Can't Let Her Go

Katya

The old church is completely deserted. I huddle into my coat in the freezing air and slip into my usual middle pew. The wood is so cold it seeps right through my clothes and chills my skin. I try to close my eyes and pray, but it is impossible. My mind is full of a thousand whirling things.

“Hello, Katya.”

Recognizing the voice, I snap my eyes open and get to my feet. “Good morning, Father.”

The priest beams at me. “How are you, child? You will be leaving soon for America, won’t you?”

I resist the urge to take a step back. I have never fully trusted him and tried my best to avoid him since he lifted me onto his lap when I was six years old and I felt something hard between his legs as he bounced me on his thighs. “In three days,” I answered softly.

Father Georgiou nods. “You must be very proud of yourself. It is a great opportunity for you and a wonderful thing for your parents, not to mention for our village, and this blessed Church.”

I bow my head in the customary gesture of respect. “Yes, Father.”

He fingers the cross at the end of his rosary chain. “Well, tell your parents I might pop in tomorrow at teatime. I have a special treat for them. They deserve it. They are giving up their eldest daughter for the good of our community.”

I smile politely. “Yes, Father.”

“You won’t forget us when you are in the land of milk and honey, will you?” he teases, a twinkle in his eye.

“Of course not,” I say solemnly.

“Good.” His face becomes suddenly grave. “Because your parents will be very sad if you do.”

“I’ll write back all the time and send money when I can.”

He nods and looks pleased. “Good girl. I know you’ll make us all proud.” He takes a deep breath. “Right. I better be off. I need to prepare for my morning sermon tomorrow. Continue with your prayers, child, and I’ll see you at your parents’ house.” He raises a playful eyebrow and waggles his index finger as if I’m going to turn eight and not eighteen in three days. “You never know there might be a little gift for you too.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The sound of Father Georgiou’s hard, black shoes echo in the silent church as I sit down and bow my head. The sound stops when he passes into the inner chambers.

I bow my head and make another attempt at prayer. Of course, it is a great honor and a wonderful opportunity for me. I have been told many times that I should be grateful I’m good-looking enough to have been chosen to represent my village. Once I have done my duty, I will be offered a well-paying job. To that end, I have been taught to speak English from the time I was entered into this program.

But I can’t help thinking that in three days, on Delivery day or D-day, I will be sent off to America as if I’m no more than high-end, carefully cultivated livestock. Like one of those Japanese black cows that become Kobe beef. No one will say it out loud, but that is exactly what I am. Raised to fulfill a rich man’s desire. The only thing anyone in the village knows about him is his first name. Anakin.

It’s been like that for almost forty years in my village. A girl on her eighteenth birthday is given away every five years. During other years, girls from other villages fill in the gap. I’ll be the eighth girl from Sutgot.

When I was twelve years old my parents sent pictures of me, and to their delight I was accepted into the program. Since then, they have been getting a monthly stipend which is supposed to continue for the next ten years and from that day onwards, not a day has passed when they’ve not reminded me of my obligation to remain pure and unsullied. My entire value is based on that.

I tell myself I should be happy because I am helping my parents. If not for me, it would be very hard for them. They are hoping to move away from Sutgot. They want to go to the coast where it’s warmer. My father is already thinking of sending my sister’s photo when she turns twelve.

There is a shuffling sound behind me and I look around to see someone else has entered the church.

Mrs. Komarov nods at me and goes to light a candle. She is wearing the standard kerchief around her head, but hers is silk. I suppose she can afford it since it was her daughter who had her D-day five years ago.

I shut my eyes and give prayer one last chance, but my mind simply isn’t here. I don’t think God is listening to my prayers, anyway. If He were, there would be no delivery day for me. Eventually, I slip out of my pew and head for the exit.

To my surprise, I find Mrs. Komarov waiting just inside the exit. She looks anxious and frightened. “Katya,” she begins, a tremor in her voice, “I feel I need to warn you.”

I feel the hairs at the back of my neck rise. “Warn me?”

“Five years ago, it was my Saskia that went away. She was a good girl, a very good girl. In all the five years, I’ve never once heard from her. She was not that kind of girl. She would not forget her family. She would let us know she’s alive. We raised her better than that.”

