Nimes, France. September 1 2015

It was a chilly evening in Nîmes, the kind that makes you pull your coat tighter. I was getting money from the ATM on Victor Hugo Boulevard, just across from the park. The street was bustling with people heading home from work, and the last of the day’s sunlight was casting long shadows. It was about 5:45 PM. I’ve lived in this city for over 70 years; I know its rhythms, its quiet corners, and its busy thoroughfares. The ATM was a regular stop for me. Just as the machine whirred and I pulled the cash from the slot, I felt someone press into the back of me. A voice, low and urgent, whispered in my ear: "Don't scream."

I am an old man. My youth's impulsive terror has long since been replaced by a weary pragmatism. A lifetime of experiences has taught me that a struggle will likely only bring more harm. So, I didn't scream. I didn't panic. I slowly turned around and saw a young couple standing there. The man was about 1.77 meters tall and dressed in all black—black pants, black boots, and a black sweater. His face was marked by the pocks of old acne, giving his skin a cratered, uneven texture. His brown hair was stringy and unkempt, hanging over his ears as if it hadn't been washed in weeks.

The woman grabbed my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She spoke in an accent I didn't recognize, maybe Eastern European. She was shorter and softer than the man, with long, dark hair. She was a bit overweight, her body spilling over a tight black skirt. She wore big, clunky black boots, and I noticed that her t-shirt had a Mexican skull on it, the kind with flowers and intricate patterns, known as a Sugar Skull.

They took one arm each, one on the left and one on the right, and began pushing me towards Place de la Maison Carrée. I started to protest, my voice a low, raspy whisper. I offered them the money I had just withdrawn from the ATM. "Take it," I said, holding out the crumpled euros. "Just take it and let me go."

But they would not. "Be quiet, old man," the man with the pocked face hissed. It all happened so fast. The world around us, so full of people, seemed to suddenly move in slow motion, yet my own body was being rushed. I attempted to make eye contact with other people on the street, to signal for help, but no one seemed to notice. They were all engrossed in their own lives—on their phones, talking to their friends, or simply walking past.

I saw an old Volkswagen van parked on the side of the road, its bright yellow color a shocking contrast to the drab evening light. The couple was pushing me towards that van. A woman was in the driver’s seat. She didn't wear black like the others. She had on a light blue jean jacket and curly, blonde hair. Something about her look was different, less menacing. I remember thinking to myself, "Ah, they're Polish people." My mind, in its fear, was trying to make sense of the chaos, to put a name and a place to my attackers.

I was unable to see the license plate because of the fading light.

The couple, with a final, forceful shove, put me in the van and told the woman to drive. She turned left onto Victor Hugo Boulevard, the last familiar sight I would have for some time. We then turned right onto Rue Jean Reboul, a street I knew well, and the three of them began arguing in a language I didn’t understand, their voices rising and falling in sharp, angry bursts.

The van's interior was filthy; a layer of grime coated every surface. There was a lot of garbage on the floor: old McDonald's wrappers, empty cola cans, and a litter of cigarette butts, the self-rolled, dark shag kind. I noticed a bag with some clothes in it and a newspaper. I tried to make out the letters on the paper, to read its title, but I couldn't recognize the language. I assumed it was Polish, but I did not know for sure.

I sat there in the back, my mind racing, trying to understand what was happening. This wasn't a robbery; they had refused the money. This was something else, something far more sinister. Soon, the van crossed over the train tracks, the familiar rattle of the wheels a confirmation that we were leaving the city limits. After an hour, I could feel the car slowing down, the tires crunching on what sounded like gravel.

The van came to an abrupt stop, and the engine was turned off. The silence was deafening. The driver, the blonde woman, got out. I could hear her footsteps crunching on the ground as she walked around to the back of the van. The door slid open, and the cold night air hit my face. The dark-haired girl took my wallet and phone from my pockets, her movements quick and practiced. Then, she shoved me out of the van with a violent push. I stumbled and fell onto the cold ground.

I do not know what happened next. The last thing I remember is the van’s yellow taillights disappearing into the darkness. I was woken up by a police officer, who was shaking me gently. I was lying in a ditch by the side of a dirt road. It was cold, and my body was stiff with pain. I told them everything I could remember, but the details were blurry, the events a chaotic mess of fear and confusion. I am home now, but the feeling of those hands on my arms, the smell of that filthy van, and the chilling finality of those taillights are still with me.