'Til the End of Time

by Sabra Brown Steinsiek

  “She will be just another example of how the Americans should be treated. You’ll probably get another chance to prove yourself. Come. Let’s get her in, so I can leave.”

  * * *

  He’d ordered a storage room to be made ready and the woman was deposited in there. She was filthy, covered with dust, with what looked like bits of building debris caught in her long red hair. They’d left her there in the dark on a pallet of blankets and locked her in. A guard was posted outside the door, then the man who had dumped her on his doorstep had left as suddenly as he had come.

  He had never faced anything like this. Getting involved with the cause had been a natural thing, something he believed in. He wanted his country back, the Americans gone. Because of his English schooling and his acceptance in high circles, he’d been recruited and groomed for just such a moment.

  Now that it was here, he was not sure what to do. Violence had never appealed to him and he’d never approved of hostage taking. No one person could be responsible, and representative, of the enemy, but here she was in his storage room. A problem. A test. A responsibility he did not want.

  At the evening meal, he told his wife of their new guest. “She will be yours to care for, Amala. Even if she is our prisoner, I do not want her mistreated.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he stopped her. “Our future depends on this, moja ljubav. Do not ask me questions. Do not answer hers. Keep her well, befriend her. That’s all I ask.”

  Amala nodded silently. This man she married, her childhood sweetheart, asked little of her. This she could do.

  Chapter 21

  She woke to a ringing in her ears and a pounding in her head. For a moment, she lay very still, trying to remember, before she opened her eyes. An accident? Something happened…Chris…Rhen…shop…a loud…Her eyes flew open as she remembered the explosion, the hail of bricks and debris, the feel of someone dragging her away.

  She couldn’t see anything. Everything was as dark as it had been before she opened her eyes. Dark and silent as the…her hands flew out to check, as remembered horror stories of being buried alive rushed into her head.

  No walls. Nothing to touch against. Overcoming her panic, she slowed her breathing and tried to think past the pain in her head.

  She did a quick inventory of her body. Her feet were free to move, her legs intact. Only her head seemed to be hurting.

  Her biggest fear then was that she was blind—the darkness was so complete. She strained to see around her and was finally rewarded when she saw a line of light, probably the bottom of a door. She was not blind, then! Her breath rushed out in a relieved sigh.

  Not dead, not seriously hurt. But her isolation in the dark room couldn’t be a good sign.

  She became aware of a huge thirst. Her mouth was so dry. She tried to speak but all that came out was a whispered croak. Trying again, she was able to manage a soft “hello?” but there was no response.

  She tried to sit up but the pain in her head was overwhelming and she sank back flat again. She was lying not on a floor, or even a bed. Maybe a cot? Or blankets? The pounding in her head increased and she moaned softly as she shut her eyes again and drifted back to the relative safety of sleep.

  * * *

  A smell of food and soft perfume woke her again. She struggled to open her eyes, discovering that this time there was a dim light. A young woman wearing native dress and a headscarf sat beside her, smiling softly. “Shh!” she whispered as she took a warm scented cloth and carefully washed Laura’s face and hands.

  “Popiti,” she said in an accented but musical voice. “Drink.”

  “Thank you,” Laura whispered. “Thank you.” She looked into the dark eyes of her savior and asked, “Where am I? What happened?”

  “Don’t talk,” the woman said. “Eat.” She slipped her arms around Laura’s shoulders and helped her to sit up and lean against the wall that had been only inches away when Laura had scrambled to feel it before.

  The woman spooned some broth into Laura’s mouth and waited for her to swallow. “Good?”

  “Very good,” Laura answered. The pain in her head was receding as she leaned against the cool wall. She could feel the warmth of the liquid in her stomach and obediently opened her mouth for another sip.

  She began to tremble after a few minutes of sitting and the woman said, “Enough. Sleep. Rest.” She began to return things to a tray, readying herself to go.

  “Wait, please!” Laura said. She reached out to the woman and touched her arm. “Please…where am I? What happened?”

  The woman looked fearfully toward the open door then shook her head and gathered up her tray and left the room.

  Laura sank back against the wall and began to cry. “Wait…” she whispered. “I need to know…”

  But there was only the silence again, and the tiny strip of light across what Laura had seen was little more than a cell. Something had gone terribly wrong.

  * * *

  She had no concept of day or night in the darkened room. While the woman returned many times to feed her, she never spoke more than a few words and never answered Laura’s questions. But her hands were soft, her brown eyes kind, her words gentle, and Laura began to look forward to her visits, sleeping in between. Time was passing, she knew, but she had no idea how much. It was easier to slip into sleep than to fight.

  * * *

  When she finally awoke clear-headed for the first time, she was in a different room. This was bigger, there was a window, and Laura reached out to the sunshine that flooded in. Bracing herself against the wall, she pulled herself up to stand on weakened legs and leaned against it to make her way to the window. The fresh air was wonderful. A gentle breeze blew in, along with the sounds of a distant street. She heard chickens somewhere below and someone singing.

