Once the door was locked we got up and hobbled over to the other blanket, spread on the floor against the wall, to make our bed. It was so cold we’d decided to sleep side by side on two blankets and then stack the rest on top of us.
“I’m freezing,” said Theo. “I have to take off my underwear or I’m gonna get sick.”
I turned around so he could take them off. His underwear was repugnant; all discolored and stained. After he put his pants back on, he crawled under the covers next to me.
“All right, I guess we can use body heat to raise your temperature,” I said, turning on my side so that my back was to him. “Here, put your arm around me.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Yeah, well this is supposed to be done naked, but that shit ain’t happenin’, so—”
Theo laughed and I laughed along with him. It was weird, how close we suddenly were, hating each other yet knowing that we were all we had—and that there was a very good chance we would die together like this one day.
We called our new cell the Room of Broken Glass, and I know it’s hard to believe, but we were both actually pleased with our new surroundings. The room was huge and full of light. The broken windows were too high to reach, but through them we could see a grassy hill and even a tree. Once we warmed up under the blankets we were much more comfortable than we’d ever been at the hospital.
Aside from the glass and the blankets, the only other thing in the room was a sheet of paper on the floor. I hobbled over to it and then handed it to Theo to read since it was all in Arabic.
“It says the Hraytan Police Station as the first number,” said Theo, examining it.
That was how we found out where we were.
After Theo warmed up we split the blankets in half. A couple of guards entered with a piece of bread for each of us, and a little later someone brought a small container filled with halawa. We ate in small pinches with the bread to conserve what we had in case they didn’t plan on feeding us again later. Soon day turned into night and we were in the darkness again. The clatter of the guards outside our door rarely ceased. It was apparent that we were considered a serious flight risk—and that our captors were doing everything in their power to keep us grounded.
It was late when we got our first nightly visit. The door opened and flashlights illuminated the cell as footsteps approached us. We were instructed to stare at the wall so that’s exactly what we did, while lying flat with our chins to the floor. I didn’t recognize the voice of the man giving orders but as he and Theo went back and forth in Arabic it was clear they knew each other. Within seconds he was standing over Theo, pulling the blankets down from his back.
Oh no, I thought. Here it comes.
Lash! Lash! Lash! Lash! Lash!
He brought a cord down on Theo’s back about five times, every one of them producing a scream that echoed throughout the room. Then he moved on to me. I stared at the wall as I felt the covers pulled down, bracing myself for what was coming.
Lash! Lash! Lash! Lash! Lash!
My screams were no louder than Theo’s and no more effective in securing any mercy. I took my five lashes to the back and then, his job completed, our host left the room.
“Who was that guy?” I asked.
“That was Igor.”
Theo had told me about Igor. Igor had been in charge of taking care of him at the hospital for the first few months, the way Yassine was with me. In Theo’s stories Igor had always been nice, bringing him soda, tea, and even takeout, but here it seemed he only gave out ass whippings. In the morning, when I removed my clothes to perform my daily critter check, I’d find dried blood speckled across the back of my tee shirt. Igor’s lashes had broken the skin and I hadn’t even noticed.
The next day the door opened and Mohammad entered by himself. His sweatshirt bulged over the suicide belt he was rarely without these days.
“How you doin’, General?” I asked, extending my hand.
“Hamdullah,” he answered, accepting it.
A pause followed while he stared at me as if I were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“Jumu’ah, who sent you to Syria?” he asked finally.
I just dropped my head and shook it.
“Mohammad, I was invited here,” I said. “You know that.”
“No, Jumu’ah. Maybe you be in Syria a long time, or maybe I just kill you.”
Then he turned and left the room, without another word.
Igor returned to whip us the next few nights to show us how things were done in his house, but Mohammad kept his distance. During the day, jihadis would kneel down outside our windows to peer in, asking us who we were and what we were doing there. One of them, a guy in his midtwenties, seemed genuinely interested in us. After we’d met he appeared at our door late that night with one of the guards and gave us a small bowl filled with pasta. We’d rarely gotten a hot meal at the hospital, so this was a treat. The name I chose for our benefactor was Bubbles: it seemed to fit his chubby, big-eared appearance and friendly nature. However, Bubbles turned out not to be as bubbly on the inside as he was on the outside.
Bubbles was mostly interested in getting me to confess to being CIA. The next time I saw him he showed
