A Prisoner In Afghanistan [Adult 4,200]

A German writer and companion imprisoned in an American compound.

"Welches Jahr?" I ask my driver and guide, thumping one hand on the dash.  With no answer, I amend the question to, "What year?" in English.

"Mad’in 1990," is the reply. Like most of the world, more English is taught in Turkmenistan than my native German.  We left an inn in Gushgy, and are on our way to the border town of Towraghondi, from where I hope to make it into Afghanistan.  

The Land Rover may have left the factory in 1990, but has lost its springs somewhere between then and now, 2014.  My butt feels every anthill on the dirt and stone trails we've been following.  

In the process of writing a history of the US's so-called "war on terror," I'm on my way to try to cadge an interview with an Al Queda hotshot.  Not affiliated with any news agency, I'm using the proceeds of my last book to pay for the trip.  

Somehow, I don't think I'll be welcomed by American troops I might run into there.  Any investigation of my ID will refer to my volume on how lousy Americans are with international politics and diplomacy.  I've taken the precaution of paying for a fake ID as a Swiss citizen, a neutral country.  It's not the best effort for such things, but all I can afford.

"We no go Towraghondi, okay?" the driver asks.  "Radio say many soldier, Turkmen.  We goes round.  No check, I think."

"You f*****g think?  Hey, it's my a*s."

"You pay a'ready.  You get out now?  Okay me."

I paid him to take me to the border, now only a few kilometers away as the crow flies.  I'm bringing a backpack and will have to walk from there.  Luckily, I filled my canteens back at the inn.  However, being hungry sounds preferable to a Turkmen jail.

We stop for fuel at a stone hut sitting alongside the road.  I relieve myself in a small shack out back while the driver fills up from stacks of 200litre drums in front. Not trusting him, I take my pack with me.  It's a good thing I do, since he's gone when I return.

Shrugging, I turn toward the entrance.  So, I walk a few more kilometers.  No big deal.

***

An old crone dressed in local finery slumps behind the counter, looking out a window. Also, a girl appearing to be in her late teens sits on a rattan recliner near a wood stove -- boots elevated near the fire  In the morning chill, the room smells of a mixture of oil, rotting wood, and unfamiliar spices.

There are shelves of foodstuffs around two sides.  Large items such as a pickle-barrel, a wooden ox-collar and coils of hemp rope take space in the center of the large room.  The counter consists of a door lying across stacks of brightly-colored plastic Coco-Cola crates.  Behind it, a prominent display of new-looking AK-47 assault rifles catches my eye.  

As I step closer, I see a crate at one end of the counter contains an assortment of pistols thrown in together like the discount box at a supermarket.  They look to be mostly rusty Russian Takarovs and Brownings.  Cheap firearms seem to be a staple of grocery stores here, most stolen from Saddam's army and the Taliban.  That occurred when the Americans sorta forgot to secure them during the opening stages of those wars.  No doubt they also have a shack filled with explosives out back -- anti-tank rockets for blowing stumps.

I would like to find out how far it is to the border and pick up more dried meat to take along on my long walk. With both of the women eying me warily, I tour the shelves, picking up a few items such as strings and balls of dried meat, hoping it's goat or dog not camel.  My teeth can’t take much more stringy dried dromedary.

A display of cigarettes stops me briefly as I mentally calculate weight and space in my backpack, finally picking out a half-dozen packs of Russian "Sobranie Classic."   I also choose three pairs of woolen socks.  I anticipate one hell of a lot of walking to come.

Basket full, I stand behind the stove for a few minutes, enjoying the radiant heat. I can't resist watching the girl as she yawns, rises, and opens her own backpack. She takes out a pair of heavy gray trousers and changes into them in front of me, long slim legs flashing where emerging below a pair of frilly pink panties.  When our eyes meet, I fear I blush, forcing myself to brush past her smile as I go over to the counter.

Naturally, the clerk doesn't speak German or English. 

In exasperation, I resort to the old custom of laying money down in Turkmen Manats, one bill at a time, looking up at her eyes as they flash down and up into mine.  Eventually she smiles and says something.

The girl laughs.  I didn't see her standing behind me.