  “You are awake? Dobar. Good.”

  She turned to see the woman coming through the door. Two other women followed her carrying buckets of water and a small tub. “Oprati?” she asked, gesturing to the tub. She paused for a moment then said, “Bath?”

  Laura was suddenly aware that she was wearing only a white, simple, gown of some sort and she was filthy. There were scratches on her arms and legs and good-sized bruises.

  “A bath would be wonderful,” she said.

  The woman smiled. “Oprati. Let us help.”

  The three of them stripped her down to her skin and she stood in the small tub as steaming water was poured over her. Laura stretched and laughed at the pleasure of the clean water and her handmaidens laughed with her. But her laughter died when she realized there was no glint of gold on her finger.

  “My ring!”

  “Ring?” Amala asked.

  “My wedding ring. It’s gone!” She held out her hand to show the pale patch where her ring had been for nearly twenty-five years.

  “You had no ring when you came. It must have been izgubljen. Lost. I will gladly give you one of mine to replace it.”

  “No,” Laura said sadly. “Only Taylor could replace it.”

  “Zao mi je. Sorry. Stići, let us finish your bath.”

  They washed her hair and wrapped her in towels then sat her in a patch of sunlight. One woman cleared away the buckets and tub, while another brushed her hair. The woman she had come to think of as her savior fed her tea and fresh bread.

  The one drying her hair was making soft sounds of surprise and chattering softly to the first.

  “What is it?” Laura asked.

  “Your hair. She says it is the color of her cat. It is very beautiful.”

  Laura smiled at both of them. “Please. My name is Laura. Tell me yours.”

  “I am Amala.”

  “Amala, can you tell me where I am?”

  A look of fear crossed her face and she gestured to the other women to leave. “I cannot tell you more than I have said. It is zabrajen
. Forbidden.”

  “Who has forbidden it? Amala, my family must be out of their minds with worry! Do they know where I am? Do they know I’m alive?”

  Amala shook her head. “I cannot say. They will come for you soon. Dress,” she said, indicating clean clothes on the cot in the corner.

  “Who? Who will come for me?”

  Amala only looked at her, again shaking her head, before she turned to the door and Laura heard the thud of a heavy bolt being driven home.

  With that sound, she knew that as kind as Amala had been, she was still Laura’s jailer.

  The sun had moved and she was suddenly chilled. She stood and made her way to the cot, pulled on the unfamiliar clothing, then waited for what was to come.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before she heard noises outside the door. The harsh screech of the bolt sliding back was followed by the thud of the door slamming open against the wall. Two men— two very large men—stood there clutching rifles.

  “Nadoći!” one of them growled out, gesturing with his hand that she should come with him.

  Laura was frozen with fright and couldn’t seem to make her legs move.

  “Nadoći!” he snarled again. When she still did not move, he came over and took her roughly by the arm and pulled her along with him.

  They went down seemingly endless hallways then up a flight of stairs to a pair of highly decorated wooden doors. The other man knocked sharply then threw the door open, while his companion pushed Laura forward.

  She was surprised to find herself in a tastefully appointed office. The floor was covered in a rich carpet; the windows were hung with silk draperies. In front of a heavily carved desk were two chairs. Her guard pushed her roughly into one of them, then stepped behind the chair, within reach should she try to move. The other man closed the door and stood in front of it, blocking the exit.

  Then a door to the side of the room opened and a man in a stylish suit came in. Automatically, Laura noted the details, her reporter’s mind always in gear. Five-foot-eight or nine, impeccably groomed with a close-cut dark beard, his mouth was firm, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. She was prepared for halting English like Amala’s, but she jolted as he addressed her in perfect English.

  “Mrs. Morgan, I am glad to see you looking so well after your ordeal,” he said as he dismissed both the guards with a gesture. “May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?” He seated himself in the other chair. “What might I get for you?”

  “Information would be nice,” Laura said, “like where I am and who are you?”

  He laughed. “I had heard you were a no-nonsense kind of reporter.”

  “Where am I and who are you?” she repeated.

  “All in good time, Laura…may I call you Laura? And you may call me…call me ‘Ishmael’. It’s as good a name as any.”

  “Fine. That’s one answer. What about the other? Where am I?” Despite her fear, her temper was rising.

  “Actually, you are a guest in my home.”

  “You keep all your guests locked up?”

  “A minor thing. Necessary when one of my guests might prove reluctant to stay.”

  “Fine. I don’t need to know right now where I am. I do need to contact my family.”

  “That will be impossible.”

  “But they must be out of their minds wondering where I am!”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Not really. There was an explosion but that’s all I remember.”

  “You were in a shop…outside the back, actually, looking at a fabric color in the light, I believe. Unfortunately, someone chose that moment to set off a car bomb just outside the door where your photographer and the little girl were waiting.”

  Laura’s hand flew to her mouth. She remembered. She’d run into the shop to look at a dress for Rhen. Chris had been waiting with the sleeping child. “Chris and Rhen! Were they hurt?”

