Free The Violent Century by Lavie Tidhar

flies in a curved line but does not hit the other girl. The water squishes together into a ball, in mid-air, it seems to shimmer like a cut diamond, then shoots up and explodes like fireworks, spraying water over the other diners, who shout out. The girl laughs. Browning glares disapprovingly from his own table but says nothing. The Farm, Fogg thinks. It is a place in which the laws of what is real seem suspended, for just a moment. It was beautiful in the daytime, the bright primary colours of blue sky and yellow sun and green grass and white stone. At night it is more of a chiaroscuro, the play of light and shade. The colours leach out of the day when night settles. The air feels colder, though inside it is warm from the cooking and the pressing together of human bodies.
    Tank and Mr Blur are chatting. Fogg pushes the plate away. Look, I’ll catch up with you two, he says. Need fresh air. Picks up his tray. Takes it to the bins, empties the leftovers, hands his tray and dirty dishes to a serious-faced boy in the uniform of the Farm. Walks out. Cool air. Fog rising from the ground. Comforting.

33. MINSK, BELARUS 1941
    The two British observers are not meant to be here, not now, but the Old Man had decreed, and the Old Man always has his way. Fog masks them. German tanks dance across the ice like migrating geese. Artillery fire turns the old city into a demonic fairground, the air burns with sulphur, the city is awash with red light. Smoke and fire make a second sunset in the sky. Oblivion passes Fogg a bottle of vodka, liberated. Lines of civilians are being evacuated out of the city, Soviet artillery returns fire on the approaching Germans but each burst is like an apologetic cough, a tacit acknowledgement that the city is lost. What the hell are we doing here, Oblivion says, Fogg takes a sip of vodka. They’d been parachuted down, their only hope of getting away now lies in themselves and in what they can do. Does that make them heroes or fools, Fogg wonders. The truth is there is nothing they can do for the city or its people. They are here merely to observe. They had found shelter in this abandoned house, on a thick rug beside a massive fireplace. But the fire burns outside. Family portraits glare at them from the walls. What’s this, Oblivion says. Fogg looks at the thing, says, It’s some sort of Jewish candelabra, I think.
    It’s cold. Gunfire outside. They lie down on the rug. Cover themselves in liberated blankets. Huddle close, their bodies against each other’s, for warmth.
    – Miss the Farm? Oblivion says.
    Outside, the city burns. The house is surrounded by fog. Invisible. Tomorrow they will make their way back through enemy lines, to the pick-up point. The Farm, Fogg says. Remembering.
    They press closer against each other, trying to find warmth.

34. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
    His steps make almost no sound on the thick grass. Night, from inside the dining room the lights shine behind windows but outside it is cool, dark, quiet. Fog surrounds him like a well-worn coat. Away from the buildings the field stretches out, a silver moon hanging like a pendant in the sky.
    A voice startles him. Soft feet coming through the fog. A tall, slim figure, pale white skin, fine cheekbones. Even the ridiculous uniform doesn’t change his inner silence, this sense of completeness in him.
    – New boy, he says.
    Fogg pauses, turns. What do you want, he says. The other one makes a motion with his hand. You’re not in there with the others? he says. Fogg says, It’s like a zoo. The other smiles. It is a zoo, he says. And we’re the specimens.
    Fogg reflects on that. How did they get you? he says. The other laughs. I volunteered, he says. Takes out a cigarette case. Opens it. Proffers it to Fogg. You want one? Fogg says, Sure.
    The other lights the cigarette for him. Fogg takes a drag. Coughs as smoke enters his lungs. The other smiles. Like he knows things. Fogg’s never really smoked before. He makes the smoke dance