Gwennie's Girl Page 32

  Later, an older woman sat opposite her, they began to talk, and as the young woman was quietly crying and still trembling, the older woman sat for a long time with the young one’s hand clasped in both of hers.

  Two others, Valya and Tanja, introduced themselves, and Gregor dealt with Lizzie’s silence somehow. They were travelling together on the train from Mineralnye Vody. They had met in Mozdok some weeks earlier when they were both registering as refugees. Tanja was tense, making an effort to maintain control of her emotions while Valya seemed more at ease, yet it was she who gradually broke into tears. When Valya finally did cry, Tanja slipped her hand under her friend’s arm and held her, but looked away and kept her own face emotionless. Valya lived in Grozny with her son, daughter and her husband who had been a member of the Evangelical Church and did not believe in taking up arms but he was killed in a bombing attack. She had had her own house with three rooms and a kitchen.

  She explained that when her husband was killed, a friend had said, ‘Why are you still here? You must go. It is dangerous.’ So she left, with her two children. They moved with Russian soldiers in an empty truck then Chechen forces took them to Mozdok. They were probably forces opposed to the Chechen leader, but she neither knew nor cared. She left her home on Monday. She heard that on Tuesday it was bombed and destroyed. There were places to register then they must either go to friends or they were assisted to travel to other places in Russia. These were places the women described as “impossible to live” mostly former collective villages which had “died” where there was no work and the houses were uninhabitable.

  So Valya was still moving. She had moved from one friend to another. She was on the train going to find yet another friend to ask if she and her children could stay for a few days. ‘I have to be strong for my children. I have to think about them. I don’t want to leave them psychologically hurt. I must try to find strength. I must find friends. I must take care of us.’

  Tanja had a son but no husband. She had lived on the outskirts of Grozny. Her son left with relatives but she stayed until there was lots of bombing and she finally left with Russian troops. She had nowhere else to go, so, recently, when she had heard that her house was still standing she had decided to find out if there was any way to go back.

  About the war? ‘Both sides are not right! Many people have died. That is not the end of it. Many people have not been buried, and there will be illness. Many bodies are just there with no burying. People try to cover the bodies—burying them in the gardens but it is difficult. There will be much illness with bodies scarcely under the ground.’

  Tanja was worried about friends and neighbours who might still be in Chechnya. She had many Chechen friends. Chechen or not, that did not matter as she received help from both groups.

  Along the way, Lizzie saw railway carriages affording temporary accommodation for refugees and, yet again, was amazed at the strength of people evident in small signs of people trying to make them “home”. A red skirt was being used as a curtain in one dilapidated carriage, and blue and yellow ribbons hung in another window. A goods train went by with trucks carrying temporary housing, painted the blue that Lizzie had often seen on shutters and doors of Russian houses.

  It was late in the afternoon when they arrived in town close to the border with Chechnya. It was the site of military headquarters for the Russian forces and the first stopping point for refugees coming out of Chechnya. The refugees received 20,000 rubbles (the cost of a kilo of butter) and a voucher for one meal. Many people continued their journeys to find relatives or friends in other places but some were taken in by local families who received no assistance, and resources were quickly strained. Here, Lizzie’s contact was another priest and his family, but it took a while before she and Gregor could find the church and another hour to follow the directions to the house. The streets were grey and poor with few signs of individuality about the houses which shuffled together in the dust and grime. It seemed a strong contrast, the drabness of the town and the exotic, brilliant colours and gold in the churches. Perhaps people’s souls always searched for something bright and beautiful.

  Father Alexander, his wife Tatiana, their two sons and three daughters lived in a tiny house that was warm and cosy with cooking smells when Lizzie and Gregor arrived. They were welcomed and made to sit at the crowded table on two more chairs found somewhere outside and shared more soup and a delicious carrot salad. It seemed Lizzie was to have the spare bed and Gregor got the couch. A true feminist might have objected, but Lizzie just looked sympathetically at Gregor and headed for bed.

