Women's Writes - Works

Women's Writes

Well-behaved women seldom make history.
— Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

Day 20

The war in Ukraine has been on my mind lately. I suppose that’s true for many of us. I read about women and children being taken away. I hear about bombs dropping on theatres and museums used for shelter. I know how women are treated in war, and my heart aches for them. In the classical period, they took them as slaves and concubines, with soldiers being given a woman because they were victorious. I read a book about a year ago, The Silence of the Girls, telling a traditional story, but this time telling it from the point of view of the woman who was given to Achilles as a prize. That book, and the stories from Ukraine, are the inspiration for today’s story. The countries are not Ukraine and Russia; they are not Troy and Athens. They are fictional countries where their fictional life mimics real life in our world.

NO MORE TEARS

 The women huddled together with the children, a safe place. No one would bomb a school, right? Some things are understood, even in war. The bombs shatter glass and rock as they drop, but the women don’t scream. It’s important no one know where they are. Soldiers with guns are patrolling the streets, and tanks rolled by only minutes ago. The town is a mess; it barely exists anymore. They worry they are the only ones left.

Silence comes as a shock, filling the room with the absence of noise. One of the babies is fussy; her mother rocks her and comforts her. They can’t give away their position until they know if someone is still out there. The walls around them are intact, though the bombs came dangerously close. The only thing protecting them from the outside is a wall that wobbled and could probably be pushed over by a child.

“Shh.” Alicia sounded the alarm. Someone was coming. She pulled a blanket over them; she and her daughters made it for this purpose. The signs that war was coming had been all around them for months…for years. They were prepared, they hoped.

A door creaked. A male voice spoke an unfamiliar language. The women made themselves as small as possible, holding the children at their side so they wouldn’t make any movement or sound. The room was dark, and the lights wouldn’t come on. The electricity was out. Janette cut the wire before they entered the building, but it was likely the bombing would have knocked it out anyway.

When the soldiers were able to adjust to the lack of light, they moved around the room, bumping into furniture. If they realized the black covering on the windows was keeping out the light, they would rip it off and see the lump under the blanket. Everyone held their breath as long as they could. The slightest sound would alert the soldiers to their presence. Their muscles ached, but they didn’t stretch.

A shout, and the blanket was ripped off. They were discovered. Alicia whispered to remind them what they agreed. They would remain dignified, not show fear. It was difficult. Fear was a natural emotion, and it coursed through her veins, threatening to come out in trembling and weak knees. She repeated her mantra over. “I will not let them see me weak.” Three repetitions. Four. She felt strong enough to stand without falling. That was good, because one of the soldiers yanked her to her feet. He stared in her face as if memorizing it, then moved to the next woman.

“Move!” The command was in a different language, but they understood. The soldiers shoved them as he barked the command. They were shoved out the door into the sunlight where more soldiers waited. Another command, and the women were tied together. The children were snatched from their mothers and tied together as a unit. One of the mothers started to cry out as her baby was snatched from her arms, but she remembered they weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. She fought back the tears and bit her lip as her baby…her three month old baby…was tied to the other children. The little boy wailed for his mother but she couldn’t go for him.

The truck smelled like cattle. Alicia recognized it; they had stolen…commandeered, she supposed they would say…Ben’s truck. Her husband was in the barn when the first bomb dropped. He yelled for her to take the women to safety. She hadn’t heard from him since. She gathered the women around her, which wasn’t difficult with them tied together. She spoke quietly, trying to calm them. It was difficult when she wasn’t calm herself. She reminded them of the heritage of bravery they got from their mothers and grandmothers, women who never let the men see them cry. They lived through many wars; the small country had been invaded from all sides. Two neighboring countries were fighting over control; the citizens who lived there had no say. It would be decided by who had the biggest guns, the most bombs.

The truck traveled for several hours. The children were in a different truck. The mothers hoped they were being fed. They imagined they heard their children cry for them. Alicia felt guilty. Her daughters were older, one teenage, the other nearing puberty, and they were in the truck with the women. Watching them, she realized she had no reason to feel guilty. She had a suspicion what her daughters were going to have to endure, and she wished they were with the children.

The women were thrown around as the truck lurched to a stop. A soldier threw open the door and pulled on the rope. The women climbed out and stood in silence, their heads high and their shoulders back. A soldier thrust a rifle into Janette’s abdomen. She forced herself to remain upright, not double over with the pain. Alicia saw blood drip from the hem of Janette’s skirt; there was no doubt internal damage.

“Chud!” The commander called and a subordinate joined him. He said something in their language and the young man’s eyes lit up. He walked up and down the line of women three times and stopped in front of Caroline, Alicia’s older daughter. The commander ordered her untied, and Chud dragged her off. She was his prize. Alicia tried to stifle her cry, but a small sound escaped. She regretted it when she saw the smug look on the commander’s face.

Another soldier, then another. Each of them got to choose a woman, apparently in the order of their victories. Alicia watched as her younger daughter was taken away, third to be chosen. Brenna tried to pull away, but her new owner was stronger than she was. The youngest women were chosen first, but Alicia looked younger than her age and was selected early. She marched down the street beside her captor, as far away as her rope would allow, keeping her head high.

The man thrust Alicia into a house; a woman greeted her, sullen and angry. She led her to a room in the attic, a small stark bedroom that would be hers. A dress and bonnet decorated the bed; Alicia was instructed to put them on. It was the native dress of the country that invaded her country. The dress was too large; she was instructed to cut it down, communication in motions and sharp words in an unfamiliar language. She sat on the bed to take some tucks.

The next room she was taken to was the kitchen. She stood at the sink washing dishes. At least she could understand what was expected of her. She performed all the cleaning duties the woman demanded. She had no choice. She wished she could get a message to Ben, let him know where she was, where the girls were. He would be worried…if he was still alive. She pushed the thought out of her mind.

Once the women were divided, each man walking away with his prize, a slave to clean his house and to please him sexually whenever he demanded, the children were divided. The youngest children would be adopted by their captor, but the older ones were considered impossible to turn into a proper citizen. The boys were slaughtered; the girls were sent to a house where they would be fed and housed until they were old enough to enter their new profession. All of them were too young to understand; they would be trained and groomed to work as prostitutes, while their mothers performed similar functions for a single male.

Alicia was allowed to be at Janette’s side when she died. The injuries she received needed immediate treatment, but she was not taken to the doctor until it was too late. She passed away in the second week of their captivity. Alicia learned a few words of the language, and was able to communicate that Janette was her friend. The woman she worked for refused her permission to visit, but the man overruled the order. She held the younger woman’s hand as she died. Her new owner had cared little for her fragile state, and had required all the work and all the sexual favors he felt he was due. He felt cheated by her death until he was given one of the younger girls from the home.

Alicia wished she could cry as Janette breathed her last. She had long ago given up on the idea of being stoic; she could maintain her dignity without losing her humanity. But tears wouldn’t come. She couldn’t cry for Janette. She couldn’t cry for Caroline when she saw her next, nearly a year later, large in the final months of pregnancy and looking scared and miserable. She couldn’t cry for herself, even when the woman beat her, even when the man lay on top of her. She had no more tears.