"On the sofa lay a woman dressed in a military uniform, with the insignia of a group of Islamic fundamentalists sewn on the sleeve. The sergeant lowered his weapon and we moved closer. She stared at us wide-eyed and mumbled something in an accent similar to that of the Chechens, Georgians and everyone who we disdainfully called chernozhopiy – ‘black arses’, or members of the Asian races of the Caucasus. She was speaking Russian, but what she was saying was completely incomprehensible. She was afraid to die, that much was clear. The explorer sergeant extracted a huge knife from his right boot. It looked like something a butcher would use, very thick and with a wide blade. The woman went even paler, if that was possible, and without trying to get up from the sofa kept spitting out bursts of words that didn’t make any sense. ‘She must be their medic,’ the sergeant said, for no particular reason. None of us was able to say a word. We were all curious to find out how this romantic little encounter was going to end. Shoe was behind me, and with a voice weakened by the cold he said: ‘Come on, brother, shove the blade between this Muslim bitch’s legs. Now we’ll show you how real operations are done, we’ll teach you what surgery is...’ Shoe was scaring me, but I was frightened of myself too. All of us were worked up, yet at the same time disgusted at what was happening. The explorer sergeant grabbed the woman’s neck with one of his huge hands, and held her still. She tried to scratch his face, she struggled, but he was smiling, as if she were his daughter and they were play-wrestling on their couch at home. Without any sudden movements he stuck the knife into her chest, at the left breast. The blade went in easily, and he pushed it in slowly. It seemed like he was enjoying every moment. With his other hand he kept hold of her neck. She tried to free herself while foam started to trickle out of her mouth, and it quickly turned red. The woman’s face was purple, swollen; she made a sort of deep, guttural moan, kicking and shaking as if she were having an epileptic fit. When the handle of the knife hit the woman’s uniform, I tried to picture the blade sunk all the way through her flesh; the knife was so long that it must have impaled her, its tip touching the fabric of the sofa. The sergeant lifted her and sat her down. She looked like a broken doll. Her eyes were empty, her arms hung limp, blood oozed from her slightly open mouth, but it was light – perhaps she had bitten her tongue as she was dying. She had the typical face of women from the Caucasus: small, barely pronounced eyes, a long and disproportionate nose. She was young, she couldn’t have been over thirty."