Yvonne Bornstein - Eleven Days of Hell

Stumbling out of the rickety bed, I checked my Bulova watch—one of my few possessions that had not been taken from me. It said 3am. Normally, I would be awakened at sunrise, but even before Rae’s appearance, my sleep had been made even more restless by the fact that Danny had been taken from the house earlier on this night, ostensibly to arrange a ransom delivery for our kidnappers. I had been terrified ever since, consumed by frightening illusions that he would never return alive, that something would go wrong, that he would be killed and they’d come back and do the same to me.

I always kept the harsh light bulb on the ceiling burning when I slept, as I didn’t want to feel any more defenseless than I already was in this house of horrors, but outside, beyond the thick metal bars attached to the windows, it was dark as pitch. Would I live to see the morning?

I was fully dressed, again as a means of self-defense, as if my now-pilling, blue, cashmere sweater and matching top and pants could be a makeshift suit of armor against the daily beatings I had suffered. Never, for reasons that had become sickeningly clear only two days before, did I ever want to be undressed and naked to the mortal dangers in the horror house that had been my tomb for the past ten terrible days.

I climbed off the bed, threw everything into the suitcases, and sat back on the bed to slide into my slippers—the only footwear I was left with after my shoes were taken from me. Indeed, sometimes my captors wouldn’t even let me wear the slippers. Instead, if they allowed Danny and me to go outside to relieve ourselves—the pipes in the bathroom in the house were always frozen, making it unusable—we would have to go barefoot, hoping we could get done fast enough so as to avoid hypothermia.

I felt myself being guided through the piece of hanging cloth that served as a door and out to the landing atop a long set of stairs. I could only carry one suitcase, so I grabbed hold of the heaviest one with both arms and began dragging it down the staircase.

By now, my sleepiness had receded, my eyes forced open by the adrenaline pumping through my body. Sights and sounds were swirling in my brain. Three steps down, I peered through the funereal atmosphere that hung in the air of the dacha, or country house in Russian, and saw the man I knew as Oleg, who was Rae’s husband, at the far end of the kitchen at the foot of the stairs, hand on hip, leaning against a small table near the television. Ominously, he was shaking his head from side to side as though something was wrong.

As cloddish as Rae was refined, Oleg—like most of the dozen or so men who at some point or other had joined in holding Danny and me prisoner in the house—stood around six feet tall and had dark olive skin, black thinning hair, and a bushy black mustache that covered his jowly face. Given to outbursts of quick temper, he was dressed as ever in black from head to toe and bulky work boots. And a moment later, he began arguing vehemently with the most unforgettable character of all: an old hag of a woman who was his mother. I didn’t know her name—everyone in the house called her babushka, or ‘grandmother’—but she was straight out of a Hollywood movie about gypsies.

She was at most times my warden. And she was by far the angriest woman I’ve ever encountered in my life. One minute she would be demanding that everyone eat, the next she would be screaming at anyone who was not complying with her rules. ‘Coosheet, coosheet,’ (‘eat! eat!’) she would order in a high-pitched squeal that made my ears hurt. She was a small but strong woman, and she had the will of an ox. I often imagined she was probably quite pretty in her youth. She had piercing blue eyes and a vibrant smile, which displayed a full mouth of gold teeth—a dead giveaway that she had some money, as in Russia only the wealthy can afford to sport these ‘jewels,’ which were a status symbol.

Her one overriding feature, however, was her snarling temper that could flare at a moment’s notice, a quality she clearly had handed down to her son. Together now in the kitchen, they were going at each other as if they expected the sky to fall in. For me, any such dissonance was foreboding. And if I amused myself at times by telling myself one could see the babushka’s kind in any gypsy fortune-teller’s storefront, the last thing I wanted to do right at this moment was ask her about my future. I was all too sure she knew. During ten days of torture, both physical and psychological, hour upon hour had passed, taunting me to the point of implosion. The single most spine-chilling symbol of those ten days in hell was the nail-encrusted wooden club with which I was frequently beaten or threatened; and it turned my body into a black-and-blue totem pole. It’s no exaggeration to say that the dogs in the house were treated more humanely. Indeed, Danny and I had to share the dogs’ toilet facilities—the backyard—and we were permitted to use it only when the dogs had finished their business. Other heinous acts that I endured were so degrading and demeaning that I never even told Danny that they had happened.

Now, on this ominous morning, I sensed that the game of torture was over. Whatever it was the people in this house from hell wanted to do to me was going to happen, right now.

Outside, I could hear the tinny squeal of the iron gate opening once again, a sound that had come to send waves of terror up my spine, and the sound of a great commotion, voices shouting in anger, booted feet stomping.

Again, my first reflex was to think of Danny. He had been taken from the house, as he frequently was, around five hours before, and my worst fear kept streaming into my head: Was he dead? Had they killed him? Would I ever see him again? Would I be next?

Looking at Oleg, I plucked up the courage—don’t ask me where it came from—to confront him.

‘Gdye moi moozh?’ (‘Where is my husband?’) I sputtered, fighting back the temptation to spit in his hideous face.

For a moment, he stared back at me, anger swelling his veins, but just then, two more men came in who had not only been part of the gang of junkyard dogs but had at times seemed to be calling the shots for them. I knew them only as Robert and Kuzin, but I thought I knew exactly who and what they were, by their refined, sophisticated manners and use of subtly nuanced threats.

They bore, in every respect, the earmarks of KGB agents trained in the old order of Soviet tyranny, only to be cast adrift in the new order of uneasy Russian democracy to hook up with low-level underworld elements.

They began engaging Oleg and the babushka in heated, animated conversation. All of them were babbling wildly and shouting for everyone in the house to come to the foyer area. People began emptying out of various rooms, pulling on their clothes and their boots as they ran, some nearly tripping over each other. All of them had guns tucked into their belts.

Women scrambled not out of the rooms but back into them, where their children were sleeping.

Amid this maelstrom of confusion and chaos, I clutched my suitcase, standing rooted to the floor, knowing not what to do or say or think. But I did know that if this was when I was going to die at the hands of this pack of rats, it would not be on their terms; it would not be with fear in my eyes, begging for my life. Nor would it be with those eyes staring at my captors’ faces. It would be in a state of unconsciousness.

Rae gave me the chance to carry out my way of dying. At that moment, she began making motions again at me, bringing her index finger up to her mouth, as if she was saying I shouldn’t ask Oleg anything else. Then she directed me to go back up the stairs to get my other suitcase and the bright purple overcoat I had bought expressly for this trip to Russia. Clearly, I was going to be taken somewhere, God only knew where.