by Kahn, Denise
“Baxter, Samantha, Lieutenant.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a nurse.”
“Liar!” He screamed.
“I am not lying. I am an American nurse.”
The Captain called over to the man with one eye. “Go stand in front of her and remove your patch,” he said in Arabic. They didn’t know that Sam understood their language. She also wouldn’t tell them, as she was sure that at some point that knowledge would come in handy.
“Yes, Captain,” Black Patch said. He stood in front of the American woman and pulled the material away from his eye.
Sam looked at the empty, badly scarred cavity and didn’t flinch whatsoever. “Whoever fixed him up didn’t do a very good job.”
“You joke?”
“Not at all, I’m very serious.
“What were you doing in Baghdad?
“I’m a nurse and I was helping a young boy. I went to change his bandage. His name is Hamid. Could you tell me if he is alright?”
“Why do you care?”
“That’s what I do.”
“You LIE!”
“I’m not. I’m a nurse and I see patients and assist doctors.”
The Captain turned to his men. “What happened to the boy?” He asked them in Arabic.
“They didn’t catch him,” Black Patch answered.
“Whatever, unimportant,” the Captain replied.
Sam was happy that Hamid managed to escape.
“So, I’ll ask you again, why were you in Baghdad, in that particular neighborhood?”
“I told you, to help the boy. I don’t know anything about a neighborhood.”
The Captain nodded his head and Tablecloth Man hit the back of Sam’s calves with a rubber hose. Sam screamed in pain, never expecting the blow that brought her down on her knees.
The interrogation continued through the night. Time and time again the rubber hoses smashed into her arms and legs. Ugly red welts formed all over her body. She was trembling violently, the attack on her limbs sending flames of pain all the way to her heart. At some point she blacked out.
Sam woke up and opened her eyes, and the pain screamed throughout her body. Her arms and legs seemed foreign to her, as if her limbs were tree branches that had lost their flexibility. She could hardly move them, and when she did the agonizing burning continued. She decided not to move at all. She looked around as the filth and stench emanating from her cell assaulted her senses. The room, which she figured measured no more than eight feet square, was empty save for an old, dirty blanket and a bucket in a corner. The heavy wooden door housed a window with bars crossing it and a small ledge that was no larger than a fist. At some point a guard opened the window and put two bowls on the sill. Sam was too sore to get up but she needed the nourishment. She crawled to the door on her stomach, one of the few places that hadn’t been hit too badly with the hoses, and inched herself up to the ledge on the door. The pain was unimaginable and she wanted to scream in agony. Sam managed to take the bowls, one at a time, as she didn’t trust any of the muscles in her arms and hands to hold them, or her legs to keep her standing. She carefully sat back down and looked inside the bowls. One of them housed the foulest liquid she had ever smelled. Even with all the vaccinations they had pumped into her she wasn’t going to drink, what perhaps had at one time been water. She looked at the other bowl—rice. But it wasn’t alone. It housed a family of cockroaches and black insects that were so small she couldn’t tell what they were—just that the dark things were moving. Sam left that one too.
No one came for two days, and for that she was grateful. The sounds, however, were enough to drive anybody mad. All day and all night women from other cells were wailing, screaming or crying. Sam thought about the interrogations and wondered when they would come back for her. She knew they were giving her a couple of days to recuperate somewhat because if they started beating her again they knew her body would give out much too quickly and she would be of no use to them.
By the third day Sam drank the putrid water, and of course it attacked her bowels. She spent most of the day on the bucket. By the fifth day of her captivity she kept the water down. She also ate the rice and brushed off the insects. On the ninth day she ate the protein as well.
The next morning Black Patch and Tablecloth Man took her to see the Captain. He was pleased with her physical progress—her face wasn’t black and blue anymore and her limbs could take another beating if she didn’t cooperate.
“So, Lieutenant, are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
“Captain, I answered you. I am a nurse and that’s all.”
“Nurses don’t go into the city to help children.”