"She called you a stupid American a*****e," the youngster says in English, scooping up about half the bills.  She hands most of them to me, stuffing a couple into her own pocket.  "A reward. Okay, you stupid a*****e?"  She laughs her a*s off, tears coming to dark eyes.

The clerk merely shrugs, takes the remaining Manats and turns away.

"You walking to Afghanistan?" the girl asks. "So am I."

"Yes. Yes I am.  And I'm not a stupid American.  I'm a stupid German."

"Let's walk together? It's safer that way." She looks me up and down.  "Do you have a gun?"

"No. Do I need a gun?  Hell, I've never shot one in my life."

"Depends on which you fear more, thieves or Americans. With thieves, you better have one.  With Americans, you better not."  She opens her coat, showing me the handle of a small pistol hanging from a lanyard around her neck. "Not too scary, I don't think, but I can hide or throw it away easy. And it makes a hell'a a noise."

"If I give you the money, can you buy me one of those Takarovs, a big one?  I'm a big boy, you know?"

"Gimme," she says, grinning and holding out a hand. 

We help each other adjust and remount our backpacks, mine stuffed by recent purchases.  I don't know the caliber of my new pistol, except that it's heavier than I like and it takes both of us a half-hour to figure out how to fill it with bullets, leaving twelve dull-looking extra cartridges.  I hope I don't have to use it because I'd hate to go through that process again.  Mechanical ability is not my strong point, beyond typing, that is.

Ready, we leave the fueling station and start down a slippery rocky slope toward the border with Afghanistan.

"How far we have to go," I ask, "and what's your name?  Mine's Rolfe, Rolfe Kohl, from Bremen, Deutschland."

"Farrin Razeghi, Serbia, a small town named Pancevo. My father works at an oil refinery there.  You have a map?  Mine's pretty ragged, torn when I slipped down a mountain on my rear.  It was in a back pocket."

And a pretty rear it is, I think.  "No, I was going to pick one up in Towraghondi, but we never got there."

"Are you sure you shouldn't have flown, or took a tour bus?  You haven't traveled by toe very much, have you?  Always carry plenty of maps."  

We continue in silence for an hour or so before she finally speaks again.  I have the impression she's sorry she hooked up with me.  I can see her point.  I do seem ill-prepared, not speaking any local language or having vital supplies with me.  S**t, and I already feel sharp stones through the soles of these well-used German Army boots.  I might as well be barefoot and naked.  Well, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if she's in the same condition.  I have to smile at the thought.

"We're about twenty-klicks from Herat, on the Afghani side.  All we have to do is keep going downhill and stay on this side of the Hari river."

"Razeghi?  That's a Persian name, isn't it?  In Serbia?  Not Kosovo?"

She sighs, like it's none of my business.  "My ancestors were with the Turks and landed in Albania in the late 1800s.  During WWII we moved to the Kosovo Province of Serbia, later on to Belgrade and ended up in Pancevo.  Nominally I'm Muslin but consider myself a citizen of  Serbia, which includes Kosovo.  After all, it’s where I was born and lived all my life.  And drop it, okay?  I'm tired of explaining.  The European press doesn't speak for everybody."  She looks over at me and asks, "Can I have a drink?  I forgot to fill my canteen."

I have to laugh at that, seeing her face flush.  "And you called me unprepared?"

"Well, I can always find that f*****g river and get a drink.  And I do have a map."

"I wonder where the border is?" I ask.  "I haven't seen any signs."

"Remember that bit of barbed-wire we stumbled over back there?  It's probably the border.  Unlike modern Europe, these countries don't bother with marking borders, or even survey them.  Put a marking-pole up and the next kid or farmer that comes along will simply rip it out to use for making a goat pen or something."  She giggles.

"What's so funny?"

"I was thinking.  You don't speak the language and I could use some cash.  Maybe I can be your interpreter and we can stumble around together?"

"You don't know your way around, either.  What kind of a guide is that?"

"One with a torn map and that can at least speak a little of the lingo."

"And has a little gun, compared to my big one.  Don't forget."  I think for a moment.  I do have money and she does have the a*s for the job.  "Sure, why not?"

