WE WALKED INTO THE OFFICE WHERE MAMA WAS SITTING. That was how Mama had dreamed of this reunion, her daughters walking hand in hand, as we had when we were little.
The room where Mama awaited us was a dull shade of brown. The one window in the room had also been painted brown. There was no way of knowing what it had once looked out on. The walls were unadorned, the picture of The Leader having been removed and not yet replaced with whatever the new government would deem appropriate.
Mama gazed eagerly at the girl as we walked in. “Your eyes are so brown,” she said. “Like Isabella’s. Like mine.”
“Sit down,” I said, gesturing to one of the straight-back chairs that faced Mama. The girl eased herself into the chair. Her posture was flawless, her right hand cupped by her left, her ankles crossed demurely.
“My Maria,” Mama said. “I’ve longed for this day since the soldiers took you.”
The girl nodded sympathetically but said nothing.
“Were you treated well?” Mama asked. “Were they kind to you?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “My parents loved me and cared for me.”
“But they weren’t your parents,” I pointed out. “You were stolen from our family. You must have known that. What did they tell you?”
“Papa explained it to me,” the girl replied. “Mama had been taken ill when I was a baby, and I was given to one of our servants to look after. The servant ran away with me, and sold me to some villagers. Papa and Mama searched four years before they found me, and when they did, they brought me home.”
“And you believed them?” I asked.
“They were my parents,” the girl said. “Why should I doubt them? Besides, I knew what servants were like. They would do anything, say anything, for an extra morsel of food.”
I looked up at the wall, where the portrait of The Leader had hung. “All lies,” I said. “All of it, lies.”
“So I’ve been told,” the girl replied politely. “But of course I had no way of knowing.”
“For months, soldiers came to houses,” Mama said. “Every village for miles around. There was nothing we could do to stop them. The soldiers knew who lived in each house, how many children there were. To hide even one child meant death to everyone in the family. If an entire family went into hiding, all the children in the village were killed. And each day, the rules were different. One day, in one village, the soldiers took all the firstborns and sent them to the slave camps. The next day, it could be babies, sent to a death camp. The day they took you, they took four-year-olds. They had our records. They knew your age. They took you.”
“Do you remember?” I asked. “The soldiers taking you away?”
The girl nodded. “They were kind to me,” she said. “They played games and told me jokes.”
“You were a happy little girl,” I said. “I remember how we used to run to the fields together. I was two years older, so I always outran you, but you never minded. Bobo ran with us. How you loved that dog.”
The girl’s face lit up. “Doggie,” she said. For a moment, I could glimpse the child she had been.
“Then Christian would find us and bring us home,” I continued. “You’d ride piggyback, laughing all the way. Christian was twelve, and we adored him, the way little girls worship their big brothers.”
“The people who took you,” Mama said. “The general and his wife. Did they have other children?”
The girl shook her head.
“With no brothers, no sisters, you must have been lonely,” Mama said. “Did you have playmates at school?”
“It was too dangerous for me to go to school,” the girl said. “Mama taught me piano and embroidery. My governess taught me everything else.”
“Did you have pets to play with?” I asked. “A dog like Bobo, maybe?”
“Papa kept guard dogs,” the girl replied. “But they were for our protection. There were assassins everywhere, and kidnappers and murderers. Once, Mama and Papa and I were walking home from church, and a man sprang out of the bushes. He was too fast, even for our bodyguards, but the dogs lunged at him and tore him to pieces.”
“How terrible for you to have seen such a thing,” Mama said. “I would have covered your eyes to protect you.”
“Children see worse every day,” I said sharply. “The man was a stranger to her, not her father.”
“Pay no attention to Isabella,” Mama said to the girl. “She was always jealous of you. You were far prettier, the prettiest girl in the village. And even though you were two years younger, you were smarter as well. Now you have a fine education, lessons from a governess. Isabella can’t even sign her own name.”
“That wasn’t my choice,” I said, trying to keep my anger under control. “All the village children were forced to work in the fields, seven days a week, from sunrise past nightfall. Sometimes I prayed to be taken to a slave camp. There, I’d heard, the children worked just as hard, but were given food daily to maintain their strength.”
“No one makes you work in the fields now,” Mama said. “But I don’t see you picking up a book.”
This was an argument Mama and I often had. Before The Leader had seized control, every village had had its own school, and Mama and Papa both could read and write and do sums. But I’d come home each night too exhausted to learn, and even if I’d wanted, it was too dark in our house for study.
I turned my attention to the girl. “We’ve asked you questions,” I said. “But you’ve asked us nothing. Surely there’s something you would like to know.”
