“Are you waiting for me?” the woman asked in Russian, sounding surprised.
“I am,” Christianna answered in German, hoping they would find a common language. Usually, in cases like that, it was English or French, and she was fluent in both. “I can wait.” She wasn't going anywhere and didn't want to interrupt. The senior Red Cross member excused herself, patted one woman's arm consolingly, and stepped aside to where Christianna stood.
“Yes?” It was obvious that Christianna was neither a local nor a parent. She looked too clean, not disheveled enough, her clothes were still neat, and she didn't have the worn-out look that everyone else had all around them. The strain of watching the scene unfold had taken a toll on them all. Even the soldiers had cried as they brought back the bodies of the children who had been shot.
“I would like to volunteer,” Christianna said quietly, looking calm, quiet, self-possessed, and competent in the way she addressed the older woman, who had no idea who she was.
“Do you have Red Cross identification?” the woman asked. They had settled on French. The woman in charge looked like she had been through the wars, and she had. She had helped to wrap the bodies of dead children, held sobbing parents in her arms for two days, tended wounds until the paramedics could get to them. She had done everything possible since arriving there within two hours of the attack, even served coffee to exhausted, crying soldiers.
“I'm not a Red Cross worker,” Christianna explained. “I flew here today from Liechtenstein with my two … friends …” She glanced at the two men beside her. If necessary, she would volunteer as a humanitarian emissary of her country, but she greatly preferred to do so as an anonymous individual, if they would allow her to help on that basis. She wasn't sure they would. The older woman hesitated, looking at Christianna carefully.
“May I see your passport?” she said quietly. There was something in the woman's eyes that gave Christianna the feeling the woman knew who she was. She opened the passport, glanced at the single Christian name, closed the passport again, and handed it back to her with a smile. She knew exactly who Christianna was. “I've worked with some of your British cousins in the African states.” She didn't mention which ones, as Christianna nodded. “Is anyone aware that you're here?” The young woman shook her head. “And I assume those are your guards?” She nodded again. “We can use the help,” she said quietly. “We lost twenty more children today. They just made another request for prisoner exchange, so we may be seeing some more casualties in a few hours.” She signaled for Christianna and the two men to come with her, stepped up into their truck, and came back with three faded arm bands. They were running out. She handed them to Christianna and her men, and they each put one on. “I'm grateful for your help, Your Highness. I assume you're here in an official capacity?” she inquired in a tired, gentle voice. There was something so kind and compassionate about this woman that just talking to her was like an embrace. Christianna was profoundly glad that she had come.
“No, I'm not,” Christianna answered. “And I'd rather no one know who I am. It gets too complicated. I would appreciate it if you would just call me Christianna.” The woman nodded and introduced herself as Marque. She was French, but spoke fluent Russian. Christianna spoke six languages, including the dialect spoken in Liechtenstein, but Russian wasn't among them.
“I understand,” Marque said quietly. “Someone may recognize you anyway. There's a lot of press here. You looked familiar to me the moment I saw you.”
“I hope no one else is as astute,” Christianna said with a rueful smile. “It ruins everything when that happens.”
“I know it must be very difficult.” She had seen press feeding frenzies like it before, and agreed with Christianna that if no one knew, it would be simpler for them all.
“Thank you for allowing us to work with you. What can we do to help? You must be exhausted,” she said sympathetically as the woman nodded.
“If you go to the second truck, we need someone to help make coffee. I think we're almost out. And we have a stack of boxes we need to move, with medical supplies in them, and bottles of water. Maybe your men could help us with that.”
“Of course.” She told Max and Samuel what was expected of them, and they quickly disappeared toward where the boxes were, as Christianna headed to the second truck, as directed by Marque. Her bodyguards were reluctant to let her go alone, but she insisted she would be fine. There was so much armed protection in the area that she was certainly not at risk, whether they were with her or not.
Marque thanked her again for her help, and then walked away to check on some of the women she had been talking to before Christianna arrived.
It was hours before Christianna saw her again, while she was handing out coffee, and later bottles of water. There were blankets for those who were cold. Some people were sleeping on the ground. Others sat rigid or sobbing, waiting for news of their loved ones inside.
As Marque had predicted, the terrorists' demand for prisoner exchange had a violent outcome within almost exactly three hours. Fifty children were shot and thrown from windows of the school by hooded men. The bodies of the dead children flew to the courtyard below like rag dolls, as people screamed, and finally the soldiers were able to retrieve them under heavy fire to cover them. Only one child was still alive when they brought her back, and she died in her mother's arms, as soldiers, locals, and volunteers alike stood by and sobbed. It was an atrocity beyond measure. And it wasn't over yet. By then nearly a hundred children had died, almost as many adults, and the terrorists were still in full control. A rabid Middle Eastern religious group had taken responsibility for the attack by then, with ties to Chechen rebels. It was a joint effort to have thirty terrorists released from prison, and the Russian government was standing its ground, much to the anger of the crowd. They preferred to have thirty terrorists released, and spare the lives of their children. There was a sense of despair and helplessness around them everywhere in the crowd, as Christianna stood with the other Red Cross workers and sobbed. What was happening was beyond imagining.
She had done very little since she arrived, other than hand out water or coffee, and then suddenly she saw a young Russian woman standing next to her crying inconsolably. She was pregnant, and holding a toddler by the hand. Her eyes met Christianna's then, and as though they were long-lost relatives, they fell into each other's arms and cried. Christianna never knew her name, and they shared no language in common other than the bottomless sorrow caused by watching children die. Christianna learned later that she had a six-year-old in the school, who had not as yet been seen or found. Her husband was a teacher there, and he had been one of the first fatalities of the previous night. She was praying that her son was still alive.
The two women stood side by side for several hours, alternately hugging and holding hands. Christianna brought some food for the two-year-old, and a chair for the pregnant woman to sit down, while she continued to cry. There were so many others like her that it was hard to distinguish them in the crowd.
It was after dawn when soldiers in commando uniforms told them to clear the area. The entire group of waiting people and workers had to move well back. No one knew what was happening, but the terrorists had just made what they said was their final demand. If that one was not met, they said they were going to blow up the entire school, which seemed entirely plausible by now. They were people without conscience or morality, with no value whatsoever for human life, apparently even their own.