Eventually, your luck runs out. It happens to the best of them. Jimmy the Greek, the famous gambler, won millions but died penniless.
I suppose that’s what had happened to me. My luck, like Jimmy’s, had run out.
This tiny cell not only stank, it was totally dark and eerily silent, Haji’s breathing and the movement of his chain being the only sound. Late afternoon arrived. With my hands chained, it was impossible to find a comfortable position and my body ached all over. I continued to doze intermittently.
Then, at some time during the night, I was aware of the cell door creaking open and people standing in the doorway.
One of them began talking, first quietly then more loudly. I didn’t know what he was saying, and just lay there listening. He sounded angry.
Then I heard Haji’s voice. “This man, Alex, he says he is our dussman . . . our enemy. He is an executioner. He says he wants to introduce himself, and he wants us to see him before we die. He intends to behead us in the morning. He says he is looking forward to it. He also says he wants you to know who he is. His name is Izat. Izat means ‘respect.’ He is a Taliban. He says he was captured by Americans who threw him into the prison at Bagram.”
“Tell Izat to let us go, and then I’ll respect him.”
“Izat says he was tortured for no reason.”
“Izat’s a liar.”
“He says he was deprived of food and sleep. He says he dislikes Americans and wants you to know what he experienced . . .”
And then I received a ferocious kick to my kidneys, more than one. Someone unlocked the chain holding my wrists and pulled me to my feet. My arms were pulled upward. They pushed me against the wall, then hung the chain over one of the pipes in such a way that I was hanging from my arms. My shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their joints.
Before leaving, Izat began talking again. One of the guys swung his weapon and struck the side of my leg above the knee. The pain was excruciating.
Haji didn’t bother to tell me whatever it was this piece of shit said. He knew I wouldn’t be interested.
Then the door slammed shut.
In the darkness, time crawled . . .
Across the table from me, a smiling young woman in a blue dress raised her glass, said, “To us, Alex.” After we both emptied our glasses, I reached for the bottle of champagne and refilled them. In the background someone was playing the fiddle, my favorite song, “Yours Is My Heart Alone.” I said, “I love you, Irmie. I’ll always love you . . .”
I was half hallucinating. In another dream I was back in East Germany, a country that hasn’t even existed for the last twenty-five years . . .
CHAPTER 14
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013
I KNEW THERE were people in the cell. Men with weapons slung over their shoulders, self-styled mujahedeen. They were talking. When someone shook the chain, I groaned. When a guy bent over and unlocked the chain, I fell to the ground, aware of nothing besides the pain, which was shooting through my entire body. I heard Haji speaking to someone. I didn’t understand what they were saying.
I don’t understand Pashto.
Someone kicked me in the ribs.
Someone else prodded me with the barrel of a weapon, another person dragged me to my feet. I looked at his face, into his dark eyes. He grabbed my arms and tied my wrists behind my back. Because of the stiffness and the pain in my legs, I had trouble walking, each step causing a shooting pain. Climbing the narrow steps was agonizing. I knew Haji was somewhere behind me. Behind him was a mooj with a gun.
We stepped out of the building. The air was cold, but the sun was bright, briefly blinding. We were in the middle of a dirt street, which ran uphill. There were mud huts on either side, and behind the huts to our right was a steep hill. We were truly in the boondocks, at the western end of the Pech Valley. More than that I didn’t know. I followed two men with weapons slung over their shoulders. They were talking with each other. One of them said something, and the other laughed.
Stop laughing, you creep . . .
As we walked, my mind began to clear.
Behind me, a mooj prodded me with the barrel of his weapon. Then, I saw people. Both sides of the street were lined with onlookers, standing silently, watching, curious. I briefly considered making a dash, but there was no place to run. I wouldn’t get far. Then I wondered whether being shot mightn’t be preferable to having my head hacked off.
There were four mooj now. We turned, and they marched us down a dusty unpaved street to a wide clearing, where roughly fifty people were already gathered in a circle. Executions draw crowds. More people began drifting in, swelling the crowd, which was totally silent. At the center of the circle was the stump of an ancient tree, and I could feel someone shoving me forward.