  For the next two days, they visited and spoke to the people in the little town, where many refugees were transiting and some were stuck with nowhere to go except the spare railway carriages. Gregor helped as she listened to them tell their stories. Elisaveta was 82 years old. She had been taken in by a local family. She said, ’I was married to a Greek but I am Russian. I lived and worked in Grozny for 60 years until 1964 when I retired. My husband died in 1976, and I became alone. But I was so used to living in Grozny, I had my flat and my garden, that I did not move anywhere. I had very good relations with my Chechen neighbours. I did not receive any salary for pensioners, so I sat with the Chechen children of my neighbours and I sewed for them. The children loved me, and I loved them. When it all started, I had no place to go so I stayed but most of the Chechens went to the countryside, and I was alone in my building. But there is no building now. One bomb came through one window and out another window when I was in my bed…I did not move. I was so afraid. Then five military came into my room. They said, “It is fire, grandmother. It is necessary to run—you have to be quick!” They took the sheet from the bed and put me in the sheet. There was something from the bomb in my arm so they put me in an armoured car. I was so afraid because that car was full of terrible weapons but they took me to hospital. Now I do not know where to go.’

  Many people were afraid. There were stories of soldiers being drunk, running wild and shooting in the streets, and Lizzie heard gunfire in the early hours. When Lizzie and Gregor visited the railway carriage accommodation, they saw up to five or six people sharing each small compartment. Some were alone. Others clung to children or parents. A very old man and a twelve-year-old girl each were staying alone, with no idea of where else to go. The girl said she was scared. The old man seemed bewildered. A family of grandmother, mother and girl-child was waiting “until we can go home” because they had heard that their house had been bombed but not completely destroyed, so meanwhile, they lived without gas, electricity or food.

  One family group consisted of grandmother, mother, eight-year-old son and twin boys aged four years, and they all had to share one compartment. They had lived on the run for nearly a month and spoke to Lizzie about the impact of the war on the children: ‘They are not children anymore. They are like little animals. At night, they are frightened and shake under their blankets, and they don’t want to hear Russian stories for children—all they ask is for stories about the war. Yesterday was the first time they sang a children’s song and I saw them smile.’

  One old lady was alone, packing her belongings into plastic bags, and she seemed very confused about what was happening around her. She kept repeating, ‘I am Armenian. I am Armenian. I am Armenian.’

  Later, Lizzie saw her sitting by herself at a bus shelter clutching her bags, quietly crying.

  After two days, Lizzie asked for help to get a car into Chechnya itself and realised that now that he was actually so close to the conflict area, Gregor was definitely nervous. After all, he was a Russian going into a battle zone where even his compatriots in the army did not want to be. The Moscow Times had been reporting that up to fifty percent of the ill-equipped and often unpaid soldiers were deserting, and the roads were full of mothers searching for their sons who had been reported “missing”. Lizzie would see the women trudging along the streets, asking passing soldiers if they knew their sons. Many of the women had nothing with them except th
eir handbags over their arms, but in the bleak, cold days, they kept searching.

  However, Lizzie could not stay outside the border if she were to see what was happening in Chechnya itself, so she needed a car and a driver. When he realised she was going to persist, Gregor turned again to Father Alex and there was more attempting to dissuade her, but again, Lizzie insisted.

  Then, late on the night before she wanted to leave, Father Alex brought a man to see her. ‘He has a van,’ said Gregor. ‘He will take us, but it will be expensive.’ There was some haggling but the man agreed to pick them up the next day at the crack of dawn. Lizzie was not really sure he would turn up but at five o’clock he was there. He was a Chechen who had fled Grozny so he knew the way although he was not happy to be going back into the conflict zone. Lizzie realised that he must be desperate for the US dollars she would pay him.

