Trapdoor

The refugees began coming through a few months ago. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening when they opened me for the first time in so many years. Unlike most doors, I’ve gone through long periods of being closed and forgotten. I lie flat on the ground, in the woods, and below me is a tunnel that leads to the house at the bottom of the hill. When the people came to scrape away the mat of wet leaves and dirt above me, and then pry me open and oil my hinges, I didn’t know what to expect this time.

I was originally installed a hundred years ago, though I think the tunnel was much older. The tunnel originated in the cellar of the house, and ran under the woods and up to the road above, where I was.

At the time, the people in the house were breaking the law that prohibited alcoholic beverages. The conversations I overheard told me that they were brewing in the cellar of the house, bringing it through the tunnel, and then eventually putting it into fast cars that idled with their lights off in the turnout a few feet from me, and once loaded, sped away. Those were exciting times, with urgent men going back and forth trying to avoid the police. But it didn’t last for many years.

After that, it was very quiet for a long, long time. No one ever opened me, so I became more and more invisible on the forest floor. Decades passed before I began to hear voices in the tunnel regularly, and it turned out to be the children who had just moved into the house, who were very excited about exploring the “secret tunnel.” It didn’t take them long to spot me, and when they couldn’t open me on their own, they brought their parents. Soon I was wide open, forest air flooding into the tunnel, delighted children climbing through me. After that, there were men in the tunnel for a while, reinforcing it, and then it became a regular play space for the house’s two children and their friends. Sometimes they had birthday parties down there, all fitted with miniature headlamps, playing pirate games and exploring the tunnel. Those years were lively and I enjoyed all the activity, the laughter and excitement. But of course children grow up, and I saw less and less of them, and then there was nothing at all for a long time, and I lay neglected again.

When the people opened me this latest time, I realized they were the children of the house, a brother and a sister, but grown into adulthood. Their conversation told me they still lived there and were preparing for something important and secret, and that the world had become a scary place. An evil leader had taken power, and all the old laws and systems that had kept people safe were subject to his insane whims. He had built an army of cruel Enforcers, not to protect the country from outside threats, but to attack his own citizens, abusing or killing anyone he didn’t like or didn’t understand. No one was safe.

So the refugees started coming through. From the conversations I could hear, it seemed that they were people who had been living their lives peacefully until the regime change had stolen their safety and wrecked their futures. Now they were fleeing the cruel violence that had taken over the streets, hoping again for a better future, or maybe just any future that didn’t involve dying in a pool of blood with the Enforcers’ laughter ringing around them.

The first refugees were of course the newcomers, who had been trying to build a new life in a new place. They were mostly families, children, parents, and grandparents. Often, they spoke a different language or looked or dressed differently than the people who had always lived here. But they had come to this place with energy and hope, eager to fit in, and now they were fleeing in fear. They had been demonized and lied about, and now their hope was gone. Where would they go? Many of them didn’t know. Anywhere would be better than here. People like them were being attacked and even murdered in the streets as The Leader’s roving bands of armed and masked Enforcers took control of neighborhoods and even whole cities.

The next wave of refugees were the truth-tellers. The journalists. The teachers. The scientists. The artists. Many of them were from families who had lived in this place for many generations. But their voices contradicted the version of “reality” the Leader’s Council wanted to tell. The facts denied the Leader’s fantasies, and fantasies were essential to keep this regime strong. As those on the Council enriched themselves, the people suffered, but so far, by lying and silencing opposing voices, The Leader had kept many people in the dark about what was really happening. Those who knew better, and said so, were being snatched off the streets and taken away, often never to be heard from again.

At first, the courts fought the wholesale destruction of democracy, but they were dismantled, their authority usurped by a body that was called a court, but was only interested in appeasing The Leader by issuing decisions that benefited the mad king and his friends. The corporations, who could have had more power, refused to claim that power out of fear and lust for profit. Universities were closed, and many institutions were torn down. Finally, despair was everywhere and people lost hope that justice for all was possible. Some gave in and allowed the leader to steal their wealth and their souls. Some resisted. Some fled.

