Of course, it’s blasphemous to think so, but still... how else could she have overheard those two soldiers when they turned a corner over 300 meters away? Not with her ears, but in her head.
“We have to repair the lock on Silo 22, Boris,” said the first. “The fact that it’s still broken is just asking for trouble. That door leads directly to the street.”
“No big deal, Heinrich,” answered the second. “The vermin that inhabit this city are too scared to show their little rat noses after hours.”
“Pity though,” the first continued. “It’s time to run up my score. I haven’t shot one in weeks.”
"Why bother?" the other laughed. "You don’t stand a chance against me. Last week, I beat you to those two boys dragging that big log of wood to their home. Easier than a shooting gallery."
"All luck, my friend. My time will come."
Despite the horrific nature of their exchange, she had felt only excitement. Silo 22! Legendary Silo 22. The Garden of Eden, Christmas, and Candyland merged into one, where the city’s food supplies were stored—so much that they wouldn’t notice if she stole some of it. They wouldn’t even notice when she stole a lot of it.
For a moment, she had thanked God on her knees. A split second later, she was trembling all over her body.
Now, three days later, she moves slowly from shadow to shadow, using any shelter she can find. The good news is that the harbor, where Silo 22 is located, is close not far from her home. The bad news is that it’s the most heavily guarded area of the city. Luckily, the streets are strewn with stacks of bricks torn from houses, fallen trees, burned-out cars, twisted bicycles, and bomb craters—ideal to hide in or behind if a patrol comes near, but despite her fear, her progress remains surprisingly unimpeded. She seems to sense patrols long before she even hears their voices or footsteps.
It doesn’t really surprise her. She has always had this ability to some extent, but over the past months, it seems to have sharpened, honed by hunger and despair. When she was younger, she had thought that everyone was able to do this. She knows better now. Otte, for instance, has an extraordinary talent for getting caught when he’s up to something. And he gets caught a lot—usually because he’s always up to something. The little scallywag, she thinks lovingly.
So when he tells her that he wants to be like her, he surely doesn’t mean he wants to be as well-behaved, dutiful (and boring) as she is. He only wants her talent for not getting caught.
Strangely enough, there aren’t many patrols around—not even this close to the harbor. For the last ten minutes, she hasn’t seen, heard, or sensed anyone. Only a faint twinge of unease gnaws at the edge of her awareness, as if someone is nearby but poses no threat. She can’t dwell on it; her attention needs to stay sharply focused on signals that truly indicate danger. She quickens her pace. There’s not much time. She has to be home before her mother wakes up.
And then, after turning three more corners, she finally sees it: Silo 22. She halts just outside the yellow circle of light cast by a large, rusty lamp above the massive sliding doors. Taking a moment to assess the situation, she hesitates, gathers her courage, draws a deep breath, and darts forward. She had expected the doors to be too heavy for her to budge, but to her surprise, they slide open effortlessly—without so much as a whisper or a creak.
Relieved, she slips inside and closes them behind her. Strange, the lights are still on. But her suspicion fades as she looks around. What an unfathomable treasure trove for someone whose belly has been an empty sinkhole these past months. The thought of a full stomach alone, makes her sway, but she steadies herself, straightens her back, and refocuses. She will save her family from starvation tonight. She will cure her mother. She must…
KLENG!
Right behind her, something falls to the ground. Quick as lightning, she spins around, and there he is... Otte. As usual, he has let himself get caught. Probably in a clumsy attempt to stay undetected, he knocked over a pile of canned beans.
“Otte!” she hisses, sharp and low. “What are you doing here?” It’s a reflex. She knows, he won’t admit to anything. That’s just not how he’s wired.
“I couldn’t let you go all by yourself, could I?” he whispers defiantly, meeting her gaze without a hint of shame or remorse. She returns his look with a mixture of frustration and admiration.
“But how? How did you know I was leaving tonight?”
“Kryn, really? Don’t you know how easy it is to tell when you’re up to something? You hardly ever do anything that’s not allowed, and when you’re about to, you tug your left ear... like all the time.”
“I don’t!”
“Yes, you do. I haven’t slept for days, so I’m quite relieved you finally did it. I was getting pretty tired.” He delivers the last sentence with that disarming little smile that makes him so irresistible to her—and her mother. “I’m really happy you did, too.” His eyes light up like two candles in a dungeon. “What a lot of food!” But the smile he brings to her face is short-lived.
Voices! Loud and clear. Not in her head, but in her ears. She curses under her breath. She has allowed herself to be distracted. She can’t talk to Otte and stay alert at the same time.
“We have to go! Now!” she whispers. But at that exact moment, the doors slide open, crashing against the walls, revealing the two soldiers she overheard two days earlier, laughing triumphantly and casually shouldering their rifles.
“I told you my plan would work, Boris,” the tall one says. “Spreading that rumor about a broken lock was enough to lure the little rodents out of their holes and into our mousetrap.”
“Didn’t doubt it for a second, Heinrich. But if we hadn’t spotted the boy, we’d never have found the girl,” answers the shorter one.
“Yes, lad, you’ve been a big help. Out of the fire and into the frying pan, as they say. Your girlfriend must be really proud of you.”
Despite the situation, Otte looks them straight in the eye.
“My sister, not my girlfriend,” he says–no trace of fear in his voice.
He straightens his back and takes a step forward, positioning himself between the two men and his sister, who is now trembling uncontrollably.
“I’m not afraid of you! You won’t hurt me, and you won’t hurt my sister. My sister is the sweetest person in the whole world.”
He stands there as if he’s strong enough to deflect bullets with his chest, like the hero from that new forbidden American comic. For months, he had pretended to be this "Superman," leaping off chairs and tables with a red blanket tied around his neck. But he is no Superman. He’s just a boy—only ten years old, half-starved, facing two well-fed and well-trained soldiers whose only goal is to boost their score.
She knows the only reason he’s able to do this is because of her. Because he loves his sister more than life itself. Because, despite his youth and fear, he possesses that primal male instinct to protect. She looks at him and hears in her mind all the words he has never spoken aloud. It feels as if her fear has sharpened her ability to read his thoughts. It moves her more deeply than she could ever express.
The soldiers' voices jolt her back to reality.
“What will it be, Heinrich? Win or a draw?”
“We’ll find out soon enough, Boris.” Their index fingers tighten on the triggers. Instinctively, she drops to the ground, bracing for the impact of bullets tearing through her body. But Otte still stands tall, looking pale but determined, utterly and furiously silent.
It's only a matter of seconds before they will shoot him, but suddenly they look away, distracted by a loud creaking sound coming from both sides. Bewildered and with a growing sense of panic, they watch as enormous stacks of crates, containers, and sacks, at least ten meters high, bend over in an unnatural curve towards them. For a brief moment, the piles defy gravity, hovering motionless above their heads—until, with an ear-shattering crash, they collapse on top of them.
Amid the apocalyptic noise of crashing supplies, the girls hears a sharp, short sound—like the snapping of a twig. Before her eyes, her brother crumples to the ground. One of the soldiers must have pulled the trigger in a final reflex.
In her mind, his voice grows quieter, gradually fading into nothingness. No Superman after all. And then, as the supplies tumble down on top of him, her head falls comsilent for the first time that night.