CHAPTER 1
THE MYSTERIOUS GUESTS
Continued...
Until Gdańsk, Arina had the sleeping compartment all to herself. It was only there that a woman, a German, joined her. Tall, elegant, dressed in a well-tailored suit and neat heels, she intimidated her Slavic travel companion from the very start with her composure and unshakable calm, rivaling the steadfastness of Alpine peaks.
“Guten Abend,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, then sharply and firmly shook the girl’s hand.
Night spread its protective wings over the world, and with it, silence descended upon the earth, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the distant barking of dogs. A gentle June breeze slipped through the slightly open window into the compartment. Both women changed into their nightclothes, careful not to look at each other.
Yet Arina wouldn’t be herself if she hadn’t seized the perfect opportunity to practice her neglected German. Overcoming her initial embarrassment, she chatted with the German woman for a while that night. The woman introduced herself as Gertrud Blumenkohl and worked as a judge in Hamburg. As Arina had correctly assumed from their first encounter, she was about ten years older than the Pole. All in all, she was a wealthy woman with a well-established professional position, moving in influential circles.
That night, Gertrud was heading to Göteborg to meet a cousin she hadn’t seen in years. The German woman was somewhat surprised to learn that this young and petite girl was traveling alone, at night, all the way from Warszawa Centralna station to Trondheim, Norway, and that the purpose of this journey was a certain young man. When asked how her parents felt about this, Arina only shrugged.
Arina used to sleep like a log on trains, as if in her own bed – but that was before that strange and haunting adventure with The Silent Invasion. Now, she couldn’t sleep well anywhere. She drifted into a light, restless slumber, only to wake up again, gripped by an anxiety she couldn’t explain. The steady rumble of the train no longer brought her joy, and in its song, she no longer heard the notes celebrating vast open spaces, the Unknown stretching in all directions, or the call of a wonderful adventure. All that remained was unease and a sorrow that squeezed her heart.
The earth beneath my feet begins to tremble – first gently, then with violent force. A purple streak of light slashes mercilessly through the perfect black of the sky. A scream of despair tears from my throat. I collapse to my knees. Lightning blooms one after another, like blood-red roses in the darkness of the night – the terrible night of doom.
The ground splits open; monstrous jaws gape just besides my knees. I scramble away. There is no escape from the world’s torment, from this unfathomable agony. The tremors do not cease. I see no other people. I see nothing at all. More projectiles whistle ominously, pressing against the Barrier. Amid the defeating clamor of the enraged barrage, among the groans of shattering rock, my scream grows thinner and thinner. And then – there is no scream left. There is no me.
Today, our enemies will win. The Shield no longer protect us. A crack, small at first, spreads rapidly. The armor of our world buckles under the hail of bombs they’ve rained upon us for decades. Deadly shards slice through stone like butter. This is the end. They’ve broken through. After so many futile attempts, they’ve finally done it.
And then, at last, the Barrier shatters above my head like a glass ceiling…
“Noooo!!!”
She sat up abruptly on the bunk, breathing heavily. From the other bed came the sound of a thud, followed by:
“Scheiße! Was ist los, meine junge Dame?”
Arina pushed aside the curtain, stood up, fumbled for her slippers, and finally opened the window. In the moonlight, she saw the dark, oily expanse of waves. In the sinister silence, she heard their eternal murmuring, the endless shifting and transforming of one wave into another, and then another – an untiring journey of waters toward the ocean, vast, unchanging, and indifferent to human fate. The train raced like a torpedo across the bridge connecting Copenhagen to Malmö, almost soundlessly. So, she was already almost on the Scandinavian Peninsula.
A purple lightning bolt split the perfect blackness of the sky, followed by another, this time green. The explosion was silent, yet Arina shuddered all over.
The German woman crawled out of bed and sat on her bunk in her satin nightgown.
“So, what happened?”, she repeated in German. “Why were you screaming?”
“They’ve broken through,” Arina whispered. “They’ve destroyed the Barrier…”
“Who’s broken through?”
“I don’t know! How am I supposed to know who? The Americans! Or the Arab League! They’ve always hated us! They’ve allied with the Americans to destroy us! I’m not even counting the Russians and Chinese. God only knows what’s gotten into them!”
“What are you talking about, girl? What nonsense…?”
“They’ve just broken through,” Arina whispered again. “It’s the end of everything.”
The fresh night air, saturated with the scent of the sea, cooled her feverish brow, and the unstoppable speed of the train brought her back to reality. Yet the horrid vision still lingered in her tormented mind, refusing to leave.
“You’re a little crazy, my young lady. Close that window, it’s freezing in here, and sit down and tell me everything from the beginning. So I can understand, alright?”
Arina began to speak. In broken German, she gave Gertrud a detailed account of her nightmares, her fears, her anxieties. She spoke of the film, of The Silent Invasion, of that inexplicable force that compelled her again and again to push herself to the brink of despair.
“Arina,” the German woman finally said after a long silence. “Arina.”
Strangely harsh was the sound of her name in Gertrud’s mouth. A name with nothing Slavic about it. A name any girl from any corner of Europe could bear.
“The Shield won’t break,” Gertrud said softly. “It won’t break… It will protect us, just as it has for the past 170 years. Because if they really had broken through, then… God have mercy on us.”
“But why do they hate us so much? Why do they keep attacking us? They know they have no chance, and yet…”
“Oh, they can’t stand us,” the German woman interrupted roughly. “That’s a fact. The rest of the world can’t bear the existence of the European Federation. And why? Because only we, the Europeans, managed to step off the path that leads to ruin. The path of aggressive technological development, senseless armament, hatred, and ruthless, destructive competition, the pursuit of profit at all costs, and the dehumanization of all aspects of life. Only us. All the others, these lords of the world, these military powers, have never managed it. They don’t understand us, and that’s why they hate us. They have deadly weapons; we have nothing but the Barrier. That’s why the Barrier cannot break. That’s the whole explanation for these attacks, and no other is needed.”
“But why did it work for us?”
“Arina,” Gertrud Blumenkohl’s voice now carried a note of condescension. The German woman spoke from the vantage point of her thirty-five years and brilliant legal career.
“It’s quite simple. It began in the mid-20th century, after the Second World War. To prevent further armed conflicts on our continent, six countries – France, Germany, Italy, and the Benelux countries – founded the European Coal and Steel Community in the 1950s…”
“I know the history well. But other continents have also formed various economic, political, and military alliances. What makes our union different from the others? What makes us Europeans different as people from everyone else? Because, in reality, we aren’t different. Or at least we weren’t, until we hid under the Dome. Or should we look for the explanation somewhere else entirely, Frau Blumenkohl?”
“Die stille Invasion…” the German woman whispered, forgetting the girl for a moment. Her gaze drifted to the window, embracing the darkness of the night and the fleeting, illuminated objects disappearing into the void. The train had already crossed the bridge and was back on land.
This title was not unfamiliar to her. She must have heard it somewhere before. Perhaps many times, whispered in hushed tones, with horror. With the same horror that had been painted on Arina’s face when her own scream had jolted her awake from the nightmare.
The earth beneath my feet begins to tremble – first gently, then with violent force. A purple streak of light slashes mercilessly through the perfect black of the sky. A scream of despair tears from my throat. I collapse to my knees. Lightning blooms one after another, like blood-red roses in the darkness of the night – the terrible night of doom.
The ground splits open; monstrous jaws gape just besides my knees. I scramble away. There is no escape from the world’s torment, from this unfathomable agony. The tremors do not cease. I see no other people. I see nothing at all. More projectiles whistle ominously, pressing against the Barrier. Amid the defeating clamor of the enraged barrage, among the groans of shattering rock, my scream grows thinner and thinner. And then – there is no scream left. There is no me.
Today, our enemies will win. The Shield no longer protect us. A crack, small at first, spreads rapidly. The armor of our world buckles under the hail of bombs they’ve rained upon us for decades. Deadly shards slice through stone like butter. This is the end. They’ve broken through. After so many futile attempts, they’ve finally done it.
And then, at last, the Barrier shatters above my head like a glass ceiling…
“Noooo!!!”
She sat up abruptly on the bunk, breathing heavily. From the other bed came the sound of a thud, followed by:
“Scheiße! Was ist los, meine junge Dame?”
