Baker's Woman



  Baker’s Woman

  By

  Tess Enroth

 

  Copyright 2015 by Sarah T. Enroth

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  Chapter 1

  The western edge of the Ottoman Empire Bulgaria, January 1859

  Grasping the tin basin with both hands, Florence lifted it shoulder high and tipped it toward her, spilling warm, soapy water down her body to puddle around her feet on the bare floor. She stood at a long bench with a dozen other very young women, and all were bathing for the first time in weeks or months. In their bleak and cold barracks room, they’d crawled between the rough, musty blankets on their cots still wearing their under garments.

  They awoke to sounds of a banging door, a coarse shout, and they hurried into their outer garments and followed a surly guard down the stairs and across the frozen ground to a lean-to at the side of this wash-house. There they dipped hands into buckets of icy water, splashed it on their faces, and followed him to the mess hall.

  In the warm kitchen, they stood around a table to drink hot tea and eat thick slabs of bread, and while they were warned not to get in the way of the workers, sometimes one of the cooks would beckon them over to the stove and let them dip their bread into pans of hot grease left from sausages served to the men.

  This morning, however, the guard took them into the warm wash-house where a cook waited to ladle mush from a steaming pot into bowls. The guard bellowed orders to eat quickly, bathe and put on the clean clothes piled at the back of the room.

  “Leave no mess here. Waste no time,” he warned and went out, slamming the door.

  Left by themselves, they finished their gruel and moved toward the big iron stove where they removed soiled garments and dropped them to the floor. On the stove, copper boilers sent steam rising toward the roof where it condensed on rafters, and the wood released a pine scent to mingle with the clean smell of laundry soap.

  From the bench that ran the length of the room, they each took a metal pitcher to the boilers and dipped hot water to carry back to the basins. Using chunks of yellow soap, they lathered their chapped hands.

  Gradually and tentatively at first, and then swiftly, they stroked the thick suds onto their bodies, and soon they were exchanging smiles as they luxuriated in the warmth of the steamy room.

  Florence forgot her shyness as she looked at the joyful faces and marveled at the rosy, glistening bodies. She saw breasts that were gentle swells like her own and others that looked heavy, rib cages so thin she could have counted the bones and hip bones so sharp they seemed able to split flesh. They had slept every night in one room on cots only a few feet apart and every day had worked side by side, sweeping and mopping dusty barracks, yet rarely had they looked into another’s eyes.

  They had been wary as wild beasts, seldom speaking even though their miseries and losses were much alike.

  All had survived somehow in fields, forests, and towns until, seized by patrols or bands of rag-tag soldiers, they’d been brought to this fenced compound to be imprisoned in one of the barracks.

  Now, standing naked, they helped one another to wash away grime and feel pleasure in being warm and clean.

  However, the person at Florence’s side was a child she knew well, one who had been in her care for six years. Marie was the eldest of three children of a farmer whose wife had died and who needed the help Florence was able to provide. Having lost her own parents and in need of a home, Florence was eleven years old when she came to live on that farm in Bulgaria.

  There, she grew up, learned to be useful, and felt safe and secure.

  But strife and uprisings, like those that had left her homeless, reached into the countryside, and one night a roving band torched the house and barn.

  She shook Marie from her sound sleep, and they ran into the fields. They, alone, escaped and found places to hide and food enough to keep alive until they were captured and taken to the barracks.

  “Eyes closed, head back,” Florence said. As she poured water over Marie’s hair, the child squirmed with delight.

  She would have liked to promise Marie there would be better times ahead.

  Together they had imagined another home, a place for Marie to feel safe.

  Florence knew she could work and learn quickly to be useful.

  Perhaps it would be in a hospital or an orphanage that she could make a home for them both.

  Her visions of such places were vague, yet she believed there must be a way for them to live ordinary lives. Now as she finger-combed Marie’s hair, she tried to sound confident.

  “It will feel good to wear clean things, no matter if they don’t fit. And they will take us someplace with clean pillows and sheets, a house where we can work for kind people. Maybe we can plant a garden.”

  “With a swing. And we’ll always be together, won’t we, Florence?”

  “Yes, of course we will.” She cupped the girl’s pointed chin in her hand and looked into her solemn face, thinking how recent were the Marie’s losses compared to her own. “Let’s see how this fits,” she said and slipped a jumper over Marie’s head.

  Florence had put on a sleeveless cotton shift, and her hair lay damp on her shoulders as she searched for a smock or shirt to wear over it. Suddenly a cold draft made her shiver, and she turned to see two soldiers in tunics standing in the wide open door and glaring at the women who frantically clutched towels or grabbed at the stack of clothing.

  One man stepped forward and shouted the order to dress and be quick about it. They stomped out, slamming the door.

  All warmth and pleasure swept away, women scrambled into whatever they picked up. Some pawed through piles of stockings and boots, grabbing anything that might keep them warm.

  They had barely covered themselves in flimsy garments when the door again opened.

  This time, while one man held the door, two others tramped in; each grabbed a girl and hustled her out. Those remaining shrank back as far as they could from the door. Two scrambled under the bench.

