Chapter 2
Present — Russia
Gala
“Irina.”
My stomach drops as our father Borislav rises from the table and calls to my oldest sister.
The already silent and cold kitchen plunges into a soundless, frozen tomb.
Even Borya and Yeva—her three-year-old son and her two-year-old daughter—know better than to speak when their father calls for Irina.
No one says a word as he stalks from the kitchen and she follows him meekly without a glance at us.
Not until their bedroom door closes do we breathe.
I jump from my chair and clatter the forks as I collect them from the table. As the next oldest sister remaining at the farm, I attempt to cloak the sound of the bedsprings as he rapes his own daughter.
Tasha—my youngest sister by seven years—gathers Borya and Yeva from their chairs. She leads them to the bedroom they share to shield them from their grandfather-cum-father’s atrocious act. I nod as she glances over her shoulder at me. She returns the nod with solemn eyes.
Since our mother Nina died as she gave birth to Tasha, our father turned to Irina to warm his bed and ignored baby Tasha. But from the time she understood words, he cursed her for the death of his wife. Tasha stopped speaking at three years old. Eight years passed.
Syuzanna—two years younger than me—flinches when Irina’s muffled cry reaches the kitchen. She does her best to remain quiet through the regular assaults. But we know our father is rough with her. The bruises around her neck and on her arms and her hips prove he’s the monster we know.
I shake my head at Syuzanna.
She hurries to put on her threadbare coat. With a glance at the kitchen entry, she leaves the room to put the meager bits of remaining dinner in the cold storage shed outside. The freezing winter temperatures will keep them edible for breakfast.
I wash the dishes in the thawed block of ice in the sink. Syuzanna returns and dries them. My mind flashes back to our mother—our saving grace.
Twenty years younger than our father, she was a teacher in the village several miles away from our remote farm.
Unfortunately for her, she met our father at the weekly market where he sells meat from his pigs.
He charmed her with his good looks and smooth words.
She married him despite her parents’ disapproval.
They disowned her and never spoke to her again.
My fondest memories of our mother were of the times she taught us our lessons.
She was determined to educate us despite the chances of us ever leaving this godforsaken area of Russia are nil.
However, each morning she taught reading comprehension followed by the English language.
The afternoons focused on math and history.
When we scored high on our tests, she drew stars and smiley faces on the pages, then hung them on the special wall in the hallway.
Our father was loving and kind. He’d praise us when he returned from the market or from the fields.
Sometimes he brought our mother trinkets he traded with others.
She’d make a show of the handmade necklaces as though the finest diamonds adorned the chains.
He beamed at her, and they disappeared into their bedroom.
Then our lives went to hell.
He wanted a son to carry his name.
Our mother delivered three girls, followed by a stillborn son.
Our father turned to drinking. He became abusive.
Curses yelled at Irina when she didn’t shut the front door and let the cold air inside.
Katya—my second oldest sister—forced to stand in the rain when she tracked mud in the living room.
A slap to my face when I dropped the pig slop outside of their pens.
Worse of all, he beat out mother and called her a lazy whore when she didn’t prepare his dinner to his liking.
Our happy home turned into a living nightmare.
But he still wanted a son.
For years, he bred our mother, no different from the sows.
She gave birth to Syuzanna and another stillborn son.
Our father cursed her even as her health deteriorated.
Gone was our cheerful mother with the shining dove gray eyes—so like mine.
Only a fragile husk of a woman remained.
Her skin paler than her waist-length ash blonde hair, again another trait of hers I bear. But he didn’t stop.
His hopes of a son died with Tasha. Our father took one look at the baby girl and left the house cursing.
Irina chose her name since it means birthday.
I helped Katya to clean our mother and our baby sister.
Papa returned drunk and covered in dirt.
He took our mother bound in a sheet and buried her in the yard.
We watched as he shoveled dirt over her lifeless body.
That night, he came for Irina. She was sixteen.
When she screamed from our parents’ bedroom, Katya and I raced from the one we shared. We banged on their door. The angry muffled voice of our father sounded before Irina’s teary one. She told us she was fine and begged for us to go back to sleep.
We waited outside the door and heard the bedsprings creak like they did when our mother was in the room. Our father’s grunts and groans blended with them. Irina’s soft cries broke my heart.
Katya snatched my hand as I raised it to bang on the door and covered my mouth. She dragged me to our bedroom and closed the door. Silently, she moved me to the bed, where she told me to sleep.
That was the first night I dreamed of killing my father.
Four years later, and I still want him dead.