Arina pushed aside the curtain, stood up, fumbled for her slippers, and finally opened the window. In the moonlight, she saw the dark, oily expanse of waves. In the sinister silence, she heard their eternal murmuring, the endless shifting and transforming of one wave into another, and then another – an untiring journey of waters toward the ocean, vast, unchanging, and indifferent to human fate. The train raced like a torpedo across the bridge connecting Copenhagen to Malmö, almost soundlessly. So, she was already almost on the Scandinavian Peninsula.
A purple lightning bolt split the perfect blackness of the sky, followed by another, this time green. The explosion was silent, yet Arina shuddered all over.
The German woman crawled out of bed and sat on her bunk in her satin nightgown.
“So, what happened?”, she repeated in German. “Why were you screaming?”
“They’ve broken through,” Arina whispered. “They’ve destroyed the Barrier…”
“Who’s broken through?”
“I don’t know! How am I supposed to know who? The Americans! Or the Arab League! They’ve always hated us! They’ve allied with the Americans to destroy us! I’m not even counting the Russians and Chinese. God only knows what’s gotten into them!”
“What are you talking about, girl? What nonsense…?”
“They’ve just broken through,” Arina whispered again. “It’s the end of everything.”
The fresh night air, saturated with the scent of the sea, cooled her feverish brow, and the unstoppable speed of the train brought her back to reality. Yet the horrid vision still lingered in her tormented mind, refusing to leave.
“You’re a little crazy, my young lady. Close that window, it’s freezing in here, and sit down and tell me everything from the beginning. So I can understand, alright?”
Arina began to speak. In broken German, she gave Gertrud a detailed account of her nightmares, her fears, her anxieties. She spoke of the film, of The Silent Invasion, of that inexplicable force that compelled her again and again to push herself to the brink of despair.
“Arina,” the German woman finally said after a long silence. “Arina.”
Strangely harsh was the sound of her name in Gertrud’s mouth. A name with nothing Slavic about it. A name any girl from any corner of Europe could bear.
“The Shield won’t break,” Gertrud said softly. “It won’t break… It will protect us, just as it has for the past 170 years. Because if they really had broken through, then… God have mercy on us.”
“But why do they hate us so much? Why do they keep attacking us? They know they have no chance, and yet…”
“Oh, they can’t stand us,” the German woman interrupted roughly. “That’s a fact. The rest of the world can’t bear the existence of the European Federation. And why? Because only we, the Europeans, managed to step off the path that leads to ruin. The path of aggressive technological development, senseless armament, hatred, and ruthless, destructive competition, the pursuit of profit at all costs, and the dehumanization of all aspects of life. Only us. All the others, these lords of the world, these military powers, have never managed it. They don’t understand us, and that’s why they hate us. They have deadly weapons; we have nothing but the Barrier. That’s why the Barrier cannot break. That’s the whole explanation for these attacks, and no other is needed.”
“But why did it work for us?”
“Arina,” Gertrud Blumenkohl’s voice now carried a note of condescension. The German woman spoke from the vantage point of her thirty-five years and brilliant legal career.
“It’s quite simple. It began in the mid-20th century, after the Second World War. To prevent further armed conflicts on our continent, six countries – France, Germany, Italy, and the Benelux countries – founded the European Coal and Steel Community in the 1950s…”
“I know the history well. But other continents have also formed various economic, political, and military alliances. What makes our union different from the others? What makes us Europeans different as people from everyone else? Because, in reality, we aren’t different. Or at least we weren’t, until we hid under the Dome. Or should we look for the explanation somewhere else entirely, Frau Blumenkohl?”
“Die stille Invasion…” the German woman whispered, forgetting the girl for a moment. Her gaze drifted to the window, embracing the darkness of the night and the fleeting, illuminated objects disappearing into the void. The train had already crossed the bridge and was back on land.
This title was not unfamiliar to her. She must have heard it somewhere before. Perhaps many times, whispered in hushed tones, with horror. With the same horror that had been painted on Arina’s face when her own scream had jolted her awake from the nightmare.
Gertrud shook her head and continued in a firmer tone:
“That’s nonsense. American trash. Listen to your boyfriend and stop this. He loves you and only wants what’s best for you.”
“But you don’t understand! Because The Silent Invasion is something completely different…”
She fell silent, suddenly realizing she had heard similar words before. From the lips of fair-haired Pernilla Johansson, in the ladies’ room, where they had hidden from the eyes and ears of the merrymakers. Could it be that she herself was carrying the virus that was meant to spread to all countries?
“This is completely unnecessary. Look at yourself. You’re not sleeping, and when you do, you wake up drenched in sweat.”
“There’s an explanation there…”
“There’s nothing there. Try to sleep now. But one more thing, Arina,” her voice suddenly softened. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a large red apple. “Here, little Pole. Eat.”
“Danke.”
She took the apple from Gertrud’s hands and sank her white teeth into it. Yes, there’s nothing there, she thought suddenly with relief. Nothing at all. Gertrud found nothing special in The Silent Invasion and was still happy.
When she woke up, the German woman was no longer in the compartment. She had left only a newspaper. The latest issue of Die Zeit lay spread open on the small table under the window. On page nine, Gertrud had circled a short article with a marker, titled „Der Außerirdische aus Portugal” (The extraterrestrial from Portugal). Intrigued, Arina picked up the newspaper and read the article. It was a brief and concise report about the suicide of a sixteen-year-old Portuguese boy named Manuel.
Before swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills, Manuel had written a short farewell note:
I kill the Alien inside me. I beg all of you, do the same. Do not let the Beast live within our bodies.
His grieving parents testified that in the months leading up to his death, Manuel had watched a certain film on video every day. Some American fairy tale about invaders from space…
Despite the gentleness of the summer morning, sunny and warm even in Scandinavia, a cold shiver ran through Arina’s body, starting somewhere near her heart.
In the margin, Gertrud had written: „Vergiss nicht!” Of course she wouldn’t forget. If only she could…
* * *
“You know, one day water will flow through aqueducts to every home again.”
“Eee, what are you talking about…?”
“Yes! Can you imagine it? The majestic arches of Roman aqueducts, right here in the Scandinavian Mountains, delivering crystal-clear spring water to…“
“…every office building?”
“What do you know…”
“And where else would you build these aqueducts of yours, Olaf?”
“Everywhere! From Lapland to Gibraltar. You’ll see…”
“Oh, I’ll see…”
The bright sun spread joyful patches across the furniture, floor, and walls of Olaf’s room, which were covered from top to bottom with meticulous sketches of aqueducts, amphitheaters, sculptures, palaces, and temples. Olaf was a good draftsman – no wonder he had studied architecture. He had a steady hand and a vivid imagination, which he demonstrated at every opportunity. He effortlessly transferred the fruits of his fantasy onto paper – and, well, the walls.
“But that’s not all…”
“What else, hero?” Arina teased him lazily, propping her head up on her bent arm. She didn’t feel like getting dressed yet; she preferred to lie there naked on Olaf’s wide bed, savoring the memory of their recent pleasure and the blissful idleness. Olaf, too, hadn’t bothered to put on any clothes. Unashamedly displaying his still-impressive manhood, he diligently adjusted a few details in his sketch of the Parthenon.
“We need to restore all the treasures of antiquity. Rebuild the Parthenon, the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, the Temple of Diana in Ephesus, and, of course, erect the Colossus of Rhodes anew. Can you imagine the experience of sailing between its legs?”
“But why? Why all of this? Modern Europe doesn’t need the wonders of the ancient world rebuilt. We’re doing just fine without Roman aqueducts. What we need are more efficient and reliable renewable energy sources, more green technologies, and more new jobs. But some outdated water transport system…?”
“Oh, Arina. We both know we need all this modernity to survive, but that doesn’t conflict with preserving the treasures of the past. Their place isn’t just in museums. We need to rebuild antiquity and integrate it into daily life. Let’s live in houses that Julius Caesar wouldn’t be ashamed of. Let’s go out into the city dressed in Roman togas. When I become a Member of the European Parliament…”
“Yes, and what then?”
“I’ll push for the aqueducts!”
“Sure. And you’ll attend sessions in a Roman toga.”
She didn’t expect tender declarations, theatrical gestures, or love spells from Olaf. What could she expect from a practical Norwegian for whom the mere act of being with a woman was sufficient proof of love? A guy who managed a bit of tenderness during their intimate moments but immediately dove back into his own world afterward? No, Arina had no intention of turning him into a hopeless romantic. She loved Olaf Sorensen just as he was – she had conquered her “iceberg” and wanted nothing more.
