The following day, I boarded an OEC and got off on the stopover in Montreal. All I had on me was my luggage full of clothing and a satchel full of everything else—the journal, the fountain pen, the lipstick, and the unplayed voice recorder which I assumed contained the "Tin Can Talk" at Verrazzano. I didn't play it until after I had completely settled in Montreal. All the other things—the VHS tape, the other voice recorder, and Major Legrand's tickler—were one-and-done for me. Discarded.
Anais was the one who drove me back to Catskill then further north toward the border in Champlain. There was no conversation that time—she behaved the same way Noby described her when around others. The only thing I ever said during that trip was "thank you" when she parked up to an OEC truck. When I boarded it, she rolled down the window of the SUV, stuck her hand out, then waved at our convoy as we began rolling. The last thing I ever saw on American soil was the single tear that ran down that poor girl's cheek.
#395 Rue Claude-Pastourel Street was where I stayed during my time in Canada. I was a content publisher for Concordia University, publishing HTML-based academic content to boost their online presence on the "World Wide Web". I wanted to get into teaching, but I was afraid that, if I did, someone could just walk up to me and shoot me dead. I wasn't in hiding, but I wasn't making an effort to put myself out there either.
I'd flag a taxi, ride up to the campus, work from nine to five (Mondays to Fridays), then ride a taxi home. I never set foot out of my house on any other occasion, except for when I'd buy groceries from the community pantry or go to church on Sundays, but then, I'd be wearing a baseball cap, shades, and a face mask. I was recognized by the faculty at the university, though I learned to distance myself from them just for my own safety. It was always better safe than sorry.
The last thing I heard about Mercado Lane was that the rest of the Teaneck regiment, as requested by General Vergs and Captain Mapleman, were to merge with their forces in Nyack. I heard that from a man I rode into Montreal with by the name of Joseph Falter. He was an investigative journalist and an editor from the Post who documented his time in Athens, New York in Greene County—close to Catskill. He was looking to uncover the origins of the Hexagon. But anyway, that was all I heard.
At that time, Joseph was thirty years old and had a face that I could hardly recognize. He knew me through Tommy, telling me that he also studied journalism at Concordia University and was six batches below the both of us. He knew Ms. Matsumoto as well as she was the one who provided him documents and records for his reports on the American Praxis. Though as invested as he was in the whole thing, he didn't know anything about me. All he knew was that I was Tommy's wife and that, during his service in the regiment, he died. The man was respectful enough not to ask me about it. For that reason alone, I felt comfortable being around him.
We would go out to lunch at "La Mountarville" which was north of where I lived. He'd bring his briefcase full of documents and I'd bring Tommy's journal. One day, Joseph told me about the Hexagon and how Lion-6 came about.
Apparently, in 1953, the KGB established the Lion-6—a Soviet military oil rig—in the Gulf of Lion which was run by the 16th Secret Directorate, the "Untouchables". They were the French arm of the USSR and were formed as a contingency against anti-Communist forces. The Soviet base recruited defectors from the CIA to divulge information to the French, and through 1963, Lion-6 developed secret operatives to be dispatched in the U.S., working their way into American industries. That's why there were spies in Washington as well as in M-SIAT. It was quite horrifying to learn that they had secretly been in those positions since the sixties.
Joseph spoke about how everything he knew about the Franco-Soviets were just things of the past. His documentation of his time in Athens gave him nothing of relevance in regard to the American Praxis other than the waning of the American dollar. "The dollar diminished all over the east," he said, "I wouldn't call that something 'new' in particular."
If only he were there to witness the surviving economy of Rockland County before they started sending people away. Pope kept that dollar alive for as long as she could, and I was there to witness it. We even discovered traces of Lion-6's activities through 3PL shipping permits and salvaged ISO tanks. The things he needed to learn about to complete his story were, as he once told me, "whatever we did wherever we were". He asked me if I was willing to share my experiences in the regiment—what I did, what I uncovered.
"Your story would make a great addition to my book," he said. "And trust me, you'll be well compensated for it."
I chuckled as I replied, "Tommy always wanted to have one of his journals edited and published." After a long pause, I said to him, "I'm open to the idea… Maybe just not at the moment."
"I understand, Elisabeth."
Joseph neatly packed the documents into his briefcase and placed it at his foot.
As he did, I asked him, "Do you still keep in touch with Ms. Matsumoto? I heard it's quite difficult to get a hold of her nowadays."
"It is," he answered. "I had written her two letters… and she is yet to write back."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No. I only spoke to her on two occasions: when I asked for the records and when she moved up here. Though she didn't tell me where she settled down.
"I see."
