One of them opens up. ‘Everyone thinks that contract soldiers like nothing better than to go to war and kill innocent people. Take me, for example. I came here purely for practical reasons. I have two children who live with my wife. We got divorced and I pay her alimony. There weren’t any regular jobs going. Here they were offering good money and so I took the job. The money I get here is way more than I could ever earn back home. The vast majority of contract soldiers have a home, a family, kids. What makes us come here isn’t bloodlust but necessity. If someone shoots at me, of course I’ll shoot back, but I’ve never opened fire first, and I don’t ever intend to. You get all sorts among us – there are scumbags too. But, trust me, the lads hate them and try to get rid of them. I’m not just making a song and dance for you because you’re a journalist, to paint a positive image of Russian contract soldiers. I know you’re not at work right now and you can’t write about this. And when you can, you won’t bother. I’m just trying to explain that not all contract soldiers, not even most of them, are monsters and murderers. Although you come across all sorts… The Internal Troops are bastards. It’s them who go around committing all sorts of horrors against people, giving all the soldiers a bad name…’
‘Do they feed you well?’ I interrupt his monologue.
‘Huh, if only! There’s tinned meat, condensed milk, cans of one kind or other and crushed oats. Every single day. That’s why we’ve come here, for some fresh meat. We need some vitamins. The body wants at least a bit of variety. Our living conditions are worse than for cattle. They probably do it on purpose, to make us get angry and take it out on the civilians. But we haven’t gone completely barmy from this war. We talk with the locals, we can see that the only thing these people are guilty of is living on this land. And they’re not guilty before mankind. They’re only guilty before the monsters on both sides.’ As he speaks, his friend is nodding in agreement. They say goodbye and leave. And we leave too. I can’t be sure whether he was putting on a special act with this monologue or whether he was speaking from the heart, but my feeling is that these men were talking sincerely. I realize that they are the enemy – only yesterday we might have met on the battlefield – but after all, the enemy are human too; they have feelings and thoughts. And they had no reason to hide anything from me or to lie. Well, I’m the enemy to them. They’re not stupid; it’s as obvious to them who I am as it was to the women in the market. They weren’t bothered about what I thought of them. And why should they care what an enemy thinks? We’re not obliged to be polite or high-minded with our adversaries. We have to be ruthless with them. Well, then, there’s no need to make an effort to look good in front of them. That is how I see it. And so I decided they were being sincere with me.
19
One hot day in August 2000, I returned to the city that I’d left burning in the snow more than six months earlier. Finding yourself back at the site of past battles that you’ve fought in or witnessed brings up strong emotions. That’s what happened to me. At first they wouldn’t allow me into Grozny, telling me it was closed to non-residents. But then fortune came to my rescue. While I was standing at the checkpoint, trying to persuade the OMON officer (who clearly expected some cash for his services, cash I didn’t have) to let me pass, a bus arrived. Ignoring the officer’s signal to drive on, the bus braked sharply and out poured several women. Without a word, they grabbed me by the arm and bundled me into the bus. Quite stunned, I didn’t have time even to murmur before I found myself on board. The officer, who was just as surprised, merely managed to shout, ‘Hey! He’s not allowed in the city!’ To which the lady ticket collector replied, ‘You’ll get a case of beer from me!’ And the bus drove on. I discovered what was behind this incomprehensible action a little later. It turned out that two sisters of a comrade of mine who’d fallen in battle were sitting on the bus; recognizing me, they decided I was about to be arrested and promptly shared this news with the passengers. And then these women, these brave and courageous Chechen women, decided to rescue a complete stranger from torture and death, fully aware of the risk to themselves. Of course, I told them that they’d arrived in the nick of time and had they come even half a minute later, I’d have been locked up at the checkpoint and soon sent onward. It didn’t matter that this was not the case. Here were somebody’s mother, somebody’s wife, somebody’s sister, acting on just such an assumption. So for me, this act might as well have been saving my life. I offered to buy the ticket conductor the case of beer which she’d promised the officer, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Then the bus drove down the street where six months earlier we’d had our base and headquarters, and this stirred up a storm of memories. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t hide my emotion. The streets where there had been huge yawning pits from the bunker-busters were now filled in and resurfaced. Many of the roads, squares and avenues were blocked to traffic. Most of the bridges over the river Sunzha had been destroyed. Almost all the high-rise buildings had been blown up when the Russian troops took the city. These buildings were destroyed intentionally, supposedly because snipers were shooting at the soldiers from them. And this was while the city was suffering a catastrophic shortage of housing and thousands of refugees were sheltering in tents in the neighbouring Russian regions. But this reproach should be addressed to the Chechen administration, not the occupying forces. The remaining buildings and private houses were bereaved and desolate – it was a heart-wrenching sight. The dark holes of blown-out windows were staring at the world like blind eyes. The blind eyes of the world. Men blinded by hatred were blinding the land. The amount of dirt in the city was unbearable: a layer of dust had coated everything, from food at the market to people and cars.
Among the colourful and noisy crowd you could clearly pick out the officials working for the new pro-Russian administration. As a rule the senior government officials only ever appeared in a suit with a white shirt and tie; they had government-issue cars and they’d wear their suits even in the heat. For some reason they always wore the top two buttons of their jackets done up and the bottom one left undone. Clearly it was a nod to fashion. But it looked ridiculous among the ruins. The more minor officials and clerks wore pale shirts and ties. And they all carried the obligatory portfolios or briefcases. On subsequent trips to the capital I often made use of this costume – a suit and tie, with a folder under my arm which I’d stuff with some newspapers and blank sheets – and not once was I asked for my documents, not even during a ‘cleansing op’. Female officials and all the secretaries were dressed as if for a fashion show. Chechen women on the whole like to dress prettily, regardless of the situation, but this was straight off the catwalk. To my delight, the majority (though not all) of my friends from the artistic community did not look like the crowd of officials: they’d managed to retain their individuality in dress and behaviour. But the most important hallmark by which you could pick out these new officers was the expression on their faces. They primarily showed two emotions: fear and greed. If among the Russian soldiers, fear was generally expressed through their behaviour – verbal mockery of those who were unable to respond in kind, wanton cruelty during the arrests, moving about the city only in highly armed groups – then in this case fear was quite visibly written on their faces. Fear of their Russian masters and fear of their implacable enemy, the resistance fighters. This was despite the fact that the guerrillas only went after officials (leaving aside servicemen) who collaborated with the enemy secret services and informed on the fighters’ comrades and supporters. But for some reason all of the officials were frightened. Against the backdrop of widespread financial hardship, their relative affluence also stood out. Yet this did not satisfy them; they expected still more for their loyal service. All the officials, the local ones and those posted from Russia, were busy embezzling Russian government funds. Many of them went on to build themselves rather grand houses that clearly had not been paid for out of their salaries, while others bought property in various regions of Russia in case they had to drop everything and flee.