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

by Elena Nikitina

  He reminded me of Sergey, who also wore short hair. And his nose was broken, too, after several years of boxing. This Chechen reminded me of Sergey so much, that my heart shrank from all the sweet memories that came to my mind. They intruded from some other life, one that no longer seemed like mine.

  I was carried away to those moments in happy times when we simply enjoyed each other, without noticing anyone around us. We did not care where we spent time – the main thing was that we were together. Each day, after I was done with my university classes, I could not wait to see him. We hung out in the cafes, went strolling in the park, or just sat around the house and chatted. Sergey was from a nice family, very polite young man. Older than me by two years, he had established his own business selling cars, and had successfully developed it. My mother adored him – his charming sense of humor could win anyone over. He looked after me beautifully and tenderly. We were both whimsical and explosive. If we happened to quarrel over trifles, we did it vigorously and passionately, but then we immediately made up with even greater passion.

  The man who opened the lid of my dungeon didn’t have the same tender feelings towards me. He just watched my actions as if I was a monkey at the zoo, and enjoyed his power over me.

  On both sides of his body, there were two holsters where pistols dangled. It was strange to see someone without a machine gun. He did not seem ordinary village boy – he was well-kept and tidy. Maybe he was a mercenary?

  “Do you mind if I come out? I need to use the bathroom.”

  After a long pause, I repeated my question again.

  “Crawl out!” he said. He spoke cheerfully and without an accent.

  He spoke in such a friendly way, it was as if we had known each other for a hundred years. He was definitely not local. I awkwardly walked up the stairs and sat down on the edge of the wood floor, legs still hanging into the hole. My handkerchief was resting on my shoulders. I always wore it on my shoulders, so that it was always with me, and I could cover my hair if I needed to. I felt more comfortable having my hair covered. I drew less attention – my hair grew down below my shoulders, and its blonde color was way too light compared to the dark hair of the Chechens. I put the handkerchief on and stood up to my full height. Spring was here. The air got warmer every day. It was so nice to feel the fresh air after a heavy night underground.

  I went into the narrow hallway towards the sink. I brushed my teeth and washed my face with cold water. I filled the jug and went out. The new guard – because of his shaven head I thought of him as “Sheared” – followed behind me. Nothing had changed, except for the guards. And maybe the guards weren’t even new. Lately I had been in a coma – just today I seemed to be getting my senses and vision back. As I climbed to the outhouse, I heard men’s voices talking somewhere nearby.

  Upon returning, I stayed in front of the porch for a second. A strange thought occurred to me.

  “Do you mind if I sit here for a bit?” I said.

  He thought for a moment. He shrugged.

  “No.”

  He went to the gazebo and sat down on the bench without taking his eyes off me.

  I sat on the wooden porch in front of him, and breathed deeply – I could not get enough of the fresh morning air. It was warm and it was beautiful. On the left, a bit further, on the hill, right before the forest, I could see a neighbor’s house, white with the same reddish roof and mesh fence surrounding it. All kinds of sounds filled the earth in this hour of the morning. The murmur of a mountain stream, the play of birdsong and crackling of insects were coming from somewhere. I was surrounded by the mountains on all sides. It seemed that I was on the edge of the earth.

  What is behind these mountains?

  What if I run now?

  Where?

  Over the fence?

  Jump over the fence in this long dress?

  Which direction do I run after that?

  Thousands of questions flooded my mind, and I couldn’t give a precise answer to any one of them. What would happen to me if I got caught instead of being killed?

  From the house next door, a woman came out, stopped at the fence and looked straight at me. What did she know about me? What would happen if I asked her for help? Sheared did not seem worried that that woman saw me.

  What was wrong with these people? Did their beliefs allow and encourage them to deprive an innocent human of her freedom?

  The woman wore a long dress and a tied Chechen scarf around her head. She continued to stare at me. There seemed to be pain in her eyes. Or maybe, I just thought that and my mind was playing tricks on me. I was too far away to see the feeling in the eyes of a complete stranger.

  A group of men came out of the house behind her. I did not linger on the porch, so as not to draw attention to myself. I went back inside. Bread was waiting for me on the table. I climbed down into the pit, and Sheared cranked the key in the lock.

  In the evening, I went out again for a quick bathroom visit. Sheared was still there. My heart sank when I saw a group of militants under a canopy. They were talking. Upon my appearance, they seemed to start talking about me. A wave of fear passed through me as I walked uphill – the feeling of impending disaster.

  The sun had set. The thought of new painful experiences in the near future, perhaps more terrible than before, caused me an internal conflict. I struggled with myself. Was it worth to me, right now, to jump out of the bathroom and run, hoping that they would shoot and kill me? My suffering would end immediately. But what if they didn’t kill me right away, and only hurt me? Then my suffering would start in the worse way – I would be dying in torture, slowly bleeding in agonizing pain. But I could no longer stand the life imposed upon me, either.

  Oh, God, why was this so hard?

  To plan your own death is not easy, especially if you don’t really want to die.

