18+

  Attention!!!

  The text contains a scene of violence. The author does not condone violence or any other unlawful actions.

  Published at the request of an old acquaintance…

  Dedicated to T.M.

  Preface

  Greetings, dear reader!

  If you’ve stumbled upon this little story on the internet, let me assure you, you’re one of the few. I’m not a writer, nor do I possess deep philosophical insights on various matters. I can’t, like Dostoevsky, craft intricate turns of phrase or uncover the hidden thoughts of my characters. I think plainly: black is black, white is white, water is watery, and down is fluffy. So, you’re unlikely to find phrases in this story that will become iconic or anything worthy of your Instagram story or other social media platforms.

  This story has no specific start or end date—not because it’s hard for me to recall the timeline of events, but because I don’t want my dear reader to accuse me of inaccuracies and argue that something happened in 1995 instead of 1996, or vice versa. I remember it as I remember. Though I’ll gladly welcome any criticism. Let the participants of this story find themselves if, someday, they discover its existence.

  I should also add that this story has dwelled within me like a worm gnawing at my heart, piece by piece, laying eggs of truth and justice. Today, on this beautiful day, on the first day of my vacation, I decided to type out this text. After so many years.

  Perhaps in this story, you’ll encounter words that are difficult to translate from my native Chechen language. Perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two about the customs and morals of my people… Honestly, I don’t yet know how much or what exactly I’ll include in the lines below. I’m not even sure if I can fully articulate all these thoughts in words.

  I hope I can.

  And I promise you that every line in this short story is the absolute truth. I haven’t even changed the names.

  One day, I heard that the most dangerous place where people often die is their bed. In the Caucasus, one could say that the most dangerous killer, the one that claims lives, is a sharp tongue. Gossip. So, everything will be written just as it happened.

  Friend

  "Many songs are sung about your friends,

  About friends dear to your heart, beloved ones.

  Know this: if a Chechen is your friend,

  You can split mountains together."

  —A once-popular Chechen song

  I can’t recall exactly when or where I met Tornike. It feels like we’ve known each other since birth. My earliest memories are inseparably linked to him, just like my first day in school. Then there was the gym where we practiced wrestling for over ten years. The Sadko swimming pool in downtown Grozny, where we started in the shallow end and eventually became confident and strong swimmers.

  Tornike was a Georgian born in Grozny, a city that was once multiethnic. His father was a military pilot, flying a combat aircraft. I was fortunate enough to visit an airbase in Khankala, near Grozny, with him, my father, and Tornike. I even got to climb into a fighter jet, sit in the cockpit, and fiddle with various levers.

  As it often happens, when kids become friends, their parents eventually follow suit. Starting around third or fourth grade, our families would joyfully visit each other. Sadly, Tornike’s father passed away. He died young, suddenly, leaving behind his wife and son alone in the world. Yes, there were some relatives in Georgia, but they didn’t stay in touch. Tornike only knew some of them from photographs in an album.

  With the collapse of the Soviet Union, his mother, Eteri—a kind and sweet woman—lost her job. No one paid her the widow’s pension she was entitled to, and she started doing what she loved and knew best: making wine from her own grapes.

  Nowadays, everyone proclaims that there’s no drinking in Chechnya. But people drank, drink, and always will. It’s rare—if not impossible—to see a lone alcoholic collecting bottles on the streets of Grozny. But drinking happens, just as it always did.

  Aunt Eteri’s wine sold well, enough to support her son. And since communal utility fees didn’t exist in those days—at least until the 2000s—she managed. Though no one maintained or repaired that communal infrastructure either.

  Then came 1994, and war broke out. Like thousands of other homes, my friend’s house became a target. One night, between 1994 and 1995, his mother was killed by an artillery shell. It pierced the roof, went through the floor, and exploded in the basement where she had sought refuge. By some miracle, Tornike emerged without a scratch, except for the deep wound left on his heart and soul.

  He spent several days trapped in that basement. When he finally got out, he was as thin as a matchstick, starving and filthy. Their house was in a private sector opposite our neighborhood. My family—my mother, father, younger sister, and I—had also failed to leave the city and were sheltering in the basement of our nine-story building.

  One day, there was a knock on the door. We opened it, and there he was. Tornike. Like a ghost. Tears streamed down his cheeks, leaving white streaks on his soot- and grime-covered face, washing away the blood of his own mother.

  When the fragile peace returned, they buried what they could gather of her remains.

  We never spoke of those days. Never.

  Before the war, when people left their homes and apartments, they would hand over their keys to neighbors with ease, asking them to look after their property. My father, for instance, had ten sets of keys from different apartments in our building. It was in one of these vacant one-bedroom apartments that the orphaned Tornike ended up living.

