“Thank You, Jesus,” Margaret said.
“Will you be such a hero with your people when they find out you massacred your own because you can’t tell them apart?” Yeva pulled herself to her feet and placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Don’t move.” The leader exchanged something in Azeri with the others and turned his gun toward Yeva. “We might not be able to pick out the Armenian children, but we know who you are.”
Just as he pulled the trigger, the boy shouted and jumped in front of Yeva. In an instant, the child’s face exploded into raw flesh and blood. Yeva opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She caught his small body and held him against her chest. Blood soaked her blouse. The leader nodded to a compatriot. He struck her with his elbow, pulled the child away and dropped the body onto the ground.
“Armenian harlot.” He unzipped his trousers.
Beside the dying boy the men took turns with Yeva while the leader paced between the windows and the door. Margaret begged with the Lord for mercy, but He had none that day. The leader rushed back from peeking outside and shouted at the one having his way with Yeva. He kicked his hindquarters, but the Sodomite wouldn’t get off her. He then motioned to others. They wrestled him off and then the headman aimed his gun at Yeva.
He shot her in the chest.
They ran away, vowing to return.
Margaret fell to her knees, the odor of sulfur, seed and blood sickening her. She ripped open Yeva’s blouse and pressed against the torn flesh. With each heartbeat, warm blood pooled under her palms. She pushed until she thought her fingertips touched Yeva’s heart. It beat twice and stopped.
Margaret scooped Yeva into her arms and bawled as if she had again lost her own daughter. Why, Lord, why? When the tears slowed, she beheld a picture of Jesus and ruminated. Then she made a promise to Him-one she knew He wouldn’t like.
CHAPTER THREE
FRIEDRICHSTRASSE CHECKPOINT, EAST BERLIN
Faith listened to the crowd wedged into the customs hall and heard staccato whispers, shuffling feet and rapid breathing-the sound of fear. It echoed against the dingy yellow tile walls. The East German authorities carried no weapons. Like prison guards, they didn’t have to. Every soul at the border was under their absolute control. They could confiscate anything, strip-search anyone or make anybody disappear. They allowed most to pass with a friendly smile.
But not Faith.
The officer stopped directly behind Faith, violating her zone. His silence crowded against her. She twitched and then tensed the wayward muscle into submission. Western tourists gawked at her as they shuffled by, but the occasional Easterners averted their eyes as if they might be implicated.
“Frau Whitney, come with me,” the official said.
“I have nothing private with me. I’ve no problem with you inspecting my bags right here,” Faith said without turning around.
“But I do. Come.”
The officer took her passport and guided her into a restricted area. He helped her with her cart and she followed, staring at the three pink boxes loaded onto it. She knew she had left the Patschkes’ with one gray and two pink packages, but it was too late to do anything about it right now. She felt as powerless as she had as a child, squeezing her violated toy with the contraband her mother had stashed inside. They could detain her for hours, even days, but no one would ever know. She longed for someone at home to worry about her, but she had only a roommate who probably wouldn’t think much of her absence until weeks after the rent was due.
She remembered the subway ticket with the random numbers scrawled on it and feared it could be used to delay her. She slipped her fingers into the side pocket of her purse, her fingers bumping against keys as they searched for the U-Bahn ticket with the part numbers. Grit lodged under a fingernail, but she found the ticket, palmed it, then shoved it into her pocket.
They entered an overheated room where another officer and a female customs official awaited her. The woman’s thin hair and frail frame indicated the poor nutrition she’d received growing up under the communists in the lean 1950s.
“Please.” The woman reached out for her purse.
Faith handed her the purse, parked her trolley and sat down. The woman opened the handbag and spilled the contents onto the scarred table. She examined Faith’s wallet, carefully removed the currency and fanned it out. Faith rested her hands on the table. The inspector paused and glared at Faith. “Hands away from the table.”
“Sorry. I thought you would want them visible.”
“Hands away from the table.” The woman flicked the credit cards onto the tabletop as if dealing blackjack. She returned to the wallet and removed a yellowed piece of paper. The crease in it was almost torn through.
Faith moved forward in her seat. No. Not that. She had carried the note in her wallet most of her life and she read it religiously every day in memory of her father. It was the only thing she had from him, a few cryptic words written in old German script. Please don’t take it.
The woman unfolded it.
“Careful. The paper’s fragile.”
“What does it mean?” The woman held it at arm’s length and read, “We had no chance, but we made ourselves one.”
“I have no idea. Just a piece of poetry my father read to me as a kid.” She wished she had known her father so he could’ve read it to her. As a teenager she’d immersed herself in Goethe and Schiller, searching for those lines, for the message from her father. She never found it.
The woman carefully set aside the note and Faith let out a sigh of relief. She resumed her search. She examined the last fuzzy breath mint and patted the empty bag. “Please stand and hold out your arms.” She frisked Faith, slowing down as she probed her breasts. She reached inside of Faith’s pockets and found the U-Bahn ticket. Upon noticing the numbers scrawled on it, she presented the ticket to the officer.
“Would you like me to undertake a more intimate exam?” the woman said.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“The packages?”
“Not yet. You may go.”
The younger officer read the numbers and dropped the U-Bahn ticket before Faith. “What does this mean?”
“It means you can go for a ride on the U-Bahn with one of these.”
“The numbers.”
“No idea. Looks like it’s been living in the underworld of my purse forever.”
“But we found it in your pocket. Maybe the number’s a code.”
“Maybe a direct number to the White House or a secret Swiss account at the Deutsche Bank? Or a-”
“Enough.” The ranking officer held up his hand. “Frau Whitney, I have no interest in your purse trash. What you did today interests me.”
“I had lunch with the Assistant Minister of Education.” The air seemed thinner as she struggled to maintain the rhythm of her breath.
“You were in his office.”
“He needed help with his computer. I opened it, tried to repair it, but couldn’t. A part is broken.”
“Where is the part?”
“I don’t know. I showed him the one that was bad. Maybe he threw it away.”
“You agreed to take it to the West for repair.”
“I refuse to take state property of the GDR out of the country. I’m a law-abiding guest of the GDR. I’d never-”
“Frau Doktor Whitney, we know who you are and what you do.”
“Apparently not,” Faith said.
The officer snorted and turned to the younger man. “Get Frau Simmel back. We do have grounds for a body search, including all cavities. When Simmel is finished with her, I want to take a look in those packages.”
Faith slumped over the table in the interrogation room, the now-wilted mums in front of her. She had been through several full physical searches before and had accepted them as an occupational hazard. Tonight was different because they weren’t looking for anything; they knew her person was clean. They wanted to humiliate her.