—I’m surprised you could be so cruel as to dismiss her request with a declaration of love for Leo. This is a girl so disturbed that she takes a knife from your kitchen and stands over Leo while he sleeps, planning to cut his throat.
Raisa’s guard fell. She didn’t know what Fraera was referring to—what knife? A knife held over Leo? After several attempts Fraera had finally landed upon a weakness—a lie, a secret. She smiled:
—It seems there is something Leo hasn’t told you. It’s true, Zoya used to stand by his side of the bed, holding a knife. Leo caught her. And he didn’t tell you?
In an instant Raisa fitted together the discrepancies. When she’d found Leo sitting at the kitchen table, brooding, he hadn’t been concerned about Nikolai, he’d been thinking about Zoya. She’d asked him what was wrong. He’d said nothing. He’d lied to her.
Fraera was now in control:
—Bearing that incident in mind, think about what I’m about to say carefully. I will repeat Zoya’s offer. I will return Zoya to your care, unharmed. In exchange you and the girls must never see Leo again. Love the girls, or love Leo, that has been the reality of your situation for the past three years. And Raisa, now you must choose.
KOLYMA
GULAG 57
SAME DAY
LEO COULD BARELY STAND, let alone dig. Working in a crude system of trenches three meters below the topsoil, his pickaxe pinged uselessly against the permafrost. There were vast smoldering fires, like the funeral pyres of fallen heroes, slow-burning to soften the frozen ground. But Leo was near none of them, deliberately located by the leader of his work brigade in the coldest and most remote corner of the gold mines, in the least-developed trench system where, even had he been at full strength, it would’ve been impossible to fulfill his norm, the mininum amount of rocks he needed to break in order to be fed a standard ration.
Exhausted, his legs quivered, unable to support his weight. Swollen and bubbled, his kneecaps were sunk behind sacs of fluid, swirls of purple and blue. Last night Leo had been forced onto his knees, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles lifted and bound to his wrists so that his entire body weight was supported on his kneecaps. To keep him from falling over he’d been secured to the steps of a bunk. Hour after hour he’d been unable to relieve the pressure: skin stretched tight, bone grinding against wood, sandpapering his skin. At each shift in position he’d cried out and consequently been gagged in order that the prisoners might go to bed. They’d slept while he’d remained on his knees, teeth chomping like a mad horse against the filthy rag, which the prisoners had prepared by rubbing it across their weeping boils. While snores had crisscrossed the barracks one man had remained awake—Lazar. He’d watched over Leo the entire night, removing the gag when he’d needed to vomit, retying it after he’d finished, displaying a paternal dedication: a father tending to a sickly son, a son that needed to be taught a lesson.
At dawn Leo had spluttered back into consciousness as ice-cold water had been poured over his head. Untied, his gag removed, he’d slumped, unable to feel his feet, as though his legs had been amputated below the knees. It had taken several excruciating minutes before he’d been able to stretch them and several minutes more before he’d been able to heave himself up—hobbling—aged a hundred years. His fellow prisoners had allowed him to take breakfast, to sit at a table, to eat his ration, his hands shaking. They wanted him to live. They wanted him to suffer. As a man wandering in a desert might dream of an oasis, Leo’s mind concentrated on the shimmering mirage of Timur. Since it was impossible to make the journey from Magadan at night there was only a narrow window, in the early evening, when his friend, his savior, might arrive.
Arms shaking with fatigue, Leo lifted the pickaxe above his head, only for his legs to give way. Falling forward, his puffy knees slammed into the ground. On impact the fluid sacs burst, popping like ripe adolescent pimples. He opened his mouth, a silent scream, his eyes streaming as he toppled onto his side, taking the pressure off his knees and lying at the bottom of a trench. Exhaustion smothered any sense of self-preservation. For a brief moment, he would’ve been content to shut his eyes and go to sleep. In these temperatures he’d never have woken up.
Remembering Zoya, remembering Raisa and Elena—his family— he sat up, placing his hands on the ground, slowly pushing himself up. He was struggling to his feet when someone grabbed him, hissing in his ear:
—No rest, Chekist!
