Chapter 7:
War is Peace
The declaration of war was made official when the COR set fire to the War Museum, which occupied the old General Post Office. It had been Constance's idea, but it was symbolic enough for Renee's tastes. They managed to destroy one room before the fire was put out.
Five days after the fire, Renee found herself back in the Warehouse, waiting for Michael. Constance, full of sororal protectiveness, accompanied her. She had tried for the past month to convince her friend that Michael was almost certainly a member of the Thought Police, or would get himself arrested, and end up killing Renee, but Renee was convinced of Michael's good intentions and of her own invisibility. She was a prole: proles and animals were free.
She was searching the crowd for him when he suddenly appeared before her, a nervous smile on his face. She smiled back, biting back a laugh as she felt Constance tense beside her. She walked up to him and took his hand, leading him onto the dance floor without saying a word.
Gently, the music took them over, relaxing their movements to the slow beat. The mysterious sensation of connection flowed through them, electrifying every moment of physical contact. He adjusted his arms so that they encircled her waist, allowing her to lean her head against his shoulder.
"I was worried you'd turn me in," he whispered in her ear.
"Can't," she said with a smile. "I don't even know your last name." He laughed, but did not reply.
"I think your friend is worried I'm going to do something indecent."
"Not indecent. She knows about indecent. She's worried you're going to do something that will get me killed."
"Would she be happier if I promise I won't?"
"A little." Renee grinned.
The dance went on, changing songs every so often, but Renee and Michael did not notice much. Slowly, his head dipped to kiss her hesitantly, but she slid her hand up to his neck, lengthening the kiss into eternity, or at least until the earth moved. Which it did.
Renee pulled away quickly when she felt the explosion. The Warehouse shook, and the blacked-out windows rattled. She left Michael behind and quickly found Constance.
"That was too close for comfort," Constance said, voicing Renee's silent opinion.
"Do you think they're trying to..." Renee did not bother to finish the sentence. Constance understood.
"They might be. I think we should go."
Renee nodded consent, and the two women made a beeline for the exit. Once outside, they saw the flaming wreckage of a factory a few streets away, and smelled the acrid smoke that billowed into the night sky, hiding the stars. Workers from the night shift milled about, pulling survivors and corpses from the ruins. Renee could hear screams and moans from the injured and dying.
Constance pulled at Renee's elbow. It would be unwise to try to help. Reluctantly, Renee followed her friend down an alley that led away from the remains of the factory.
The world suddenly went red in front of her eyes. She felt, rather than heard, the impact. The Warehouse exploded behind them, showering the alley with rubble and dust. She found herself face down on the ground, her arms over her head. She was dimly aware of a cold sensation in her arm, but ignored it when she looked for Constance. Her lieutenant was buried in the pile of debris next to her, but was conscious and intact. She had a cut over her eyebrow which dripped blood down her face. Bewildered, both women looked back at the Warehouse, now a burning shell. Renee felt a wild anger at the destruction of her endeavors, but it subsided quickly when she saw the helicopters. Terrified, she scrambled to her feet as Constance did the same. They ran down the alley, hoping to escape the Thought Police. The search lights never found them, nor did any of the helicopters follow them. Once out of the industrial area, they stopped to catch their collective breath.
As the world stopped spinning in front of her eyes, Renee finally heard the sounds of Dublin: screams and explosions. Most air raids lasted only a few seconds, with one or two bombs dropped on a small area. Now, away from the roaring flames of the factory and the Warehouse, she could hear the greater atrocity being committed. The barrage continued, lighting up the night sky in orange and red, blocking out the stars with smoke. Whistling noises heralded new attacks, and screams followed them. The smell of death filled the air.
Renee and Constance forced themselves to walk through the holocaust. Nausea threatened them whenever they turned a corner, but they made it through the prole district. Looking out onto the downtown of Dublin, Renee realized that only the proles were targeted by the bombs. The entire prole district was being demolished, but the Party members were untouched.
Finally, they reached what remained of the house. Andrew and Thomas were sifting through the rubble when the women arrived. Apparently, the house had been flattened by the impact of a nearby bomb, not by fire. The bombs still sang overhead, but the four leaders of the COR ignored them.
"What is this?" Andrew asked desperately.
"Carpet bombing," snapped Constance.
"Why?" asked Thomas.