  Gradually, the traces of war began to fade from our faces. After feasting on canned food from Red Cross boxes in the darkness of a powerless city, we slowly started to recover. Reading became our salvation during those days. We read voraciously, while there was daylight. We would sit in the yard under the shade of trees and read, read, read. Later, work appeared—something called “radiators.” Entrepreneurs would collect old cast-iron radiators from destroyed houses, have us restore them, and then sell them in the markets of Stavropol and Dagestan. It was grueling work but well-paid.

  The owner of the apartment where Tornike lived, a young man named Hasan, eventually showed up. Seeing the cleanliness and order, he happily allowed Tornike to stay for a couple more years until the war ended.

  Electricity didn’t return for about a year. And when it finally did, the second war began. Let me clarify: for those who lived in Chechnya at the time, the "second war" refers to the events of August 6, 1996, which ended with the Khasavyurt Agreement. The war declared under Putin’s presidency, often called the "second," was actually the third war for us Chechens.

  In our long evening conversations, Tornike and I, two 18-year-old friends, decided to become programmers.

  "That’s where the future lies. Look for yourself, Ali," Tornike would tell me. "Just yesterday, we were playing Dendy, and now there’s Sony. Look at the graphics. And you think it ends here? It hasn’t even begun yet."

  Indeed, I became a programmer. Tornike, however, never got the chance to become one.

  To be honest, everyone envied our friendship. I can’t say we didn’t have other friends—we did. The whole neighborhood was full of kids. Sometimes, we’d gather in a big group to play guitar or do tricks on the bars.

  Of course, Tornike and I occasionally argued, but never in public. We always listened to each other’s advice, especially if it was supported by facts or arguments.

  Time passed, but nothing changed. I still consider Tornike my best and closest friend.

  But I must add—it’s hard to be a Christian in a mono-ethnic Muslim society.

  The city folk didn’t care much, but the “Gurons” (an analogy to the Native American Gurons) did. In Chechnya, Gurons referred—and still refer—to uneducated people who don’t understand humor, drama, or basic human language. They were very interested.

  The first question they’d ask me or any Chechen near Tornike was, "Are Georgians Muslim?"

  "Not all of them," Tornike would reply in perfect Chechen. And then he’d add, "I’m a Christian."

  "Ahhh...?" they’d all say in unison, thoughtfully. It gave me the impression that, over in Guronia, they had a tutor teaching them this very “Ahhh.”

  Kamila and Tamila

  Before I tell you about the two young twin sisters, Kamila and Tamila, I must say a bit about my family—more specifically, my father’s side of the family. My father has three brothers. He is the middle one among them. They also have a younger sister, my aunt Zezag, whose name translates from Chechen as "flower."

  Although she was my aunt, at the time of the events in my story, she had just turned 24—a beautiful, graceful, fair-haired young woman with blue eyes and sunny freckles. She was always radiant and remains so to this day, despite her age.

  After graduating from the Pedagogical Institute, she met her prince in the year she received her diploma and married him. She gave birth to a son and then a daughter.

  Her husband, Alvi, was the elder brother of Kamila and Tamila.

  Alvi, if I may call him my brother-in-law, was an excellent man, quick-witted and never one to owe anyone anything. They lived in a four-room apartment in a building next to ours. They lived happily. Kamila and Tamila were not allowed to go outside or visit friends. School, home—that was their routine. Their mother, an older woman in her sixties at the time of the war, worked as an elevator operator in our neighborhood, and everyone knew and respected her. She had been widowed immediately after the twins' birth and had dedicated herself entirely to their upbringing, keeping them on a tight leash—or, as we joked with Tornike, a strict collar.

  My aunt Zezag had everything necessary for a comfortable life in her husband’s home: a compliant mother-in-law, two incredibly beautiful and hardworking sisters-in-law, a son, and a loving and devoted husband.

  My father’s younger brother, Hasan, served in the Soviet Army somewhere in the Tver region, where he wrote home that he had found his love—an enchanting girl named Svetlana. He received a reply from his parents that he might as well stay there with his Svetlana. He didn’t stay, though. Instead, he moved to Pyatigorsk, closer to home, but with Svetlana. A couple of years later, she gave birth to his son, Arthur, and daughter, Alisa. He never visited home, except for his father’s funeral—my grandfather.

  Openly, only my young aunt Zezag supported him, even visiting him in Pyatigorsk a couple of times. My father also maintained good relations with him but pretended to disapprove of his brother’s marriage to avoid upsetting the elders.

  First Meeting with Kamila and Tamila

  Kamila and Tamila quietly grew up into two extraordinary beauties—slender and graceful like reeds, with perfectly even teeth, fine fingers, wavy black hair, deep black eyes, beautifully shaped red lips, and long, coal-black lashes that accentuated their noble features. Although I was always drawn to blondes, I couldn’t help but notice how stunning they were. Polite and modest, they were also very friendly.

