Norylska Groans by Michael R. Fletcher & Clayton W. Snyder

Author:Michael R. Fletcher & Clayton W. Snyder [Fletcher, Michael R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sort1
Published: 2021-05-09T22:00:00+00:00

KATYUSHKA LEONOVA – CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Altin Ordu preach the freedom of their people, proclaim the strengths and victories of their democracy. They are blind. Social-Democracy is objectively the moderate wing of fascism.

—Tsar Besarionis dzе Jughashvili

Blink.

Kat stood in Veneficum Lazarev’s office. The old man, leather gloves in place, had already turned away, placing her necklaces of memory and personality stones on the shelf with her name. Strangely numb, off balance, she stared at the neat handwriting.

Not in a million years could I write that neatly.

She barely felt capable of standing, her lungs ached like she’d spent the day strolling the smelting district. Coughing, she tasted stale cigareta and a back of the throat burning reminiscent of paint solvent. It reminded her of the first time she met Maks, and their visit to the Dripping Bucket.

“You alright, Miss Leonova?” Lazarev asked, turning back to her.

An instant ago she stood here telling him she wanted to quit the militsioners. Now, she was empty, exhausted. Not like the day she came back bruised and beaten, but emotionally wrung out.

Was I smoking?

Licking her lips, she knew the answer.

Proper women don’t smoke!

All through school they hammered into the girls what Proper Women did and did not do. Proper Women were polite. Proper Women were kind. Proper Women were quiet. Proper Women listened to their fathers and husbands.

She almost laughed at the thought.

Proper Women don’t work for the fucking militsioners.

She wobbled unsteadily and leaned against the nearest chair for support.

Am I drunk?

Proper Women definitely didn’t get drunk. Though, come to think of it, sometimes her grandmother got giggly late in the afternoons.

“What?” she said, having forgotten the question.

“Are you alright?” Lazarev repeated. Eyes rimmed in red, he looked like a man who hadn’t slept in years.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I… I don’t think so.” Checking herself for new wounds, she discovered ashen mud staining the front of her long skirt. Had she fallen in the snow?

Or was I kneeling in front of—

Flushing with heat, Kat crushed the thought.

Proper Women definitely didn’t do that.

“Though militsioners rarely take advantage of it,” said Lazarev, “part of my job here is to help the men—and women—” he added, with an apologetic shrug, “deal with the traumas of the job. Just because you can’t remember your day doesn’t mean there aren’t stresses that come with such a lifestyle.”

Lifestyle. Like she’d picked an unconventional hat.

Like this was a choice.

What could she possibly talk about? Should she tell him of her difficulty at home, how the job put a strain on her relationship with Fyodor? She needed this to end!

I want my old life back!

“I was going to quit,” she said, instead.

“Yes, I remember.” Scowling at a desk, he straightened a pile of loose-leaf paper. “The moment you put the memory stones on, you said, and I quote, ‘I can’t quit.’ You sounded very sure, very purposeful. I was impressed with your strength of character.”

“You were?”

Had any man ever been impressed by anything about her unrelated to a body part?

“Very much so.

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