I swallow the fear. “Do you mean to say you don’t know what happened to her?”

“I spoke to the parents of the girls from the other villages and they have all never heard from their daughters once they go, even though they are all not bad girls who would never forget their mothers.” She glances around nervously. “You must be careful. You must be on guard. The truth is no one knows what really happens to our girls once they leave Sutgot.” Mrs. Komarov glances over her shoulder as if someone might be listening. She grabs my hand and squeezes hard. “You must not forget your mother and your father. You must let them know you’re all right. And if you meet my Saskia, you must tell your parents, so th

ey can tell me. Please, please, please, promise me, you will do this.”

She is so desperate and half-crazy with fear I can’t help pitying her. “I promise,” I tell her. “I promise to let my parents know. And if I find Saskia, I’ll make sure you find out.”

There are tears in her eyes, and she opens her mouth, but can’t find any words to say. Suddenly, she pulls me close and kisses my forehead. She smells of lavender powder. Her body is trembling and I get the feeling she thinks she’s sending me to my death. In her mind D-day isn’t Delivery-day, it’s Death-day.

Then she crosses herself and hurries out the door.

I stand frozen to the spot, staring at her. If all those parents didn’t hear from their daughters, that means—that means—it’s not all sugar and happiness on the other side. I knew Mrs. Komarov’s daughter. A good girl. Why in the world wouldn’t she write to her mother? It didn’t make any sense at all.

My knees are shaking as I walk home. I dare not even—I should talk to my parents. That is what I should do, but they already have the money from the program, and they are expecting more.

Oh, God—what is going to happen to me?

Katya

My parents smile as I enter the house. My mother is embroidering a tablecloth and father is watching TV. His cheeks are already rosy with vodka. I know exactly what my parents expect. To hand over a virgin girl who is as innocent as a newborn. I’m a virgin, but I’m not innocent.

I know about sex, well, about how sex should work, anyway. I’ve watched a couple of old German blue movies with Russian subtitles. My friends tell me that real sex isn’t like that. They say real sex doesn’t involve guys with giant penises and girls whose eyes roll back in their heads as they climax.

In fact, my best friend, Irina says she has heard the whole act from start to finish only lasts about five minutes. It is wet and horrible, and the girl who told her about it said it didn’t do anything for her. She’d rather bake a cake. I don’t know about that, though. My body ached after I watched that first movie about the plumber and the housewife in the little apron.

“Father Georgiou said he might pop in tomorrow at teatime,” I announce to my parents.

My mother beams with pride and pleasure. She considers it a blessing when the priest comes to our home. “Oh, good. I’ll make his favorite biscuit for him.”

“Mama, can I talk to you?”

“Of course you can. What is it, dear?” she asks kindly.

“Can we talk in the kitchen, please?”

My father turns his head back to the television.

My mother gives me an odd look. “Of course.” She carefully sticks her needle into the cloth and gets up.

I lead the way to our little kitchen. There is a big pot of Solyanka on the stove and the kitchen is full of the warm, comforting smell of beef stewing in sweet sour broth. I turn around to face my mother.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Mrs. Komarov approached me at the church.”

My mother sniffs. “What did that old gossip want?”

“She wanted to tell me that her daughter has never written to her ever since she left,” I whisper.

“Hardly surprising. She’s probably having such a good time in America, she has no time for that wet blanket and her constant grumbling and her—”

“Mama,” I interrupt fiercely, “she said she had spoken to the other families who had joined the program and none of them has ever heard back from their girls.”

My mother frowns. “What are you saying?”

I shake my head. “Something is wrong. Why would none of the other girls contact their families to say they are all right? I don’t think we should continue with the program, Mama.”

My mother closes the door. For a moment, she stands very still facing the closed door, her shoulders bowed. Then she walks to a wooden chair and sits down.

I stare at her as she gazes at the floor. The seconds tick by, neither of us speaks. The only noise is the muted sound of the television in the front room and the bubbling of the Solyanka.

