The Invisible Child

by Denise Evdokimoff

[Author note: the following piece is fiction that is based on real
events and family reminiscences. Character are fictitious, and
any resemblance to persons living or deceased is coincidence.]

LUBA WOKE TO AN ENVELOPING DARKNESS that matched her loneliness. Not a sliver of light penetrated the heavy blackness surrounding her bed. No amount of time spent in this abyss could allow her to adjust to its suffocating grip. She imagined it was morning, for her fatigue had faded, but the exact time—or even if it truly was a new day—remained a mystery. Fumbling for her flashlight, always kept by her pillow and her favourite doll, Nora, she found the familiar button and illuminated the small wind-up alarm clock that her parents had recently given her. The clock was new, modern, purchased from the Eaton’s catalogue, and Luba was very proud of her ability to read the time. The clock indicated 7 a.m. This was good, it meant soon, her parents would open the cellar door and tell her it was safe to come out of the refuge she now called her bedroom.

In this small, remote Doukhobor community of southern British Columbia, all the tiny houses shared the same unsettling cellar. These root cellars, soon filled with provisions for the winter, would overflow with heaps of potatoes, carrots, and apples as the harvest approached. The vegetables would be a welcome relief alongside the endless meals of homemade canning produced by the women of the community. The people prided themselves on their ability to almost exclusively live off the land in their desire to shed the need for material wealth. Everyday life in the Sons of Freedom community was purposely simple, until recently.

Luba’s mother had tried to make the space behind the continual rows of Mason jars feel cozy, but spiders still crept into the hidden corner of the eerie room. The spiders frightened her, as did the darkness and the heavy sense of entrapment. Despite the heat of the late summer, the cellar felt cold. Luba understood the necessity of hiding in this bleak space, but understanding didn’t diminish her fears. She missed the beautiful singing of the choir in her community’s language. Her parents never let her forget that her mother tongue was Russian, even though she understood English much better than many of her peers and all her elders.

The cellar’s dirt floor was perpetually damp, and a musty smell clung to the few belongings she had.  Among her possessions were only a handful of hand-me-down clothes and her beloved dolls. Before that fateful night, her mother had insisted she was too old, at eleven, for dolls and should pass them on to her younger sister, Larissa. Now, without Larissa, Luba surrounded herself with the dolls, feeling sad about the freedom to keep them all to herself. She no longer had to share her beautiful dolls—or the bed she once shared with her sister. Yet, despite this newfound privacy, she hated being the only child in the cellar, feeling the weight of being alone.

HAD IT REALLY BEEN ONLY THREE MONTHS since the RCMP raid? That night had irrevocably altered Luba’s life. The screams and cries of the children still haunted Luba’s dreams, echoing through her mind like a relentless storm. She couldn’t recall much of the chaos as she and her six siblings fled into the forest. 

She remembers being faster than the younger ones, as fear propelled her forward, adrenaline surging through her veins. She raced along familiar paths, the dry branches cracking ominously beneath her feet, each snap echoing in the stillness like a warning. Her crocheted slippers offered little protection as they snagged on roots, but there was no time to slow down. The mist hung heavy, mingling with the scent of dew that clung to her thin cotton smock, soaking her as she plunged deeper into the dark stillness of the forest. The full moon cast disturbing shadows, but it was the unseen terrors behind her that drove her to run faster. With every heartbeat, the distance between her and the lurking dangers widened—but so did the chasm between her and her family. In that frantic race, she felt a chilling truth: she was utterly alone. 

She didn’t fully understand the threat of the police or the shrill instructions to run. Her only previous memories of the police were during the nude protests her community conducted to protest the government and their funding of war. Those protests made Luba deeply uncomfortable as she became acutely aware of the differences between the members of her small community and the people from town. She didn’t like the way people gawked and laughed at her extended family. She didn’t understand how sometimes members of her family were taken away to jail, and at other times they were not. Luba didn’t grasp all the words spoken by the town people and the police, but she did sensed the disgust and loathing of those in the bright red uniforms. She felt the deep hostility directed at her as a member of her community. So, when she saw the red uniforms at her house, in the night, and was told to run, she ran.

