, didn't even didn't look at me. - What's there in the trunk? He saw the jerry cans. - Wine? - No. There's gasoline. I'm going fishing; there are no gas stations there. But I have some `Vodka'. There's no fishing without `Vodka'? Only at that moment he looked at me, but I didn't know whether he saw me because his glance was blank. - 'Vodka' is good. We've run out of it. I immediately gave him both bottles from the glove compartment. He grabbed them and turning away from me said, - "On your way back get some wine." Trying not to hurry, I got into the car, started it and slowly pulled away. I revved up slowly at first, then faster and faster. There was no time to look straight ahead, the road was empty, only in the rearview mirror I could watch what was happening behind, if anybody went to the machine-gun from the fire. A few kilometers which separated the posts of Chechnya and Osetia I drove like crazy, momentarily, though those were the longest seconds of my life. When I looked away from the mirror, I saw Osetian post ahead, concrete blocks across the road, bumps and roadside "hedgehogs". I started to put on brakes but the speed was too fast and the car bumped and rocked like crazy. Twenty, thirty meters more and I felt as if I were riding a huge vibrator. I could hardly hold the steering wheel. At last, the car jerked and stopped. "I made it"! From the post I could see a group of people in police uniforms running to me loading their guns. I hurriedly got out of the car and raised my hands. The senior of them, an Osset, looked at my car's license plate, then at my face and said, questionably. - Russian? From Chechnya? It remained only to nod. The guns were lowered down. - Do you need help? - No. I'd like to examine the car. It got it. The Osset smiled. - I'm not going to give you a speeding ticket, though you raced like hell. Was it scary? I shrugged my shoulders. How can I admit that it was so scary? - It's OK. Don't worry. Go now. That's all right; you're not the first from there. They treated me to a cigarette and only then I saw my hands trembling. I finished smoking, examined the car, looked under its bottom, and pulled some parts, which I could reach. It looked like everything was OK. Good strong cars were produced in our country! Tried to start it. Started, but only from the second try. Listened carefully, the sound was clear. I forgot to show my ID, so I reached into my pocket to find it. The Osset smiled again. - You don't need to. Everything is clear with you. Are you coming back? - I'm moving the car. Then I'll come back. My wife is staying there. He nodded his head understandingly. - Well... You know better. Good luck! - Thanks. I waved to the gunmen and got into the car. Squeezed between the blocks and the post and slowly drove away. When I was passing by the next post, nobody stopped me; they only looked carefully at me. Probably, they were informed about me. During that day I crossed 5 or 6 republican borders, intentionally trying to make a circle. Why? I didn't know, just in case. In Prokhladnoye, I parked the car into my relatives' garage, left the car keys and car ownership with them and took the train back to Grozny the same evening. In a few days I put all our parents' possessions into a container and took a train the same day. It was very problematic to buy the train tickets. I had to pay extra money for the tickets but we had to leave immediately. The hunt for people selling their apartments was under way. Only naive people could stay in the city after their apartments were sold. And very often such people had night visitors. After the night visitors' departure one could rarely stay alive. We tried to avoid stupid risks. My parents asked me to accompany them to Ryazan where their relatives lived. We reached Ryazan without problems, though I tried not to get out of our compartment very often. In Ryazan our relatives met us. When we got out of the train on to an empty platform, a very strange feeling seized us. We rode in the car along the city streets; answered questions but the feelings of unreality didn't leave us. And only when we sat down at the dinner table, did we understand what the matter was. Nowhere did we see crowds of armed people, or, the armed people in civic clothes or in camouflage. We haven't got used to ordinary, peaceful life. Of course, we didn't have a war, but the city was on the front line. We were scared of the silence without shootings. We couldn't get used to it. My mother asked me. - Maybe you will stay?? Won't go back?? - Mom, Irene is still there. - Yes. I see... And suddenly she started crying. - Why do you need all this? We fought at the fronts against fascists and for our country. Why do you need to die! What for! It was very hard to calm her down... In a day, early in the morning I went back. I asked them not to see me off. I got up when it was still dark outside, got dressed and left. I didn't have any luggage, only a train ticket and some money. I haven't seen my mother alive since then. And now I can't even visit her grave... 