Unidentified Woman

By Hillel F. Damron

While on her way to school one morning, Maria Sanchez, 12, is kidnapped by strangers. She is taken from her poor Mexican village and brought to a dusty farm on the outskirts of a border town, where she joins other girls, all sad-eyed, who are forced into slavery in the town’s main factory. Maria is brutally raped by paying customers—mostly rich American men. She is left for dead, but unlike most of the other girls she survived, and once government forces destroy the farm, is taken away again by the man who has kidnapped her.
Years ahead in Los Angeles, Gideon Gold, 40, a marginal screenwriter and filmmaker, is interrupted while shooting a video magazine. His wife wants him to help an old Jewish woman whose husband, a famous talent agent in town, was brutally murdered a year ago. Case unsolved. Gideon, a past captain of an elite paratroops unit in the Israeli army and a former Mossad secret agent, is reluctant to embark on this new adventure. But when he meets the widow, he finds out that all she wants to know is why her husband was murdered, and why in such a gruesome manner: his penis severed and placed in his mouth. It reminds Gideon of similar cases in Israel’s wars with the Arabs and convinces him to take the case. Besides, he’s always short on money.
His investigation will be interwoven with Maria’s story, as depicted in a diary she keeps. We learn from it that Mario, one of the men who kidnapped her, brings her to America, where he uses her as a slave-worker in a sweatshop in Whittier by day, and as a sex-slave by night. One such night, when Maria can no longer take the abuse, she kills him while he’s drunk and drugged. She cuts his penis and sticks it in his mouth, the way she saw him do to one of the workers at the farm, who raped a girl without his permission. She runs away and ends up adopted by a middle-class Latino family. The father is the principal of a special East L.A. school for disadvantage Latino kids. He teaches Maria English and gives her proper education, as well as fatherly love.
Gideon’s investigation, meanwhile, is going nowhere fast. The only clue he discovers is a picture in Variety from the funeral of the agent, where among some rich and famous men, there‘s also a picture of an “Unidentified Woman.” He believes she’s connected somehow to the case, even though FBI agent Tami Yang finds no evidence to support that. She’s an Asian American young woman who fled Vietnam, and is the only person involved in this case who gives Gideon some daylight. The FBI is convinced that the Mexican Drug Cartel is responsible for it. The break in the case comes from Tami, when she informs Gideon that a prominent California State Senator was murdered in Sacramento in the same fashion.
This will lead Gideon eventually to Maria. When the son of her adopted family discovers her diary and her secret past, she runs away from home and becomes a high-class prostitute, known as “Schoolgirl Vicky.” She traces and seduces all those who raped her, using a list she has managed to take from the farm. Among them is a Wall Street broker, an Illinois rancher, the Hollywood agent and the Sacramento senator. She kills them all the same way.
Gideon meets her finally in a derelict motel in Tampa, Florida, where he learns of Maria’s terrifying ordeal, and the reason for the murders. He puts an end to it, and prevents her from killing her last rapist, a famous baseball player. She saves him, not killing him, and he saves her: enabling her to escape and returns to her poor Mexican village, in search of her family and roots. She decides to do some good with the money she has earned from prostitution and build a new elementary school, to be named after her adoptive father from Los Angeles, who taught her reading and writing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillel F. Damron
• Release date: Aug 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476074818

Hillel F. Damron

Hillel F. Damron was born in Israel to parents who survived the Holocaust. He was an officer at an elite paratroops unit and was wounded in battle. He studied films at the London Film School and became a film director of TV documentaries, a feature film, and video shorts. He is the award-winning author of a Sci-fi novel, The War of the Sexes (now titled Sex War One in the English edition), short stories and film reviews. His novel, Very Narrow Bridge, a first in the series of Gideon Gold’s Investigation, was published in 2011. In 2012 he was awarded Moment Magazine’s Prize for winning the Memoir Contest with his entry, The Sweet Life.To read a longer, inclusive version, visit his literarily website: http://hillelbridge.com/

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PART ONE

Chapter one

Capirato, Mexico. October 12, 1976

"If life is a garden,

Women are the flowers.