She couldn’t remember how she became separated from her siblings, only the haunting sound of their voices fading into the night. Deep within the forest, she found refuge inside a decaying tree, its hollow trunk offering little comfort. The RCMP flashlights danced through the darkness, their beams slicing through the underbrush, inching closer to where the echoes of panic resonated. Then, a piercing scream shattered the air.  Luba recognized it instantly—it was her sister Larissa.

The officers halted, their flashlights converging on something hidden in the shadows, illuminating a scene she couldn’t bear to comprehend. Panic clawed at her throat. She knew she should have rushed to help Larissa, but fear paralyzed her and bound her to the spot. The shrill sound of her sister’s scream replayed in her mind, a tormented melody she would never escape. 

“There’s blood everywhere; she must have tripped and hit her head,” one officer had said, his voice cold and clinical. 

“We need to get the girl into the car. We must apprehend as many as we can.”

“If the brat dies, the reporters will have a field day,” responded the other officer.

Luba’s heart raced as dread washed over her, drowning out the chaos around her. She strained to hear any response from her sister, but silence enveloped the forest. The memory of Larissa’s chilling shriek became the last sound she would associate with her beloved sister, a haunting reminder of the night everything changed.

Luba had edged out of the hollow cedar, her breath momentarily stopped as she spotted the police officer hoisting her limp sister over his shoulder. A sickening thud accompanied Larissa’s motion, the sound striking Luba like a blow. Gone were the cries and screams; her sister was now disturbingly silent. Time stretched unbearably as she watched the officers vanish into the shadows, leaving her alone in the damp, suffocating air of the tree. 

It felt like an eternity before she finally succumbed to a restless sleep, her mind blanking out any thoughts of what had happened. As she submitted to exhaustion, she whispered to herself, “Tomorrow will be better. It just has to be.”

When she awoke, curled at the base of the tree, a distressing realization hit her: she was wet, cold, thirsty and still inside a tree. Pain throbbed through her head and feet, a testament to the hours spent cramped in the dampness. With a heavy heart, she willed herself to uncurl and stand, every joint aching in protest. As she finally rose, a piercing ray of light cut through the canopy, dazzling her eyes. She squinted against the harsh brightness of the summer morning, a beacon illuminating a path back to a world she feared no longer existed. 

EVEN MONTHS LATER, in the darkness of the cellar, her head continuously fills with guilt. Guilt and endless unanswered questions regarding why the children were taken, and where they were sent. Repeatedly, she recalls the argument between her parents upon her return from the forest that fateful night.

“We should turn Luba in to the police,” her father whispered to her mother in Russian. “If we don’t, more trouble will come.”

“No!” her mother shot back, her voice trembling with desperation. “I can’t let them take another one of my children to that horrible place. I don’t know what they do to them there, what they teach them…”

“We know exactly what they teach them.” her father snarled. “They teach them about guns and war. They teach them that everything we believe is wrong—and that they should leave our community to be more like them. Here, we teach them all they need to know. Here, in the community, where life is simple, as God wanted it to be.”

“They cannot hold our children for long; the government will understand we are right in the teachings of our children and soon they will return them to us. We must continue to fight for what we believe!” Her mother responded shakily, her tears mounting.

Luba grappled with the confusion of what was happening to her, the other children of the community, and the growing tension simmering within her community. The darkness of the cellar felt like a punishment she must endure for leaving her sister behind. It should have been her, she told herself, not the innocent little girl with the joyful smile and laughter that could light up the bleakest days. The sister who loved having her hair braided, who brought warmth on frigid winter nights as they nestled together in their shared bed. The sister who would whisper secrets until dawn, their giggles mingling in the stillness of the night.