1992... The morning was on the frosty side. Through a snow-drift I dug my way to the gate of my garage. This is how I used to call the shed where I kept my car, little rusty four-wheeled monster well up in years. Having got inside, I started the complex process of bringing this piece of hardware to life. I never managed to make a real little jewel out of this car. Sometimes in my dreams it came to me in the image of Lego vehicle composed of huge amount of simple parts. Those parts embarrassed me by their vast amount and infinite variety amidst which I was losing my way, much like a child who is eager to assemble the toy but gets desperately lost in the overwhelming complexity of a too advanced Lego set... To put it bluntly, I am not too good with machinery. It is not that hard to turn the car on in the summer time, but the winter is a pain. I used to start out with stretching out a long cable and plugging it into a self-made socket attached to a stone pillar that propped up the shaky roof of the garage. Blessed be my Dad, for on his leaving the town for good he presented to me this shed with a lump of machine parts and metal garbage in it. Well, he wasn't that great in machinery either; he rather was a sort of wanna-be, one who pretended to be familiar with all these devices, gadgets and fixtures. He felt himself comfortable in the company of these grease-smelling steely things. After he left the town, bequeathing to me his treasures, I benefitted much from his strange devotion. Many a time and oft his weird collection saved my car and, therefore, me and my family. The most valuable acquisition was, of course, the jump-up kit, item without which my life would be simply impossible. It took me seconds to attach the wires, and then the real "fun" followed: after twenty minutes of laboring on the ignition system, pushing on the gas pedal and alike toil the car eventually gave out several specific sounds in which I gladly recognised the approaching triumph: the engine was on and working. It spared me for the next round of physical work: clearing the passage to the gate. The garage, my priceless posession, was located in a remote district called Microrayon. The garage was a well done separate structure with a two-room basement underneath. Good shed, really. Sadly, it was too far from home. One could, of course, cover that distance by the city train that used to go from Microrayon to the Factory, but it was a risky gamble. The zone between these two areas was one to keep away from. It was though impossible to avoid such trips completely for it happened from time to time that my car needed repair. And it happened all too often, every third or fourth day. On such days I simply moved to my garage together with my car. If lucky enough to finish the work in the day time, I drove away to leave the car overnight at an open parking lot near the Factory. The lot was within some fifteen minute walk from home and that was splendid: the shorter the distance, the less dangerous the stroll. Last, and by no means least, the guards working at the lot were ethnic Chechens. My wishful mind kept telling me that there my car would be safer. A crow will not peck out an eye of another crow... I convinced myself in this. I had to. For the car was my and my family's means of survival. Back to business. After having cleared the way to the gate, I drove out to my first destination that morning, the dairy store located on the nearby boulevard. By a certain hour a cistern should be delivered. That day it took me only an hour of standing in the line. When the cistern appeared, the line was already about 150 - 200 people long, but since I had come much earlier, I was among the first that day. And I did get some milk that day, and then I brought it to my mother-in-law. It was not every day that the milk was delivered, but on the other hand it still was quite a luck that it was at all delivered from time to time. Whether that milk deserved the name or not, is another part of the story. When the jar got emptied, it did not need to be rinsed. It was clean like after having water in it. The School used to be my next destination. Every day I gave my wife a ride to our district school where she worked as a teacher. This was my dear school, High School number 41 where I studied years ago. Back then the school was newly built, and my class was the first to graduate from it. Later my wife became a teacher in it. She could, of course, commute by bus but it was a bit too dangerous. So I gave her a ride. After that ride my working day was to begin. I was give-a-ride guy, a self-styled "cab" driver. On the one hand, I had merely a Zaporozhets, mini car that in the everyday conversational speech goes under the nickname of Zapor (which in Russian means: constipation). This ugly car is not that handy for the job: one cannot earn out of it as many roubles as from a middle-size Lada or Moskvich cars. On the other hand, giving people rides on a Lada or Moskvich had more danger in it: those days it was only some stupid ethnic Russians in Grozny city who went out unarmed. Hence, the worse the car, the safer the business. Well, it did of course happen that even crappy Zapors got hijacked, their owners left alive or dead. Nevertheless, with a Zapor the risk was less. I convinced myself in this. I had to. But I still knew the perils. I knew them, but there was no way out, for the salaries were not paied in the town of Grozny that year. All the money flows entering the "Republic" went directly to its "President", Chechen-born retired Soviet general Dudaev. Some of that money was then paid to the "President's Guards", some were funnelled to unknown directions. Those were the directions whence huge amount of weapons was arriving every day into the "Republic". Weaponry trade flourished. A rich menu of arms was at sale in farmers' markets. Then the street traders started selling them in the street near the bank. Everything was available, from daggers through mortars. And, needless to say, cartridges, mines, whatever other ammunition. Strong was my desire but thin was my wallet. Imagine: 