“Yes, we do, and that’s what I was doing.”
“YOU LIE!”
“I’m not!” Sam insisted.
The Captain nodded to Black Patch and warned him not to hit her face. The one-eyed man followed the orders and smashed the rubber house against Sam’s legs. She understood and this time was more prepared, but the pain was just as intense as the first time.
“Captain!” She screamed. “I have told you the truth and you don’t believe me. Just what do you think I was up to?”
“You are a spy.”
“What would I be spying on?”
“Military secrets.”
“That is ridiculous. I went to see a patient, that’s all.”
The Captain nodded again and the beatings continued until Sam passed out. They carried her back to her cell.
When Sam woke up she was just as sore as the last time. She started thinking that maybe she should lie, make up some dumb story and hope the Captain would believe it. Throughout the night she continued thinking. What was her worse fear? The ignorance? The cruelty? The torture? Well that was pretty bad. Maybe next time they would rape her. They didn’t rape foreign women in Muslim countries. Yeah, right, Sam. Maybe they would stone her to death, or even behead her on television, channels around the world running it on a continuous loop. Sam also had some positive thoughts. Maybe they would believe her and let her go. Maybe the Americans would discover the prison and free the women. Maybe she would try to escape.
♫
LANDSTUHL, GERMANY
CHAPTER 43
Max had been in coma for ten days and Davina and Alejandro stayed at the hospital the entire time. They were by his side night and day, took turns going to the hotel to get a few hours of sleep and then returned to Max’s room. So far the press hadn’t gotten wind of the predicament they found themselves in, and for that Davina was extremely grateful. It was bad enough that her son was in a coma, having the paparazzi hound her at the same time would have been completely unbearable. They spent hours by his bed talking to him. Davina and Alejandro had been through this before with Monique so they were not new to this condition. They knew that talking to the patients, and in Monique’s case, singing, could very well bring them back. So they tried it all. They told Max stories of when he was young, starting when he was a baby, all through his childhood, and even the turbulent adolescent years. They talked about themselves, their families, their jobs, the friends Max had over the years, his favorites sports and pastimes, his hobbies, cars, girls, drinks, just anything, even little immaterial details—they were desperate to find something that would ‘click’ in his mind, like finding the right key on a computer.
“Well, we’ve talked about everything possible in the last ten days, there’s only one thing we haven’t tried,” Davina announced, exasperated.
“What is that, Amor?” Alejandro asked.
“Music.”
“Ah, yes, that worked with Monique, didn’t it.”
“It did.”
“I need to find a guitar.”
“I’ll find one. They’re less likely to recognize me.”
“Okay, thank you, my love.”
Alejandro kissed his wife and left the room. Davina went back to Max’s bedside. She took his hand and kissed it. “Come on, Max, y
ou can talk to me. Tell me what you want, what you need, I’ll get it for you. Promise.” She watched his eyes, his mouth, his fingers, anything that would tell her that Max was trying to answer her. “Okay, I guess we’ll have another round at it, this time with music. How does that sound?” Davina did not get an answer to her questions. She was slowly starting to give up, something she had never done in her life. But there was always hope, wasn’t there? Physically he was doing well, but he had ‘fallen asleep’. It was time to wake up.
Alejandro returned after half an hour with a guitar. “I found one.”
“I can see that. Where did you find it?”
“One of the staff.”
“That was very kind.”
“I offered to buy it, but the guy insisted I take it. The only thing he wanted was an autograph on it before you give it back, and whenever you didn’t need it anymore.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“That’s what I told him.”
Davina sang for her son for the next two days. Nothing was changing. The only difference was that Alejandro had asked her if she didn’t mind leaving the door open.
“Why? Won’t I disturb the other patients? I mean, it’s not too loud, but surely it would bother them.”
“Actually it’s helping them. The staff asked me if you wouldn’t mind if they listened from the door.”
“Ah, the power of music,” Davina said, understanding. “Yes, I don’t mind at all, and everybody has kept quiet about us being here. Pretty amazing really.”