No rest, no mercy either—that had been Lazar’s verdict. The sentence was being carried out with vigor. The voice in his ear didn’t belong to a guard: it was a fellow prisoner, the leader of his brigade, driven by an intense personal hatred, refusing to allow Leo a single minute where he didn’t experience pain or hunger or exhaustion, or all these things together. Leo hadn’t arrested this man or his family. He didn’t even know the man’s name. That didn’t matter. He’d become a talisman for every prisoner: an ambassador for injustice. Chekist had become his name, his entire identity, and seen in that way, everyone’s hatred was personal.
A bell was rung. Tools were downed. Leo had survived his first day at the mine, a modest ordeal compared to the upcoming night—a second as yet unannounced torture. Dragging his legs up the ramp, limping out of the trench, following the others back, his only source of strength was the prospect of Timur’s arrival.
Approaching the camp, the dim daylight, diffuse among the sunken cloud cover, had almost completely disappeared. Emerging out of the darkness, he saw the headlights of a truck on the plateau. Two fists of yellow light, fireflies in the distance. Were it not for his knees, Leo would have dropped to the ground and wept with relief, prostrate before a merciful deity. Pushed and shoved by the guards, who dared curse him only out of earshot of their reformed, enlightened commander, Leo was herded back inside the zona, his eyes constantly thrown over his shoulder, watching as the truck grew closer. Failing to keep his emotions under control, his lip trembling, he returned to the barracks. No matter what torture they’d planned, he’d be saved. He stood by the window—eyes and nose pressed up against the glass, like an impoverished child outside a sweet shop. The truck entered the camp. A guard stepped down from the truck’s cabin, then the driver. Leo waited, fingernails digging into the window frame. Surely Timur was among their number, perhaps seated in the back. Minutes passed, no one else stepped out. He continued to stare, desperation overwhelming logic, until he finally accepted that no matter how long he watched the truck, there was no one else on board.
Timur hadn’t arrived.
Leo couldn’t eat, his hunger displaced by disappointment so strong it filled his stomach. In the dining barracks he remained at the table long after the other prisoners had left, lingering until the guards angrily ordered him out. Better to be punished by them than by his fellow inmates, better to spend the night in the isolator—the freezing punishment cells—than to go through another torture. After all, weren’t these guards operating under the changed Commander Sinyavksy? Hadn’t he spoken about justice and fairness and opportunity? As the guards pushed him toward the door, in a deliberate act of provocation, Leo lashed out, swinging a punch. He was slow and weak: his fist was caught. A rifle butt smashed into his face.
Dragged by his arms, legs trailing in the snow, Leo wasn’t taken to the isolator. He was dumped in the barracks—left sprawled in the middle of the room. He heard the guards leave. His eyes focused on the timber beams. His nose and lips were wet with blood. Lazar looked down at him.
He was stripped bare and wet towels were wrapped tight around his chest, tied behind his back. They rendered him unable to move, arms pinned by his side. He felt no pain. Although he’d never served as an official interrogator, he had firsthand knowledge of their methods. From time to time he’d been forced to watch. Yet this technique was new to him. He was lifted up and left lying on his back. The prisoners continued with their evening activities. His stomach was cold and wet with the towels. But he was too exhausted to care and, seizing the opportunity,
he shut his eyes.
He woke, partly due to the sound of prisoners getting into bed, mostly because of the tension around his chest. Slowly he began to understand the torture. As the towels dried they became tighter, constricting incrementally, steadily crushing his ribs together. The subtle dynamic of the punishment was the knowledge that the pain would only get worse. While the other men readied for bed, Lazar took his regular place on a chair beside Leo. The red-haired man, Lazar’s voice, approached:
—Do you need me?
Lazar shook his head, ushering him to bed. The man glared at Leo like a sulking, jealous lover, before retreating as ordered.
