The car stopped in front of one of the houses. Shorty jumped out of the car and quickly ran to the entrance. After a moment, the huge gates creaked open. The sound was loud, a shrieking of metal scraping the ground. Shorty pushed each one aside and let the car in. Once the car was inside the yard, he slammed them shut again. They were tall – much taller than he was. Once again, I was separated from the rest of the world, swallowed this time by a green iron monster.
Hidden behind the massive fence, there was a nice red brick house, surrounded by a large yard. A woman appeared at the threshold of the house, in a long dress with her hair covered. She looked imperious, like she was the ruler of this place. Our eyes met through the window glass and I saw no kindness in them. Aslan’s behavior and attitude towards me always changed, depending on who else was around. He was kind and compassionate when we were alone – I had been able to discover his hidden humanity during the past few weeks. But he was absolutely ruthless among other people. He turned to me and snapped:
“Get out of the car!”
The yard was full of people. The woman, Aslan and Mirza led me inside the house. They talked among themselves in their own language while I stood waiting. I looked around the
yard – if only I could convince Aslan to help me to escape. This town did not seem that wild, or isolated – I might be able to find my way from here. This move could be a good sign.
The house had no electricity. Like a huge octopus, the war had spread its tentacles everywhere. I followed the other three up the steps, down a dark corridor, into a kitchen dominated by a large wooden table. We passed through the kitchen into a room with sofas covered by colorful coverlets. The walls were decorated with woven Turkish rugs. The windows were covered with two layers of heavy drapes pushed to the sides. Underfoot I felt a soft pile wool carpet. It felt like home here – someone else’s. It was going to be my prison.
The next room seemed like someone’s bedroom. The windows were flanked by delicate white curtains of sheer lace, the bed covered by a quilted bedspread, and there were colorful carpets on the walls and on the floor. After months of observing the ugly premises of the previous place, this home seemed loved and taken care of. The owners of the house were most likely a wealthy family.
The door from this bedroom led to the back of the house. A small dark corridor led me to the most distant part of the house, where there was a tiny room, something like an oversized storage. It would be very dark in there, if not for a narrow window which let the morning light in. I realized immediately that this room was the end point – the place where I would stay.
After a moment, I was left there alone.
The window was very narrow, as if it specially made to prevent the escape of a prisoner. However, I could look through it at a section of the yard. After the monotony of the apartment in Grozny, where I couldn’t see anything through the black paint on the windows, looking through this window was like watching an anthill. From where I stood, I could see the yard, with the summer kitchen enclosed by netting. Several fighters were sitting on the ground, resting. One woman was busy at the stove and setting the table. On the right, in the distance I could see the wattle and daub of the bathroom. I could see what I guessed was the well, and behind it a pile of firewood stacked near the fence. The yard was big, and continued even further – out of my sight.
Fortunately, even the narrow slit window let in quite a bit of light. It was nice to see natural daylight and watch how the morning came in. Along the opposite wall from the window, there was a single bed. It seemed very old, with twisted iron bars at the head and at the foot. Exactly the same bed was once in my grandmother’s house. The bed was in my bedroom when I was 4 or 5 years old. At that time, the mattress was on a large iron grid that always creaked.
I did not like to sleep alone. Grandma came into my room every night when I stayed at her house, and lay down close to me on the narrow bed. She told me fairytales and stories that she composed herself. She spoke in a low and soothing voice and waited for me to fall asleep. Then she probably went to her own bedroom, but I had no idea about this, because in the morning she came back and woke me up. My grandma’s house was warm and always smelled delicious. In my grandmother’s house there were a few large, covered fireplaces that were used to warm the place. They were made of stones, and went all the way to the ceiling, with tiny doors at the floor level where you could insert firewood. My grandfather was a fireplace builder by profession. In the winter, coming into the house from outside, it was so nice to lean against the warm fireplace and cuddle up in blankets, listening to the crackle of the burning firewood.
Now, this bed reminded me of those distant times when I felt loved and protected. It was covered with a red satin coverlet.
A small bedside table between the wall and the bed, and a kerosene lamp on the table completed the set up. Two red pieces of carpet covered the floor. A patterned carpet hung over the bed. If it wasn’t a prison cell, it would be quite a comfortable room. The only things missing were a tape recorder and a Gipsy Kings cassette.
I sat on the bed, looking around. My body was still sore and aching after the fight with the Mujahideen. But I was very happy that I had left that sinister tomb. Even the pain seemed to me quite tolerable. After months in a dark and gloomy prison, this place was bright and somehow cozy. The carpets on the walls and on the floor created a sense of home. It wasn’t even a full room – only half of it, with a leftover window. Some time ago this place had been separated by that wall, installed in the middle of what had once been a larger room. I couldn’t think of another explanation for the odd shape and window placement.
I tried to convince myself that I could escape from here – it would probably be easier than from the last place.
Aslan came and left a large piece of pita bread and a three-liter jar of canned fruit. It seemed like he knew the house well, so I showered him with questions about it.