So for months, we had refugees coming through the tunnel every week, sometimes every couple of days. They arrived after dark, were dropped off at the road and taken through me by someone waiting in the tunnel. Then the next night, or possibly two nights later, they’d come up through me and get into a waiting car or van to be driven closer to the port or the border. We were a way station, an important one that had sheltered hundreds of innocent and heroic people. I became proud of my role.

Right now, there were eight people waiting quietly for their turn to leave. There was a married couple, older law professors who had written about the illegality of the regime’s actions. Then there was a journalist and her family, an immigrant husband and three school-aged children. And there was an artist, a painter, whose work had recently aroused the ire of The Leader. They had been there for three nights, as their first transport never showed up and it took an extra day to arrange another. I heard from the worried conversations that the disappearance of the first driver was a bad sign.

I liked this group. The children played in the tunnel, voices hushed but energy high. The law professors strolled the tunnel every day, to get some exercise out of the confined cellar where they were sleeping. The journalist and her husband, too, spent time where I could hear their conversation, and they all seemed like good people. The children, I think, regarded this as an adventure. But the adults were really frightened. They kept talking about how they couldn’t believe what had happened, that they never dreamed that fascism could overtake their democracy so quickly. They made plans to try to make a life in other places. They mourned their lost lives and were fearful about the new ones they needed to create.

They also talked about how the Enforcers had come closer, how the painter had almost been caught in a place he didn’t expect them to find him. This older neighborhood on the outskirts of the city had up until now escaped their notice, but the siblings who owned the house, and their desperate guests, all talked about how the roving bands of bullies were coming closer. I learned that when they got close, we could expect to hear whistles as neighbors warned neighbors of their presence.

And indeed, I began hearing whistles in the distance. Whenever that signal sounded, the refugees moved from the cellar into the tunnel, and it happened more and more often. Today, there had been whistles all day long, and all eight refugees, plus the brother who owned the house, were waiting in the tunnel for night to come, when the van would come and take them to their next stop.

With so many people in the tunnel, they had kept me open for the fresh air. So we could hear whistles squealing closer than they had been, and then what sounded like several heavy vehicles coming down our street, and stopping. Everyone moved closer to me so they could hear better. There were male voices shouting orders, and then a tremendous banging that sounded like it came from the front door of the house. The sister was still in the house and we heard her shouting that they should show some ID before they came in. Then there was more male shouting and a tremendous noise as they broke down the door. She started screaming at the top of her lungs, demanding to know why they were there, why they were handcuffing her. Even with me open, we couldn’t quite hear all the words, but it was evident that they were taking her out of the house, then a car door banged and we couldn’t hear her voice at all anymore.

Everyone in the tunnel froze, looking at the brother. He raised a finger to his lips to stop their questions. “We’ll be okay,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “They won’t be able to find the door from the cellar into the tunnel. Just stay perfectly quiet and they won’t find us.” Then he reached over and gently, noiselessly, closed me.

The Enforcers searched the house for a long time. We could hear their muffled voices, and banging and splintering as they destroyed things. But they never found the entrance to the tunnel from the cellar.

But then we heard them in the woods, coming up the hill. “There has to be an entrance outside, too,” one of them rasped. I could see them shining flashlights every which way, breaking bushes and branches under their heavy boots. Several had assault rifles on their shoulders, and others had handguns drawn.

I felt as if I were clenching my edges into the ground. The breeze was blowing across my top, and I willed it to leave leaves and debris to hide me. What saved me in the end was the clumsiness of a young Enforcer, who couldn’t seem to control his gun and his flashlight at the same time, and wound up falling into a bush not three feet from me. The bush crumbled and covered me well enough that they never found me. They crashed around for a little while, swearing, and then they went away. I wondered where the sister was now. After a long time, the brother came to me and opened me a crack, listened for a long time, and then opened me all the way.

The forest was very silent. Distant twigs cracked, but we knew it was wildlife, not booted thugs looking for violence. The breeze blew gently. An owl hooted. The house was empty and dark and silent.

The brother stayed close, listening for danger. But he kept me open. The refugees gathered their belongings. The van would be coming soon to take them to their next destination, they hoped. Softly, they all thanked the brother and gave him good wishes for his sister’s safety.

Then we just waited, quietly, for whatever was coming next.