  Florence snatched a shirt, wrapped it around Marie’s shoulders, and held her close.

  The door again flew open. Again, two men strode along opposite sides of the bench. One bent to peer under it and kicked at the girls who cowered on the wet floor. He ordered them out and dragged them away while his partner grabbed a third victim.

  After the door slammed the others stood hugging themselves, listening to the crunch of coach wheels on gravel. In silence they resumed searching through the tumble of clean garments in desperate hopes of finding something more before it was their turn to be forced out into the cold.

  “Maybe they won’t come back for us,” one said, but no one bothered to reply. Florence went to a window near the door and rubbed away the steam with the side of her hand.

  “I don’t see anyone at all, no soldiers anywhere.”

  Someone suggested things might return to normal for the rest of them, and they clung to the hope that they might return to a routine they were used to, grim as it was.

  “Maybe we should just walk out of here,” Florence said.

  “The whole place looks deserted. The gate may even be open.”

  But the possibility of freedom was beyond imagining, and whatever waited outside the gates might be worse than scant meals and cold cots. And they knew any attempt to escape could bring terrible punishment.

  Again they heard the horses’ hooves and the c
oach’s rattle, again saw the door open for three men, saw two advance quickly and wordlessly. One clamped a steely hand on Florence’s arm and, with the other, wrenched Marie from her grasp and flung the child against the wall. Marie’s eyes widened, her mouth opened, and Florence dug her fingernails into her captor’s wrist.

  His grip loosened, and dodging his other hand, Florence lunged toward Marie, but he had her again in a second and pinned her arms to her sides. Hoisting her across his shoulder, he lugged her out the door.

  Marie’s scream followed them, ringing in Florence’s ears as she was dumped into a carriage and the door slammed shut. She and two others huddled together, shivering, as the coach lurched into a turn. After a brief ride, they jolted to a halt and the door swung open. A big hand extended to them from a loose white sleeve, and a tall man with a round face smiled at them. His black hair curled below a brimless red hat, and his teeth gleamed in a grin. He handed each of them down onto hard gritty stones and led the across a courtyard where dry stalks of plants rustled in the cold wind.

  A gray stone building loomed before them, its walls pierced by narrow dimly lit windows. At the top of its crumbling steps, he opened a heavy door to a foyer lit by oil burning in sconces. After directing them to sit on a wooden bench against one wall, he left through a curtained doorway.

  Florence saw the other captives sitting with their backs against the damp plaster, and she and the other two joined them. Across the room she saw a similar bench where six youths sat and stared at walls and floor. Florence folded her arms across her chest and pressed her legs together to conserve whatever heat her body might generate. After a long wait, three more of the women were brought in, but Marie was not among them, nor was the clubfooted girl. If only those two had been left behind, why? And to what fate?

  She dared not think Marie was lost to her, that she might never find her. Beads of moisture gathered on her upper lip, and waves of nausea swept through her. Her saliva tasted of rusty metal, and her nostrils stung from the acrid oil smoke. A smell of laundry soap rose from the bodies wedged beside her own on the bench and from her own, too, and mingled with a sharp smell of fear. Where was Marie?

  It seemed a very long time before steps sounded from behind the curtains in the archway. A second big man in a white caftan entered.

  He kept one hand tucked inside a red sash that circled his big belly, and below his red cap his neck bulged in two fat tiers. His sharp eyes swept the room, and settled on the nubile boys. He surveyed them slowly and smirked as he spoke softly to one or two. Florence recalled hearing talk in the barracks about the soldiers “using” male captives. She didn’t know how, but she could see loathing and distrust on the boys’ faces.

  He turned his appraising eye on the young women, looking each over from head to toe. Then he approached Florence, and his tongue flicked across his lower lip. She felt a cramp seize her belly as he bent forward, took her arm, and brought her to her feet. She stood on trembling legs while he looked at the others and gestured for three of them to stand. One whimpered, and he struck her cheek lightly, then drew back his hand and held it poised with the threat of another slap if she didn’t stop.

  Then he spun around, drew aside the curtain, and ordered the four he’d selected to enter a dim passageway in single file. Florence felt cold stone under her feet and then carpet.

  At the far end, Florence saw a door open, and fragrant tobacco smoke floated toward them along with men’s voices and laughter. The man pressed a fat hand on each one’s shoulder, guiding them through the door and up three steps onto a podium. There he positioned them to face the room.

  From under a harsh white light, Florence stared into a hall so vast its ceiling and back wall were lost in shadows. Smoke curled and drifted upward and circled the crimson and cobalt lamps that hung from the ceiling. The room was crowded with men, big men, standing and sitting, and even lounging on divans. Some wore dark suits, but more were clothed in loose garments that created a blur of rich colors as the wearers moved. Bright metal trays caught her eye, and she saw slender boys in white gliding among the men with trays that held little glass cups and slender glasses.

  The clink of cups and glasses and rumble of voices came to her as if she were under water.

  Bursts of laughter sounded evil, menacing and insidious. Florence recalled the smirk of the mercenary who had watched Marie as a trickle of urine ran down her leg that day when both were dragged from their last hiding place.

