She was reborn to a different life, where no one cared if she lived or died as long as she produced. Her first memories were of her tiny hands making knots for rugs, her body serving the much larger hands of others. It did not matter if she were three or four or five-and to this day she did not know her age-she was touched by so many she no longer cared or noticed. Unless there was pain. But that was not often. As long as she did as she was told.
Teacher shut her eyes and squeezed the photograph.
She was a trafficked slave and learned as a child to avoid beatings by understanding orders in whatever language they were given. She could not read more than a few hundred words, and not all in the same language, but she could do her sort of commerce in a dozen languages. She was the interpreter for those who did not understand the requests, the demands, the orders of their owners and customers.
But she became more than that. She grew to be ruler of her peers. Her slight, incorrect translation of a requested act would lead to a beating. A more serious error on a vital direction could lead to death. It did not take many such mistakes for the others to realize she must be obeyed. And those who understood that her words were wrong dared not intervene to correct. They appreciated her power and the simple principle by which she ruled: Do as she said or surely die.
It was no different a rule than all enslaved lived by. It was as she was taught, and she followed that teaching by whatever means required to better her horrible life. She became the unquestioned leader of her tiny captives’ universe, but never allowed a hint of her power to reach those who truly ruled her life, for they would have ended hers at once. She ordered others to abuse her in the presence of her captors, so they thought her weak and bullied. It was a dangerous game she played, but it was how she survived-and thrived.
Still, she knew it wouldn’t last, it never did. She was a chattel, no more no less, and all that would keep her safe was her own power. She could not let that fade. She found lieutenants with no desire to command but who relished executing their master’s orders as ruthlessly as necessary to maintain power.
From those she controlled who knew how to read, and magazines left by those they served, she learned to read French, Italian, German, Russian, and English.
And she was lucky, too, for she was not one of those girls forced to lie upon a cot in a shantytown taking on all comers until she died, or lost her value as a whore and ended up a laborer in some other’s hands, until she died.
Yes, lucky because she was attractive and desirable to men of great wealth and power. She knew how to communicate with them, to be obeyed, and to please them. She earned large sums and favors for her captors. And they let her travel to places she knew existed only from the magazines. They never feared her return because if she ran away she knew they would find her, and death would be the most merciful end she could expect for such a foolish act. But as long as she pleased her clients she lived a life beyond her dreams.
She had another bit of luck. She did not menstruate until almost seventeen. Otherwise she’d have been a mother by no later than fourteen. She remembered the moment she first bled. She cried, for she knew what it meant. It was the first sign of her imminent fall from grace. She’d seen so many children birthing children in captivity lose whatever vestige of unreasoned hope they still held for their lives.
The fate of a child was a particularly effective means for controlling the mother. Many, certainly all who cared, soon turned into old women, not so much at first in their bodies but most definitely in their souls, watching helplessly as their captors plucked and priced their children for market as any commodity. But she was free of that manipulation, at least until then.
Teacher opened her eyes and put the photograph back on the desk.
I knew what I had to do, I had no choice.
He was a policeman. A widower. He said he was in his forties, but she knew he was older. He protected the men who owned her and many of those who paid for her company. She knew he liked her. She let him think that she liked him too. Nothing sexual, that would have been too easy and ended his attraction to her with an orgasm. No, she interested him with her mind, listening to every word he said, commenting on his every thought in the most flattering of ways, and making sure to refer back to other things he’d said in other conversations.
Three months of this led to a weekend away together. Three more weekends led to a marriage proposal. She told him there was no way her captors would let her go. He told her not to worry.
The wedding was private but her captors attended, smiling as if they’d been family. She had escaped. She was free.
He was a kind man. He encouraged her to learn. She went to school, and she graduated. She attended college. Never did she look at another man. She was committed to her husband and their two children. Yes, she’d become the mother of two beautiful sons.
Teacher closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against them.
Vladimir. And his rambunctious, mischievous brother.
She pressed harder.
My lovely Sergey.
She was in a class when they came to her home. Her husband had many enemies. They cut his throat, severed his genitals, and stuck them in his mouth. They did the same to her two beautiful boys. She did not know who did it. It could have been any of many.
She found them when she came home. She sat among them only for minutes, then packed her bag and left. There was nothing more she could do for them. She did not attend their funerals, for by then she was no longer in that city or that country.
She fled to lose herself, leaving behind all her papers and whatever else she thought could be used to trace her.
She became a nameless refugee in a foreign land. And, in time, experienced a revolutionary new emotion. Freedom. She no longer feared death, and with that discovered liberty, took absolute control over her life for the very first time.
She dropped her hands to her lap and looked again at the photograph.
She made friends among the many like her that she met in shelters and on the streets. She’d lived their lives, spoke their languages, and they bonded. They shared their pasts, spoke of future hopes, and did what they could to protect themselves in the present. They stood shoulder to shoulder. They spoke up. They organized against those who would harm them. They made things happen.
She taught them how to overcome and unite, weaned their fears into strength and their innocence into power. In return they called her “Teacher.” That was far more than this once stolen child ever dreamed of achieving.
Then came the money.
Chapter Ten
Wacki would have chosen any number of hotels on the island over the one Teacher picked for Sergey. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the place; it just seemed out of touch with the vibe Wacki saw as Mykonos.
The Asteria was among the first hotels built on Mykonos after World War II and one of many across the country financed by public funds in an effort to promote Greece’s tourist economy. It remained government owned but operated under a lease between a Mykonian and the ministry of tourism. The building was of Greek government design not traditional to Mykonos, most notably in its balconies and three-story height. But the hotel sat at the rear of the property and, painted all white with traditional Mykonian blue trim, blended in relatively well with its surroundings.