A Housewife’s Script
Nuremberg - June 20
The alarm blared. Ex-astronaut Frederica Eisenburg opened her eyes. It was probably five in the morning, which was as scheduled. She got out of bed and got dressed. She picked out the same drab long brown dress she wore for the last few months and put it on. She hated the dress. It went all the way down to her ankles and was very heavy. It always got caught on things. And in what was probably the hottest June she could remember, it was too insulating. But the law stipulated she must wear a dress of that length and color. So she really had no choice. Next, she put on the next piece of her mandatory outfit, a bonnet which covered her hair after she tied it up in a bun. The bonnet was itchy and irritated her ears, on top of making her head hot and sweaty. She also couldn't turn her head as much or see out of the corner of her eyes. Guess this was what they chose to replace her flight helmet with.
After making sure her outfit was compliant with the law, Frederica went down to the kitchen and began cooking breakfast. She had done it plenty of times before, but after the committee took over, something felt off about her routine. Like she was no longer enjoying it. Cooking was no longer a hobby, but a legal requirement for her. It took all of the fun out of it. And her food was longer as tasty as she remembered. Made no difference.
At 5:30, her husband Sigmund came downstairs. He had also spent the last half hour putting on his state-mandated outfit. He wore a navy blue business suit with a black tie that didn't stand out at all. A pocket Bible stuck out of his breast pocket by one inch as legally required, with the words "Holy Bible" clearly visible. A Jerusalem cross pin had been attached to his tie. His hair was gelled up and slicked back like that of a stereotypical salesman. It was every bit as forced and artificial as Frederica's outfit. He hated it too. Before the committee, he had processed examination data for the Bureau of Qualifications. Sigmund was always a private person who didn't like gaudy clothes.
“Morning,” he said.
Frederica served her breakfast: sausages and bread. Nothing special. Most of her flashier recipes had been banned. Apparently currywurst was now heresy.
“I wanted to make omelettes, but the Home Guardian you sent to the grocery store said they ran out of eggs,” she said, “Something about the supply lines in the west being cut.”
“The loyalists in the west are getting bolder and bolder,” Sigmund said.
“So we can’t eat omelettes today,” Frederica said.
“It’s okay,” Sigmund said.
“I suspect the Home Guardian was lying to you,” Frederica said, “He looked under 30. Painfully socially awkward. Couldn’t look at me. I don’t know why they gave him a gun and assigned him to us. He probably couldn’t even go into the store. I don't think he even knows how to use his gun properly. He has no trigger discipline. Kid probably just wanted to shoot stuff.”
Sigmund lowered his voice. “Frederica, lower your voice. You know he’s listening outside. As are the other Home Guardians. You already said they have no trigger discipline.”
“I know, I know,” Frederica said.
“I’ve tried to be as understanding as possible, but I can’t keep this up forever,” Sigmund said, “You need to do something on your end.”
Frederica tapped her ear, feeling the GPS tracker and barcode tagged to her earlobe like some twisted price tag. “I’ve done plenty. All of us women have. Most of us against our will. And I hate that it's only most of us. Because that means some of us actually wanted this.”
“I know that,” Sigmund said, “I’m trying to help as best as I can, but not everyone is like that.”
“I should’ve left when I still had the chance,” Frederica said.
“You wouldn’t make it off the block before every Home Guardian in the city gets a text direct to their Panwith your exact GPS coordinates in real time,” Sigmund said.
“Should’ve left way before this,” Frederica said, “When I was a KL colonel and an astronaut. When people knew me as the woman who stood on the Moon. When I was more than just a plain old housewife stuck on a script.”
“I get it,” Sigmund said, “But there’s no use dwelling on that. We need to focus on surviving.”
“And how exactly do we do that?” Frederica said.
“Play our parts,” Sigmund said, “Wait out the storm.”
Yeah, but what if the storm never ended? How long did they have to pretend?
They ate their breakfast. Sigmund turned on the “news,” not because he wanted to, but because he had too. They were tracking each household's news watching hours and had set a mandatory daily minimum, like they had done with church attendance. Frederica hated it. She felt like watching whatever Bysandros ranted about every day made her lose brain cells. He probably left her
less informed about current events than if she hadn't watched any news at all.
This morning, Bysandros was doing one of his (slightly) more “honest” segments, regarding the insurgencies in the west. The TV showed images of the Pyrenees Mountains, occasionally interrupted with explosions. Black helicopters, bearing the silver wings and the Jerusalem cross of the Seraphim air force, mercilessly rained down rockets on men and women fleeing through the trees below.
“Here’s a live look at the Pyrenees, where the 13th and 29th Divisions of the Crusaders of the Lord are presently smoking out a pocket of fascist Basque guerrilla separatists, with air support from our faithful Angels in the Seraphim 21st Airborne Division,” he said.