*** 

Herat is a contrast, one I'm not familiar with but that Farrin might well be. It had, only a few years before, been a mixture of baked-mud homes alongside more modern skyscrapers.  Now, however, a third ingredient has joined the recipe, that of a great many bombed-out buildings. 

Me a six-foot light-skinned German and her without a veil, we stand out among the populace.  

Farrin can read well enough to get us to an inn on the near side of town.  It isn't the Steigenberger Hotel in Berlin, but should be a great deal cheaper and a base for me to use in contacting Al Queda -- or so I hope.

It being a partnership, she does the negotiating and I pass over the money.

At a shout from the clerk, an old man rises and leads us down a concrete-block hallway to a room at the end.  Unlocking the door with a huge iron key, he smiles and hobbles back toward the lobby.

"Who gets this one?"  I ask.  

"It's safer if we stay together," she answers, which is fine by me.  "I told the clerk we're married."

"Thank you, Lord."  I look up at the ceiling in supplication.

"Don't get your hopes, or anything else, up ... mein freund."

Seeing there's a bathroom, I retrieve a bag of shaving gear and go in.  I try a light switch, finding there's no electricity.  Also no water.  At least the bathroom is too tiny for Farrin to ask me to sleep in.

When I come out Farrin goes back to the desk to get two oil lanterns at extra cost.  The room does have a three-liter can of drinking water and a tin bucket.  We can dip water to wash with from a huge tank outside.  Another result of American technology -- dumb smart bombs.

The bed is old, massive, and tempting; sporting a thick feather mattress.

"Ladies first.  You take it."  I sigh, looking around for a place to flop.

"You take the bed. Old men need their rest."

I open my mouth, trying to think of a quick retort but stop in mid-inhale.  Since she's already spreading out a blanket across the room, and I'm tired, and....  Oh, s**t, I take the bed.  As tempting as that mattress looks, why the hell should I argue to sleep on the floor?

Later, though, I wake when one edge of the mattress sinks, dropping me downhill.  I feel a supple weigh rolling into my thigh, along with toenails scratching a calf.  Loose hair hits my face, followed by lips searching for my own.

"The floor's cold and I figure we're going to do it anyway ... sooner or later.  It might as well be now before I catch a cold,"  Farrin whispers. "Move over and we'll get it over with ... then sleep."

An astute little lady.

***

I don't go out much for the next couple of weeks. Since my white skin makes me stand out and I don't speak any of the common languages, I stay inside and read paperback novels she finds me in German and English.  Farrin goes out to spread the word that I'm looking for Al Queda, any Al Queda, and will pay for an interview.

At first, I don't mind the rough diet of brown rice and lamb we get through room service.  It seems to be the only thing they know how to cook.  And we get a lot of pumpkin, which goes right out to the toilet hole -- ultimately, as fertilizer.   Right back to that large pumpkin field behind the hotel.  I never did like it much. 

Not only is Western food hard to find but costs a fortune and might even get us killed in buying it.  There are one hell of a lot of people around here that don't like Americans.  Some of them wouldn't pause to allow me to prove I'm German -- or Swiss.

Also, with not much else to do we spend a lot of time in bed perfecting our horizontal dancing skills.

*** 

Late one night after we've been here several weeks, me and Farrin are playing at building a fence.  On top, I have a pole ready to drive in, trying to aim at a wildly gyrating post-hole beneath me.  Sweat from the effort is dripping from my nose onto her brow, when the door is kicked into the room -- literally.  It slams across, barely missing my elevated a*s-cheeks, and "ka-thunks" into a wall.

Farrin stops her circular motions and I'm ready to jam that old fence-post right in, winning the game, when grasping hands jerk me roughly off the playing field.

"On your feet, guy,"  one of the invaders says in English while picking my body from the bed and slamming it to the ground.

"Hands on your head," another yells into my ear while twisting one hand behind my back.  Others scream what must be more conflicting commands in Afghani.  At least THEY seem to be having fun.  I can see the three pawing Farrin are enjoying themselves.

In moments, I'm secured in handcuffs.  It takes minutes more for Farrin, looking like her captors need to compare loose hands in order to get their own back.  They don't seem to avoid searching all her secret hiding places, though nobody sticks even one finger up MY a*s.  