He and I continued having our lunch in silence for a brief moment, though I couldn't hold back.
"What was the last thing Tommy said to you?"
Joseph continued mincing his lunch as he replied, "That he accepted the general's offer of becoming a military aide. I remember when it was—last August. When you came along… I figured."
"How'd you know I took his place?"
"It was in Ms. Matsumoto's letter when she told me she was leaving the regiment."
I couldn't help but wonder where in the Montreal area Ms. Matsumoto could've been. If she knew the things I had uncovered, I could've gotten something out of her without having to raise my voice and point my finger. We would've been having as good a lunch as I was with Joseph. I missed her as much as I missed Dr. Agatha and Anais who might've been the only company I longed for since uncovering the truth or, at least, three fourths of it. I still had that one voice recorder catching dust on my nightstand.
After finishing our meal, Joseph was kind enough to pay the bill. He gave me his telephone number on a napkin in case I wanted to call him about the book he was writing and then shook my hand. As we stood, I told him that I would most likely keep in touch. I slipped the napkin into the journal and wished him a safe trip.
That was the last time I spoke with him. I still frequented La Mountarville after that discussion, though he didn't drop by anymore. Nothing happened to him or anything like that. It's just that he and his friend from the Montreal Gazette (Montreal's leading English-language daily newspaper), Elise Cohen, had their own issues to deal with. Quebec was the epicenter for Franco-Soviet influences and the French Pravda's only avenue into English-language publications.
The French Pravda was a newspaper that France used as a mouthpiece for propagating communist ideals in the west. Since OECs were one-way trips and those who crossed the Canadian border didn't dare go back, it wasn't hard for the Hexagon—or should I say the Untouchables—to twist the American narrative (the French Pravda was practically all over Montreal and across Europe, but not in the United States). The world knew that the U.S. was under the Praxis. That alone made whatever the French Pravda cranked out very believable. And the States couldn't just speak up. No one knew anyone's true allegiance. There could have been spies in the Times or in the Post for all we know, and that made it impossible to get the truth out.
* * *
I didn't bother picking up those papers from my lawn. I let them wrinkle in the sun or break apart in the rain. I mean, all the houses on my street did that. Maybe even all the houses in the village. We were "freethinkers" in the sense that we were free enough to know that whatever was on those papers amounted to nothing more than a fascist lie. Nonetheless, Joseph and his journalist friends at the Montreal Gazette fought on, pen to paper (Joseph was a "stringer" for the news outlet).
I still wrote to him and he wrote back. He talked me into exploring my new job that was content publishing. He figured I had my foot in the door and wanted me to pursue journalism, too. The opportunity sounded nice, although I must admit, if the Fort Lee regiment wrote to me, requesting me to return, I'd pack my things in a heartbeat. It was really love-hate when it came to them. I couldn't seem to let go. Even in Catskill, despite feeling like a caged animal. Yeah, I was confined and all that, but in Lords Valley, I wasn't. In Montreal, I wasn't either, and I still felt the need to just get up and go.
There was only one day of the week that I didn't mind being in that place, and that day was Sunday. The trade-off was that I could actually pray in a place like Montreal. After settling down, my faith had been rekindled, though I'd say, at a lesser capacity. You know, given what I had seen… and what I had done. But it felt good to show up on Sundays.
I'd hear mass at the small chapel across the city hall along Boulevard du Fort-Saint-Louis. Father Gregory would always greet me upon entering the chapel. The mass would start around nine in the morning. I'd get there at seven to pray in the pews. I prayed for God to give Dr. Agatha strength to fight her cancer. I prayed for Anais to find her way as a young woman in the world—to find her purpose. I prayed for Pope to have a peace of mind and cope with letting go of her prized Purple Home. I prayed for Ms. Matsumoto and her late husband 1Lt. Trevor Miller. I prayed for God to guide Mr. Pie away from the snares of the devil—he and I rode a heavy slope. And lastly…
"Lord," I spoke to the heavens, "I have strayed far from the path. I have broken my promise—my vow. At times, I have grown hateful toward my beloved and deceased husband, Thomas Baby. I've scorned… and I've resented. Most importantly, I have failed to love in sickness and in health. Lord, I lift up Thomas Baby into Your loving hands, trusting in Your mercy and grace. I pray that You grant him eternal rest, and may Your light shine upon him always. Forgive any sins he may have committed in his life, and welcome him into Your Kingdom of peace, where there is no more suffering or pain. May his soul be at rest in Your presence, and may he be forever in Your care. Amen." After I performed the sign of the cross, I whispered to the journal, wrapped around my silver rosary, "My love, my angel… forgive me."