Men are the gardeners,

Who pick up the prettiest ones."

I sing this song while jumping rope with Adela, my best friend, before going off to school. I’m only twelve, but Mami keeps telling me I should grow up and stop jumping rope. Do things girls my age are supposed to be doing, like help her in the kitchen and learn how to sew. I hate it when she says that. I keep holding tight to the rope that connects me to my childhood, afraid of losing it, afraid of growing up. It’s as if somehow, don’t know how, I know what lies ahead.

The dirt road to school, that’s what lies ahead, where Adela and I run hand in hand. We skip between the small stones, still singing that silly song a boy at school taught us yesterday, about the flowers and the gardeners. And laughing about it, too, questioning who is the prettiest one: her or me? And this boy, Angelo his name, is he in love with me or with her?

We come off the bend to the only half paved road in our poor little village, happy to bounce on solid ground. Just then a black car suddenly stops near us making noise and raising dust. Never before in my life have I seen such a beautiful, shiny car. I can see myself reflected in it, like in a twisted mirror.

But only for a second. Because the back window rolls down immediately and a man pokes out his head, asking me for my name. Maria, I say. (I hate my name, it’s so… so ordinary.) He asks me to come over and show him the way to our school. I don’t know why I didn’t run away at that moment. Maybe it’s because Mami always told me to obey men. Especially older men.

He opens the door when I get closer and grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside. He is strong, and places me in the back between his legs, pushing my head down. I left my schoolbag on the dirt road behind. But why, I will need it soon? No matter, Adela will bring it to school. Of course she would. That’s where we are going, isn’t it? It’s only a game.

The car takes off screaming. I want to scream, too, but I can’t. His stinky hand is on my mouth. It hurts so much so I bite it. He curses bad words and hits me on the back of my head. Now I really scream. He is strangling me. I can’t breathe. His firm thighs vise my hips. I can’t move. I can’t shout. I close my eyes.

When I close my eyes, I’m afraid the world that was promised me—going to school with Adela, meeting Angelo and our other friends there, studying history which I like the most, our daytrip next week to the Mayan ruins, graduation, going to trade school, falling in love, marrying and having children—may be gone and lost forever. And together with the cloud of dust I imagine the speeding car is raising behind as it leaves our village, an evil cloud is falling over me. Covering me with eternal darkness and sadness.

At the farm, the next day

We arrive at the farm the next morning. I don’t know where we are. All I know is, we drove almost the whole night. They stopped to eat and then slept in the car for maybe an hour or two. I didn’t eat or sleep at all. The man who grabbed me and held me also touched me in my private part. Nobody ever did that to me before. His fat finger went in there and hurt me so bad. They were laughing about it later but I kept crying.

I’m crying now, too, when he gets out of the car and pulls me out with him. We’re inside this farmhouse, so I can’t see what the outside of it looks like. I don’t want to see it—I want to go back home to my Mami. I promised her in the morning, before leaving the house to school, that I won’t be late. More than anything else in this world I now want to help her in the kitchen and learn how to sew. But how can I explain to her why I’m so late? How can I tell her what this man did to me in the car? She would never believe me, I know her. It’s better for me to die right now.

We found another girl for you, Big Mamá, the man who drove the car tells a big fat woman who comes out of the house. She wears baggy pants and sloppy, thick shirt over her mountain belly. Not even a skirt or a dress like the women in my village wear.

She’s not damaged, says the ugly man who grabbed me and held me all night, when he hands me over to her. But she keeps crying all the time like a baby.

I want to go home to my Mami, I say, trying to control my cry.

These are the first words I say since they took me away from my home village. I think, maybe because she is a woman and a Big Mamá, she will understand and send me back home. But her arm, the way she holds me, is even stronger and more hurting than how the man held me.

I’m your Mami now, she tells me with a threatening voice, so stop crying!

