Trafficked (7 page)

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 forward 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.

The assistant started taking larger suitcases out from under the bus, but Ina didn't step forward to grab a bag, which was surprising because she had only a black purse. Perhaps her boyfriend had all her things. The passengers started heading off with the people who had come to meet them, but nobody approached Hannah.

“It doesn't look like anyone is here to meet you,” Ina said.

“No.” Hannah looked around, feeling anxious.

“Maybe he's gone,” Ina said. “We're over two hours late, you know. What did you say his name was?”

“Volva?”

Ina shrugged.

They stood for another moment and waited. Hannah started biting her lip.

“Are you sure you don't want to come with me? The hotel has a swimming pool.”

Hannah thought about all the work Olga had gone through to prepare her for the trip. They wouldn't have done that if they were going to leave her here. “No, thanks. I'll wait.”

Ina gave her a quick smile, spun around like a fashion model, and strode toward an expensive-looking black car. An older man sat behind the steering wheel, watching her. He wasn't her boyfriend, that was for sure, but this was a land of complicated relationships. He could be her father, her uncle, her pimp.

Hannah had to go to the bathroom after being on the bus for twelve hours, but she had no idea where it was. The black car was still there, and she could ask Ina, but she didn't want to. She hoped they weren't waiting for her. If the agent didn't show up, she'd just go back to Chişinău.

On the way to the bus depot in Chişinău, her uncle Petru had sat next to her on the minibus and he'd slid her forty American dollars. She'd stared down at it in stunned amazement. She'd never held that much money. He told her to put it in her pouch, and once she'd done that, he rubbed one hand on his balding head and told her it was for any emergency she might have, either here or in America. He'd cleared his throat then and told her she was always welcome at his home. It had been nice for him to say it, even if his wife didn't agree.

An older taxi driver was leaning against his taxi, watching her, a cigarette pinched between his forefinger and his thumb. She didn't like the feeling that everyone was just a little too interested in her. Finally she asked the cigarette seller where the bathroom was.

He pointed to the side of the main terminal building. She picked up her father's suitcase and hurried around the building to a set of crumbling concrete steps that led down to the public toilets. The stench made her stomach turn. At the bottom, two bathroom attendants were playing cards at a small table.

She paid the men four lei out of her bra, went into a tiny room with a toilet, and locked the door with the hook lock. She crouched and started to go to the bathroom.

Mid-pee, she heard a man calling her name outside. “Hannah?”

She hurried to finish, made sure her pouch with the documents and the rest of her money was hidden under the waistband of her pants, and then threw open the door. A man stood at the top of the stairs. He had a regular lean build, hazel eyes, dark brown hair, and white Russian skin. He was wearing a denim jacket. On his lapel was a small Romanian flag pin. The taxi driver came up next to him, smoking a cigarette.

“You Hannah?” the man with the pin asked.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I'm Hannah.”

“You were supposed to be waiting for me out here.” He spoke in a rough Russian accent and sounded irritated. He had to be the agent, even though he was wearing a denim jacket, not a leather one. She couldn't imagine most people wore Romanian pins on their lapels, and he did know her name. “Let's go.”

She ran up the stairs. “What's your name?” she asked, trying to be careful for once.

“Volva,” he said, giving her an appraising look.

He had one of those perfect noses. It had no bumps or curves, and the nostrils were evenly shaped.

They walked back toward the terminal. The black car was still there. Volva lifted his hand and Ina waved out the half-lowered darkened window. Hannah lifted her hand, confused, as the car drove off. It was like they were passing her off. From Olga to Ina to Volva. But perhaps it was just a coincidence.

“You know her?” Hannah asked.

He grunted an affirmative response. “Ina went on the bus from Moldova to make sure you arrived safely.”

“She didn't tell me that,” Hannah said, hesitating once they came up to the yellow taxi.

“It was safer this way,” he said, opening the back door for her.

“Why was it safer?” she asked, ignoring the door.

“If you knew it, maybe you would tell the authorities something.” He shrugged. “And you didn't need to know.”

She looked toward the black car disappearing down the road and back at Volva. Her heart was beating fast. Something felt wrong. Volva jerked his head impatiently toward the door. She hesitated, then climbed in the taxi and sat down on the cracked seat.

At least it was a taxi and not his own private car. A taxi was a luxury she'd never been able to afford in Moldova. Even taking a minibus cost too much for her family. The driver started up the car, turned on some traditional Romanian music, and headed down the road, not waiting for instructions. He already knew where to go.