The scene changed to a close shot of a Basque prisoner, identified as a Pablo Garcia-Diaz. His face was dirty, with a visible scar on his cheek and blood covering his nose and chin. Yet he continued smiling, even after Crusaders pistol-whipped him. He said something in Basque, probably a shout of defiance, but the audio cut him off, and he was shot in the back of the head.
“On to our next story,” Bysandros said, “An underground espionage ring in the Eastern District has been crushed thanks to a brave and righteous team of Home Guardians. They had been smuggling traitors over the border into Russia. Five members of the heretical Jesuits have been arrested, and more arrests are anticipated in the coming days.”
Two of the heretics were shown on screen, looking as disheveled as Pablo. They were a middle-aged couple in farmers’ attire. Despite their dire circumstances, they maintained an air of dignity around them. Although they were a thoroughly Orthodox order, the Jesuits had fiercely resisted the committee, unlike the rest of the Church which surrendered without a fight. The Jesuits prided themselves on their commitment to preserving knowledge and helping the weak and poor, which made them targets twice over. There could only be room for one “Christian humanitarian order” in the committee’s book, and that was the Shepherds of the Future. The two Jesuits were also shot.
The scene changed to show downtown Bremerhaven. Frederica heard artillery shells exploding and saw smoke rosing from between the skyscrapers. Occasionally, she saw groups of three fighter jets zipping by, dropping bombs and missiles on targets below. They were the same M35 models she had once flown long ago. It pained her to see the planes she flew being turned on her own homeland. But there was nothing she could do about it. Almost the entire KL had sided with Jerusalem.
“The reclamation of Bremerhaven is ongoing,” Bysandros said, “Our Angels completely control the skies, and our brave Crusaders meet victory after victory on the ground. Soon, the wayward sheep of Bremerhaven will be brought back into the fold, for their own good. Order will be restored, and God willing, we will have peace and stability.”
The scene changed again, now showing ships in the Mediterranean, full of “smiling” Africans.
“Resettlement of the tainted Children of Ham is continuing on schedule,” Bysandros said, “Three thousand have arrived this week in Imperial Homeland Africa, with another two thousand projected to arrive in Carthage for processing in two days. The resettlements of the Children of Jacob and Ishmael to their respective Imperial Homelands are also proceeding on schedule.”
Frederica turned off the TV. “Why do we even bother with this?”
They finished eating. Sigmund got his briefcase and headed for the door.
“Well, it’s time to go to work,” he said.
“You know you don’t have to do it,” Frederica said.
“They left me no choice,” Sigmund said.
“It’s demeaning to both of us,” Frederica said.
“I know,” Sigmund said, “But did we have a choice?”
“Just…be safe,” Frederica said.
“I’ll be fine,” Sigmund said, “As long as I play my part. I’m more worried about you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Frederica said, “I’m not flying to the moon anytime soon.”
“Alright then, see you later.” Sigmund turned and left.
Frederica put the dishes in the sink and began washing them. She wanted to make some coffee to feel more awake, but coffee beans had been in short supply for months now, with Neurhomania in disarray and Abyssinia and Tawantinsuyu participating in the embargo. Coffee was now also strictly regulated, just like alcohol. She missed coffee as much as she missed flying. The two had gone hand in hand when she was at the KL academy and later at RANA. Thinking of those two places made her even more sad. Going into the academy, her friends warned her of its reputation as a “fundie frat house.” She wasn’t deterred by the rumors, but they turned out to be true. The KL, for whatever reason, attracted a lot of religiously conservative men. Many of those men became officers and high ranking soldiers who later formed the core of the Crusaders and Angels. She put up with their antics until she graduated and joined RANA. But they had to follow her to RANA, did they? When she got back from the Moon, she heard what the director said about the incident. That women couldn’t drive and shouldn’t be piloting lunar landers. Hey, in her book, any good landing was one she could walk away from. He just didn’t understand that. Unfortunately, he got promoted, and she got fired and even stripped of her pilot’s license and banned from flying, for good measure. Kaiser’s direct orders.
Some time later, Sigmund walked back inside.
“Hey, we’ve got guests!” he said, faking excitement.
He said that in that tone. Not the “Home Guardian inspection” tone. That she could handle. No, this was much worse.
“Oh my gosh!” a girl’s voice said, in Korean-accented German. “This is so quaint!”
“I know right?” another Korean girl said. “So old-fashioned! And rustic!”
Tourists. Why did there have to be tourists?
“Frederica?” Sigmund said.
“Coming!” Frederica said.