It turned out that the house belonged to the family of Mirza. Shorty himself, his mother, father, and younger sister lived there. His older brother, who had recently died in the war, had lived there too. Shorty’s family provided the summer house, in the yard, for the use of militants and mercenaries.
I was shocked by the idea that I was a prisoner in someone’s home, with the cooperation of someone’s family. How strong the hatred for Russians must be if the mother and father have allowed a hostage held in their own home.
I was encouraged when Aslan told me that no one would touch me while I was here. Of course I doubted that Shorty would agree with this opinion, being the owner of the house.
I would have to adapt to new conditions. The most difficult part seemed to be establishing my own semblance of a life and a schedule. I would need to find access to a toilet, and the wash basin.
My thoughts were interrupted by sounds coming from outside. A voice called, cutting through the silence, almost singing. There was something beautiful about it, and I sat listening, fascinated. It was the first time I heard the Muslim call to prayer – the muezzin cried from minaret.
Cautiously, I looked out the little window. The militants began to prepare. There were a few of them, and I studied them through the narrow glass as they stopped whatever they were doing and readied themselves to give glory to their God. They all stood in the same direction and started to pray, oblivious to everything else. There was beauty and a strange attraction in that humble service.
What did they ask of Allah? Did they pray for forgiveness? Was their guilty conscience tormented because they had warped someone’s innocent life?
Living behind a locked door, side by side with the militants for months, I never had a chance to encounter their traditions. No wonder – I wasn’t staying with them as a student traveler to learn their way of life. I was their prisoner. The only feature of their lives I became familiar with, which I had to face and accept, was to use a pitcher to clean myself when I went to the bathroom.
Now I could watch them closely, and witness all that
they did.
They were ardent followers of their religion and patriots of their country. During the Second World War, the Russian people had defended their country against the attacks of fascism. It hadn’t occurred to anyone to condemn them for it. Why had the Russian government decided that such a freedom-loving people as the Chechens would surrender without a fight, and would welcome an invasion from the outside?
They would fight while they were still alive. Or until the ones for whom the war was profitable ceased receiving dividends from all the blood.
Suddenly the door opened and there was Mirza. He was unarmed. I backed away from the window, and prepared to take his taunts. He leaned on the stately iron headboard.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “There are new rules. You will be able to go out of this room three times a day – in the morning, at midday and in the evening. You’ll be called when it’s time, so stick to the schedule. You won’t be here for long. Behave calmly and politely.”
He enjoyed his newfound importance. I thought back to how he had tortured me with his words, and to my humiliation at being struck by him.
“I would like to go out now. Can I?”
He shook his head. “It’s not time yet. Later.”
Why did I even think about asking him this question! If he wasn’t able to threaten me with a gun in my face in this house, then he would certainly choose another convenient way to humiliate me. Once again, he hurt my feelings, and he did it masterfully.
Outside the window the morning came – bright and sunny – one of those that’s supposed to fill you with joy and happiness. Sun broke over the horizon and lit up the whole Earth with the power and energy of the new day. The warm rays of light penetrated through the small window and forced my eyes to squint. How I would love to go right now, into the new day with an open heart and dive into the freshness of the morning, to wash my face with cool dew and wake up from my long nightmare. But my relationship with the world had been violated and knocked askew – a new sunny day no longer overwhelmed me with creative energy, but instead made me suffer from poisonous helplessness and bitterness.
I looked out the window. I watched the life and concerns of other people through the glass – like I was living their lives instead of my own. In my previous place of confinement, in the isolation of the black room, I could keep aloof and live in my own thoughts, dreams and memories. This place was turning out to be more brutal – it was unbearable to see that the world had not collapsed, but continued on with me simply deleted from it.
I wanted my own life back. I wanted freedom.
Here, there were no war sounds – it was if there was not a war at all. Only the group of bearded Mujahideen outside in the yard reminded me that somewhere very near, the bloodshed continued.
I still had enough luck to get out into the fresh again – very briefly.
The key in the lock turned and Shorty opened the door. He was back. I had not heard his footsteps – the carpets on the floor hid the noise from me.
“Let’s go now,” he said.
He ordered me, rather than told me. Any action was better than sitting and grieving over my unhappy fate, and I had to explore my new routine and the way to the toilet.
I followed Shorty back through the tiny dark hallway, through the small cozy bedroom, and the large room with sofas and carpets. All the rooms were drowned in the sunlight pouring through the large windows. I wondered if there were iron grills on windows. From the hall he led the way into the kitchen. This time, I noticed a few rooms located to the left of the kitchen. One of them looked like a dining room. Shorty took me out the same way that we came in during the early morning – to the right, through a dark corridor and outside onto the porch.
A fresh and warm breeze blew in my face, enveloped me, and carried me away for a moment into distant memories. There, when we traveled as a family on a snow white ship, down the river during one of our summer vacations. There, when we were standing on the deck and a warm wind blew over our faces with pleasant river air as we sailed past breathtaking landscapes. Back then the happiness had no limits.