  Our first meeting after they had blossomed occurred one evening when my aunt Zezag asked me to bring a friend and help her move some furniture. She was expecting her second child and needed to tidy up a room. Her husband, as I mentioned earlier, had graduated from the Grozny Oil Institute before the war and easily found work in the north. But the issue was that his shifts required him to be away for three months at a time. So, in the house where the twins lived, there were no men except for my little cousin.

  Naturally, I brought my friend Tornike along. It was then that a connection sparked between Tornike and Kamila’s hearts.

  "That’s what you call love," I later told him.

  "It’s a vile thing, Al, a very vile thing," he would respond, sighing deeply.

  I knew exactly how and where they were meeting. Naturally, I covered for him as best as I could.

  She would come out to meet him and go one floor down. Svetlana was still absent, so there was no risk of someone accidentally arriving on that floor in the elevator.

  Their meetings were brief, and every time afterward, he would be gloomy and sad. When I asked why he was so down, he only once answered me—or rather, asked a question in return:

  “She won’t marry me, will she? I’m not Chechen, and I’m not Muslim. She won’t marry me, right, Al?”

  To be honest, I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t think of anything better than, “Propose to her and find out.”

  The next day, he came back, as usual, looking upset. Without waiting for me to ask, he said he had proposed to her. She told him that for her to marry him, all he had to do was abduct her. But they would find them and kill them. And it would be better if she were killed first so she wouldn’t have to see his suffering. But that wouldn’t happen because they would inevitably kill him first and leave her alive to make an example for others.

  Yet, despite all this, she said “yes” to him.

  Despite the gravity of the situation, my aunt Zezag invited Tornike over and had a talk with him, making it clear that he was putting the girl he was seeing at great risk, and that this could end tragically—primarily for him, but also for Kamila. It wasn’t a threat; it was a warning.

  Zezag found out about their relationship from me. I knew I could trust her completely, which is why I told her everything. And even now, nothing has changed about my trust in her.

  But Tornike didn’t heed her words. A few days later, we were told that Kamila had fallen ill and was taken to the village to breathe fresh air. Shortly after, Tornike also disappeared.

  Then the news came that Kamila had vanished from her uncle’s rural home, where she was supposedly recovering. They both disappeared forever—but at different times. Everyone searched for them: her relatives looked for her, while no one but me looked for him.

  My father, seeing my distress, was the only one who occasionally reassured me, saying that Tornike must be fine. “He’s young and clever,” he would tell me.

  As proof, my father shared something that finally eased my mind: Tornike had given him the keys to the apartment he was living in. This meant his disappearance wasn’t random; it was something he had planned himself. And perhaps the circumstances had been such that he couldn’t even leave a note for me.

  My father’s reasoning was enough to calm me. Besides, I understood that he had gone after Kamila.

  I was nearly tortured myself to make me reveal where they were. My father even had to intervene and convene a council of elders to resolve the issue. At the council, I solemnly swore that I knew nothing about their whereabouts. But, God knows, I wouldn’t have told them even if I did. That seemed like the end of the story—but no.

  Years later, I received a message on VKontakte:

  "Hi! Are you Ali A....kov?"

  The person writing this couldn’t have known that because, like many others, I didn’t use a photo on my VKontakte profile or list my date of birth. But this message stood out. Why? Because I was and still am Ali A....kov, and I used VKontakte exclusively for music. However, my real name was listed there.

  “Yes,” I replied, adding, “I think I know who you are! Tornike.”

  As I write this, I still get goosebumps. What a joy it was! We ended up chatting until 4 a.m. He and Kamila were together, living in the U.S. It was decided—I would visit them. The next day, I started preparing my documents to apply for a visa, and three months later, I got it. They gifted me a ticket, but I insisted on paying for my return ticket myself. I was earning well.

  Two weeks of vacation awaited me, and on that very day, I had a flight from Moscow to Miami, where my friend would meet me. The anticipation of the reunion was overwhelming. What did they look like now? Where did they live? So many mysteries surrounded their disappearance. A beautiful love story. She was only 17, and he was 19. Kids, I thought.

  We exchanged messages every day, eagerly counting down the days. When I asked why he hadn’t told me about his departure back then, he replied curtly: “I didn’t want to drag you into it. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Tornike knew he never needed to repeat himself with me. However, on the very first day of our conversation, he wrote: “Not a word about us to anyone.” A few days later, he repeated it. That’s when I realized something had happened 13 years ago—something I didn’t know about, something Kamila’s relatives were keeping quiet about. Something everyone was silent about.

  But five days before my trip to the U.S., something happened that I couldn’t have foreseen.

  The phone rang in the morning. I picked up. A familiar voice said:

  “Ali, hi! It’s Tamiла. Do you remember me?”

  Of course, I remembered her, and honestly, I was glad that someone from the past was calling me in Moscow. She was very brief, saying only that we needed to talk and that she would take the first flight to Moscow.

