November 11th, 1923

Morality is complicated at best, a complete fallacy at worst. Respect for one’s body, especially its freedom, a laughable concept in the face of death. When faced with starvation on the street or relinquishing your autonomy, well… Freedom can’t fill your stomach. What good are rights to a corpse, especially one of a young girl?

The winter had been more brutal than most, the wars and rebellions destroying what little we had to live off of, and there I stood, clutching even onto the robes of death for a hand of comfort, a modicum of warmth. I felt the way my body didn’t even seem to resist the frost accumulating on my skin, rather surrendering itself with hardly any hesitation. Part of me wished to call out to my father and mother, or perhaps to God himself, and demand an answer for why I must feel that empty pit in my stomach day in and day out, but as I gazed hazily into the streets before me, I saw how I was simply one of many, abandoned indiscriminately. My cries would go unheard, or only heard by ears just as frostbitten as mine.

The sound of boots crunching the snow filled the alleyway. I lifted my eyes to see as they passed, moving calmly to where my mother and father sat in the snow. Their voices were hushed, the look of feral desperation evident on my mother’s eyes, as always. I was not her only hungry child, simply one of what felt like endless mouths to feed. She looked at me with an expression I could not, and cannot place. A soft nod, and then she ducked her head to my father’s chest. The boots drew near to me, and a man bent down to me. From a pocket he produced a pastry, some kind of bread with stark white icing dripping down the sides, reminiscent of the buildings surrounding this desolate place. I looked at him in questioning awe, and motioned for me to take the food from him. My eyes were soft upon his as I took the cake from his hands, quickly devouring the precious gift. He picked me up from where I lay on the embankment, brushing snow from my hair. I watched as the shape of my parents grew smaller and smaller with each stride, my mother calling out my name. Her goodbye was drowned out by the sound of me chewing, continuing to tear into my bun.

“Chew slowly, there is plenty of food for you where we’re going, little one.” His voice was soft, rumbling and soothing me to sleep, and for once I felt no fear as it overcame me.

February 13th, 1941

The year was 1941. I was a young woman. Specifics remain irrelevant. I stared blankly at the cot above me, waiting for the bugle to sound to drag me from the bed. They could keep me in bed until everyone else, but I could wake as early as I pleased. Some of us indulged these little moments, reveling in the solitude. The day would start soon enough though, and I would fade into obscurity as I always had.

A personal identity was never very important to us growing up, In fact, sometimes we would forget that there were many little “I’s” caught up in that monstrous, perfect “we”. Tolerance for individualism had never been lower, all that died with the tzar and his family. The world was made in a new way, one where I nor anyone else seemed to matter very much. That way of living certainly helped in my future… occupation. If one can call it that. In my service to the cause. It’s easiest to divorce yourself from your identity, and what better way to do that than by never creating one. We worked in tandem to accomplish our goals, me and everyone else like me. All made to be the same, faceless, nameless being.

We were the most expendable that way, all the same. What was it to them if one of us died when there are 10 others exactly the same? Plates that run parallel to our spines sure make it easy to be rid of one of us when she lost her use. 7 plates lie between seven vertebrae, a reminder of what exactly was given up for that full belly.

There it was, the horn. My feet hit the ground along with a few dozen others. We walked to the showers, to the clothing racks, the mirror. So many identical, beautiful little soldiers. We aligned ourselves to greet our officer, preparing for the new day of tasks. I prepared myself for filing, or maybe cleaning if I was particularly unlucky.

“You, step forward.” I felt all the eyes in the room on me at once. Yep, cleaning, forever. What had I done to be singled out? “Follow me. Everyone else may report to the same work station as yesterday.” There were no murmurs from the other girls, though soft glances said the words that would be spoken had censure not been nearly as tight. My cheeks burned as I followed the officer out of the dormitory and down the main corridor. I expected to walk into the headmaster’s office, but we passed it quickly. The kitchen? No. Where were we going?

         The hallway ended in a conference room, and with every other door briskly passed, I knew this must be my destination. I entered a room to see the headmaster sitting in the chair that would typically be mine. A man dressed in full regalia sat across the table, scowling at me.

“Close the door, please.”

—

“I am very happy that we can continue to work together. You have done well enough in your training over the past few years. But that was just training, you need to show us that you can be a real asset. So, we are willing to give you an assignment. A real chance to prove your worth to us.” He tossed a file across the desk at me, my picture stapled to the front. There was a number that followed it, something I suppose I could now call a name. I opened the front and looked at the documents provided to me. There were a few of my pictures as a child, perfectly vague, easy to slip into any narrative. I took out the passport that was clipped by its cover to the rest of the documents. Italian. “You speak Italian, yes?” He must have noticed me looking at it.

“Yes, I do.” I opened the passport. Eleanora Romano. I hadn’t had a name in so long, it felt awkward to say it and know it meant me. I read through her background information, reading slowly through a peaceful upbringing in the Italian countryside, living with parents and 2 brothers until she came of age, upon which she married. Married? I looked up at the commander. “I’m married?”

“Yes, Eleanora. You are married to Giancarlo Balotelli, as you have been for 4 years now. Giancarlo is an American asset that you have been partnered with to cooperate on this long-term mission. You two will assist in maintaining each other's covers. He has been in placements twice before, so you may learn a thing or two from him.” He paused, leaning in. “Do not trust the American. We may be friends today, but they are still unwilling to live as we do, even for the betterment of their people. It would behoove you to observe him as well. Let us know what our friends in the west are like, for the day that we may no longer be friends.” I nodded solemnly.

“I understand. Thank you for this opportunity.” The door opened, and a new man entered the room.

“This is your handler. He will be your contact while you’re undercover, providing you with updates to your objectives as well as coordinating your integration with your new world. He will be responsible for your care from now.” The door opened again, and my handler led me out. He was so very generic, hair that was neither brown nor blonde with eyes of indistinguishable color. Even his clothes seemed to blend away. If you passed your eyes across a room with him in it, you wouldn’t see him at all. He was perfect for his job, unseen. I looked down at the picture on my file; would I so perfectly fit the mold I was chosen to become? The dark hair and eyes that had so often been looked down on, now perhaps the very reason I would be allowed to prove my worth. I must make it worth their time.

He led me out the front door. The clouds covered the sky, hugging me in a blanket, like they too protected my identity. I felt snow crunch beneath my boots as I walked towards the gate, inching closer than I had ever been before. The handler motioned to the guards at the watchtower before the front gate opened. It felt like a vacuum had been opened, sucking me out of the only home I had ever really known. All I could do was continue to walk to the gate, breath catching with every move made.

With one last step, I was in the outside world. I looked up at the creaking sound to see the gate closing again, and I turned to watch the buildings I had grown up in vanish from view.

“I hope you didn’t have anyone you wanted to say goodbye to. The girls your age will soon be assigned on missions of their own, and it will be a while before any of you are recalled. If you survive that is,” he chuckled to himself. I didn’t find it funny. “We will meet the American asset and his handler to complete the profiles and transfer you to your station. You should be in place in less than 72 hours.” We boarded into a military truck, and I watched the compound grow more distant until it entirely disappeared from view.

 I was brought into a plain building with sets scattered on the inside. Final pictures to complete our life together would be taken here before we left for our mission. My handler motioned to a bench for me to sit. “The Americans are on their way, you may wait here for them.” I sank into the bench, exhausted from the events of today. We drove for at least 5 hours. I had no idea where we were, but I supposed that was none of my business. After what felt like hours on a chair that certainly flattened my ass a bit, the door opened.