I cry even louder when I hear her saying that. She is not my Mami. She is…

She slaps me. So hard that I see only dark skies and I lose my balance. I fall—but not on the ground. I’m falling and falling into an empty space. I’m going to die. Dios mio: please let me die.

He didn’t. I wake up lying on a narrow mattress that’s on the floor. One side of my face is burning but I feel so numb, I’m not even crying. Crowded over me I see many faces: girls like me with dark falling hair and brown eyes, my age or maybe just a little older. They look at me with sad old eyes. I never saw such old eyes in such young faces before. One of them is holding a wet cloth to my burning cheek. She takes it off and puts it in a little bowl of water that’s on the floor beside me.

What’s your name? she asks.

Maria.

Me too, she says.

That’s why I hate my name so much. It’s so ordinary.

Where am I?

The farm.

The farm. What farm?

They look at each other, then around. I think they are afraid to talk about it.

It’s a coca farm, you’ll see. We…

A door opens and they all fly away. Like angels they fly. Maybe I’m in heaven after all. A coca farm in heaven, that’s it. I can hear clapping. Not the clapping of wings, unfortunately, but of Big Mamá’s hands. She is standing by the door to the narrow hall we are all in. She is a giant, her body covers the whole doorway. All the other girls gather around a long table near the entrance, where Big Mamá’s little helper, one of the girls, brings food to the table. I think she has wings the way she moves. Am I dreaming?

We’re waiting for you, Little Maria, Big Mamá calls from the doorway. Come join your sisters.

I stay still on the mattress. So she is Big Mamá and I am Little Maria. How come? I’m not little. And I’m not hungry.

I hear myself saying that: I’m not hungry.

Bad mistake. Now Big Mamá is coming over. Ay Dios mio!

She stops by my mattress and kicks it, but not too hard, saying: You’re going to eat, Little Maria, hungry or not!

She may think I’m little, but I’m not stupid. Her voice is harsh and she raises her hand, too. I know already what’s coming to me if I won’t get up. So I do. I leave my little piece of heaven and join the other girls. They are nice and make room for me at the table. After I sit down Big Mamá says the blessing and then we eat. Or pretend to eat the way I do. Terrible food: dirt soup and some dry tamales. My tummy and my head are starving for my mother’s food. Poor as we are.

Big Mamá tells the girls to be nice to me, because I’m new to the farm. She warns them against telling me any lies. Anybody telling Little Maria lies will be punished! You know how and you know where. Understand?

All the girls but me nod with their heads down.

Then Big Mamá orders me to follow her. I obey. I never obeyed anybody in my life the way I obey her. Not even my Mami and my Papi. Not even Mr. Dominguez, old grumpy, our school principal.

Only when I get out of the hall do I see that it’s already evening outside. I was away from this world for most of the day and they didn’t even call a doctor. Or my Mami. What if I was dying? Who cares… not even me.

We walk in a long, narrow corridor. I see some dogs out in the dirt yard. I hear music and laughter coming from open windows. How could it be: music and laughter here, in this horrible place? What kind of a place is it, anyway?

I dare not ask Big Mamá that. We enter a bathroom that has a toilet hole, and a metal tub with a shower above it. She instructs me to take off my clothes but I refuse to do it in front of a stranger. My Mami told me that. But the evil giant grabs my hair, my beautiful brown hair I love so much, and bangs my head against the cold wall.

You’ll do as I tell you, Little Maria, or you’ll be dead tomorrow. Understand?

I do as she says. Not because I’m afraid of dying. No—I would prefer to die. But she knows how to cause great pain, Big Mamá. That I already know. I learned my lesson twice. My head hurts terrible but the cold water takes some of the pain away.

She looks at me naked. Nobody ever did that before but my Mami and my Papi. I turn my back to her. No matter, she turns me back and turns off the water. Orders me to lie down in the cold tub. I do what she says. I shiver very hard. Maybe because I’m so scared I shiver—like a flame in the wind afraid of dying out.