"Retribution," said Renee. "They've finally paid attention to the COR. We're not below the radar anymore, not after we attack them. They let us go on until we tried to hurt them. And they know that Dublin's behind us. Dublin pays for Dublin's crime. Our crime." She sank down onto the remains of the stairs, which now led nowhere but the sky. "We did this to Dublin."
"No." Constance was suddenly beside her, taking her hand. "They did this to Dublin. All you did was show Dublin what it deserves. It's not your fault, Renee."
"They've got us by the throat, Stance. They've got the Warehouse and everyone inside of it. Dublin's half dead now, and no one will stand up with us. We're finished." Renee looked at her lieutenant imploringly. "We've lost."
"No, we haven't. People will remember what you've taught them. And they'll remember what the Party did to them. The Irish have long memories, Renee. They'll keep fighting. For you."
"The Party'll probably say it was Eurasia. Or us."
"Probably. But everyone else will know."
Renee nodded numbly. Suddenly, Thomas grabbed her arm.
"You're bleeding, Renee."
She looked down at her arm, which was indeed bleeding. Her sleeve was soaked through with blood, and her hand was covered with it. Now that she was aware of the injury, it burned and froze simultaneously. She had a long gash on her bicep, almost from shoulder to elbow. Thomas found one of her blouses in the wreckage and ripped it up for bandages. He wrapped her arm tightly in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
All through the night, the four former residents of the house tried to salvage as many of their possessions as possible. Renee was intensely relieved when Thomas brought her the poetry book. Constance found the box where they had stored their money. However, it was Andrew who made the most important recovery.
He called out to them as he pulled a box from the rubble. Looking around suspiciously at the sky and at the other houses on the street, he deemed it safe enough. He opened the box when the others gathered around him to reveal four handguns and ammunition.
"I got them today. I guessed that we would be needing them once the war heated up." He glanced at the sky, still glowing from the fires. "I didn't think it would be so soon."
"You were keeping guns in the house?!" whispered Renee savagely, hoping that the rest of the street would never hear the incriminating sentence. "Do you know how much trouble we'd get in if we were ever raided?"
"These were going to be the only ones. I was going to tell you tomorrow." The tension remained for a moment, then Renee conceded.
"Put them with the other stuff."
The bombing ended at dawn. By then, most of the prole district was either in flames or in pieces. The four saw many prole families carrying possessions down the street, most likely headed for the train station and other towns. The four resolutely ignored the dilemma of leaving or staying, and continued to dig through the debris.
When they stopped for a rest, it was Thomas who first addressed the problem. The debate went around the group for a few minutes before Renee spoke up.
"We can't stay here," she said. "We have nothing left here. It's not worth it. We're going."
"Where?" asked Andrew.
"Waterford."
"Why Waterford?" Thomas asked impatiently, but Constance was smiling.
"Republican country," she said.
"No." Renee was shaking her head. "I hadn't thought of that. Waterford's convenient because it's almost the exact opposite direction from where we'll really be headed."
"And that would be?" asked Thomas.
"The Connemara. But Waterford first."
She stood, and found the bag she had dug out of the wreckage. She filled it with as many clothes as she could find, as well as her poetry book and one of Andrew's guns. Accepting her decision, the others packed up their belongings as well. Andrew carried the money.
"But won't it look strange, our leaving Dublin right now?" asked Constance.
"No. I think the words 'mass exodus' will describe the city for the next few days. It'll be fine." In the privacy of her own head, Renee added "and the Thought Police might lose us if we leave."
They walked away from the remains of their home, sometimes glancing back, but mostly wrapped up in worry for the future.
Author's Note:
This chapter title is, of course, taken from Nineteen Eighty-Four. It's one of the three slogans of Ingsoc, the other two being Freedom is Slavery and Ignorance is Strength.
And for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, a crash course in Irish geography: Dublin is on the east coast of the island, almost exactly in the middle. Waterford is to the south. There are two Waterfords in Ireland: the county and the main city within it. I meant the city. The Connemara is a region on the west coast, almost directly opposite Dublin. It was used by the IRA for training during the Irish Revolution, and is also one of the most beautiful regions in the world. It's also very sparsely populated.
I also apologize for the previous version of this chapter, in which Cork was the destination. Cork is actually on the west coast of Ireland, and I conveniently forgot that in writing the chapter. Waterford is the city I meant. I apologize to the city of Cork, which I am sure is very happy in the location where it currently resides.
Disclaimer:
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.
