I stare at the back of the girl’s neck in front of me. 224-883. The number is tattooed there. Like with every one of us. Her hair is cut so short that her neck is always visible. I am one of the few who have their hair pinned up.



I sit upright at my desk and try not to attract attention. Mrs. Severa, our teacher for political education and civics, strides through the classroom in her high heels, a cane in her hand. She is dressed entirely in black and fixes us with her dark eyes.

We are all wearing the same thing. The summer uniform. Short white tunics and leather sandals. Only our hair colors and our numbers differ.



“224-883!”



The girl in front of me rises immediately, lowers her head, and clasps her arms behind her back.



“Can a slave own property?”



She hesitates briefly, then answers.



“A slave cannot own property. He or she is property.”



“Whose property is a slave?”



“A slave is the property of the state. The state distributes slaves to enterprises and households.”



“Sit.”



Mechanically, she sinks back into her chair.



They call us only by our numbers. That is all we are to them.



“887-653!”



A girl in the front row stands up.



“What is the highest virtue of a slave?”



“Obedience.”



“Obedience toward whom?”



“Obedience toward the national community and our Dux.”



“Sit!”



We belong to them. They work us until we drop. And if one of us steps out of line, she will be—



“193-688!”



I rise at once, straighten myself, clasp my hands behind my back, and bow my head. She steps closer, slowly. Has she heard my thoughts? I try not to tremble.

“What happens to slaves who do not obey?”



My words come out of my mouth mechanically. I have read and spoken them a thousand times and know them by heart, like everyone here.



“A slave who does not obey loses her place in the national community… and her head.”



“Sit!”



She strides past me and selects the next one. It goes on endlessly. For hours.







*****







I am halfway back from the factory to my quarters. Hunger is almost driving me mad. Today was already the second day they gave us nothing. They say the grain-rich fields on the eastern front are contested. The enemy has allegedly achieved a breakthrough. That is why they made us work longer. Without rations. Those are being saved for the soldiers at the front. After all, they are fighting for our security.



My steps feel strangely soft. I am afraid I will collapse any moment. I think I’m going to be sick. I wish I were a house slave. They get more to eat.

I turn onto Victory Street when suddenly the sirens start blaring. Air raid alarm.



People immediately run toward the public shelters. They pour out of houses and shops as well. No one pays any attention to me. Within a minute the entire street is swept clean. I remain standing there, rooted to the spot. I know where the nearest bunker is, but I don’t move. I can’t. The smell won’t let me go. I am standing in front of a bakery. The door is half open. In the distance I hear the air-defense batteries opening fire.

For a moment I stand there, frozen. No one is around. My heart is pounding. I know what it means to go in there. I swallow. Theft is punished by beheading.



But my stomach gives me no choice. I glance around one last time and slip inside. Without making a sound, my leather soles touch the stone floor. It is warm in here.



On the counter lie enormous golden-brown loaves of bread. I look around once more, then throw myself at the bread. It is delicious. It is still warm. I chew as fast as I can and swallow huge pieces. I cannot get enough.

Outside, dull impacts thunder. The ground trembles slightly, the shelves rattle. They are probably bombarding the chemical plants in the eastern part of the city. I keep eating and eating. My jaw aches as I devour the loaf.



If they catch me here, my head will roll. Everyone knows the broadcasts from the Freedom Tribunal. The judge announces the verdict and, in the same breath, drops the blade at the press of a button.



I stroke the back of my neck while I keep chewing.



This is how power works. They only have to behead an expendable pawn every now and then, and thousands of others bow their heads. It doesn’t even have to be many. Just enough to remind the public that a misstep could cost them their head.



I chew.

I swallow.

I chew again.



Wait. Something is wrong. It’s quiet. The alarm. The alarm is off. Outside I can already hear voices.



I stuff as much as I can into my mouth one last time, then jump up, go to the back exit, and open the door a crack. No one there. I brush the flour off my blouse, step through the door, and close it quietly behind me. I am just about to leave when a humming and mechanical clicking freezes me in place. I turn on my heel and stare into a white camera lens fixed directly on me.







*****







They have chained my hands and my neck to the wall, somewhere beneath the Palace of Justice. Probably to keep me from killing myself while I wait for my trial. And they leave no doubt about what awaits me. They have mounted a large telescreen in my cell. There. It flickers on again.



The image shows the Freedom Tribunal. The hall is circular, built like an amphitheater. The spectators sit on tiers of black marble. They are barely visible; only the metal guillotine below in the center and the judge’s bench in front of it are illuminated. It is made of black stone. On it towers the golden eagle, wings spread wide, head tilted to the left as if looking down at the defendant. Behind it hang enormous flags, black, white, red. The judge’s blood-red chair is still empty.



