Girl, Taken - A True Story of Abduction, Captivity, and Survival

by Elena Nikitina

  I will be taken away? Where? No more Aslan?

  No more Aslan…

  I couldn’t see anymore - my eyes dimmed with tears. With trembling hands, I began to quickly gather my simple belongings: everything that Aslan kindly brought me - toothpaste and toothbrush, a comb, wool knitted socks, and a small towel. I pulled a few remaining pads out from under the pillow, and a pair of spare underwear. I dropped all items into a square handkerchief, the one that Shorty’s mother had given me. I put all the stuff in the center of it, and tied the edges to make a bag.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

  He’s dead... He’s been killed...

  No more Aslan.

  I could not imagine it. I just could not believe it…

  My life was over. I could not handle the death of Aslan – the tears did not stop for a minute. I mourned his death, along with all my dead hopes. He was a good person – in fact, the only one who reached out to me, as far as it was possible, and gave me a helping hand. My last chance for salvation had died with him.

  I could no longer hope for anything. Aslan was my only defender, and he was going to get me out of captivity. He was about to help me. I needed just a few more days. The thought that my plan was slowly progressing gave me the strength to live on. Now I was lost. Everything that I had planned for so long and cherished had collapsed and turned into ashes. I was devastated – I didn’t have the strength to look for a new way out. This was the end.

  I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I was emaciated, and I was on the verge of insanity. It had been so long since I was captured and destroyed. I was no longer even sure if the life that I remembered, that I had before captivity, was really a true thing, and not just my dreams or a fiction. Maybe I had already gone insane, and I had never lived in a different world – all my life I was in captivity. This is my life.

  I had reached the limit of my strength. In almost eight months, I had stayed strong. Up to this point.

  I could not endure it any longer.

  It had to stop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  May 1995

  Valeroy, Chechnya

  The trip was already too long. The off-roads, steep descents and ascents – the car was shaking like a rattle – and with it, everyone who was inside. The canvas top of the car was worn out, and air came through at the cracks. The roar of the wind and the motor were stunning. I was squeezed by the militants on both sides. Everything seemed to have jumped back in time several months, back to the night when I was taken away. There was the car, rushing on the road in the dark and I, alone in the whole world, surrounded by unfamiliar men. Only now I was sure that there was no way out and there was no hope. My spirit and my soul were weakened, and I could no longer resist the reality.

  I can’t take this anymore.

  It has to stop.

  Outside the window it was solid dark. We drove through the mountainous terrain, and I could not make out what was going on outside the window. No one spoke. The jeep roared - there was no sense speaking anyway. I had not seen any of these people before. They looked like ordinary militants – without age, with overgrown beards, dressed in dusty gray-black clothing, armed from head to toe. The machine guns were an integral part of their outfits, of their personalities, of their very beings.

  I thought that the unbearable shaking would never end, but finally the car drove into a village and slowed down. Outside, in some places, there was a faint glimmer of light from the kerosene lamps. The night was impenetrable. Whoever was behind the wheel of the car knew this place inside out. The car stopped at a low built house with an open door. A kerosene burner on a table lit the insides of the house. I did not want to be pushed out, so I got out of the car myself, and stood in the dry dirt. It seemed like it was a remote mountain village, far from civilization. The air was filled with the coolness of spring, which filled the lungs and intoxicated with freshness.

  There was no electricity here. It looked like there had never been electricity.

  The dirt cracked unpleasantly under the thin soles of my pink fabric flats.

  “Come on,” one of my guards said.

  A few seconds later, I heard the sound of more engines, and two other military vehicles drove up to the same house, illuminating all around with the light from their headlights. I heard men’s voices – they were talking to each other in low voices.

  I was ready to say goodbye to my life right then. I could run forward, into the darkness. Then they would hunt me, and shoot to kill. And everything would finally be over. Something held me back from doing this. Not now. I was not sure if they would actually kill me. I had to be sure that my attempt to end my life would be a hundred percent successful.

  The house had one story, was very low and seemed quite large. I climbed the two steps to the porch and went inside through the open door, looking around. I was following the militant who was sitting to my left in the car. In the light of the kerosene lamp he looked overgrown and wild.

  I quickly glanced at him just to see that he had a long beard. There was a handkerchief covering his head with an Arabic scarf. He seemed very tall, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and clad in army boots. He was wearing a military vest with lots of pockets, which were overfilled. His upper body bulged out so much from all the pockets, he seemed like he was encased in bubble wrap. He had an accent, but he spoke Russian cleanly. He carried a machine gun on his shoulder. It seemed that in the last few months I had only met these kinds of men. They were archetypes, they were stereotypes - each one a painted portrait of the Vainakh warrior.

  In the light of the torch the house looked like a summer home. The large kitchen with the table pushed against the wall, and the kerosene lamp that lit up almost the entire room – it was all I saw. The rest was plunged into darkness.

  Standing in the middle of a room filled with ominous dark light from the lamp, I had no idea what to do next. Grotesque shadows played on the walls – the man’s in his vest inflated with grenade-filled pockets, and mine – they completed the picture of horror.