  “Is everything okay, Tamila?” I asked, adding that I was about to go on vacation unless it was urgent...

  But she interrupted me.

  “It’s urgent, Ali. Very urgent. We need to talk. I have to tell you something. Don’t worry—everything is the same as before. No news—neither good nor bad.”

  “Alright,” I replied. “Come. I’ll meet you. Are you coming alone?”

  “Yes,” she answered and hung up.

  I thought then that Kamila had gotten in touch with her, and she wanted to pass on something knowing I was about to visit them. That must have been why it was so urgent. But a surprise awaited me.

  The next day, I met Tamila at the airport and, without hesitation, offered for her to stay at my place so she wouldn’t have to bother with hotels. She’d be comfortable at my place.

  I must say, she was just as stunning as she had been in her youth. It even made me feel uneasy as I caught the gazes of men watching her as we left the airport.

  At home, we had dinner, and Tamiila began a long monologue. I didn’t dare interrupt her, as everything she said froze my blood. I just watched her emotions, the movements of her pupils and hands.

  "So," she said, "my sister Kamilla started seeing Torneke, your friend. And I committed a crime and read her diary. Here it is." She pulled a pink notebook out of her bag, with some pages torn out but carefully placed back inside.

  "Yes, Ali, I read her diary."

  She slowly opened the notebook and began to read aloud, her voice trembling softly as she spoke the lines written by her sister.

  03.06. Today we met with T. He brought me two chewing gums. He said one was for me, and the other for me to share with Tommy. I gave her the gum, but I haven’t opened mine yet. It smells so nice. It reminds me of T.

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  13.06. Today he took my hand for the first time. Actually, I started telling him about a fortune-teller who once read our palms at the market. Can you imagine, diary, there used to be gypsies in Grozny before the war? I stretched out my palm and asked him if he could read it. He said he wasn’t a gypsy and couldn’t read palms, but he took my hand and gently held it in his warm hands.

  15.06. I think I’ve fallen in love with T. But every time I tell myself I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. He’s not the right one for me. He... he... You should only marry someone from your own people.

  22.06. I’m sure that I love him.

  25.06. No. I hate him. Why is this happening? Why couldn’t he be one of us? Oh my God, why?

  01.07. That’s it. I’m going to confess my feelings to him. This pain in my chest is killing me. I feel like if I tell him I love him, it will make me feel better. I hope it will make me feel better. Oh, Allah, I beg you. Make this pain go away.

  02.07. Maybe there really is a soul in a person. And this pain from love... it hurts the soul.

  06.07. He proposed to me. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life. I said yes, but they’ll kill us. They won’t let us be together. Those old women who look through you with their piercing eyes. Those old men who never knew love and didn’t teach it to their descendants. If he steals me away, I’ll stay with him. But where? There’s no life for us in Chechnya. They won’t forgive me if I marry a Christian. Yes, even if he accepts Islam, it won’t change anything.

  08.07. Today I told Tommy all my plans. She called me a fool. Snorted and left. Foolish. I wish she could feel this beautiful feeling. I want to sing, I want to soar, I want to turn into a bird and fly. My Tommy must fall in love.

  "In general," Tamiila continued, or Tommy, as her sister called her, "those days, in the village, we needed to help Auntie clean the chickens. She decided either to sell them, or I don’t know what she planned to do with them. Uncle came to our house, my mother’s brother, and suggested we go help his wife with the birds. I always liked going to the village. I liked it there, especially in the evenings when everyone sat around tea and talked about the past. I immediately agreed, but Kamilla didn’t. She claimed she didn’t feel well."

  Tamiila smiled softly when she referred to her sister as Kama.

  "So, we got in the car," she continued, then paused and looked at me. "Do you have anything to drink? Just a little?"

  I nodded, stood up from my chair, grabbed the leftover whiskey and a can of cola from the fridge, took four glasses, and poured whiskey and cola for both of us. She took a sip and went on.

  "Anyway..."

  It was clear that Tamiila didn’t know where to start or end her story, but her confession had already begun, and it intrigued me deeply.

  "So, we were driving, and Uncle asked me why Kamilla wasn’t feeling well. I told him, ‘She’s lying. She’s fine, even better than usual.’ He laughed and, jokingly, started asking me, ‘Come on, tell me, what’s going on with her?’"

  I told him about Torneke, about the diary... He said he didn’t believe me. I told him, ‘If you don’t believe me, read her diary.’ He asked me where it was.

  In our room, there was a dresser. Since childhood, we’d hidden all sorts of things under the last drawer, like chewing gum inserts and the like. I told him about it.

  He asked, ‘What’s it to you?’ That’s when I told him I was worried about myself. She’s seeing a Georgian, a Christian. What will people say about me if she decides to marry him?"

  And I added, "She already decided to marry him."

