Trafficked

by Kim Purcell

  Chapter Nine

  Two weeks ago, America was just a place where rich people lived, not a place Hannah would go anytime soon. She’d been working at her grandmother’s booth at the open-air market in Chişinău, picking at the red pepper paste stuck under her fingernails, thinking about her ex-boyfriend Daniil, when she’d heard an unusual buzz in the market. The older woman selling strawberries a few stalls down was craning her head to look at something, but the narrow aisle was packed with babushkas in colorful head scarves, teenage girls in micro miniskirts, housewives with square bodies, and men in business suits that had seen better days.

  Hannah breathed in and smelled a foreign perfume mingling with the sweat and old cardboard of the open-air market. The crowd cleared and she saw a beautiful Russian woman with auburn hair and Western clothing. The woman was talking gaily to an older man who sold things like coffeemakers, toothbrushes, and towels. The man said something and the woman tossed her head back and laughed. Even though he was one of the most serious people Hannah had ever known, he actually laughed with her, pinching his bulbous nose.

  Hannah felt what she called “the ache”—a very real, physical pain in her chest—which happened whenever she saw something she wanted but feared she’d never get.

  The woman was one of those people who drew others to them, like bees to plum jelly, the kind of woman Hannah had always hoped to become. She wanted to be one of Moldova’s success stories, but she was starting to worry it wouldn’t happen.

  Just over a year ago, her parents had been killed in a bombing in the breakaway republic of Transnistria. It was predominantly Russian, and its people longed for the days when they had been part of the Soviet Union. Many people thought they’d be better off if they separated and rejoined the motherland, but of course the rest of Moldova didn’t want this, and the rebellion had begun. Hannah hadn’t wanted her parents to go to the wedding, but it was her father’s brother and they didn’t have a choice. Hannah had exams, so she didn’t go, or she would have died in the café along with her parents, the Minister of Internal Affairs, two of his security guards, a cook, a waiter, and two teenage girls.

  When her parents died, she’d gone from being one of the smartest girls in her class, someone with real possibilities, to just another poor girl who worked in the market. She feared that all her friends would eventually leave her, as Daniil had, and she’d be stuck there, selling carrot salad until her hands turned yellow and the expression on her face shifted into a permanent frown.

  The woman strode toward Hannah, gliding around the other shoppers, not taking her eyes off her. Hannah swallowed and her heart beat faster. She stepped backward into her booth and rested her hands on the black garbage bags she’d stretched over the old wooden table to make it look cleaner.

  “Privyet.” The woman smiled at her, a little wider than was normal in Moldova, especially for strangers. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Hannah.”

  Hannah had never seen this woman in her life. She stared at her in confusion.

  “I’m Olga, Valeria’s friend?” the woman said.

  The agent! The night before, Hannah and her babushka had been visiting her uncle, Petru, and his new wife, Valeria, along with her two snotty girls from a previous marriage, who were twelve and fourteen and acted like they were better than everyone else. Valeria had been gazing at herself in the mirror by the hall, primping up her curled-under short blonde hair, and then she’d glanced back at Hannah and told her she knew a reputable agent who was looking for a nanny to go to America. “I recommended you,” she’d said. She hadn’t given her any more details—she’d just tossed it in the air like a petal plucked carelessly from a flower—and Hannah hadn’t taken her seriously because Valeria was the type of person who said things like that to make herself seem important.

  “Yes, she mentioned you,” Hannah said, crossing her arms over her dirty apron. She wished Valeria had told her that Olga was coming to the market. She would have worn something nicer, maybe even some mascara and a little red lipstick. Daniil had always claimed her eyes didn’t need makeup, but Katya said he just didn’t want her to realize how stunning she was. Hannah loved her best friend—she always said the right thing, even if it wasn’t true.

  Olga’s jacket didn’t have buckles or zippers or bumpy skin, and it smelled of real leather. “Would you like to touch it?” Olga asked, reaching out her arm. “It’s from America.”

  How embarrassing. Hannah realized she’d been gaping at Olga’s jacket like some peasant. She reached out to touch it briefly with one finger before dropping her hand back down by her side. “It’s very nice.”

  “You can buy many things like this in America,” Olga said. “I hope you know what an opportunity this is.”

  “I didn’t know it was a real thing,” Hannah answered, feeling shy, despite herself.

  “Well, I’m doing a favor for Valeria,” Olga said. “She told me last week your babushka got an eviction notice and she’s worried because she and Petru can’t afford to subsidize your income, not with two other children to care for.”

  An eviction notice? Olga was telling Hannah things she didn’t even know about her own family, right here in the bazaar where anyone could hear. It was true that money had gotten tighter in the last few months, but Babulya hadn’t said anything about an eviction notice. She glanced at the woman in the booth beside her, who sold lettuce, cabbage, and radishes. The woman was staring straight ahead, but Hannah could tell she was listening.

  Olga went on, “Ever since your uncle Vladi took off, Valeria says it’s been too much for your babushka, going back and forth to the village.”

  “He didn’t take off,” Hannah said, her eyes narrowing at the woman.

  “Of course not,” Olga said softly. “But he’s gone.”