  The man in the Arab scarf came close to me, and pointed somewhere ahead and to the floor. He indicated a hole in the floor, which had a trapdoor cover, and which was now thrown open. The hole was dark, as black as the night itself. I stared at the hole, the idea slowly

  sinking in – this pit was for me!

  I was more pleased than disappointed or afraid – I wanted privacy. Any place would be better than to be among strangers ready to devour you at any moment.

  The man lifted the kerosene torch from the table and escorted me to the door.

  “Stay down there for right now.”

  The words “for right now” sounded like a threat. What did it actually mean? And what would come after?

  “What if I need to go out to the bathroom?”

  “Knock, and I’ll open.”

  He crouched at the opening, lighting my way down to the cellar. A short staircase led from the top – it was only a few rungs down. In a long dress it was not very easy for me to climb down – the long skirt stuck between my legs.

  The dungeon turned out to be a small pit, possibly designed for food storage. It was kind of chilly inside. My long woolen dress was helpful, and I had a pair of warm knitted socks with me. The cellar was about a man’s height, depth and breadth. There was a stack of a few mattresses and a heap of different blankets and bedspreads on the floor making a bed. I stood inside the pit, shocked. The militant held the lamp aloft above me.

  “Knock if you need to,” he said.

  Then he shut the coffin.

  His massive boots made a loud sound on the wooden floor over my head. I was left standing in the pitch darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Blind, I groped for the softness of the rugs on the bed and lay down, not covered.

  The cellar was pleasantly cool. Stretching my legs, I suddenly realized that I was really tired. I was exhausted emotionally and physically. I had lost all my inner strength, I
had no chance to escape, and I was almost buried alive in the ground. And it was not the end yet. I expected something worse and frightfully shocking – which would come for me very soon and would last until the end of my days. I could not let that happen. I choked back tears, but they rolled down my face, and I didn’t even try to wipe them – I was lying motionless, cherishing one single thought in my mind – I can stop it.

  I was no longer in agonizing fear – now I knew for sure that I could stop everything at any moment, if I only wanted to. I heard echoes of the men’s voices in the distance, but I did not care…

  I was awakened by the creaking wooden floor over my head. I barely opened my eyes – it was as if they were glued together with dried out tears. Just before I woke, I’d had a dream – I was hugging my mother. I tried to distract myself from the memory of my dream. I knew it would be heartbreaking. Above my head I spotted the lid that covered the entrance to the pit. It was made out of several wooden planks, nailed together. The rays of daylight lit through it. The dungeon was now very cold. I wrapped and covered myself with whatever was on the bed. The dress felt damp and unpleasantly chilled my whole body. The pit was not lighted enough even with the rays coming in. I had stayed in darkness most of the time for the past few months, so I think it would be fair if I would have developed the ability to see in total darkness, like a cat.

  The cellar was just a pit, for the storage of food products. Now I was stored here. The air was heavy and cold – I felt buried alive. There was nothing else down here but a pile of the blankets.

  Someone passed over head with a heavy tread. He came directly to the door and digging into the lock, opened the door, throwing it with a roar and a squeak on the wooden floor.

  “You’re still alive down there?”

  His voice had a hint of mockery.

  “You have to stay alive!”

  He laughed at his own joke.

  Above me the floors squeaked again – he walked away, leaving the lid open.

  I did not want to go out. I would prefer to stay down here if I could. But despite my fright, it looked like I had to get out of the dungeon.

  All that I was able to take with me from Gurchuloy were a few essentials, my only property, all of the things I had acquired with the help of Aslan – a toothbrush, toothpaste, underwear. I also had a small towel. I was glad that I already had everything I needed: I would not have to ask my jailers for anything.

  I could barely climb out of the hole – I had no experience with such things and I had to learn it. The same guy who was here last night, the man in the Arab headscarf, was sitting on a chair in the corner. His feet in the huge boots rested on the chair opposite from him. Now his scarf was casually wrapped around his neck. His massive head was shaved. In contrast, his beard seemed too long and stuck out crazily in different directions. The machine gun rested across his legs. He struck me as a thug, devoid of any human emotions whatsoever.

  This one would kill, without regret – I could count on him.

  The room was a square with one window in which there was no glass. A table and a few chairs – that’s all that was happening here. The house seemed deserted, abandoned. The room led into a small hallway with two large windows covered with mesh. There was an aluminum hand-wash basin attached to the wall with a rusty sink underneath, and a bucket to drain the water. Against the wall there were a couple of pitchers.

  Through the windows, covered by the mosquito net, the warm and fresh spring air was coming in. I washed my hands and face, brushed my teeth and filled the jug. Without inquiring about the whereabouts of the bathroom, I came out onto the porch to let the drops of water on my face dry. That moment, right in front of me, all of a sudden there opened a powerful and delightful view.

  Even though I was depressed, I could not help but admire the natural beauty of this place. The village was surrounded by mountains. This house was located in the lower part of the village, right at the foot of the mountain. There were nothing but mountains all around. On the left, a little farther away, there was a forest climbing the slopes of the towering mountains behind it. Nature was so beautifully tranquil, despite the war, and I stared out at it with a fascinated gaze.