60 roubles for one machine-gun cartridge, - wasn't it outrageous? Only a Brave and Proud Chechen Tribesman could afford this. Besides, it was not at all obvious that the street traders would agree to sell it to me, because it was inappropriate for the ethnic Russian trash to carry arms. In Chechnya weaponry is cherished much more than in the American Wild West: while for a Texan macho his gun is currency of self-esteem, for a Chechen tribesman his gun is a sacred artifact of his faith. Not of the official faith explained in Quaran, but of that clandestine unpronounced faith which gets passed from ancestors to their offsprings through blood and mothers' milk. In Caucases, and in Chechnya in particular, making a gunshot has always been not merely an act of assault or defence, but a sacred rite which must always be fulfilled with a prayer. Or, perhaps shooting itself is already a prayer: after all, everyone in that country knows that Allah helps the strongest and the bravest, no matter what particular act of heroism they perform - defend their village, rob a bank, hijack an airplane, or hunt a boar. Verily, carrying arms was a privelidge of a Real Chechen Guy. Ethnic Slavs were scum of the earth: after all, they were not even Moslems. They were wicked aliens subject to oppression and, from time to time, for a funny manhunt. Literally. So they did not deserve holding a weapon. After the Orwellian "expression of people's free will and enthusiasm" a Chechen-born retired Soviet general Dudaev and his clansmen took power in the "Republic". Dudaev stroke a deal with the Kremlin and assured it that he would become Yeltsin's agent in Chechnya. The Russian military were ordered to leave the province and to hand their arms and ammunition to its new self-established "government". And the military did it. It was the order... Together with the armory, Yeltsin "presented" us all to his then protege Dudaev. This is how we, non-Chechens, became aliens in this land. We became aliens to Chechens who conveniently labelled us as "occupants" and thus explained to themselves the numerous acts of spontaneous "requisitions" and "expropriations" of our property and often lives. We became aliens to our own Government which regarded us as subjects of the remote province of a legal status yet to be determined. That legal status was far not the sole issue in question. Other unanswered questions stood open. For example: what was our guilt?. After all, we had simply worked for all our life for the Country that we used to know under the name of the Soviet Union. Possibly, there was something wrong in this, but it had never been an issue of choice for any of us. (After all, the Chechen "President" Dudaev used to be a general of the Soviet Army in charge of a division of nuclear air bombers; and most of his aides used to be Communist officials and pillars of the old regime.) Perhaps, our guilt was that our ancestors paid a high toll to the death in battles for that land. The recentmost was the military campaign of year 1942 of our Lord, when elite German divisions crushed through Caucasian mountains, thirsty for the Caspian oil. Against the impossible odds and at the highest of prices, our grandfathers stopped them here. This was one of the most dramatic pages of the World War II, page carefully torn out from the official history for the sake of political correctness. The politically correct history cannot tolerate the fact that in the Caucasus the Soviets had to fight two simultaneous battles, one against the assaulting German divisions manned with Tirol mountaineers, another against Chechen gangs. When Germans ceased the strategic hights of the Caucasus and it became evident that within days they would get through to the precious oilfields, the Chechens started a revolt. Not for the sake of high treason, but in the name of Allah, of course. But Allah refused to accept their martirdom. Instead, he helped out Russians who managed through an increadible effort and despite uncountable losses to turn the tide: the Germans were driven out, and the Chechen rebellion was quelled. Later Stalin (who himself hailed from the nearby Georgia on the opposite slope of the mountains and whose mentality did not differ much from that of his Chechen neighbors) took his bloody vengeance upon the rebellious tribes. Massive deportation of Chechens to Kazakhstan ordered by Stalin in 1945 failed to go as planned: an epidemy stroke and decimated the deported people. I do not know if Stalin cared much about turn of events. I am not sure if his barbarianism aimed towards barbarians was justified. The idea of collective punishment belongs to the Old Testament and is incompatible with the New One. The only thing I know for sure is that the Slavic, Armenian, Jewish and other non-Chechen population of that area should not be saddled with any historical responsibility for Stalin's misdeads. Not by our hands those were carried out. (The deportation was organised and orchestrated by the Home Security Minister, comrade Beria who too had originally came from Georgia, and who too knew and followed the laws of the Caucasus.) On the other hand, it were our fathers who brought crafts and industry to this once barren land of shepards and hunters. They erected schools and a university. And committed an awful sacrilidge by admitting there women to sit and study in the classes with men. And they presented the Chechen people with an alphabet. As it always happens under totalitarian rule though all these presents were handed to the intended beneficiaries without asking for