“Yes, I think so too.”
“You know, Alejandro, I just know Max is going to come out of this. We just have to find that whatever it is in his brain that will wake him up.”
“Of course, Amor mio, I have no doubt.” But he did. Alejandro wasn’t as optimistic as his wife, but he so admired her determination.
“Monique called,” Davina said.
“How is she?”
“She said she would come in a couple of days and my mother is coming in too.”
“That’ll help you out a little.”
“Actually Monique’s volunteered to help with the singing.”
“Now, there’s a long overdue performance—the two of you singing together—why I think the last time you did that, professionally at least, was over twenty years ago.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Jacques will try to get you two on every show in the world!” Alejandro laughed, knowing what a coup that would be for his best friend the Frenchman.
“You know, Alejandro, I wouldn’t mind if it gets Max out of this goddamn coma.”
“I think you’ll be successful.”
“With what?”
“With both Max and a show with you and Monique.”
Davina sat in the chair next to the bed and continued for the next three hours. She tirelessly strummed and sang and the patients and staff crouched along the walls of the hospital ward. They took turns listening to one of the biggest stars in the world play and sing in one of their rooms. It was also a sight they would never forget, especially when Davina sang ‘Blue Eyes’, one of Elton John’s compositions she used to sing to Max when he was a baby. On the last note Davina, Alejandro, and even the people in the hallway heard: “I’ll…always… love… that song… Mom… It’s one of… the first memories… I have.” A collective harmony of voices cheered for the baby and noble Marine with the blue eyes, who decided to come back and join them.
♫
WOMEN’S DETENTION CENTER, IRAQ
CHAPTER 44
Sam sat silently in the small cubicle they called a cell. She was cold. It was the middle of the night and she was lost in her thoughts. Every person she had loved was dead—her parents, Robert, Max, even Big, Black, Beautiful Colin. She remembered Chantal chanting it over and over again. Her gorgeous friend had been so in love, as had she, first with Robert and even more so with Max. Handsome Max. How her heart ached for him. How she missed him. Maybe she could jinx the people in the jail too. Maybe they would die too. But, no, she had to love them so they would perish and she didn’t, she hated them. As she thought about her desires for their fate she started forming an idea. At this point she knew she wouldn’t last long, and they were bound to kill her. She had overheard them deciding what they would do to her and she shuddered. She had nothing to lose. Her body was weak, depleted of energy, but her mind was sharp. In the cold, dark cell Sam started devising a plan, one she would carry out, or die trying.
She heard footsteps in the hall. It was unusual for them to come for prisoners in the middle of the night, but she was ready and braced herself for whatever they had in store for her. She quickly knelt toward Mecca, the direction all Muslims pray. She started reciting verses from the Koran, as if she were of the faith.
Black Patch and Tablecloth Man came into Sam’s cell. “What are you doing?” The one-eyed man said.
She ‘reluctantly’ lifted her head and answered. “Praying.”
“Since when do you speak Arabic?”
“Can I finish praying?” Sam said, not answering his question.
“La! No! You come with us now.”
They squeezed her arms as they roughly lifted her up. They shoved her as they marched her down the dark, dirty hallway. Sam could already feel new bruises forming. She knew what they had in store for her, and she was already dreading another round of painful interrogation. She also worried that this was the end of the line, but not before they took turns raping her. She kept thinking about her plan, rethinking it over and over again now that she had a few more minutes before the interrogation started. When it did she would need her mind there, strong and courageous, as her body wasn’t any more. She revised her plan, her escape. Don’t’ be ridiculous! Her subconscious screamed. She told herself she had nothing to lose, on the contrary, she might win her freedom. She decided to gamble. They didn’t know she spoke Arabic. She purposely kept it secret so she would know what they were saying. She knew their next step was more whipping with rubber hoses, and she’d really had enough of that shit. She could also sense that these men were tired of waiting. They knew she wasn’t a spy and they wanted her body. Tonight they would rape the American woman, and then kill her.
