Notes from My Captivity(31)

I shriek.

She jerks back, eyes wide. Slowly she peels back my coverings to reveal my injured arm. The sight of it seems to concern her. She strokes the air above my arm and coos to it. Finally she rises to her feet and leaves me alone. I hear her calling outside in what sounds like normal Russian, and I begin to feel afraid again. My body begins to tremble. I wonder if, even in my state of pain and exhaustion and fear, I should get up and try to run. Then the voices, growing louder, come toward the door.

One of the voices is deep and harsh.

My heart rises into my throat as the family rushes in, surrounding me. I shiver under the blankets as fear rushes through my body. And yet the reporter in me can’t help but take in every detail as I stare up at the faces.

An old lady. The mother? Her eyebrows are bushy, nose sharp, mouth slightly twisted. Her gray hair is pulled back and covered by a simple kerchief. Her eyes contain not a drop of warmth. This must be the mother—although mother is way too soft a word to describe any part of her.

I drag my eyes away from her to a man who looks angry enough to own the angry voice. His glowering stare and crazy locks remind me of a possessed Maine coon. His beard is so thick that it’s almost impossible to tell his age. But his expression tells me his mood and he’s not in a good one.

Beside him stands a younger guy, the one who chased me until I fell into something—a pit? I can’t be sure. He has more of a curious expression—something approaching awe, as though I am a great mystery, a meteorite, or a wounded unicorn. I can see more of his face. His skin is paler than the others. His eyes, a lighter color. The young guy doesn’t look quite as wild as his older brother. Stripped down to a pair of board shorts, he could be a vagabond in Venice, California, who dropped out of college to surf. It’s hard to say what he looks like under his beard, but I suspect he would be considered what one calls handsome in a land that puts a value on such things.

He’s dressed head to toe in burlap like the rest of his family. They all smell vaguely of pine.

I decide right then not to move a muscle or say a word. Perhaps my stepfather and I were spared because we were quiet and sleeping, and not loud and insulting the gods with rock ’n’ roll. I feel the urge to break into tears, I’m so frightened, but I’m afraid tears will anger them somehow.

Clara points to me and coos, “A-drum.” And I have a sudden memory of my father, who grew up on a farm, once telling me he named the chickens in the hope they wouldn’t be slaughtered.

“A-drum,” the younger man repeats as his brother glares at him and barks out an admonition in Russian, gravelly and rough. The whole family begins arguing, except the mother, who stares coldly down at me, and I can’t take this anymore.

I shut my eyes tight and wait for them to decide what to do with me. The words bounce into my ears, growing louder. I don’t understand any of the words; they’re running together so fast. I just know that I should make myself as small and still as possible, to let them know I am not a threat. I’m just a girl who means no harm, a girl who’s stumbled into the wrong place, in the wrong century, a girl who just wants to go home.

The older brother’s voice dominates now, making some kind of case against me, by the tone of it. I don’t know what manner of death he is suggesting, but I hope it is merciful and leaves no marks, like whatever they did to the others. A heart-stopping poison or quick strangulation or merely some muttered curse.

Two tears escape and run down each side of my face. I’m not going to just lie here in terror and have my fate decided. I have to speak for myself.

I open my eyes and utter a single word. “Osinov.”

The family stops arguing. They look down at me, astonished, and I feel a very tiny spark of satisfaction through the fear, wishing that Dan was here to see them in person, even though I have no idea what’s in store for me.

I keep talking. I speak their language, everything I remember from the guidebooks, leaning on the wrong syllables, consonants crashing into vowels, verbs instead of nouns, the grammar of a rabid parrot. I make no sense at all. I don’t care.

“Do you think it will rain? How old are you? I’m from America. Can you please speak more slowly? I am looking for a restaurant. How old is your dog? Here is my passport. Which way is the hotel?”

They listen. They have no choice. I won’t stop talking. People are strange when you’re a stranger, and my goal is to be less strange. More like them. Because maybe they could sneak up and kill a bunch of obnoxious Russians encroaching on their territory, but they will not be able to harm this quiet, hurt girl who looks up at them and asks them to please bring the check. It’s a one-way conversation that means nothing and everything; I want to survive. I want to live to tell the tale, and by the time I finally run out of Russian, I’m really crying. Tears pour down the sides of my face as I ask them if they take credit cards.

Clara reaches out to me, gathers a tear on a fingertip, and holds it up to the light from the tiny window. I imagine she doesn’t have many distractions here or sources of entertainment. A stranger’s tear will have to do. The angry brother mumbles darkly but seems confused. The others simply stare.

The woman finally speaks, which draws the respectful attention of the rest of the family. I have no idea what she’s saying, but the tone sounds reasonable. She could be telling them to have mercy on me because I am so young and so harmless, or she could be giving them instructions on how to tenderize my meat. Whatever it is, the family seems to be in agreement, nodding along, except for the older brother, who gestures at me and snarls out something that sounds distinctly hateful.