The yard was crowded. The tall green iron fence securely hid what was happening. Next to the gate there was a car – a military jeep, the one I was brought in. The summer house was full of militants.
I already knew where the toilet was - from my little window I could see the gray structure of the latrine. I tried not to look at the people - I didn’t want to attract even the slightest attention. I walked without making a single sound. I glanced around rapidly, keeping my head down as I moved toward the toilet. Shorty went ahead, leading the way, and turned around the corner of the house.
“Here is the wash basin.”
The wash basin was attached to the wall, and next to it, there was a huge barrel, filled to the brim with water. Its top was open and a pipe extended down to it, collecting rainwater from the roof.
The women were washing clothes in a large basin. This was the back of the house, which was completely hidden and not visible from my tiny window.
On the ground there was a row of vessels. I picked up one – I already knew the routine. Now I had learned the path that I would walk three times a day, if I was lucky.
After a while, Shorty took me back through the house to my room and turned the key in the lock.
Long hours in anguish and loneliness dragged by.
During the past six months I had been sick from memories of the past. I lay still, in the grips of an acute homesickness. I was overcome by malaise, a way I had never been in my life. So vivacious, so carefree, so young so in love with life – that was the Lena I knew. But now the present was lost to me – I could barely move, I could barely carry out the simplest act. I only survived by dreaming of the future.
To my credit, I didn’t let feelings of hopelessness destroy me. I pressed on, I persisted. I constantly thought about my mom – of how much I loved her, of so many good times we’d had in the past, of our reunion and the good times we would have in the future. We would remain side by side, inseparable, until the end of our days.
But each time I thought of her, it felt like a little bit more of my soul bled from my body. I would turn white from all the bleeding. She did not know if I was alive, and she was going through these months as alone as I was. I knew her character – she would not find solace in human pity, so she would suffer in solitude. These thoughts hurt me, and my emotional torture was such that it turned into physical pain. I felt a sharp ache in my chest, like a butcher’s knife had penetrated my sternum and cut out not just my heart, but also my lungs. It seemed that I could no longer breathe.
Sometimes I really did feel that I was dying. I would lie in bed for hours and think it: “I’m dying.”
It didn’t make sense. Dying of what? Of cancer? Of heart disease?
No, not heart disease, but heartbreak. In those moments, I would be happy to die. To simply wither away, diminish, fall asleep and never wake up – it seemed like the best thing that could happen. But then the feeling would fade – it might take hours or days – and I would begin to return to something I could recognize as myself.
I was still here, still alive, and that meant I must press on, find a way to adapt, to survive, and maybe one day, escape into sunlight and safety and freedom.
* * *
The days looked exactly the same, and replaced each other one by one. Even after the long months in prison, I couldn’t stop thinking about salvation – whether it came as an escape, or rescue from the outside. I believed that the day would come.
I needed a plan and an accomplice. I needed Aslan.
I couldn’t do it without him. Hoping for the police to arrive was a dead end. They never turn up in the midst of an apocalypse to save one person – they would wait for the end of the war. I couldn’t wait – I had to leave.
At dawn, the guttural voice of the muezzin echoed over the surrounding area from the tower of the minaret – the early morning call to prayer. The militants stopped w
hat they were doing, and began to perform ritual ablutions – they washed their faces, hands and feet, and rolled up their trouser legs to mid-calf.
They prayed for the salvation of their souls several times a day. If I saw them praying in the courtyard through my window, I always watched the process carefully – the militants lined up neatly in a row, kneeling, prostrating, standing, moving in unison, an amazing display of the togetherness and intimacy and brotherhood of the Muslim people.
Aslan came to see me almost every evening.
Mostly, he stayed for just a few minutes. Sometimes he was able to stay longer and, increasingly, he was willing to answer my questions. It seemed to me he enjoyed my company. I found out that he lived in the same village, and was friends with Shorty since their childhoods. They were both 25.
Through Aslan, I got hold of a book, which made me unspeakably happy – now I could kill time. I asked him to bring me any book, the thickest he could find. He brought me “Crime and Punishment,” by Dostoevsky, which he chose from the modest library of Mirza’s family.
When I was in school, we tried in vain to understand the meaning of this difficult psychological novel. I didn’t finish reading it then – it was too weird and tedious for my taste. But I did not mind trying my luck again.
Aslan would quietly creep to my room, scratching at the door, coming in with a smirk on his face, into the dark room, lit dimly by the kerosene lamp. He sat down carefully, one leg tucked underneath, leaning against the open metal headboard, as he told me stories about the war.
He also asked me about my life, and my childhood. I saw he was enjoying his time with me – more so with each passing day. If not for the fact that he was one of the terrorists, I could have considered him my spiritual friend.
Anytime I told him about my life before captivity, it made my imprisonment feel all the more acute by bringing back my sweet and dear memories of the past. I could not hold back and wept in front of him.
Girl, Taken - A True Story of Abduction, Captivity, and Survival Page 11
