Captivity (14 page)

When Young Moustache Man leaves, Norman tells us they’ve brought him a 120-day supply of pills. “That’s a bad sign,” I groan.

The TV is on. There’s enough background noise to cover our voices. I decide to ask Tom a question, something that’s preoccupied me from the first moment of our kidnapping. “Are you worried at all about what might happen if they find out you used to be in the Marines?”

“Huh?” Tom says. He’s hard of hearing—the occupational hazard of professional musicians. I lean closer to repeat the question. He says he hasn’t thought about it. It’s out of his control. Whatever happens, happens. He’s just trying to stay in the present moment.

I roll my eyes under my hat. How can Tom not be afraid? Is this his way of coping? Is he trying to protect us? I don’t want to be protected, and I don’t want to be stuck with somebody who’s trying to be a stoic hero. If we’re going to survive, I think, we’re going to have to be as real as we can with ourselves, and with each other.

“The reason I’m asking is because … I’m worried they might find out I’m gay.”

He seems surprised. “How would they find out?”

“If they googled me. They said they were going to do background checks on us. If they do, they’ll easily find stuff I’ve written about being gay. Or it could come out in the media. If Dan identifies himself as my partner … But I’m sure he’d figure that out, or Doug, or
somebody
. But even then, somebody could say something without thinking, and then it’d be all over the media.”

Under Saddam Hussein, homosexuality was discreetly tolerated. When the regime fell, Islamic militants began to kidnap and murder gay men. In October 2005, Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani issued a fatwa against homosexuality. “Those involved should be killed in the worst, most severe way possible.” Gay men lived in terror as death squads with links to the Ministry of Interior and police ran a campaign of social cleansing.

“I don’t think these guys are going to go to all that trouble. You’re Canadian. That’s all that matters. Your country isn’t one of the bad guys.
And besides, I don’t think anybody around here has enough English to figure it out. I don’t think you have to worry.”

“I hope you’re right,” I say.

The begging and pleading again. A man in sheer terror. Coming from upstairs. Other voices, hard and ruthless, lash, cut, perforate the helpless screaming. The screaming suddenly stops. The other voices continue. They speak to each other, suggest, consult. Men vying against a problem. For a moment of silence. Then movement coming down the stairs. The sounds of struggling, bodies labouring and out of breath. A single voice strains hysterically, impotently, pathetically against a gag.

Each muffled scream jolts me with a thousand volts of shame. Just a few feet away from me a man is fighting for his life. I must do something! Get up from my chair, pull off my hat, walk into the hall, say something.
NO! Haram! Take me instead!
I could grab their arms and try to pull them away, block the kitchen door, create a distraction by trying to escape. I could simply stand at the door with my hat over my eyes. All four of us could. This man’s life is just as important. But no. I sit like a statue. Silent, inert, paralyzed by fear. I want to live too much.

This, I see in a flash, is the plight of the Canada Men. “Canada” was the section of Birkenau where the possessions of the gassed and the imprisoned were warehoused. Canada Men met the trains as they arrived, packed to suffocating with Jews from all over Europe. They welcomed the wretched cargo, took their luggage, reassured them they were going to have a shower while helping them onto the trucks that would take them to the gas chambers. The Canada Men knew exactly what they were doing. Bread, marmalade, sausage—survival in exchange for co-operation. The food brought by this daily influx of doomed human beings was keeping them alive.

At the crematoria, another group of inmates called the
Sonderkommando
were busy in a more gruesome transaction. Their job: clear out the gas chambers and move all the corpses to the ovens for burning. The return: food, clothing, cigarettes, a straw bed, medicine, survival for a
few weeks until the Gestapo replaced them. The horror of this is beyond imagining or describing.

Never, I used to tell myself; I would rather die than make such a depraved bargain. In fact I am not different. I am striking the same deal they did. I sit and do nothing while a man is being taken to his death. Silence in exchange for survival.

