Was she alive? Only God knew. The woman begged Him to give her a sign. She prayed for hours, to oblivion, to blackouts, begging God to bring her back. Since mid-February she had not received any phone calls from the terrorists. They were gone, and the connecting thread was gone with them.
She prayed, she believed, and she received a sign. The sign came in the form of an elderly woman, one of the parishioners in the church, with the beautiful name Taya – she unexpectedly came up to the woman and stared into her eyes. Seemed like Taya could read the inner pain and anguish in her eyes.
“What happened, child?”
The woman began the story – she had told it many times, but this time felt different.
“My daughter had been taken.”
Taya listened to the tale. At the end, she gave the woman nine church candles.
“Light up one of them every night and let it finish,” she said. “Believe and hope. She will come back. Do not let hope die.”
When no hope remains, a person will cling to any thread, even if it is incredibly thin, in order to go on living – so the woman believed Taya.
Later, the woman grew impatient for the night to come, so she could light the first candle. She sat next to the candle in the dark, watching it cast long dancing shadows on the wall. She sat with it until it burned down completely, and the entire time, her eyes did not shed a single tear. There was something mysterious and attractive in that flickering light. Was Taya a witch, or a shaman? It did not matter – the task she had given the woman inspired strength and hope.
Each new morning, she could hardly wait for the night to come. This magic ceremony was going to be the answer; it would bring her daughter back. She found herself investing all of her faith into it. She would sit next to burning candle and gaze out the window, and she would feel in her heart that the day was approaching – her beloved daughter felt closer as every moment passed.
Then she was down to only one, the ninth and last candle. She lit it in awe and terror. She believed in omens and in the signs she was receiving – her whole present world was concentrated in this last candle and it could hopelessly collapse.
Days had passed since she watched the last one burn down, and nothing had changed. Despair began to conquer her fading hope.
Every night, when she could not fall asleep, the woman drew the heavy curtains wide open and looked out the window. She turned her eyes up the sky and cried out to God. Looking to the distant, endless dark space, she was overcome by a feeling – it seemed that somewhere far away, her lonely daughter was looking at the same stars and thinking about her.
June 1995
Valeroy, Chechnya
I waited for Laila’s invitation every morning. I hoped she would call me again, but she did not, and I had not seen her in a while. Her tall and scary relative hadn’t shown up either. Every morning and evening, I jumped out of the pit and hurried outside, trying to find Laila, searching with my eyes scanning all around. Finally, some days later, she reappeared, standing at the fence. She waved me over.
Soon, I was once again in her home having late breakfast. Being there made me happy and grateful. It gave me a sense of normalcy that had long been missing from my life. We were neighbors, she and I, only she lived in this pretty, open, wood-framed home, and I lived in a dark pit underground. But she didn’t treat me as a prisoner – she treated me as her guest. It was a beautiful feeling, a civilized feeling, to be a guest in someone’s home.
If only I could do something for her. I noticed a pile of undone dishes – left after the whole group of militants had eaten, I guessed. For a long time, I had been missing everyday trifles – simple small home chores. There was a large basin of water on a big boulder prepared for washing. And I said:
“May I wash them?”
Her little sons were spinning around behind the fence. The guard seemed to have dozed off under the canopy. Laila nodded in agreement, and then quickly came up to me, took something from her apron pocket, and quickly hung it around my neck. I jumped back in surprise, but then I saw that it was a delicate lace string, with a tiny, stitched, brown leather bag hanging from it.
“Wear it,” she whispered. “It will help you.”
I quickly hid the tiny pendant under my dress collar. We washed the dishes in silence, and I could not stop thinking about this leather pouch.
What was in it?
* * *
Lately, I slept very little. In those short oblivion moments when I drifted off, I had dreams about my mother – again and again – every night. Then I woke up in the dark, choking back tears, in desperation.
That one morning before sunrise, I heard footsteps right over my head. I really wanted to go upstairs – I didn’t know what time it was and whether someone would open the door for me at such early hour. I went up on the ladder and knocked on the lid. The door lifted a tiny bit, making the loud sound of the iron lock hitting against the loop. Someone was in the house in the vicinity of the cellar. The lid soon was lifted and I saw Laila’s relative. I was delighted and hopeful – his presence was always a chance I could go to her house. It was too early for breakfast – the sun had just begun to rise, weak sunlight peaking from the horizon behind the mountains.
I was hurrying up the hill with the guard at my back when I noticed Laila in the yard near her house. I wanted to let her know that I was also up, in the hope that she would invite me to her home earlier than usual. I hid inside the outhouse. Everything seemed different in the twilight. It was still dark, and the guard was waiting at the fence. The sound of arriving cars cut the morning silence. Through the gaps between the wooden planks of the toilet door, I saw two military cars stopped out front, green with canvas roofs. Despite the darkness, the headlights were off. A few men disembarked from the cars and dispersed. The militants had returned from a night operation and had gone into their shelters to rest.
I would like to see Laila. She noticed me on the porch, and nodded to me. In the darkness, I looked right into her eyes.
“Laila, can I help with the housework?”