  Tamiila fell silent. There was so much sadness and regret in her tone, in her eyes, that I can’t describe it in words.

  After taking a sip of her drink, she continued: "And only then did I realize we were heading back home, through the broken streets of the city. ‘Well, let’s go talk to her,’ said Uncle. And so, slowly, we got out of the car and started walking up the stairs. Through his heavy breathing, I could hear him muttering curses. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ ‘You’re filthy.’ ‘I’m going to teach you how you should behave.’ This went on all the way up the six floors."

  We entered the apartment. Kama and my mother were there. My mother asked why we had returned, and he led her to the kitchen and spoke to her about something. Kama was happy that I hadn't left. She was happy, you understand, Ali? She was happy about my return.

  Tamila lifted her eyes to me, full of sorrow.

  I silently looked at her, twisting the glass of whiskey in my hands.

  I don't know what they were talking about with mother, but sometimes it was in raised voices. Mother had no idea that Kama was seeing this man.

  We stood in the corridor of the apartment when he came out of the kitchen, closed the door behind him, leaving mother inside. Then he suddenly approached Kama... And... And...

  She hesitated, grabbing a glass to drink. Her eyes were filled with tears that she was struggling to hold back. But she quietly continued.

  And he grabbed her by the hair and just dragged her into our room.

  Oh, Ali, my heart sank at that moment.

  Kama started screaming from unbearable pain. But he was relentless. She grabbed his arm, trying to ease her suffering a little, but he struck her hands with his free hand and kept dragging her behind him.

  I ran after them. I wanted to stop him, but he didn't hear me. When they reached our room, he forcefully pushed her into the corner. And stood over her like an executioner. The only words Kama said...

  Tamila took a deep breath, her chest trembling, and continued:

  She asked — why?

  Do you feel bad? — he shouted. — Or is it just that filthy Georgian in your head? She just shook her head weakly, trying to justify herself. He kept going...

  Are you going to deny it, you filthy whore?

  Kama's eyes filled with tears. She was sitting on the floor in front of him... I prayed to Allah for it to end quickly.

  The devil was already dancing on his heart, but it was clear that at that moment he had brought seven with him.

  He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her to her feet. She screamed in pain.

  I rushed towards him and grabbed his arm, begging him to stop. But he struck me hard in the shoulder. I fell. And started crying.

  Then he said with venom and a hoarse voice to Kama:

  The devil is in you, you whore. And I’ll beat it out of you. If I weren’t my father’s son.

  Now... Wait... He approached the dresser, ripped open the lower drawer, and pulled out Kama's diary.

  At that moment, my poor Kama understood everything...

  Breathing heavily, Tamila whispered.

  For the first time in her life, she was betrayed. And betrayed not by a man, not by a friend, but by me. Her own sister. The one who shared the same womb with her. The one who, for five minutes, let her see the light of day before her. She was betrayed by the one with whom, on stormy nights, they huddled together under the blanket, trembling with fear. She was betrayed by the one who would give her life without hesitation. She was betrayed by me.

  And looking at the diary in his hands, Kama just groaned.

  Uuuuuu... A prolonged wail escaped her chest, like the cry of a wounded wolf.

  Kama closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, as if trying to understand if this was a dream. Then she opened them and looked at me. Those were not the same eyes. Oh, Allah. Those were the eyes of a python. Eyes of a python who found its prey and locked it in its gaze. I couldn’t tear myself away from her gaze. I couldn’t turn my head or lower my eyes. She literally nailed me with her stare. In my mind, it felt like someone was whispering ominously: "Look at me..."

  He ripped several pages from the notebook, then grabbed her by the throat and pressed her against the wall. And began to shove the crumpled sheets into her mouth. She kept looking at me. She didn’t take her eyes off me.

  What he said to her, I couldn’t hear anymore. I just wanted her to stop looking at me like that. To stop looking at me.

  He lifted her by the throat with his left hand and, with his right...

  Tamila took another sip of whiskey.

  And with his right, he began to hit her in the side. In the hips, in the ribs, in the shoulder. He was hammering her like a dog. She didn’t make a sound. And just kept looking at me. He let her go, and she collapsed to her knees in front of him. How relieved I was when, sitting in front of her, he shielded her face from me.

  But it didn’t last long.

  He suddenly started hitting her in the left side of her face.

  And at some point, her eyes opened to me again. She kept looking at me, not turning away. Not for a second. Her mouth was dripping with blood, mixed with saliva. Her face turned blue. Even blackened, the whole left side. It was a nightmare. I don’t know how long this went on.

  Then he grabbed her by the hair again, lifted her up, and with both hands squeezed her breasts, lifting her up the wall, tightening his grip. From her lips came such a groan... Oh, Allah... I still remember that groan. But Kama kept looking at me. I couldn’t take it anymore and screamed at her:

  Don’t look at me... Don’t look at me.

