CHAPTER ONE
The List
Saturday, November 5, 2022
A ski village in the Carpathian Mountains
Babushka sat across from me at the kitchen table in the ski
chalet where our families had been living for the past few
months. Drone components were laid out in front of us, and
our shared tool set was spread out on a cloth between us: solder
gun, clippers, ties, and tweezers. Babushka’s training as a jeweler
made her a natural for assembling drones, which were desperately needed by the Ukrainian army. When she asked if I
could help, I’d jumped at the chance. I had just finished heat-
shrinking the second antenna to the frame of my drone when
Mom walked in carrying mugs of tea.
“Stop right there for a moment, Yaroslava,” said Babushka.
Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth, and her brow
was creased in concentration.
“There,” she said, setting down her needle- nose pliers.
“Camera secured.” She looked up at Mom. “Thank you for
the tea.”
“Rada, are you able to take a bit of a break? I’d like to show
you something outside,” Mom said.
“Perfect timing,” I said, stretching to ease the stiffness in my
back. We’d been working for hours without a break. I grabbed
my mug and followed her outside to my favorite spot on the rock
that overlooked the mountains.
Mom pulled her phone out and swiped it on. She held it up to
show me. “I just got a message from Dariia on my Facebook
Messenger account.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Is she okay?”
“She’s healthy. She’s living with a Russian family in a suburb
of Moscow, and she’s treated like a prisoner and a servant.
They’ve changed her name and birth date. I’ve got all the
details here.”
“Wow,” I said, pulling out my own phone. I always put my
notifications on silent when I make drones. “I’ve got a message
too.” I opened it. “The same as yours, Mom. But there’s a second one too.”
“What does it say?”
I opened the second message and showed it to her. “It’s a page
of addresses and names.”
Mom grabbed the phone from me. “It’s a listing of
Ukrainian kids, with their original names and new Russian
names, I bet. The addresses are in Russia. And the contact information lines up with the kids’ Ukrainian names.
I think these are other Ukrainian kids who were kidnapped
to Russia, like Dariia.”
“Dariia is so smart,” I said. “I bet that’s exactly what this is.”
“This is the best news we’ve had in a long time.”
I clung to Mom, and we bawled our eyes out. Dariia was alive.
We knew where she was, and we could now communicate with
her. And in typical Dariia fashion, she wasn’t just worried about
saving her own skin, she was helping others who were stuck like
she was.
“What do we do now, Mom?”
“We tell her that we’re okay and we’re working on a way to get
her out.”
“But how will we do that, Mom?”
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure this out.”
Mom keyed in a message to Dariia and showed it to me before
hitting Send:
“Rada and I are sheltering in the Carpathian Mountains.
Your father is in a Russian prisoner of war camp. Info on other
kids welcome. We love you.”
Mom handed me back my phone. I leaned into her shoulder
and held the phone between us. I slowly scrolled through the
names until I reached the information about my sister.
“She’s in Serpukhov,” I said.
“That’s practically all the way to Moscow,” said Mom.
“She may as well be on the moon. How can we possibly rescue
her from there?” I asked.
“We’ll figure it out,” said Mom. “Keep scrolling.”
“Look,” I said. “This girl named Genya is also in Serpukhov.”
I scrolled back up to Dariia and then back to Genya. “They’re
in the same apartment building. Even the same unit.”
“If there are two kids in the same place, maybe we can connect with the other family and work together.”
“The mother’s number is right here,” I said, enlarging it on
the screen.
Mom punched the number into her phone.
It rang, and rang, and rang.
No one picked up.
It didn’t go to voicemail.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the mother had been captured,
or maybe killed. Or maybe just the phone was dead— buried in
the burning rubble of a Russian bombing. I groaned. “This is
impossible.”
Mom wrapped me in a hug. “None of this is easy. Show me
Genya’s information again.”
I scrolled to the spot and showed it to her.
“Let’s try the aunt,” she said.
Mom put her phone on speaker and keyed in the aunt’s number. One ring, two. Then a prompt to leave a voice message.
Mom looked startled. “Um, ah . . .”
I leaned closer to the phone and said, “This is Yaroslava
Popkova. My daughter was kidnapped, just like your niece.
They’re living in the same apartment. Please call me.” I keyed
in Mom’s number at the prompt, then disconnected and sent the
same message by text.
“Thank you,” Mom said. “I had a deer-in-headlights moment.”
“I get it,” I said. “And now we’re one step closer.”
“Let’s just hope she gets the message and she’s able to call
back,” said Mom. “And we’ve got all these other kids’ families to
work with too. We’ll figure this out.”