“That’s nonsense. American trash. Listen to your boyfriend and stop this. He loves you and only wants what’s best for you.”
“But you don’t understand! Because The Silent Invasion is something completely different…”
She fell silent, suddenly realizing she had heard similar words before. From the lips of fair-haired Pernilla Johansson, in the ladies’ room, where they had hidden from the eyes and ears of the merrymakers. Could it be that she herself was carrying the virus that was meant to spread to all countries?
“This is completely unnecessary. Look at yourself. You’re not sleeping, and when you do, you wake up drenched in sweat.”
“There’s an explanation there…”
“There’s nothing there. Try to sleep now. But one more thing, Arina,” her voice suddenly softened. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a large red apple. “Here, little Pole. Eat.”
“Danke.”
She took the apple from Gertrud’s hands and sank her white teeth into it. Yes, there’s nothing there, she thought suddenly with relief. Nothing at all. Gertrud found nothing special in The Silent Invasion and was still happy.
When she woke up, the German woman was no longer in the compartment. She had left only a newspaper. The latest issue of Die Zeit lay spread open on the small table under the window. On page nine, Gertrud had circled a short article with a marker, titled „Der Außerirdische aus Portugal” (The extraterrestrial from Portugal). Intrigued, Arina picked up the newspaper and read the article. It was a brief and concise report about the suicide of a sixteen-year-old Portuguese boy named Manuel.
Before swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills, Manuel had written a short farewell note:
I kill the Alien inside me. I beg all of you, do the same. Do not let the Beast live within our bodies.
His grieving parents testified that in the months leading up to his death, Manuel had watched a certain film on video every day. Some American fairy tale about invaders from space…
Despite the gentleness of the summer morning, sunny and warm even in Scandinavia, a cold shiver ran through Arina’s body, starting somewhere near her heart.
In the margin, Gertrud had written: „Vergiss nicht!” Of course she wouldn’t forget. If only she could…
* * *
“You know, one day water will flow through aqueducts to every home again.”
“Eee, what are you talking about…?”
“Yes! Can you imagine it? The majestic arches of Roman aqueducts, right here in the Scandinavian Mountains, delivering crystal-clear spring water to…“
“…every office building?”
“What do you know…”
“And where else would you build these aqueducts of yours, Olaf?”
“Everywhere! From Lapland to Gibraltar. You’ll see…”
“Oh, I’ll see…”
The bright sun spread joyful patches across the furniture, floor, and walls of Olaf’s room, which were covered from top to bottom with meticulous sketches of aqueducts, amphitheaters, sculptures, palaces, and temples. Olaf was a good draftsman – no wonder he had studied architecture. He had a steady hand and a vivid imagination, which he demonstrated at every opportunity. He effortlessly transferred the fruits of his fantasy onto paper – and, well, the walls.
“But that’s not all…”
“What else, hero?” Arina teased him lazily, propping her head up on her bent arm. She didn’t feel like getting dressed yet; she preferred to lie there naked on Olaf’s wide bed, savoring the memory of their recent pleasure and the blissful idleness. Olaf, too, hadn’t bothered to put on any clothes. Unashamedly displaying his still-impressive manhood, he diligently adjusted a few details in his sketch of the Parthenon.
“We need to restore all the treasures of antiquity. Rebuild the Parthenon, the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, the Temple of Diana in Ephesus, and, of course, erect the Colossus of Rhodes anew. Can you imagine the experience of sailing between its legs?”
“But why? Why all of this? Modern Europe doesn’t need the wonders of the ancient world rebuilt. We’re doing just fine without Roman aqueducts. What we need are more efficient and reliable renewable energy sources, more green technologies, and more new jobs. But some outdated water transport system…?”
“Oh, Arina. We both know we need all this modernity to survive, but that doesn’t conflict with preserving the treasures of the past. Their place isn’t just in museums. We need to rebuild antiquity and integrate it into daily life. Let’s live in houses that Julius Caesar wouldn’t be ashamed of. Let’s go out into the city dressed in Roman togas. When I become a Member of the European Parliament…”
“Yes, and what then?”
“I’ll push for the aqueducts!”
“Sure. And you’ll attend sessions in a Roman toga.”
She didn’t expect tender declarations, theatrical gestures, or love spells from Olaf. What could she expect from a practical Norwegian for whom the mere act of being with a woman was sufficient proof of love? A guy who managed a bit of tenderness during their intimate moments but immediately dove back into his own world afterward? No, Arina had no intention of turning him into a hopeless romantic. She loved Olaf Sorensen just as he was – she had conquered her “iceberg” and wanted nothing more.
And yet, there was passion in him, a fire burning in his soul. Just as she had fallen in love with Scandinavian culture, history, and nature, he had fallen in love with antiquity, with the treasures of the Mediterranean. They complemented each other, each being for the other a piece of what they desired most. They loved each other, debated for hours on end, traveled, explored the world, educated themselves, and lived their youth to the fullest.
They fit together. They dreamed a unique, beautiful, and noble dream of happiness and fulfillment together. It seemed like this idyll would never end – and yet, they were both waking up. She had done so first, so he couldn’t remain alone in his dreams. Their happiness burst like a soap bubble, and the cause of this distress was a certain American film.
* * *
Their joint trips were usually funded by Olaf – or rather, by his parents, a wealthy couple who ran a real estate development company together. The young man himself hadn’t finished his studies yet and didn’t work for pay. Proud Arina, who dreamed of financial independence, accepted being supported by these two practically strangers, Olaf’s Norwegian parents. Her modest income covered only her personal needs and the train fares to and from Trondheim.
They sat down for dinner with Einar and Anna, Olaf’s parents. Sunbeams danced cheerfully across the walls of the spacious, tastefully decorated dining room. Arina helped Anna serve the meal. Before the main course, they nibbled on rakfisk – fermented fish that filled the room with its sharp, pungent aroma. Then, they all sat down to roasted salmon with potatoes and fresh vegetables. For dessert, Anna served krumkake, the delicate, caramelized waffle cones that melted in the mouth.
Olaf’s parents also matched each other perfectly. It seemed they shared the same opinion on every matter, differing at most in minor details. They almost read each other’s minds. When one brought up a topic in conversation, the other seamlessly continued the thought, and together they reached a shared conclusion.
When Arina learned enough Norwegian to speak it fluently, Anna began regaling her with stories of Olaf’s baby and early childhood years, sharing what she considered amusing anecdotes with the pride of a mother. Her son had always been the smartest, the handsomest, the most beloved, and the most extraordinary. How could it be otherwise?
She confessed to Arina that Olaf’s dreams had been different from those of other children even in kindergarten. While other boys said, “I’ll be a firefighter,” “I’ll be a pilot,” or “I’ll be a sailor,” Olaf had stubbornly repeated, “I’ll be a Member of the European Parliament,” ever since he understood what a parliament was and what it meant. And though the little boy had grown into a tall young man, the dream remained.
Einar had also grown fond of Arina. He joked from time to time that if she weren’t his own son’s girlfriend, she would have to become his mistress.
Now, suddenly, he cleared his throat, reached for the gravy boat, and spread the thick, buttery sauce over his piece of fish.
“So why don’t you two finally get married?”
For a moment, a perfect silence fell. Olaf turned red all the way to the tips of his ears and muttered:
“Dad…”
Arina nearly dropped her fork on the rug. She felt her heart race, beating at a pace that could rival a high-speed train – which had been the standard across the Federation for over a hundred years.
They fit together. They dreamed a unique, beautiful, and noble dream of happiness and fulfillment together. It seemed like this idyll would never end – and yet, they were both waking up. She had done so first, so he couldn’t remain alone in his dreams. Their happiness burst like a soap bubble, and the cause of this distress was a certain American film.
* * *
Their joint trips were usually funded by Olaf – or rather, by his parents, a wealthy couple who ran a real estate development company together. The young man himself hadn’t finished his studies yet and didn’t work for pay. Proud Arina, who dreamed of financial independence, accepted being supported by these two practically strangers, Olaf’s Norwegian parents. Her modest income covered only her personal needs and the train fares to and from Trondheim.
They sat down for dinner with Einar and Anna, Olaf’s parents. Sunbeams danced cheerfully across the walls of the spacious, tastefully decorated dining room. Arina helped Anna serve the meal. Before the main course, they nibbled on rakfisk – fermented fish that filled the room with its sharp, pungent aroma. Then, they all sat down to roasted salmon with potatoes and fresh vegetables. For dessert, Anna served krumkake, the delicate, caramelized waffle cones that melted in the mouth.