  And at that moment, Kama lost consciousness. And...

  Tamila gulped down the rest of the whiskey in one go. And, after taking a deep breath again, she whispered softly:

  And she wet herself.

  That's when Zezag came in. Your aunt. She was about to give birth. She came from somewhere and heard me screaming. Camille was silent when he killed her. And I kept quiet, crying and watching. If I hadn't screamed.

  Why am I making excuses for myself? Bitch.

  He didn't dare to hit or push Zezag away.

  She was shocked by what she saw. My sister is lying bleeding in a pool of her own urine, unconscious.

  And my mother sitting quietly in the kitchen, waiting for the results of the parenting.

  He stepped away from her, wiping sweat with the sleeve of his shirt. I don't remember anything after that, just a few seconds of darkness.

  Zezag and I jumped up to Kama, or rather Zezag was already sitting beside her, Zezag realized she was unconscious. She ran and fetched water in a bucket from the bathroom. She began to wash her face, or what was left of it. She began to regain consciousness, her hands reaching for her badly aching breasts. She crossed them over her chest. But when she saw me...

  Tamila stopped talking. Exhaled and continued.

  - But when she saw me, she held her hand out with her palm toward me, letting me know not to touch her.

  An hour later she came to, all beaten up. Allah, she was all blue. Her chest and the whole left side of her body was just blue. The left side of her face was so stiff, it was all bruised. Her eye was closed. Zezag, wiped the whole thing off, changed her and put her on the bed. Mother came in after I had mopped the floor of the room. She came in, looked at her and hissed something as she left.

  I don't blame her.

  I finished my whiskey and poured the last of the bottle for Tamila and myself.

  - After a couple of hours, the so-called uncle and mom decided to take us both to the village.

  Me to pinch those stinking chickens, and her as punishment until she came to her senses to find her a husband.

  The road was hell. Mother sat in the front. Kama was tucked in the back seat with a blanket, and I was supposed to sit at her head so she could put her head on my legs. But I made a mistake. Not the first one, as you know, Ali. I let zezag put a pillow under her head and I sat down at the side of her legs. The mistake was that Kama could look at me through one healthy eye and the slit of the swollen one. She didn't take her gaze off me for a second. I don't know what she was thinking at that moment. Sometimes tears ran down her cheeks, sometimes I read in her gaze - look at me bitch. Look at me. This is all you. You're the one who betrayed me. And I would have given my life for you. And you betrayed me. You were afraid your sister would be called dirty because she might run off with a Georgian, the man she loves more than life. You were afraid you wouldn't be able to get married. You betrayed me.

  Tamila was staring at the table. But it was obvious she couldn't see anything around her except her sister's gaze on that trip.

  She continued.

  - Zezag stayed home. But she had to come to give birth in the village. There were good doctors there at the time.

  Oh, if my brother had been there at that moment. He wouldn't have let him-- Oh if only...

  She sighed heavily again.

  - We arrived in the village late.

  So we gave Kama a room, put her to bed and locked her in. She didn't eat for days, only drank a little water. She didn't talk to anyone. Despite the clear weather, the house was dark. After about five days, Kama drank some broth.

  Then her mother came to see her. She brought her clothes and a headscarf. And she says to her. Get dressed and go out into the hall. Uncles and women want to talk to you.

  One of the aunts helped her dress and in half an hour she was brought before the family council. The uncle who beat her looked at her and asked. Do you know why my anger has fallen on you?

  She only nodded faintly. Thin, blue-faced and with trembling hands, she stood as if in God's court.

  We will deal with that filthy khershni (Christian) of yours, I give you my word. At these words, everyone noticed that she flinched.

  And looked at the speaker, then for the first time she looked at everyone. Everyone but me. She didn't look at me for a second. Not even a glimpse. Oh Allah, I begged her in my thoughts. Look at me, sister. Look at me and you will see in my eyes all the pain of repentance, you will see that you have changed me, you will see that I am your Tommy, I love you. You'll see the words of forgiveness in my eyes and you'll be able to forgive me because you'll believe me. Believe that I'm truly sorry for what I've done, for my betrayal, for my fear washed in your blood

  But she never looked at me. I stared at Kama, but she never looked at me.

  As I finished those words, I could almost barely hear her. Tamila's voice was getting quieter and quieter.

  And a few seconds later, she started to cry. Her body trembled, and she grabbed some napkins from the table and began wiping away her tears.

  - That was the last time I saw her.

  She continued.

  Tamila wiped the tears running down her face again and continued:

  - Listen to me carefully,” suddenly came the voice of another uncle, her mother's oldest brother. - If your father were alive, he would have dealt with you himself. If your brother were around, he would deal with you in his own way. If your father had brothers, they would have found a way to talk some sense into you. But there's no one or two or three. And your uncle, your mother's brother, has every right to explain to you how a young Chechen girl should behave. You're not a mongrel mongrel, and you should understand that. So, question. Do you understand everything, Kamila?