their consent. So when time came, we realised that for too many local people the rule of gun and dagger, the clan allegiance and the law of bloody vendetta were far more dear than alphabet and schools. Especially when vendetta meant profit. Each and every evening of that eventful year, I met with my friends when we returned from our give-a-ride shifts, or from whatever other work. I deliberately use words "shift" and "work" avoiding the term "job". There were no jobs in the "Republic" in the proper sense of the word. Some oil refineries kept functioning but they were controlled by the local warlords and their clans. Some schools and even hospitals kept working but no employee was getting a salary. So, every evening I met with my friends to exchange news and rumors. Even though the city had in its better times population around 470 thousand, it seemed that everyone knew or had heard of everyone. Or, at least, had common friends or neighbours. Or worked at the same factory. Our conversations typically started with a certain topic and ended with it: - Do you happen to know that fellow? The one who used to work at the nearby shop. - Yup. His name rings a bell. Why? - Yesterday a gang broke into his house... They cut the throats of his whole family and his children. And "expropriated" their apartment, of course. - By the way, did you know that other family next block? - Yup. That I already know. All gone. Throats cut... Some Chechen villagers are living in their house now. When an individual or a family were simply asassinated, it was trivial and elevated no interest. More often families were exterminated with cruelty unusual for the modern society: still alive people were fleeced or sliced in pieces, children were raped and then thrown out of the window. That was chilling. Chilling and, once again, very unusual. In the first weeks of the "Chechen People's Republic of Ichkeria" many preferred not to believe in such stories. But the sacred traditions of tribal society were getting more and more devotees, and the so profitable "people's resistance to nonbelievers and occupants" was rapidly gaining momentum. Soon no one refused to believe such news, because these news were no longer unusual. They became our everyday reality. People eventually get used to everything. The death was deprived of its aura of fear and became our good neighbor. It was accompanying each of us through the entire daytime. It moved even closer in the night and its embrace became unbearable in the early morning hours when shots and visceral groans were heared in the dark streets of our erstwhile cosy town. Anyhow, the life was going on. Everyone had to earn his everyday bread. When I said that there were no paid jobs in town, I certainly exaggerated: there existed a major employer, one always in search of working force. That employer never asked for resume or reference letters, but paid damn well and gave benefits in the form of one's and one's family's relative security. The name of that generous employer was "President's Guards" Corp. I knew even some ethnic Russians who eventually submitted to the demands of life and enlisted there. Well-fed, they went around the city with rifles and were regularly getting their high salaries. You see, in this world each individual has a price of his own. I mean not the salary that we get in green or by cheque from the payroll department. I am talking about that other price which every man establishes himself for his own priceless self. Every individual, thus, wares his selfmade pricetag visible only to our Maker and to his angels and possibly to some rare people who can read other people's hearts and minds. Those Russian-born folks who joined the "Guards" established their price with the highest of precision: 30 silver coins and no cents. I can't say that I was always lucky but sometimes I managed to earn for gas, 100 gr. of sausage and a few eggs. Then it was a real feast for us. Half of the sausage went to our black cat Teddy. Actually, he used to eat only bread, sometimes for a better taste we put some marrow spread on it. Maybe some people remember that kind of spread, which used to be sold in litre jars and which nobody liked to buy? It appeared to be a real delicacy at that time! I wish we could understand that during peaceful time. More often we used to survive on potatoes which also were expensive. Very often there were the days when we used to boil one potato and divide it into 3 parts: for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We always shared it with Teddy. Bread was a real savior. No, they were not those wonderful fragrant loaves we used to buy. They were grayish bricks with a terrible rotten smell inside. But the crust was still edible. When it was fresh, it was OK to eat. That was great. One could eat as much as one wished. To buy bread was really extremely problematic. The line was huge near the central bakery long before bread was delivered there. When it was delivered, the first to buy it were Chechens elbowing and jolting the crowd with swears and shrieks. Then the ones who were stronger followed, and at last such people like us. I don't know how the Winter Palace was stormed, but the siege of our central bakery was probably even more outrageous. Of course, not all the population suffered from malnutrition like our family. We were simply unlucky. As for my mother-in-law's neighbors, it was hard to believe that the power had changed. They used to have a fully stuffed fridge with sausages, meat, bacon and caviar. Probably, I would have been in a clover if my mother-in-law