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“Will he call my father? You can’t call my father!”

Yael puts her hand on my forehead. It feels cool and comforting. I close my eyes again and feel myself drift away. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise,” she whispers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

You must be dead, because I don’t know how to feel. I can’t feel anything anymore.

—Melissa Mathison

It turns out
my ankle isn’t broken, but badly sprained. I don’t find this out right away, though, as I’m in a half-sleep for at least a week, given high levels of painkillers to cut through the pain of my destroyed palms. It turns out some muscle on my right hand was ripped open. Yael’s cousin, Dr. Geller, does the best he can do with stitches, but without the skills of a surgeon, some functioning in that hand is lost. Lucky for me, I’m left-handed. During my second week with Yael I’m still on pain killers, but at a lower dose. At some point my thirteenth birthday passes, but I don’t bother mentioning it to her. Birthdays seem like something a child would get all worked up about, and after everything that’s happened I no longer feel like a child. I spend most of my time talking to Yael about everything I know. Now I’m not a hysterical mess, she seems to believe what I’m saying about Harmony, about my father, and about certain members of The Association.

Once I’ve told Yael all there is to tell, I ask her the one question I’ve been dreading. I’m sitting on a kitchen chair, watching her prepare dinner when I force myself to say the words. “Yael,” I finally ask. “What happened to Marcus?”

Yael stops cutting vegetables for just a moment, her hands frozen in the air. Very quickly, she resumes her chopping, but from that one moment I know.

“Let’s talk about that another time, once you’re all healed, shall we?”

“Please, Yael,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Please tell me what happened. Please.”

Yael’s back is to me, so I can’t see her face. I do notice her shoulders tense and her spine straighten. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers.

“Oh. Oh, no,” I say. I turn my head away, tears beginning to slide down my cheeks. “Was it fast?”

Yael sighs. She puts down the knife and walks over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “The dart they shot at him had a double dose in it,” she says. “Supposedly his heart couldn’t handle the shock. He died, Sophie. He died by the fence.”

I keep my face turned away from her, but grab at her hand with my left one. We stay like that for one minute, two, the pendulum in the clock on the wall keeping time with my regret.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

There’s no place like home.

—L. Frank Baum

During my remaining
time with Yael, I don’t mention Marcus again. The remorse I feel for pushing him to help me escape makes me almost mute with grief. Only now, once it’s much too late, do I recognize the weight of my actions. And with such recognition comes the realization that what I did was really not so different from what my father or others like him have been doing, using their ends to justify any means, no matter how horrible. The idea that I used Marcus in such a heinous way makes me nauseous. Despite Marcus at the fence claiming he was helping me because he wanted to, the bald truth is that I’d tied his hands behind his back. And what man can truly defend himself with both hands tied?

If Yael notices my silence, she doesn’t say anything, focusing instead on helping me to heal as quickly as possible. Yael feeds me nutritious foods, gives me sweet-smelling soaps to bathe with, and dresses my hands with fresh bandages, doing everything in her power to mother a person who doesn’t feel deserving of being mothered. And, as a result of her caring, more than just my hands and ankle begin to heal. While the guilt and remorse remain as strong as ever, I use those feelings as a reminder that if I want to keep helping others, it can only be as part of the Group. With my left hand, I reach up and lift the hair off my neck. Although I can’t see the Group’s symbol, I know it’s still there, a sign of my future allegiance. One afternoon Yael and I decide it’s time. Tomorrow will be the day I try and get back to the cabin and back to the Group, in order to tell them everything I know and find out what I can do next to help. Even if it’s making copies of newspapers for others to hand out, I want to do it. It’s agreed Yael’s cousin will drive me to the border of the woods and then I’ll try to find my way to the cabin from there. Yael will provide me with confidential documents from The Association to share with the Group. If all goes as planned, I’ll be at the cabin by nightfall.

In the morning Yael asks me to sit down next to her on the living room sofa.