  I had always made choices as I was advised by my inner voice and intuition. Once again, it told me to skip this battle. I did not run away – it was a stupid plan. I had to do something that would give me predictable results.

  The stars in the sky began to light up one after the other. Their distant beauty moved something inside me. Suddenly I wanted to stay here for a second, and look at the starry night.

  Before I descended back to the cellar, I asked:

  “Can I stay by the window for a minute?”

  He was not an asshole, this guy. It was clear from the start, when I saw him the first time. He looked like Sergey, so he couldn’t be a bastard. Now it was confirmed.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He sat on the floor near the wall and began to light up the kerosene lamp in the impending dusk. I stood next to the window, where there was no glass. The pleasant night’s coolness had replaced the day’s hotness. I stood in the darkness, turned my back on the guy, exposing my chest and face to the stars, which were slowly popping alight, here and there. It felt so incredibly wonderful to be in the dark, under the starry sky, which had no end. What a pity that I had to leave this world and without even a chance to understand why I was born.

  I felt euphoric. There was no single human sound now. The moist spring air filled my lungs, intoxicated, and carried away to some unfamiliar reality. This night on Earth struck me and filled me with joy. The tranquility was only broken by the pleasant sounds of the night. I could hear the mountain river flowing, cascading downhill, somewhere far away. The night birds called. I wanted to soar high into the sky, all the way to the stars, and fly away from here, home. To my mom. I looked at the dark and starry sky with my eyes wide open and thought that somewhere, she might also be looking at the same sky, and see the same stars, and pray to God for me to be returned home.

  Mama! Suddenly, it was clear to me. How could I dare to think of dying? I couldn’t do that to her! I would not lose hope. I would not lose faith. I would find a way to escape, not to get myself killed, but only to get home. Silent tears of sudden illumination flowed down my face. It was if scales had fallen from my eyes, and only no
w could I see clearly. I had just realized a new way to get out of the captivity.

  That night I did not sleep at all, struck by this new idea. All new strength had come to me from somewhere above. I felt that I had made another victory over my own self.

  I needed to escape, but in a way where they wouldn’t notice me or shoot me. It was almost impossible to do, but I had to find a way.

  All night I pondered the options, but none of them seemed like they would work.

  Now I had to find a way to be outside as much as possible.

  Every morning and evening, going to the bathroom, I quietly watched what was going on around me. I had only a few minutes to scout out everything carefully.

  At least two militants were always there when I was out. One of them was always close and near. In the evening, from down in the pit, I heard men’s voices and the sound of cars departing. Early in the morning the sound of men’s voices resumed. The militants were hiding in the mountain villages by day, and conducting their brutal guerrilla war in the night. Most likely, this village was one of their hideouts.

  Often, from the porch, I noticed the neighbor woman. Our eyes always met. The neighbor, it seemed, was either always there or would come out and wait for my arrival.

  The neighbor woman was watching me, and I did not know if it was pity or hatred. In those rare moments when I was able to stay on the porch, longer, I could see a group of militants leaving her house. Perhaps she was cooking for them, and one of them was her son or a husband. She had three young sons, about eight to ten years old. They became frozen at the fence, with their mouths open, when they saw me.

  * * *

  One morning, on the way to the bathroom, I suddenly heard the neighbor woman’s voice. She spoke to my guard over the fence. I never heard her speak before. On the way back from the bathroom, the guard told me something that put me in a real shock:

  “She’s calling you to her house to have breakfast.”

  I could not believe my ears. I was ready for anything, but not for a manifestation of human kindness. I almost imagined it was some kind of trick.

  Over the past eight months, I had been on a long journey, one where I had to deal with many different people. It was as though, when you least expected, the good people would appear from nowhere. Was it God’s work? I didn’t know.

  The Chechen people – they had appeared in my life out of nowhere as if they were materialized from a parallel world – one which I did not know about until I woke up in a dark car on that fateful night. New faces appeared and completely filled the space around me, trying to force out the memories of my past life and everything that was dear to me. People kept entering my life, and it scared me. I did not know what they would bring – new pain or salvation. I wanted to see the goodness and compassion in each one, imagining the fairytale with the happy ending. But each time, this dream was broken on the rocks of reality.

  People who seemed good at first glance could later turn into the cold-blooded monsters. They also could remain good, but up to a certain limit. I had met a few good people here, but they could not help me. Despite that, I still wanted to believe that there were no good or bad nations. Cruelty and kindness can take place in any of them.

  The guard escorted me to the woman’s house, and we stopped at a summer kitchen under a canopy, with a large table covered with a tablecloth. The stove was lit with coals, and in a frying pan there was something that smelled delicious. I had smelled the woman’s cooking a few times before in the air – each time, in my imagination, it brought me home.

  The guard sat nearby. The neighbor did not say a word and I did not speak either, but somehow I felt her good intentions and the warmth of her heart. I realized that she knew everything about me – I could read it in her eyes. A woman without age, in a long dress and a scarf, tied around her head, she looked like a typical Chechen woman, who never knows fatigue or rest. She fed her men, and now it was time for the women to have food. I have learned that in Chechnya, the men and women are not supposed to sit at the table at the same time.

