There were shadows in the tops of the two vakhta: guards watching the new arrivals. The towers were fifteen meters high, accessed by a series of rickety ladders that could be pulled up at any time. In between the towers the gates were opened by hand. Guards pushed the timber frames, scratching them across the snow. The trucks entered the compound. From the back of the truck Leo watched as the gates closed behind him.
SAME DAY
Stepping down from the back of the truck, Leo was ushered into a single line by the guards. Side by side, single file, the convicts stood shivering, ready for inspection. With no scarf and an ill-fitting hat, Leo had stuffed rags around his jacket collar to insulate himself against the cold. Despite his best efforts he was unable to stop his teeth tapping. His eyes roamed the zona. The simple timber barracks were raised off frozen soil, supported on squat stilts. The horizon was barbed wire and white sky. The buildings and structures were so rudimentary, it was as if a once mighty civilization had de-evolved, skyscrapers replaced with huts. This was where they died: the men and women he’d arrested, the men and women whose names he’d forgotten. This was where they’d stood. This was what they saw. Except he did not feel how they’d felt. They would have had no plans to escape. They would have had no plans at all.
Waiting in silence, there was no sign of Gulag 57’s commander, Zhores Sinyavksy, a man whose reputation had spread beyond the Gulags, carried out by the survivors and cursed across the country. Fifty-five years old, Sinyavksy was a veteran of the Glavnoe upravlenie lagerei -Gulag for short-his entire adult life dedicated to enforcing lethal servitude. He’d overseen convict construction projects including the Fergana Canal and the aborted railway at the mouth of the Ob River, a set of tracks that never connected with their intended destination, the Yenisei River, falling many hundreds of kilometers short, rotting in the ground like the remains of a prehistoric steel beast. Yet the failure of that project, costing many thousands of lives and billions of rubles, hadn’t damaged his career. While other supervisors gave in to demands that prisoners rest and eat and sleep, he’d always met his targets. He’d forced prisoners to work in the dead of winter and at the height of summer. He hadn’t been building a railway. He’d been building his reputation, chiseling his name into other men’s bones. It didn’t matter if the steel railway sleepers hadn’t been strengthened, if they cracked in the July sun and buckled in the January ice. It didn’t matter if workers collapsed. On paper his quota had been fulfilled. On paper he was a man to trust.
Flicking through his file, it was self-evident that for Sinyavksy this was more than a job. He didn’t crave privileges. He wasn’t motivated by money. When he’d been offered comfortable administrative posts in temperate climates, overseeing camps not far from cities, he’d refused. Fifty-five years old, he desired to rule over the most hostile terrain ever colonized. He’d volunteered to work in Kolyma. He’d seen the desolation and decided this was the place for him.
Hearing the creak of wood, Leo looked up. At the top of the stairs Sinyavksy stepped out of the command barracks, wrapped in reindeer furs so thick they doubled his size. The coat was as decorative as it was practical, hung across his shoulders with such aplomb the implication was that he’d killed the animals in a heroic battle. The theatricality of his appearance would surely have been ludicrous in any other man and in any other place. Yet here, on him, it seemed appropriate. He was emperor of this place.
Unlike the other prisoners, whose survival instincts were more sharply tuned, having spent several months on trains and in transit camps, Leo stared openly at the commander with reckless fascination. Belatedly remembering that he was not a militia officer anymore, he turned away, redirecting his gaze down at the ground. A convict could be shot for making eye contact with a guard. Though regulations had changed in theory, there was no way of knowing if those changes had been implemented.
Sinyavksy called out:
– You!
Leo kept his eyes fixed down. He could hear the stairs creaking as the commander descended from the elevated platform, reaching the ground, footsteps crunching across snow and ice. Two beautifully tailored felt boots stepped into his frame of view. Even now Leo kept his eyes down like a scolded dog. A hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look up. The commander’s face was lined with thick dark grooves, skin like cured meat. His pupils were tinged with an iodine yellow. Leo had made a rudimentary mistake. He’d stood out. He’d been noticed. A common technique was to make an example out of a convict upon arrival to show the others what they could expect.
– Why do you look away?
