Nimes, France. September 1 2015

I was getting money from the ATM on Victor Hugo Boulevard. It was early in the evening, at about 5:45 pm. Just as I pulled the cash from the machine, I felt someone press into the back of me and tell me not to scream.

I am an old man; I am not concerned. I didn't scream. Turned around and saw a young couple standing there. The man was about 1 meter 77 and wearing all black. Black pants, black boots, and a black sweater. His face was marked from the pocks. You know? Many scars. He had brown hair that was very stringy, hanging over his ears. It needed to be washed.

The woman grabbed my arm and spoke in an accent I did not recognize. Maybe Eastern European. She was shorter and soft with long dark hair than the man with her and me. She was a bit overweight. She wore a tight black skirt and big black boots. I noticed that her t-shirt had one of those Mexican skulls on it.

They took one arm each, one on the left and one on the right and began pushing me towards Place de la Maison Carree. I started to protest. I offered them the money in my hands if they would just let me go.

But they would not. I attempted to make eye contact with other people on the street, but it all happened so fast that I was unsuccessful.

I saw an old Volkswagon van on the road; the couple was pushing me towards that van. It was yellow, and a woman was in the driver's seat. She didn't wear black and had on a jean jacket and curly blonde hair. They were Polish people.

I was unable to see the license plate.

The couple put me in the van and told the woman to drive. She turned left onto Victor Hugo Boulevard. We turned right onto Rue Jean Reboul. The three of them were arguing in a language I did not understand.

The van inside was filthy; there was a lot of garbage on the floor. Old Mcdonald's wrapper and empty cola cans. There were cigarette butts on the ground, the self-rolled dark shag kind. I noticed a bag with some clothes in it. And a newspaper, but I could not recognize the language. I think Polish, but I do not know.

I did not understand what was happening, but soon we crossed over the train tracks. I could tell we were leaving town. After an hour, I could feel the car slowing down.

The car came to an abrupt stop, and the driver got out. She walked around and opened the door to the back; that is when the dark-haired girl took my wallet and phone and shoved me out of the van.

I do not know what happened next. I was woken up by a police officer.

Sincerely,

Jacques Bartels