I don't recognize their uniforms.  Since some of them are speaking English among themselves and not wearing British uniforms, I take them for Americans.  We're thrown into the back of a strange-looking metal monster and driven only a short way.  

I hear low voices in the front seats, but we and our captors in back are quiet.  One soldier makes a point of swinging both large boots up and planting them on my naked lap.  

"Christ.  You're the first American Insurgent I've seen?  Why the hell--"  he starts in.

"Shut up back there.  Save that for the interrogators," someone yells back at us, shutting the first soldier up.

All three are leering at Farrin.  If one didn't have some sort of stripes on his sleeve, I imagine she'd be in even more trouble.  

We stop at a small and heavily fortified mud-brick compound, after driving inside and parking among a few other such monstrous vehicles.  

We're both dragged into a building and thrown into adjacent cells.  There seem to be about a half-dozen more barred enclosures in the row, but we're apparently the only prisoners in that room.

***

"Sccccrreeeeeemmmm. Ohhhhh, ummmmm. Sob, sob."

The sounds come through the wall.  A person in extreme pain, followed by laughing.

"Mein Gott!" I exclaim, reaching though the bars to grasp at Farrin.  We’re both buck naked, having been that way before being thrown in here.

"There must be other prisoners here," she whispers, eyes wide and seeming to beg.  "But where the hell are they?  In other buildings?"

"I sincerely hope so."

Farrin and I squat on each side of intervening bars, hugging and stroking each other as screaming and moaning goes on for half the night. I don't think it possible, but I do nod off, waking when my cell door opens with a squeak and a clang.

"Rolfe Kohl?"  a well-dressed man wearing a gray suit asks from the doorway.  To me, he looks like a sedentary bookkeeper.

"Yes, Sir. Rolfe Kohl."

"Come with me.  I need to get to the bottom of this."

"The bottom of what ... sir?  I'm a journalist, gathering material for a book."

"Come. We'll talk." 

Going down a hallway, we're forced to stop for a moment on encountering four men on their hands and knees working on the floor, a uniformed guard standing behind them.  The four are as naked as I, using toothbrushes to scrub raw concrete.

"The fat one owns a large amount of land in this district, a local bigshot,"  my guide tells me.  "In the evenings, after work here, he now services off-duty guards by getting their c***s hard so they can screw his wife and daughter in front of him."  

As we pass, my guide deliberately steps on the fat man's fingers.

"Wh ... What did he do to deserve this?"

"He refuses to give us information on his brother, a major opium dealer.  When he does talk, we'll release him.  He'll probably go right back to his old job ... a much better man than when he came in."

* 

The office is bare except for a large wooden desk and a swivel-chair behind it.  I get to sit on a straight-chair bolted to the floor.  Another wooden one’s sitting alongside the desk.  The last has an Afghani in uniform sitting in it.  As we come in, he puts down a book and smiles.

While I sit, nervously swinging my eyes back and forth at them, the two talk in the native language, grinning and laughing.

"This is Captain Ahmad Durrani," I'm told.  "I wish to make you aware of several things.  Important things.  Since the year 2009, the US is restricted to certain procedures when questioning prisoners.  Captain Durrani is NOT.  I'm here only as an advisor.   I CAN, in that capacity, make SUGGESTIONS, which he may or may not follow.  Do you understand? It's his country, and he uses his methods.

"My job is also to look out for your welfare by making suggestions to you, which you may or may not follow.  My first suggestion is that you answer all his questions so that you can go back to your hotel."

The session starts out simple enough.  There are questions about carrying a gun -- against the law and labeling me a terrorist.  Also on having two sets of identification from different countries.  I'm asked about my relationship with Al Queda, of which I have none -- but which they refuse to believe.  Asking for a lawyer or international aid only amuses them.

One point does shock me, though I don't believe it.  They tell me that Farrin is a known Iranian terrorist, thrown out of Kosovo, that they were keeping an eye out to apprehend.  Bullshit, I think.  I know her pretty well by now.

Then the captain gets physical, beating me with a heavy strap taken from a desk drawer.  He’s careful of his knuckles, using some sort of metal device over them when pounding on me. Later interrogations make that first one seem like a mere warmup. 