Olaf’s parents also matched each other perfectly. It seemed they shared the same opinion on every matter, differing at most in minor details. They almost read each other’s minds. When one brought up a topic in conversation, the other seamlessly continued the thought, and together they reached a shared conclusion.
When Arina learned enough Norwegian to speak it fluently, Anna began regaling her with stories of Olaf’s baby and early childhood years, sharing what she considered amusing anecdotes with the pride of a mother. Her son had always been the smartest, the handsomest, the most beloved, and the most extraordinary. How could it be otherwise?
She confessed to Arina that Olaf’s dreams had been different from those of other children even in kindergarten. While other boys said, “I’ll be a firefighter,” “I’ll be a pilot,” or “I’ll be a sailor,” Olaf had stubbornly repeated, “I’ll be a Member of the European Parliament,” ever since he understood what a parliament was and what it meant. And though the little boy had grown into a tall young man, the dream remained.
Einar had also grown fond of Arina. He joked from time to time that if she weren’t his own son’s girlfriend, she would have to become his mistress.
Now, suddenly, he cleared his throat, reached for the gravy boat, and spread the thick, buttery sauce over his piece of fish.
“So why don’t you two finally get married?”
For a moment, a perfect silence fell. Olaf turned red all the way to the tips of his ears and muttered:
“Dad…”
Arina nearly dropped her fork on the rug. She felt her heart race, beating at a pace that could rival a high-speed train – which had been the standard across the Federation for over a hundred years.
“Well, what’s wrong with what your father said?” Anna chimed in. “You’ve been together for five years now. You love each other. It’s time you got married.”
“Don’t worry about the money,” Einar added. “You’ll want for nothing. Besides, Olaf will finish his studies soon, he’ll help us with the company, and he’ll be financially independent. And we’ll find something interesting for you too, dear. You could live in our summer house in the mountains, or if you’d prefer the city, we’ll rent a cozy little apartment for you. Unless, of course, you’d rather live in Poland, Arina.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she replied quickly, feeling an unexpected wave of relief. So she wouldn’t have to return to the eternal “Why aren’t you working at a bank?” and the equally persistent “Look at Marta.” Her recent declarations of fiery Polish patriotism vanished in an instant, like dust in the wind.
“You’d rather stay here?” Anna asked joyfully. “Yes, Norway is a very beautiful country and a very good place to live. You’ll see, you’ll want for nothing here. Your father is right. Why not live in the mountains? The area is gorgeous. The children would grow up so healthy…”
“What children?” Olaf suddenly raised his voice. “What are you talking about? I appreciate your concern, but when I decide to get married, I’ll propose myself! I don’t need any matchmakers, understand?”
“Son, we’re only saying this for your own…” his mother tried to smooth things over, but Olaf cut her off almost brutally:
“Enough with the matchmaking.”
For the rest of the meal, he carefully avoided Arina’s gaze, and the blush never left his face.
* * *
After dinner, they both went for a long walk around the city and its surroundings. First, they took a bus to the Granåsen ski jump hill, then returned to the waterfront part of Trondheim, and finally strolled along the picturesque riverside promenade by the Nidelva River. In some spots, a breathtaking view of the vast fjord opened up, its waters sparkling like diamonds under the nearly ever-present sun at this time of year. Along the boulevard, a number of grand or small but always charming restaurants had nestled. In the summer, guests could dine outdoors in little gardens under umbrellas, which seemed to offer more protection from the strong sea wind than from the low-hanging, cooling evening sun.
They stopped at their favorite haunt, a cozy spot with the charming name “Stjernemeren” (The Star of the Sea). Arina admired the deep blue of the water and the sky ablaze with the colors of sunset, while Olaf took charge of ordering. After such a hearty lunch, neither of them felt hungry, so he started with just a beer and some chips. Not a word was spoken between them about the marriage proposal. Both preferred to pretend that the conversation at the dinner table had never happened.
“Don’t worry about the money,” Einar added. “You’ll want for nothing. Besides, Olaf will finish his studies soon, he’ll help us with the company, and he’ll be financially independent. And we’ll find something interesting for you too, dear. You could live in our summer house in the mountains, or if you’d prefer the city, we’ll rent a cozy little apartment for you. Unless, of course, you’d rather live in Poland, Arina.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she replied quickly, feeling an unexpected wave of relief. So she wouldn’t have to return to the eternal “Why aren’t you working at a bank?” and the equally persistent “Look at Marta.” Her recent declarations of fiery Polish patriotism vanished in an instant, like dust in the wind.
“You’d rather stay here?” Anna asked joyfully. “Yes, Norway is a very beautiful country and a very good place to live. You’ll see, you’ll want for nothing here. Your father is right. Why not live in the mountains? The area is gorgeous. The children would grow up so healthy…”
“What children?” Olaf suddenly raised his voice. “What are you talking about? I appreciate your concern, but when I decide to get married, I’ll propose myself! I don’t need any matchmakers, understand?”
“Son, we’re only saying this for your own…” his mother tried to smooth things over, but Olaf cut her off almost brutally:
“Enough with the matchmaking.”
For the rest of the meal, he carefully avoided Arina’s gaze, and the blush never left his face.
* * *
After dinner, they both went for a long walk around the city and its surroundings. First, they took a bus to the Granåsen ski jump hill, then returned to the waterfront part of Trondheim, and finally strolled along the picturesque riverside promenade by the Nidelva River. In some spots, a breathtaking view of the vast fjord opened up, its waters sparkling like diamonds under the nearly ever-present sun at this time of year. Along the boulevard, a number of grand or small but always charming restaurants had nestled. In the summer, guests could dine outdoors in little gardens under umbrellas, which seemed to offer more protection from the strong sea wind than from the low-hanging, cooling evening sun.
They stopped at their favorite haunt, a cozy spot with the charming name “Stjernemeren” (The Star of the Sea). Arina admired the deep blue of the water and the sky ablaze with the colors of sunset, while Olaf took charge of ordering. After such a hearty lunch, neither of them felt hungry, so he started with just a beer and some chips. Not a word was spoken between them about the marriage proposal. Both preferred to pretend that the conversation at the dinner table had never happened.
More guests began to fill the outdoor seating area. First, a group of local fishermen in work clothes arrived. One of them was accompanied by a blonde, sturdy, and boisterous fishmonger. This carefree company took over two tables, pushing them together. The men ordered vodka, while the woman settled for a beer. Loud conversations, boasting, teasing, laughter, and bawdy jokes filled the air. Arina caught fragments of words and even whole sentences, but despite her fluent Norwegian, she struggled to understand them. They weren’t speaking the standard bokmål she had learned in her courses, but a local dialect named trøndersk, which she still hasn’t assimilated.
Choosing the farthest table to isolate themselves from the noisy group, a young dark-haired woman sat down carefully on the bench, making sure not to dirty her elegant, undoubtedly expensive dress. Her companion stepped away for a moment to place their order. When he returned, he sat next to her, taking her hand in his. The two seemed completely absorbed in each other. They exchanged tender whispers, smiles, discreet hand squeezes, and even gentle kisses, staring into each other’s eyes as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
This was not Arina’s style. When she went out with Olaf, she always made new acquaintances. Emboldened by her friend’s presence, she engaged in conversations with strangers, often dragging the naturally more reserved Olaf into them. When he later scolded her for neglecting him, she would laugh and say that this was precisely the trait that had attracted him to her in the first place – her openness to people and her ease in making connections that sometimes turned into friendships. So why was he now reproaching her for something that was an essential part of who she was?
The couple didn’t look Nordic, nor did they seem Slavic. Judging by their appearance, Arina mentally classified them as Italians, though they could just as easily have been Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, or perhaps from the Balkans. Or maybe she should just walk over and ask to satisfy her curiosity. She would, of course, try in English. The language of Shakespeare had long since become the universal tongue in the United Europe. She probably would have done just that, if not for the fact that the couple, madly in love, clearly had no need for additional company.
“May I join you?” a deep, bass voice rumbled right above her head. Startled, she looked up at the man she least expected to see here. The newcomer had a luxuriant red mane, a freckled face, and enormous mustache. Instead of trousers, he wore a genuine kilt. The image was completed by a light tweed jacket, slightly worn at the elbows, and a plaid waistcoat. A Scot, as if plucked straight from a Walter Scott novel!