At home we don’t even have a bathtub. I think about it when she spreads my legs and places my feet on the tub’s edges. She looks down at my private part and I look up at the dirty ceiling. She touches it with her fingers and I see the spiders crawling slowly in their cobwebs above. She examines it but not like that ugly man did, the one who grabbed me away. She doesn’t hurt me so much. Why are they all so interested in my private part?

You can’t trust them animals, she says as if she heard my question. Then she smiles. Bueno, Little Maria, you’re still a virgin. Get dressed.

I’m old enough to know what a virgin is. Mami warned me to stay that way until I marry the man I love. You and I talked about it a few times, Adela, remember? I feel like talking directly to you now. Do you hear me at all?

Big Mamá hands me a nightgown, thick and rough like a sack. She bundles my clothes into a little pile, my lovely school skirt I love so much as well, and hands it to me. She then lifts me up like a doll and places me on a stall. She is very strong, Big Mamá. I know that already.

Now listen up, Little Maria, she says and waves her finger at my face.

I listen. What else can I do but listen? Her teeth are yellow and some are missing. She has a small mustache, too, almost as thick as my Papi’s. Big nose like a fat potato. Black holes for eyes.

You’re going to sleep now, because tomorrow morning you’ll get up early to work. You’ll wear these clothes.

She means my school uniform that’s under my arm. I will never do that, Adela, you know me. You know how much I love my school uniform.

Will I go to school, too? I ask.

Big Mamá strokes my hair gently. I’m surprised. I’m surprised that it feels so good. She even smiles at me with her yellow ugly teeth.

This place is your school now, Little Maria, and I’m your teacher and headmaster. You’ll do as I say and everything we’ll be good. Understand?

I nod. I don’t know what she means. This place is not my school. I love my school. I think about it when she leads me back to the sisters’ hall. It is dark there but for one naked light bulb at the center, hanging down from the ceiling, spraying fuzzy yellow light around. I find my mattress, where there is now a thin, partly torn blanket. I put my bundle of clothes under my head as a pillow and cover myself with the blanket. But I’m still cold.

There is an icon of the Virgin Mary in the corner and a votive candle burning underneath it. Each girl in her turn kneels down there and says her prayer under the dark eyes of Big Mamá. I’m forced to do so, too. I say a prayer for my Mami to come over quickly, save me from these people and this place and take me back home. Then I lie down again like all the other girls.

Good night, sisters, says Big Mamá. No more talking.

She turns off the light and leaves, closing the squeaking door behind her.

After some time passes I hear whispers in the dark. Some of the girls get together around one mattress. Not me. I stay still. I think of you, Adela. What are you doing right now? I hope you kept my schoolbag with you. I will need it when I get back to school. I’m sure you told Senora Molina what happened to me, so I won’t get a tardy mark and be punished when I come back. Adela, would you write down our homework assignments for me? I know you would. You are my best friend ever. You are my real sister.

I think of Mami and Papi, too, and of my two brothers, Jose and Joseph. One older than me and one younger. I’m in the middle, like a sandwich. That’s our family joke. What do they think of me now? Do they think I ran away from home? That I don’t love them anymore? Of course I do. Don’t they know that?

I cover my head with the stinky blanket. I feel as if a dark, heavy shadow is covering my soul, and pressing down on my chest. I begin to cry again. Without voice I cry, because I don’t want anybody to hear me. I want to go home. I want to be with my Mami. I want a big hug and a soft kiss from her. A stream of pain is coming straight from my heart and pouring out as tears from my eyes. Like soft rain it falls, all night long.

Chapter Two

Capturing the elusive light was Gideon Gold’s immediate concern. He was completely unaware, of course, of the existence of a girl named Maria; and of how profoundly, and of how soon, her lifeline would intersect with his and cause it to take such a dramatic, unexpected turn. All he knew then, on that partly overcast day in Los Angeles, was that if the light coming from the evanescent sun was momentarily right, and if the light in the eyes of the person he was interviewing was miraculously genuine—and not, as was so often the case, false and pretentious—he might be able to capture something resembling art. Or, at the very least, a sincere piece of work. Even while engaging, as he was on that early October day in 1990, in the making of the most boring, mundane kind of work.