Shortly after, her mother tried to reassure her, telling her that Larissa had been taken to the hospital in town and had physically recovered. Then, with a note of caution, she added, “Larissa has been sent to the institution in New Denver, with the other children.”

“All of them are there?” Luba asked.

“More than two hundred children,” her mother whispered.

“Can Larissa come home?” Luba struggled to understand.

“No, all the children have to stay there. They’re not allowed to speak Russian. They can’t pray. There are no dolls, no toys—only misery.” Her mother’s voice trailed off.

Luba persisted. “Why is Larissa in that horrible place?”

Her mother looked away before answering, “The government says children must attend their schools. But we don’t believe in teaching our children about war and weapons. We believe they can learn everything they need right here, at home, in our community.”

Her mother said all of this to comfort her, but it did nothing to ease her guilt or make her feel better. In fact, the conversation only deepened her confusion. How could sweet, gentle Larissa end up in a place that sounded more like a prison than a school? 

Every two weeks, her parents undertook the gruelling three-hour journey along Slocan Lake to New Denver to visit their children at the institution. Luba had never been to New Denver. Until a few months ago, the name was nothing more than a whisper of mystery. In truth, Luba had never ventured far beyond the confines of her one-room house, the only home she had ever known. Her limited visits to town reinforced how different her community was from other places. How the people of her community dressed differently and primarily spoke in Russian. 

Even though the houses of her community were almost identical to each other with their modest roofs and boxy shapes, Luba knew each one by heart, recognizing the families within. Every woman in the community was her Tetya, or aunt, binding her to a web of relationships that ran close. She wondered if there were other communities like this—intimate and interconnected. In her isolation, the world beyond felt both tantalizingly close and infinitely distant. She longed to explore beyond the confines of her surroundings.

Only a few children in the village were ever taught to read and write, and as a girl, Luba was denied that privilege. She recalled her father’s dismissive words when she had bravely asked to learn the letters that her brothers were deciphering: “Girls don’t need to read and write to change diapers.” Each time she had heard those words, a pang of disappointment pierced her heart, deepening her longing for something more than the narrow path laid out before her.

So much of Luba’s life had transformed from the lively sounds of children to the stark quiet of solitude. Her mother encouraged her to spend her entire day in the forest, constantly reminding her that their home was no longer safe after the police arrived. In that vast expanse of trees, Luba found a refuge. 

LUBA TRIED TO IGNORE the gnawing hunger in her stomach for as long as she could each day, but eventually, she had to descend the hill, passing her beloved named trees and the sprawling garden, until she reached her yard. Luba recalled one evening, circling the house to go in for dinner, when she suddenly froze. There, on the other side of the fence, were the police cars—stark reminders of the night her world was shattered.

For a fleeting moment, hope flickered within her: what if the monsters had returned to bring her sister back? What if Larissa’s injury had been so severe that she couldn’t attend school in New Denver? She yearned to see her sister again, to wrap her arms tightly around her, to kiss every inch of her face, to braid her hair and whisper how deeply sorry she was for failing to protect her. The ache of missing Larissa consumed her, a constant reminder of the bond they shared and the joy that had been cruelly snatched away.

Luba was so confused. She knew her mother had told her thousands of times that if she saw police cars in the yard to immediately run into the forest and hide. But instead, she thought “What if they had brought Larissa back?” The guilt and loneliness would be gone. 

Creeping along the side of the house, Luba ducked low among the shrubs and roses. The thorns pierced her skin, but the sharp pain electrified her, propelling her forward. Excitement mingled with dread as she approached a small set of steps by the pantry window, her secret route in and out of the house, hidden from view. She moved cautiously, each step a potential alarm.

