“Good evening, Frau Whitney,” the guard at the checkpoint entrance said before she could show him her passport. Protruding ears prevented his flat green hat from swallowing his head. He nodded for her to enter the restricted zone and then spoke her name into a microphone.
They were waiting.
She pressed her fingernails through the soggy newspaper and into the flower stems. It was too late to turn back, so she trudged ahead. Body odors wafted from the overheated crowd as she was herded down the steps past a monstrous X-ray machine with a small metal plaque, MADE IN BULGARIA. She could feel her cells mutate.
She flashed her American passport’s blue cover to the customs inspector and turned it to the open page with her photo.
“Place the bag on the counter, please.” The young man pointed to the stainless-steel table as he took her documents. He glanced into a security camera and nodded.
She set her purse on the counter. When she placed her hand back on the cart, a rush of terror coursed through her, a narcotic flooding her veins. Her body relaxed for a moment until she sensed someone approaching her from behind. She froze. The weight of the communist state closed in upon her.
CHAPTER TWO
We say the name of God,
but that is only habit.
– KHRUSHCHEV
NAGORNO-KARABAKH AUTONOMOUS OBLAST, AZERBAIJANI SSR
Children raced across the dirt yard of the orphanage to the dilapidated flatbed truck, frightening the herd of longhaired goats. That the Lend-Lease-era Studebaker had survived four days bouncing its way across high mountain passes from her Moscow orphanage was itself divine proof that Margaret Whitney was in God’s will. The driver honked the horn and inched ahead, but the children encircled the vehicle, forcing it to a halt. Their plump expectant faces made Margaret forget her body’s complaints. She was tickled with herself that she had once again hoodwinked the communists and she was about to deliver the contraband.
The orphanage director greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and walked with her arm-in-arm to an arbor of grapevines. A childcare worker in a clinical white uniform set dishes of roasted seeds and dried apricots onto linoleum nailed to a tabletop. A boy dressed in rags ran to bring bottles of carbonated water to the guest.
Margaret downed an entire glass of water and let out a long sigh. “We almost didn’t make it this time,” she said in English, then turned her head away, using her hand to shield a belch. “I can handle inspections from the Soviet militia, but I wasn’t ready for the Azerbaijani checkpoints. It took a whole pallet to convince them to let us pass into the enclave. They nearly tore the entire shipment to pieces looking for something.”
“Weapons. They don’t want us to defend ourselves,” Yeva said, her English more fluent with each visit.
“I’ve ministered to this country nigh onto forty years, but I’ve never known locals to get away with setting up their own blockades. The communists don’t usually play well with others.”
“I always thought I’d be happy when the day came that Moscow lost its hold on us.” Yeva shook her head and offered pumpkin and squash seeds to Margaret.
Margaret took a handful even though she believed they should’ve been planted in the ground where they belonged.
Oblivious to their patron, the children played, chasing goats. They laughed when the kids sprang straight up into the air. But one boy stood alone under a fig tree, his hands stuck in the pockets of his oversized breeches. He stared at the ground.
“That boy tugs at my heart.” Yeva turned toward him, patted the bench beside her and shouted something in Armenian. He didn’t move. Yeva walked over to him and put her arm around his slumped shoulders. She led him to the bench beside her. “They say he was like every other seven-year-old until the Azerbaijani tied up his family and slit their throats. His parents, grandmother, seven brothers and sisters-all dead. He was in the foothills with their herd at the time. He found them when he came back two days later.” Yeva stroked his back. “Every day I pray for a miracle.”
“I’ll add mine.” Margaret widened her eyes, raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips into a goofy face. The boy didn’t respond.
“Three days ago in Askeran they massacred another family. They’re now demanding all Armenians leave the territory. They’re Turks-no one would put another genocide past them.”
“I brought you Bibles and Sunday-school books in Armenian. You’ll find them tucked between diapers.”
“Maggie, your generosity’s transformed this place, but we don’t need any more Bibles. We need guns.”
“Sister, trust in the Lord and He’ll protect you.” Margaret chomped on an apricot to get the seed taste out of her mouth.
“The Lord helps those who help themselves. And maybe that’s why He sent you to us. You know how to move things like no one else can.”
“Child, I’m a missionary, not an arms dealer.”
“Look around and see the changes for yourself. We have no problem buying Bibles, Christian books-anything. Since Gorbachev, no one cares. Do not misunderstand. I admire your ministry and without you we’d never be able to take in so many, but the world doesn’t need Bible smugglers anymore-neither does God.”
“You’re starting to sound just like my daughter.” Margaret put her hands on her hips.
“We’re not persecuted because we’re Christians, but because we’re Armenian Christians.”
“My girl Faith turned her back on God. Don’t you go and make the same mistake. God gave you both special gifts to use for His Glory, so don’t you blaspheme Him by abusing your gifts to serve man. Jesus said, ’Blessed be the peacemakers for-’ “
A military truck barreled down the drive of the orphanage like a tempest across the plains. Yeva sprang to her feet and shouted in Armenian, then Azeri. The children scrambled into the building as if it were a storm cellar. The truck screeched to a halt and six hooded men in Army fatigues jumped out and rushed toward them. The devil was in their eyes.
They waved old shotguns and shouted in heavily accented Russian, “Hands up. No moves.”
Yeva wagged a defiant finger. “There are children here. Put those away.”
“Bring me the Armenian bastards,” the headman said, pointing his weapon at Yeva.
“Leave!” she said with the fervor of the pharaoh expelling the Israelites.
The man shrugged his shoulders and then strutted around the two women toward the children. Yeva sprinted past him and planted herself on the orphanage stoop.
“You will not take my children.”
The man laughed as he knocked her aside. The others swarmed into the building and turned over tables. Dishes and bottles crashed to the floor. The children cried as they huddled together. The boy stood in the middle of the room, lost in the chaos. The leader fired his gun at a statue of Christ on the cross that hung on the wall. Fragments of Jesus pelted the hysterical children.
The man shouted, “You should’ve left Azerbaijan when you had the chance. Line them up against the wall.”
“I take in all God’s children-Azerbaijani and Armenian. You’ll be killing your own babies,” Yeva said.
“Line up the Armenians.”
“No.”
“You.” He pointed with the butt of the shotgun to the boy whose parents had been murdered. “You look Armenian. Over there.”
The child crossed his arms and rocked himself, but didn’t move.
“Now!”
The child shuffled toward the wall. Yeva bolted toward him, but one of the gunmen grabbed her and threw her to the floor. She shouted to him in Azeri and Margaret prayed that the little Armenian would understand. The hand of God reached down and touched that boy’s shoulder. He stopped and then turned back.