Black Swan

Zamość, Nazi-Occupied Poland, December 31, 1942 From the stillness that prevailed, a phoenix arose, set alight by the ashes of night. The sun emerged from the icy peaks, drowning the dreary skies in a soft shade of saffron, bathing upon the mountains and the sprawling woodlands at its feet. Estera watched, awestruck, at the majesty unveiling itself in front of her. She knew all of this was just a dream and that it was bound to wither away as reality set in. But, it didn’t matter to her. She was simply happy that, for once, her mind would leave her dark memories of the war behind—for better, lighter ones. War had plagued much of Estera Dabrowski’s life, but, it didn’t seem to cripple her. War had allowed her to experience the mysterious forest in a new light, showing her how little she knew about the wide, wide world she dwelled in. It had kindled inside her a passionate desire to live and to explore. The clouds shifted and swelled near the peaks, swallowing the sun whole. She rose to her feet. Suddenly, she felt the weight of the leather quiver slung on her back and she looked down to find a huge bow held firmly in her left hand. She blinked and examined it. Her dreams had never gone beyond tanks, guns and grenades before, because, those were the weapons she was familiar with. She had never thought about archery, but, for some reason, it didn’t seem that alien to her. She turned around to find a massive stretch of pine trees. She breathed a sigh of relief. The world seemed to look less strange now. Her dream had brought her to the cliff near Zamość. But, there were no mountains near her village. They were miles away from where she was standing, but, she could see them clearly, through the mist and the clouds shrouding their peaks. She narrowed her eyes and edged closer to the end of the cliff. It was indeed strange. The massif was two chains of white, colossal peaks, spiralling around each other. They looked deadly and surreal. She had never seen that mountain range before, not even in any of Feliks’ paintings. Feliks. She scanned the vast expanse for him, walking around the bare trees, heading into the mist. Many a times, her dreams would linger near memories from happier times. Behind the thorny bushes by the forest stream, she would see, once in a while, her younger siblings, Cyryl and Ania, curiously gazing at a starry sky with the water gushing under their dainty feet. On other days, she would see Feliks, sitting under a tree with his nose buried in a small book or even painting or playing with the village boys, just like any other teenager. She loved them dearly, you see. Just then, she stumbled across a brown book lying on the snow. Its crispy, white pages fluttered wildly in the wind. Immediately, she rushed down the slope and picked it up. Feliks and Estera were the only two people who knew of the existence of the thick, stiff-backed book. Using the code language they had devised on the night before Christmas three years ago, they used this book to share secrets, ideas and memories with each other. Wary of an outsider sneaking a peek at their work, both of them wrote under pseudonyms. Estera chose Aleris Kerdon while Feliks wrote under the names Aaron Westwalker and Aaron Zestron. Feliks had created his pseudonym in a moment of rebellion, but, in order to add his personal touch—he mispronounced it, on purpose, as ‘Aah-ron.’ Estera had no particular reason behind choosing her unusual pseudonym. She had heard the name ‘Aleris’ before but, the last name was just two decent-sounding syllables jammed together. She didn’t like it that much now, but, she never bothered to have it changed. As the years passed by, the pseudonyms transformed to become an integral part of their identities. Those names prompted a profound metamorphosis within them to endure the harshness of the war and not submit to the despair and pain. She opened a random page. It was dated October 24, 1941. The first few lines were written by Estera; Sometimes, I wonder what life would have been like if the Nazis hadn’t come here. I shiver when I think about how brutally they had shot those people in their ‘pacification’ programme. I get nightmares about them every single night. I hear their screams—their words. However, they do get softer with every passing day and I feel guilty about that. The next paragraph was written by Feliks. I had closed my eyes during their execution, unlike you. But, my mind had watched it all. Their screams make me shiver—remind me of so many terrible things and every time I think about it, I wonder what would have happened if I was the one with the muzzle on my head. I can’t wrap my head around this worshipped idea of killing innocent people for one’s nation. It just seems like a romanticised excuse for sadism. More than the war, the unpredictability of cruelty frightens me. I feel the world has gone mad. Even if this war comes to an end, I don’t think much will change. It will be like a thread. Once broken, you have to tie a knot to make it one piece again. It will never be the same. Estera closed the book, feeling sick. Feliks’ words rung true. Nothing around them had changed, even though it had been forever since they had last seen peace. A loud, childlike laugh echoed through the silence. It sounded carefree and happy, but, for some reason, it seemed unsettling—to Estera. She saw a young boy running among the trees. His fingers were thin and his hair was brown. Everything seemed alright, but, his mere presence frightened Estera. The book slipped from her fingers and she followed him into the wilderness. As she trailed him, she could hear the sound of flowing water. The rhythm of the cascading currents, the familiar scent of the wild bushes—she knew where the boy was taking her. It was the forest stream near her village. “Is it you, Cyryl?” The boy didn’t seem to hear her and simply sprinted towards the stream. Out of the blue, his image flickered and Estera froze. He was an illusion. He was a lie. No, she told herself and looked ahead to find the boy standing at the bank of the swift forest stream, gazing at the other side with a childish keenness. “It’s too dangerous for you to cross this alone, you know,” Estera walked down the slope carefully, gripping onto her bow firmly. “I know,” the boy answered and she stopped in her tracks. He had answered her. “But, you can’t help me,”—the boy still had his back facing her—“we are worlds apart.”