Background:
I’ve been crying for the past few hours and I cant seem to shake this horrible lump that I have in my throat. My parents and my brother don’t approve of my decision to leave. They’re trying to tell me that I’m absurd for wanting to leave Kiev. Whatever. I’m used to being on my own. It’s been about three years since I was divorced. Even as a surgical nurse I can’t seem to make enough money to provide for my daughter. Poor Anya. I hope she’ll forgive me one day for raising her without a father.
The more I think about it, that’s exactly why I need to leave. There is nothing left for me here. I remember how beautiful the beaches in Lithuania were. Maybe I should reconsider relocating there instead. No, no, what am I saying. New York holds more opportunities for us.
The woman at the embassy told me it was a bad idea to leave on the 13th but I scoffed. I’ve had enough misfortune. What kind of person would I be if I let a number control me? I’m leaving because I’m finally standing up to all the darkness that’s been imposed upon me thus far.
I’ve done most of the packing. Anya is too young to carry her own things so I’m only able to bring one suitcase. We’re allowed one necklace, one pair of earrings, and one ring each. I’ll have to pierce Anya’s ears so that I can bring my grandmother’s jewelry as well. Such a shame too, she’s too young for piercings.
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Journey:
The train to Vienna left on August 13th. Everyone rushed into the train like vultures fighting over carcasses. I wasn’t strong enough to lift my luggage but luckily I traded two bottles of liquor for some help from a set of strapping young twins. I was only allowed 90 rubles for the entire trip so I had to ration that for as long as possible.
As I stepped out of the train, daughter in hand, I took a breath of the rich Viennese air. It was reminiscent of cocoa and coffee. I couldn’t believe I was finally on my way to leaving. My peaceful moment was interrupted by some snickering coming from behind me. I turned to find a group of middle-aged women giggling to themselves while pointing to my daughter.
“Find a husband next time you pathetic whore!” one of them yelled as I pushed Anya behind me. It was nothing I haven’t heard before. I moved the tight black curl blocking the vision in my left eye behind my ear and turned to walk towards one of the café’s. I was used to women verbally berating me and men making strong sexual advances because they assumed I’d be willing to prostitute myself because I was single.
A few days later, a Jewish organization invited me to come to a warehouse in which immigrants were able to find used utensils or clothes. As I walked in, I noticed dozens of people yelling over pots and pans. Others were tugging over stained sweaters. I didn’t have the energy to jump into the crowd to fight for scraps. I noticed another single mother in the crowd. She looked about a decade older than me, with thin and lifeless red hair. She was about 6 feet tall and deep wrinkles dominated her face. She was walking around complaining to try to get sympathy because she was alone with her son. She just looked so unfortunate.
As I stood in the corner, a woman came up to me. She scanned me head to toe and nodded. “We have a special back-room. More of the desirable clothes are there and you’ll be able to find higher quality kitchen utensils. All I’d like from you in return is a picture if you won’t mind” she said.
I looked back at the unfortunate older woman who was examining a torn pair of pants, presumably trying to understand if they were salvageable. I grabbed Anya’s hand and we made our way into the back room. It was all very arbitrary. I mean the only reason I was afforded this opportunity was because I was young and pretty. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to sit down and ponder the ethics of deceiving the other refugees because I had to do whatever I could to help my daughter. I pulled back the curls on my temples and examined the admittedly nicer clothes.
After about a week, it was time to leave for Rome. On the way to the train, all the refugees had to walk in a pathway created by a space between two seemingly endless lines of Viennese soldiers. They were all handsome young men, with blank yet stern expressions. Each soldier had his own German Shepard sitting beside him. They told us that the soldiers were there to make us feel safe because three years before, there had been a terrorist attack targeting the refugees in which grenades were set off and multiple people were killed and injured. Its ironic though, because I felt less safe than ever staring into the faces of these solemn men. I made my way into the train and comforted my distressed daughter by telling her that the soldiers were our friends.
I spent the next few weeks in Rome. Each night, after role-call, government officials called out the names of people approved for immigration to the U.S. I waited for weeks but finally got my answer on September 26th.
“Yanina and Anya Kirnos. Denied.”
I felt my chest tighten up but didn’t let myself cringe so as to not get wrinkles. I brought my daughter’s head into my arms and held her close as she sobbed. I crossed my legs and lifted my chin to look younger. My parents had always taught me that as a woman it is imperative that I look my best at all times and so I retained my cool composure. The next day I left my daughter under the care of neighbors because I couldn’t afford a ticket for her to come with me to the embassy.
I dabbed some light perfume and wore my silver cast amber earrings. When I finally came to the embassy to plead my case, it was apparent that there was nothing they could do for me. I pursed my crimson-coated lips, ran my fingers down the tight dark curl that always seemed to fall in front of my left eye, and asked one more time.
“Well actually, on second thought, there’s another plane that leaves to New York too, but this one’s from London! There are only a few spots left but I’m sure we can work it out” he responded. I smiled and straightened my back.
On my way home, I picked up a raw chicken wing from the market. I only had enough money to buy one wing each day, and ended up boiling it to split with Anya. I came home and removed the countless accessories that I had adorned. Part of me felt ashamed for using sex appeal to get what I wanted but the gleam in my daughter’s eyes suppressed my qualms. We sat on opposite sides of the pot and shared the wing while laughing and exchanging stories.
The next day, Anya and I left for London Heathrow where we got on the Concorde. I was exhausted and sank into the cushioned seats. Then I remembered my mother’s incessant nagging that I must never slouch so as to appear as elegant as possible in public. I pulled myself upright and pushed my chest out. I loathed the fact that to my mother, a woman was nothing more than her sexual influence. The idea that everything I did had to help me find a husband was abhorrent but it’s all I’ve ever known. I protected my daughter thus far, but it was so difficult doing it on my own.
When the plane landed, I decided to express my relief and excitement in spite of my parents’ ideas regarding acceptable womanly behavior. I finally made it. I looked down at Anya and couldn’t hold my tears back. They dripped onto her golden frizzy locks and ran down the braid I had made for her. I felt like she hadn’t seen me smile enough in my life, and I didn’t care who was watching this time.
