Preserving Freedom: A Novel

chapter 2

A man and a woman stepped out of Room 100. The man was holding a folded newspaper up to his face, a pair of round spectacles perched on his wrinkled nose. The couple seemed to be in their late sixties, if not early seventies. Neither of them paid attention to me as I just stood in front of Room 104.

The old man cleared his throat and pointed at a boldfaced headline on the front page of the newspaper he was holding. "You see, dear? 'Anarchists strike again, mayor says. Calls freedom fighters an extended arm of the Communist party'."

The woman beside the old man looked aghast. She said. "Another one? Again? How many does that make; twenty attacks in one month?"

"It's all insanity," the old man replied, shaking his head. "How could anyone not see that these people are tearing apart our state?"

I could feel the fringes of my ears begin to burn, my breath becoming deeper. I straightened my shoulders and gritted my teeth, turning to the older couple.

I said, "Perhaps they are fighting an oppressive hierarchy that is naturally tyrannical?"

The old couple looked at me, finally acknowledging my presence. The aged gentleman adjusted his spectacles, squinting at me. Glanced at his wife, then back at me.

The old man chuckled, "What's your take in all this, then?" The woman beside him touched his arm, shaking her head. She said, "Thomas, no need to get political. It's almost bedtime."

Thomas shook his head in return, replying, "If the boy wants to make statements, I'll hear him out, Marge. Now. . ." The old man turned his gaze on me. "I don't want to assume your stance, but what exactly did you mean?"

"I meant that-" I cleared my throat. My ears burned more fierce, and I could feel my heart racing. "We're living in a corrupt system filled with corrupt officials, and if we don't do anything, they're going to trod all over us."

The old man named Thomas nodded slowly. "And so, if I'm hearing correctly, you would say you stand with. . ."

"I stand with freedom," I said firmly, breathing hard through my nose. Thomas took a breath, opened his mouth, then closed it again, smiling.

He murmured, "Ah, so did I."

I frowned. "How so?"

"As if you would know what real hatred and corruption and fear is," remarked Thomas. Even though his gaze was on me, I felt as if I were transparent. The old man's eyes were alight like two burning candles in a dark window. He continued, saying, "I saw real corruption in men's hearts, and I had to fight my brothers because of it. I was with the 59th Regiment. Volunteer Infantry."

"He was in the Civil War." The old man's wife touched his elbow, glancing at me and then her husband. "We really should be going now, Tom."

"Nothing really civil about it," Thomas replied, ignoring his wife's comment. "It was a bloody war. Many of my friends died; people I knew. But if I could have done things over, I would have gladly served, and done my part."

I stood silently, watching the old man speak.

Thomas continued, "You speak of oppression, yet fail to see it in front of your face-" The old man smacked the back of his hand against the headline of the newspaper he was holding. "Freedom used to mean one thing, last time I knew."

"Freedom unites us all," I said. Thomas chuckled, and then shook his head. He took off his spectacles and hung them on the front of his shirt.

Thomas sighed, looking at his newspaper. "This isn't freedom. This group of 'freedom fighters' the paper is calling them are nothing more than anarchists. Plain and simple."