By the time the prisoners were asleep the pain was so intense that had he not been gagged Leo would’ve cried out for mercy. Watching his face slowly contort, as if screws were being tightened, Lazar knelt beside Leo in a gesture of prayer, lowering his mouth to his ear, his bottom lip touching Leo’s lobe as he spoke. His voice was as faint as the shuffle of autumn leaves:
—It is hard… to watch another suffer… no matter what they have done… It changes you… no matter how right you are… to desire revenge…
Lazar paused, recovering from the exertion of these words. His pain had never stopped, he lived with it as a companion, knowing that it would never get better and that he would never know another moment without it.
—I have asked the others… Was there one Chekist who helped you? Was there one good man…? Everyone… said… no.
He paused again, wiping the sweat from his brow, before returning his lips to Leo’s ear:
—The State chose you… to betray me… Because you have a heart… I would’ve spotted a man without one… That is your tragedy… Maxim, I cannot spare you… There is so little justice… We must take what we can get…
Pain became delirium, so intense the sensation took on euphoric properties. Leo was no longer aware of the barracks: the timber walls were dissolving, leaving him alone in the middle of an icy white plateau—a different plateau, whiter and softer and brighter and not at all awful or cold. Water fell from the sky, freezing rain, directly above him. He blinked, shaking his head. He was in the barracks, on the floor. Water had been poured over him. The gag had been removed. The towels were untied. Even so, he could inhale only the tiniest gulps of air: his lungs had grown accustomed to their constriction. He sat up, making slow, shallow gasps. It was morning. He’d survived another night.
Prisoners trudged past him, snorting disdain, on their way to breakfast. Leo’s gasps began to slow, his breathing returning to normal. He was alone in the barracks and he wondered if he had ever felt this alone in his life. He stood up, needing to lean against the bedframe to support his weight. A guard called out to him, furious at his lingering behind. He dropped his head, shunting forward, unable to lift his feet, sliding them along the smooth wood like an infirm ice skater.
Entering the administration zone, Leo stopped. He couldn’t endure a second day of work. He couldn’t endure a third night. His imagination crackled with the memory of the various tortures he’d witnessed. What would come next? The mirage of Timur was too faint to sustain him. Their plans had gone wrong. Nearby a guard called out:
—Keep moving!
Leo had to improvise. He was on his own. Facing in the direction of the camp commander’s office, he called out:
—Commander!
At the violation in etiquette, guards ran toward him. From the dining barracks Lazar watched. Leo needed to catch the commander’s attention quickly:
—Commander! I know about Khrushchev’s speech!
The guards arrived by his side. Before he could say any more Leo was struck across his back. A second blow struck him in the stomach. He crouched, huddling, as more blows landed.
—Stop!
The guards froze. Unraveling himself, Leo glanced up at the administration barracks. Commander Sinyavksy was standing at the top of the steps.
—Bring him to me.
SAME DAY
GUARDS HUSTLED LEO UP THE STAIRS and into the office. The commander had retreated to the corner beside a squat, fat-bellied stove. The log-lined room had been decorated with maps of the region, framed photos of the commander with prisoners at work—Sinyavksy smiling, as if in the company of friends, the prisoners’ faces impassive. There were shadows around the photo frames indicating that other photos, of different shapes and sizes, had recently been taken down and these ones put up in their place.
Dressed in tattered clothes, his body beaten, Leo stood hunched, trembling like a bezprizornik, a ragged street child. Sinyavksy ushered the guards away:
—I wish to speak to the prisoner alone.
The guards glanced at each other. One uttered:
—This man attacked us last night. We should stay with you.
Sinyavksy shook his head:
—Nonsense.
—You are not safe with him.
Considering their rank, their tone was inappropriately threatening. Evidently the commander’s power was being questioned. Addressing Leo:
—You will not attack me, will you?
Leo shook his head:
—No, sir.
—No, sir! He’s even being polite. Now, all of you: leave, I insist.
The guards retreated, reluctantly, making no attempt to conceal their contempt for this softness.
Once they were gone, Sinyavksy moved to the door, checking that they weren’t standing outside. He listened to the creak of the guards’ footsteps as they descended the stairs. Certain of privacy, he bolted the door shut and turned to Leo:
—Please, sit.