One Sunday, Father Gregory approached me at the pews. He saw that I wasn't wearing my mask over my face which I always did every other day. That was the first time he laid eyes on my scars and my burns. He saw my scorched head many Sundays ago, though my face was a whole other story for him. Although I dropped my fake identity riding into Montreal (I had to because I wouldn't qualify for the uni job with my experience at a garment factory), I referred to myself as "Ms. Lambert" whenever I spoke to anyone outside of work. The only exception I guess was Joseph.
"Ms. Lambert," Father Gregory greeted me as he sat in my pew.
"Good morning, Father," I greeted him back. I placed Tommy's journal in my satchel and wore the rosary around my neck, saying to him, "This place—it's a blessing. It really is, especially for those who came in from America."
"It's a shame—what they're going through," said Father, "And although it seems that refuge travels… those with the will to seek refuge will travel as well."
"What about those who don't have the will?"
"Those who don't have the will, as tragic as that sounds, have not necessarily given into temptation, but rather found their peace with the situation."
I asked him, "You wouldn't say that they have given up?"
"To be one with God? Isn't that what we all strive for?"
"And what if we embrace defeat in this world and those ahead of our time suffer those consequences?"
Father Gregory patted me lightly on the back and let out a friendly titter as he told me, "There's really only one answer to that, Ms. Lambert, and it's that faith endures. It has to, and it always does. It may seem at times that God's presence is tucked away in the unreachable corners of the earth and that evil tempts with a forked tongue, but these momentary evils are what help us understand that good exists in this world, too. That among devils walking the earth, God sent His angels to protect this world—angels we come across everyday. People… just like you and I."
His message was nothing short of beautiful. It made me realize that maybe Pali' Recon and the rest of the Fort Lee regiment still had a chance against the Hexagon. Me—I closed that chapter in my book, but it didn't mean that it was over for everyone. Women and children were still starving from the effects of French banknotes outweighing the dollar, and many civilians on the east side of the Hudson and south of the Barren Buffer Zone were still under an intense French ruling—the epicenter of the Praxis. There was still hope somewhere under all that rubble.
Holding back the urge to just ball up and cry, I asked Father, "How would we know that our efforts aren't for nothing? How would I know that I'm doing what God intended for me to do, which is to pray and have faith and that I'm not just sitting back and letting these things harm me and others?"
Father Gregory held my hand tightly as if to say "hold on". He then answered, "Every battle is God's battle, and every victory is His victory as well. But every defeat, every loss, and every surrender is part of God's plan." He hovered his hand over my face, blessing my scars as he told me, "If you have faith in Him, then these mortal things become but a figment of your imagination in the next life—a life where there is no more pain and no more suffering."
As powerful as his message was, in short, "it is what it is" was what he meant.
He cocked his head in a way Dr. Agatha would and said, "It seems there is something still on your mind. Would you care to tell me what it is?"
Honestly, there was too much on my mind. First, the Hexagon was going to weaponize the HALT rockets. Second, I had to worry if they already got their hands on those patents, and if not, where Tommy kept them for the meantime if he followed through with the major's request. Third, I didn't think that merging the two regiments was enough to fend off what they had left of the DMZ. They already lost Fort Lee, but they refused to let go. There was hope, alright, but a smidgen of it.
I was just as stuck as I was free.
"Father," I muttered, "there's a lot of bad in this world—the kind of bad I could just… walk away from. I figured I was too stubborn back then to see that maybe God was telling me to let this die. He was telling me to live my life. But… But what if I can't?"
"What if you can't… live? Let go?"
"What if I don't want to?"
Father Gregory answered me without a second thought, "Then it just goes to show that, although you are here, your heart and your mind long to be elsewhere. See, it's when faith lives in both your thoughts and your emotions that you have this strong desire to be where you believe you should be."
"Even if I want to go back to all that trouble?"
"Ms. Lambert, is it for the greater good?"
"Yes."
"Does it come from a place of love or longing?"
"It does."
He let out another friendly titter when he said to me, "That is all God asks of you—that you do whatever it is you wish so long as you are driven by the very love and compassion that He has shone onto you. We are all God's soldiers in various ways. We all share with Him a mission that is made up of our entire lives. That is why this life we live is so precious. It could be a gift for millions of others, that is… if we choose to do the right thing."
I choked up when I told him, "Well, I've done some bad myself, Father. How could God ever love someone like me?"
"Ms. Lambert," Father Gregory stood from the bench, "there is nothing in this world you could possibly do to make God stop loving you. And if your desire comes from that place of love and longing, why would He condemn you for that? To love and to long—it's human. God designed us to be human."
"God designed us to fight?"