“You have my documents and the plane ticket?” she asked, gulping down her fear.

“I do.” He flattened his hands out on his lap and stretched out his fingers, like a cat flexing its claws, and she noticed his fingernails were long, which was unusual, but at least they were clean and well groomed. She told herself this was a good sign.

While they drove, Volva told her what she should and what she shouldn't do when she was going through immigration at LAX. He bobbed his knees back and forth, and it distracted her, those knees jumping around, hitting her own legs on occasion. She barely paid attention to what he was saying.

At one point, he asked for her Moldovan papers, and she reached into her pouch and gave them to him. He didn't even look at them before shoving them in his pocket. Instantly, she regretted it, but there wasn't anything she could do to get them back until he was ready to give them to her.

The taxi stopped at the back of a long line of taxis outside the Romanian airport. Some of the drivers were leaning up against the taxis, chatting and smoking.

She felt nervous, but she knew she'd keep going. It would be too hard to go back to Moldova and admit to everyone that they were right. She held out a shaking hand. “You have the documents? My plane ticket?”

“First you have to pay me for my troubles,” he said, looking down at her waistband where her pouch with the forty dollars from her uncle was hidden.

“I have nothing.”

“I saw the money when you gave me the Moldovan passport,” he said. “Don't make me take it. Give it to me like a good girl.”

She hesitated and then reached into her pouch and handed over the money, praying that he'd give her the plane ticket and she could get out of the taxi, fast.

“Forty dollars? That is all?” He looked incredulous.

“I was told the family would pay you.”

He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “If you want to go to America, you will pay.” He unzipped his zipper. “But there are other ways to pay.”

Chapter Ten

T
he next morning in Los Angeles, Hannah stood in her loose underwear next to the gleaming white bathtub. She yanked out her elastic and shook out her hair. Still in her underwear, she stepped into the bathtub and examined the nozzle, trying to figure it out. It was an odd, high-tech thing with a lever.

She couldn't wait to have a hot bath. Plenty of people in Moldova had bathtubs, but her bathroom had had only a nozzle out of the wall. Maybe it had once had a bathtub, because there was a small hole in the wall where one could have been bolted long ago, but there hadn't been one as long as Hannah could remember.

The second most exciting part was the hot water. In Moldova, they'd had cold running water, like most other people. Some people had a boiler, but most people had a bathtub, so they could boil the water on the stove and fill it up. In her house, the cold showers she took in the summer were a rushed, panting experience that gave her chicken skin but left her feeling refreshed. In the winter, she didn't attempt showers. Instead, she heated up water in the kettle for warm sponge baths.

Ugh. Stupid nozzle.

The door rattled. “Elena?” Lillian was shaking the door. The pouch that held Hannah's documents was lying on top of her green blouse, right out in clear view.

Hannah hid the pouch under her blouse. “Yes?” she called.

“Do you know how to work the shower?”

She felt disappointed. A bath would have felt really luxurious, but a hot water shower would be a treat too. “I think so.”

“Unlock the door,” Lillian said. “I'll show you.”

“I can figure it out.”

“Open the door,” she ordered.

“I have to put on my clothes.”

“We're both girls,” Lillian said, laughing outside the door, with an edge of impatience in her voice.

“One minute.” Hannah tied the pouch around her waist and put on her blouse and jeans. She opened the door, and then realized, too late, that the pouch felt a little loose.

Lillian glanced at her hair—probably because it was dirty and the waves were all knotted from the ponytail she'd had her hair in for two days. Hannah walked to the shower to show her that she could figure it out—and to get Lillian out of the bathroom before the pouch fell off. Guessing, she tugged at the lever and water burst out from the shower. As she leaned forward, her pouch loosened. It was falling off! She jerked up and pinned her arms to her sides to hold it in place.

“Oh,” said Lillian, oblivious for once. “You know what to do. I thought maybe you would have had to bring water from the well.”

“I'm not from the village.” Lillian's brow furrowed, and Hannah realized she'd been terse. She felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead. “I mean, in the villages they use wells, but in Chişinău we have running water.”

“I forgot you were from Chişinău. Wasn't your father from a village in Transnistria?”

“Yes, he was,” she said. “How did you know that?”

“Sergey told me.”

But Olga hadn't known, and therefore Sergey couldn't know either. Hannah specifically remembered that Olga had assumed that her father was from Gura Bicului, just like her mother, and Hannah hadn't corrected her.

The pouch slid lower. Hannah held her breath.

