September 1, 2015 (Nimes, France)

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 did not scream. I 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 hold of my arm and spoke in an accent I did not recognize. Maybe Eastern European. She was short and soft with long dark hair. She was shorter than me, and the man who was with her. I think 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 Caree.  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 I was not successful.

I saw an old Volkswagon van on the road; the couple was pushing me towards that van. It was yellow, and there was a woman in the driver's seat. She was the only one who wasn’t wearing black. She had on a jean jacket and curly blonde hair. I think that 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. I think we turned right onto Rue Jean Reboul. The three of them were arguing in a language I did not understand.

The inside of the van was filthy; there was much garbage on the floor. Old McDonalds 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 about wat seemed like 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 my 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