In the Shadow of the Tailor's Alcove

The war edges around me, a spiral of fear and unrest. And yet, the non-human world moves on undeterred. The daffodils, the preface to tulips, sprung out of the ground. The ducks in their mated pairs waddle and shit all over the sidewalks as they 

prepare for the arrival of their next hatchlings. 

And I watch it all out of the window of my townhouse, the beauty of spring and the Sisyphus weight of human turmoil in the presence of the unknown and the unable. 

By all accounts, my business is bare of the burden that most had before the war. I did not serve the Unwanted, such as the Maternists or the Yildit, and neither did I employ them. Not because I didn't want to, but because I have only ever worked for the Ministry and only on my own in my workshop. Neither have I ever applied to be married (or have children). My only living relative is a sister born twenty years before me, long gone by the time I was old enough to know her. And anyway, she’s safe now across the sea, where the war is a headline and nothing more. 

I am taking tea at the front window just past the noon hour, watching pigeons fight over some scrap or other when a shadowy form huddles into view. It takes a moment to discern that it is not one form, but many - a small family, from the looks of it, bundled together and moving furtively in the midafternoon. 

They move in a stilted fashion, trying to stay together, but also moving in what’s left of the shadows. The streets are bare aside from them, but this is risky. Stupid, in fact. And yet, they do not have the look of people who have any choice with their tattered clothes and their worn shoes and unkempt hair.

I say nothing as I watch them dart across my window, but when they veer towards me, crossing the street toward my shop, I nearly drop my teacup. I can only shake my head in the unseen dark of my shop as they take cover in the front alcove of my shop, which is dark brick and indented into the building. They will not be immediately obvious to passersby and this is the first time I resent the shelter it provides as I come and go. It has always been the perfect space to button up if it is unseasonably cold or to open an umbrella if it is rainy. 

And speaking of rain, the clouds rolling in carry more than just an ominous ambiance. They are almost certainly full of rain. 

The family bundled together and hiding in the alcove of my shop is none of my business. They are four and I am one. A part of me despises them. They are law breakers with two children, instead of the one they are allowed. Two little girls, which is audacious enough almost to the point of being respected. In this day and age, they had a choice, after all. Choosing one female child is brave, but two? It's no wonder they are hiding now. On top of that, the man and woman look to be about the same age. She is leaning into him and his cheek rests on her head. A match of their own making, perhaps. Their eyes are closed and I can only guess they are in prayer. My fears are confirmed when they open their eyes. Not only do they have brown eyes, almost unheard of these days, but they make the sign of the mother - raising a palm to the sky, then to their mouths, and then to their chests. 

A family of love, with female children and one more than allowed, and religious Maternists? The world will be cruel to them. Yes, they have few choices, if any, left here. 

I sigh. The spring rain is a heavy cloak pouring over my porch. They have not looked inside my window, but even if they did, they would be unlikely to see me all the way back here beyond my heaps of black and red fabric in the window. 

I shake my head and turn my back on them, returning to my work. The war effort has enlisted me, as I am a government employee anyway, and I am nearly through with the order they gave me over a month ago. I've been working day and night to have the military jackets finished by today.

They told me that I should feel honored to serve my country - that no finer coat maker exists in Malt. In fact, no other coat makers exist here now that they captured my competition - one a Maternist and the other a Yild.

The family in my stoop comes to mind, but I push them out before I turn back to them. They scare me, in truth. Not because I think they'd hurt me, not directly, but because I can't trust myself to look upon them too long lest I take pity on them. Invite them inside? Feed them? The punishment would be severe - painful and unending. 

I am Unincorporated. I am safe. The thought calms me enough so that my fingers do not shake as I take the fine, black material back into my hands and stitch it to the same specifications I have for the completed one hundred and forty-nine jackets. 

I lose myself to the familiarity of measuring, straightening, cutting, and stitching. Soon enough, my clock strikes four. I finish up the last bit of stitching on the final coat and then I finally turn 

and stretch. It's been two and half hours since I turned back to my machine. 