His sick obsession with Irina continues. But last year, he stooped to a new low.
Every year, giant, scary men arrive at the village.
They demand tribute from the poor families and give them little money in exchange.
Their trade? The untouched eighteen-year-old girls.
We only learned of their visits when our father came home last year and told Katya to pack a bag.
I dared to question him. He cuffed me upside the head.
The world tilted before I slammed into the wall. Katya scurried to do his bidding.
An hour later, a windowless, black van drove into our yard. Three burly men piled out while the driver remained behind the wheel. Our father rushed from the house and greeted them. They glanced over as he gestured behind him to where my sisters and I huddled at the window.
Terror gripped us when our father called for Katya. It was worse than when he called for Irina. We held tight to Katya. He charged inside and dragged her screaming and crying from our grips. A backhand to the face sent Syuzanna reeling. I ran after him as he yanked Katya through the front door.
The men eyed her appreciatively and expressed their approval.
Like our mother and me, Katya has the same light hair and eyes, tall, and naturally slim from years of little to eat.
One man took her by the arm and pushed her toward the back of the van, where another man opened the door.
Her cries silenced as they slammed the door shut.
I shouted and ran forward, only for our father to stick out his arm. It caught me at the throat, and I fell to my knees in the dirt. Even as I gasped for breath, I cried Katy’s name.
Our father thanked the men for the bag of money and watched as they climbed into the van and drove off. I fell to my face and cried until no tears remained. Syuzanna and Tasha helped me to my feet and half carried me to the house. We passed our father as he left.
Hours later, he returned singing loudly as the front door slammed shut.
Irina jumped from my bed where she stayed when he wasn’t around.
Her wide eyes stared at the door. On cue, he called for her.
Dejectedly, she left the bedroom. Fresh tears fell from my eyes as Syuzanna, Tasha, and I held Borya and Yeva close.
Now, it’s my turn.
During dinner, our father told me to pack a bag.
My sisters peeked at me. The fork halfway to my mouth hung suspended as I realized the implication of his words.
The burly men were coming for me. I’d never return, just as we’ve never seen Katya again.
The fork lowered to my plate. Bile rose in my throat.
The thought of escaping leaped into my mind. Then our father spoke.
“Unless you want Syuzanna to go in your place, you will pack your bag after you wash the dishes. Tomorrow morning, you will leave. Be thankful I gave you time to say goodbye to your siblings.”
He finished his dinner and called for Irina.
Now, as I glance at the few ragged clothes I own, Syuzanna tries to console me. Tasha watches. Her eyes shine with tears. I must be strong for them.
“Listen to me,” I say as I face my younger sisters as they sit on the bed while Borya and Yeva play on the floor. “Syuzanna, you are the eldest now. Take care of Tasha. Don’t leave everything for Irina to do. She has enough with Papa.”
“Y—Yes, Gala.”
“Tasha, be brave. Watch after the little ones.”
She nods as trails of tears glisten on her pale cheeks.
Her brown eyes flick from me to Borya and Yeva.
As though sensing the tension, they toddle to me and wrap their arms around my legs.
As my belly roils, I swallow back a sob and crouch, then draw them into my arms. I bury my face in the black hair they inherited from our father.
Closing my eyes, I inhale their soap scent to imprint it on my mind.
I rise with them in my arms and place them on the bed.
“Be good, malen'kiye,” I whisper as I ruffle their hair, then glance at my sisters. “I will always think of you. I love you.”
They burst into tears. My bravado fades as I collapse on the bed and cry.
The next morning, I refuse to shed a tear as a burly man bustles me in the back of another windowless black van. Five girls with hands bound sit on benches lined along the side walls. Eyes rimmed in red, stare at me.
“Don’t cause trouble, or you’ll be sorry,” the largest man threatens as he sits me on a bench and binds my hands with plastic. He lowers his massive frame on the end and punches the roof twice. The van shifts into gear and lurches forward.
I close my eyes and say a prayer to watch over my siblings and to give me the strength to handle whatever the men plan. I keep them closed as I turn my thoughts inward to block the sound of the girls crying.
Tingling at the back of my neck alerts me to someone’s gaze on me. My eyes open to find the man staring at me. He licks his lips. I avert my eyes. But the movement of his hand draws my attention.
Thick, muscular thighs spread wide. His hand strokes his penis as it sticks out of his pants.
My head jerks towards the rear door as a gasp slips past my lips.
He chuckles darkly.
“This may be the first cock you’ve seen. But it won’t be the last. Get used to it, shlyukha.”