Parable of the Talents

'Listen!' I said, putting as much urgency as I could into my voice. 'There are things we need to talk about.'

Most of them turned to look at me. Nina Noyer and Emery Mora still stared out the window.

'Listen,' I said once more, wanting to shout, but not dar­ing to. 'Sooner or later, our captors will come in here. When they do, we need to be ready for them—as ready as we can be.' I stopped, drew a deep breath, and saw that now they were all looking at me, all paying attention.

'We need to pretend to go along with them as much as we can,' I continued. 'We need to obey them and watch them, learn what they are and what they want, and where they're weak!'

People looked at me either as though they thought I'd lost my mind or as though it was good and hopeful news that our captors might, perhaps, have weaknesses.

'Anything they tell us may be lies,' I said. 'Probably will be. So any of us who get the chance should spy and eaves­drop and share information with the rest. We can escape from them or kill them if we can learn about them and pool our knowledge. Learn about the collars, too. Any little thing might help. And most important, most essential, learn about the kids.'

'They'll rape us,' Adela said, all but whimpering. 'You know they will.' She knew they would—she who had al­ready suffered so much rape. She and Nina and Allie and Emery. The rest of us had been lucky—so far. Now our luck has run out. Somehow, we'll have to cope with that.

'I don't know,' I said. 'They could already have raped us, and they haven't. But... I suspect you're right. When men have absolute power over women who are strangers, the men rape. And we're collared.' I glanced toward the win­dow that Teresa's panic had driven her through. 'If someone decides to rape one of us, we won't be able to stop him.' I paused again. 'I think... if you can't talk a guy out of it or beg and cry and get his pity or bluff him into believing you have a disease, then you'll have to put up with it.' I paused, feeling inadequate and stupid. I shouldn't be giving these women this kind of advice. I, who had never been raped, had no right to tell them anything. I told them anyway. 'Do put up with it!” I said. 'Don't throw your lives away. Don't end up like Teresa. Learn everything you can from these people, and bring what you learn back to the rest of us. Even the stu­pid, ugly things that they say and do might be important. Their lying promises might hide a truth. If we collect what we see and hear, if we stay united, work together, support one another, then the time will come when we can win our freedom or kill them or both!'

There was a long silence. They just stared at me. Then someone—Nina Noyer—began to cry. 'I was supposed to be free,' she said through her tears. 'All this was supposed to be over. My brother died to bring me here.'

And all of a sudden, I felt such shame. All I wanted to do was lie down on the floor in a tight knot around my uselessness and my aching breasts and scream and scream. And I couldn't. I couldn't let myself fail my people in one more miserable way.

And these were my people—my people. They had trusted me, and now they were captives. And I could do nothing— nothing but give them galling advice and try to give them hope. 'God is Change,' I heard myself saying. 'Our captors are on top now, but if we do this right, we will beat them. It's that or just... die.'

'I haven't been able to take my medicine,' Beatrice Sco­lari said into the near silence. 'Maybe I will die.' She had, in the past year, developed high blood pressure, and Bankole had put her on medication. Nina was still crying, now gath­ered against Allie, who rocked her a little as though she were much younger. Allie herself was crying, but in complete si­lence. Beatrice Scolari stared at me as though I could pro­duce her medicine.

'Your medicine is one of the first things we've got to ask for when they start talking to us,' I told Beatrice. 'The very first thing we need is help for Teresa—if it isn't too late.'

But they must have seen Teresa. They must have heard her screaming earlier. Maybe they just didn't care. They knew she couldn't get away. Maybe they wanted to use her to

make sure we understood our position. 'We ask about our kids and about your medicine, Beatrice.' I continued. 'Then        ……..Then maybe they'll let us……take care of Zahra.'

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We waited until afternoon, hungry, thirsty, scared, miser­able, worried about our children, and wondering about our men. No one paid any attention to us. We saw the invaders going in and out of our homes, finishing their fence, eating our food, but we saw them only from a distance. Even Teresa, lying on