Lillian backed out of the room. “Don't take too long.”

When the door closed behind her, Hannah locked the door and checked the pouch. It had come untied. That was close. If it had fallen, Lillian would probably have gotten rid of her on the spot, and then what would she do? She'd be in a strange place with no friends, no money, and nowhere to go.

She wondered what else they knew about her and how they knew it. Paavo had implied that Sergey had picked her out. But how? Olga had approached her with the job. She'd never applied for one, and she'd had her photo taken only to get her documents after she'd already been offered the job. It didn't make sense. Perhaps she'd misunderstood.

She put the pouch on the counter and glanced at the door, worried that Lillian had a way to unlock the door and that she'd burst in and see it, but then told herself she was paranoid. Still, when she took off her clothes, she put them on top of the pouch, just in case.

She got into the shower, and hot water pelted down on her skin like a massage in one of those European spas. The last thing she wanted to do was get out, but after a few minutes, she made herself turn off the water, get dressed, and put on some light makeup. She looked at her reflection and smiled. At last, she looked like a normal human being.

In the kitchen, she found Lillian sitting alone at the table, holding a single sheet of paper. “Better?” Lillian asked, with a kind smile.

“I was dirty after all that traveling.”

“You have very wavy hair,” Lillian said.

Hannah touched her wet hair. “I always wanted straight hair, like yours.”

Lillian waved her hand. “Oh, it takes forever to blow-dry so it doesn't look limp. Wavy hair, you can let it dry by itself and it looks beautiful.”

It sounded like this stunning woman had just complimented her, but perhaps she wasn't referring to her hair, just wavy hair in general. Hannah couldn't figure things out as quickly as normal. Her brain felt dull, maybe from the jet lag.

Lillian pointed to a plastic garbage bag by the entrance to the kitchen. “I found you some clothes that are more appropriate for work.”

Hannah glanced down at the bag and saw a large gray sweat suit on the top. For the summer?

Lillian continued, “And from now on, you won't need makeup. People here are very relaxed; they don't wear it, especially when they're taking care of children.”

Hannah nodded, confused. Was Lillian forbidding her to wear makeup or merely saying it wasn't customary?

“There's an alarm clock in the bag to help you wake up by six. Michael wakes up between six and seven. Have a seat.” Lillian gestured to the chair across from her, and Hannah sat down. “Eat,” she said.

In front of Hannah, there was a piece of toast on a plate. She looked at the toast, worried it had been left there from Sergey's breakfast. “Thank you,” she said finally, picking up the cold toast and taking a tentative bite. The toast was dry, like crackers. She'd never had toast like this before—her family didn't have a toaster, so they dipped bread in eggs or butter, when they had it, and fried it in a pan. “Where is everyone?” she asked.

“Sergey took the children to the park.” Lillian pointed to a small jar. “There is jam.”

Hannah put some jam on the toast and found that it was much improved. “Thank you.”

“Can you pour the tea?” Lillian said. A white porcelain teapot had been placed between two small white teacups on saucers.

“Oh yes!” Hannah jumped up too fast and her legs banged on the table, causing the empty teacups to clatter about in their saucers.

“Careful,” Lillian said.

Hannah reached for the teapot. It was heavy with tea and hard to hold because the handle was too small. She tilted it over Lillian's cup and the tea spilled all over the cup, the saucer, and the table. Lillian held the paper in the air, eyebrows up.

“Sorry,” Hannah said, rushing to get some paper towels from the hanging roll by the sink. “It must be the jet lag. I'm not ordinarily so clumsy.” She said this even though she was actually this clumsy. Her friends always joked about it and moved their beers away from her so she wouldn't knock them over.

“I called the airport. They didn't find the purse.”

This time Hannah made sure to look disappointed. “Oh no.”

“It's gone. Nothing we can do about it.” Lillian tapped her long pink fingernail on the glass table and lifted up the paper. “I've written down some rules. I think they are quite reasonable.”

Hannah wondered if she should be taking notes.

“Number one,” Lillian said. “You must wake up before Michael so that you can keep him quiet until we wake up at seven, and then you can make breakfast. We eat at eight in the summertime, seven thirty during the school year. I need to study all day, so you'll need to do the cleaning and occupy Michael at the same time.”

“What are you studying?” Hannah asked.

“I'm studying for the USMLE, the test that foreign doctors must take here in America,” Lillian said, rolling her eyes. It was a haughty gesture that Hannah didn't much like. “There are two tests I must pass, the USMLE Step One and the USMLE Step Two. Once I pass them, I'll get a residency at a hospital and I'll be paid as a doctor in America.”