Later I will read the words of Auschwitz survivor Primo Levi:

Our personality is fragile indeed. None of us can know what we will do in the bestial hour when we are forced to make the life-and-death choice between complicity and doing the right thing. But let us take care to remember that we are being faced by a danger that is greater than the loss of our life. It is the danger of losing our Self, what happens when we trade away our humanity, who we are and what we believe, for the sake of physical survival. For then we lose everything. It is the ultimate degradation of being the victim. The body lives, but the soul perishes, and we become like the
Sonderkommando
, living corpses who toil without hope among the dead.

Deep in the night. Finally, five deep-sleep breathing patterns. Everyone is asleep. My heart pounds like a parade drum. My legs are free. I can get up, right now, go through the kitchen, slip through the door, climb over the wall, steal my way back to freedom. Is this it, the opportunity to escape that I’ve been waiting for, my one chance to get away before being shot in the head or worse?

My mind reels with questions. Are the captors really asleep? What if I need a key to open the door? What if the hinges squeak? What if the dog is sitting in the kitchen or outside in the courtyard? What will happen to the others if I do escape?

Nothing. I do nothing. This is me, I think, this is all that I am—a feckless question mark, a convulsion of fear incapable of action, a nothing for others to wipe their feet on.

NOVEMBER 28
DAY 3

Light in the room. Hat covering my eyes. Sound of bare feet padding on the floor. I steal a quick glance. A man with a green towel over his head is passing through the room. He’s wearing a white undershirt tucked into grey track pants. His arms and shoulders are muscle-sculpted. It’s Number One.

Half an hour passes. I hear hard shoes clicking on the floor. I steal another glance. It’s Number One, in navy blue slacks and a dress jacket, the same green towel over his head, turning into the kitchen. A door slams and a car drives away.

More time passes. It is impossible to find a comfortable position. Everything aches and burns: hips, shoulders, ankles, everywhere my body is in contact with the floor. I am in a rage at the senseless wasting of our lives.
GET US UP NOW! GET US UP NOW!
my mind screams. The captors sleep on.

It is painful to watch Norman struggle and heave to get himself up. It is so unfair to put an old man through this. I groan as my stiff body moves into standing. It is a message of protest against our confinement. Young Moustache Man is not impressed. “Oooooh, oooooh,” he mocks, putting a hand on the small of his back. I make a mental note not to do this again.

“Hamam?”
Harmeet asks.

“Go
hamam,”
Young Moustache Man barks. Harmeet leaves the room.

Young Moustache Man is suddenly vigorous, bouncing on his toes, ducking kicking punching in martial-arts-prowess display. “This kung fu. Kung fu,” he says, pointing to himself proudly. Then, pointing to us, he asks, “This kung fu?”

“Norman knows kung fu,” I say.

His eyes light up. “This kung fu?” Young Moustache Man points to Norman.

“No kung fu,” Norman says with a laugh. “This
hamam
.”

Young Moustache Man picks up one of our blankets and begins folding it. We stand and watch, unsure if we should help. Suddenly aware that we are watching him, he throws the blanket down and barks at us. You do it, he seems to be saying. We spread the blankets out on the floor and bring the corners together one at a time, the only way to do it when you’re in handcuffs. Young Moustache Man points at Number One’s bedroom like a drill sergeant. We collect the bedding and follow him. He points to the empty bed. We put the bedding down. He points to our chairs. We sit.

Before long we hear pots and pans being worked in the kitchen, the sizzle-fry of cooking, singing. Young Moustache Man enters the room and presents us with our first meal: a burnt two-inch piece of humburger held between two crumbling pieces of
hubis Amriki
, what appears to be a very poor imitation of American sandwich bread. “Zane? Good?” he asks anxiously. It has the texture and taste of sawdust. Yes, we say,
“Zane
. Good.”

The whole gang is back. They all seem to be talking at once. Video Man pointing and issuing instructions, Young Moustache Man squatting next to the little boy, the little boy listening, nodding, shaking his head yes or no, the woman giggling and fawning over Suit Jacket Man, Suit Jacket Man with something bright orange in his hand, Great Big Man with a coil of chain.