"Didn't Jesus fight for us? Not all fighting is wrong, Ms. Lambert. For love, it's a beautiful thing, and that kind of determination is almost as sacred as love itself." He placed his hands on my shoulders and chimed, "If you saw yourself through God's lens, you'd love yourself fully with all your heart and all your soul. And to fight for others with this love in your heart—it's noble."
It was Noble.
#395 Rue Claude-Pastourel Street.
I didn't bother tidying up my home. I didn't expect any visitors, I didn't need anyone coming over to fetch me or to give or get something, I didn't even need to leave my front door open any longer than it'd take me to physically get out of the house. The only people to ever set foot in that house were me, the ones who lived there before me, and the ones who lived there after I was long gone.
Upon entering the house, you'd immediately find yourself in the kitchen and dining, all cramped up in a small, stained-tiled corner. The fridge, the stove, and the single countertop link were all lined up against the wall, the rest of the link formed an "L" and separated the kitchen from the living room. I didn't have a dishwasher—I washed my own dishes. I seldom ate that time, so it wasn't really much of a problem for me.
The living room was twice the size of the kitchen, but then again, that kitchen was pretty small, so that living area wasn't spacious either. It was big enough to fit an old couch, a ripped up lounge chair, a coffee table, and a TV. At least I had something to take my mind off my troubles. Even when I slept, I'd leave the TV on in the living room just so that I could hear the voices through the screen. That way, I didn't feel so alone.
I had a twin XL bed camped in the corner of my bedroom with a simple nightstand beside it. Parallel to the bed was a wall closet which I also used to store all my tools and all my gardening equipment. I'd spare time to mow the lawn and clean the gutters, but I never risked going into my shed. If someone were to creep into the shed and catch me there, they would've most likely blocked my one and only exit which was the door. If they were to do that inside the house, I still had a chance. I could jump out a window, bludgeon him with a clock, a plate, or the TV. I could also fish for a knife in the kitchen. There'd be a wrestle, but there'd be a chance too, so wall closet it was.
There was a space between the bed and closet where I could get my calisthenics in. Every day, at five in the morning, I'd do ten push-ups, fifteen pike push-ups, ten bench dips, fifteen squats, twenty jumping jacks, and then ten sit-ups. That was when I started. When I had gotten the hang of it, it was thirty push-ups, thirty pike push-ups, fifty bench dips, thirty squats, fifty jumping jacks, and then twenty-five sit-ups.
Right at the cusp of the new year, I developed quite a hard body. I had a strict diet that only consisted of boiled chicken breast, a single boiled egg, two baby carrots, and a slice of sourdough bread. There was no goal in mind but total organization. No target weight, no dream body, no nothing—just routine and discipline.
Don't get me wrong, I was still all soft inside. If anything, I'd deliberately leave a soap opera running at night so that, when I'd head to bed, I'd be dreaming about a young Tommy running after me in the rain or begging me on my doorstep and I'd jump into his arms and all that jazz. I'm not even ashamed to admit it. It felt good—best sleep of my life.
One day, after my morning calisthenics, I stumbled on something while I was watching TV from the kitchen. A brief title card which said "La Pravda Française" was displayed before my eyes, interrupting my soap opera. A striking red backdrop with a black and white image depicting a mustached man was right under the text in classic, cult-of-personality fashion. It filled the kitchen and the living room with a bright red, the word "Pravda" shining in elite gold reeling me in.
La Pravda Française
Ministre de la Défense Claude Alfonso Bernard's "Genesis" Speech at the Inaugural Congress of the Parti Communiste Français
December 29th, 1991
Commissar Claude "The Machine Man" Bernard took center stage, clasping onto the sides of the red podium bearing the hammer and sickle. To the side was the hushed President Jean-Baptiste Morel, looking onto the Inaugural Congress with a stoic posture. Beside him, decorated with badges, a baton, and a beret, Major Monet "The Pagan War Chief" Legrand.
"Comrades!"
His speech began.
"Four days ago, on the twenty-fifth of December, former president of the USSR, Mikhail Gorbachev, had resigned. The following day, the USSR had dissolved, and the Fifth Republic, following the Alma-Ata Protocol, strong-armed the Parti Communiste Français into assuming control of the national regime.
The Alma-Ata Protocol, following the Belevezha Accords, further confirmed the Soviet Union as defunct and formally addressed the creation of the Commonwealth of Independent States, signed by Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Moldova."
Then… a long pause.
"The final clause in the protocol—a commencement for Khrushchev's and my father's Directorate to take action on shore and off shore. Upon the dissolution of the USSR, dormant warheads from Cold War times were restored and turned over to L'Hexagone's military inventory under the development of the world's first ICBMC. The world will come to know true power and true force.