  ‘Tell him half now and the other half from Father Alex when we get back,’ she said to Gregor. It would be too dangerous to travel with all their dollars. The man scowled. Lizzie smiled, trying to be understanding until it was agreed they would go as close to Grozny as possible,

  It was a long difficult drive as roads were almost impassable for civilian vehicles, and there were frequent military roadblocks where papers and documents were checked. Along the way, they picked up several groups from the constant flow of women travelling in the area. Again, most clutched handbags with nothing else as they just stood by the side of the road getting lifts wherever possible. They picked up two women along the road before they came to the border of Chechnya who said their sons were Russian soldiers who had known each other for years. They had both received telegrams telling them that their sons had deserted, but when they investigated, they heard the boys had been sent to Chechnya, and they were afraid the boys were dead or injured. Each time Lizzie’s van passed soldiers, the two women asked for it to stop so they could get out to ask if anyone had heard of their boys. Lizzie left them standing together just before the Chechen border.

  As it approached the border, the van was stopped for a moment. In front of the van, a tank was pulled off the road, and as they paused, Lizzie saw a soldier (not a young man) who had walked away from the tank. He was cleaning a knife or bayonet, and there were tears streaming down his face.

  Once they were inside Chechnya, they arrived at the headquarters of the Chechen opposition where a hundred or more people were waiting inside and outside a building. Lizzie and Gregor pushed their way into a crowded office and cornered an official who said, ‘This war has touched everyone. Local people understand what it is to be a refugee so they offer their help freely.’

  He continued, ‘There are many women trying to go back to Grozny to find their homes. They keep trying but it is not organised. It is not possible now.’

  Two women broke in angrily, ‘Our troubles are because of Russian soldiers. They set fire to our houses. They come to the cellars and make us take off our earrings, our rings, anything gold or silver. They take it all. We receive only trouble from the soldiers of everyone. We need financial help. There is not enough medicine. We, two, we are Russian and Chechen woman. We don’t see any point of it at all.’ One repeated, ‘I don’t see it!’

  As things calmed down, Lizzie and Gregor climbed back into the van and continued towards Grozny approximately another hundred kilometres. Roads were churned-up mud and only the skill of the driver kept the van upright and moving, past convoys of Russian vehicles, including armoured cars and tanks, all heavily loaded with equipment.

  Gregor and the driver were anxious when Lizzie quickly hung out of the window to get some photos—anxious that the soldiers would see her and stop to ask questions. They picked up four Chechen women who were trying to get back to Grozny to see what was left of their homes. They all complained bitterly about the lack of humanitarian aid and said that what aid was coming into the region was not reaching “the people who need it”. They spoke of people who were supposed to be distributing: ‘They keep it for themselves. Sometimes they sell it. Sometimes it goes only to their friends.’

  Some hours later, when they approached the edge of Grozny, the sound of shelling increased and became constant. Lizzie saw a crowd around the steps of a building in the centre of town, so she left the van, grabbed Gregor to go with her and moved to talk to them. As she picked her way through the deep mud, a car with six men, all heavily armed, stopped. She could see she was being scrutinised and tried to look as inoffensive as possible but one man got out and spotted her camera, then spoke to the others, and it was clear that they were not happy. Rapidly, Lizzie and Gregor were ordered to continue on the road and report to “headquarters” with a young man told to go with them in the van to direct them and the car following behind as extra insurance that they did as they were told. They arrived at a heavily guarded compound with a high fence, their papers were taken, and they were told to wait. Several soldiers came at intervals, questioning their identity and purpose.

  The shelling was very loud and sounded quite close, but Gregor said it was two kilometres away in Grozny. As they waited and the shelling continued and armed soldiers went in and out, Lizzie saw an old lady across the road sweeping her garden path, gathering all the debris and tidying outside what was left of her house. In the middle of all the chaos, that woman would ensure the patch of her world under her control was neat and tidy. A small child sat still and quiet, watching Lizzie, who noticed that the little girl was wearing a pair of large military boots. She had a scarf about her head and her hands were pushed deep into the pockets of her jacket. Her face was devoid of expression as she just sat alone and watched in the noise of the shelling.