War is Peace
The declaration of war was made official when the COR set fire to the War Museum, which occupied the old General Post Office. It had been Constance's idea, but it was symbolic enough for Renee's tastes. They managed to destroy one room before the fire was put out.
Five days after the fire, Renee found herself back in the Warehouse, waiting for Michael. Constance, full of sororal protectiveness, accompanied her. She had tried for the past month to convince her friend that Michael was almost certainly a member of the Thought Police, or would get himself arrested, and end up killing Renee, but Renee was convinced of Michael's good intentions and of her own invisibility. She was a prole: proles and animals were free.
She was searching the crowd for him when he suddenly appeared before her, a nervous smile on his face. She smiled back, biting back a laugh as she felt Constance tense beside her. She walked up to him and took his hand, leading him onto the dance floor without saying a word.
Gently, the music took them over, relaxing their movements to the slow beat. The mysterious sensation of connection flowed through them, electrifying every moment of physical contact. He adjusted his arms so that they encircled her waist, allowing her to lean her head against his shoulder.
"I was worried you'd turn me in," he whispered in her ear.
"Can't," she said with a smile. "I don't even know your last name." He laughed, but did not reply.
"I think your friend is worried I'm going to do something indecent."
"Not indecent. She knows about indecent. She's worried you're going to do something that will get me killed."
"Would she be happier if I promise I won't?"
"A little." Renee grinned.
The dance went on, changing songs every so often, but Renee and Michael did not notice much. Slowly, his head dipped to kiss her hesitantly, but she slid her hand up to his neck, lengthening the kiss into eternity, or at least until the earth moved. Which it did.
Renee pulled away quickly when she felt the explosion. The Warehouse shook, and the blacked-out windows rattled. She left Michael behind and quickly found Constance.
"That was too close for comfort," Constance said, voicing Renee's silent opinion.
"Do you think they're trying to..." Renee did not bother to finish the sentence. Constance understood.
"They might be. I think we should go."
Renee nodded consent, and the two women made a beeline for the exit. Once outside, they saw the flaming wreckage of a factory a few streets away, and smelled the acrid smoke that billowed into the night sky, hiding the stars. Workers from the night shift milled about, pulling survivors and corpses from the ruins. Renee could hear screams and moans from the injured and dying.
Constance pulled at Renee's elbow. It would be unwise to try to help. Reluctantly, Renee followed her friend down an alley that led away from the remains of the factory.
The world suddenly went red in front of her eyes. She felt, rather than heard, the impact. The Warehouse exploded behind them, showering the alley with rubble and dust. She found herself face down on the ground, her arms over her head. She was dimly aware of a cold sensation in her arm, but ignored it when she looked for Constance. Her lieutenant was buried in the pile of debris next to her, but was conscious and intact. She had a cut over her eyebrow which dripped blood down her face. Bewildered, both women looked back at the Warehouse, now a burning shell. Renee felt a wild anger at the destruction of her endeavors, but it subsided quickly when she saw the helicopters. Terrified, she scrambled to her feet as Constance did the same. They ran down the alley, hoping to escape the Thought Police. The search lights never found them, nor did any of the helicopters follow them. Once out of the industrial area, they stopped to catch their collective breath.
As the world stopped spinning in front of her eyes, Renee finally heard the sounds of Dublin: screams and explosions. Most air raids lasted only a few seconds, with one or two bombs dropped on a small area. Now, away from the roaring flames of the factory and the Warehouse, she could hear the greater atrocity being committed. The barrage continued, lighting up the night sky in orange and red, blocking out the stars with smoke. Whistling noises heralded new attacks, and screams followed them. The smell of death filled the air.
Renee and Constance forced themselves to walk through the holocaust. Nausea threatened them whenever they turned a corner, but they made it through the prole district. Looking out onto the downtown of Dublin, Renee realized that only the proles were targeted by the bombs. The entire prole district was being demolished, but the Party members were untouched.
Finally, they reached what remained of the house. Andrew and Thomas were sifting through the rubble when the women arrived. Apparently, the house had been flattened by the impact of a nearby bomb, not by fire. The bombs still sang overhead, but the four leaders of the COR ignored them.
"What is this?" Andrew asked desperately.
"Carpet bombing," snapped Constance.
"Why?" asked Thomas.