The nation's economy, now centralized, will prioritize military funding. There will be guns, there will be birds, and there will be battleships. Rest assured, there will be blood."
The major shined a menacing smirk when he said that.
"On this glorious day that God has given us, before this blessed crowd of which I stand before, I, the Minister of Defense and de facto leader of L'Hexagone, under the order of President Jean-Baptiste Morel and the support of Major Monet Legrand, hereby declare the French Fifth Republic 'La Dernière République Soviétique'."
A harsh hiss emitted from the TV as the Inaugural Congress gave the Minister of Defense a two-minute standing ovation. General Bernard, proud tears running down his creased face, gripped tightly onto the red podium, rattling the golden emblem of the hammer and sickle that was on it as he pointed to the sky with two fingers in a closed position—the Franco-Soviet salute.
His final words were nothing short of haunting.
"This is the genesis in the Soviet Union… The genesis in the world."
Joseph spoke to me before about the Alma-Ata Protocol and how the Commonwealth of Independent States was technically a ruse. I say "technically" because the eleven republics that signed it did break away from the Soviet Union for good. However, the final clause might have been the true intention of this protocol—to have France establish the dictatorship of the proletariat.
As soon as the Genesis Speech ended, the screen went to black. In the center, a small text in white appeared, saying, "the genesis speech: rescreening at 12:00PM PT". After a few more seconds, my soap opera continued playing. Their Minister of Defense had a lot to say. It made me wonder how he and General Vergs handled matters during the Tin Can Talk.
Without a stutter or a trip, I waltzed into my bedroom, opened the closet, and retrieved the voice recorder. Afterwards, I returned to the living room and shut off the TV, sitting on the lounge chair as I fiddled with the device as if it were a bomb. For some reason, I was afraid to play it. It was the same kind of fear I had before I fanned open that tickler and before I slipped that tape into the player. I guess I disliked that feeling so much that I held out on that second voice recorder for so long. I feared the calm before the storm more than the storm itself.
Click.
The voice recording started with heavy panting.
"If you were me… you'd do it in a heartbeat."
"I don't think I would."
"Oh, you would."
"Tommy… Why? For these cheese-eaters—really?"
The more I listened, the more I realized…
"I showed that tape. You knew my stakes."
"Yeah, but in exchange for an ICBMC… Tommy, that's madness—"
"It was that or Lisa. I wouldn't pass up on her—not on my best girl."
It wasn't the Tin Can Talk after all. General Vergs said that Tommy used the voice recorder he retrieved from the humvee to document the oral contract, though I must've picked up a different one. And that word—"cheese-eater"—was something only Lieutenant Miller said.
"And why are you recording this?"
"Because I'm no spy. Congress must know… General Vergs… He must know… that I did it for my personal interest. Not because of an allegiance and certainly not because of Lisa's allegiance. She doesn't have one. Christ, what I'd give for her to never find out about this and for no one to cause harm to her because of this…"
"I'm sorry, but that's not something you can control."
"It'll destroy her."
"And it'd be no one's fault."
I heard a gun rattle. It sounded soft and light—it was a pistol for sure.
"I just want her to be free… And I just wanted to be free with her."
"You sold the world."
"I did."
"And they'll still come for you long after this."
I heard that pistol rattle once more.
"They can catch me in hell."
"And what do I tell your wife?"
There was a long silence. Nothing but Tommy's heavy breath, his life slipping away with each exhale.
"'Live a little'. She was always a shy one—always shelled up. You know, she is where she is because she followed every rule there was. Did all the things she was told. That's good. It's good to be safe. It's great to be alive though. That girl—she's something. And for the world to see in her what I'd seen all these years..."
Tommy's voice began quivering.
"I loved her with all my heart."
Lt. Miller's voice—the softest I've ever heard it—chimed in.
"I know you did, Tommy."
Click.
My beloved Tommy had been caught. And judging from Lieutenant Miller's words, he had done it. Tommy sold the world. There I sat, motionless like a statue, realizing that Tommy wasn't shot and killed along the DMZ. He wasn't KIA'd. He simply had no other choice but to opt out. That very pain in my chest—the one I had upon receiving Dr. Agatha's call—came back to me at full force. It's like he died all over again.
I sunk into the chair, holding in my hand what I thought was the Tin Can Talk, which ended up being the very answer that I'd been searching for the entire time. That love and longing that I spoke about with Father Gregory, that yearning to return to Mercado Lane, to find purpose in the regiment was all washed. I didn't want to go back anymore. I got what I was looking for. At that point, I didn't want anything else. I just wanted to be with my Tommy.
I wanted to die.