Get the girl. He swung her to the bunk opposite the man, ready to grab her up again. Go home.
But she wasn’t his Katya.
The woman opened her mouth to scream.
He moved his knife to her. He stood before them both for an eternity.
“Where is this man taking you?”
“America. He is my husband!”
“Show her plane ticket.”
“What?” the man asked.
“Nyet! Now!”
She read the ticket and let out angry rapid-fire questions too fast for the man to respond to. Dima watched her rage for what seemed a full minute before regaining control.
“Enough!” Dima saw she needed only a little prodding.
Dima waved her to the door with his knife. Still covered in anger and tears, she grabbed her bag, and stomped past Dima. He lifted the man from his bunk and brought him to peer through the window, watching her run from the train, through the station, and away into darkness. Pushing the man towards the bunk, he backed himself out of the cabin and into the aisle.
“Go home,” Dima commanded.
He reached his taxi and sat for a time, watching the parking lot lights flicker their way into solid beams, one by one. Taking out the knife, he paused briefly to regret the need of it, then tucked it under his seat. Dima rolled down his window and leaned his head back, taking his cap off for a moment to wipe the sweat from his face. He turned his head to face up in resignation to the stars above. The moon was partially covered and illuminated clouds tinted in a toxic green and dark orange.
For the first time in many years he took time to smell the old air of salty sea mixed with fifty years of factory soot. From it he breathed in a moment of comfort. Dima truly loved Ukraine and his city. Despite how his youthful dreams and those of Ukraine had not turned out as planned. He straightened his small icon of Saint Augustine, almost smiled. A priest once told him something Augustine had said about the church. In the moment, he thought it fitting for his Ukraine. Ukraine, sometimes you’re a whore, but you’re still my mother. He lit a cigarette, started the engine, and pulled out his cell phone. Twelve messages from home. Dima pulled away from the station before calling.
“She’s home, Dima!”
“Da, I know. Good. Tell her I said she is not to leave the Kiosk tomorrow and I will get her for lunch. And no going to the hotel checking emails.”
Mariupol, Ukraine
Their train trip South had ended in Tokmak where Martin and Jenny were then loaded onto a bus with the rest of the group. A small crowded bus with passengers shoulder-to-shoulder and standing in the isles. It was an unexpectedly quiet 3 hour ride for Martin. Once in the town of Mariupol he began to reflect on the city that would be home for nearly a week. Almost eternally overcast and misty, it was now a sleepy former Soviet port of call in the Sea of Azov. It’s recovery from the Russian falling away of 1991 moved between slow and static. The mafia, known as Bratva (brotherhood), quickly filled the void of that time, growing in influence year by year until no one in the city operated completely disconnected from the Bratva. Especially government workers and bankers, who would come to dominate all nowadays.
Three taxis awaited them at the train station to take them to their hotel and then to the orphanage. Martin and Jenny had been assigned to the oldest looking taxi. Martin had to keep his luggage on his lap because the car had natural gas tanks stored in the trunk. But it was worth it when they found the driver, Dima, so pleasant and approachable.
“I take you through Old Town. Best results.”
He gave them a tour of the city that was compelling and detailed. The short ride to the orphanage was almost fun for Martin.
The orphanage of 300 children, or more at any given time, was a principle example of government ministry bonding with the Bratva, police, and business. Through the façade of respectability all the town became a stage. Martin Johnson was aware of none of this when he first walked through the front gates of the local orphanage and under a sign reading ‘Boarding School’. Scanning the condition of the complex made Martin wonder at how good the classes were inside.
An administrator met the small mission team at the broken concrete front steps. Only having been in-country for three days, Martin was still not used to the ever-present brokenness. He had thought it would end in Kiev, in the next taxi or building or town. Or maybe a government waiting room would have new furniture. Or around the next street corner or bend in a road he would see something intact, complete. Nothing.
None of this increased any hope in Martin for the condition of the young broken-hearted people he expected to soon encounter. He stood in the back of the group to wait out the introductions, being the typical quiet kid in the back of the class. When not being the smart-aleck in the back of the class.
The woman was obviously important enough to meet them, but he had learned from customs control at the airport to here, and every stop in between, that every place in Ukraine had an inner-sanctum. A place where someone waited impatiently to exercise power.
The Administrator stood formally in her flowered dress, the cool wind pressing it against her wide frame. Her prematurely aged face, mouth with smiling rows of gold teeth below dark piercing eyes, combined to be cunning in an odd way. She, as so many older government workers, had stalled in time somewhere around the Brezhnev period in fashion and demeanor. The woman finally walked them into the building.
Martin slowed, taking in the view of the large system of rusty external pipes that ran along the building in straight lines. In bad need of paint, they broke pattern only at the doorway. The grey and brown brick ran without order up three stories and about a football field along the length of the building. Spotting government buildings was easy as all were designed without a care for any form of aesthetics. The low standards set to allow residual tax monies to flow through the government official’s bank accounts, had not yet stopped overwhelming him.
Dodging intermittent bursts of child crowds, fending off the noisy attacks in front and from behind, they walked the long connecting hallway towards the director’s office. The meeting was different than others in that the official was quick to be gregarious after the formalities ended. She showed off all the trophies “her children” had won and scores of artwork. Her office was like a giant family refrigerator.
Martin noticed his team leader suddenly become embarrassed, staring at his feet. It seemed to Martin that only he and that man were aware that the director was odd to show so much and force them to page through her photo albums with her. Martin understood this woman’s tears and attending compliments to the ‘good Americans’ were cheap theatre. He supposed she was attempting to up the ante of their eventual donation.
The meeting, as so many did for him at his work, turned to a background noise for his thoughts. Martin moved unnoticed across the large office to the seat near the window.
Jenny followed him and took his hand.
Movement outside on the unkempt soccer grounds caught his attention, pulling his interest like gravity. He watched the lone girl slowly kicking a torn and patched ball about the gravel and grass of the courtyard field. Solitary, head down, she managed the ball skillfully, controlling it at all times.
She was troubled by something, angry and sullen. He had caught that impression generally when walking the hallways to the director’s office. Some of the children looked that way; the child in them was ripped clean away leaving behind