  “Your son-in-law was hurt, but not seriously. The little girl was shaken but uninjured.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  He rose and went around the desk, picking up a pile of newspapers. “It’s been a week since the bombing, my dear. Perhaps you’d like to see the Times from the next morning.”

  He handed her the papers and she saw her own photograph below a dark headline.

  REPORTER KILLED IN BOMBING

  She looked up at him in confusion. “They think I’m dead?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Your husband came with your daughter to pick up Mr. Flynn. They were quite devastated.”

  “Taylor’s here?”

  “No, not anymore. He and your daughter and son-in-law left this morning to return to the United States.”

  “Please, he must be going crazy. I need to call him, let him know I’m alive!”

  “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. For all intents and purposes, you are dead and I intend to keep it that way while you do a little favor for me.”

  “What? Are you crazy? What do you want?”

  “Now, don’t be impatient. I think that’s enough for today. Take the papers and read them. It will help the time pass.”

  “Vrati je!” he said to the guards and, without another word, he exited the room through the other door, even as Laura was pulled to her feet.

  * * *

  He waited until he was sure she was gone from his office before he reentered. It wasn’t in his nature to be cruel. It had been hard to hurt another human being that way. He would never forget the look in her eyes as she saw the headline.

  * * *

  Laura sat on the floor in her cell, newspapers scattered around her. She was weeping softly. “Dead. They all think I’m dead! Annie must be heartbroken. And my parents. Can they live through losing their only surviving child?” Unconsciously, she rubbed the finger that felt bare without her wedding ring.

  She looked up at the window with its small patch of blue. “I promised Kat I’d be back,” she whispered. “I promised.”

  She picked up the paper and looked at the picture of Betta and Taylor leaving New York to come here. She knew him well enough to see the strain in his eyes and face. He was only holding it together for Betta. What he must have been thinking…what he must be thinking now!

  “Oh, God, Taylor, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She collapsed onto the bed and gave into the grief and despair that filled her heart.

  * * *

  She woke to the increasingly familiar sound of the bolt on the door scraping open but she didn’t move. She didn’t really care if it was the guards or Amala. All she could think of was the pain her family must be feeling.

  “Laura?” Amala sat beside her on the bed.

  “Who is he, Amala? Why is he keeping me here? Why is it that my family can’t know I’m alive?”

  “He is my husband. I am forbidden to tell you his name. As for the answers to your other questions, I do not know. He has not told me why he is doing this.”

  “Can you tell me where we are?”

  “Please, don’t ask questions. What I can tell you, I will. Here, sit up. I have something for you.”

  Laura sat up and leaned against the wall. “I’m not hungry,” she said sullenly.

  “I think perhaps you will be hungry for this,” Amala said as she put a slim black case in Laura’s hands.

  “My purse! Where did this come from?”

  “It was brought in with you and left in the storage room. I did not think he would mind if you had it.”

  Laura opened it eagerly. It carried only a little local money and, amazingly, her passport, but held treasure in the pictures of her family she always carried. Tears ran down her cheeks as she looked at the faces of those so dear to her.

  “Amala, thank you. This means so much to me.”

  “I thought it
might make you less usamljent…lonely?...to have them near. You will tell me who they are?”

  “Oh, yes!” Laura moved on the bed so Amala could sit beside her. The two women bent their heads over the pictures as Laura identified each one and, for a moment, her fear was forgotten.

  When Amala left, Laura sorted through the few things in her purse, hoping that her wedding ring was in there somewhere. It wasn’t, and the knowledge that it was truly lost was devastating to her. She had never taken it off since Taylor had placed it on her finger and she felt the loss deeply.

  * * *

  Amala made her way to her husband’s office. She went there rarely. His business and activities were a separate world he lived in. She wanted to know as little about it as possible.

  “Amala! What brings you here?” he asked as the door closed behind her and she slid the scarf from her head.

  “It is the American. I’d like permission to move her into my quarters.”

  “I don’t think that is wise.”

  “I think that it might be,” she argued. “It is not good for her to be alone so much. It only strengthens her… riješti?

  “Yes, her resolve, Amala.”

  She nodded. English was so complicated but, with her husband’s help, she was learning.

  “If she were to have more freedom,” she continued, “a more normal life, perhaps she would grow accustomed to us and be more amenable.”

  “Not to mention,” he said with a smile, “she has become your friend and you can never stand for anyone you care about to suffer.”

  “That is true. Please, razmotriti ovo za mene.”

  He came to her and kissed her forehead. “I will consider it, Amala.”

  Having done all she could, she returned to her part of the house, hoping that all that was good in him would win.

  Chapter 22

  Taylor shut the door to their bedroom behind him. The apartment was finally quiet and he leaned against the door, taking it in. Everything had been so noisy and busy for the last few days that he felt as if he’d been battered. There had been so little time to think…to grieve. Now, finally, a moment of peace in all the insanity. He leaned against the closed door, savoring the silence.