  In the silence came a faint whisper from her sister. Uncle shouted:

  - Louder!

  - Yes,” she said distinctly. - I understand, uncle.

  - That's good,' he replied satisfactorily, and then asked: - Can you work already?

  Kamila shook her head and said.

  - No, I have a very bad pain in my left side. If I could, I would lie down for a few more days.

  Her uncle nodded, allowing her to stay in the room.

  For the next few days she drank broth little by little, refusing bread and other food. Soon Zezag arrived.

  With her uncle's permission, she stopped by Camila's room and they talked briefly about something. Zezag said that Camila had asked her to make meatball soup because she liked it so much when she made it.

  Indeed, that same evening Camila ate a whole bowl of soup and drank an analgin tablet from Zezag's hand for the first time in ages.

  Exactly six days later, Zezag went into labor. And the next morning we discovered that my sister Camille had disappeared.

  She'd broken the bars of her room window. You know, Ali, the bars used to be made of thick wire, like a sun. She managed to break off one bar and slid the other two up and down. She left in what she was wearing, taking nothing - not even a change of underwear. Yesterday, Ali, had been the day. It's been thirteen years since my sister went missing. I don't know how to pray: whether to ask Allah to admit her to paradise or to beg that she be well. I know they were looking for Tornike... but I don't know if they found him or not. I think they did. I think they were both killed.

  Tears filled Tamila's eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

  - Kama in her condition couldn't just break down the bars. She couldn't! She was too weak. She barely had the strength to lift two buckets of water to our floor. She always came in last in gym class at school... They just faked her escape to calm the women down.

  Tamila didn't just start crying - she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. Then, wiping away her tears, she looked at me with tear-red eyes and whispered pleadingly:

  - Please, you were friends with Tornike. You're my last hope. Tell me something. Maybe you know something, Ali... Did anyone see or hear anything in those days?

  If she's not alive, I'd like to know.

  But then, as if pushing the thought away, she looked at me with big, moist black eyes and whispered a question to me: Could she be alive, Ali?

  I looked intently into her face. If there is true remorse in the world, it looked like this. I thought: true remorse for my fear, for the collar of public opinion, for betrayal, for weakness and cowardice. There it was - on the face of this incredibly beautiful young woman. But in the same second, her face became like that of an old woman: the tiniest wrinkles seemed like ugly scars. She had already lived in this grief for thirteen years. Every day, every minute, every second of her existence, she drank this red-hot leaden soup that burned mercilessly through her soul.

  She stared at my face, trying to see if I knew anything about her sister's fate.

  I didn't take my eyes off her. After a few seconds, I spoke two words:

  - She's alive.

  And in the same second, like a swimmer who had long ago been deprived of a breath of air and had surfaced from the dark depths of the ocean, she inhaled greedily and deeply through her open lips with a loud noise. Her exhalation, full of pain, sounded like the last exhalation of a brave warrior, struck down by an enemy whose sword had pierced her heart.

  She jumped up sharply from her seat, but immediately sat down again.

  - Alive. - almost sobbing, whispered, no she didn't whisper, she literally hissed. She barely moved her lips. Then she crossed her arms across her chest as if embracing her sister's shadow and wrinkled into a miserable little ball of flesh. Then she slowly raised her head, staring up at the ceiling. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  - She's alive. My Kama. Alive! Oh Allah, she's alive. She's alive. - Tamila repeated endlessly...

  Her hands were shaking, her lips were trembling, but her eyes were filled with sincere joy.

  Soon she rose from the chair, went to the window, opened it and, pressing her face against the mosquito net, greedily inhaled the cool Moscow air.

  ----

  America began for me with the radiant smiles of Tornike and Kamila, who were standing near the arrival desk and waving their hands frantically when they saw me from afar. While passing passport control I looked at them every now and then with a smile, which surprised the border guard officer at Miami airport.

  It was a very heated greeting. We hugged each other for about a minute. And Camila the gorgeous girl, my best friend's wife was smiling looking at us with undisguised joy.

  Fifteen minutes later, a brand new Ford f-150 pickup truck was speeding us down the I-75 highway into the backcountry. I won't tell you about their lives. In a nutshell, it's fine, in case any of you are wondering if they're well off. Yes. They have everything, two children, a house, two cars, a job each, an aquarium and a cat.

  I decided not to say anything to Kamila about her sister's visit and her confession. Not until I talked to Tornike.

  And so, on the second day of my visit, we finally started the conversation that had been brewing.

  - Tell me everything Tor?

  I turned to him. He nodded his head and softly beckoned his wife to join us.

  Kamil, Al wants to hear our story. Will you tell yours? And then I'll tell ours!