Hannah felt disappointed. “I thought you were a doctor already.”

“I am,” Lillian said icily. “And I will soon be practicing in America.”

Hannah realized she'd touched a nerve and tried to make up for it, gushing, “I think being a doctor is the most honorable profession. One day I hope to get into medical school and become a doctor too.”

“What?” Lillian squinted at her, and the edges of her mouth curled up like something was funny. Had she assumed Hannah was some stupid village girl? “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

Hannah lifted up her chin proudly. “Pediatrician, I think. Maybe emergency room.”

Lillian said, “Hmm,” and looked down at her list. “Number two,” she said, clearing her throat. “The entire house must be cleaned every day, including the laundry. I like a shiny floor and a lemon smell in the house, and I don't like clothes to pile up.”

Hannah wondered how she'd get this lemon smell in the house. Her babulya used water to clean the counters and the floors, nothing more.

“Okay,” she said, even though she was getting worried. It wasn't that she was lazy, but she'd never done much housework or even noticed whether the apartment was clean or dirty.

“Number three—nobody is permitted to eat outside of the kitchen or dining room.” With that, she swept a few crumbs up from the table with her hand and dumped them onto her saucer. Hannah didn't know much about cleaning, but cleaning anything with your hand was bad luck. Her babushka and her mamulya always used a piece of paper or a cloth.

The list went on. “Number four—no telephone use. You don't have friends here, and it's too expensive to call Moldova.”

Surely she'd make friends, Hannah thought, but whatever. She'd find a pay phone.

Number five—she could not take the children out of the house without permission, and she had to get permission if she wanted to leave the house herself.

That was crazy. She should be free to go if the work was done. “Why?”

“We don't want you wandering around the neighborhood, announcing your presence. You are illegal, remember? If the police find out about you, they'll put you in jail.”

If she'd known about the fake documents from the beginning, she never would have come. “Will I be able to go to school?”

“School? The student visa was only to get you in the country, and anyway, you've lost it. You didn't really think you'd have time to go to school, did you?” Lillian asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Believe me, I've been trying to study for the last eight years. It's impossible to do anything when you have to clean a house and take care of children.”

Surely she'd have some time off. “But this is why I came to America.”

“I was under the impression you were here to work,” Lillian said, a wrinkle forming in the center of her forehead.

“I am,” Hannah said quickly, not wanting to upset Lillian. She thought of the four hundred dollars she'd make every week, money that would fix Babulya's eyesight. “But I could take classes at night.”

“Maybe. Let's see how you adjust.” Lillian took a slurpy sip of tea and continued. “Number six—turn off the air-conditioning when the children are not home. We're adults and we can sweat, but the heat is too much for them. And the garage doesn't have insulation, so you need to keep that door closed. I don't want to waste electricity.”

Hannah had never had air-conditioning in her life, so this wasn't a big deal. “Okay.”

Number seven. Stay out of the office.

Number eight. Speak only Russian to the children.

“Maggie speaks English very well,” she said tentatively.

“Exactly. We don't want her to lose her Russian.” Lillian gave her a firm look.

Hannah nodded. Maybe Lillian would relax over time.

“Rule number nine. We don't want any friends coming over, and we absolutely forbid boyfriends. Or boys you say are just friends.”

Hannah wondered how she'd make friends anyway, if she couldn't go to school and had to ask for permission to go anywhere. She thought of the boy next door. “Why not?”

Lillian looked up sharply. “A lot of you girls say you want to work, but you spend all your time looking for a husband.”

“I'm not looking for a husband.” This was the whole point of coming to America, so that she could support herself. If she married one day, it would be for love.

“And finally . . .” Lillian placed the paper on the glass table and flattened it with her hand. “Rule number ten. I don't want you hanging around Sergey. If he talks to you, answer him but look at the floor. He's a man, like any other, and he has male instincts.”

Look at the floor? “You don't have to worry about me. I'm not like that.”

“I'm not worried.”

Hannah thought of Paavo's warning to Lillian the night before and decided that must be why she was being so hard on her.

“The biggest part of your job is keeping Michael away from me. He's too attached, and I can't get anything done. I don't need any extra stress.” She cleared her throat. “I have to pass Step One in two months. You don't know how hard it is to relearn microbiology after you've been cleaning diapers and wiping noses for eight years.”

“I'll keep him occupied,” Hannah said. “Don't worry. You'll pass your test.”