The Testaments(31)

“Naturally,” said Aunt Vidala.

“We are happy to serve,” said Aunt Helena.

“I have some news to share with you in my turn, from Commander Judd himself. But it must not go beyond us.” They leaned in: we all love a secret. “Two of the top Mayday operatives in Canada have been erased by our agents.”

“Under His Eye,” said Aunt Vidala.

“Our Pearl Girls were pivotal,” I added.

“Praise be!” said Aunt Helena.

“One of them was a casualty,” I said. “Aunt Adrianna.”

“What happened to her?” Aunt Elizabeth asked.

“We are waiting for clarification.”

“We will pray for her soul,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “And Aunt Sally?”

“I believe she is safe.”

“Praise be.”

“Indeed,” I said. “The bad news, however, is that we have uncovered a breach in our defences. The two Mayday agents must have been getting help from traitors inside Gilead itself. Someone was passing messages to them, from here to there—informing them about our security operations, and even about our agents and volunteers within Canada.”

“Who would do that?” said Aunt Vidala. “It’s apostasy!”

“The Eyes are trying to find out,” I said. “So if you notice anything suspicious—anything, by anyone, even anyone at Ardua Hall—do let me know.”

There was a pause while they looked at one another. Anyone at Ardua Hall included the three of them.

“Oh, surely not,” said Aunt Helena. “Think of the shame it would bring upon us!”

“Ardua Hall is spotless,” said Aunt Elizabeth.

“But the human heart is devious,” said Aunt Vidala.

“We must try for heightened awareness,” I said. “Meanwhile, well done. Let me know how you make out with the Quakers and so forth.”



* * *



—

I record, I record; though to no end, I often fear. The black drawing ink I’ve been using is running out: soon I will switch to blue. Requisitioning a bottle from the Vidala School supplies should not be difficult: they teach drawing there. We Aunts used to be able to obtain ballpoint pens through the grey market, but no longer: our New Brunswick–based supplier has been arrested, having snuck under the radar once too often.

But I was telling you about the van with darkened windows—no, looking back a page, I see we’d arrived at the stadium.

Once on the ground, Anita and I were prodded to the right. We joined a herd of other women: I describe it as a herd because we were being herded. This collection was funnelled into a section of the bleachers marked off by the kind of yellow tape typical of crime scenes. There must have been about forty of us. Once installed, we had our handcuffs removed. I assumed they were needed for others.

Anita and I sat beside each other. To my left was a woman I didn’t know who said she was a lawyer; to the right of Anita was another lawyer. Behind us, four judges; in front of us, four more. All of us judges or lawyers.

“They must be sorting us by profession,” said Anita.

And so it was. In a moment of inattention by the guards, the woman at the end of our row managed to communicate across the aisle with a woman in the section next to us. Over there, all were doctors.



* * *



—

We hadn’t had lunch, and we weren’t given any. Throughout the following hours, vans continued to arrive and discharge their unwilling female passengers.

None of them was what you would call young. Middle-aged professional women, in suits and good haircuts. No handbags, though: we had not been allowed to bring those. So no combs, no lipsticks, no mirrors, no little packets of throat lozenges, no disposable tissues. It’s amazing how naked you feel without those things. Or felt, once.

The sun beat down: we were without hats or sunblock, and I could picture the shade of blistering red I would be by sundown. At least the seats had backs to them. They would not have been uncomfortable if we’d been there for recreational purposes. But entertainment was not being provided, and we could not get up to stretch: attempts to do so produced shouts. Sitting without moving necessarily becomes tedious and a strain on the buttock, back, and thigh muscles. It was minor pain, but it was pain.

To pass the time I berated myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid: I’d believed all that claptrap about life, liberty, democracy, and the rights of the individual I’d soaked up at law school. These were eternal verities and we would always defend them. I’d depended on that, as if on a magic charm.

You pride yourself on being a realist, I told myself, so face the facts. There’s been a coup, here in the United States, just as in times past in so many other countries. Any forced change of leadership is always followed by a move to crush the opposition. The opposition is led by the educated, so the educated are the first to be eliminated. You’re a judge, so you are the educated, like it or not. They won’t want you around.

I’d spent my earlier years doing things I’d been told would be impossible for me. No one in my family had ever been to college, they’d despised me for going, I’d done it with scholarships and working nights at crappy jobs. It toughens you. You get stubborn. I did not intend to be eliminated if I could help it. But none of my college-acquired polish was of any use to me here. I needed to revert to the mulish underclass child, the determined drudge, the brainy overachiever, the strategic ladder-climber who’d got me to the social perch from which I’d just been deposed. I needed to work the angles, once I could find out what the angles were.