  Camille smiled at me and sat down at the feet of her husband, who was sitting on a chair, and began her story.

  - Something very terrible happened to me at the time. I was almost killed by my uncle, my mother's brother.

  I decided I was going to kill myself. I wanted to slit my wrists. I looked for a way to get into the bathroom, the one with this so-called uncle's razors.

  But I couldn't. I was locked up the whole time.

  Honestly, I thought Tornike was dead. My aunt whispered angrily into the keyhole. “Your Georgian is finished. So rest easy.”

  Then Zezag arrived and gave me a note from Tornike. And she told me in words that he would wait for me every night at the agreed place from the 6th day after Zezag's arrival! Then Zezag opened the window and started yanking the bars of the grate. In one minute, she broke off one bar from the top. And put it back on. She explained to me that I should lie down on the windowsill, put one foot on the top bar and bend it, then stand on the windowsill and kick the bottom bar. And just bend the broken one in or out. And I'll have enough room to get out.

  But I just need to build up my strength. So I need to eat.

  I asked her to make me soup. She cooked for me every day. Passed me chocolates.

  I have to admit I was shocked.

  - Camille - I said - are you sure it was Zezag?

  We all laughed.

  Camille just told me yes. It was Zezag. And a smile lit up her happy and bright face.

  - Well, anyway, she continued.

  - I heard a commotion in the house. Zezag went into labor. They took her to the hospital, where the doctors were waiting. A few women followed. The house was almost empty. I opened the window, pushed the bars of the grate open with great difficulty and ran away. Through the barnyard, I ran for a while. Then I crawled under the fence and out the backyard. I came to the place I'd agreed upon, and there they were waiting for me. Tornike and...

  She hesitated. But she looked at me, smiled again and continued.

  - Tornike and your father.

  I couldn't contain my emotions.

  - My father, - I literally shouted. - How my father? Did he know everything?

  I asked myself that question and immediately answered it:

  - Yes, he knew everything.

  The guys smiled looking at me and Tornike continued:

  She explained to me that I should lie down on the windowsill, put one foot on the top bar and bend it, then stand on the windowsill and kick the bottom bar. And just bend the broken one in or out. And I'll have enough room to get out.

  But I just need to build up my strength. So I need to eat.

  I asked her to make me soup. She cooked for me every day. Passed me chocolates.

  I have to admit I was shocked.

  - Camille - I said - are you sure it was Zezag?

  We all laughed.

  Camille just told me yes. It was Zezag. And a smile lit up her happy and bright face.

  - Well, anyway, she continued.

  - I heard a commotion in the house. Zezag went into labor. They took her to the hospital, where the doctors were waiting. A few women followed. The house was almost empty. I opened the window, pushed the bars of the grate open with great difficulty and ran away. Through the barnyard, I ran for a while. Then I crawled under the fence and out the backyard. I came to the place I'd agreed upon, and there they were waiting for me. Tornike and...

  She hesitated. But she looked at me, smiled again and continued.

  - Tornike and your father.

  I couldn't contain my emotions.

  - My father, - I literally shouted. - How my father? Did he know everything?

  I asked myself that question and immediately answered it:

  - Yes, he knew everything.

  The guys smiled looking at me and Tornike continued:

  - Camilla. You should have seen her, Al. Zezag told me she was battered, but to be so... I was so angry. Honestly, your father saved me from sin. I would have killed that son of a bitch. Anyway, we got in the car, your Ford, and drove to Pyatigorsk. Your father took some paper from a general who lived in our house, on the fifth floor, in the fourth entrance. Do you remember?

  I vaguely remembered that some military man lived in our house.

  - So,” Tornike continued. - He went to this general and told him the whole story. He gave a document that we were a family and we were taking her to the hospital in Pyatigorsk to have her x-rayed. Of course, we were stopped at every checkpoint. But they only looked into the cabin, counted us and let us go. At about 4 a.m. we were in Pyatigorsk. Your father took us to your uncle's house. That's where we hid. We lived there for two months. Svetlana, your uncle's wife, looked after Camilla like her own daughter. Your uncle is a handsome man. A very funny man. We played backgammon and chess with him. He told me a lot about his life and I told him about mine. Camille and I lived in different houses. He had a new house in his yard and an old house in his yard. Anyway, I slept in the old one.

  And Camille and I had love in our hearts and souls.

  Saying this, he looked at the lovely Camille with such tenderness and care.

  But it couldn't go on like this for long,” Tornike continued. - Something had to be thought of. Camilla and I decided for a long time what to do. And it was decided to go to another country. We originally wanted to go to Canada.

  I don't know why, but then we changed our minds and came here to the US. Without a single document on her and an internal passport on me. And we made it.

  That's when Camille said:

  - Ali, it was hell. 64 days of real hell.

  The sadness of the memory shone clearly in her eyes.

  To be continued!