were a jewelry store owner. But then I would have been unlucky with my wife, because one cannot have all the luck of the world. Well, it's better to have a good wife, all the troubles can be overcome together. Sometimes it was hard to earn enough money for gas, but even in that case to fill in the car was problematic. Not every gas station had gas, and even when it had, the line of numerous cars was seen from the distance. Of course, "djigits" wanted to be the first, very often threatened with guns but all the drivers knew that if there was no gas for the car, there would be no bread on the table. That was why they had to be patient. Once a furious "djigit" left the gas station in his BMW and fired from the car window at the cars waiting for gas in the line. But luckily nobody was injured. He immediately drove away because he understood that the people in that line were also on the verge of fury. I also heard that rather often the incidents like that one used to end fatally. I used to give a ride to my wife when she finished her classes at school. Also, warned her about danger outside the school limits, told her that she was supposed to wait for me unless I come, however long it would have taken never to go home alone. There were some strange disappearances of Russian girls and women when they disappeared without a trace after having been pulled forcefully into the cars. My wife witnessed an incident when one of her students became an easy prey to a young Chechen drug addict who was pulling her screaming into his black Mercedez. Thanks to an old Chechen man who was passing by and witnessed the scene, the girl was saved. The next day the girl didn't show up in school and we learned later that her family moved out of the city. Generally, the number of students had decreased dramatically. The school Principal Mr. Gelman hired two armed soldiers to protect his school and his car which was parked at school premises. Mainly chechen students studied at school but their parents had to give them rides because it was not safe even for them. By the end of classes the school premises looked like a big parking lot where the cars used to park on flower beds and sidewalks. The passability of my "armoured" vehicle was of a great advantage. I used to find the best spot closest to the school gate. The owners of BMWs, AUDIs and Mercedezes didn't take it personally, they knew that that car gave rides to the teacher. So, they were patient. The fact that my wife was a highly qualified professional of teaching English and was very popular with the students also helped us during that period of hunger. The children of Chechen and Ingush elite were going to study at Universities of England. Many of them were going to leave for the Emirates. The Chechen intelligentsia anticipated a big change for the worse - the revival of savegery with the coming of Dudaev to power - and was not going to go back to the dark ravines where their ancestors lived before. Many Chechen families were going to leave. That's why private tutoring from time to time helped us to survive. We also opened English courses for emmigrants which was also a little help although people were not comfortable with money. Sometimes we could afford meat. Of course, it was difficult to be called meat because there were more bones and cartilage, but still it was good for us. The meat lines at the market were the same as the bread lines in our central bakery. And if the salesman didn't like the buyer, the buyer didn't get anything. We used to eat nutrias (coypu). Do you happen to know such an animal like a water rat? It was very delicious and nutritious. In May we experienced death in the family. My father-in-law died. He used to be reticent and tacit lately. He worried a lot about our future but understood he couldn't change the situation, so endured all the hardships with dignity, he was a true Cossack. Of course, he had reasons to worry. The money which he'd been saving all his life to provide for his old age was impossible to withdraw from the bank account. The banks stopped working. Being a serious, intelligent person he could see perfectly well what was going around. He knew that my wife and I risked our lives if we stayed there, but he failed to persuade my mother-in-law to leave the city. Her selfishness was beyong any limits. Not once had he asked us to dump them and leave the city but we could not do that. Frankly, as for me, I could do that but my wife couldn't, she was a perfect daughter. At the end of March there was a letter from their son, a Professor. In that letter, he tried to explain that he was unable to accept any of his relatives and he didn't have enough space in his apartment. He even included a drawing of his apartment with all the furniture and beds as if trying to prove what he had explained. The letter finished with the words: "Don't come even if you're threatened with guns!" For a few days my father-in-law was reticent and then suddenly - a stroke. We managed to reach some of our friends, the doctors to help. Somehow or other we found some medicine for IV. My wife did IV for herself. Almost wholly paralyzed, he tried to point to the bookcase with his eyes. My wife and I searched it all over, showed him everything what was there, but he never nodded. So, we never managed to find something he was thinking about. In spite of all our efforts and necessary medication he couldn't make it. He died in 9 days. Our friend, a wonderful experienced doctor said he hadn't had any chances but he remained alive only because of our care and the treatment. Funeral