“Please, sit down, sir,” she replied, pretending not to notice Olaf’s sour expression.
The Scot settled down unceremoniously right next to her. In the process, he banged his beer mug on the table, spilling some of the drink, and then unfolded The Times. The conversation with the Brit promised to be interesting, though likely one-sided. From the start, he made it clear that he had no intention of letting the young couple get a word in edgewise. He pointed with a thick finger at a full-page article titled “The British Monarchy: Tradition or Mistake?” and passionately expounded on the flaws of the last British monarch, William V.
Choosing the farthest table to isolate themselves from the noisy group, a young dark-haired woman sat down carefully on the bench, making sure not to dirty her elegant, undoubtedly expensive dress. Her companion stepped away for a moment to place their order. When he returned, he sat next to her, taking her hand in his. The two seemed completely absorbed in each other. They exchanged tender whispers, smiles, discreet hand squeezes, and even gentle kisses, staring into each other’s eyes as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
This was not Arina’s style. When she went out with Olaf, she always made new acquaintances. Emboldened by her friend’s presence, she engaged in conversations with strangers, often dragging the naturally more reserved Olaf into them. When he later scolded her for neglecting him, she would laugh and say that this was precisely the trait that had attracted him to her in the first place – her openness to people and her ease in making connections that sometimes turned into friendships. So why was he now reproaching her for something that was an essential part of who she was?
The couple didn’t look Nordic, nor did they seem Slavic. Judging by their appearance, Arina mentally classified them as Italians, though they could just as easily have been Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, or perhaps from the Balkans. Or maybe she should just walk over and ask to satisfy her curiosity. She would, of course, try in English. The language of Shakespeare had long since become the universal tongue in the United Europe. She probably would have done just that, if not for the fact that the couple, madly in love, clearly had no need for additional company.
“May I join you?” a deep, bass voice rumbled right above her head. Startled, she looked up at the man she least expected to see here. The newcomer had a luxuriant red mane, a freckled face, and enormous mustache. Instead of trousers, he wore a genuine kilt. The image was completed by a light tweed jacket, slightly worn at the elbows, and a plaid waistcoat. A Scot, as if plucked straight from a Walter Scott novel!
“Please, sit down, sir,” she replied, pretending not to notice Olaf’s sour expression.
The Scot settled down unceremoniously right next to her. In the process, he banged his beer mug on the table, spilling some of the drink, and then unfolded The Times. The conversation with the Brit promised to be interesting, though likely one-sided. From the start, he made it clear that he had no intention of letting the young couple get a word in edgewise. He pointed with a thick finger at a full-page article titled “The British Monarchy: Tradition or Mistake?” and passionately expounded on the flaws of the last British monarch, William V.
“Edgar Hudges is one of the most distinguished contemporary British historians and sociologists,” he boomed. “He dedicated his entire professional life to studying the first half of the 21st century, an era both colorful and significant for the United Kingdom. Significant because it was in the 2040s that the British monarchy finally collapsed – an institution that was pitiful, repeatedly disgraced, and devouring vast sums from the state budget. Our last, God help us, ruler, King William, son of Charles and his unfortunate wife Diana of Spencer – did you know that King Charles himself abdicated after just six years on the throne due to a sudden decline in health…”
Arina stopped listening, as new guests arrived in the garden: a folk band. The musicians were dressed in Silesian folk costumes, and a lovely blonde girl sang in a high, clear voice, one folk tune after another, stomping her feet cheerfully in embroidered leather shoes. Every now and then, she would spin around, her hands on her hips. One of the Silesians played the accordion, while the other two fiddled. Paying no attention to the other diners, they boldly took over one of the tables. The accordionist and the girl even climbed onto the table without asking for permission.
“What a racket!” the Scot shouted, pausing his tirade for a moment. The Silesians, however, had no intention of paying him any mind. Even the fishermen looked on with curiosity, intrigued by the unfamiliar music, and the fishmonger laughed merrily, as if ready to join in the dance. Only the Italians (or Spaniards?) remained completely indifferent to the commotion. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders and was whispering something tenderly into her ear. What could possibly matter to them beyond their passionate declarations of love?
“Hey, fellow countrymen, come over here!” Arina called out in Polish, delighted. The musicians immediately surrounded her and Olaf’s table and struck up a well-known melody. Arina, emboldened by two beers quickly downed one after the other, sang at the top of her lungs along with the soloist:
A maiden walked into the forest green,
Ha ha ha, ha ha ha,
Into the forest green!
She met a hunter, dark and keen,
Ha ha ha, ha ha ha,
Dark and keen! *
The Scot lit a cigar, savored the smoke, and resumed his interrupted tale, now addressing only Olaf:
“…So, William was, in essence, a good king – caring both for the state and his family, to whom he was deeply attached. His ambition was to modernize the monarchy, to make it closer to the common citizen, without all that aristocratic pomp so characteristic of previous generations of British rulers. But the UK’s return to the EU in the 2030s changed everything. The question arose: Did the British monarchy – or any monarchy in Europe, for that matter – still have a place in these times? His feud with his brother Harry cast an additional shadow over the royal family’s reputation…”
Where is the street,
Where is the house,
Where is the girl
That I love so much?
The Polish song carried far across the waters of the Norwegian fjord, its surface sparkling under the low-hanging sun. Arina turned the page of The Times, bored by the historical drivel, but what she read instantly ruined her mood. The article that caught her eye was titled “More Victims of American Cinematography”. The paper reported three more suicides: a middle-aged Estonian woman, a mother of three; a retired Italian officer; and a name she knew all too well – Pernilla Johansson, a young Swede living in Norway.
Arina stopped listening, as new guests arrived in the garden: a folk band. The musicians were dressed in Silesian folk costumes, and a lovely blonde girl sang in a high, clear voice, one folk tune after another, stomping her feet cheerfully in embroidered leather shoes. Every now and then, she would spin around, her hands on her hips. One of the Silesians played the accordion, while the other two fiddled. Paying no attention to the other diners, they boldly took over one of the tables. The accordionist and the girl even climbed onto the table without asking for permission.
“What a racket!” the Scot shouted, pausing his tirade for a moment. The Silesians, however, had no intention of paying him any mind. Even the fishermen looked on with curiosity, intrigued by the unfamiliar music, and the fishmonger laughed merrily, as if ready to join in the dance. Only the Italians (or Spaniards?) remained completely indifferent to the commotion. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders and was whispering something tenderly into her ear. What could possibly matter to them beyond their passionate declarations of love?
“Hey, fellow countrymen, come over here!” Arina called out in Polish, delighted. The musicians immediately surrounded her and Olaf’s table and struck up a well-known melody. Arina, emboldened by two beers quickly downed one after the other, sang at the top of her lungs along with the soloist:
A maiden walked into the forest green,
Ha ha ha, ha ha ha,
Into the forest green!
She met a hunter, dark and keen,
Ha ha ha, ha ha ha,
Dark and keen! *
The Scot lit a cigar, savored the smoke, and resumed his interrupted tale, now addressing only Olaf:
“…So, William was, in essence, a good king – caring both for the state and his family, to whom he was deeply attached. His ambition was to modernize the monarchy, to make it closer to the common citizen, without all that aristocratic pomp so characteristic of previous generations of British rulers. But the UK’s return to the EU in the 2030s changed everything. The question arose: Did the British monarchy – or any monarchy in Europe, for that matter – still have a place in these times? His feud with his brother Harry cast an additional shadow over the royal family’s reputation…”
Where is the street,
Where is the house,
Where is the girl
That I love so much?
The Polish song carried far across the waters of the Norwegian fjord, its surface sparkling under the low-hanging sun. Arina turned the page of The Times, bored by the historical drivel, but what she read instantly ruined her mood. The article that caught her eye was titled “More Victims of American Cinematography”. The paper reported three more suicides: a middle-aged Estonian woman, a mother of three; a retired Italian officer; and a name she knew all too well – Pernilla Johansson, a young Swede living in Norway.
She felt like screaming in grief and helpless rage. Pernilla, you idiot, how could you do this? You were young, beautiful, full of dreams and plans. Maybe you loved, maybe you were loved. You had your whole life ahead of you. They convinced you that you were some kind of damn alien, and you believed them. How could you believe them? You destroyed yourself, your unique beauty, your very essence. Why, proud Pernilla, why? It’s not fair, it’s so cruel…
All three had justified their suicides in the same way Manuel from Portugal had: I am killing the beast within me.