When I said “Stop pushing!” he shouted something.
A number of bystanders raised their fists and yelled. I supposed they were yelling at me.
Alongside the tree stump stood an individual dressed for the occasion, in black, wearing a hood. I supposed that was Izat. He was holding a long curved sword with a carved handle. Oh, wonderful. I also supposed that was the elegant tool with which he expected to do the honors.
My only thought was that my worst nightmare was about to become reality. I was about to have my head hacked off by this imbecile. I could feel myself shaking. My breath was coming in gasps.
He said something to Haji and pointed to me.
“Alex, he wants you to know he was a prisoner in the Bagram jail.”
“He told us that last night. Whatever he’s saying, I don’t want to hear it. He’s an imbecile. Tell him I said that.”
“Alex, you can’t—”
“What’s the word for ‘imbecile’? I’ll tell him myself.”
When Izat continued to talk, Haji said, “He lived in a cage for six months before they released him. He says he was beaten many times. He also says he did not receive adequate food. He says he hates all Americans.”
“Tell him I don’t believe him.”
The circle of people, which numbered at least a hundred, was now totally silent. I supposed the guy in black was giving his speech partly for their benefit. A few, I noticed, began to mumble and were nodding their heads. Nodding their approval of what was about to happen. I supposed that was what this goofball wanted.
“Goddamn you guys! To hell with all of you!”
Izat continued his rant.
I said to Haji, “Tell this imbecile I’m not interested in his problems.”
“He says he was humiliated by Americans. He wants you to apologize.”
I gave him my answer. “Tell him to get a goddamned therapist!”
Haji only shook his head, obviously reluctant to pass on what I’d said. “He wants to know what you just told me.”
“Tell him they never should have released him. Tell him he’s a piece of shit. He deserved his beatings.”
Haji’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.
“Tell him to go chase himself. Tell him—”
All at once I could feel the guy with the AK-47 shoving his weapon into my back. Now he was yelling something. Izat was pointing at me to kneel down. I was supposed to stick my head on the stump, make it easy for him to start hacking it off. Was that what they wanted me to do?
Then Izat stepped forward, pointed down.
“His feet, Alex.”
“What about them?”
“He says you should kiss his feet.” This situation was getting weirder by the second. When I mumbled more profanity, Haji said, “You have to do it.”
“Like hell!”
“That will show the people here that you deserve to die.”
As I continued to shout, someone shoved me, and one of the mooj grabbed me. When I tried to get off a kick, I got a rifle butt against my cheek and went down. Hard. I was flat on my back and still yelling.
Then I heard someone shouting “Tersha! Tersha!” Move!
“Wasla dee parmz
aka kegda!” Drop the gun!
Then I heard shots . . .
What was this all about?
Bang! And then another loud bang. Who was shooting? All at once the circle of people began to break up. People were scattering in every direction.
“Zah! Korta zah!” Beat it! Go home!
What was happening? On my back with my hands tied, I was not only helpless, I was in the worst position possible to see what was going on.
“Zaman da amruno paerawi wukra!” Follow our orders! “Korta zah!”
When I heard the chatter of an automatic weapon, I wondered who could be firing. I could hear women shrieking, and I thought I heard a baby crying. People were running.
“Zah! Zah!” Get going! “Ta poheegee?” You understand? “Zah! Zah!”
No one was paying attention to me anymore. Placing my hands against the stump, I managed to struggle, first to my knees, then back to my feet. I saw Izat, the guy in black, lying in the dust. Blood was oozing out of his chest. He’d been shot, more than once. Alongside him was his sword.
His friend with the AK-47 had dropped his weapon. His hands were in the air. His face was contorted with fear. The two other mooj had disappeared.
Good riddance!
A team of three armed Afghans had stepped out of the crowd, and one of them was talking to Haji. Another stepped around behind me, cut the rope around my wrists, said something in Pashto that, needless to say, I didn’t understand.
Then he said, “Delta wadarega,” which means “Stay here.” I nodded.