Silence, Leo could feel the other prisoners’ relief emanating from them like heat. He’d been picked, not them. Sinyavksy’s voice was peculiarly soft:
– Answer.
Leo replied:
– I did not wish to insult you.
Sinyavksy let go of Leo’s chin, stepping back and reaching into his pocket.
Anticipating the barrel of a gun, it took Leo several seconds to adjust. Sinyavksy’s arm was outstretched-yes-but his palm was turned up to the sky. On the flat of his hand were small purple flowers, each no bigger than a shirt button. Leo wondered if this was a moment’s insanity as a bullet passed through his brain, a confusion of images, memories smashed together. But time passed, the delicate flowers were fluttering in the wind. This was real.
– Take one.
Was it a poison? Was he to writhe in pain in front of the others? Leo didn’t move, arms flat by his side.
– Take one.
Obedient, powerless, Leo reached out, his thumb and forefinger trembling, stumbling across Sinyavksy’s palm as if they were the legs of a drunken man, almost knocking the flowers off. Finally, he took hold of one. It was dried, the petals brittle.
– Smell it.
Once again, Leo did nothing, unable to comprehend his instructions. They were repeated:
– Smell it.
Leo lifted it to his nose, sniffing the tiny flower, smelling nothing. There was no scent. Sinyavksy smiled:
– Lovely, yes?
Leo considered, unsure if this was a peculiar trap:
– Yes.
– You love it?
– I love it.
He patted Leo on the shoulder:
– You shall be a flower grower. This landscape looks barren. But it is full of opportunities. There are only twenty weeks in the year when the topsoil thaws. During those weeks I allow all prisoners to cultivate the land. You can grow whatever you like. Most grow vegetables. But the flowers that grow here are quite beautiful, in their modest way. Modest flowers are often the prettiest, don’t you agree?
– I agree.
– Do you think you will grow flowers? I don’t want to force it upon you. There are other things you can do.
– Flowers… are… nice.
– Yes they are. They are nice. And modest flowers are the nicest.
The commander leaned close to Leo, whispering:
– I shall save you a good patch of soil. Our secret…
He squeezed Leo’s arm affectionately.
Sinyavksy stepped away, addressing the entire line of prisoners, his hand outstretched, displaying the small purple flowers:
– Take one!
The prisoners hesitated. He repeated the order:
– Take! Take! Take!
Frustrated with their sluggish response, he threw the flowers into the air: purple petals fluttering around their shaven heads. Reaching into his pocket, taking another handful he threw them again, over and over, showering them. Some men looked up, tiny purple petals catching in their lashes. A few men were still looking at the ground, no doubt convinced this was a trick of the most devious kind that only they had passed.
Still holding his flower, balanced in the cup of his hand, Leo didn’t understand, he couldn’t make sense of it-had he read the wrong file? This man with pockets full of flowers couldn’t be the same man who had ordered prisoners to work while their comrades’ bodies rotted beside them, couldn’t be the commander who’d supervised the Fergana Canal and the Ob River railway. His supply of flowers finished, the last petals spinning to the snow, Sinyavksy continued his introduction speech:
– These flowers grew out from the meanest, cruelest soil in the world! Beauty from ugliness: that is our belief here! You are not here to suffer. You are here to work just as I am here to work. We are not so different, you and I. It is true that we will do different kinds of work. Perhaps your work is harder. Yet we will work hard together, for our country. We will improve ourselves. We will become better people, here, in this place where no one expects to find goodness.
The words seemed heartfelt. They were uttered with genuine emotion. Whether because the commander was racked with guilt, or remorse, or fear at being judged by the new regime, it was quite obvious that he’d gone insane.
Sinyavksy gestured to the guards; one hurried toward the mess hall barracks, returning moments later with several prisoners, each carrying a bottle and a tray of small tin cups. They poured a thick, dark liquid into the cups, offering one to each convict. Sinyavksy explained:
– The drink, khvoya, is an extract of pine needle combined with rose water. Both are rich in vitamins. They will keep you healthy. When you are healthy you are productive. You will lead a more productive life here than you did outside the camp. My job is to help you become a more productive citizen. In so doing, I become a more productive citizen. Your welfare is my welfare. As you improve, so do I.