A video magazine, titled What’s On. A production he was shooting for the Greater Los Angeles Jewish Federation. It was, in truth, a tri-monthly piece of trash, which nonetheless Gideon tried in vain to transform into a meaningful piece of art. Not understanding, due to his frustrations and limitations, the difference between the two: Between his filmmaker and writer’s aspirations of creating something imaginative, yet true and everlasting, and the reality of directing such a segment for the video magazine; consisting, as it were, of scenes from the local Jewish political scenery, randomly chosen for him, not by him, in addition to education and sports items. And, if he fought real hard, some items from the entertainment world as well.

Maybe he did comprehend the difference after all. Maybe he knew what What’s On was all about: a current of dirty water under the bridge, never to be seen again after flowing away. He pretended otherwise, however, doing it in order to survive and save face. He was making a documentary of sorts, he convinced himself, while making a few—too very few—bucks in the process. Shooting, as he was doing that day, an item on the newest daycare facility to be opened by the federation. He was interviewing, in the foreground, the all-too-cheerful woman in charge of the place. In the background, meanwhile, the noisy, happy-go-lucky kids were testing the attractions of the new playground.

The first take was awful. Gideon was about to ask the daycare director to cut down on her pomposity and cheerfulness, and to relax a little into her scenery, be more at ease with it. Meanwhile, his cameraman was watching the horizon apprehensively, where a gathering of heavy clouds was forming. And, as if that wasn’t enough of a distraction, the producer of the video magazine was marching towards them just then.

Unlike Gideon, Avi Shapiro had no problems separating the world of moviemaking, Hollywood included, from the world of the local political scenery. A minor operator with charm and know-how to spare, he was constantly busy promoting himself. Like Gideon, he was an Israeli expatriate, but unlike Gideon, he was never a filmmaker. He was a Jewish activist, swimming gingerly among the local political sharks. A position, and situation, Gideon despised and tried very hard to stay away from.

Dressed fashionably, the oily Avi approached Gideon, a jeans and T-shirt wearing semi-hippie, sporting long hair. He delivered a message from Gideon’s wife, Evelyne, received via his car phone. Go home as soon as the shoot is over. No editing for you tonight, Gideon, and no hanky-panky.

Is that what she said: no hanky-panky?

Her words, not mine. She must know you by now.

Get lost. Any reason given?

Didn’t say. Used the words ‘urgent’ twice, though.

Dammit. Always urgent. Never just, ‘Hi honey, how are you? Great dinner will be waiting for you tonight when you arrive home. Take your time, Daniel and I are doing just fine.’ Forget it, man. With her, it’s always urgent. Otherwise, he would never hear from her. But what?… Did Daniel fall in the schoolyard and break his leg? Or worse, his head? Or, did Evelyne lose her job with that megalomaniac boss of hers, the State Insurance Commissioner? They’d really be in financial ruin then.

He hoped his sister hadn’t called from Israel to tell him that his father, still living in the kibbutz where Gideon was born, had died suddenly. That was the last thing he needed right now. He’d have to take his longest guilt-trip yet and fly back home tomorrow. Or who knows, maybe his mother had called from Tel Aviv, worried about the impending war in Kuwait, telling him that Iraqi Scud missiles were already landing on her roof. Damn—didn’t Evelyne know by now how worried her messages always made him? Always urgent. Always life and death situations. Always--

We’ll lose the sun soon, Gideon, Avi urged him along, jerking him from his dark thoughts. Let’s get on with it.

What do you say? said Gideon, agitated. Can’t you stop it from going down?

Not in my contract. In fact, wasn’t it Gideon who stopped the sun from going down?

That was Joshua.

It’s your turn to make a miracle, then. Finish this shoot, we won’t be back here.

And off he went, back to his flashy