  Even so, my condition did not match the natural beauty. I no longer wanted to be part of this world. I was ready to die.

  I saw another pair of eyes watching me from the tent pitched out front. I probably looked stunned by the scenery – I hadn’t seen anything like it in a long time. I was struck by the beauty and grandeur of the mountains. Everything here was fresh and delightful. It was by far the most beautiful morning in the past eight months. A warm breeze swept my hair over the shoulders. The insects were buzzing, the birds were chirping, the sounds of life were everywhere. Even so, it wasn’t enough to convince me to stay.

  Deep inside of me I could feel the dreary call of death - I did not want to be involved in this unjust world. I did not know how and when I would be able to stop it, but I had decided to give up - I was no longer going to fight for my life.

  I heard a voice behind my back, like a shot.

  “The bathroom is behind the house.”

  In front of the porch, in the yard, there was a spacious built-in seating area, like a gazebo, covered with a slate roof on one side. Inside, it was built fully of stone, as if it was hollowed out of the rocky mountainside. There was a massive table and stone benches covered with rags. There were some built-in ovens like the ones that I had seen in Gurchuloy. It was quite a large gazebo, and served as a good viewing platform for spying the area. Not knowing the path, I looked at the neighborhood all around, and slowly took a few steps behind the house. I immediately detected the clay structure of the bathroom, up on the hill.

  Behind this house there were a few other houses built one above another, like a procession creeping up the mountain.

  The path to the hill went through abandoned plant beds covered with weeds. The hillside was dry dirt, almost without any vegetation. The house and the yard were separated from other houses by a fence made of large steel mesh, which in some places was covered with wild climbing plants. The trees here were not much more than bushes.

  The bathroom was a clay outhouse enclosing a hole dug in the ground. It was located on a wooden platform, and had a door made of long wooden planks. From the doorway, the outhouse overlooked the back of the house and the gazebo. Through the narrow gaps of the planks, it was easy to see what was going on inside the gazebo. I could also see into the house through the window that had no glass. I could make out the Arab scarf looming inside the house, and the barrel of a machine gun pointing straight up at me from the tent.

  When I was done, I came back down the hill, into the house, and back down into the silent stillness of the dungeon.

  * * *

  I spent a week in the dungeon, except for a few forays into the world – to the bathroom and back, with the gunman accompanying me. Someone cared about my sustenance. In the morning, near the cellar on the table, I always found freshly baked bread, boiled eggs, or something else, wrapped in a clean towel. The food, especially the bread, was fresh and very tasty – the only thing I was glad about.

  I did not want to go out into the fresh air at all. I just lay on the pile of blankets and stared blankly into the darkness. I mourned Aslan, my broken dreams and my pitiful life. I wanted to die right there, to end the suffering, and just leave the world unnoticed. I had to think and plan the way I would die, but I could not concentrate or come up with anything.

  Being in captivity, with the passage of time, I discovered new sides of my character. In my past life, I had no idea that I could be a fighter, stand up for myself and not let circumstances break my spirit. For eight months I had fought my own war, all by myself. I’d had victories and defeats. Sometimes I did not even know where I found the strength to resist the onslaught. Now I just wanted to give up. I couldn’t see any reason to continue to fight and stay optimistic and good spirited. I had tried my best to survive, and to stay hopeful. Fo
r what? To be sold into slavery? To be cut into pieces, my organs removed and sold into the illegal medical trade? Or God only knew what else. I was practically in my coffin already. I had to plan how to leave this world for good.

  I was so young, and I had wanted so much to live! I wanted to laugh, to love, to embrace family and people who I adored. If I couldn’t have my life back, I didn’t want to stay alive.

  As the days passed, and the more time I spent underground – virtually without moving – the more I sensed the approaching danger. Very soon, they would come for me. I did not know who “they” were, but I knew I wanted to be dead before they arrived.

  The only plan I could come up with was to try my escape right in front of them, and make them shoot me in the back as I ran toward the mountains. There was no place to hide. The whole area was so open, they couldn’t miss.

  No one talked to me, and no one bothered me. It was as if they were waiting for someone or something. I liked being invisible, but I felt that it wouldn’t last long. It was the calm before the inevitable storm.

  The sounds that came from above – the men’s voices, the car’s engine, the squeak of the wood floors – everything I heard caused me anxiety, and made me regret that I had not realized my plan yet.

  One morning, I woke up and needed to go upstairs. I climbed a couple of rungs on the ladder, and started to lift the lid, to give the loud sign that I needed to go out. The iron padlock banged hard against the steel loop at the top. After several minutes of banging like this, the wooden floors creaked and I heard a heavy tramp of military boots. A moment later the padlock was opened and the cover was thrown aside. Squatting at the entrance was a guy I had not seen before. I looked up at him from the depths of the pit.

  “I want to come out.”

  He examined me closely with his dark eyes. He was dressed all in black – plain t-shirt with short sleeves, and pants tucked into battered army boots. He was young, though his thick black beard had abundant streaks of gray hair. His head was shaved. He was more handsome than unpleasant. Large dark eyes, with a nose that was slightly flattened, as though after a fracture. The broken nose didn’t make him less attractive, but instead gave him a manly look.