  She looked at me with pity in her dark and tired eyes, just like when I saw her on the porch for the very first time. And I was not wrong then – even from the distance I could see the true compassion. She stared at me, gesturing, kindly pointing me to a chair. I thanked her and sat down. She brought a hot skillet full of fried eggs sprinkled with cottage cheese. The taste of the food was amazing, and I enjoyed every bite of it. She brought out hot, freshly baked bread – the same as I found every day on the table near the pit. I wanted to cry from her kindness. She just sat at the opposite side of the table, did not eat anything, and stared at me. I could not read her mind, but in her eyes I saw something deeper than even compassion or pain. I was so grateful and I was sure she could read it on my face. I did not want to leave her home – it was something peaceful and hopeful, something that I missed so much.

  That night, in the dark, a realization came:

  She knows what the future holds for me.

  That would explain her compassion. Even so, I could not wait for her to call me again.

  Time went on, and I could not find a way out. The more time passed, the less time was left to escape. I felt the approach of something terrible right around the corner. The gunmen were waiting for something. None of them were familiar to me – I had seen none before in the previous places. They were a completely different group.

  I wondered what kept them from hurting me. It seemed to me that I had been sold, perhaps into slavery, and they were waiting for a convenient time to ferry me to my new owner. Nothing else seemed to make sense. Clearly, they didn’t intend for me to live here underground the rest of my life.

  The thoughts made me paranoid. Each creaking floorboard above my head terrified me. I had horrible dreams. I constantly dreamt about my mother. I did not know whether she was still alive and healthy. The dreams shattered my sleep, and I would awaken in tears. My mom and I were both crying in my dreams – tears of grief and sorrow mostly, but sometimes tears of joy.

  It was impossible to get out. Armed bandits kept an eye on me at all times. The only chance for escape was my trips to the bathroom. I examined the structure made of clay for a few days. The roof was too high – I could not jump that high to try to get through it. Without a ladder or chair, it was impossible for me to reach it.

  A few days later, the neighbor called me again. By now, I had realized that my regular guard was her husband, or brother. That was how she was able to persuade him to let me come over. He was a big guy – one of those who brought me here from Gurchuloy. He wore his Arabic scarf all the time. He looked ageless and threatening, and sounded bossy and loud. The second militant stayed at the gazebo, and I was guarded just by the Scarf guy.

  My second visit, she kept me at her house much longer. She spoke a little Russian, although with great difficulty. She spoke a single phrase at a time, but I understood her perfectly.

  “My name is Laila.”

  I tried to thank her for her kindness and tell her how delicious her food was. I was not sure how much she understood. She smiled back at me, and that was enough. I wanted to scream for help, to throw myself at her feet and beg her to help me escape. But I couldn’t kill my chances - she was one of them, even though a very kind one. She probably couldn’t help me anyway. This was a war – a war of her children, a war of her country. What would happen to her if she tried to help me? I couldn’t let her suffer because of me.

  The front was slowly moving towards us. I guessed that the Russians wanted to lure the Chechen fighters from their mountain shelters. Would they kill civilians? Since Aslan had died, I didn’t know anything about the war.

  In the pit, sometimes I could hear some strange sounds. I did not know what it was at first, but right away this distant muffled thunder terrified me. It made my heart sink from a sense of helplessness. The sounds were flat, faraway and lifeless, like someone randomly beating a heavy African drum in the distance. I almost couldn’t hear th
em at all. I did not fully understand what was happening. I had not seen the bombing up close and could not identify it by ear. But gradually I realized, and then I knew: what else could it be? It was a voice of War.

  I could not help but focus all my attention on them. Everything else ceased to exist. Only the sounds, like sinister musical instruments – mystical drums - untuned, dull. They promised nothing but horror and pain. Even later, when the beating stopped and a dead ringing silence covered the earth, the far-sounding drums remained in my memory like an obnoxious and evil symphony – a constant reminder of my youth that was taken away, and the deprivation of the right to live, the right to love.

  I did not want to believe that there was no way to escape, but a new problem had arisen as the bombing came closer. If I wasn’t killed by the militants, there was a good chance I would be killed accidentally by the Russians. I had to send a message to the Russian troops and let them know I was here. But how to do that?

  May 1995

  Astrakhan, Russia

  It had been almost eight months. The woman avoided family and friends. She hated them because they could live without her. Friends did not call so often anymore, and were not interested in the latest news about her daughter. There was no more news anyway. Everyone got used to the fact that she was gone. All of them, except her. She refused to accept her daughter’s absence. Even if a hundred years passed, she would wait for her child and she would hope for her return.

  The police formally continued to search for her daughter in Chechnya, hoping that someone would accidentally discover the place of her confinement and inform the Russian troops if she was still alive. They could do no more than this. Chechnya was a bloody mess. Against a backdrop of mass killings and the disappearance of hundreds of people, the chance of finding one missing person was reduced to zero.