Profiles in Greatness: Ilsa the Costco Girl

(Note: My daughter made me go to Costco on Friday night. I am somewhat ashamed we even have a membership. That, combined with a bit of boredom, led to this little story)

She sat on her grandfather's knee as a girl, hearing stories of the old days. Stalin was misunderstood, he told her, and ten years later, she wept with him the night the wall came down. She hated the slide into greed, consumption and decadence that reunification brought. She finished university with honours, and was courted by many employers, but wandered unfulfilled from one elite private academy to another, looking for the discipline that seemed to have disappeared forever.

She decided to confront the mecca of decadence and decay--she would go to the west, face the evil heart of capitalism, and then decide if she needed to come home and join a terrorist cell--perhaps the Red Army Brigade, or Baader Meinhof had openings... She blended in easily in North America, travelling from city to city, hiding her disgust at the filth and chaos--the disorganized scramble to grab more and more wealth without discipline or hard work. She was ready to return home and commit her life to the west's destruction when suddenly, she found it. She couldn't believe it at first, but there it was--Costco.

Amid the undisciplined, shiny commercialized insanity, there it was, its employees in their standard apron--red, how comforting--and checking laminated identification cards before allowing customers to enter the store. She begged an employee to let her inside, and was astounded at the concrete drabness and sterility--not one pyramid of canned goods, nary a bright poster or streamer to be found. It took her back to the GUM store her grandfather had taken her to as a little girl on their one visit to Russia--only the party elite were allowed inside.

Ilsa was still entranced when she found the manager. She begged him for a job, but her credentials intimidated him--she spoke five languages fluently, had several graduate degrees, and was strikingly attractive--nervously he dialed a number, spoke a few words, then, hanging up the phone, whispered for her to come closer.

"Our regional manager is upstairs--in the office--he'll see you." He looked frightened as he led Ilsa up the stairs, knocked on an unmarked door, and quickly retreated.

"Come in." The voice was quiet, but more authoritative than any she had heard. She could hardly control her excitement. A well-dressed, powerful man stood up from behind his desk. He did not offer to shake her hand, but simply motioned her to a chair. "You may call me O'Brien, if you wish." She sat, shaking, not so much with nervousness but anticipation.

"I would like to work at this place very much," she said softly. O'Brien didn't reply at first, but just stared at her with his piercing, disconcerting eyes. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting.

"Yes, I suppose you would. Ilsa, isn't it?" She nodded. Somehow it seemed right that he would know her name. She believed that somehow he knew everything about her. "You crave something you haven't found yet, don't you, Ilsa?" She nodded again, afraid to speak. "Let me show you something." He took a remote control off his desk, and turned on a television monitor mounted on the wall. It showed a grainy black and white image--a closed circuit feed from within the store. He switched from feed to feed, finally settling on a fairly close view of a check stand.

"I don't mind paper or plastic bags," a customer stammered.

"Nein! There are no bags. You will take the boxes. There are only boxes!" The checkout woman looked vaguely familiar--Ilsa recognized her as Frau Muller, the one who had turned in many of their neighbours to the secret police when Ilsa was a girl. Frau Muller had disappeared after reunification. There she was, throwing a tiny, inadequate box at a whimpering customer.

Then the picture changed--sample tables, giving away tiny bites of crackers. A smiling hostess stood by graciously, then suddenly, a teenage boy tried to grab a second sample, and her clawlike hand immediately latched onto his arm. She muttered some quick, harsh words--the camera did not pick them up properly--and the boy ran away. For a moment Ilsa recognized the look in her eyes--it was the look Ilsa's grade 2 teacher gave her when she asked why people weren't allowed to go to visit West Germany. Ilsa couldn't sit down comfortably for two days after that, but she learned not to ask impertinent questions.

"But I don't understand," said Ilsa softly. "Everyone has abandoned this for the 'rights of the individual'--how is it that people put up with paying for identity cards, undecorated stores and all the rest?"

"Ahh--you see, most people, deep down, feel very insecure. Their lack of self esteem makes them feel it is somehow right when they are mistreated--why should their rights supercede the rights of the collective?" O'Brien flicked the remote again; a huge parking lot full of cars came into view. "Look at that--thousands each day flock here, yet we do not advertise. We don't send out flyers, we charge them to come into the store, and we actually have higher prices than most of our competition. Tell me Ilsa--why do you think they come?"

Ilsa thought for a moment. What had drawn her to this place? "They come because they crave the discipline of an ordered society?" she ventured.

"Very good. You will do well with us, Ilsa." He handed her an apron. Somehow it already had an I.D. card with her name and photo pinned to the front.

"What will I do?"

"With your qualities and training, you will go far, but I think I know what you want. No office for you--you will work at the exit. You will be the Exit Search Warden. You will have a clipboard, and you will be severe. They must fear you."

Ilsa could barely control her excitement. "Can I have a whistle?"

"It is not standard, but I think for you we could make an exception." O'Brien was almost smiling at her, but not quite

"What about a riding crop?" She regretted the words almost immediately after they escaped her mouth.

"Ilsa--this is still the west. Things take time. Be patient, child." Then he sat down and the desk and began looking over papers. Ilsa realized she was dismissed. She opened the door and began to step out of the office when he called her back.

"Ilsa," he said, without looking up, "You will have dinner with me tonight. At 8:00." Ilsa nodded. To be honest, her feelings about men had always been ambigious. But there was no question about O'Brien. No question at all...