A Prisoner In Afghanistan. Adult. A German imprisoned in an American compound. (standard:action, 4233 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 06 2020	Views/Reads: 1178/855	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The story of a writer taken captive in an American and Afghan compound.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

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 asshole," 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 
asshole?"  She laughs her ass 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.  Shit, 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 fucking 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 ass 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, shit, 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 ass-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 ass. 

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 cocks 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 warm-up. 

"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 fucking, Fucking ...
FUCKING, 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.


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