Below, a young woman kneels in the guillotine. She has olive skin and light brown hair cut into a French bob that completely exposes her neck. She is wearing the usual attire of a house slave: a short dark red tunic and black leather sandals.



She is locked in the guillotine, her neck enclosed in the lunette, her wrists shackled to the outer rails, her feet chained to the floor. Thus she kneels with bowed head before the judge’s bench and stares at the white marble floor she will soon kiss if the judge so wishes.



A deep, long gong sounds. She flinches and clenches her delicate hands into fists. The spectators rise. Then the image switches to the judge’s bench. Through the open door behind it enters the judge, Dr. Irina Dechant, in her blood-red robe. Her eyes are steel blue, her hair pitch black.



She seats herself majestically on the judge’s chair and has her adjutant hand her the file. She opens it and leafs through it at leisure. The hall is deathly silent. Below, at her feet, the girl is trembling. Her face is chalk white. Sweat runs down the back of her neck, flows along the lunette, and drips onto the marble floor beneath her.



The pressure becomes too much. She whimpers softly as yellow urine runs down her shaking thighs, leaving her kneeling in a pale puddle.



Judge Dechant decides she has tortured the girl enough and looks up from the file.



“In nomine Ducis, I hereby open the proceedings. Slave 442-668, birth name Diana Vera, you are the defendant in a criminal case. I will now read the statement of facts, after which you will be given the opportunity to respond.

The defendant, born in the year 67 ab imperio condito, employed since birth as a house slave in the household of Aquilina, left her house without permission on the 24th of Floréal 86 and attempted to board the transport ship Alesia, which was scheduled to depart for Tripoli that same evening. During the attempt she was apprehended by the Order Police at the harbor and returned to her mistress, Tiziana Aquilina. The latter immediately filed a complaint for attempted theft. The object of the attempted theft is a young, healthy house slave aged 19, together with the clothing she was wearing. Now outline the course of events as you perceived them.”



Diana thinks briefly, then begins to speak.



“I have served in the house of Aquilina my entire life… my whole life… every day… every day I was afraid. Afraid of doing something wrong. Afraid of being punished. Then I was ironing one of Domina’s tunics. I was briefly inattentive. I left the iron on the tunic too long and it scorched.

I knew she would punish me. And I fled. I hurried to Ostia to board a ship. I didn’t know which one. Any one. It was foolish of me… I should not have done it... please… bring Domina Aquilina here. Please! She will forgive me. I beg you! Bring her here! I have served her faithfully all my life…”



Her voice turns into a squeak.



“She will surely give me another chance… but not this… please not this...”



“The court finds that the defendant has confessed to the act. The defendant’s request to speak with her Domina is denied. The defendant has fully confessed. By leaving the house of her Domina without permission in order to board a ship abroad at the port of Ostia, the defendant committed attempted theft of herself. In nomine Ducis, I hereby sentence the slave 442-668, birth name Diana Vera, to death by beheading.”



She slams her gavel onto the bench. Brief applause ripples through the hall.



Diana stares at the floor in shock.



“No,” she whispers.



“No! Not my head... Please not my head...”



Judge Dechant leans forward slightly and eyes the girl kneeling helplessly in the metal guillotine before her. She places her index finger on the black button that triggers the blade. For a moment she looks down at the young creature at her feet. Then she presses the button.



A click and the magnetic locking mechanism releases the blade.



Diana’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth as if to scream, but the blade is faster. With a metallic whir it slices through her slender neck and sends her head flying from her body. It flips forward, hits the marble floor, and rolls away from the guillotine.

A violent jerk runs through her body, which, still bound at hands, feet, and neck to the guillotine, kneels headless before the judge. The beheaded body tenses every muscle. Diana’s fingers splay convulsively, her toes press against the leather soles of her sandals, her heart sends dark jets surging from her neck after her rolling head. The blood-red blade has sliced cleanly through her neck and now lies at the end of the rails beneath the lunette, leaving Diana’s open neck exposed and showering the white floor in red rain.

Slowly the tension drains from Diana’s body. Her fingers and toes go limp. The spraying from her neck turns into a slow dripping. The girl is dead.



The screen goes black.



I think I’m going to be sick.



Why did I watch this?



Will I die the same way?



Will they behead me too?



For a bit of dough?



It is strange. I am waiting for my trial because I ate some bread so I wouldn’t starve. And here, in my dungeon, they feed me well. I am to go to the blade healthy. Fully conscious. Fed up.



In class I learned that it is supposed to be almost painless. That it is only a small tickle in the neck when your own head rolls.



Is this my fate? To be beheaded? As an expendable pawn. As an example for others.







*****







The two guards in black uniforms loosen the short shackles that had chained my hands and neck to the cell wall.



I lower my head as they drag me through the corridors. The floor consists of square gray tiles. I count the rows. Two. Four. Six. Eight. Just so I don’t think about what awaits me.