problems were possibly the hardest at that time, which was full of problems and unexpected events. Thanks to my car I managed to arrange everything alone but as a rule two or three people were involved in funeral problems. There was no wood to make a casket from and there was no fabric. With the use of some "incentives" (like `Vodka`) I managed to get in touch with some fellows from the funeral office and they found some wet wood for a casket somewhere. The bed sheets were used as a lining for a casket. Death crtificate, the grave spot at the cemetery, I don't remember what else, but everything was organized and done. Not many people came to the funerals because many have already left the city, but those who came paid the last tribute to a distinguished man. My wife and I had to move to their apartment. We sold our bachelor apartment and all the furniture for peanuts (40,000 roubles) to the real estate agent. That amount was so ridiculous that it was hardly enough to pay for the funerals. Also, we had to sell some gold rings and a watch and had to borrow some money to pay off in full for the funerals. Our life (if that could be called a life!) went its way. Going to bed, we never knew if we could wake up alive. There was a real "apartment hunt" in the city for more and more "djigits" were coming from the mountains; everyone wanted to live in a big city and own a nice apartment and nobody wanted to pay for it, they just wanted to get it for free, throwing the tenants out by force. My mother-in-law's apartment was in the downtown, right across from the Central Post Office, and it was a nice one. Anarchy was flourishing. Before going to bed, I used to check my shortgun which was made my friend from a two-barrel 28 calibre rifle and put it closer to my hand. If it was calm outside, we couldn't sleep because the silence frightened us. But when the sporadic shooting was heard from time to time, we could fall asleep. Frankly, for some time my wife and I used to argue about the kinds of weapons used in shootings. My wife made an excellent progress in distinguishing the kinds of weapons used in shootings in sprite of their variety. She even used to oversmart me in that! Our night sleep reminded us one of the animals in the woods when they sleep but remain vigilant at the same time. One bright sunny afternoon I ran across a poster on one of the doors of our big apartment complex. It said "Republican Cossacks Society". I was intrigued. Actually, I started to understand that I didn't want to die for nothing. Of course, I knew that we all were mortal, but I wanted to give away my life for as higher price as possible. That's why I started to arm myself a little depending on the circumstances. At least, I always used to carry a dagger and a shortgun in a self-made holster under my jacket. Two cartridges in the barrels are for two chechens, it was not hard to part with life if you were taking somebody else for a company with you. Some of my Chechen friends started to respect me more for carrying a gun. "Djigits" used to be brave when their enemy was not armed. In my case, they called me "a man's man". What was strange for me and what I couldn't understand was how they knew I was carrying a gun. Well, maybe sometimes the sheath was seen from under my jacket. As for the "Republican Cossacks Society", I wanted to join it. Started to talk to some friends but came to a sad conclusion: everybody was reluctant to fight. The long years of Soviet era were not wasted. Only one of my friends, the one who helped me with a shortgun, sided with me. He also used to be "always ready". I remembered that my ancestors were Cossacks, dignified, independent people and I became ashamed. My ancestors used to fight even without any guns. In the besieged Cossack villages there were no prisoners, because they fought heroically till the last soldier died. The oldest and the youngest fought equally selflessly. And what about us?! No words... My mother being a young girl of 17 went to the WWII, defended my city Grozny, and what about me??? The enemy was in the city killing people and we all were playing a civilized game. Maybe it was called a cowardice? Maybe the Cossacks would act differently? I came up to some floor of the building. There was a big empty meeting room and rows of chairs. In the corner, there was a table and a man was browsing through some papers. I greeted him and introduced myself. The man seemed to be glad to see me there, shook my hand and asked how he could help me. I decided not to beat around the bush and asked him straight about the real action which Cossacks could take in such a situation. The man looked disappointed and started to explain to me that it was not their concern, that there was a government to deal with the problem. And at that time we all needed to concentrate on Ataman election campaign which was very important for that time. I understood immediately that all my hopes were in vain. I even didn't want to finish the conversation. Went out onto the street, looked around: the sun was shining brightly, the weather was awesome, just live and be happy! Well, OK, I'll try to... 1993... I settled down eventually. Last fall I understood that the way out should be found from the existing situation and staying in Grozny was useless. Anyway, we would be killed. One of my acquaintances advised me to look for a job somewhere around Zagorsk, Moscow region at one of the health resorts there. I went there to look around and succeeded. The Director understood all the profits from hiring me as an electrician inspite of