  A gong sounded so close it reverberated in her queasy stomach. The room grew quiet. She clenched her hands and teeth in her struggle to control her quaking body.

  The man with the red sash put a hand on a girl whose dark hair tumbled across her eyes, and he steered her to the front of the platform. Florence heard a voice call out one word again and again. Men in the hall shouted numbers, and suddenly she understood.

  This was an auction, like one she’d seen in the country, where a stranger stood on a wagon, shouting as he sold cows and sheep and all the belongings of an old couple.

  A gavel banged sharply on a table near her. The voices ceased calling out numbers, and the dark-haired girl was led away. The gong sounded; another girl was drawn to the front of the platform. Florence again heard the sing-song voice, again the numbers, and then the gavel striking. A broad hand pressed her shoulder, and she felt herself guided forward under the bright light. From behind came the auctioneer’s chant:

  “Lira, lira, lira.”

  She lifted her chin, focusing her teary gaze above the crowd, and tried to close her ears to the murmur and hiss of voices. Whatever was to come, she would endure.

  * * *

  When Samuel Baker strode into what must once have been the grand reception hall of this decaying mansion, the aroma of eastern tobacco and musky perfumes assaulted his senses. Smoke from oil lamps had permeated the faded brocade draperies and worn carpets, and it now hung in a pall close to the coffered ceiling. Ivory and silver patterns inlaid in the wood had been dulled by neglect, and Sam felt repelled by the Ottomans at the same time that he admired their designs and craftsmanship. In this tarnished elegance, forty or fifty men lounged on divans or sat around low tables, sipping from small cups. Many were robed in rich garments and wore turbans that indicated their fiefdoms, and as Sam’s glance swept across the sleek and pampered men, he felt a deep aversion to them as well as to their corrupt society.

  Looking sideways at his companion, Sam saw nothing like his own distaste but instead an avid glow.

  In their three months of travel, Sam had grown weary of the priapic young man, irritated by his sensuality and callow tastes. It occurred to Sam that Singh, although a member of the British Empire had much in common with the Ottomans: this Prince of the Punjab was also a dark-skinned infidel. Although he wore a finely tailored Savile Row frock-coat and cravat, his white turban with its brilliant ruby signaled differences no Englishman could ever forget.

  As Sam and Singh seated themselves on straight chairs, well apart from the infidels, Sam noted a stirring among the pashas; heads turned and dark-eyed glances swept the room and whispers were exchanged. However, the men in military dress who stood at the back of the room barely noted the presence of a westerner, and Sam drew a deep breath in relief. He removed his gloves and frowned at Singh, who was twisting his lithe body sideways ln his effort to survey the entire hall. When Sam scowled at him, Singh straightened his back and folded his hands, his lips twitching on the verge of a smile. Sam hoped Singh wouldn’t give in to his usual nervous laugh.

  Sam sat motionless, back straight and feet firmly planted.

  He rested the palms of his hands lightly on his thighs trying not to reveal his aggravation. He would like to leap to his feet and shout out his contempt for the participants in this vile auction. In one glance he had assessed their avarice and lust, vanity and greed; they flaunted mankind’s every weakness, but their worst transgression, buying and selling human flesh, was about to begin, and he had come to see it all first-ha
nd.

  A man in a white gallabiah was escorting to the platform a number of white girls on the brink of womanhood. A gong reverberated and the man in white raised a hand. The drone of voices died out. Servant boys with their copper trays vanished. The auctioneer, enormous in both height and girth, bowed to the men, and then turned to select a girl. With a fat hand gripping her shoulder, he drew her forward.

  She hung her head, and her wild, dark hair obscured her face until the man’s hand lifted her chin. The room was silent as he bent to whisper to her. She tossed her hair back and looked into his face for a moment, then turned away from him. With his hand on the back of her neck, he forced her to face the roomful of men. Sam understood only part of the man’s spiel to the crowd, words about the need or the way to tame her. The men laughed and one offered a bid, others followed until a winner stood up, brandishing a handful of paper money. A smirking companion clapped a hand on the buyer’s back.

  A second young woman stood before the crowd, her shoulders hunched and arms folded across her chest. The man spoke to her and laced his fingers through her hair to yank her head back. Her sallow face was wet with tears. The crowd fell silent as the auctioneer coaxed their bids and finally sold her to the only bidder.

  “Good God, Singh. I’ve seen about all I can bear of this. Let’s leave now.”

  “One more, Sam. Just look at this next one. What a delicate little slave girl!”

  Sam saw the smallest of the girls, a fragile looking one who could not be much older than Edith, his eldest daughter. The very thought of Edith in this place and time so distracted Sam that he missed the fat man’s remark but judged from the crowd’s response that it was lascivious.

  The auctioneer turned her slowly around, revealing a loose plait of golden hair that reached to her waist. He lifted it, unbraided the strands, and ran them across his palm, and then turned her again to face the audience. Casting a sly smile at them, he bent over and, using his thumb and one finger in mock delicacy, lifted the hem of her skirt. He raised it slowly, and almost as one body, the men in the hall shifted like an enormous animal waking. Her lifted skirt revealed calves, knees, and the unexpectedly graceful curve of her thighs.