We turn right, then go up a ramp. Then the Freedom Tribunal opens up before me. I blink against the light. My insides churn. There it is. The machine.



All eyes are on me. I shrink further and further between the guards’ arms and cannot tear my gaze away from the icy blade. I cannot say anything. I cannot do anything. I let myself be led stiff as a board to the guillotine.



They force me to my knees before the machine, take my wrists, and secure them in clamps on the outer rails. Then they fasten the shackles around my ankles, chaining me to the floor. Finally they open the lunette. Obediently I lay my throat on the cool metal. With one motion the second half snaps shut. There is no escape now. The two half-moons hold my head beneath the razor-sharp blade. Now all it takes is the push of a button by the judge, and my head will roll.



Silence.



The guards step behind me. Not a sound comes from the audience. Only the cameras hum softly.



I struggle for breath as I stare on the white marble floor beneath me. I want to vomit. The nervousness almost drives me mad. My neck. I cannot stop thinking about the blade above my nape. Again and again I feel that horrible tingling at the back of my head.



What if something goes wrong? What if it falls without the button being pressed? Then my head will roll. Here. Now.



Suddenly the deep gong sounds. I hear the spectators rise.



I hold my breath.



Slowly, evenly, the clicking of high heels approaches from the open door behind the judge’s seat.



It is her. The judge who will decide over my head.



The lunette around my neck does not allow me to look up at her, but I know exactly what she looks like. Dr. Dechant. Is she wearing her red robe again?



I hear her sit down above me. Then the spectators sit as well. Silence. Paper rustles. She leafs through my file. She lets me squirm.



I do not dare say anything. I almost hope that if I remain completely still, she will not notice me.



But finally she breaks the silence.



“In nomine Ducis, I hereby open the proceedings. Slave 193-688, birth name Anna Piotrowska, you are the defendant in a criminal case. I will now read the statement of facts, after which you will be given the opportunity to respond.”



I freeze. I have seen at least a dozen trials and still do not know what to do. I remain silent and nod timidly.



“The defendant, born in the year 66 ab imperio condito, transferred in the year 85 from Commissariat East I into imperial territory, was employed until her arrest on the 28th of Prairial 86 as a laborer in the armaments industry. On the evening of the 27th of Prairial, exploiting a rocket alarm, she entered a bakery near her quarters and violated the unattended foodstuffs of the national community. Now describe the sequence of events as it presented itself to you.”



It takes me a moment to understand that I am supposed to speak. At first my lips refuse to obey. Then I force them.



“I… I came—”



“Louder!”



“I came from my shift at the factory… I worked a long time and I was hungry… Terribly hungry… Then suddenly the sirens sounded.

I saw people everywhere running from the street into the shelters. Then I saw people rushing out of the bakery. I did not think long. I went inside... And I ate the bread…”



“So it is true that you entered the bakery on the evening in question?”



“Yes. But I—”



“Did you have authorization to enter the bakery?”



“No…”



“And you consumed the aforementioned foodstuffs and took more with you?”



“I… I ate it… b- but I did not take anything with me...”



Hot tears run down my cheeks.



“And you knew that you were committing a crime?”



“I knew it was forbidden… but please... I was hungry... so hungry... I would not have been able to work for you anymore… please... forgive me...”



“And you also knew that the bakery would be unattended because the owners and customers had taken refuge in the air-raid shelters?”



My tongue freezes completely. I cannot speak. I nod.



“The court finds the facts initially presented to be confirmed by the defendant. The defendant exploited a rocket alarm to violate the foodstuffs of the national community. By sneaking into the bakery during an Allied terror bombing and consuming the unattended food, she undermined the trust of the national community in the most perfidious manner. Since she exploited a general emergency for her personal benefit, the defendant fulfills not only the elements of simple burglary, but also the qualifying offense of looting. In nomine Ducis, I hereby sentence the slave 193-688, birth name Anna Piotrowska, to death by beheading.”



The gavel slams down.



The words hit me like a blow to the stomach. Applause passes through the hall. Then silence. I know what comes next. I feel them craning their necks. The climax of the performance. The little slave will now be beheaded.



No.



No!



“Wait!” I scream.



“Please! Don’t do this! I can work! I can work for you! Please let me work!”



I wrench at the restraints. They do not give.



My neck! If I cannot get it out, I am lost.



I tense my neck with all my strength and try to lift the frame. Time is running out. Her finger is probably already on the button.



“The sentence will now be carried out!” her voice echoes through the hall.



A sudden shudder shoots through my lower abdomen.



“Please! Have mercy! Please don’t!” I scream as I keep trying desperately to free myself.



It clicks above me. The rails whirr.



No!



Chop.



Suddenly a cold tickle races through my neck.



I fall..



My head…



I…