A crimson streak sliced through the blue sky, then another. The fishermen roared with laughter, and the fishmonger called out:
“Look at them, the poor fools, shooting at the Lord’s window!”
The third beer finally spun lightheaded Arina’s world. She leaped to her feet and shouted loudly:
“You fools, do you think this is funny?”
This time, even the Italians (or Spaniards?) paused their canoodling and stared at her with sudden attention. The entire scene reeked of surrealism and falsity raised to an infinite power. Because nothing here was real, none of this should have been happening.
That perfect, picture-cut future Europe – a Europe of united nations living in peace and harmony – did not exist. Not the Europe that had finally overcome aggressive nationalisms and tensions between its peoples. Not the Europe that had conquered the distrust of its citizens toward federal institutions, the distrust that had once driven them to withdraw from the union. Not the Europe that had once and for all prevented wars on the continent – wars that, in this new world, would have been civil wars. Not the Europe that had successfully defended itself against all external threats. Not the Europe that had even convinced reluctant nations like Norway and Switzerland to join its structures. Not the Europe that had failed to fully reverse the effects of climate change – growing ever more threatening in the first half of the 21st century, endangering not only the lives of its citizens but also the stability of the entire continental system of governance – but had, through the construction of the Barrier, necessary reforms, and coordinated action, significantly mitigated its devastating impact.
So they all lived in some kind of mad dream, one that would sooner or later come to an end. The passionate Italians, the boisterous Norwegian fishermen, the Scot plucked straight out of Rob Roy, the Silesian folk band – God only knew how they had ended up playing in distant Trondheim – and Olaf. A brief but vivid cross-section of the Federation of European States. A Federation that should never have existed. That did not exist...
For a moment, Arina envisioned another reality in her mind – the most probable version of Europe, not necessarily united. The one that had evolved from the political situation of the early 21st century. The one that belonged exclusively to humans, not to visitors from another planet. But fortunately, the moment did not last long.
“Do you think this is funny?” she shouted. “You’ll be laughing like sheep when the Dome collapses on your heads! When they cut us down to the last man like the filthy devils we are! The end is coming, and the end of everything we know! Oh yes, laugh now! You’ll stop laughing when you find out who you really are…”
“My dear girl, this is most inappropriate…” said a plump Norwegian woman, breaking the long, stunned silence – a silence so unusual in this lively, cheerful beer garden.
“Arina, calm down!” Olaf hissed.
“What on earth are you talking about?” the Scot boomed, deeply offended and scandalized. “What do you mean, the end? What kind of prophecy is this?”
“It’s not a prophecy, it’s our immediate future! Because that’s what we deserve…”
The alcohol buzzed in her skull, surged through her veins. Nothing held back Arina’s eloquence now. She shouted out everything that had been tormenting her soul for weeks.
“Do you know what this is?” she swept her arm in a wide circle, gesturing at the people, the city, the hills, and the fjord. “This is an illusion! We’re living in a world of delusions! Do you know what the Barrier is? Do you know where it is? It’s right here… in our heads!”
All three had justified their suicides in the same way Manuel from Portugal had: I am killing the beast within me.
A crimson streak sliced through the blue sky, then another. The fishermen roared with laughter, and the fishmonger called out:
“Look at them, the poor fools, shooting at the Lord’s window!”
The third beer finally spun lightheaded Arina’s world. She leaped to her feet and shouted loudly:
“You fools, do you think this is funny?”
This time, even the Italians (or Spaniards?) paused their canoodling and stared at her with sudden attention. The entire scene reeked of surrealism and falsity raised to an infinite power. Because nothing here was real, none of this should have been happening.
That perfect, picture-cut future Europe – a Europe of united nations living in peace and harmony – did not exist. Not the Europe that had finally overcome aggressive nationalisms and tensions between its peoples. Not the Europe that had conquered the distrust of its citizens toward federal institutions, the distrust that had once driven them to withdraw from the union. Not the Europe that had once and for all prevented wars on the continent – wars that, in this new world, would have been civil wars. Not the Europe that had successfully defended itself against all external threats. Not the Europe that had even convinced reluctant nations like Norway and Switzerland to join its structures. Not the Europe that had failed to fully reverse the effects of climate change – growing ever more threatening in the first half of the 21st century, endangering not only the lives of its citizens but also the stability of the entire continental system of governance – but had, through the construction of the Barrier, necessary reforms, and coordinated action, significantly mitigated its devastating impact.
So they all lived in some kind of mad dream, one that would sooner or later come to an end. The passionate Italians, the boisterous Norwegian fishermen, the Scot plucked straight out of Rob Roy, the Silesian folk band – God only knew how they had ended up playing in distant Trondheim – and Olaf. A brief but vivid cross-section of the Federation of European States. A Federation that should never have existed. That did not exist...
For a moment, Arina envisioned another reality in her mind – the most probable version of Europe, not necessarily united. The one that had evolved from the political situation of the early 21st century. The one that belonged exclusively to humans, not to visitors from another planet. But fortunately, the moment did not last long.
“Do you think this is funny?” she shouted. “You’ll be laughing like sheep when the Dome collapses on your heads! When they cut us down to the last man like the filthy devils we are! The end is coming, and the end of everything we know! Oh yes, laugh now! You’ll stop laughing when you find out who you really are…”
“My dear girl, this is most inappropriate…” said a plump Norwegian woman, breaking the long, stunned silence – a silence so unusual in this lively, cheerful beer garden.
“Arina, calm down!” Olaf hissed.
“What on earth are you talking about?” the Scot boomed, deeply offended and scandalized. “What do you mean, the end? What kind of prophecy is this?”
“It’s not a prophecy, it’s our immediate future! Because that’s what we deserve…”
The alcohol buzzed in her skull, surged through her veins. Nothing held back Arina’s eloquence now. She shouted out everything that had been tormenting her soul for weeks.
“Do you know what this is?” she swept her arm in a wide circle, gesturing at the people, the city, the hills, and the fjord. “This is an illusion! We’re living in a world of delusions! Do you know what the Barrier is? Do you know where it is? It’s right here… in our heads!”
The performance gained momentum, and Arina’s fervor grew. Who knew how it might have ended if not for Olaf, who grabbed her firmly by the arm, pulled her away from the table, and led her toward the exit.
“Enough! We’re going home!”
She managed to cast one last glance at the pair of Italians (or Spaniards?). The young couple, instantly forgetting the violent scene unfolding before their eyes, had returned to their amorous pursuits. The Scot buried his nose back in his newspaper, the Norwegians resumed their lively debates, and once again, the air filled with the sound of the Silesian folk song, sung in a clear and joyful voice.
I found the street,
I found the house,
I found the girl
That I love so much!
She couldn’t have imagined anything more absurd or grotesque.
“Damn fools!” she shouted over her shoulder. “The Barrier will collapse on your empty heads! And let it!”
Olaf led her home through the deserted streets at this hour. She could feel he was angry with her, and he made no effort to hide it.
“I’ll never let you drink this much again! You’ve humiliated yourself and me. What a disgrace…”
But she didn’t want to sober up yet.
“What is the Barrier? What is it? Where is it? The Barrier will crack… It’s in our heads…”
“Stop babbling! Just shut up, will you?!”
“We’re in for –”
“Shut up! That’s enough!”
He was truly furious. Arina couldn’t remember him ever being this angry with her before. He quietly opened the front door so as not to wake his parents. He led her to his room, pressing a warning finger to his lips the whole time, then pulled out the bed and helped her undress. Arina collapsed onto it like a felled log and immediately began snoring loudly, exhausted into unconsciousness by the fumes of beer and other realities. Olaf drew the dark curtains and lay down beside her, but he couldn’t sleep. Troubled thoughts refused to leave him…
* * *
Not even alcohol could drown out the horrifying vision. Not even Olaf’s closeness changed a thing.
The earth beneath my feet begins to tremble – first gently, then with violent force. A purple streak of light slashes mercilessly through the perfect black of the sky. A scream of despair tears from my throat. I collapse to my knees. Lightning blooms one after another, like blood-red roses in the darkness of the night – the terrible night of doom.