She took out a plate of cookies she baked last week for exactly this situation. After arranging the cookies in the way specified in the handbook, she went to the foyer. Sigmund looked just as uncomfortable as she was, despite putting on the customary smile. The tourists before her, two Korean girls carrying cameras, looked dramatically out of place in Nuremberg. Frederica forgot the last time she saw people wearing skirts so short and heels so high. The skirts were just about knee length—as per Jerusalemite restrictions on tourists—and their shirts covered their shoulders, but their outfits revealed so much skin through their thin stockings it was almost blinding. Their heels made them look like they were constantly tip-toeing like ballerinas, at least to Frederica. She had worn heels before, long ago, but she couldn’t help but wonder how these girls balanced on their own heels. Their heads were uncovered, allowing their locks of hair to flow freely and complement their red lips, vibrantly touched up with pink lipstick. Frederica sorely missed looking like that, although she would rather not remember the amount of time she needed to put it on. Their nails were covered in pink nail polish. Frederica couldn’t help but look at her own plain nails.
“Uh…here are some cookies,” Frederica recited, “A specialty of Nuremberg, baked with God’s love for Jerusalem.”
The girls giggled again. “How nice of you!”
They took the cookies and ate them one at a time, the one who wasn’t eating recording the other on her smartphone. At least the cookies were still edible. She couldn’t imagine the punishment she and Sigmund would go through if they weren’t. Probably burned at the stake, with her luck. Apparently serving bad cookies was heresy.
They looked around, bright-eyed and curious, their heads bobbing around like eager birds with a very aggressive cheerfulness that unnerved Frederica in how familiar yet alien it was. Fascinated, but also repelled. In a way, she was more disgusted at herself. At how quickly it had taken for Jerusalem to make looking like this—which was normal only a couple years ago—into something absolutely heretical and taboo. Maybe that was the goal, to hate herself. To redirect the hate back at herself instead of at its rightful recipient.
“Ma’am, do you mind if we take your picture?” one of the girls said.
“Are you okay with this?” Sigmund said.
That wasn’t a question. Both of them knew it. There was really only one answer Jerusalem mandated her to say. Sigmund was only saying it to keep selling the girls on the illusion. The illusion of freedom. The illusion of choice. These girls only got a guided tour of Nuremberg, carefully controlled by Jerusalem. Guides accompanied them on each step. Sigmund was only the guide for this part. Everything was staged. Even the currency was staged. They were only allowed to go to stores specifically created for tourists only, with more favorable exchange rates than the absolutely horrible actual exchange rate. And to make sure everyone stayed on script, there were cameras everywhere. Embedded in the solar panels, the rainwater filters, the electric batteries of each car, the drones constantly buzzing overhead…they were ubiquitous. If anybody did step out of line, a Home Guardian was always seconds away, with a fully armed military-issued assault rifle ready to go. So Frederica just looked down. Her answer was to say nothing. Women were supposed to be meek and defer to their betters. Also known as men.
“I’m sorry,” Sigmund said, reciting from his script, “Women here have different customs. To stare at them through the lens of a camera is, for them, equivalent to rape. I humbly ask that you respect their modesty.”
“OK,” one of the girls said.
Frederica continued looking down, hiding her sad expression with her bonnet. She looked at one of the girls’ feet. Her heels were open-toed, revealing her toenails were also painted pink. They were freshly painted, there was no mistaking the smell. That smell brought more memories rushing back to her. The way the polish wrinkled if she put on a second coat too soon. The way the polish sat on her nails, how it felt when she moved her toes. How it felt when she walked in heels much like those. She may have been a pilot and astronaut, but she was still a girl too.
“Uh, excuse me,” the other girl said, “I hope this isn’t out of line or against your beliefs. I won’t ask for your photo, but…I just want to know, are you happy?”
Frederica forced herself to make eye contact with them. She beheld their brown eyes, watching her curiously. She knew what they were likely thinking, because she would’ve asked the same thing in their place. Are they truly happy? How can they be happy in all this? Why? Why did they choose to be like this? Are they telling the truth? She glanced at Sigmund, who was now looking at the floor in her place. He had long resigned himself to their current fate of a meek silence and compliance. The man she knew before Jerusalem was effectively dead, and both of them knew it; the man in front of her was just an empty shell, an automaton reading a script. The only thing they could do was stick to the script and survive. Even if that meant becoming the mask they hid behind.
“Yes,” Frederica said, “We are very happy here.”
Nobody noticed her prized bobblehead of Palla, the green-haired Fire Emblem lady, hidden behind a row of fancy “porcelain” plates and “hand-woven” baskets sporting Christian motifs. From the first woman on the moon, to a “happy” housewife. That was her role now.
Stick to the script, and nobody would die.