Two fingers were cut off at the knuckles, blackened stumps.
– Frostbite. No gloves. Minus fifty degrees: so cold that when you spit, the spit turns to ice before it hits the ground. He still sent us out, in conditions not suitable for spit! He sent us out! Day after day after day! Two fingers, two steps!
Everyone cheered in agreement. The lawyer straightened his gray prison-issue cotton coat, as if it were a formal frock:
– It is not about the number of fingers you lost. You cite inhumane work conditions. The crime has been agreed. But that is one example and therefore one step.
A voice from the crowd:
– I lost a toe! Why doesn’t my toe count for a step?
There were more than enough deformed and blackened fingers and toes to force the commander to the top. The lawyer was losing control, unable to scramble enough rules into place to sedate the animated crowd.
Cutting across the debate, the commander called out:
– You are right! Your injury is a crime. Each of the injuries you have suffered is a crime.
The commander took another step up. The interjections faded, the arguments silenced as they listened:
– The truth is that I have committed more crimes than there are steps. Were there steps up to the mountaintop, I would have to climb them all.
Aggrieved that his system had been bypassed by this confession, the lawyer responded:
– You accept that you deserve to die?
The commander answered indirectly:
– If you can take a step up, can you not also take a step down? If you can do wrong can you not also do good? Can I not try and put right the wrongs that I have done?
He pointed at the prisoner who lost his toe:
– You lost your toe to frostbite and for that I have taken a step up. But last year, you wanted to send your wages to your family. When I told you that, because our system has not been fair, you hadn’t earned as much as they needed, didn’t I take from my own salary to make up the difference? Didn’t I personally ensure your wife received the money in time?
The prisoner glanced around, saying nothing. The lawyer asked:
– Is it true?
The prisoner reluctantly nodded:
– It is true.
The commander took a step down:
– For that act, can I not take a step down? I accept that I have not yet done enough good to offset my wrongs. So why not allow me to live? Allow me to spend the rest of my life trying to make amends? Is that not better than dying?
– What about the people you killed?
– What about the people I saved? Since Stalin’s death, the mortality rate in this camp is the lowest in Kolyma. That is the result of my changes. I increased food rations. I have given you longer rest periods and shorter working days. I have improved medical care. The sick no longer die! The sick recover. You know this to be true! The reason you were able to overpower the guards is because you are better fed, better rested, and stronger than you have ever been before! I am the reason this uprising is even possible!
The lawyer stepped up to the commander, flustered that his system was in disarray:
– We said nothing about being able to take a step down.
The lawyer turned to the triptych of convict leaders:
– Do we wish to change the system?
The square-jawed leader turned to his comrades:
– The commander asks for a second chance. Do we grant it?
It began as a murmur, the answer growing louder and louder as more joined in.
– No second chance! No second chance! No second chance!
The commander’s face dropped. He genuinely believed he’d done enough to be spared. The lawyer turned to the condemned man. Clearly they hadn’t thought the process through. No one had been designated the role of executioner. The commander took from his pocket one of the small, dried purple flowers, clutching it in his fist. He climbed to the top of the stairs, staring up at the night sky. The lawyer spoke, his voice quivering under the pressure:
– We offer a collective judgment. We must perform a collective punishment.
Guns were drawn. The lawyer stepped clear. The commander cried out:
– One last thing…
Handguns, rifles, and bursts from a machine gun-the commander fell back, as if flicked over by a giant finger. Villainous in life, in the face of death he had achieved a kind of dignity. The prisoners resented him for it. They would allow him no more words.
The mood in the makeshift court transitioned from excitement to solemnity. Clearing his throat, the lawyer asked:
– What shall we do with the body?
Someone said:
– Leave it there, for the next one to see.
It was agreed. The body would be left.
– Who is next?
Leo tensed. Georgi declared:
– Leo Stepanovich Demidov.
The lawyer peered out over the guards:
– Who is this? Who is Leo?
Leo didn’t move. The lawyer called out:
– Stand up or you will forfeit your trial and we will execute you immediately!
Slowly, not entirely sure that his legs wouldn’t give way, Leo stood up. The lawyer ushered him to the bottom step, where he turned to face his court. The lawyer asked:
– