‘You are a whore.’ Soyolerdene punches him in the face

At dawn the next day I walk down Baruun Selbe Street. A light snow betrays the location of water pipes beneath the pavement, which appear as black lines where the snow has melted from the heat of the pipes. They read like maps to inhabited manholes.

The street dead-ends at Liberty Square, a large, open space bounded by an abandoned communist museum and the modern Tengis movie theater. To the left of the theater two holes steam like fumaroles. A filthy puppy dozes beside them. Inside, water pipes criss-cross above a floor of compacted garbage and cardboard.

A single boy sleeps among the pipes. It is Aizam. He awakens, and nods for us to enter, more out of fear than politeness. I step down through the opening to one of the metal pipes. Aizam shakes his head and points to my shoe, which is already melting from the hot metal. I shift to another pipe and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The chamber is shallow, only 3 to 4 feet deep, and 10 feet square. Aizam will tell me later that when he first came here, he could stand on the bottom with his hands overhead and not touch the ceiling, but so much trash has accumulated that he now must crouch to clear the roof. Rat feces litter the floor and cockroaches crawl along the walls. Water hisses and drips from the pipes.

We are not the only ones here. On the far side of the chamber, I count seven, eight, then nine other children curled up beside each other like sleeping dogs. Their faces are black with soot from a fire that swept through the hole last week, likely started from a burning cigarette. They are all awake now, looking at us with the same fear we saw in Aizam. All boys, they look like they’re anywhere from 7 to 14 years old. But like the girl in the hospital parking lot, they are probably several years older.

For the next couple of weeks we gravitate toward these kids. New faces come and go, but a core group remains. The biggest is 17-year-old Battulga, a leader not so much for his age as for his toughness and brutality. Aizam is next in line, quiet and gentle with the heart of a poet. Then comes Chinbayar, 16, Sukhbaatar (whose name means “Axe-Hero”) and Adyasuren, both 15. All are from broken homes except Adyasuren, who lived in an orphanage but ran away because the older children beat him.

Otgonbayar claims to be 10 but the others say he is 7. He makes considerably more money than the rest because his small, vulnerable appearance elicits more sympathy ? and therefore more money ? when he begs. He spends his cash playing Internet games at a nearby computer arcade. “Counter Strike,” a violent military game, is his favorite. If he spends enough, the owner lets him sleep there.

The youngest is Bilguun, a 7-year-old boy who drifts in and out of the hole like a ghost, disappearing for days at a time before turning up with little explanation.

There are girls here as well: Soyolerdene, 17, Solongo, 16, and Ariungerel, 13. When I first meet them, they sit with their backs to me, not out of disdain but out of embarrassment for the way they live. Many days go by before they feel comfortable enough to speak. But when they do, it is clear they endure hardships beyond those of the boys, living in constant fear of being raped or forced into prostitution by roving gangs of adult males whom the children call “gods” because of their size and strength. Soyolerdene recounts a recent incident that is typical of the dangers they face.

“Two policemen came at night,” she says. “They gave us food and vodka. They offered Enkhbat (one of the oldest boys) 3,000 togrog (about $2.50) to take me for the night. I cried and ran away.”

As she speaks, several boys sitting beside her laugh while passing a bottle of vodka.

“You are a whore,” says Aizam.

Soyolerdene punches him in the face. Blood pours from his nose onto his shirt. He laughs.

“Whore.”

The girl rises to her feet and kicks him in the temple. His head hits the pipe with a low clang, like the peal of a heavy bell. He keeps laughing, and as Soyolerdene cocks her leg to strike again, the other boys intervene and pull her away. She screams and sobs. Aizam leaves the hole for a cigarette, trailing blood onto the ice.

Next Chapter: I FEEL FOR BATTULGA. I CAN SEE THE END IN HIM.