The girl nodded. “After I was taken,” she said, “did you wonder what had become of me? Did you try to find out?”
“Of course we did!” Mama cried. “All of us who’d had our babies stolen from us. Do you think we were heartless? Do you think it meant nothing to us to lose our children?”
The girl lowered her head. “I was taught that the villagers and the slum dwellers were like animals,” she said. “It was the responsibility of people of the educated classes to see to it rules were followed and order maintained. Animals can’t think for themselves. Animals have no feelings.”
“We had feelings,” Mama said, but her voice was gentle and loving, as it always was with Maria. “There were rules for finding out what had become of our children, and we followed them. All children were kept alive for thirty days after being taken. The mothers from all the local villages went daily to the town hall, hoping we’d be told where our child was. There was no way of knowing which mothers would be let in. Some days, none were admitted.
Other days, one, two, ten mothers, would be shown in by the soldiers. The mothers weren’t supposed to talk to us when they came out, but still you heard things. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, if your child had been sent to a death camp, you could negotiate. If you offered another of your children, that child and the one taken by the soldiers might be sent to a slave camp. We had no illusions about the slave camps. Children there were often worked to death. But there was no hope for a child sent to a death camp.”
“Were you ever admitted to the office?” the girl asked. “Were you told what had become of me?”
“One day, the soldiers selected eight of us to go in,” Mama said. “Over three weeks had passed. The mothers who were selected fell to the floor, weeping in gratitude.”
“I never cry,” the girl said. “People who cry are ungrateful and should be regarded as enemies of The State.”
“I didn’t cry,” Mama said. “Other mothers did, but I didn’t. Did I, Isabella? Have you ever seen me cry?”
“Never, Mama,” I replied. “Not since the day the soldiers took Maria.”
Mama and the girl both stared at me.
“Not that day either,” I corrected myself.
The girl smiled. “You knew The State wanted only what was best for its people,” she said. “The Leader was most kind and loving to the lowest of the low.”
Mama looked at me. It was as dangerous now to agree with such a sentiment as it had been to deny it just weeks before.
The girl must have taken Mama’s silence to mean accord. “What happened next?” she asked. “When you were let into the town hall. Were you told right away what had become of me?”
“A colonel sat at the desk,” Mama said. “All the town officials had been executed, and the colonel was now in charge. He gave us permission to tell him our names. Then he pulled out eight files, one for each of our taken children. We begged him to tell us what was in the files. We swore we would do anything to keep our children alive.”
“These were the animals who had no feelings,” I said to the girl, but she paid me no heed.
“The colonel made each of us swear our gratitude to The State for taking our children, our fealty to The Leader, all wise in his decisions,” Mama continued. “We swore to that. We would have sworn to that and more to keep our children alive.”
“So you swore falsely,” the girl said. “Or did you believe The Leader was all wise, that his decisions were always the right ones?”
“I believed my Maria had been seized from me,” Mama said. “And that I had one chance and one chance only to find out what had become of her, perhaps to save her life. I’m sure the woman who raised you would have sworn what I swore, what the women by my side swore. And the colonel was satisfied. He believed us, he said. We were loyal citizens, worthy of being told where our children had been taken. But there were papers to be signed, protocol to be followed. He could only reveal the contents of the files if we came in the next morning with our entire families, our husbands, our children. Our husbands would be needed to sign the papers, and our children, in case there was any negotiating to be done. We fought among ourselves to be the first to kiss his hand, and then he dismissed us.”
“And the next morning, you all came,” the girl said. “And the colonel told you what was in each file.”
“We all came,” Mama said. “With our husbands and children. We presented ourselves at the town hall, and were escorted to the colonel’s office. There he sat, as he had the day before, flanked by a dozen soldiers who served as his guards.”
“He had no need for dogs,” I said. “His soldiers were fast enough.”
“Shush,” Mama said to me. “Maria has no interest in your version of this story.”
“It is a story,” the girl said. “But do go on.”
“The colonel told us he was a very busy man,” Mama said. “He would get to us when he could, but we were to stand there, not moving, not making a sound, until our time came. The colonel had slave laborers to fan him, to give him food and drink; and the soldiers, of course, were used to standing at attention for hours. Yet we did as we were told, and didn’t move. Finally, a little boy, our neighbors’ youngest son, began crying. He was only two, and he was tired and hungry and hot. We all were, but he was the youngest, so he cried. The colonel gestured with the quickest of nods, and one of the soldiers left his side and bayoneted the boy.”
I looked at the girl to see her reaction. But I didn’t know her well enough to read the emotions on her face.
