Therei says nothing, undoubtedly thinking about her own son. He’s an older boy who I don’t know very well, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t been called up already by the committee that organises the placement of boys into the factories. I’ve heard there’s a gigantic book at the House of Law that contains all the Cerels’ names and ages. It’s how they keep track of us, or at least, how they think they can keep track of us. Then there are the letters that are sent out. A letter always means bad news.

“So, what’s it like, working in the Director’s garden?” Marina persists, licking her thread.

I shrug. “It’s nothing special.”

The women hoot. “Nothing special,” echoes Therei.

Suddenly I’m angry with them. My plan is to kill the Director. I don’t want to talk about the place, or my feelings about the place. This is serious stuff. It’s something they can’t even begin to understand. And I think about Boss, and what might happen to him after the Director is dead. He’ll get blamed because of me. But maybe it’ll be for the better. Once the Director is dead, the city can return to normal again … that’s what I hope and believe. What I have to believe. Cerels won’t have to go to the Caucasas. Women can have babies if they want. The men will be set free from the wild camps. All of this will happen, I’m certain of it, once the Director is dead.

“Go on, tell us about it.” Marina laughs, not seeing the look on my face.

“Leave me alone,” I mutter, pushing out of the room.

* * *

More and more I notice the handbills as I make my way each day to the Director’s garden. Boss even has one in the shed that he huffs over. “A special opportunity for Cerels,” he says darkly. “Hurry, don’t miss out! The first transport will be leaving on the …”

A date has been set, I realise. So it’s serious. Everybody seems to be talking about it. Marta Gayer, on her last visit, asked if Nanna was going to go too, and Nanna snapped that she was too old to go haring off on reckless adventures. Yet I can tell she’s curious. Everybody is. Even Babet’s asked if we can go to the “precious land”, which is what people have started calling it.

Jorzy is seldom at home these days, not even to sleep, and when he is his face seems bruised as thunderclouds. I try to talk to him, wanting to be part of whatever he’s planning, yet he brushes me off.