"Breakfast time for us, Mr. Kohl,"  the American tells me, standing.  "I don't think Ahmad wants to feed you for a few days.  Torture, don't you know?"

After two Afghani guards drag me back by the legs, head bouncing on the floor behind them, they lock me in and go over to Farrin's cell.

Through my own pain, I expect them to take her to an interrogation room.  Instead, they have more primal urges in mind, rape.  Although I look away, I'm forced to listen.

***

At one point, I wake to see at least some of our clothing and personal articles have been returned while I was sleeping.  Nothing sharp, of course.  

Farrin motions me over to the bars.

"I didn't tell you before, but I have some pills I picked up," she whispers very softly.  "I was thinking of such things as this.  If it … you know ... becomes too bad, we can ... we can escape that way."

As badly as I hurt, I don't like that idea.  "Where are they?"

"Hidden in the cap of my toothpaste tube."

***

A week later, a kick from the captain's army boot weakens one of my legs.  I can't stand on it.  Three fingers on one hand are broken, swelling it up like a purple boxing glove with red veins.  A doctor comes from somewhere and gives me shots. 

Farrin fares worse than me.  Besides being beaten, she has become a sexual plaything for the guards. Sometimes Mr. Simpson -- that's his name, blurted out by Captain Durrani once -- stands and watches.  I wonder if he's also looking out for her interests.

While my hand is healing, I'm not beaten.  A guard is stationed outside my cell.  He sits on a comfortable stuffed chair, reading or playing sick sexual games with my companion.  Every time I nod off, he shakes or kicks me into semi-consciousness.  I'm not allowed to sleep in the daylight, or even lie down.  Not being able to stand, I can only sit with my back against the bars or a wall.  The days and nights go by in a haze.

There is no hope.  Nobody will come in to save me.  I have no way to even confess.  Whenever I try to lie, they don't believe me, looking for verification that I don't have for infractions I didn't commit.

***

After an extra-long interrogation, Farrin comes back with a broken arm and is tossed into her cell.  When finished giving the guard who brought her back a blowjob, she lies sobbing, shivering from pain and seemingly out of her head.  

I creep over to the bars, trying to comfort her the best I can.  My God, will this never end? I no longer remember a time without pain, without suffering.

Crawling over to the remains of her backpack and sleeping blanket I see her rummage and bring out a partial tube of toothpaste.  She wipes her eyes and gives me a knowing glance.  Myself being deeply depressed and feeling hopeless, I nod back.

Intense pain accompanies my own slow crawl, useless arm dragging as I try to push with my good leg.  Finally, I manage to get a hand onto the cool bars separating us.  

Farrin has managed to do the same, reaching inward to help me half-sit.  I can imagine Simpson sitting at a closed-circuit television, grinning at our actions, tape-recorder on to catch vital bits of security information for his country.  

I turn my head, eyes meeting Farrin's.  These f*****g, F*****g ... F*****G, bars.  We can barely make our mouths meet by pressing against them to kiss through broken teeth and sore lips.  Her right hand comes up, toothpaste tube in it.

She looks at me, eyes softening and seeming to glaze.  From her breathing, I think her lung must be damaged. Gasping, she takes the cap off the tube.  

"Le ... Let me," I manage to get out, using one of my last fingernails to pry a small cardboard insert from inside the cap, as she holds it, hand braced against an iron bar.  Shakily, I let three tiny white pills drop into my palm.  Through my shaking, they stay in place, kept there by a sweaty palm.

I put one in my mouth, knowing we now have to hurry before Simpson can run in, unlock the cell and intervene.  Forcing my hand through the bars, I hold it to her face and feel her tongue, dry as sandpaper, scoop up the others.

"Together,"  I say, seeing Farrin's eyes flash one last time in defiance as she tries to force a smile.

"Now!"  I bite into mine, briefly tasting bitter almonds as I force the remains down my throat.

I hear voices coming toward us, amid shouting and the slap of heavy US Army boots on a concrete floor, watching Farrin's eyes dim ... as does my vision while peering into her--

The End.  
Charlie -- hvysmker.