July 13, 1936
“Name,” the woman behind the desk asked harshly, her eyes as cold as ice.
Milyena looked out the window. Through the blemished glass, she could see wooden poles shoved deep in the earth, linked together by dark silver barbed wire, all around the school building. This place resembles a prison more than a school, she thought. Quickly, she turned away.
“Milyena,” she answered, forcing her voice barely audible. She did not want to miss out on this learning experience, no matter how the boarding school looked. Appearances can be deceiving, she knew, and the orphanage was told this was a very prestigious academy. Any girl would be lucky to attend, they said, picking only Milyena. “Milyena Morozova.”
The woman smiled. “Thank you, Milyena.”
Milyena nodded. The woman’s smile was chilly, though she supposed it was supposed to be comforting. “Your welcome,” she trailed off, unsure of this woman’s name.
“Madam,” the woman introduced herself, before her smile suddenly fell from her lips. “Ivan,” she snapped to the middle-aged man at the back of the room, the one who brought her here from the orphanage, “take Milyena to her room.”
She brightened up at that. She’d never had her own room before. But as Ivan escorted her out and up some mahogany stairs, her backpack of belongings strung over his shoulders, she realised she probably never would have her own room, as the room she had been given was full of other girls, all of a similar age to her.
“Here is your bed,” Ivan said, indicating towards a bed complete with a blanket and a thin mattress. It looked uncomfortable, but Milyena smiled at it nonetheless. He soon turned and walked out the room, taking her backpack with him.
When she opened her mouth to call him back and explain the situation, one of the girls placed a hand on her arm, silencing her.
“You won’t get it back,” a blonde girl explained, “and it’s better not to ask.”
Milyena nodded, as though she understood the consequences, but she did not. Something in the blonde’s eyes told it was serious, though, and so she dropped her question. It did not matter. She could just get new belongings. New belongings for a new life, it made sense.
“I’m Milyena,” she introduced herself politely, offering out her hand. Just like the adults at the orphanage greeted the possible parents.
The girl took her hand. “I’m Darya,” she said with a small smile, “but you can call me Dasha.”