A second later, a van came roaring onto the clearing, narrowly missing the last couple of stragglers, then whirled around, and screeched to a halt. The driver, obviously a frustrated NASCAR fan, shouted something, and one of the newcomers yanked back the door. No one had to tell Haji or me to climb in. With five of us inside, the driver jammed his foot down on the gas. As we shot forward, the driver honked, and people scattered.
I heard some shots. “Who are these guys?” I asked Haji.
Haji only shrugged. He didn’t know who they were either.
I said it again, loudly. “Who the hell are they?”
Haji said, “Don’t talk, Alex.” After a second, he said quietly, “Whoever they are, be thankful they came in time.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
I supposed they knew where we were going. I also supposed we weren’t going to drive over an IED and get ourselves blown to smithereens. As we drove, the guy in charge used his telephone twice, speaking Pashto and keeping his conversations short each time.
The roads in Afghanistan are treacherous. Many are made nearly impassible by the hilly terrain. Some of the roads we were on weren’t much wider than donkey trails. Where were we going? Our driver didn’t look to be more than sixteen, but he not only knew where he was heading, he also knew what he was doing, when to give gas and when to slow down. Squeezed into the corner of the rear seat, I held on for dear life. After a half hour of driving, I saw that we were passing small villages, some perched precariously on the sides of mountains.
After a brief exchange with one of the new arrivals, Haji said, “He says the village we just passed is named Kalaygal.”
“I never heard of it.”
A minute later, Haji whispered, “Kalaygal is in the Korengal. These people are from the Korengali tribe.”
I recalled Bud Withers saying the Korengalis were the fiercest tribe in Afghanistan. They’d fought the American Army to a standstill, and in 2010 forced NATO to withdraw completely from this area of Afghanistan. Americans weren’t exactly beloved around here. They were really going to love me.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire?
The drive lasted two hours, maybe longer. When we finally slowed down, I could see the outlines of stone buildings. We drove into a quiet village, surrounded by rolling hills and farms, then down an unpaved curving street, at the end of which there was a compound. A row of children, their faces filled with curiosity, stood silently, gazing at us. One of our guys hopped out and pushed open the gate, waved to the driver, and we turned in. Inside was a small complex of stone buildings. As we climbed out of the van, the driver pointed to the largest building. At least no one was pointing a weapon at me. Although my arms and shoulders hurt, my legs were okay, and I could walk well enough. We entered single file. Inside, the only light came from a couple of burning gas canisters.
We moved on to a large room; a fire burned inside. Seven men were standing in a group and speaking quietly. When we entered, they all turned. All had beards and wore traditional clothing, shawls and turbans. No one said anything. There was total silence.
I glanced nervously at Haji, but his face was a blank. Except that we knew we were somewhere in the Korengal Valley, we had no idea where we were or what was happening. I could see the men were elders, and I assumed that some kind of meeting, or shura, was going on. Whatever it was, their looks were curious, not unfriendly.
Then at the far end of the big room a broad-shouldered, bearded individual dressed in a flowing robe and holding a young boy by the hand stepped into the glare of the firelight. As he approached me, I stiffened, making myself ready for whatever was coming. At least he wasn’t holding a big sword. Or an AK-47.
When he was a foot away, he said, “Kha raaghlaast.” Haji whispered, “That means ‘Welcome.’” Then the bearded guy pointed to himself. “Zma nowm Shah Mahmood dai.”
This much Pashto I understood. He was saying his name.
Then he pointed at the boy, who shyly smiled. The youngster said something that sounded like “ma-nana.” I knew the word meant “thank you.”
Thank you? I hadn’t done anything! I hadn’t any idea what he was thanking me for.
What was all this?
All at once the elder placed his left arm on my arm and his right hand on my shoulder, and then we shook hands. After the first squeeze, he looked me in the eye and began talking. As he talked, he gave me another hug. Not knowing what else to do, I responded with a hug of my own.
What was this all about?
I knew the lives of people in this area of Afghanistan were guided by a strict code of conduct called Pashtunwali, which emphasizes loyalty, hospitality, and revenge. Beyond that, I knew almost nothing.
