Trafficked (6 page)

“Undo your top.”

Hannah hesitated, looking down at Maggie. “Can she—?”

“Maggie, go to your father.” Reluctantly, Maggie walked over to the rug, and Lillian stared at Hannah, waiting.

This was her body, Hannah thought, her eyes watering. This woman had no right.

But still, she undid the top buttons on her blouse, revealing her old beige bra, which was one size too big and had a hole in the lace, and once again she felt ashamed.

“More,” Lillian said.

She gulped down the saliva gathering in her throat and undid two more buttons, all she dared. Any more and Lillian would see the top of the pouch above the waistband of her jeans. Hannah slid the few sweaty lei out of her bra. In Moldova, lots of girls kept spare money in their bras, babushka style.

“You can see I don't have them.”

Lillian cupped the outside of her bra, feeling for the documents. She was just inches above the pouch. Hannah sucked in a nervous breath.

“It's okay. I'm a doctor,” Lillian reminded her, speaking softly as she dropped her hands.

Hannah promised herself that when she became a doctor, she was never going to use that as an excuse to touch someone. “The documents are in my purse,” she said, stepping back to do up her shirt, glaring at her. “If I had them, I'd easily give them to you.”

Lillian was staring at Hannah's hands as she fumbled to do up the buttons.

“What do I need them for?” Hannah said, her voice shaking. “I'm already in America.”

“My wife thinks she is a lie detector,” Sergey said, laughing from his spot on the pink and blue rug. “She should have been in the secret police. She is always looking for the lies.”

“I am not,” Lillian said, rolling her eyes. Then she looked back at Hannah and spoke to her in a quiet voice, too low for Sergey to hear. “Did someone hurt you?”

The question was so out of the blue, it startled Hannah. She blinked at her.

“You are bruised.” Lillian pointed at her chest, above her bra, where there were purple and red marks on her skin.

Hannah's eyes teared up. “I'm fine,” she said, stepping backward. Her hands shook as she forced the buttons into the too-tight buttonholes, covering herself up. She didn't want to talk about that.

Lillian was silent for a moment. Finally she said, “We'll call again about your purse in the morning.” Lillian picked up the plane ticket and frowned, turning to Sergey. “Didn't you pay a lot more than this for the ticket?”

Hannah, dizzy from exhaustion, found it hard to follow what Lillian was saying. How could they have paid even more? The plane ticket was over eight hundred dollars.

“The fees included the ticket, the agent's fee, and the documents,” Sergey said. “It was cheap, really, considering.”

“Cheap? Besides the fee, he charged extra for everything, even the ticket.”

Was she talking about the bad agent?

“You are in charge of the money,” he said, shrugging as he sauntered out of the garage.

“Come on, children. We have to let Elena sleep,” Lillian said, waving them out.

She was still holding her plane ticket. Hannah tried desperately to figure out what she could say to convince Lillian to leave it with her. There was nothing.

“G'night,” Maggie said to Hannah.

“Russian,” Lillian barked.

“Mo-om,” Maggie said, heading out to the hall.

Lillian flicked off the light and walked out, carrying the plane ticket with her. Hannah climbed into the sleeping bag with her clothes on, rested her head on the musty-smelling pillow, and looked around the too-dark garage. She was with a good family, she told herself. It didn't matter if they had her plane ticket. She could have done worse, she thought, thinking of the bad agent and that hippopotamus, their friend Paavo. A lot worse.

Chapter Nine

T
wo 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 spend 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.”