The ground splits open; monstrous jaws gape just besides my knees. I scramble away. There is no escape from the world’s torment, from this unfathomable agony. The tremors do not cease. I see no other people. I see nothing at all. More projectiles whistle ominously, pressing against the Barrier. Amid the defeating clamor of the enraged barrage, among the groans of shattering rock, my scream grows thinner and thinner. And then – there is no scream left. There is no me.
Today, our enemies will win. The Shield no longer protect us. A crack, small at first, spreads rapidly. The armor of our world buckles under the hail of bombs they’ve rained upon us for decades. Deadly shards slice through stone like butter. This is the end. They’ve broken through. After so many futile attempts, they’ve finally done it.
And then, at last, the Barrier shatters above my head like a glass ceiling…
She couldn’t hear her own scream. Olaf wrapped his arm around her and pulled her tightly against the pillow. He pressed himself against her back, his cheek to her cheek, and whispered directly into her ear:
“Arina, I’m scared. You have no idea how scared I am. What’s happening to you? What’s going to happen to us? I don’t want to live without you, Arina. My Arina. When will this finally end? How can I pull you out of this? How can I convince you that you’re safe? I love you so much. Oh God, oh God…”
She felt his tears streaming down her face. This usually composed Norwegian was crying, helpless like a little child. She wanted to tell him that she loved him just as much. She wanted to pull him close, hold him tightly, comfort him, and cover him in kisses. She wanted to hide in his arms and cry, cry without end, cry out all the pain – hers and the world’s. She wanted to scream that she couldn’t bear this spiritual torment any longer.
She said nothing. Did nothing. She felt guilty toward him, as if she had conspired against him, stolen his dreams. She had become someone Olaf couldn’t accept. Her suffering had built a wall between them.
So she lay still in his arms, crying silently. It will end tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she would free him from this pain. She would give him a chance to be with someone who wouldn’t let him down, someone who wouldn’t succumb to the whispers of darkness. It was already decided.
The fifth victim of The Silent Invasion would be a Pole.
* * *
When she woke up after a few hours of heavy sleep, Olaf was already gone. He had left for the university, for his classes – they wouldn’t see each other until the afternoon. She didn’t blame him. She shouldn’t expect a Norwegian to neglect all his responsibilities just because she had none.
Besides, it didn’t matter anymore. The end was near, and she was walking toward it. She would free Olaf from herself, and herself from that relentless, nightmarish dream.
Instead of lingering in the empty house, she decided to take a long walk along the fjord. It would be easier to face her fate there, in the open, than in the cozy, safe Sorensen home. Olaf had made her a set of keys to the front door, so leaving the house posed no problem.
The day was cold and windy, and her thin windbreaker offered little protection against the chill. She hadn’t brought any warmer clothes from Poland, so she hunched against the persistent wind. She told herself that nothing mattered anymore, that she felt light and free from all worries, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t true. Sorrow and grief weighed on her heart like a stone, preventing her from enjoying the raw beauty of the northern landscapes, the otherworldly splendor so captivating in the harsh light of the cold sun.
The naked, jagged rocks of Trondheimsfjorden, dark gray in color, rose almost vertically on both sides of the channel, transitioning smoothly into gentle, forested hills covered with pines and spruces. The slender silhouettes of the trees were reflected in the crystal-clear water like in a mirror. Since the weather was mostly overcast, with the clouds only occasionally revealing the blindingly bright sun, the water shifted colors like a kaleidoscope.
She reached the narrow strait between the islands, where the fjord split into several arms, and in the distance, the outlines of the open sea loomed. The water here was darker, more restless, and the air smelled of salt and freedom. The steep, forested slopes of Fosen on the other side of the fjord contrasted with the gentle, green fields around the city. The colorful houses of Trondheim shimmered in the distance, as if suspended between land and sea, while seagulls circles above the waves. Their cries blended with the rustle of the wind, which carried the scent of seaweed and fish.
“Enough! We’re going home!”
She managed to cast one last glance at the pair of Italians (or Spaniards?). The young couple, instantly forgetting the violent scene unfolding before their eyes, had returned to their amorous pursuits. The Scot buried his nose back in his newspaper, the Norwegians resumed their lively debates, and once again, the air filled with the sound of the Silesian folk song, sung in a clear and joyful voice.
I found the street,
I found the house,
I found the girl
That I love so much!
She couldn’t have imagined anything more absurd or grotesque.
“Damn fools!” she shouted over her shoulder. “The Barrier will collapse on your empty heads! And let it!”
Olaf led her home through the deserted streets at this hour. She could feel he was angry with her, and he made no effort to hide it.
“I’ll never let you drink this much again! You’ve humiliated yourself and me. What a disgrace…”
But she didn’t want to sober up yet.
“What is the Barrier? What is it? Where is it? The Barrier will crack… It’s in our heads…”
“Stop babbling! Just shut up, will you?!”
“We’re in for –”
“Shut up! That’s enough!”
He was truly furious. Arina couldn’t remember him ever being this angry with her before. He quietly opened the front door so as not to wake his parents. He led her to his room, pressing a warning finger to his lips the whole time, then pulled out the bed and helped her undress. Arina collapsed onto it like a felled log and immediately began snoring loudly, exhausted into unconsciousness by the fumes of beer and other realities. Olaf drew the dark curtains and lay down beside her, but he couldn’t sleep. Troubled thoughts refused to leave him…
* * *
Not even alcohol could drown out the horrifying vision. Not even Olaf’s closeness changed a thing.
The earth beneath my feet begins to tremble – first gently, then with violent force. A purple streak of light slashes mercilessly through the perfect black of the sky. A scream of despair tears from my throat. I collapse to my knees. Lightning blooms one after another, like blood-red roses in the darkness of the night – the terrible night of doom.
The ground splits open; monstrous jaws gape just besides my knees. I scramble away. There is no escape from the world’s torment, from this unfathomable agony. The tremors do not cease. I see no other people. I see nothing at all. More projectiles whistle ominously, pressing against the Barrier. Amid the defeating clamor of the enraged barrage, among the groans of shattering rock, my scream grows thinner and thinner. And then – there is no scream left. There is no me.
Today, our enemies will win. The Shield no longer protect us. A crack, small at first, spreads rapidly. The armor of our world buckles under the hail of bombs they’ve rained upon us for decades. Deadly shards slice through stone like butter. This is the end. They’ve broken through. After so many futile attempts, they’ve finally done it.
And then, at last, the Barrier shatters above my head like a glass ceiling…
She couldn’t hear her own scream. Olaf wrapped his arm around her and pulled her tightly against the pillow. He pressed himself against her back, his cheek to her cheek, and whispered directly into her ear:
“Arina, I’m scared. You have no idea how scared I am. What’s happening to you? What’s going to happen to us? I don’t want to live without you, Arina. My Arina. When will this finally end? How can I pull you out of this? How can I convince you that you’re safe? I love you so much. Oh God, oh God…”
She felt his tears streaming down her face. This usually composed Norwegian was crying, helpless like a little child. She wanted to tell him that she loved him just as much. She wanted to pull him close, hold him tightly, comfort him, and cover him in kisses. She wanted to hide in his arms and cry, cry without end, cry out all the pain – hers and the world’s. She wanted to scream that she couldn’t bear this spiritual torment any longer.
She said nothing. Did nothing. She felt guilty toward him, as if she had conspired against him, stolen his dreams. She had become someone Olaf couldn’t accept. Her suffering had built a wall between them.
So she lay still in his arms, crying silently. It will end tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she would free him from this pain. She would give him a chance to be with someone who wouldn’t let him down, someone who wouldn’t succumb to the whispers of darkness. It was already decided.
The fifth victim of The Silent Invasion would be a Pole.
* * *
When she woke up after a few hours of heavy sleep, Olaf was already gone. He had left for the university, for his classes – they wouldn’t see each other until the afternoon. She didn’t blame him. She shouldn’t expect a Norwegian to neglect all his responsibilities just because she had none.
Besides, it didn’t matter anymore. The end was near, and she was walking toward it. She would free Olaf from herself, and herself from that relentless, nightmarish dream.
Instead of lingering in the empty house, she decided to take a long walk along the fjord. It would be easier to face her fate there, in the open, than in the cozy, safe Sorensen home. Olaf had made her a set of keys to the front door, so leaving the house posed no problem.
The day was cold and windy, and her thin windbreaker offered little protection against the chill. She hadn’t brought any warmer clothes from Poland, so she hunched against the persistent wind. She told herself that nothing mattered anymore, that she felt light and free from all worries, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t true. Sorrow and grief weighed on her heart like a stone, preventing her from enjoying the raw beauty of the northern landscapes, the otherworldly splendor so captivating in the harsh light of the cold sun.