As the elders approached me, each gave me a half-hug followed by a handshake. Then they drifted off, formed a circle, and began speaking among themselves. I felt that I was part of some kind of strange ritual. In fact I began to feel as if I was the center of it.
“Alex!” Haji said suddenly. “Alex! The boy! The boy, Alex! Look at him! Don’t you recognize him? Don’t you remember? Alex, Alex. His father says you saved his life.”
The youngster, who was maybe eight or nine years old and had tousled black hair, was gazing up at me. In the half-light I could see a shy smile on his face.
And then it struck me!
On the way in from the airport! I’d all but forgotten!
This was the youngster who’d wandered into the line of fire while I was blasting away at the Talibs. I’d tackled him and we’d ended up under the fruit stand together.
I hadn’t had a chance to introduce myself back then. I stuck out my hand.
His father was standing by, nodding his head and looking very happy.
“Zma nowm Alex dai.”
“Zma nowm Jawid dai.”
“His father’s name is Shah Mahmood,” Haji said.
Sticking out my hand, I again said my name in Pashto.
“Shah Mahmood says he is grateful to have the chance to thank you.”
I was flabbergasted. These were people who supposedly hated Americans.
We were guests of honor!
Haji and I were the ones who should be saying thank you.
We were being treated like royalty!
“Alex, they want us to join them,” Haji said, pointing to the elders gathered sitting cross-legged in a circle near the fire. Shah Mahmood pointed to where we could sit. As we eased ourselves do
wn on cushions, I became aware of how stiff I was. We sat cross-legged on the ground by the fire, not the most comfortable position for me at that moment, but I wasn’t complaining. Then boys brought in cups of tea. Shah Mahmood had taken a place next to me. As he spoke, Haji translated.
“Shah Mahmood is apologizing for his wife,” Haji said. “She was upset that she’d lost sight of her boy.”
“Tell Shah Mahmood there is no need to apologize.”
Haji continued to talk, with Shah Mahmood and with some of the other elders. After fifteen minutes, Haji said, “These people are members of the Korengali tribe. The members of the other tribe were Safirs. In the village where we were they dislike Americans because their most beloved mullah was killed last year, perhaps by an American. The Korengalis have lived in this end of the valley for many hundreds of years. The man who wanted to execute us, they say, had become a Taliban fanatic and had fought against Americans and had been imprisoned. They say after he escaped from American prison, he was seeking any opportunity to execute Americans. When Shah Mahmood heard your name mentioned as the American Izat intended to execute, he sent his men to rescue us.”
After perhaps an hour, some boys rolled out a rubber mat and began bringing food, bowls of soup, plates of chicken, bread.
Shah Mahmood pointed at the food. “Wutskha!” Eat! Another word I knew.
We were given water to wash our hands. Then, using our hands, we dug in. I told Haji to tell Shah Mahmood how good the food tasted.
After we’d eaten, we drank more tea.
Then Shah Mahmood began to talk. With Haji listening, he spoke calmly and without letup. When he stopped, Haji said, “Shah Mahmood wants you to understand the situation here in the Korengal Valley. Because it is one of Afghanistan’s remotest areas, Shah Mahmood says his people were always independent and governed themselves. He says it was only after the American occupation that people here in the Korengal were forced to choose—between the Taliban and the Americans. They chose the Taliban, he says, not because of dislike for America, but because his people have a tradition of independence and do not want to be ruled by outsiders. Americans were outsiders. Shah Mahmood says for this reason he and others have fought with the Taliban. Then he tells this story, Alex. He was with a group of Taliban soldiers in Kabul on the day you arrived. They had buried an IED in Airport Road, and as your vehicle approached the IED, Shah Mahmood was waiting and ready to set it off. When your vehicle rode over the bomb, Shah Mahmood touched the two wires together, causing the IED to explode. He witnessed the entire incident—how your vehicle rode over the bomb, turned over, landed upside down, and made you helpless targets. Then he gave the orders to his soldiers to start shooting.
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