"Retribution," said Renee. "They've finally paid attention to the COR. We're not below the radar anymore, not after we attack them. They let us go on until we tried to hurt them. And they know that Dublin's behind us. Dublin pays for Dublin's crime. Our crime." She sank down onto the remains of the stairs, which now led nowhere but the sky. "We did this to Dublin."
"No." Constance was suddenly beside her, taking her hand. "They did this to Dublin. All you did was show Dublin what it deserves. It's not your fault, Renee."
"They've got us by the throat, Stance. They've got the Warehouse and everyone inside of it. Dublin's half dead now, and no one will stand up with us. We're finished." Renee looked at her lieutenant imploringly. "We've lost."
"No, we haven't. People will remember what you've taught them. And they'll remember what the Party did to them. The Irish have long memories, Renee. They'll keep fighting. For you."
"The Party'll probably say it was Eurasia. Or us."
"Probably. But everyone else will know."
Renee nodded numbly. Suddenly, Thomas grabbed her arm.
"You're bleeding, Renee."
She looked down at her arm, which was indeed bleeding. Her sleeve was soaked through with blood, and her hand was covered with it. Now that she was aware of the injury, it burned and froze simultaneously. She had a long gash on her bicep, almost from shoulder to elbow. Thomas found one of her blouses in the wreckage and ripped it up for bandages. He wrapped her arm tightly in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
All through the night, the four former residents of the house tried to salvage as many of their possessions as possible. Renee was intensely relieved when Thomas brought her the poetry book. Constance found the box where they had stored their money. However, it was Andrew who made the most important recovery.
He called out to them as he pulled a box from the rubble. Looking around suspiciously at the sky and at the other houses on the street, he deemed it safe enough. He opened the box when the others gathered around him to reveal four handguns and ammunition.
"I got them today. I guessed that we would be needing them once the war heated up." He glanced at the sky, still glowing from the fires. "I didn't think it would be so soon."
"You were keeping guns in the house?!" whispered Renee savagely, hoping that the rest of the street would never hear the incriminating sentence. "Do you know how much trouble we'd get in if we were ever raided?"
"These were going to be the only ones. I was going to tell you tomorrow." The tension remained for a moment, then Renee conceded.
"Put them with the other stuff."
The bombing ended at dawn. By then, most of the prole district was either in flames or in pieces. The four saw many prole families carrying possessions down the street, most likely headed for the train station and other towns. The four resolutely ignored the dilemma of leaving or staying, and continued to dig through the debris.
When they stopped for a rest, it was Thomas who first addressed the problem. The debate went around the group for a few minutes before Renee spoke up.
"We can't stay here," she said. "We have nothing left here. It's not worth it. We're going."
"Where?" asked Andrew.
"Waterford."
"Why Waterford?" Thomas asked impatiently, but Constance was smiling.
"Republican country," she said.
"No." Renee was shaking her head. "I hadn't thought of that. Waterford's convenient because it's almost the exact opposite direction from where we'll really be headed."
"And that would be?" asked Thomas.
"The Connemara. But Waterford first."
She stood, and found the bag she had dug out of the wreckage. She filled it with as many clothes as she could find, as well as her poetry book and one of Andrew's guns. Accepting her decision, the others packed up their belongings as well. Andrew carried the money.
"But won't it look strange, our leaving Dublin right now?" asked Constance.
"No. I think the words 'mass exodus' will describe the city for the next few days. It'll be fine." In the privacy of her own head, Renee added "and the Thought Police might lose us if we leave."
They walked away from the remains of their home, sometimes glancing back, but mostly wrapped up in worry for the future.
Author's Note:
This chapter title is, of course, taken from Nineteen Eighty-Four. It's one of the three slogans of Ingsoc, the other two being Freedom is Slavery and Ignorance is Strength.
And for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, a crash course in Irish geography: Dublin is on the east coast of the island, almost exactly in the middle. Waterford is to the south. There are two Waterfords in Ireland: the county and the main city within it. I meant the city. The Connemara is a region on the west coast, almost directly opposite Dublin. It was used by the IRA for training during the Irish Revolution, and is also one of the most beautiful regions in the world. It's also very sparsely populated.
I also apologize for the previous version of this chapter, in which Cork was the destination. Cork is actually on the west coast of Ireland, and I conveniently forgot that in writing the chapter. Waterford is the city I meant. I apologize to the city of Cork, which I am sure is very happy in the location where it currently resides.
Disclaimer:
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.