Leo sat in the chair, positioned in front of the desk. The air was warm and smelled of woodchips. Leo wanted to sleep. The commander smiled:
—You must be cold.
Without waiting for an answer Sinyavksy walked to the stove. A small iron pan was on the top and he picked it up by the handle, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a small tin cup, the same sort of cups that had been used for the pine needle extract. Holding the cup by the rim, he offered it to Leo:
—Careful.
Leo glanced down at the steaming surface. He raised it to his lips. The smell was sweet. The liquid tasted like melted honey and wild-flowers. None of it made it to the back of his throat: like the first rains falling on a desiccated, cracked-mud riverbed, the warm sugars and alcohol absorbed instantaneously. Blood rushed to his head. His cheeks flushed red. The room began to swirl. The feeling subsided into a gentle, intoxicated mellowness, a lullaby sensation, as if he had swallowed happiness in nectar form.
Sinyavksy sat down opposite, unlocking a drawer, taking out a cardboard box. He placed it on the desk in front of them. The top was stamped:
NOT FOR PRESS
The commander tapped the top:
—You know what’s inside?
Leo nodded:
—Yes.
—You’re a spy, aren’t you?
Leo shouldn’t have taken that drink. Starved suspects were routinely rendered drunk, their tongues loosened. He needed his wits. It was a mistake of the most obvious kind to trust in this man’s benevolence. Entering the room he’d intended to reveal his true identity, detailing his intimate knowledge of the commander’s career, supported with the names of his superiors. This allegation, coming from nowhere, caught him flat-footed. The commander cut across his silence:
—Don’t try to think of a lie. I know the truth. You’re here to report back on the progress of our reforms? Like your friend?
Leo’s heart rose in his chest:
—My friend?
—While I am committed to change, many here in this region are not.
—You know about my friend?
—They are looking for you, the two officers who arrived last night. They are convinced more than one man has come to spy on them.
—What has happened to him?
—Your friend? They executed him.
Leo’s grip loosened around the rim of the tin cup but he did not let it fa
ll to the floor. The strength seeped out of his back: his spine turned soft. He leaned forward, his head dropped, staring down at the floor. The commander continued to speak:
—I fear they will kill us too. Your outburst about the Secret Speech has revealed your identity. They will not allow you to leave. As you saw, it was difficult even getting a moment alone with you.
Leo shook his head. He and Timur had survived impossible situations. He couldn’t be dead. There was some mistake. Leo sat up:
—He’s not dead.
—The man I’m referring to arrived on board the Stary Bolshevik. He was due to come here as my second in command. That was a cover story. He was sent here to write a report. He admitted as much. He claimed he was here to assess us. So they killed him. They will not allow themselves to be judged. They will never allow it.
Timur must have invented that story in order to reach the camp and save him. Leo should never have asked for Timur’s help. He had been so preoccupied with rescuing Zoya he’d only briefly considered the risks to Timur. He’d seen them as small, so convinced was he of his plans and their abilities. He’d broken a loving family in the attempt to piece back together an unhappy one, ruining something wonderful in the pursuit of Zoya’s affections. He began to cry as the realization sank in that Timur, his friend, his only friend, a man adored by his wife and sons, decent and loyal, a man who Leo loved very much, was dead.
When Leo eventually looked up, he saw that Zhores Sinyavksy was crying too. Leo stared in disbelief at the old man’s red eyes and tear-glistening, leathery cheeks and wondered how a man who’d built an incomplete railway out of innocent lives could cry at the death of a man he didn’t even know, a man whose death he wasn’t responsible for. Perhaps he was crying for every death he’d never cried for, every victim who’d passed away in the snow, or the sun, or the mud, while he smoked a cigarette, satisified that his quota had been achieved. Leo wiped his eyes, remembering Lazar’s contempt for them. He was right. Tears were worthless. Leo owed Timur more. If Leo didn’t survive, Timur’s wife and sons would not even know how he’d died. And Leo would never have the chance to say sorry.