Chapter 2

Finland

"Wake up, girls! It's time for breakfast!"

Breakfast really isn't the most amazing time of the day. The food they serve is either sloppy, lumpy, tasteless porridge or stale bread. I honestly have a hard time choosing every day, and that's not because the food is so delicious I can't choose. It's because I don't know which one is worse. I usually opt for the bread, because the sight of the porridge reminds me of vomit. Disgusting.

Then I sit at a table, alone. I could join my friends, but since yesterday a lot of them have been avoiding me. They don't meet my eyes, they ignore me when I greet them. I gave up, so here I am now, sitting alone with a plate of stale bread. It's depressing, really. For a moment or two, before someone joins me.

"Hello, do you mind if I sit here? You look lonely?" I look up and see a short boy, with blonde hair and brown eyes, a smile on his face which actually looks genuine. He looks so sweet and kind that for a few moments I just stare in shock, before I smile back, feeling the muscles in my face relax from its previous frown and allow him to sit. "My name is Tino, and I'm from Finland. What's your name?"

"Elsie," I reply simply, biting into the stale bread, trying to buy some time before telling him my nationality. I swallow the bread and cringe at the awful taste, and realize he's expecting my nationality answered now. "I'm from Norway."

His initial shock dies after a moment, and his face returns to a warm yet slightly wary smile. "That's…wow. I was shocked for a moment – I mean, Norwegians nowadays are incredibly rare, am I right?"

"Yes," I say. "They were mostly killed off in the war."

"Oh, I'm sorry if anything I say offends you!" His chocolate brown eyes have gone wide, worried and anxious, alarm clear. "I don't wish to cause any offence, I'm just very interested on the subject of the war. Myself and Berwald, he's from Sweden, have been doing a ton of research on it. It's not really allowed, but people often overlook us." He smiles.

"Really?" I'm fascinated by this boy. He's researching the war with his Swedish friend? I'm pretty sure everything to do with the war has been banned from the camps, but somehow these two are researching it. Not long after he mentions his friend, a tall and intimidating man joins us at a table. He looks at me, half cautious and half quizzical, as if asking who I am with his eyes.

"Morning, Berwald!" Tino smiles. "This is Elsie. She's Norwegian."

The man's first sombre expression turns to one of interest, and he leans in closer to face me. "Norwegian?" he repeats, and I nod, worried. This guy is pretty scary, and even Tino looks slightly scared. I'm sure the man means no harm, but he just has that aura around him – one that terrifies me. I try to look elsewhere but he looks right into my eyes, as if piercing my soul.

"Y-Yes, that's right," I say, in case the nod wasn't enough. He leans back and looks satisfied with my answer. I glance at Tino and he just nods at me, and I turn back to the Swedish man. "How old are you, anyway? I'm sure you're older than sixteen, but…wouldn't that mean-"

"I'm fifteen. So is Tino." The man's voice is a monotone, his face void of all expression or emotion.

"O-Oh. I apologize. You looked…older."

"He gets that a lot." Tino returns to the conversation with a bright smile and I see that Berwald has his stare fixed on the boy. His stare is intimidating, but it looks friendlier with Tino, so I let him be.

The awkward silence continues for a while, and I finish the last of my bread. "Well, I guess we're saying our goodbyes now!" I say cheerfully. "I need to go back to the girls' dorms, so…"

"Ah, yes, goodbye, Elsie!" Tino calls happily. "I'm sure we'll see each other again at dinner!"

Breakfast and dinner are spent together, in age groups but mixed genders, but lunch is strictly reserved for your age group and gender only. I don't know what their deal with separating the genders that much is, but at least we see each other at two meals every day and in gatherings. I'm the oldest of my family left in the camp, and I know I have younger siblings somewhere. Pure Norwegians, like me, probably left out like me too, unless they've lied about their nationality.

I run my fingers through my light blonde hair, pondering this. I could have lied about my nationality. Instead, I was honest, openly telling the whole room and the cameras my heritage in Norway. How stupid could I have been? I let my dull blue eyes trail down to the ground as I walk, and I hear the pattering of rain above me. I return to the dorms and, as expected, I am ignored – I wasn't expecting anything more. I sit down on the edge of my bed and look down at my feet.

My idea about dressing as a boy is ridiculous. I know that. But sometimes I look in the mirror and think – I could pass as a boy. Flat chest, next to no curves, a face that could, with the right hairstyle, make me look like a boy with a slightly feminine face. I'm only a little bit shorter than Tino, and taller than some of the boys that I have seen. The more I think about it, the more it seems I could pull it off. I can pull it off – I just don't really know how.

Anyway, it's ridiculous. How am I going to even put the plan into action? I only have female clothes, and I'm always surrounded by people. I don't know how I could ever do such a thing as dress up as a male. But then again, there's the issue with my future. I don't want any of the three professions available. I want to be a soldier or a sailor or a merchant. A job where I can travel around the world and see a lot of sights and landmarks, and go on adventures – not be stuck in someone's home or at a crappy bar or someplace.

I sigh and fold my arms around my stomach. I wish I'd been born male, so I wouldn't be stressing over this right now. Less than a month to decide my profession – most of the timid and shy girls were settling on servant, the more confident ones as dancers or prostitutes. Nobody's being very open about what they're choosing, but I'm not either. It plagues my mind, like some kind of wasp buzzing around a cage in my mind, stinging everywhere. If I bite my nails any more, I could bite right down to my finger.

Soon we're doing our daily chores, going through lessons on etiquette and how to be a lady, and we're given more and more lectures on what career option we choose. There are thousands of children in this camp, and that means probably about five hundred to one thousand people turning sixteen. I don't really know the exact numbers. They're doing a good job of keeping thousands of children in line, making sure we're disciplined; they're amazing at striking fear into our hearts while maintaining some respectful attitude for the media.

Media. I haven't really ran into that word too often, but sometimes these strange outsiders come in with microphones and ask people questions. Mostly the staff, but sometimes they talk to the kids. They make sure to edit it out when a kid starts bad-mouthing the camps, though – doesn't do their reputation very good, and that kid gets punished later. Maybe some time in a cell on their own, isolation, maybe being made to do chores and such.

I sit at the back of the class, and look around. Every girl is doing what they should be doing obediently, sewing some stockings like we were told to. I don't know how they keep us all in line. It's probably because the Russian guards are some of the most terrifying people I have ever ran into. Just their stare is enough to make you shiver, their words making you jump and fear for your life. The fact that they casually carry around guns doesn't help.

I continue sewing, my expression one of focus. If I work hard, keep my head down and don't talk, I can fade right into the background and nobody will ever notice me. That's good – if I ever want my plan to work, I need it so nobody notices my disappearance. So I work for the next week, doing my work as told and being sure to fade completely into the background so it's almost like I've disappeared already. Then I know. I know what I must do now.

It's time to put my plan into action.