I shuddered as I asked, quite sure that my request would be denied.
The sleepy guard dropped a few words with Laila. Unfortunately, I still could not understand their language. I knew a few words of Chechen that Aslan taught me, but mostly I sensed the language by the tone of the voices. Laila spoke slowly and persuasively, almost hypnotically. The scarf guy, on the contrary, had an intimidating low voice, and spoke fast. But she knew how to convince him.
I had been here, under their supervision, for about a month – the whole time, I had showed myself as very quiet, scared and broken – I did not need to pretend it. The captors grew accustomed to seeing me helpless and pathetic. Recently my inner state has changed, and I would like them to continue thinking that I was still miserable and weak. I wanted to show them I was well and truly beaten – I was helpless, I was impotent. I need to finally put their vigilance to sleep. The guard’s supervision began to weaken. The militants had more on their minds than me – their thoughts were filled with war and blood, and possibly, with the very real prospect of their own impending deaths. They still watched me, but the effort was already less careful, less close, with eyes that were less suspicious – it seemed like they were just going through the motions.
Today I was in the backyard of Laila’s home. I was like a balloon drifting out of their sight. I had never been so far away from my underground pit and from the guard tasked with watching me. It felt amazing, like a breath of freedom. There were farmyard hens and a barn in the back. The yard reached to the cliff, with a low mountain creek running through it. I had not seen it before, but had always heard its peaceful murmur. We were surrounded by towering mountains. To the left of her house, a forest climbed deep into the space between them. The small village, just a few houses, seemed perfectly hidden down here.
Laila’s house was the closest to the woods, separated from it by a low fence. I kept glancing at the forest, trying not to stare. It
was dense, almost black, an army of trees standing close together like a wall, a dark and foreboding forest from a medieval children’s tale – Hansel and Gretel could disappear into such a forest.
Perhaps I could as well.
Half of the barn had been converted into a garage where one of the jeeps was kept. A lonely cow grazed near the house, right next to the forest belt. The spirit of freedom intoxicated me. Having appeared suddenly in this new territory, the thought pierced me:
Run! Right now!
I wouldn’t make it across the mountain stream unnoticed. But the forest – if I reached it I would disappear. The feelings electrified me – I had only to wait for the guard to be absent for a moment or for a lapse in his attention.
I turned to Laila.
“What can I help you with?” I said.
I was going to go for it. I was a hundred percent sure. The idea made me feverish with excitement and thrill. Seeing me busy with household chores, helping Laila, I had hoped that the Scarf would weaken his attention for a second. Laila’s three young sons played nearby. The sun was rising, and the day was promising to be beautiful and warm.
Two ideas were at war in my mind. One very simple thought: Run!
And a much more complicated jumble – a plague of questions and fears, which made clear the absurdity of the first idea.
Laila distracted me from my inner struggle. She handed me an empty bucket and gestured at the cow in the field.
“Milk,” she said.
A moment later, I was standing about fifteen feet from the animal with the empty bucket in my hand. This was the closest I had ever been to a cow. Previously, I had seen cows from afar, and they always seemed like quiet and calm creatures, peacefully grazing the fields, slowly chewing the grass, carelessly looking around.
My grandmother had a small farm, which consisted of a single huge pig named Borka. I was young then and never approached the pig closer than ten feet. I was not allowed to go any closer. Then something bad happened to Borka – the thing that was supposed to happen, and the reason he was there from the beginning. I was very sorry for the huge hog. I cried when I learned that he was no longer with us.
I slowly approached the cow with a bucket and noticed her nostrils, which seemed to flare like the nostrils of a bull in bullfight somewhere in Spain. She looked straight at me. It seemed that in a second she would start to beat a hoof on the ground and rush to attack me. She appeared to read my mind, and knew what I was thinking about. She definitely felt my fear.
Many times in the movies and cartoons I had seen how easily the farm people milked the cows. It was only necessary to approach her confidently and begin to pull the udder. They say that animals know when someone is afraid of them, and then they begin to feel superior. I could not let that happen. I walked quickly up to the cow. I pet her back to show that I was the boss here, letting her know that everything was fine and calm, and letting her know that she was about to be milked. She was just peacefully standing there, chewing slowly whatever she had in her mouth, lulling me into a false sense of security. She showed me that she agreed to our new relationship. My heart started melting at how cute she was, when all of a sudden, she shook her long tail like a whip in my direction. It was very unexpected. Any sudden movement, at a time when you're already so alert, immediately stimulates the instinct to flee. I screamed and jumped back five steps, dropping the bucket on the ground.
Someone burst out in laughter behind me. I turned and there was Laila. The cow seemed totally careless. She kept moving her tail around, just fighting off the annoying flies around her butt. I burst out laughing too. Laila confidently took the bucket from the ground, squatted down on her haunches and began to quickly and nimbly milk the cow, showing me how to do it. The cow seemed calm and happy.
I sat down close to Laila and tried to pull the cow’s udder, squeezing warm milk in the bucket. It drizzled in different directions, everywhere but the bucket, but I was not appeased. After some time I got the hang of it and the task was accomplished. I was covered with splashes of milk, but the bucket was almost full.
