Mummy, Come Home: The True Story of a Mother Kidnapped and Torn from Her Children

I told myself we were better off than people living on the streets. At least we had somewhere warm to sleep—Pasha in his pram and Sasha on a bench—and there was a cloakroom basin to wash nappies in before hanging them over the pram to dry. We could also go to the canteen where the staff would give me spare bits of bread or heat up bottles of milk I’d taken with me. But soon Sasha began coughing and Pasha got diarrhoea.

On our fourth night in the waiting room, Ira came bursting in. ‘I heard you were here! What are you doing? These children will catch their deaths! Come home at once.’

I stared up at her, terrified. ‘I can’t come home! You know what Sergey will do to me. You know how he treats me.’

She looked at me with pity. ‘Yes, I know. He’s a scoundrel, I can make no excuses for him. But that is what I’ve come to tell you. Sergey’s not there. He’s been arrested!’

‘Arrested? What for?’ I’d begun to think that Sergey would never be punished for his countless acts of crime and thievery.

‘Come home. I’ll tell you all about it.’

Back home, I was glad to be in the warmth, with the children tucked up in bed and Ira giving me a cup of hot tea and some soup.

‘Sergey’s been arrested and he’s being kept in custody,’ Ira told me as I ate. ‘A man was set upon and robbed a few months back, and died as a result. The police think Sergey did it.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ I replied. ‘He’s vicious but he’s also a coward. He only beats women.’

‘I know.’ Ira looked sad. ‘I’m glad our mother is not here to see how he turned out. But you know how he’s been lately…’

‘The drugs.’ I nodded.

‘It’s been getting worse, we can all see it. It’s perfectly possible that Sergey was high on something and went too far when he robbed the man.’ Ira looked at me. ‘As it is, he’s a thief and a drug taker. He’s not likely to get off easily from the police if they decide to make life difficult for him. If I were you, I would enjoy the peace and quiet while he’s gone. That baby of yours is due soon, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ I looked down at my swollen belly. ‘Only a week or two more.’

‘All the more reason for you to be here, not in some draughty waiting room. Honestly, Oxana, what are we going to do with you?’ Ira smiled kindly. She knew how desperate I had to be to do something like that.

‘But without Sergey, how am I going to feed the children?’ I said dully.

‘Well, you know, I might just have an answer…’

At Ira’s suggestion, I began to work from home making flowers for the wedding dresses she sold. I would be paid $2 for each one I made and the first took five days. But I quickly got faster at sewing the roses and lilies which would be worn by brides, and I thought of them as I sewed under a lamp after the children had gone to bed. I’d always dreamed of marrying my prince wearing a beautiful white dress and flowers in my hair.

‘One day, Oxana, one day,’ I kept telling myself as the house fell silent with sleep and I carried on sewing.

Most nights I worked until four o’clock and then slept for a couple of hours. But sometimes I’d only just be finishing as the children woke up and I could hardly see to make their breakfast. I didn’t mind though. It was a relief to live without the fear of being beaten, and to earn the money I needed to provide food. I could almost begin to feel hopeful—if I wasn’t so afraid of what would happen when Sergey came home.

On 9 March 1995 I gave birth to our third child, a little girl called Luda. Once again I was filled with love when I looked at my child’s fat, rosy cheeks.

‘Hello, little girl,’ I cooed to her. ‘I’m your mamma! And we’re going to be very happy, I promise you.’

Ira and Alex welcomed us home with little cakes and wine, and Luda quickly became everyone’s darling. I fed her, looked after the children and earned what we needed with the flowers I was making. I had my three children and I was providing for us all. That was all that mattered.

When Luda was about four months old, I was told I had to be interviewed by a police investigator about Sergey’s arrest. I went into the police station apprehensive and nervous, and was taken to a bare room where a policewoman was waiting for me. She gestured to me to sit down, told me the details of the case and then stared at me coldly.

‘The attack happened on 24 February. Can you remember that day?’ she asked. ‘Your husband says he was at home with you as usual, but we have a witness who was with him that night and says he was out all evening. Can you help us at all?’

My mind raced back over the past few months. How would I ever remember one particular night? It was such a long time ago now…then suddenly I remembered something and my breath caught in my throat.

‘No. I don’t remember that day,’ I said quickly.

But I did. There had been a public holiday on 20 February and I knew that a few nights later Sergey had arrived home late at night with bloody and scraped knuckles.

‘Darling,’ the investigator said softly as I stared at her. ‘Do you know that it is a criminal offence to hide evidence? You could go to prison for three to five years.’

I stared at the table. I could keep silent, protect Sergey and risk being taken away from my children. Or I could tell what I knew and perhaps there would be a life for me and the children away from his violence and criminal life…What choice was there?

‘I do remember that night,’ I said slowly.

The investigator looked at me and I felt my heart beat as I started to talk. I told her everything I remembered.

‘Thank you. You’ve done the right thing,’ she said, as she passed me a pen so that I could sign my statement.

A few weeks later Sergey was charged with robbery and manslaughter.

The news that he would face a trial and perhaps a prison sentence gave me mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was happy to think that soon he might be locked away, never able to hurt me again—maybe God had finally listened to my prayers just as I’d always hoped He would. But I was also scared of life without my husband. It’s hard to understand but when you’ve been beaten for long enough you start believing you are as weak and worthless as you’ve always been told you are and, in a country as hard as Ukraine, sometimes just the few dollars that a violent husband brings home is what separates you and your children from starvation.

Besides, I’d loved him once, and he had loved me too. We had had three children together, including the daughter he had never seen. I couldn’t help feeling grief for the joy we’d once shared and the chances we’d once had. Where had all that happiness gone? Why had it all turned so ugly r

Then in April 1996 came the news that Sergey had been convicted of manslaughter. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.

I went to see him in prison a few weeks after the court hearing. He was waiting for me as I walked into a cabin divided by a glass partition and picked up a phone to talk to him. I didn’t feel anything as I looked at him.

Just four years ago I’d been at school, dreaming of a true love and never imagining what a man like him could do to me. But now it was as if a fog had been lifted from my eyes. Sergey was far worse than I’d ever wanted to see. He’d been stealing from me for years—everything from good dresses and a watch to Pasha’s baby clothes while I was in hospital having him. I’d been blind, like a child believing in Santa Claus, and now I was growing up fast. I was twenty, a mother of three and had to look after my children.

‘So is there anything you want to tell me?’ Sergey asked as he stared from the other side of the glass.

‘No. What do you want to hear?’

He leaned forward and put the phone closer to his mouth. ‘I know what you did. You told the police I wasn’t at home that night. It’s because of you that I’m here.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said, keeping my voice steady as my heart raced. ‘Who told you this?’

‘Don’t try and pretend,’ Sergey snapped. ‘I know exactly what happened and I promise you this—I will find you when I get out of here and you will die.’

I didn’t say anything as I got up to leave. Seven years was a long time but would I be able to run fast enough to get away?

As I left the prison, I prayed that I would never see Sergey again.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_c6f281d1-f0dc-5aad-9fe6-288ab8796724)

A rush of sickness burned the back of my throat as the smell of rotting meat filled the air. It was thick, like syrup curling into my lungs, and I wanted to retch.