“My legs are sore, Mama,” Arina says, trying to keep her voice quiet along with the others who have settled into a hollow stare, avoiding conversation.
“I’m sure the trip won’t be much longer,” Papa says. “Lift one foot off the ground at a time to give each a slight break.”
“How do you know how much longer we’ll be standing here, or won’t be standing here?” Mama questions.
He doesn’t know, but he’s trying to keep his family calm. That’s what a father does in these circumstances. He’s done nothing other than keep us all calm for the last few weeks while living in the apartment and then being herded onto this foreboding train. A bead of sweat skates down Mama’s neck. I feel the damp sensation against the top of my head. Perhaps it’s a tear I feel, but Mama doesn’t cry about much. She’s always said crying solves nothing and doesn’t bring someone back from the dead. But she still cried at grandmother’s funeral. I’m sure we’re all covered in sweat. I am. There’s no movement in the air and with so many deep exhales, there’s a dank, warm fog filling every crack and crevice between each shoulder, foot, and head.
With each new moment of silence, another’s struggle reveals itself. A baby whimpers in the short distance, maybe five to six people away. He or she must be hungry. His or her mother or father must have achy arms after holding up the child this long.
Different melodies of groans bounce off the walls, and a few snores whistle, belonging to those who have escaped their reality for a few brief moments. If they can remain on their feet, maybe I can too.
FIVE
ARINA
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA, JUNE 1946
The hallway outside of the older girl’s communal area smells like stale pipe tobacco and pine oil. It reminds me of the kitchen after dinner. Mama would mop the floor and wipe down the counters, and Papa would still be sitting at the table with his pipe between his teeth and a newspaper spread out in his arms.
The industrial lights on the spine of the ceiling make the space feel more like a school than a home. I try to imagine I’m somewhere different, but it’s hard to do when nothing around me feels familiar.
With a glance down each direction in the hallway, I find the coast clear of aides, monitors, and room mothers, which means I can sneak outdoors for a bit of fresh air before lunch. Free time isn’t until after lunch unless school is in session, but school was just let out for the summer.
The air is damp, but hot, and the sun casts a sharp halo across the paved walkways. No one else is outdoors since they’re tied up with their Monday laundry chore. Only a few of us do our laundry on Tuesdays since we have different schedules.
The garden bench in the grassy area between the main building and the non-denominational chapel is the only place to sit without being blinded by the sun. The brick edifices block out all sound and it feels like a moment of freedom from the incessant noise I can’t seem to break away from.
A downside to the silence is when someone suddenly appears. Mrs. Vallentine’s silhouette contrasts against the ray of sunshine behind her. Her hands perch on her hips. “We cannot do this every week, Arina. There will be consequences if I must continue to search for you on Monday mornings during our scheduled time.” It’s not like I’ve been hiding. It’s obvious she found me without losing a single breath. “You are already ten minutes late. Miss Blum’s time is valuable, do you not agree?”
“Of course, her time is valuable,” I agree. “However, her time is being wasted on me. Perhaps she should fill my slot with someone who has higher odds of a positive outcome.”
Mrs. Vallentine takes slow steps toward me, and as she steps out of the light and into the shade, she greets me with a sneer. “Therapy is not optional. I’ve made this quite clear to you since arriving last month.”
“Neither was being strapped to a gurney and poked and prodded with needles for a year, but why should this be any different?” I snap.
I can assume Mrs. Vallentine finds my outburst unfair. The leverage I use against her is unmatchable. How could she know what’s best for someone like me? Many of us have unfortunate stories resting on our shoulders like heavy weights, but for me, a doctor will cause more harm than help. I’m not sure how to make her understand this without delving into details that will haunt her for the rest of her life.
Mrs. Vallentine steps in closer again. This time, she’s within reach, and I scoot back on the bench. “We are not here to punish you. Our only intention is to ensure you are in a condition to stand on your own after you turn eighteen. If you don’t agree to therapy, the chances of passing your final mental health evaluation won’t be in your favor.”
“If I fail?” I ask, tearing my stare away from my uniform pleated skirt up to her brooding eyes.
“The choice will not be in our hands, Arina. If the wardens of the state believe you are a danger to yourself or others, they may very well admit you to a special care facility until you are well enough to prove otherwise.”
I hadn’t thought beyond the point of turning eighteen. I figured once I’m considered an adult, I’ll be free to go about my life as I please.
“I don’t want to talk about my past,” I say, adding a sharp period to the end of my sentence.
“No one said you must,” she counters.
I’m not sure I believe that. If the intention is to fix what is wrong inside of my head, they will need to know where the trauma began.
“How about we meet out here today?” A woman’s voice echoes between the buildings, and I lean to the side to see around Mrs. Vallentine. I didn’t see anyone else approaching us, but the sun is now spilling into the cracks between the buildings and there isn’t as much shade.
Mrs. Vallentine twists around, seeming as surprised as I am. “Miss Blum, I’m ever so sorry for Miss Tabor’s tardiness,” Mrs. Vallentine says.
“It’s no trouble at all. It’s a beautiful day and I’m happy to be out in the fresh air for a bit. Is it okay with you if we meet out here, Arina?”
Miss Blum is only vaguely familiar from the first night I arrived here. I’ve yet to attend one of our meetings and haven’t seen her around the building. She has sandy hair, parted and twisted into a loose knot of barrel curls. Along with her blue polka-dot A-line dress, her rosy lipstick gives her a catalog-model appearance.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Vallentine says. “If you need anything, please let me know.”
“We’ll be fine,” Miss Blum says without hesitation. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Vallentine slips her hands into the pockets of her dress and walks into the bleeding sun.
“I don’t want therapy,” I state, trying to keep my words simple and to the point, but also quiet at the same time. I don’t want to anger the one person who might be on my side.
“I’m new here too, as of six months ago. Like you, I came to the United States alone, but unlike you, I had a choice. If I were you, I would find the lack of choices in my life more than a little frustrating.”
“Where are you from?” I ask.