The first stair creaked ominously beneath her weight, and she froze, heart racing. Should she retreat, or press on? Faint voices floated from inside, calm, but laced with an undercurrent of tension. Her father’s voice, strained and trying to communicate in broken English, sent a chill down her spine. Then, abruptly, she heard her name. A rush of blood surged through her, adrenaline igniting every nerve.

Luba edged closer to the window, her breath quickening as uncertainty gripped her. Should she crawl through to listen? Suddenly, a police officer’s voice cut through the air, sharp and angry, and her father repeated a distressing phrase over and over: “This one dead.” Panic clawed at her insides; she couldn’t comprehend the full weight of the words, but the gestures of her father left her trembling. Did Larissa die?

The thought struck like a physical blow, making her feel sick and dizzy. But it wasn’t just about Larissa—the police were asking for her by name. Did they think she was responsible for her sister’s death? Were they here to arrest her? Her vision blurred, the voices growing faint and distant, as if she were slipping away. She needed to know the truth. Gathering every ounce of courage, she hoisted herself up and gingerly crawled through the window into her home.

Once inside, she hid in the closet. From her vantage point, the voices became clearer, the tension thick.  The officer’s booming voice demanded, “Where is Luba?” Her father’s frantic repetition of “this one dead” echoed like a death knell, his hands pointing toward the gathering place where the community prayed and where her grandmother lay buried.

Luba froze, the realization crashing over her that her father had told the red-faced man in the red uniform that she was dead.  The gestures her father made were erratic, conveying that Luba had died when she was a small child.  A wave of disbelief washed over her. Had her father truly wished for her death? Were the police there to take her away, to punish her for failing to protect Larissa?

In that moment, the urge to escape or confront her fate gripped her. Should she crawl out of the closet and surrender to the officer, hoping it would soothe her father’s anger? She could hear her mother’s muffled sobs, echoes of despair that mirrored her own terror. Just like that day she had hidden in the tree deep in the forest, she felt paralyzed, unable to move or understand the chaos around her.

Then, abruptly, she watched as the big man handed a piece of paper to her father, turned, and walked out the single door of their home. Confusion bloomed after he left, twisting in her gut like a thorn. Days later, the haunting question remained: did her parents truly wish she were dead? The uncertainty gnawed at her, a dark shadow in her heart.

Luba felt trapped in her silence, unable to approach her parents about the event for fear of their anger over her defiance. Their command to flee into the forest whenever she saw a vehicle echoed in her mind, heightening her confusion and isolation. The weight of her unshared emotions deepened her loneliness, now overshadowed by guilt and shame. For the first time, she grappled with an overwhelming sense of unworthiness, feeling invisible in her own home. In the cold, damp depths of the cellar, she found herself surrounded by once-vibrant vegetables, knowing with the coming winter they will shrivel and decay, mirroring her own feelings of neglect and despair.

As she wandered through the forest with the changing of the seasons, alongside the filling stream beds, Luba felt an aching emptiness as she gazed at the uniform homes, where she felt imprisoned. She imagined the adventures her siblings, cousins, and friends were having in the mysterious world of school, away from the confines of this small community. A painful memory surfaced: the time she suggested to her father that perhaps it would be easier for everyone if she went to New Denver. The welt from the slap lingered for days. The fury behind that blow not only knocked her to the unforgiving wood floor but jolted her into a chilling realization: some ideas were forbidden, and this one had sealed her fate in silence.

Though being hit by her father was not new, she had always understood the reasons behind his anger—until now. This time, she believed her suggestion was sensible, a way to lift the burden from their shoulders, to absolve her of the blame for her sister’s capture, and to end the heavy sighs that filled their home. The fantasy of escaping the endless guilt shimmered like a mirage; a desperate hope that somehow felt unattainable. In that moment, Luba’s isolation deepened, the weight of her loneliness pressing down like the damp earth beneath her feet, a purgatory where she felt utterly unseen and unwanted, but unable to escape.  

At night, bathed in the soft flicker of a candle, Luba arranged her dolls in a long line against a row of jars, pretending to read to them. This was her vision of school—a world filled with learning; one she could only experience through her imagination.