“My great-grandparents survived The Holocaust,” she says, once I’ve sat down. “They were luckier than most. Over six million Jews were killed by Hitler and the Nazis, many of them small children, younger than you. Millions of others were also murdered, basically anyone who was different from his ideal. People who were gay were sent to concentration camps; the Romani were murdered; those who spoke out against the Nazis, the mentally ill….” Her voice becomes quiet and she suddenly seems far away.

“Yael?” I ask.

“
They came first for the Communists, but I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak up because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant. And then they came for me and by that time no one was left to speak up.
” She turns to look at me. “I might have gotten that quote a bit wrong, but you get the idea.”

“They came for you? Who came for you? What?”

“No, no, Sophie, what I am trying to say to you is what is happening with The Association doesn’t seem so different from what occurred during the Nazi era, or any other pogrom, any cleansing program. Do you remember what you overheard at the Progress Meeting? About the T-4 program?”

I shudder. “Yes.”

“Well clearly that is what’s starting here, now. Despite all this talk about respecting differences and about all personalities being equal, it’s starting all over again.” Her voice rises, reminding me of how strong she seemed at that meeting, surrounded by so many middle-aged men. “The reason I was so proud to become a Psychologist was because of what Typology was supposed to stand for. Many members in The Association still feel that way, good people like Dr. Marshall. There are others, too, but more and more of them are afraid to speak up.”

“I understand The Association feeling threatened by people who challenge Typology,” I say. “I mean, I get that. But why would The Association even care about if someone has Anxiety or Autism? Why does it matter?”

She shrugs. “The Heads want to keep their hold on power, I suppose,” she says. “The main reason everyone came on board for Typology was because The Association was able to reduce mental illness rates so much. After seeing so much suffering, they were like the new messiahs! It’s just that the ways they lowered their rates haven’t been as virtuous as most of the public believes.” She pauses and takes another sip of tea. “First mandatory sterilization of the mentally ill, then pressured institutionalization of mentally ill children, combined with sterilization of their parents to prevent similar offspring, and now this—Ending them.” She shivers, then looks up at me, her face stricken. “Just like the T-4 program. Hitler would be proud.”

“But what about the divorce rates?” I ask. “I was taught that thanks to Typology they’ve gone down from over fifty percent to less than five.”

“Oh yes, that overly-cited statistic,” she laughs, the sound coming out hollow. “While I’m sure there is some truth to the idea that knowing what personality types might be best suited for you can only help in terms of romantic matches, one cannot ignore the little fact that the cost involved in obtaining a divorce has now become astronomical.”

“It has?”

“Did you know that while the divorce rate for the lower and middle classes is at around five percent, it is over forty percent for the rich? Still lower than before, true, but not as miraculous a change as The Association would like you to believe.”

“But why?”

“Because the rich can afford to part ways when the going gets tough, Sophie. The rest of the population has to continue to live together in unholy matrimony.”

My hands start to throb again. There’s a question that’s been hanging over both of our heads and I finally get the nerve up to ask it. “But Yael, if you hate The Association so much, why are you still part of it?”

“The million dollar question, isn’t it?” she says. “When I entered The Association it was a huge honour. I was one of the few women picked. I knew I wanted to help people, and I believed being a Psychologist would be the best way to do it. The idea of differences being celebrated and understood, rather than condemned was also very appealing to me. I imagined if they were still alive, my great-grandparents would very proud. It’s only recently I’ve learned just how much power can corrupt.” She looks at me. “Sophie, my mandate to help people remains the same. This time, however, I intend to help others by secretly going against the work of The Association, with the help of other Psychologists. It’s our intention to remain part of the status quo until we know we can expose the Heads for what they are, and then deliver them on a platter to the public, as it were.” She looks at me, her voice kind. “I’d also like to make a promise to help brave children like you and your Group.”

I think of the Group and my hands stop throbbing. “So you’re definitely going to help us?”

She nods. “I don’t have all of the answers yet, Sophie, but we will remain in touch. I’m going to meet with Dr. Marshall next week, actually. A few others as well, who’d rather be kept secret for now. Just make sure to put the information I gave you about the T-4 program into your newspaper, so seeds of doubt can start getting planted in your readers. The more people who know what’s actually going on, the more likely we can create the change we want to see. History cannot repeat itself; it just cannot.”

