Attempts. To live.

A flash. The half sphere perched on the long neck above the lens is now flaring incandescently, as if melting there were pictures are taken. The face of the person behind the camera remains unimportant, as the flashes continue. They bother my eyes and I cannot control the reaction of this part of my body. I would like them to remain open – open, and to inscribe in my memory all these images long awaited. For the journalists around me making path to the centuries old hall of conferences, the noise of acclamation, the questions arising from the faces half hidden under hat edges and gnashing of pencils on the paper tell me one thing: that I have achieved my dream. Only my eyes do not want to stay close and to capture all the thousandths of seconds that compose my life.  

"They found others."

The whispered sound of the voice, wrapped in fear, hesitant, brings me back. The flash – it is not from the photo camera. This time, it is the sign of the failure, of another disappointing experiment, diluted in test tubes, hopeless reactions, ruined time. As if our knowledge refuses to measure all the waste of resources and plays tricks on us.  "How much?"

He is tempted to continue rustling, but also fears that others could notice the mask covering his face is moving while no loud words are spoken. And that would be bad. We are not allowed to interact otherwise than under their supervision. I put down the protective eyewear and the corner of my eye catches the last sparkles of our experiment. Another attempt showing us what we should not do. But this way, I provide a proper covering for letting him speak again and give me the only information I have to know.  

"Two years and a half."

Still, he cannot stop. The voice continues after a few moments in which he tried to measure the terrific.

"I cannot even imagine."

I can.

I see it everywhere.  A recess in a wall. An irregular room. Covered in wooden boards, hidden by large bookcases. A space of two meters squared. The dimensions of two of these desks put together. I cannot escape the image which I know so well. Sometimes, a forgotten attic or cellar, where water drips. So much noise a drop could make! So much noise, when quiet is your order. When the noise of each leg stretching makes your heart stop for seconds. When you fight the whistle of a sneeze. So small gestures, disregarded until then, producing so much noise, asking for so much space. And the body became an instrument of torture.

Two weeks. This is how long I resisted there. Two weeks of concealment, and I went out, with all the risks. Sacrificing life for freedom. When they caught me, I was one of the last physicists of my nation among them. Maybe that was my chance.

They call my name and it is the second time that I come back to present, trying to hide my feelings.

`"How was this morning?"

"The same", and my taciturn is saving me from deeper investigation.

Two years and a half in such a deprivation of everything: the right to space, the right to noise. Even the right to a measurable time – because back there, time does not have a measure. And then, a cough. Or just testing the voice you once had, checking if its sound is the one you remember. Or a trickling water drop, tickling the exhausted body. A whisper. Millions of potential combinations that would skip the only right one – and I know it is possible, because I test something similar each day, right here. No matter my measurements, my calculations, my efforts. Getting the right formula is behind millions of wrong attempts. So as the glory.

My mind is blurring. It segments, chops, collides chemical substances, physics processes, pieces of theory between them, as if nuclei shatter, protons foam, atoms disintegrate and fission in chain reactions.

That flash. It was something there, earlier. Something different. I check again the tiny writing on the tables with formulas from past days. And then I see it. Like a chess player, who sees that in 12 moves he could win the game, if a certain change of position is made right now. I see the mistake. I know the right formula.

The old hall of conferences, the acclamations, the pictures. The long awaited glory. Mine. I hold my breath.

The war, the death, the harm. The guilt. Mine. I exhale.

I’m looking at my hands. I have never imagined they could hold the fate of so many. But not mine. Mine is in the hands of others. And I remember: I am still an outlaw. I was one of those hidden in two meters squared. When I went out, I decided that I prefer death to that something which could not be called life. But I had the chance to rehabilitate from the sin of belonging to an impure race, as they call it, by working here. A sin for which I could never be forgiven – it is so clear to me, that nobody has to say it.

I'm afraid the feeling of pride for the discovery will spread all over my face before I decide which is my next move. I keep it covered by the mask for a few more seconds.

I know I will not be able to hide it. Something like this cannot be hidden. It bursts inside me, having its own will, and will finally explode. In a way or another, I will give in to the pressure. And nobody guarantees me the survival after I share them the formula. Instead, I know what it will bring: victory. For them, the oppressors of my people. And harm for the others. Is their harm a price I could pay? My pockets are empty, not my soul.

There is no freedom for me. Maybe that space between walls was freedom. Or it is a useless survival fight. Rather, a daily and prolonged death. And even if I will make it, who will grant freedom to a former collaborator of the most feared army department? 

Atoms collide. Physics will be rewritten. Flashes will celebrate. Someone else, not me. My time now is to transform myself into an experiment. Of survival. Millions of chances to go wrong, but I have found once the formula. Maybe I will find it again.

I’m looking at my hands. My fate is there.