“Nora, please read the book to the other children,” Luba instructed her favourite doll. “If you don’t know the words, I’ll start the story,” she added, then proceeded to weave a tale for the dolls to listen to. As the story unfolded, it often veered into a confessional, where Luba poured out her deep remorse over her inability to save her sister. She made solemn vows to them, pledging that if another chance arose, she would seize it without hesitation. Luba clutched Nora, and crawled into her cold, inadequate bed within the solitary confines of the cellar. As she blew out the candle, darkness enveloped her, and she whispered to herself, “Tomorrow will be better. It just has to be.”

LUBA AWAKENED TO A FEELING of saturated wetness, the coldness seeping into her bones. When she stood up in a puddle of water and mud, flicking on the flashlight, dread pooled in her stomach as she noticed the increasing water. It drizzled in from a slight crack in the wall, carving its path like a dark omen. It meandered down the wood, pooling ominously in the shadows from her singular light source.

Luba knew she was supposed to wait in the basement until her parents released her, but an icy chill settled in her bones, gnawing at her resolve. She desperately wanted to go upstairs. But she was conflicted with the knowledge that her parents would be unhappy to see her before they could protect her, and her need for the warmth in the house above the dreary underworld.

She decided to climb the steep, creaking stairs, from the wet cellar to the world where she used to feel tenderness and love. She gingerly opened the heavy door at the top of the narrow stairs from her world below, and a massive wave of light flooded her face, giving her a sense of hope. She stepped over the threshold from the darkness beneath her into the brightness of the awakening sun. It felt so good to be in the gentleness of the light and the remembered familiarity of the room above the cellar. Savouring the morning sun, she stumbled toward the linen closet, seeking warmth in a stack of towels that still smelt of being dried on the outside clothesline. The towels offered comfort against the cold that wrapped around her like a shawl.

The small house was cloaked in an unsettling stillness, the hazy dawn light casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls. Silence reigned, broken only by the distant echo of her parents milking the cows and feeding the chickens—a mundane rhythm that felt foreign and distant. In that moment, she felt like an intruder in the only place she had ever called home, an unsettling realization settled over her. This sanctuary had transformed into a haunting expanse where she no longer belonged. She wondered whether she should return to the wet cellar below. But she was so cold, and the house above the basement was so warm.

Clutching Nora closer to her body, she longed for the familiar comfort of her parents’ bed—the sanctuary that had once cradled her through bad dreams. She ached for the moments when, as a small girl, she would crawl under the thick wool quilt her grandmother had made, seeking consolation when sickness overwhelmed her, or shadows whispered in the night. The memory of her parents’ love enveloped her felt like a distant dream, almost a ghost of a happier time. Overtaken by her need for security, she knew she probably shouldn’t, but she submerged herself under the thick blankets, surrendering to their embrace. For the first time in what felt like ages, she drifted into a gentle sleep, a fragile refuge from the chill of her reality. 

When Luba awoke, the comforting sounds of her mother cooking in the kitchen soothed her to an earlier time in her life. As if sensing her need, her mother silently entered the room and lay down beside her, the mattress dipping softly under her weight. Luba felt her mother’s gentle touch as she stroked her hair, humming a lullaby that echoed from her early childhood—each note a balm for her aching heart. But then, Luba caught sight of the tears glistening on her mother’s cheeks, heard the soft, muffled sobs that broke the fragile silence.

Instinctively, Luba reached for her mother, and in that moment, they clung to one another, an unspoken longing for the past binding them together. The warmth of their embrace enveloped them, and Luba felt the release of tears flow freely—an aching relief that washed over her in the safety of her mother’s arms. In that cocoon of love and sorrow, she didn’t ever want to let go, wishing to hold onto this moment forever.

