Gerrit choked a half laugh and put his back to her, pressing his palms against the wall. “You’re wrong.”
Celka watched his back rise and fall, waiting for more.
She was about to give up when he spoke—so softly she barely heard him. “Today, while I was hiding, I started thinking. After my mother’s death, everyone talked about her like she was a hero, tragically murdered by the resistance.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “But before then, she and my father used to fight constantly. Father called her weak and cowardly. She hated how he—how the State kept giving the Tayemstvoy more power. She said we needed to build Bourshkanya up, not crush it down. But my father was convinced that the threats to Bourshkanya didn’t stop when the war ended. Bourshkanyans needed strength, not coddling.”
“Beating innocent people isn’t strength,” Celka said.
He turned to her, eyes haunted. “Before Mother’s death, I’d started avoiding her when the rest of my family could see, worried the association would weaken me. But she fought off a dozen Tayemstvoy when they ambushed us. She was so strong.”
Celka touched his arm. “You’re not weak.”
He looked away. “I am until I imbue.”
“That’s not true. There’s so much you can do. So many ways you could help people.”
He tensed beneath her hold, as though anticipating her next words.
“And I... I need your help. Again.”
“I’m not a traitor.”
“The mimeograph machine’s instructions, did you read them?” Printed instructions and reams of paper had nestled in the crate next to the machine.
Jaw tight, he nodded.
“Then you know we need a typewriter.” The beauty of mimeograph machines was that the printing stencil could be made with an ordinary typewriter, any drawings scratched by hand on the special waxed paper. “The circus has one.”
He finally turned face her. “But?”
“It’s Lieutenant Svoboda’s.”
“You’re insane,” he said.
“I need you to follow her, find out her schedule and what they do with the typewriter. I’ve seen it in the trailer she uses as an office, so if it stays there overnight, we could sneak in once it’s loaded on the train.”
“Unless they move it into her sleeper car,” Gerrit said. “The Tayemstvoy love their reports.”
“That’s why I need your help.”
He shook his head but asked, “How much time do you need?”
“I’m not sure. Cleaning the typewriter to print the stencil didn’t sound too complicated, but I’ve never taken a typewriter apart before. Have you?”
“No.”
“And I have a lot of pages to print. We probably need ten different stencils.”
“This is madness. If she catches you, you’re dead. Can’t the resistance get you a typewriter?”
“Because they’re so easy to come by?”
“They got you a mimeograph machine.”
“Because this is important. Gerrit, please. Even once I figure out how to wall off a nuzhda, I can’t disappear from the back lot to follow her around. I need your help.”
“I can’t. Don’t you understand? I have to go back. Every time I help you, it makes that harder.”
“Because you see how the State is wrong.”
“No! Because—”
“Think about your mother,” Celka said. “The Tayemstvoy have gotten so much worse since her death. What would she want you to do?”
“My mother was Storm Guard. She supported the State.”
“And they murdered her. How can you still click your heels and salute? I won’t let the Tayemstvoy win. If I have to do this without you, I will.”
He paced away, shrugging out of his uniform jacket. He hung it on a nail, straightening the sleeves. Celka made herself hold true-life, leaving him to his decision even though she wanted to shake him.
Finally, he sighed. “I won’t make you do it alone.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING, Celka worked alongside Grandfather, hammering stakes and setting posts for the practice wire. Far across the field, workers shouted as they raised the big top, and sledgehammers rang on tent stakes. Normally, Grandfather would have rigged the low wire closer in, but the way he watched her sidelong made clear he wanted to talk.
As she worked, Celka tried out openings to discuss the storm, but kept losing her nerve. No matter how she dressed up what had happened, she’d endangered all their lives.
Rigging complete, Grandfather handed Celka a paper fan. She climbed onto the wire, but even holding her favorite balance tool, she felt awkward, unsteady.
Grandfather watched Celka warm up like everything was normal. Silence stretched into a gulf between them, the steel cable pressing too sharply into Celka’s feet. She’d been skipping practices since the bozhskyeh storms’ return, and the wire snapped and jolted beneath her.