Birmingham, United Kingdom. September 7 2005

My name is Adelina Constantin, and I am now 20 years old. I was born and raised in the rural village of Purani, a place of red earth and open skies where the work of the seasons dictates the rhythm of life. My father is a farmer there. When I was 15, I moved to the city of Alexandria, a little more than an hour away, to go to school. This is a normal part of life in my land; it is what you do to give yourself a chance at a different future. I shared a small, two-bedroom apartment on Strada Carpati with my closest friend, Daria Balan.

We both attended Licuel Pedagogic Mircea Scarlat, our high school. During the summer, I would go home to my father's farm to help with the crops. But during the school year, I lived in Alexandria. It was a simple life, a quiet life of study, chores, and evening walks with Daria.

There was a man in the city, an older student named Grigore Cojocaru. I knew him from school, though he was a few years ahead of me. People said he sold women, whispers that circulated in the schoolyard like dry leaves in the wind. I didn’t know if it was true. I know this now.

It was April 19, 2005. The evening was crisp, a chill still lingering from winter, but the first signs of spring were in the air. I was in my flat, working on a complicated history paper. At about 6 p.m., there was a knock on the door. It was an unexpected sound; Daria was out visiting her cousins. I walked to the door and opened it. Grigore Cojocaru was standing there with a man I did not know.

I looked at the strange man and smiled politely. He was an older Romanian man, possibly 50. He wore a black leather jacket that was too big for him and blue jeans that were faded and worn. His face was a map of hard living; his nose was crooked on his face, and he had one long, fuzzy eyebrow that hung over his eye like a misplaced caterpillar. I was unnerved by his intensity, but I tried not to show it.

Without waiting for an invitation, they walked into my flat, and Grigore, with a wide, unnatural grin, asked me if I wanted to go to a party. I declined, holding up my history book as a silent apology. I explained that I had homework that I had to finish and a paper due the next day. The strange man’s face tightened. He took a single, deliberate step toward me.

That's when the strange man's demeanor changed completely. He reached out and, with a terrifying, sudden movement, grabbed the back of my head and slammed it into the wall. Pain exploded behind my eyes, and my ears rang with a high-pitched whine. He then demanded, in a low, gravelly voice, that I put my coat on.

I was holding my head where it hurt, my hand shaking, and the strange man threw my coat at me. I noticed that Grigore had taken my school bag from the table by the door. I tried to ask what he wanted with it, but the strange man just said to "shut up" with a venomous hiss. They guided me out of the flat, one on either side of me, their hands on my arms like iron clamps.

We walked down the three flights of stairs and outside. The spring air felt cold against my face. When we were outside, they forced me into Grigore's black van. The doors slid shut with a chilling finality. I was pushed into the backseat, the strange man blocking my view of the city as we drove away.

The van stopped after what felt like an hour. I was forced to get out and go to a "party." The house was isolated, with no neighbors in sight. The only sign of life was a big cooking pit in the yard where a huge fire roared. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat. There were many men making meat on the fire, their faces red in the firelight. There was beer and loud, raucous music. I could see that the house was somewhere off Highway 52, a lonely road I had only seen from a bus window.

Grigore took me by the arm, his grip bruising, and pushed me into the house. He put me in a small bedroom and made me do things with him. I wouldn't say I like to talk about it, but he forced me to sleep with him. When I protested or cried, he hit me—hard—across the face and chest. When he finished, he left me there, a silent, sobbing mess.

I tried to open the door, but it was locked. The small window looked out onto a dreary backyard. I sat on the wooden bed, my body aching, looking out the window as the sun began to set. Soon, the strange man came back. He didn't speak, but his look was menacing. I tried to reason with him, to say I wanted to go home. This made him angry. His face contorted in a sneer, and he began to beat me. He removed the black leather belt he was wearing and began hitting me about my breasts and shoulders with it. The leather cut into my skin, and I cried out in pain.

I lay back down on the bed, sobbing quietly, the sound of my grief lost to the blaring music from outside. That is when Grigore returned with another man I did not know. They forced me to sleep with this man as well. It was even worse.

For three days, they kept me a prisoner in this house. I heard the strange man called Sorin. I learned he was the father of Grigore. They did not feed me much or give me water during those three days. I felt myself growing weaker, my spirit slowly eroding with each passing hour. But soon, they gave me a new passport, with a new name and birthday. I was now 21 years old, Adriana Popescu. Grigore told me he was taking me to England to work in a hotel as a cleaning girl. I was too terrified to protest.

In the dead of the night, he pushed me back into his van and drove me to Bucharest. The journey was a blur of silence and dread.

When we got to the bus station at about 3:30 a.m., it was a desolate place, with only a few people milling about. We met a woman there. She smiled at me and said her name was Elena. Elena was also Romanian. She was short like me, about 1.50 meters, and had shoulder-length dark hair. She was older than me, maybe 45 or so. She was dressed nicely in a blue dress and high-heeled shoes, a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings.

Grigore handed her my bag with my passport. She laughed, a cold, hard sound, and took me by the arm. We walked towards the bus, and Elena whispered in my ear not to say anything. She told me everything would be just fine when we got to England. The bus left at 4 a.m., and for two days, we drove, a silent journey across borders I couldn't comprehend.

On April 24, we arrived at the Birmingham bus station. Elena took me to a house in the city. I do not speak English, so I could not read any of the signs, but the cold, wet air was a new kind of terror. I knew that it was only ten minutes from the bus station. We walked to the house, and as we entered, I heard music and laughter.

In the house were other Romanian girls, many of them looking young and terrified. These girls wore nothing but their underwear, and there were men—many men, some old, some young, all with a hungry look in their eyes.

That is when I knew why I was in England.

Sincerely,

Adelina Constantin