Chapter 35

Amina Khattak got up and made her way to the communal bathroom. Reaching for her toothbrush with the Afghan flag symbol, she began brushing her teeth, naked. She examined her reflection, concerned about her crow’s feet and wrinkles, but she couldn’t help but admire her firm breasts and toned stomach. Despite the trials she had faced, her figure remained slender and youthful. She hoped she could find a decent man in Germany, not a scumbag like her ex-husband, whose only use had been accompanying them out of Afghanistan and away from the Taliban. Life with her ex-husband had been awful, but life without him in Afghanistan had been impossible.

In the nearby city of Grodno, Dmitri Voskov was having tea with Ivan Kozlov. Kozlov had worked as a versatile laborer and driver for twenty years along both sides of the border, with family ties in both countries. Even after the border was militarized, he managed to cross using a special work truck for agricultural farms. Known for his humanitarian efforts, he hadn’t engaged in such activities for months, but Voskov was persistent. Kozlov didn’t trust this rough Russian and insisted that he would only help if he could personally meet the refugees and confirm they weren’t being trafficked.

“I have my standards,” Ivan stated firmly. “I won’t transport anyone unless I can meet them first and ensure they’re not being trafficked.” “Of course,” Voskov replied, “you will. We just want to have options in case we have an emergency.”

Pembroke remained at the complex but wished to go out exploring and spreading his wings again. However, before venturing out, he felt the need to tighten his grip on the girls. Recently, the AI reports had brought troubling signs of insubordination and rebellious murmurs, even from the most apparently compliant ones. This prompted Pembroke to consider leveraging the technology embedded in the collars, which they were now accustomed to wearing.

Pembroke stood solemnly before the cramped cell, his gaze sweeping over the assembled, morose figures of the naked girls. He allowed silence to reign, heightening the tension before he finally spoke. “Ladies,” his voice rang out, calm yet commanding, “I’ve been informed of troubling behavior among you. Talk of insubordination and rebellion, even from those I trusted. This cannot continue,” Pembroke declared, gesturing towards the collars encircling their necks.

“These collars serve a purpose beyond mere adornment. They monitor and control your actions. I will not hesitate to use them to enforce compliance. I don’t wish to be harsh, but order must prevail. Merely thinking rebellious thoughts is as unacceptable as acting upon them. Obedience is expected unceasingly—24/7.”

The girls exchanged uncertain glances, their thoughts churned with questions about who among them might have spoken out, and what exactly had been said by whom about whom. “Now, you are all pretty little things, and I, as well as your future owners, firmly believe in the mantra that such pretty little things ‘are to be seen and not heard.’ Prolonged chatter serves no purpose here. You girls don’t seem to have anything of value to say, do you? Certainly nothing of interest to me. And I will not tolerate any suggestions of disobedience or thoughts of escape from any of you, starting from now.” The girls exchanged fleeting glances, silently contemplating how Pembroke might enforce his strict decree.

Pembroke’s voice sliced through the silence, authoritative and unyielding. “These collars can count, approximately, every word you speak, even if it’s a whisper. Each of you is allotted 1500 words per day. That’s all. It equates to about ten minutes of talking. You’ll need to manage your time wisely within that estimate. The limit resets at midnight, so it’s from midnight to midnight.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the air. “Once you reach your limit, your collar—and everyone else’s—will receive a little zap. If you continue speaking beyond your limit, the zapping continues for all. If you find it unpleasant, you’ll need to ensure that any excess chatter stops, even if you have to take drastic measures like gagging or restraining the offending girl.”

The girls traced their fingers over the cold metal of their collars. They were now not only confined physically but also controlled in their ability to communicate with each other. “Frankly, I don’t see the point in whatever it is you think you need to say,” Pembroke’s voice echoed coldly through the cell.

The girls’ throats felt dry, now just saying a word felt like a breaking of the rules. “Tell you what, girls,” he chirped, “if there’s an improvement in behavior, you might find yourselves with an extra 500 words soon. In the meantime, make every word count!”

As Pembroke strolled away, his voice softly hummed a tune, seemingly to mock the girls’ enforced silence and rationing of speech, even in their most private moments. In the heavy silence that followed his departure, the girls exchanged solemn glances. No words were spoken; instead, some of them drew closer to each other, seeking comfort in silent embraces and shared gazes.

The following day, Mr Rahma messaged Afshan to tell her he would soon be at the camp to see the progress personally. Afshan was delighted, her exam timetable was still clear, and now was a good time for more volunteering. She agreed to come and meet him as soon as possible there. Before leaving, Pembroke looked at Amina with satisfaction. She was naked again, admiring her own body while looking in the mirror. He watched her showering and brushing her teeth. He could not wait to meet her.

Farah noticed her mother was pale and wouldn’t eat her breakfast. “Are you OK, Mom?” “Yes, dear ... I just feel a bit faint, that’s all. I just wish we could get through the border and to Germany.” “Don’t worry, Mom. Something will come up.” Farah smiled at her mother but was concerned. Perhaps it was something she ate? The two women, looking more like sisters than mother and daughter, continued to worry about their uncertain journey.

Edward Pembroke flew into Warswaw International Airport, rented a large truck, and left it near the Belarusian border. Then, he became Firas Rahma. Rahma was able to travel into Belarus and into the camp where he was greeted by the camp staff, who thanked him for the charity’s largesse. He was also greeted by Dmitri Voskov, the charity’s only employee in the camp. In contrast to Dmitri, Rahma’s charisma charmed the staff inmates along with his knowledge of Russian, Arabic and basic Pashto, his explanation for the latter being having engaged for many years in charity work in Afghanistan. The following day, he was thrilled to meet Afshan Malik, the enthusiastic and charming medical student volunteer.