This short but funny episode made me forget about my intention for a few moments. Laila was a good mother, a good person and I was very grateful to her. But I wanted to go home, and be among the people that I loved. There, where I belong.
Trembling with excitement, I decided to run right now, contrary to my cowardly inner voice. I filled a pitcher with water and stepped closer to the fence, to clean my hands and dress. I had never been so close to the forest and to my dream. I tried to drown out my inner voice, which was screaming NO!
Adrenaline overwhelmed me: I had never been so close to the goal. This was my chance.
Uncontrollable excitement evolved my whole being. Everything around me took on a surreal cast. I could hear my own heart beating – super slow and extremely loud. I could hear the sound of insects tunneling in the ground, and the world seemed to move in slow motion, growing slower and slower all the time. I washed my hands as centuries passed – nearby, the trees in the forest swayed in the breeze, moving with the same infinite slowness of the snails crawling on their trunks.
I watched what was happening, searching for the smallest details, looking for the one piece of evidence that would say to me, clearly and without doubt:
RUN!
RUN NOW!
Laila’s little boys were playing near the guard and the vehicle. The Scarf did not seem to pay any attention to us. I was pretending to carefully clean my dress of the milk splashes. Laila put the satisfied cow into the barn, then picked up the bucket of milk and headed toward the shed with it. My heart pounded furiously. I was ready to make my move. My brain was on fire, the synapses twitching and sizzling.
But then something changed. An ominous silence suddenly descended. It came from everywhere and descended upon me, fully covering me like a heavy blanket, like invisible hands pressing against my ears from both sides. It was as if, for a split second, every sound in nature had stopped, including my own heartbeat. You could feel the fear and anxiety deep inside you - something powerful and deadly was just about to begin. In the deep grass, the crickets were not chirping. The sheep had stopped bleating. The cows were quiet. No small birds called from the trees, and no great hawks cried out from the sky. Nature herself was paralyzed in terror.
Then there was a hissing whistle – its shriek so loud that it penetrated like knives through my ears and shattered my brain.
It struck fear into me that I would never forget. If you ever hear that sound, you will remember it for the rest of your days. Everything happened fast, but seemed to take a long time. There was a sudden flash and explosion somewhere very close, in the forest. Under my feet, the earth did not merely tremble – the very ground was lifted up and then put back down by the blast.
The Russians were attacking.
I saw Laila, her eyes wide, her young face a mask of horror. She dropped the bucket, rushing to pick up her screaming children. The white stream of the milk poured onto the ground and down the hill. I did not run toward the burning woods. I ran for my own hole in the ground, my dungeon.
The war was here. It had arrived for me at last.
My breath came in horrible shredding gasps. I ran faster than I ever had before. I could feel the shells screamed down from the mountains above us towards the forest bringing an apocalyptic rain of fire. The ground groaned and shuddered, rising and falling, cracking apart in an earthquake manufactured and delivered by man.
I burst through the house.
I crouched, and scrabbled for the trapdoor to my pit. What good would it do? A single bomb would splinter this house into ten thousand matchsticks, and leave a crater three stories deep.
I could not think about it, I dropped into the hole, then yanked the cover down on top. I lay in the dark, covering my ears with my hands, screaming to match the sounds of the bombs, screaming though I could not even hear myself. Outside and above me, the sky roared. Here, under the Earth, the ground shook w
ith each new hit.
I had spent months afraid, but had never experienced fear to match this… pure terror. It was crystalline, perfect, like a diamond. There could be nothing like this state of mind. No thought, no feeling, no past, no future, no longing, no planning, no choices to make. Nothing I could do would change the outcome – the bombs would land on me, or they wouldn’t.
Sometime later, the quiet returned. The bombing had stopped. Only then could I begin to think again. The Russian troops were so close. My salvation was just a cannon shot away.
Was anyone else in the village alive?
The dungeon was not locked. The fear was overwhelming. I could get out if I wanted and somehow let the Russian troops know about my existence. Or I could be immediately killed as soon as I showed myself. In movies, I had seen the survivors spread letters on the shore hoping to be noticed by a passing airplane. HELP! It would be virtually impossible to implement. How could I put a long word of seven letters:
ПОМОГИТЕ
on the ground? Only in one case, and that was if everyone else in the village was dead. As much as I wanted to escape, I would never wish for such an outcome for Laila’s family.
Soon, everything came back to life again. In the house, people began to stir. I was not alone. Lingering fear from the explosions overpowered any other feelings. I remained sitting in the shelter, barefoot, my hands clasped, begging to something – God, Allah, the spirits of the Chechen ancestors who walked these mountains for all eternity – for an end to the war.
At dusk, I climbed out of the dungeon – Laila came to see me. I was very surprised and touched. She brought me my pink flats, which I had lost after the bombing started. Fortunately, all her children were alive. We hugged and she told me she was going to stay with some relatives in their home in another village, with her children, for a while. I could not hold back the tears – I would be left alone again. I could not believe that this woman, who was so kind to me, was leaving.
Girl, Taken - A True Story of Abduction, Captivity, and Survival Page 15