  Eventually, Lizzie and Gregor were ordered into the compound, and the driver was told to stay by the van although he was not allowed to sit in it. They left him, recognising his relief but knowing he would be very cold. There were many soldiers inside the fenced area, not all in full uniform, but well clothed with many wearing vests adorned with the ubiquitous grenades. Weapons seemed modern and in good condition. Lizzie was told that this was the headquarters of one of the commanders, a leader of the Chechen military forces. She and Gregor were taken into a room, with no windows and with two heavy chairs and a couch covered in carpets.

  While they had been waiting outside, one of their questioners had been a stocky, powerfully built man with pale, pale blue eyes. This was noticeable in a country where brown eyes looked at them everywhere. He was in uniform with a Kalashnikov—at least Lizzie assumed that’s what it was as she never could identify guns with any certainty. He had looked very closely at Lizzie and then smiled as he spoke to Gregor who then interpreted.

  ‘He says he knows you.’

  ‘What? How? Where from?’

  There was another exchange. ‘He says he met you in a bar in Grozny,’ Gregor grinned.

  ‘Then I suspect he is mistaken, Gregor. I have never been in this part of the world before in my life.’

  ‘You do not meet soldiers in bars, Lizzie?’

  ‘Gregor, wipe that smirk off your face and tell this very nice gentleman that, no, I have not met him in any bar.’

  It had helped to relieve the tension as Gregor, Blue Eyes and the driver of the van obviously continued speculating at Lizzie’s expense.

  Now, it was Blue Eyes standing with his hands on his gun as they waited in the windowless room. An interior door opened, and two men carried in a television set, placed it on a side table and left. Lizzie, Gregor and Blue Eyes waited again until the same door opened, and in came the man Lizzie, who had watched too many bad movies, immediately titled Mr Warlord. He was well over six feet tall, in impeccable fatigues with brass gleaming all over it. His head was shaved, he wore a gold necklace, several gold rings and, of course, the requisite grenades. To complete the picture, he was wearing shades—heavy dark sunglasses—in this poorly lit room.

  Blue Eyes introduced “the General”. Before Lizzie could catch her breath, the General was followed into the room by “Madame Lash�
�, the stereotype of every sadomasochistic fantasy Lizzie had n/ever seen. She was dressed entirely in black leather: black leather jacket, black leather miniskirt, black leather boots that came over her knees. Her dark hair was pulled back so tightly that it dragged her mouth into a very straight line. Her eyes were outlined in heavy, dramatic black makeup, and she had a video camera over her shoulder. Lizzie looked at all three: Mr Warlord, Blue Eyes and Madame Lash and could have giggled because this was Monty Python Goes To War, but she contained her hysteria when she realised that poor Gregor was absolutely terrified. It was up to her to break the ice, she supposed.

  Mr Warlord looked in her direction. Reverend Mother, in all those lessons on etiquette, you never did teach me how to greet a warlord. Do I curtsy or salute?

  She stuck her hand out and said, ‘Hello, I’m Lizzie.’ Not the most brilliant opening but what the hell, it was all she could think to say. Mr Warlord looked down from his great height and slowly, ever so slowly lifted his hand to shake hers. Then, also slowly,  he was very conscious of his dignity, this warlord  he sat on the carpet covered couch and motioned to Lizzie and Gregor to take the two wooden chairs. Blue Eyes sat on another wooden chair with his gun, ever so casually, pointing at Lizzie. Madame Lash started the video camera and it too, was pointing at Lizzie, whose ever-fertile imagination jumped to a conclusion.

  ‘Hostages,’ she shrieked silently to herself. Bloody hell, we’re being taken hostage. They will send back our ears or fingers. Shit. Shit. Shit.