They remove our handcuffs. Tom and Norman are told to keep their hats over their eyes and stand up. They put two chairs next to
Number One’s bed and make them sit facing the opposite wall. Number One’s night table is put in front of Harmeet and me. On the table they put two glasses, a bottle of Pepsi, a plate of cookies and some grapes. Video Man urgently motions us to eat. We look at him blankly. He thrusts a glass into each of our hands. I take a sip and put the glass down.

“Eat! Eat!” he commands, forcing a grape into my mouth. I resist the urge to spit it back into his face. “Canada good, Canada good,” he says. He takes three grapes from the little cluster and goes to where Tom and Norman are sitting. He barrages them with words and stuffs a grape into their mouths. He bends down in front of the boy and offers him a grape. The boy opens his mouth. Video Man caresses his cheek and pops the grape into his mouth.

“We take some video,” Suit Jacket Man says. “Just like before. You make some speech, you say your name, your passport, you have the good treatment. You must to plead to your government for you release.”

We nod. He gives each of us a cookie from the plate.

“Here we go again. Take three,” I say to Harmeet. “Maybe they never used the one from yesterday.”

“I hope not. I can’t believe I said ‘Thank you to our captors,’ ” he mutters.

I smile to myself as I imagine standing under a spotlight in a sequined dress holding a big bouquet of roses.
I would like to thank my parents, my goldfish and most of all my captors …

When we finish our speeches, Suit Jacket Man points to where Norman and Tom are sitting. “You sit there. You must to look to the wall. No looking here.”

The table and the chairs are taken away. Tom and Norman are made to stand against the wall.

“You must to put these on,” Suit Jacket Man says. I peek over my shoulder. Suit Jacket Man is handing Norman an orange jumpsuit. My body starts shaking.

“I’m not wearing this,” I hear Norman say, his voice rising angrily. “We’re Christian peacemakers, not prisoners of war!
Issau salam!”

Someone speaks in Arabic. “It might not be a bad idea,” I hear Tom say.

I watch cautiously as Norman struggles into the jumpsuit. Young Moustache Man offers to help. Norman ignores him. He’s determined to do it himself. The captors wrap a long chain around each of their wrists. The little boy snatches a cookie from the night table.

“Now you will make some speech,” Suit Jacket Man says to Norman and Tom. “Like before. Your name, your passport. You must to beg your government for your release. That is all.”

Tom and Norman are in great danger.

I take my shoes off with great reluctance. I feel defenceless without them. They represent the possibility of running, the hope we might yet walk out the door. They search each of us, beginning with Tom. I stand up with my arms extended, always with that damned hat over my eyes, while Suit Jacket Man, Young Moustache Man and Great Big Man work together with expert precision, hands probing the entire surface of my body, every inch of my collar, the cuffs of my shirt, each button, the waist and hem of my pants. They take my belt away and make me drop my pants. “I am sorry,” one of them says as they move their fingers along the waistband of my underwear. My mind placidly observes; my body shivers.

Suit Jacket Man holds up one of our shoes. “Do any of you have some device in your shoes?” I don’t understand. “Some GPS. Some device so the satellite can find you?” His voice is menacing. I shake my head. “You must not lie to me. I will rip your shoes apart to search them.” His eyes are savage, threatening.

They throw our shoes onto the pile at the bottom of the hall stairway. “You not need them now,” Suit Jacket Man says. “They are right here. When you release—not long, just some time and you release—you shoes are here.”

The captors leave. I glance mournfully after our shoes from under my hat. They are at most fifteen feet away, but they might as well be on another continent.

–

We’re back in the living room, laying out our sleeping mattresses. I have to keep reminding myself: these men, this situation, the handcuffs around my wrists, it’s all very real. In a moment I will be lying on the floor, covered by a blanket, utterly defenceless. The television is on. I monitor it constantly, hoping to catch some mention of us, though I never look directly at it. I don’t want them to know I am interested in it. The news is on. There’s a soft colour of green I recognize immediately—the Canadian Parliament. My eyes dart to the screen. I watch galvanized, a chaotic scene in the House of Commons, suits milling about, MPs everywhere, some jubilant, others grim-faced. The words are all in Arabic. I want to reach through the television and pull myself home. The channel changes. The government has fallen, I think. There’s going to be an election.