my being from another town. I also worked as a driver, a stoker and a security - all at the same time and all for one salary, but I discussed some very important points with the Director. Every month right after my pay I used to buy a roundtrip train ticket leaving some money for food for myself and also bought groceries for my wife and my mother-in-law at our canteen. Of course, it wasn't to much but my backpack was almost full and for my folks it was really a big deal. As for me, I used to survive on canned tuna and bread, sometimes I was treated to some food by the canteen cook, and some friends also used to invite me over to dinner. As a matter of fact, I was absent from my job for about a week but the Director didn't say a word for he was a good and a compassionate person and understood my problem. It was terribly hard for me to leave my wife and to go to another city to work. It took rather a long time for me to decide on it, but there was no choice. I had to risk. As for my risk, it was minimal, but to know that you were safe and your wife was there... I wouldn't wish it even to my enemy. Of course, before my departure I did everything I could about her safety. I taught her how to use a shortgun, made her understand the inevitable: if somebody broke in, to shoot immediately. When I tested my shortgun, I was satisfied how it could easily shoot through a 1.5" thick rail and the bullet even ran through the next one in the middle. That's why I knew that if to shoot from the apartment, it would easily shoot through the door and into the person who was behind it. Also, I took into consideration the "psychological" factor in "dzigits": if the shooting came from an apartment, they would unlikely come inside. I also trained my wife how to fight inside the apartment, where to position herself safely in the pier if the granade would be thrown through the window. Well, and at last, if in case they would succeed in getting through, to use one's own grenade. One of our chechen friends bought a grenade by my request at the local market though he knew perfectly well whom it would be targeted at. I asked him to buy exactly that kind of granade because I knew it's effect very well and considered to use it only as the last means in order not be captured and not to die alone. It was ridiculous that all my life I used to give flowers to girls but I had to give a weapon to my own wife and train her how kill enemies and herself... Now I was almost 100% sure in my wife's safety in the apartment and our chechen neighbors also suspected that there might be a surprise, so only some accidental bandits could have tried. But the main danger was the street. Because my wife had to walk to her job inspite of my ban. There are two kinds of kinky people: they are teachers and doctors, for them their serving duties are above common sense. Because of this I was very nervous at my job and all my thoughts were there, with my wife. That's why I counted the days before I could go there. Of course, the trains were not the same as they used to be in peaceful time. Every trip was a gamble. On the route from Moscow to Rostov everything was more or less calm, but from Rostov the uncertainty ruled. Robberies and murders on the trains were rather common. The armed bandits never gave it a second thought, just because they were stronger and more powerful. There was no protection, the police were not interested in anything. The conductors on the trains preferred to stay in their compartments and never got out except of locking or unlocking the doors at some stations. Rocks and bullets were frequent through the windows, that's why it was desirable to keep the blinds down. Actually, there were lots of troubles, practically every trip was dangerous, but I was lucky, even the fragments of a bullet broken window glass didn't hurt me too much. At home I used to get behind the wheel to earn some money. With every coming day it became more and more dangerous. More drivers used to be killed and more cars hijacked. Some chechens "give-a-ride guys" just like me also became easy prey. One day I peeked into the window of my neighbor's car (his name was Movlady) and didn't see his usual grenade which used to be on the passenger's seat. I was worried because it might have fallen somewhere behind the seat and could explode. Movlady was a good guy and didn't rub shoulders with chechen bandits who only robbed and killed. I decided to stay for a while waiting for him. At last he showed up. I asked what happened and advised to search the car carefully. He laughed and said that he'd traded it for a "Makarov" gun. I was very surprised and asked him how he had managed it, because the grenade price was 5.000 roubles, and the "Makarov" gun price was 60.000 roubles. His story was full of humor and jokes. It turned out that he used to keep the grenade just between his legs while driving for the passenger not to see it but in case of emergency it could be easily reached. At nightime he was stopped by some chechens, there were three of them. They asked to take them to the bus terminal. When they started to come closer to the bus terminal, he was asked to turn to a small, isolated street away from the bus terminal which led to a cemetery. The driver refused to drive there and explained that if they wanted to go there, they could just take a walk. One of the passengers pulled out his gun, loaded it and pointed to the driver and they all started to laugh nagging him by saying that he was too cowardly for a chechen. He had to pull out the pin of his grenade. The look of thei