This Land is no Stranger Sarah Hollister (best biographies to read .txt) 📖

as fierce as a mongoose. Varzha had never actually seen a mongoose, but it was an animal from far back in the history of her people that killed snakes and that everyone always said was unstoppable. She herself had once witnessed Moro and two other chache Roma boys take on a whole gang of Schwedo Nazis and bloody them all, putting more than a few of the skinheads in the hospital.

The three of them had sworn an alliance, a wortacha, Moro and Dollar Boy and Varzha. The two males, who were not accustomed to see females as equals, were forced to treat her as one. Varzha’s fury rendered her powerful. The others in the wortacha were at first dismissive, then reluctantly accepting, and finally awed.

All she could do was to follow the scheme that they had laid down—to allow herself to be taken, and to be followed by Moro and Dollar Boy, who would eliminate her abductors one by one in the most painful way possible. Varzha refused to be a victim, preferring instead the role of an avenging angel.

Lel had been her sworn sister as well as being Dollar Boy’s intended. Varzha knew a few of the other stolen girls, also. She had volunteered for the dangerous duty, insisting on the path forward. Now she would pursue the plan through to the very end, adhering to the scheme even if it meant her death. It was not a prospect she relished—she especially feared for Vago if she was gone—but she would do it for Lel. She would do it for the others who had been fed into the trafficking pipeline. She would do it so future perpetrators would know that they, too, would pay for their evil with their lives.

For the high crime of driving in a car with JV now, Varzha would be disgraced in the eyes of her people. The community would turn against her simply for being alone with men, gadje men. They would never respect the purity of her intentions. None of that mattered.

Back in Romania, her mother had often recounted the story of Papusza, a legendary singer and poet who violated the fundamental rules of Romani society. Papusza made a foolish move, trusting a gadjo with her exquisite written poetry. Of course the gentile betrayed her, translating the texts into Polish and selling her words for all the world to read. Such public exposure rendered her invisible within the Romani community. She died ostracized from family, from friends, from her people. The message of her mother’s story was clear to Varzha. Any dealings with gadje were bound to result in catastrophe.

“Tonight we see the Turkish woman doctor,” Jarl said into the phone, startling Varzha out of her thoughts. He used the phrase on the warm phone, the business one.

As far as she was concerned, Turks were the villains of the world. In the hierarchy of immigrants, where every immigrant shit on the immigrant below, Turks might be among the lowest of the low, but they could always look to the Roma to slag off and beat down. A Turkish doctor? Female or male, the prospect struck fear into her heart. She realized she was in greater danger than ever.

They followed the river valley deeper into the mountains.

◆◆◆

An hour later Jarl pulled the SUV into the driveway of a chalet of weathered wood. The A-frame structure sat on a small rise a kilometer off the road, within a pine forest, overlooking the white, snow-covered expanse of a frozen river.

A black Mercedes sedan blocked the driveway. It turned out the Turks had already arrived. Two males climbed out of the car, an older one, a heavyset bear of a man with a woolen hat pulled down over his ears, and another younger, more handsome one, evidently the driver.

A few seconds later a stylish woman emerged. She looked like no doctor Varzha had ever seen. She more resembled an actress in a Turkish video melodrama, not the star but the star’s girlfriend, maybe, the one who never left his side but always got killed halfway through the movie.

Jarl played the big man, the host. Herding Varzha before him, he led the others into the chalet. The place smelled musty and unused, with a simple vacation home layout. A towering stone fireplace, its hearth cold and filled with old ashes, dominated the living space. Above was a balcony. A kitchen opened to one side, a hallway to the other. Outside, expansive wooden decks surrounded the structure.

The Turkish arrivals took their places in an arrangement of chairs and couches. Varzha noticed that Jarl and the handsome driver kept exchanging smiles and glances. The other two were all business. They spoke in accented Swedish. Jarl pulled his prize offering front and center.

“She is not completely ugly,” said the woman doctor, eyeing Varzha head to toe. The girl recognized the strategy. In the marketplace you must always denigrate the goods before you buy.

“She has not been touched?” asked the older man.

“Totally pure,” Jarl promised. “I’ve been with her the whole time, since she left the protection of her family in Romania. Top quality goods.”

The older man took Varzha’s chin in his meaty paw, turning her head this way and that. “All the same, she must be examined to see if she is intact.”

The doctor surprised Varzha by swatting the man’s hand aside. “Not for you, Fevzi,” she snapped. So she is the big boss, Varzha thought.

“Come,” the woman said to her. She picked up a large carrying bag she had brought with her.

“I need to witness, in order to be sure,” the man who was called Fevzi said.

“You stay right where you are,” the woman ordered. “I do the thing.” Then she added, glancing at Jarl, “Me alone.”

“Use the back bedroom,” Jarl said, uninterested in participating. This was part of the business that excited him least—both professionally and personally. The three men watched as the two females proceeded down the back hall.

“Time for a celebration,” Jarl said brightly. He laid out