“The boy’s parents, his brothers and sisters, were taken outside,” Mama said. “The colonel ordered a soldier to open the window so we could hear their death cries. Then he returned to his work. We continued to stand, terrified the sound of our breathing could lead to our slaughter.”
“The room filled with flies,” I told the girl. “Attracted by the little boy’s blood. Mosquitoes stung us mercilessly.”
“One of the mosquitoes stung the colonel,” Mama said. “A child laughed. Isabella, I think.”
I didn’t deny it.
“The colonel was enraged,” Mama continued. “First we had interfered with his work. Then he’d fallen victim to our vermin-laden bodies. Our disrespect for him proved our disloyalty to The State, to The Leader. The parents threw themselves at his feet and begged for the lives of their children. The soldiers stood there watching us, laughing.”
I heard that sound every night before falling asleep. The buzz of the flies and mosquitoes. The howling of the parents. The laughter of the soldiers. That had been my lullaby for the past ten years.
“The colonel ordered the parents to get up and stand with their children,” Mama said. “The Leader was merciful, he said. The State benign to all who lived there. The soldiers stopped laughing, and we felt the faintest glimmer of hope.”
“The Leader was merciful,” the girl said. “The State benign. Only those who deserved it were ever punished.”
“The colonel instructed the fathers to pick one child from their family to die,” Mama said. “They weren’t to speak, just to select a single child. The colonel was benevolent and we were given permission to say farewell. Each child was kissed by their mama and their papa, while their brothers and sisters watched in silence.”
I sat there remembering the feel of those kisses, the last time either of my parents had kissed me.
“The colonel turned to the seven of us,” I said, the story now mine to tell. “He asked if we understood what our fathers had done, what was going to happen. Two of the children were too young to answer, but the rest of us said we did. He said under ordinary circumstances he would tell the soldiers to kill us swiftly, but because one of the children in the room had laughed when the mosquito stung him, the soldiers would be instructed to prolong our deaths so that we could suffer as he had suffered. He asked if we agreed with the justness of our punishment, and we said we did. He asked us then if we were willing to thank him, as the representative of The Leader, The State, for the agonizing pain we were about to endure. All of us, even the little ones, thanked him.”
“And the colonel showed you mercy,” the girl said. “He let you live. He must have because you’re sitting here, in this room with me.”
“He showed us mercy,” I agreed. “He let us live. But he said he still needed a demonstration of our loyalty. He told each of the seven of us to pick one of our parents for the soldiers to kill. Our mother or our father. The decision was ours. We were to kiss the parent we selected for death. I kissed Mama. I kissed her twice so the soldiers would understand who I’d picked to die.”
“It was a test,” the girl said. “Another test. Mama is here, the same as you are. The colonel showed all of you mercy.”
I shook my head. “All the other children wanted their mothers to live,” I said. “Papa was told to stand with the six mothers, while the other fathers and Mama stood by the children. But the colonel played a joke on us all. He ordered the soldiers to bayonet the six mothers and Papa. The parents we’d chosen to live were the ones who were killed. The colonel laughed along with the soldiers as our parents lay dying on the floor. He pointed out to the seven of us that our parents had sanctioned our deaths. Not a single one had murmured a word of protest when he’d described the horrible fate that awaited us. Then he pointed out to the parents left alive that their children had chosen them to die. Now, he said, we could understand why our loyalty must be only to The Leader, to The State.”
“The colonel told us to dip our fingers in blood and make a mark on our child’s file,” Mama said. “One by one, he told each father that their missing child had been sent to a death camp, and because of the disloyalty we had shown today, there could be no negotiations. Finally he got to my darling Maria’s file. She alone was safe, adopted by a family with position and power. Her beauty had saved her.”
“We were pariahs after that,” I said. “Of all the mothers in the room, only Mama had been allowed to live. Of all the children taken, only Maria was allowed to live. None of the villagers would talk to us, not that day, not for years.”
Mama spat contemptuously. “They were always jealous,” she said. “Of Maria’s beauty. Of mine.”
The very next day, I remembered, Mama had made a new friend. The colonel came over, and within weeks, Mama was friends with the other officers as well. As she aged and her beauty faded, her only friends were the soldiers stationed in our village. But even the lowest of soldiers had more power and position than any of the villagers, and Mama was given food, clothes, protection.
I was given nothing. The day after Papa’s death, I was sent to the fields, along with all the remaining children, to work for the little food my family was allotted. Mama took her share from me, while I got nothing from her friends the soldiers, until I was old enough and they befriended me as well.
