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 fall 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.
The guards were intent that he should never make it back to Moscow. They were protecting their fiefdom. Leo was a spy, hated by both sides-prisoners and guards alike, alone except for the commander, a man whose mind seemed warped by guilt. He was at best an unpredictable ally and no longer in control of the camp. Like wolves, the guards were circling the administration barracks, waiting for Leo to emerge.
Looking around the room, his mind spinning through ideas, Leo saw the PA system on the desk. It was connected to speakers set up around the zona.
– You can address the entire camp?
– Yes.
Leo stood up, taking the tin cup and filling it to the brim with the warm amber alcohol. He handed it to the commander:
– Drink with me.
– But – Drink to the memory of my friend.
The commander swallowed it in one gulp. Leo filled the cup again:
– Drink to the memory of all who have died here.
The commander nodded, finishing the cup. Leo filled it again:
– And all those innocent deaths across our country.
The commander tossed back the last of the spirit, wiping his lips. Leo pointed to the speaker:
– Turn it on.
SAME DAY
In the mess hall, Lazar contemplated Leo’s decision to throw himself at the commander’s mercy. A recent convert to compassion, Zhores Sinyavksy might protect him. The other prisoners were furious at the prospect of justice being snatched from them. They’d already planned the third torture, the fourth, fifth-each man eagerly anticipating the night on which Leo would suffer as they’d suffered, when they would see in his face the pain they’d experienced and he’d cry out for mercy and they’d have the long-dreamed-of chance to say:
No
As for Leo’s story about his wife-Anisya-it nagged at him. But the vory in the barracks had assured him it was impossible that a woman who once sang hymns and cleaned and cooked could rise to lead her own gang. Leo was a liar. This time Lazar would not be fooled.
Hissing static emitted from the outside PA speakers. Although nothing more than a background noise, their daily routine was so rigid and unchanging that Lazar flinched at this out-of-the-ordinary occurrence. Standing up, moving around the crowd of prisoners eating their breakfast, he opened the door.
The speakers were set up on tall timber poles, one overhanging each of the prisoner barracks and one in the administration zone, positioned outside the kitchen and dining barracks. They were rarely used. A handful of curious prisoners gathered behind him, including Georgi, his voice, who never left his side. Their eyes fixed on the nearest lame speaker, battered by the winds, hanging crooked. A wire snaked around the pole, reaching the icy ground where it ran to the commander’s office. Static hissed again, modulating into the tinny voice of their commander. He sounded uncertain:
– Special report…
He paused, then began again, louder this time:
– Special report to the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Closed session. Twenty-five February 1956. By Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, First Secretary.
Lazar descended the steps, walking toward the speaker. The guards had stopped what they were doing. After a moment’s confusion they whispered among themselves, evidently uninformed of the commander’s intention. A small group of them broke off, pacing to the administration barracks. Meanwhile the commander continued to read aloud. The more he read, the more agitated the guards became.
– … What took place during the life of Stalin, who practiced brutal violence, not only toward everything which opposed him, but also toward that which seemed, to his capricious and despotic character, contrary to his concepts…
Hurrying, the guards climbed the stairs, banging against the door, urgently calling out to the commander, trying to ascertain if he was acting under duress. One shouted out, with simple-minded earnestness:
– Are you a hostage?
The door remained shut. It didn’t sound to Lazar as if the commander were reading under duress. His voice was growing into the role:
– Stalin created the concept Enemy of the People. The term made possible the use of the cruelest repression, violating all norms of revolutionary legality, against anyone who disagreed with Stalin…
Lazar’s head angled upward toward the speaker, his mouth open in awe, as if a celestial miracle were being performed in the sky.