Mirela awoke with a start, panic her first, learned response. She blinked, let out a sigh as she remembered where she was and reassured herself yet again that it was not a dream.
The rocking motion of the train had lulled her into a much-needed sleep, but now that she was getting closer, she knew her mounting anticipation would keep her alert. She focused her eyes on the rolling countryside of her native Romania, but her mind wandered.
She still found it difficult to believe all that had happened in such a short period of time. Just three weeks ago she had been a captive in a secret harem owned by a wealthy Asian businessman in Pak Kret, Thailand. The perverse old man kept both young women and young boys. The only silver lining to her particular nightmare had been the fact that her captor was in poor health and spent more time looking than…doing. The young boys broke her heart, but the other women, who had been there longer and had established a pecking order, were mean to her. Over time she understood why: once a member was deemed no longer “useful,” he or she was sent out into the streets to earn a living any way they could.
Then the miracle happened. A group of policemen raided the secluded estate and rescued all of the captives. Mirela, because she wasn’t a citizen of Thailand, had been sent to what they called a “recovery house” where they checked her health and started the process of getting her back to her own country. The Thai government didn’t want the bad publicity, so they treated her with special care. She wondered what would become of the local women and boys who had shared her imprisonment. Would they just be told to go back to where they came from?
Returning to her own village sounded like heaven. A nice woman from the police agency had contacted Mirela’s mother and told her what had happened. When they first spoke on the telephone, her mother had cried for several minutes. “Puiu, my little puiu!” she kept saying. Mirela had smiled through her own tears. Despite all that she’d been through, she was still her mama’s dear little chick.
The conductor came by and announced the next stop: Bârsana, her home village. Mirela wondered how she would be received. Her first reaction had been to hide what had happened to her. She felt so ashamed. Out of habit she touched the small bandage behind her ear. She had asked them at the recovery house to remove the little butterfly tattoo. It was pretty, but she much preferred the scar. It would remind her that something pretty on the outside can often hide ugliness within. Or, as she had heard once, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Still, she was embarrassed by the whole ordeal. A part of her felt she’d been foolish and gotten herself into trouble. “Can’t we just say that I am back from my job in Italy?” she’d asked her mother.
“No.” Her mother, a wise woman, had been firm about that. “You need to be honest with everyone so that the secret doesn’t fester within you. You did nothing wrong. You were a victim, but no longer.”
After much thought, Mirela realized her mother was right. She had survived a terrible ordeal. It was not her fault and she should not feel bad. In fact, maybe she could do something to help make sure others like her didn’t fall into the same trap she did. She would see.
The train chugged around the last bend and its whistle blew. She could see the Bârsana station up ahead. It looked like a group of people was standing by the platform. As she drew closer, she could see that several of them were carrying signs. The signs were homemade and they said things like “Welcome Home” and “We Missed You” and “We Love you, Mirela.”
Mirela’s mother stood in front of the crowd, scanning the windows of the train. Mirela saw her and waved.
Then she saw him. Simu Fidatof, the big, earnest carpenter she had dreamed about while in captivity, the young man who had been sweet on her, but whom she’d stupidly rejected. He was dressed in his Sunday suit and held a bouquet of flowers, alpine pinks and fire lilies. He waved to her and smiled. She felt tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
She was home.