In Any Lifetime

by Marc Guggenheim

Jonas has always been good at following instructions, taking comfort in the bright lines drawn between “do” and “don’t.” Between “correct” and “incorrect.” But the line he’s straddling now—between “right” and “wrong”—is blurred and indistinct, a suggestion more than a rule.

In that interval, the intermediate stage between desolation and hope, Jonas learned that sometimes the hardest thing to do in life was just to live. It seemed impossible then. It feels impossible now. But having ruled out suicide, he has no other choice.

Jonas asked Eva why the world chose oppression over freedom, dictatorship over democracy. She looked at him, apparently struck by his guilelessness. “Freedom,” she said, “is hard for some people. I suppose it’s hard for most people. Life is easier when there’s someone above you telling you what to do.”

“No one is afraid,” she said. “Because no one ever thinks it’s going to be them.”

The truest freedom, she realized, is not to be aware of how free one is.