Leo hadn’t moved. He hadn’t changed position. His hand was still outstretched. A breeze caught the flower and blew it to the ground. He bent down and picked it up. When he stood up, the prisoner with the pine needle concentrate had arrived. Leo took hold of the small tin cup, his fingers briefly touching the fingers of the prisoner. For a split second they were strangers, and then recognition sparked.
SAME DAY
Lazar’s eyes appeared enormous, black-rock moons with a red sun blazing behind them. He was thin, his body boiled down to a concentrate of its former self-his features starker, more pronounced, skin stretched tight except for the left side of his face where his jaw and cheek had slipped, as though they’d been made from wax and left too close to the fire. Leo reasoned he must have suffered a stroke before remembering the night of the arrest. His fist clenched involuntarily-the same fist he’d used to punch Lazar again and again until his jaw had turned soft. Surely seven years was long enough to heal, long enough for any injury to heal. But Lazar would have received no medical treatment in the Lubyanka. The interrogators might even have made use of the injury, twisting the broken bone whenever his answers were unsatisfactory. He would’ve received limited treatment in the camps, no reconstructive surgery-the idea was fanciful. That impulsive, senseless act of violence, a crime Leo had forgotten about as soon as his knuckles ceased being sore, had been immortalized in bone.
Lazar made no discernible reaction to their reunion except to pause from his duties as their eyes cracked against each other like flints. His face was inscrutable, the left side of his mouth dragged into a permanent grimace. Without saying a word, he moved away, down the line of prisoners, pouring small cups of pine needle extract for the new arrivals, not glancing back, as though nothing were amiss, as though they were strangers again.
Leo clutched his small tin cup, fingers clamped tight around it, remaining in the exact same position. The gelatinous surface of the pine needle and rose syrup quivered as his hand trembled. He’d lost the ability to think or strategize. The camp commander called out, in good humor:
– You there! Friend! Flower lover! Drink! It will make you strong!
Leo brought the cup to his lips, tipping the thick black liquid down his neck. Intensely bitter, it lined his throat like tar, making him want to cough it up. He closed his eyes, forcing it down.
Opening his eyes, he watched Lazar finish his duties, returning to the barracks, walking at an unhurried pace. Even as he passed by he didn’t look back, showing no sign of agitation or excitement. Commander Sinyavksy continued to speak for some time. But Leo had stopped listening. Inside his clammy fist, he’d crushed the dried purple flower to powder. The prisoner standing to his right hissed:
– Pay attention! We’re moving!
The commander had finished talking. Introductions were over; the convicts were being shepherded from the administration zone into the prisoner zone. Leo was near the back of the line. Evening had set, extinguishing the horizon. Lights flickered in the guard towers. No powerful spotlights searched the ground. Except for the dull glow of the hut windows, the zona was completely dark.
They passed through the second barbed-wire fence. The guards remained at the border of the two zones, guns ready, ushering them toward the barracks. No officer entered this zone at night. It was too dangerous, too easy for a prisoner to smash their skull and disappear. They were only concerned with maintaining the perimeter, sealing the convicts in and leaving them to their own devices.
Leo was the last to enter the barracks-Lazar’s barracks. He would have to face him alone, without Timur. He’d reason with him, talk to him. The man was a priest: he would hear his confession. Leo had much to tell. He had changed. He’d spent three years trying to make amends. Like a man walking to his execution, he climbed the flight of steps with heavy legs. He pushed on the door, breathing deeply, inhaling the stench of an overcrowded barracks and revealing a panorama of hate-filled faces.
SAME DAY
Leo had blacked out. Coming around, he found that he was on the floor, dragged by his ankles, submerged beneath waves of kicking prisoners. His fingers touched his scalp, finding the skin sticky with blood. Unable to focus, unable to fight, helpless at the epicenter of this ferocity, he couldn’t survive for long. A glob of spit hit his eye. A boot slammed into the side of his head. His jaw hit the floor, his teeth scratching against each other. Abruptly, the kicking and spitting and shouting abated. In unison the mob pulled away, leaving him spluttering, as though washed up by a storm. From roaring hatred to silence, someone must have intervened.