She had been so young when they had taken her; her voice still child-like, young enough not to understand her parents were dead. Her face still full of innocence.
Her first night there, Natalia had cried, asking for her parents. She was met with a slap to the tear-stained cheek that shook her small frame, and a cold look, silencing her. She never asked again. Not openly like that anyway.
She came to learn that in this place there was only cold. From a tender age she learnt about hardening herself to the rest of the world. It did not mean she was good at it.
One of the bigger girls, Ida had come to her rescue, one night after a particularly gruelling day: so many exercises, training, shouting. Her small feet were covered in blisters, a bruise forming under one eye where she had failed to dodge a punch—from someone twice her size and age.
“Sloppy,” was all Madame B had sniffed, adding another bruise to her cheek.
Ida had bathed the bruises and the blisters on her feet, and wiped the smaller girl’s tears away with such tenderness that it shocked Natalia—when was the last time someone had done something for her, had cared about her without wanting anything in return?
She shivered: the blankets the Red Room provided were too thin—inadequate against the Russian winters.
Maybe Ida wanted her blanket? She offered it, slightly hesitantly, not wanting to part with it, but not wanting to be hurt. She had already learnt so much about pain.
Ida smiled sadly. “No, no milaya, I don’t want anything from you.”
And then she’s gone. Gone before Natalia can thank her. Gone before one of the handlers catches her out of bed when they make their rounds.
It becomes a habit. Ida comes to see her. Bringing a biscuit she managed to smuggle from dinner, a smile in the corridor, an extra top to stave off the cold, offering her a smuggled salve to help with the blisters forming on her wrist from the handcuff that grates her at night.
The kindness is what keeps Natalia sane. What keeps her grounded. Knowing that at least there is one person in this hellish place that cares for her.
It is Ida who teaches her to braid her hair when it starts growing out from its wispy red strands towards her shoulders. Madame B has ordered her to let it grow.
“No, no, take this strand, put it over this one,” she says softly, guiding Natalia’s hands. It takes a while, but eventually she gets it. She’s always been good at picking up new skills.
The dreams come, and still Ida is there. She holds little Natalia when she shakes, trying to stop her screams from escaping, in case they hear her, in case they take her away.
“Shh, it’s okay,” lies Ida, “you’ll be okay milaya.”
But how could she ever be? Little girls who are taught to kill other girls. Who are taught they are mere objects, pawns in a game. Little girls who are torn from their families, who learn only to destroy. Oh, the horrors she’s seen. So much for one who has not yet lived on this cold Earth for a decade.
“I’m here.” Ida will tell her.
“Promise?” Asks Natalia, sniffling into Ida’s thin nightdress.
“Promise.” Agrees Ida, hands gently caressing the younger girl’s hair, playing with the strands in the way she knows will sooth her.
A few days later and Ida is gone.
Maybe she is on an outing, thinks Natalia. Natalia knows the big girls usually go on them, Madame B usually sends them with a task. Her first one will be next year.
But Ida doesn’t come back.
She’s not there at breakfast the next morning, not there in language classes. Natalia begins to worry. She’s heard the rumours from the others about the girls who do not return.
But Ida has to, she consoles herself. She promised.
She longs for to hear her voice again, to see her smile at her, no matter how tired or hurt she was, to feel her hands as they braided her hair even when she knew Natalia could do it for herself.
So finally she plucks up the courage to ask Madame B.
She looks down at her, cold and sneering.
“We have no place for the weak, Natalia.” Madame B says, as if that explains everything.
And just like that, Natalia knows it’s all gone.
There will be no more smiles, no more biscuits, no more comforting words whispered at night.
She holds her gaze with Madame B, steeling her emotions.
Blank, unreadable, just like they taught her. Anywhere else, it would be an odd look for an eight-year-old. Not here.
Just like that, Natalia resolves never to show weakness.
She vows she will break out of there the first chance she gets.