Luba felt a surge of happiness when she learned the cellar had flooded beyond immediate repair and she could not return to the dungeon she inhabited for months. Yet, despite this small victory, she couldn’t reclaim the carefree life she once knew. Her parents decided that the barn, with its piles of hay, would be the safest new hiding place for her. She received strict instructions: if the authorities came, she was to dive into the hay to avoid detection. To Luba, this new arrangement felt infinitely better; even the animal smells in the barn were a welcome relief from the mustiness of the cellar. Contentedly, she played with her dolls in the straw, especially cherishing Nora. Days blurred into one another, and slowly, the isolation of winter seeped into the barn with the evening chill. Despite the wool blankets and heavy layers, she wore, she struggled to stay warm. Yet, again, the solitude weighed more heavily on her than the cold ever could.

One night, Luba awoke to the sounds of distant screaming and anguished cries. The cold, dark night had only the faintest sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds. At first, disbelief washed over her. “Could the police have come to the house?” Panic surged through her, jolting her into action. She frantically buried her belongings in the hay, her fingers trembling as she worked. Her heart raced as she cradled Nora, tucking her safely under a pile of hay free of thorns or spiders.

With one last glance around, she nestled deeper into the straw, her breath shallow and rapid. What was she waiting for? She had no idea, but the gnawing fear was suffocating. Each sound seemed amplified in the silence—the rustle of the hay, the soft thud of her heart pounding in her chest. She held her breath, acutely aware that any noise could betray her. Luba’s mind raced with dread, not knowing what was unfolding outside, and that uncertainty twisted in her stomach, making the darkness feel even more menacing.

Suddenly, she heard the barn door burst open, and the authoritative voices of the RCMP shattered the stillness. The animals, sensing the encroaching danger, began to pace and bellow in distress, their unease amplifying Luba’s own fear. Her parents’ shouts echoed through the barn, reverberating up to the loft where Luba lay frozen in the hay, her body tense with terror.

As the sound of heavy boots climbing the ladder pierced the air, Luba’s heart threatened to stop altogether. She remained utterly still, paralyzed by fear, yet an overwhelming urge to know what was happening clawed at her insides. The familiar internal battle between remaining hidden and the need to peek at the unfolding chaos raged within her. Each step of the officers drew closer, and when she heard her mother’s voice—pleading, desperate—so near to her hiding spot, panic surged. “Please, stop!” her mother cried, and Luba’s breath caught in her throat. The air around her felt thick, suffocating, as the reality of her situation closed in, trapping her in a terrifying limbo between safety and discovery.

Her mother started to scream loudly. Luba could hear the men spearing at the hay with a pitchfork. Loud thrusting sounds penetrated the intermittent screaming, yelling and pleading of her mother. The thunderous thrust of the pitchfork was interrupted by the sound of a man exclaiming that he hit something. Luba could hear that her mother was hysterical. The swish of the hay was accompanied by the man grunting, “It’s nothing but a doll, keep looking.” Luba knew it was Nora. The men had stabbed Nora, her only friend in the confines of her lonely existence.

Luba was distraught at the sadness of losing her companion. She felt nauseated at the sound of her mother wailing. The terror inside her was too great, it needed a release. Before she too could be stabbed, she wiggled out of the hay and rolled onto the wooden slats of the barn loft. The men were almost startled by the emergence of Luba from the piles of hay and thinking there were more children in the straw they continued to jab earnestly.

Luba stood up and bravely walked towards the large burly men, away from her weeping mother. It was over. The hiding was over. The loneliness was over. The longing to be elsewhere, over. She would be reunited with Larissa. She whispered to herself, “Tomorrow will be better. It just has to be.”

Denise Evdokimoff grew up in the Castlegar area and is of Doukhobor descent. She loves to travel the world but still returns frequently to play in the mountains and beaches of the Kootenays. She now lives with her family in Victoria. “The Invisible Child” is her first published story.

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The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors, 2023-26: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

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