  Hannah’s uncle Vladi had disappeared two months ago. One day he hadn’t shown up at the apartment with the weekly delivery of carrots and vegetables for the carrot salad. She and Babulya had gone to Gura Bicului to see what had happened, but nobody in the village knew anything. At Babulya’s house, they found a terse note on the old table by the woodstove: “I am working in Italy. I’ll send money. Vladi.” It was in his handwriting, all right, and he’d taken some of his clothes, but it wasn’t like him to leave so suddenly, especially after what had happened to her parents just a year before. He was her sweet, funny uncle. He juggled to make the old people in the village smile. He’d taught her how to make Ukrainian eggs and decorate the frames they sold at the booth next to the carrot salad. He had a secret that only she knew, and she had kept it for him. He wouldn’t leave her like this.

  They’d called the police, but the police couldn’t do anything if he wasn’t in the country. There wasn’t much she and Babulya could do either—just pray that he was all right. Life went on. They still had to eat. Since then, Babulya had to go to Gura Bicului a couple of times a week while Hannah worked in the market. One day a week, they closed the booth and went together to tend to the garden and do whatever was too difficult for Babulya to do alone. Every time, Hannah hoped he’d be there, but the once warm, welcoming house was always empty and cold.

  “Your babushka can move in with Petru and Valeria, but they don’t have room for you too. If you stay, you may have to move to the village alone,” Olga said.

  The village? She was a city girl; Babulya always teased her about wearing gardening gloves when they pulled up the carrots.

  “Unless you plan to marry?” Olga asked.

  Hannah shook her head. Not anymore.

  Olga bought a bag of carrot salad and dipped her finger in to taste it. Hannah rushed to give her a plastic fork, embarrassed that she’d forgotten and Olga had had to use her fingers. A small voice inside said that it wasn’t very good manners to use your fingers, but she ignored it.

  “Mmm,” Olga said. “This is good. But do you really want to spen
d your life making carrot salad in the village and bringing it to the market every day? Or shall I tell them you are interested in starting an exciting life in Los Angeles?”

  Hannah’s voice croaked. “Los Angeles?”

  Olga gave her a queenly smile and nodded.

  This was the first time anyone had said Los Angeles. It sounded too good to be true. She could run on the beach and feel the wet sand between her toes, like she’d seen in the movies. She’d never been to an ocean before, and she’d always wondered what it smelled like.

  “They’ll pay four hundred American dollars every week.” Olga paused to let it sink in. “What do you think?”

  Four hundred dollars? “It sounds wonderful,” Hannah said, though she was having a hard time believing it might really happen. “I’ll have to talk to my babushka, though,” she added, knowing Babulya wouldn’t want her to go. She’d already lost her husband and two of her children.

  Olga frowned. “Perhaps you are not so interested.”

  Hannah rushed to reassure her. “No, I am. Really.”

  “We need time to get the documents ready for your travel. You can tell me tomorrow?”

  Hannah hesitated, noting how Olga was pressuring her. “That’s pretty soon.”

  Olga continued, “I am doing a favor for Valeria, but you know, if it is not for you . . .”

  Hannah told herself that she shouldn’t be so paranoid. Valeria knew Olga, and this was a job in America. Not Turkey. Not Israel. Not anywhere in the Middle East.

  “Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Olga said brightly, and gave her a wide smile. It was a smile of victory, a smile that made Hannah worry she might have lost somehow.

  But before she had much time to think of it, Katya came up to the booth. “Hi,” she said, looking curiously at Olga, running her hand back casually over her blonde hair.

  Hannah introduced them, and Olga gave Katya a long look before saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Hannah!”

  Hannah told Katya, and of course Katya thought it was a crazy idea. She said Olga seemed sketchy to her, but Hannah figured it was just that her friend didn’t want to lose her.

  That night, when Hannah was having her tea with her babushka, Hannah asked her if it was true about the eviction notice.

  Babulya nodded. “We will do something. Don’t worry. How did you learn of this?”

  Hannah told her about Olga.

  “Valeria told me about this possibility.” Babulya nodded and pursed her wrinkled lips. “Do you want to go, my girl?”

  Hannah shrugged. “They’re going to pay four hundred dollars a week. It’s America.”

  Babulya looked out the window into the courtyard fourteen stories below them for a long time. Then she tightened her bright purple and yellow scarf around her neck. “A stone cannot roll if it is planted to the ground. America will be good for you.” She smiled her toothless grin, her face cracking into a hundred wrinkles so deep that it looked like the outside of a walnut shell.

  It took only two weeks for Olga to prepare Hannah for the trip. She helped her get her passport, gave her new clothing to wear on the airplane so she’d look more Western going through American immigration, and drilled her with questions the immigration agents would ask her when she entered both Romania and America.

  Before she knew it, Hannah was on an overnight bus from Moldova to Romania, staring out at the dark countryside while a television blasted above her head. She’d noticed one other girl, maybe nineteen, who was glamorous looking with long chestnut hair, deep brown eyes, and more makeup than Hannah ever wore, even to the discotheque.