Black Patch and Tablecoth Man pushed her into the dark, damp room where the Captain was waiting.
Okay, Sam, you can do this, she said persuading herself. She took a deep breath and spoke: “Before you do anything to me you had better be careful!” She said in fluent Arabic.
The three men were taken by surprise. “You speak Arabic?” The Captain asked.
“Of course, I’m an al-Jinni.”
The Captain laughed, the other two men stepped back. “Women can’t be Jinns,” he said.
Sam laughed even more savagely. “If you believe that, just wait and see!” She looked at them wildly, her eyes directly focused into theirs. She knew that was the worst thing she could do, but she was gambling. Her life was in her own hands.
“What if she really is? What if she curses us?” The corporal with the patch over his eye said.
“You are so stupid!” The officer yelled and slapped him on the head. “You believe this infidel?”
“But maybe it’s because she’s an infidel, or maybe not. She was praying when we walked into her cell.”
“Praying?”
“Yes.”
"I will bring it to you before you rise from your place. And verily, I am indeed strong, and trustworthy for such work.” Sam said, reciting a verse from the Muslim Holy Book.
“It’s from the Koran!” Black Patch said.
“Idiot! Do you not see what she is doing? She might have a read a verse or two, maybe even memorized some of it, and now you believe she is a Jinni.”
“And how is it I know Sura Al-Naml, the 27th Sura of the Koran?” Sam asked.
“How could she know that? The one-eyed man said.”
“Because she is smarter than you are, imbecile!” This time the officer punched h
im hard in the stomach and Black Patch doubled over and fell to his knees. He landed next to Sam and she saw her opportunity. She lunged at the fallen man, grabbed his side arm, took the safety off and fired. The other two men flew back from the impact of the bullets and slumped to the ground. Two red pools of blood spread on their chests. Their perplexed look conveyed that perhaps Sam truly was a Jinni. The man she had taken the weapon from moaned and begged for mercy. Sam pointed the gun at him. She aimed for his eye, the only one he had left. The man was reciting verses as fast as he could. Deep down Sam’s Hippocratic Oath kicked in, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to kill an unarmed man, no matter how big of a shit he was.
“I am not going to kill you,” she said calmly. The man’s eyebrows rose. Could this infidel, this woman, this al-Jinni, be telling the truth? “I’ll tell you why,” she continued, “we’re going to make a deal.”
“A deal?” He whispered, more scared than he had ever been in life.
Sam could smell the urine in his pants. The man had peed himself. “Yes. I will let you live under one condition.”
“What is that?” What was he going to have to do?
“I don’t care where you go, but wherever you find yourself you will treat people with respect, no matter what nationality, what religion or if they are man, woman, child or animal. You will never hurt, hit or kill anyone. Is that clear?”
“Aiwa, yes,” he mumbled.
“If you don’t, I will know about it and I will come back for you. This is stronger that both us. Do you understand?”
The man, wide-eyed with fear, nodded his head furiously. She was an al-Jinni, he was sure, and it had started with her singing. How could an American speak Arabic so well and know so much about his religion and their culture?
“Now, I’m going to disappear,” Sam said. Before he had time to react she quickly put her right arm over his shoulder and brought it up on the other side of his face. She pressed her other hand tight against her arm and squeezed the sleeper hold until the carotid arteries and jugular veins were compressed enough to be effective. Black Patch passed out after a few seconds. She let him drop and hurried over to the third man, took the keys and his jacket. She also removed the keffiyeh and the agal from Tablecloth Man’s head. She quickly put the jacket on, covered herself with the headdress, pushed it down over her head and kept it in place with the agal. Sam carefully looked through the bars of the window on the door. No one was in sight and the hallway was eerily quiet. She ventured out cautiously, closed the door and locked it. She went to the next door and unlocked it. A woman was sleeping on the cold, filthy floor. She looked up, fear pushing her sockets farther back into her face.