I nod and look at my lap. So much has happened in so little time, it’s hard to take in.

A car honks outside and we both jump slightly in our seats. “That must be Joel,” she says. She quickly goes to the window and looks outside. “He’s here,” she says. “Are you ready?”

I take a deep breath, then stand up. “Ready,” I say.

gh

Finding my way back to the cabin through the woods is harder than I thought. While I’ve kept a mental picture of the woods in my head since leaving, it turns out my memory isn’t as perfect as I’d hoped. By the time night comes, I’m completely lost, wandering between trees and tripping over rocks. The last thing I need to do is sprain my ankle again! At some point I give up and slump down against some rocks. I start to lean backwards, when I feel something sharp poke me in the back. I reach behind me and pull out a bottle.
A bottle
! I look at it and start laughing hysterically. Noah’s bottle of rum! It must be!

Suddenly full of energy, I stand back up, the bottle still in my hand. I grab my knapsack and begin racing in the direction that I remember from a few months ago. “I’m coming!” I call out. “It’s me, Sophie! I’m coming!”

In the distance I see a weak light, the light of a candle. I keep running, stumbling a few times on branches and rocks. Finally I see it, the cabin, my home. Out of breath, I make my way to the door and begin banging on it.

“Guys! It’s me! It’s Sophie! I’m back! I’m back!”

Meg opens the door and I rush into her arms. “I’m here! I’m here!” I shout.

She hugs me back, then shuts the door behind me. “I’m so glad to see you,” she whispers. “Craig told us you were safe, but after that we heard nothing and I didn’t know what to think.”

“You were told not to escape,” says a voice in the shadows. Amy. She steps forward, her arms tightly crossed against her chest. Her eyes have dark circles under them, as if she’s been crying for weeks without stop.
Why would she have been crying
? “I know from a highly reliable source you were told under no circumstances to try and break out. That you were supposed to stay put until someone gave you your next move.” She takes a step towards me and suddenly I feel frightened. “Do you realize that a man has died because of you?” Her voice is tight and high, like a taut violin string about to break.

“You know about Marcus?” I whisper. “I know that was horrible. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Marcus?” Amy begins to laugh, and I hear the menace. “Marcus? You mean there’s another one on your hit list?”

“What are you talking about? What list? What do you mean?”

Meg walks over to Amy and tries to put an arm around her. “Now’s not the time—”

Amy bats her away. “I’ll decide whether it’s the time or not! No, little girl, I wasn’t referring to Marcus, whoever the hell he is, may he rest in peace!

“Then who?” My voice is a whisper.

Suddenly I see Noah standing in the doorway of the bedroom. “It’s James,” he says, quietly. “After he heard you escaped, he went looking for you.” He pauses, holding me for a moment with his gaze. “Before anyone had a chance to tell him you were safe, he was caught by the guards who were searching for you. When they found out who he was and that he was already supposed to have been Ended, well….”

I look towards Amy, who is laughing hysterically and who is being restrained by Meg. I glance behind me at the door, wondering if I can somehow leave and make time rewind, even if it means never seeing Noah again. As I’m about to put my hand on the doorknob, Noah races over to me and hugs me tightly.

“All that matters is that you’re safe and you’re back,” he whispers in my ear. “All that matters is that you’re here with me again.”

I slump against him and let myself cry, having no words left for all the sorrow I now feel, and all the sorrow I’ve caused.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Yes, I can see now.

—Charlie Chaplin

I suggest that
we hold a ceremony for James in the woods, by the fallen log he so loved. Amy refuses to be a part of it, but Peter, Meg, and Noah come with me, as well as a few other kids who knew him well. Peter digs a hole and we each put something in it that reminds us of my brother. Someone else puts in a razor as a joke, given how everyone always tried to make James shave. Me, I put in a poem that Yael wrote out after Marcus died. Before I put it in the hole, I start to speak, my words breaking through the still air.