  At the border, the passengers were forced to get off the bus and file into an empty warehouse with a central glassed-in office area. They waited and waited. An hour. Two hours. Hannah’s legs started to ache from standing so long. She wished she had her book, but she’d left it on the bus.

  “Hello.” The glamorous girl came up to her and blinked her mascaraed eyelashes. “I’m Ina.”

  The girl was wearing blue jeans that hugged her long legs and looked just faded enough to be real American jeans, Levi’s probably. Hannah wondered if she was a daughter of one of the elites. Her hands were tucked in the pockets of a short, light fur vest, which looked real. Underneath it, she wore a tight tank top, revealing some cleavage, but no more than most girls.

  Normally Hannah wouldn’t talk to someone she didn’t know, but it was different when you were the only two girls at a border stop and you were leaving Moldova for the first time. “I’m Hannah.”

  “They are taking a long time today,” Ina commented.

  “This is my first time out of Moldova,” Hannah said.

  “I go all the time. My fiancé lives in Bucharest. He works at a four-star hotel.” Ina raised her sculpted eyebrows. “Do you want to see his picture?” Before Hannah could answer, Ina reached into her purse to pull it out. Hannah looked down. He had dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin, quite typical looking for a Romanian.

  “Nice,” Hannah said.

  “This is the hotel.” She pulled out a flyer with a picture of a crystal blue pool and a bar surrounded by red stools. “I could get you in if you want to hang out.”

  “Thanks,” Hannah said, standing up proudly, “but I’m flying to Los Angeles today.” As the words exited her mouth, she nearly gasped at her mistake.

  “Los Angeles?” Ina looked impressed.

  Hannah felt sick to her stomach. Olga had specifically warned her not to say anything about Los Angeles at this border. She wouldn’t have documents for America until she met the second agent. She looked at her watch, hoping the border people would get on with it before she made any more mistakes.

  “Do you know why they’re making us wait?” Ina asked, like she knew the answer.

  “No.”

  Ina tossed her hair back. “If they delay the bus long enough, they get a bigger bribe.”

  Hannah watched a robust village woman who was talking to a pregnant woman from the city. The villager bent over and spit on the pregnant woman’s belly, three times, for good luck. A British woman standing nearby brought her hand to her mouth, out of shock or humor, Hannah couldn’t tell which. Hannah groaned and wished she could tell the British woman that it was something only villagers did.

  “What are you doing in Los Angeles?” Ina asked.

  Hannah hesitated but figured Ina was just a girl her age. She wasn’t going to say anything. “I’m going to be a nanny,” she said, lowering her voice, though she was proud she didn’t need to tell her that she was working at the bazaar. She had a future now. She had possibilities.

  “Oh, well, that’s good if you like that sort of thing.” Ina stroked the front of her fur vest, over her breasts, as if it were a pet.

  “What do you mean?” Hannah asked, insulted.

  “Cleaning snotty noses is not my idea of a good time.” Ina looked Hannah up and down. “Listen, you’re a beautiful girl. You could make a ton of money as a dancer at my boyfriend’s hotel.”

  Hannah noted that he was her boyfriend now, not her fiancé. “No, thanks.” She laughed lightly, even though she felt her chest constrict. “I can’t dance.” She didn’t add that she was going to be making four hundred dollars a week in America for cleaning snotty noses and that it would shame her family if she were dancing half-nude in front of a room of men.

  At last, the official came back and turned on a light in the office area. The bus driver’s assistant brought the plastic bag with the passports to him and began calling passengers through the glass door, stamping their passports and sending them behind him, through a gate that led outside.

  As Hannah waited for her name to be called, she started to get more nervous about Ina. Something about how she’d come up to her and told her she could be a dancer seemed too forwar
d when they didn’t know each other.

  “Oh, Ina,” Hannah said casually. “Don’t say anything to the official, okay? About me going to America?”

  Something flickered behind Ina’s gaze before she smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

  The immigration official didn’t even look at her. He stamped her passport and she got back on the bus, then waited anxiously for Ina to return. Several passengers came before her, but finally Ina got back on, ran her finger over Hannah’s shoulder, and continued to the back.

  Stupid, Hannah thought. She had to be more careful than that. A few minutes later, the bus driver got back on and they continued into Romania.

  Just after ten in the morning, the brakes on the bus squealed like a chicken with its foot caught in a fence, and the bus turned into a rocky parking lot in a residential area on the outskirts of Bucharest where other buses were parked. They’d arrived at the main bus terminal, where the agent would meet her. Outside it was bright and sunny, a perfect day for flying to America.

  Everyone remained seated, waiting until the assistant said they could get off. Ina crept up from the back and plunked down into the empty seat next to Hannah.

  “Are you going to the airport right now?” Ina asked.

  “I think so.” She scanned the faces of the ten or so people who were waiting by the brick bus terminal building, but didn’t see any man wearing a leather jacket with a Romanian pin.

  The bus driver’s assistant yelled for everyone to get off the bus. Ina jumped up in front of the rush of passengers and tugged on Hannah’s arm. “Come on.”

  Hannah picked up her father’s suitcase and hurried out of the bus.