CHAPTER 6
Anastasia
After the truck comes to a shuddering stop, I hear car doors slamming shut and many voices.
There’s loud banging on the metal doors before they’re opened, and a moment later a bright light shines in my eyes.
A man shouts something, and when the others begin to climb out and bump into me in the process, I grit my teeth. I struggle to the edge and brace for a lot of pain before jumping to the ground. Unable to land on both my feet, I crumble to the rough concrete floor.
We seem to be at some kind of factory, and as the enemy’s soldiers begin to herd Ms. Fedorova and the others into the building, I suffer through the pain to climb to my feet and limp after them.
Being wounded makes me fear that they’re going to kill me first.
Orders keep being shouted in Russian, and I only manage to pick up a word here and there. It’s not enough to understand what’s being said, so I just follow the others’ lead.
When everyone stops and huddles together, I limp to the back of the group, hoping to hide behind them.
A man begins asking each captive a question.
Knowing I have to stop the bleeding, I untie the apron and sit down on the ground so I can wrap the fabric around my calf. Clenching my jaw, I tie the strings as tight as possible, but the pain intensifies so much that a whimper escapes from me.
“Nyet!” Ms. Fedorova cries, making my head snap up.
One of the men has grabbed her by her arm and is dragging her a few steps away before she’s forced down onto her knees.
As I struggle to stand up again, I draw the attention of the man who seems to be in charge, and he barks something at me.
“I’m E-E-English,” I stammer, a fresh wave of fear creeping over my skin.
“Name!” he barks.
“A-Anastasia.”
His expression darkens, and his lips pull away from his teeth, then his arm flies through the air, and he backhands me so hard my vision goes black as I fall to the side.
“Full name!”
My head spins as I push my upper body from the ground, and with a coppery taste filling my mouth, I mumble, “Anastasia Donovan.”
Something is said in Russian right before a man comes to grab hold of my bicep, dragging me across the floor to where Ms. Fedorova is kneeling.
One by one, anyone with Fedorov blood in their veins is separated from the others.
Suddenly, fire is opened on Ms. Fedorova’s friends and our guards, and as they’re killed right in front of us, my entire body goes numb with terror while some of my family cries.
The terror becomes too much to handle, muddling my mind, and it feels like something foreign takes over control of my body.
More orders are shouted at us, and when my family members climb to their feet and start walking, I get up and limp after them.
We’re taken out the back of the factory, and somehow the air feels colder as I take in the cracked concrete stretching beneath harsh industrial lights mounted high on rusted poles. I notice stacks of shipping pallets, dented dumpsters, and rusted machinery.
Every step I take sends pain shooting through my leg, and I grit my teeth to keep from making a sound.
Harsh Russian fills the air as flashlights sweep over us while the armed men herd my family across the yard.
None of us dare speak. Ms. Fedorova stares straight ahead, and the others keep their heads lowered, their faces pale with fear.
A soldier unlocks something, and when I peek around Boris, my mother’s oldest cousin, I’m horrified to see steel pens.
Dear God.
I think this factory was used for slaughtering animals.
Chains rattle, then we’re shoved into a pen before the gate is slammed shut with a loud clang and locked again.
While the others give each other worried glances and remain standing, I find the farthest corner and lower myself onto the filthy concrete, careful not to jar my leg.
Keeping an eye on the soldiers, I loosen the knot of my makeshift bandage enough to check the wound. Blood still seeps from the hole in my calf, but on closer inspection, I notice the bullet just ripped out a chunk of flesh and isn’t embedded in my leg.
Thank God for small mercies.
Not having to dig out a bullet gives me the first glimmer of relief I’ve felt since the harrowing ordeal started.
After tightening the strings again, I glance at the dirt covering the concrete beneath me, and the meager relief ups and vanishes at the speed of light.
If the soldiers don’t kill me soon, infection definitely will.
The only three men in our group, Boris, Egor, and Vlad, begin to whisper among themselves, and something they say has Yulia, Ms. Fedorova’s niece, shaking her head and hissing at them.
It draws the soldiers’ attention, and when they start shouting at the three men, I press harder into the corner and wrap my arms tightly around myself while trying to make myself as small as possible.
With wide eyes and ragged breaths, I watch as the gate is unlocked. The three men are forcefully pulled out of the pen, and when the other women begin to sob, I swear the terror coming from the captives makes the very air vibrate.
One of the soldiers slams the butt of his rifle into Boris’ face, and it sets the other guards in motion. As the men are beaten horribly, the other women all drop down in a line beside me, curling into small bundles and covering their heads.
Unlike them, I can't make myself look away as the men are beaten to death, the stench of blood hanging in the air foreshadowing what awaits me in the very near future.
Despair weighs heavily on my shoulders as I stare at the gruesome sight.
The soldier who’s in charge barks something, and because I’m the only one looking up, his cruel gaze locks with mine. “Get to work. Make food. Clean. If no work, then die.”
Not wanting to piss any of them off, I get up and limp out of the pen. “Where is the kitchen?”