“Ms. Malik, it’s such a pleasure to meet you in person! You were wonderful online, and I can’t thank you enough for your help. I’m just about to make my rounds among the men in the camp. How have things been going in the women’s camp?” Afshan’s face lit up with a bright smile. “It’s been fantastic! Thank you so much for asking. The women here are incredible, and I’m so happy to be able to assist them. It’s truly rewarding work!” “That’s wonderful to hear,” he replied warmly. “Your enthusiasm is truly inspiring. Keep up the amazing work!” A few minutes later, he spoke with Dmitri who confirmed that the women’s complex had been completely cleaned. Rahma was nervous, a few things still had to fall into place.

Later that day, Afshan was called to treat an Afghan woman, Amina Khattar. She had been suffering from nausea, fatigue, and heart palpitations. Her daughter, who looked more like her sister, was terrified. These symptoms had come on very suddenly. Afshan could not speak Pashto, and the women could not understand her Urdu. Fortunately, Firas Rahma was on hand, fluent in Russian, English, and Pashto, ready to help bridge the communication gap. Amina could barely speak, her heart was jumping in her chest. Her daughter Farah was in tears. “Mr. Rahma, my mother always had good health. The last few days she just got worse, I don’t understand it!” Rahma spoke to Afshan, “Afshan, Amina’s condition is critical. She has a history of arrhythmia. Her daughter told me she has been having symptoms over the last few months. Unfortunately, the facilities here in Belarus lack the advanced electrophysiology labs and specialized cardiologists needed to handle such complex cases. It’s one of the reasons these women wanted to get to Poland.”

Afshan was shocked. She was well-studied, but this felt out of her ballpark. She did not say anything.

“Afshan, I think we need to get her to Poland very soon, or she will die,” Rahma pleaded. “Białystok has the facilities that could help her! It’s only 50 miles away, damn it! But we would need to get across the border.”

Afshan couldn’t understand it. A history of such heart trouble, how had she made it so far? She remembered this woman seeming the healthiest woman alive last week when she was last here. Something didn’t add up, but the urgency in Rahma’s voice made her hesitate. The fear in Farah’s eyes was real, and Afshan knew she had to act quickly. “I ... I can look after her, but we need to get her to a hospital,” Afshan said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Please, doctor, I think maybe she has been poisoned!” Farah begged in Pashto, her eyes pleading. Afshan turned to Rahma for a translation. Rahma’s expression turned grim as he translated, “She says the Belarussian doctors just chased her away and told her to go to Poland.” He shook his head in disgust. “Afshan, we can’t leave her like this. We need to get her to Poland immediately. It’s her only chance.”

Afshan felt the weight of the decision pressing on her. The urgency and desperation in Farah’s eyes were undeniable. “Alright,” she said, determination setting in. “Let’s get her to Poland.” Conveniently, Dmitri appeared and said something in Russian to Rahma. “There is a driver nearby who knows the roads,” Rahma informed Afshan. He then turned to the Afghan women and assured them that they were going to a nearby hospital. Afshan tried to calm Amina and helped her breathe, but she felt helpless without proper medical equipment and a doctor’s expertise.

The camp doctor had been called away for an emergency an hour away and couldn’t assist; he would later curse the mystery pranksters who had sent him on a wild goose chase.

Within fifteen minutes, Ivan Kozlov appeared in his truck. “Mr. Kozlov, I wouldn’t ask you this if this woman’s life wasn’t in danger,” Rahma spoke earnestly. “But I understand you might be able to help us get across the border. We need to get this woman to the hospital in Białystok for specialist treatment. We can’t rely on the border police’s kindness or the distant Belarussian hospitals. No offense.”

“None taken,” Ivan Kozlov said grimly. “I completely understand. Don’t worry about money or anything. We can leave immediately.”

“I will come to translate,” Rahma said, looking at Afshan with a searching look. “Of course, I will come,” said Afshan. She couldn’t bear to leave Amina in such a dire state and was determined to do her best to care for her. The party of five set off, with Amina in the back, sweating, moaning, and sobbing. Her daughter and Afshan caressed her, trying to do anything to calm her. Afshan knew that without specialist care, this woman could die.

As they left, Dmitri’s eyes narrowed. He went to the women’s center, politely made sure no one was in the shared bathroom, and took out the little toothbrush with the Afghan flag, pocketing it. Every morning for the last few days, he had been applying a film of digitalis to the brush, and it had paid off. Now, he got in his car and, unlike his co-conspirators, drove legally with his ID into Poland to the agreed meeting place where the rented truck was parked.

Ivan Kozlov had been wary of Dmitri, but the suave Mr. Rahma, the earnest Pakistani medical student, and the panicked young Afghan women appeared entirely believable. As the conversation went on, Farah eventually got the word “poison” out, which Afshan understood. Rahma pretended to be baffled, but Afshan had no reason to think this was an elaborate trick. Nothing had prepared her for confronting the symptoms of a few days of steady digitalis poisoning.

Amina suddenly made the motion to brush her teeth. She remembered the strange taste in her mouth. Farah repeated the word, and everyone understood: “brush.”

“I think she is saying she thinks her toothbrush was poisoned,” Rahma turned to Afshan, gently raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps she is hallucinating, I don’t know.”

Afshan didn’t know what to think, but the main thing was to get this woman to a hospital.

“Ivan,” Rahma said, “when will we get to the border?”

“We already got there; we are in Poland now! Just half an hour and we will be in Białystok.”