A glance out the window reveals that the rain has slowed and there is even the slightest tinge of sunlight persistent enough to push through a barricade of clouds. And another surprise, the family is there still. No longer standing, but sitting in a pile of dirty clothes and messy hair and, somewhere under there, human bodies. 

My stomach drops. The soldiers will be here soon for their shipment. They will see the family and it will be ugly. 

Blood will wash into the puddles where the ducks waddle. The dirty rags that cover their bodies now will be flung out to obscure the daffodils. And here I'll sit, alone as I always am, a witness to it all. 

But what is to be done? To let them in would be unlawful. I'd be a traitor. 

But to whom? I can't help but wonder what my allegiance means as the face of the smaller girls lifts and blinks around at her surroundings. 

I thought I had no choice here, but she? Her life is destined for its end. Not like the rest of us who can reasonably hope to live to adulthood and beyond. No, her end will be dark and early. My mind casts about in the worstcase scenarios, which are, sadly, the most likely scenarios.

Will this child die first or will her mother shield her? Will her father rage and be shot down before her eyes? Will she weep upon their broken bodies before either being killed herself or taken to an encampment for her kind? If so, will she make it there or will she die en route, in the still too-cold air of the early spring? 

My body takes me forward. 

Unlike them, I have choices. I will shoo them away now. I am not a monster. I have no wish to see them slaughtered or carted away in tears and struggle. 

I will say something like, "get away from my door" or "the soldiers are coming, on with you!" 

I take a deep breath and open the door and that is when I hear the voices. And the echo of footsteps from Central Avenue. 

I look down at the family, their faces open and white like moons looking up at me. The breath I'd stored for getting rid of them leaves me, so I suck in another and tell them to be gone, but instead I say, "Come inside quickly! They are nearly here." 

The family scrambles to their feet and sweeps in behind me. The children are quiet even as they are jostled. 

The soldiers round the corner and I can see them talking amongst each other. I close the door before they have a chance to see inside the shadow of my front door. 

"To the back, quickly now!" My voice quivers and my heart flutters like the last leaf on a late-fall tree. 

I hurry through the kitchen and point to the door of my own bedroom. The soldiers knock. The mother closes the bedroom door, her eyes wide and her mouth moving in a silent, 'thank you.' The soldiers open the door. They are four and I am one.

My legs shake under me. Is it too late? What have I done?

"You are just in time," I say, "I have just completed the last of the jackets!" I bustle around my shop and wonder if I am too cheery. If my voice is too high. 

But they just only say, "Good, good," before they go back to their discussion in which the tallest of the four is regaling his comrades with a story that sounds both humorous and austere. "I was running...dark streets...killed almost all of them before they got more than ten feet." 

"Got them all of them then?" A different soldier asks.

The storyteller tilts his head one way and then the other, as if he is counting the people he murdered and trying to recollect any small thing he might have missed, such as a person.

"Nearly," he says. "A few got away, but they must be close by. Had brats with them, girls. Can't have gone far, I say." I concentrate on breathing through my nose as I finish packaging their items so as not to give myself away, for he must be speaking about them. He is too close for me not to hear the rest, but not so close to read my face - I hope. Why have I done this? Perhaps it is not too late? The soldier looks out of my window as if to see if the escapees are strolling by. 

I finish packing the boxes and begin to set them on the dollies they will use to bring them back with. It doesn't matter that I am probably thrice the age of the oldest soldier, they do not offer to help, simply watching me huff and struggle as I balance them on my thin shoulders. 

It is as I am setting down the last box that the soldier asks me, "Have you seen anyone, tailor? A man and a woman with two girl children? Escaped last night?" 

There are four soldiers and one of me. There are four refugees and one of me.

Two blue-eyed soldiers hold hold guns with straps held loosely around one shoulder. Four sets of eyes prepare to judge me. The two little brown-eyed girls hold loose, flea-bitten shawls around their shoulders. Four hearts beating in my hands.

I shall keep my eyes open for any such folks," I say instead. It might be treason, but the choice is mine to make.