He points to the metal doors. “Left side.”
I notice a tear by his sleeve, and hoping I can get my hands on a needle and some yarn, I dare to mention, “I can fix clothes as well.”
Luckily, I don’t get my butt beaten, and the man nods that he understands.
When I cautiously move toward the door, he starts shouting in Russian. I jerk with fright and glance over my shoulder, but seeing the soldiers are focused on the other women who are all still sitting huddled, I hurry away.
Just as I enter the factory, Ms. Fedorova and the others start crying and screaming. I catch a glimpse of each of them being dragged out of the pen by a soldier.
The men begin to tear at the women’s clothes, and as the horror of what’s happening to them knocks the air from my lungs, I hurry inside and get as far away as possible.
I keep glancing wildly around me while their agonizing wails sound up, and noticing the other men look at me with disgust, I ignore the pain and jog toward the doorway that I hope leads to the kitchen.
My body trembles something fierce as I enter the room and take in the large steel table covered with sacks of potatoes, flour, onions, cabbages, and a meager supply of spices.
A soldier appears in the doorway, his sharp gaze following me like a hawk. I open drawers and steel cabinets, finding knives and large pots.
My breaths keep sawing over my dry lips as I open the nearest sack of potatoes and start peeling. With my eyes constantly jumping between the soldier and my hands, I struggle to process the shock of what’s happening.
I never liked any of my family, but I wouldn’t wish what they’re going through on my worst enemy.
The one in charge suddenly stalks into the kitchen and tosses two bags of laundry on the floor. He sets down an old cookie tin, which I seriously hope contains needles and threads.
“Fix all!” he barks.
I nod like crazy, peeling the potato as fast as I can to show him I’m a hard worker.
He stares at me for long, unnerving minutes, then says, “No food for you. Too big.”
I nod again.
My tongue darts out, and insane nerves tighten my stomach as I gather every ounce of strength I have to ask, “How many people am I making food for?”
He glances out the door, then shrugs. “Fifteen… twenty men.” Gesturing at the table, he adds, “Make all. Celebrate.”
My head bobs up and down as I continue to peel potato after potato like my life depends on it.
Maybe they won’t hurt me as long as I work.
I’ve lost all sense of time, and once the potatoes are boiling, I find packs of minced beef and whole chickens in a freezer.
Deciding to fry the chicken, I stay busy, and slowly the uncooked pile grows smaller, while steaming platters of food begin to take up the space on the large table.
My leg begins to feel numb from all the pain, and I glance at the cookie tin, hoping I’ll get a chance to stitch up my wound tonight.
Suddenly, the soldier who’s been watching me non-stop calls out something, and the next moment men pile into the kitchen.
It feels as if the air is sucked out of the room and tension coils every muscle in my body as I continue to work while staying fully on guard.
Like a bunch of vultures, they swoop down on the table, making the food disappear faster than I can prepare it, and by the time there’s nothing else to cook, a stack of dirty plates and cutlery forms a tower on the table.
Finding some soap, I limp between the sink and the table as I wash everything. A mixture of sweat and dishwater dampens my blouse and strands of hair stick to my neck, but I keep working.
Once the last plate is packed away, I dare to take a few sips of water straight from the faucet before hauling the bags of clothes onto the table.
God, I’m exhausted.
The soldier smirks, then says, “You work good for big woman.” He drags a finger along the front of his neck. “Or die if don’t.”
“I’ll work,” I mutter.
Inspecting the clothes, I make two piles. Quick fixes and items that will need more work. Pulling the tin closer, I open it and stare at the needles and brown thread.
Crap. Do I take a chance and stitch myself up or ask permission?
My eyes lift to the soldier who’s picking food out of his teeth with a long pinky nail.
Gross.
Deciding to take a chance, I find a bowl and pour warm water into it. I shoot the soldier another glance, but he’s staring out the door.
Untying the strings, I carefully peel the apron away from my calf.
Thank God, the bleeding has stopped.
Using my fingers, I wash the wound as best I can before patting it dry with the cleanest part of the apron.
Picking out the sharpest needle from the tin, I walk to the stove and hold it in a flame to sterilize it before switching off the burner. After getting some thread, I sit down on the floor and steel myself for the pain. Biting down on my bottom lip, I push the needle through my skin.
Bloody hell!
A cold sweat breaks out over my entire body, and I suppress a whimper. I struggle with trembling fingers and burning eyes to push through and stitch up the wound.
Seven stitches later, my breaths are harsh, and feeling lightheaded, I lean back against a cabinet, taking a moment to catch my bearings.
How the hell am I going to survive this place?
As I lift my eyes, they lock on the soldier’s face where he’s watching me with a weird expression. I get the feeling it gives him great pleasure seeing me struggle, and it sends an icy chill down my spine.
The men here are sadists. They’re going to get their pound of flesh from the women before killing us all.
It’s going to take a miracle for me to escape, and I stopped believing in those five years ago.