LITMIR.BIZ

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Marcel, why?’ she whispered under her breath. ‘My own baby doesn’t know me.’

      He nodded wordlessly, biting down on his lip.

      She was supposed to have come back from her mission compliant and uncomplaining. Showing any public signs of anger or regret at having been cruelly ripped away from her children could land her in trouble again. So, a bit like the forced cuddles we had to face after a beating, my mom too had to spend the next few days playing a pretend game, whereby she made out the pioneer camp had been a just wonderful time and how grateful she’d been for the opportunity.

      On her first family day back at home she sat me on the bed with a huge smile. ‘I have something very special for you, chérie. I bet you will never guess what it is.’

      With a dramatic flourish she presented the most beautiful, prettiest, most wondrous thing I had ever seen. It was a Barbie doll, dressed in Russian-style clothes. The doll wore an embroidered little tunic, black trousers, plastic lace-up boots and a little furry hat like the one my mom had.

      I squealed with delight, kissing the doll. Mom put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhhh. Keep her to yourself. She’s your special toy, so look after her well. Please do not brag.’

      She was giving me a tacit warning. As a rule we didn’t have toys. There were a few shared ones around but they were generally simple and educational, building blocks or alphabet games. Things like dolls were said to set a bad moral example and were a sign of rampant commerciality. My mother knew she was taking another risk by giving it to me.

      I tried to hide my Barbie well, cramming her into the space between my mattress and the bunk frame. But I kept sneaking her out to look at her during the night. I was so mesmerised by her that I didn’t notice another girl had spotted me.

      Of course, she complained about me. After breakfast next morning Aunty Esther came to take my doll away. I tried so hard not to give up her hiding place. ‘Where is it?’ Esther demanded, waving a warning fist.

      I sat on the bed, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know.’ For the first time I was finding lying easy.

      Esther pulled up the sheets, shook out the pillows, her eyes as manic as a bloodhound in pursuit of prey. ‘Tell me now, you naughty girl. Where is it?’

      I shook my head, lips pursed, and refused to utter another word.

      In the end it was inevitable she’d lift up the mattress to look underneath. With a triumphant shriek she brandished the doll in the air like a trophy. ‘This is going in the trash right now.’

      She walked out, muttering curses about my mother. ‘What was the woman thinking, bringing such wordliness into the good Lord’s house?’

      The unjustness of it all left me too full of impotent rage to even cry.

      I put my hand in my sock and pulled out a little trophy of my own – Barbie’s fur hat.

Chapter 10

       Mutiny at Tea

      ‘Go, go, go. The soldiers are at the door. They are right here. Move it. MOVE IT!’

      I leapt out of my bunk, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness. A cold wave of fear flooded through me but I knew I had to stay calm and follow the drill. I fumbled for my flee bag – a little brown satchel with stitched pockets that held a clean set of clothes, my torch and a tin of food. I sprinted out of the room, past the angry monkeys that lived in the garden, and towards the surrounding forest and the secret clearing that was our designated meeting point. Had the war begun? I ran as fast as I could, trying to keep up with the older children in front of me, leaping over fallen branches and tearing leafy vegetation out of my eyes. At the clearing I was relieved to see my parents and brothers there waiting.

      ‘Natacha. Thank God.’ My dad let out a sigh of relief.

      I ran over and hugged them. My father carried a briefcase with our passports and birth certificates; he also wore a rucksack with food and useful items like rope, matches and sleeping bags. My mother had a smaller rucksack containing her and my father’s clothes, a first aid kit and a torch. Between us all we covered the basics we would need to survive for a few days in the wilderness or until we could reach proper shelter.

      Everyone had faces turned towards the trees, scanning every shadow for signs of movement, preparing for the moment of attack.

      ‘Is this it?’ asked Marc in a scared voice.

      I got into position, planting my feet on the ground a few inches apart, shoulders back, head sideways. Narrowing my eyes I tried to shoot a thunderbolt. Nothing happened. I summoned up all my powers of concentration and tried again, willing my eyes to work. Nothing.

      Surely my superpower would be working if the war had really started?

      For the next two hours we waited there in silence, tense and alert, ready for the order to disperse and run. When the soldiers attacked we knew what to do. The group would split up and run in different directions to confuse them. Some people would be able to get away but those who were killed early on would be doing the others a great service by allowing them precious seconds to escape. Families were told to separate, to let the strongest get away. But my parents were adamant that whatever happened we would stay together. Matt was to hold Vincent’s hand. Marc was to hold Guy’s. I was to hold my father’s. Under no circumstances were we to let go of each other until we found a hiding place.

      If we survived the initial attack there was no going home afterwards – it was all-out war. That meant running through forests, hiding in caves, plotting rebellions – doing whatever we could to weaken the forces of the Antichrist until the final battle of Armageddon.

      Eventually, Uncle Isaiah, an Irish former merchant seaman, took a few steps away from the group before turning to face us.

      ‘Stand down. Drill over,’ he announced. I wanted to burst into tears and hit him. Hours of adrenalin-filled anxiety, for what?

      ‘Well done everyone. Response time is up on the last drill. But there is plenty of room for improvement. When it’s the real thing we won’t get a second chance.’

      We filed back into the house in silence. No war today, just more practice.

      I was almost ten now. We’d just moved to Malaysia. It was 1993, the year God had told Grandpa the End Time would begin with the start of the Great Tribulation; that was the seven years of war that would be the precursor to the second coming of Jesus and the great and final battle of Armageddon. We woke up every day expecting, in many ways hoping, for it to start. It was our very reason for existing.

      School lessons had pretty much been completely given over to war preparations. We were told that the Tribulation wars had already begun in many parts of the world. The USA and Europe, especially the countries of France, Germany and Great Britain, were already lost, and completely under the devil’s control. Famine and disaster had all but destroyed the great man-made cities of New York, Paris, Berlin and London. I remembered when Joy had shown me pictures of collapsed buildings and dead flowers. I felt really sad for the system people, especially the children. They should have saved themselves in time, but they didn’t. They didn’t listen to our prophet, and because of that their children would go hungry and live in war.

      We prepared for the secret missions we might need to undertake during the long months of fighting. For example I was warned I might need to go undercover, pretending to be a policeman to get information. Or I might have to steal food from a supermarket, in which case wearing a disguise like sunglasses and a hat was important to fool the system cameras.

      Aunty Sunshine gave us a special talk one day. She was Malaysian, and because she had a unique understanding of the world outside our gates, as she spoke the language, she was always chosen to go on the really dangerous missions to buy food.

      ‘Look, children. This is the wig I wear.’

      It

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