The naked, jagged rocks of Trondheimsfjorden, dark gray in color, rose almost vertically on both sides of the channel, transitioning smoothly into gentle, forested hills covered with pines and spruces. The slender silhouettes of the trees were reflected in the crystal-clear water like in a mirror. Since the weather was mostly overcast, with the clouds only occasionally revealing the blindingly bright sun, the water shifted colors like a kaleidoscope.
She reached the narrow strait between the islands, where the fjord split into several arms, and in the distance, the outlines of the open sea loomed. The water here was darker, more restless, and the air smelled of salt and freedom. The steep, forested slopes of Fosen on the other side of the fjord contrasted with the gentle, green fields around the city. The colorful houses of Trondheim shimmered in the distance, as if suspended between land and sea, while seagulls circles above the waves. Their cries blended with the rustle of the wind, which carried the scent of seaweed and fish.
A gusty breeze disturbed the calm surface, and the waves repeatedly slapped against the rocky shore with a loud splash. She stepped carefully from stone to stone, mindful not to twist her ankle. No one disturbed her solitude. Anyone who could had taken shelter from the cold indoors, and those who had to stay outside – like the many fishermen in the area – were too busy with their own affairs to notice a lone girl in a thin jacket and summer sandals.
Hopping from one slick, smooth boulder to another, polished by the patient waters of the fjord, she approached the final boundary, where the fjord gradually opened out to the sea, and the sea, a little further on, became the Atlantic Ocean, abandoned and forgotten by Europeans during those nearly two centuries of isolation. What countries lay on the other side of the Great Water now? How much had the world changed?
So her fate would be sealed here, at the very “top”, at the peak of the only reality she knew. This scrap of the world called Europe, covered by an invisible Dome, cowering in fear of mysterious dangers.
Hopping from one slick, smooth boulder to another, polished by the patient waters of the fjord, she approached the final boundary, where the fjord gradually opened out to the sea, and the sea, a little further on, became the Atlantic Ocean, abandoned and forgotten by Europeans during those nearly two centuries of isolation. What countries lay on the other side of the Great Water now? How much had the world changed?
So her fate would be sealed here, at the very “top”, at the peak of the only reality she knew. This scrap of the world called Europe, covered by an invisible Dome, cowering in fear of mysterious dangers.
She only needed to take a few steps forward, and then a few more… Let the fjord claim her, the one who had loved the cold peninsula above all else. The ever-restless waves would engulf her entirely, and then the water would carry her wretched, swollen body into the vast expanse of the depths. How deep into the sea does the Barrier extend? What would her spirit find on the other side? What did that mythical, stubbornly silent world look like – a world perhaps ravaged by wars and conflicts, starving yet building incredible fortunes, full of extreme passions?
What was she afraid of? Anything would be better than the recurring nightmare, the crimson ribbons on the velvet sky, the terrible uncertainty, and the even more terrible suspicions. Had Pernilla Johansson solved her problem the same way? The image of the beautiful Swede’s face flashed vividly in her mind, as if she had just parted ways with Pernilla that very morning.
A sharp, unrelenting grief tore at Arina’s heart again. That beautiful, proud girl with a fair face and bright, piercing eyes, distant and cold as mountain peaks, born into a different culture, yet so close to Arina in spirit. Now torn apart by ravenous fish at the bottom of the sea, or perhaps cut down by the hands of grieving loved ones… This wasn’t right, her heart cried out painfully. This wasn’t right at all!
Oh, Pernilla, Pernilla, how could you? Why didn’t you stand your ground? Why didn’t you fight to the end for life? Not for a hollow existence whose end you await with hope, but for a full, joyful, creative life – one lived in acceptance of yourself and everything around you? For a life like the one she, Arina, still longed for above all else? You foolish, foolish Swede…
No, I don’t want to die. Now I’ll have to live for both of us, you foolish Swede, fair-haired Pernilla. Because you gave up, you chose the final escape. But I won’t give up. You, despite your seeming self-assurance, turned out to be weak. But I am strong. I have to be strong, since you couldn’t do it. I have to be strong because I have someone and something to live for.
I have Olaf. We have our love, our passions, the things that bring us joy, amuse us, move us, make us ponder – the things that give meaning to our lives. They can’t be meaningless if they evoke such strong emotions in us. They are what they are, and we are who we are, and we will never be anyone else – and that’s all that matters.
She picked up a pebble and drew her arm back wide. With all the force of her suddenly unleashed anger and unexpectedly awakened will to live, she hurled it into the water. The concentric ripple disturbed the smooth mirror surface.
“No!” she shouted loudly. “Enough! That’s enough! I don’t want this anymore!”
She threw one stone after another, as if trying to cast off all the dark moments of doubt. A loud laugh – whether of relief or madness – burst from her chest. She screamed at the top of her lungs until she caught the attention of two other walkers. Only then, under the pressure of their intrigued and questioning gazes, did she fall silent, and simply stared with brightened eyes at the vast blue expanse of the fjord spreading before her.
She no longer had to convince herself that she was light and free – because only now did that feeling truly overwhelm her. From this day forward, everything would be fine, she decided. She wouldn’t waste her life working in a bank.
And suddenly, she felt that she had to see Olaf immediately.
What was she afraid of? Anything would be better than the recurring nightmare, the crimson ribbons on the velvet sky, the terrible uncertainty, and the even more terrible suspicions. Had Pernilla Johansson solved her problem the same way? The image of the beautiful Swede’s face flashed vividly in her mind, as if she had just parted ways with Pernilla that very morning.
A sharp, unrelenting grief tore at Arina’s heart again. That beautiful, proud girl with a fair face and bright, piercing eyes, distant and cold as mountain peaks, born into a different culture, yet so close to Arina in spirit. Now torn apart by ravenous fish at the bottom of the sea, or perhaps cut down by the hands of grieving loved ones… This wasn’t right, her heart cried out painfully. This wasn’t right at all!
Oh, Pernilla, Pernilla, how could you? Why didn’t you stand your ground? Why didn’t you fight to the end for life? Not for a hollow existence whose end you await with hope, but for a full, joyful, creative life – one lived in acceptance of yourself and everything around you? For a life like the one she, Arina, still longed for above all else? You foolish, foolish Swede…
No, I don’t want to die. Now I’ll have to live for both of us, you foolish Swede, fair-haired Pernilla. Because you gave up, you chose the final escape. But I won’t give up. You, despite your seeming self-assurance, turned out to be weak. But I am strong. I have to be strong, since you couldn’t do it. I have to be strong because I have someone and something to live for.
I have Olaf. We have our love, our passions, the things that bring us joy, amuse us, move us, make us ponder – the things that give meaning to our lives. They can’t be meaningless if they evoke such strong emotions in us. They are what they are, and we are who we are, and we will never be anyone else – and that’s all that matters.
She picked up a pebble and drew her arm back wide. With all the force of her suddenly unleashed anger and unexpectedly awakened will to live, she hurled it into the water. The concentric ripple disturbed the smooth mirror surface.
“No!” she shouted loudly. “Enough! That’s enough! I don’t want this anymore!”
She threw one stone after another, as if trying to cast off all the dark moments of doubt. A loud laugh – whether of relief or madness – burst from her chest. She screamed at the top of her lungs until she caught the attention of two other walkers. Only then, under the pressure of their intrigued and questioning gazes, did she fall silent, and simply stared with brightened eyes at the vast blue expanse of the fjord spreading before her.
She no longer had to convince herself that she was light and free – because only now did that feeling truly overwhelm her. From this day forward, everything would be fine, she decided. She wouldn’t waste her life working in a bank.
And suddenly, she felt that she had to see Olaf immediately.
* The song is a loose translation of a Silesian folk ditty.
Polish original:
Verse 1:
Szła dzieweczka do laseczka,
Do zielonego, ha ha ha,
Do zielonego!
Napotkała myśliweczka,
Bardzo szwarnego, ha ha ha,
Bardzo szwarnego...
Verse 2:
Gdzie jest ta ulica?
Gdzie jest ten dom?
Gdzie jest ta dziewczyna,
Co kocham ją?
Verse 3:
Znalazłem ulicę,
Znalazłem dom,
Znalazłem dziewczynę,
Co kocham ją!
To be continued...
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