The partisans sensed my bitterness and anger, and, knowing I was in a position to hear things, recruited me. I spied for them before I knew what the word meant, and I fought alongside them. Sometimes, in spite of my exhaustion, terror, and grief, I even laughed with them.
Our success came slowly and at great loss. But the glorious day arrived when The Leader was finally taken down. Soon his generals and their families were executed. I danced in the blood of the soldiers who’d died loyal to The State.
Only because of me was Mama allowed to live. We made our own peace, united by her dream of reclaiming Maria.
“And where was Christian during all this?” the girl asked unexpectedly. “Our brother who we adored. Was he at the office with the families and the colonel? Did he pledge his fealty to The Leader? Did he watch along with you while Papa was killed? Why haven’t you mentioned him?”
We were silent.
“I’ll tell you why,” the girl crowed, her eyes gleaming in triumph. “Because there was no Christian! We had no brother. You invented him to trap me.”
I turned to Mama and laughed. “She found us out,” I said.
“I said she was smarter than you,” Mama said. “You’re right, my darling Maria. There was no son. I had only the two daughters: Isabella, who wished me dead, and Maria, my little beauty.”
“I knew it,” the girl said. “We were told you’d tell us lies, trying to catch us in your web of deception. And if one thing you said was a lie, then all things you said were lies. There was no colonel, no soldiers. True, I was taken. I remember that. But you were told immediately what had become of me. You were glad to see me go. It meant more food for you. Everything I was taught was true. You are no better than animals. You have no human feelings.”
“There was a colonel,” I said for Mama. “There were soldiers. I picked Papa to live and watched as he was killed. Mama grieved for you every single day. I’d come home at night, exhausted from fourteen hours of labor, and Mama would say she’d strangle me with her bare hands for a moment’s glimpse of her precious Maria. Does that mean she has no human feelings?”
“It does,” the girl said. “No mother would ever say such things. My mama never would have.”
“Mine did,” I said. “She said that and worse. But you’re right about something. We did tell lies. We had no other way of knowing if you are Maria, her daughter, my sister. All the files were destroyed by the soldiers before The Leader was overthrown.”
“I’ve proven I’m Maria,” the girl said. “I knew there was no Christian.”
I smiled sadly at her. “You’re not Maria,” I said. “Not our Maria, at least. There was no son named Christian. But there was no Bobo either, no doggie. We had no dogs, no pets. Even before The Leader took power, we had no money for pets, no food to spare for one.”
“But I remember my name was Maria!” the girl cried. “And I remember doggie.”
“That could be,” I said. “Or it could be you’re lying. Either way, you’re not one of us.”
I must give the girl credit. Her eyes glistened, but no tears rolled down her cheeks. She had learned her lessons well.
I got up and walked to the back door of the office, the one painted the same dull brown as the walls, to make it less visible. I knocked twice and a partisan came out.
“Take her,” I said.
The partisan grabbed the girl. With his strong right hand, he pinned her arms to her back. With his left hand, he covered her mouth to muffle her sounds of protest.
“Where to?” he asked me.
I looked at Mama.
“I thought for sure she was my Maria,” Mama said. “She looked just as I remembered my darling daughter.”
“Just the eyes, Mama,” I said, gently touching her cheek with my work-roughened hand.
Then I turned to the partisan. This time I had no trouble reading the girl’s face. There was terror in those brown eyes, not defiance.
“I don’t know who she is,” I said to the partisan. “But I think she is one of the taken. She should go to a reeducation camp. She might be salvageable.”
The partisan nodded and dragged the girl back through the hidden door.
“What number was she?” Mama asked. “How many have we seen today?”
“Five,” I said. Two I’d had sent to reeducation camps. I left the fate of the other three to the partisans. Perhaps they were dead already. There was a constant rumble of gunshots outside, but with the office window painted brown, there was no way of seeing who they’d chosen to kill and who they’d kept alive for their entertainment.
“Five,” Mama said, with a sigh. “You’re a fool, Isabella, not to be able to spot my Maria. How many more are left?”
I walked over to the anteroom door. Using the fingers of both hands, I counted. “Seven,” I said, looking at them. Seven brown-eyed girls, all about fourteen years of age, sitting with perfect posture, their hands neatly folded in their laps, their ankles demurely crossed. Any one of them could be my sister Maria. But it was just as likely Maria was dead, executed along with the general and his wife, who had stolen her.
“Look for the prettiest one,” Mama instructed me. “Maria was a beauty, the prettiest girl in the village. Don’t look for girls with plain faces like yours, Isabella. Bring me my beautiful daughter Maria, so that I may hold her and kiss her, as I’ve dreamed of doing every day, every night, for the past ten years.”