Then Mama lifts her head and looks me directly in the eye. “I don’t believe that woman. I have always thought she is a mean-spirited, jealous, malicious liar. She doesn’t want our family to have the wealth that her family have received that she enjoys until today. If it is true that she believes something bad has happened to her daughter and there is something sinister about this program that the Church supports why does she not go to the police? I’ll tell you why. She doesn’t because then …” She lifts her right hand and rubs the tip of her thumb against the rest of fingertips. “The lovely money will stop.”

“But Mama—”

Mama shows me her palm. “I’m not finished.”

I snap my mouth closed.

“She may think I am stupid, but I am not. I know exactly why she made up this story. She poured poison into your ear less than a week before you leave because she was trying to scare you. She was hoping you will bring shame and dishonor to our family by reneging on our promise. But she won’t succeed. Her daughter is an ungrateful brat who took the first opportunity to abandon her parents. We raised you better than that. You are a good daughter. You will not forget or forsake your old parents, will you?”

I swallow hard and drop my eyes. “No, of course not.”

“Good. Then we will talk no more about this. We will not give her the satisfaction of knowing you believed her even for a second. We gave our word and we have been living on the money from the program ever since. There is no way to back out of it.” She stands, walks over to the stove, and starts to stir the pot of food. “You might as well go and fetch your sister and brother from the park. Lunch is almost ready.”

Like a wooden puppet, I walk to the back door and open it. A blast of freezing wind tugs at the scarf around my head. I quickly pull the hood of my coat over my hair and close the door. In the distance, I can see my brother and sister playing with their makeshift sleigh.

My mind whirls as I start trundling through the thick snow towards them. There is a tight ball of tension in my stomach. I know Mama really believes Mrs. Komarov is a liar, but I saw something in Mrs. Komarov’s eyes. I know she wasn’t lying. Something is wrong. I know now that I can no longer rely on my parents. They refuse to see what is as plain as the noses on their faces.

My sister, Tatyana, is the first one to spot me. “Katya is back,” she shouts and starts running towards me.

I watch her run, her face wreathed in a big grin. As she gets closer, I see how rosy her cheeks are from playing in the snow. It hits me like a speeding truck. In another year, she will be twelve and my parents will be enrolling her into the program.

She reaches me breathless and panting. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you ate a bear’s ass.”

“Ugh … don’t talk like that. If Mama hears she will be furious.”

“Mama is not here, is she?” she counters cheekily. “Anyway, why do you look so upset? Is it because you will be leaving in a few days and you’re going to miss me much too much?”

I pretend to grin. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. Mama wants both of you to come in for lunch.”

“Oi, Butt Head,” she screams at my brother. “It’s feeding time!”

Hunter

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQTHB4jM-KQ

Eddie-the-mooch stumbles out of O’Malley’s tavern and because he is drunk, he doesn’t see me. That’s good because I don’t feel like running him down. Not that I couldn’t. He’s a little fast, but he’s no match for me, especially when he is drunk. He shuffles off toward his home, which happens to be an upstairs room in his sister’s house. If I were her, I’d kick him out and count myself better off. She must have a soft spot for the little weasel.

It takes me twenty seconds to catch up with him and grab his arm. I make like I’m helping him stay upright, but I’m really keeping him from making off like a track star. “Eddie, what a coincidence. Good to see you.”

; He glances at me, and the blood runs from his face. He knows what this is about. Weasels always know when the fox has them cornered. “Hunter, hey, Hunter,” he says. “Great to see you, great. How’s it going?”

“It’s going great for me,” I reply. “But I’m not so sure about you.”

He blinks as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. That’s one thing about weasels, they can put on the right face no matter what.

“Don’t go soft on me,” I tell him. “If you can’t figure it out, that will just make things harder for you.”

His eyes bulge. “Harder, how?”

“Well, going back and explaining why I’m here, well, that could take a lot more time. The more time I have to spend, the less patient I become. When I’m in a real hurry, well, things sometimes get out of hand.”

I can feel that Eddie is getting ready to bolt. He’s searching for a way to distract me, just for a moment. If he can lead me off the path for a moment, he’ll take off. He doesn’t care that I’ll catch him. Desperation is starting to sober him up fast. It’s a nice night. You couldn’t tell it was already December.

“Hey,” Eddie says. “You got a smoke?”

I give Eddie exactly what he wants. I let go of his arm. Eddie is candy.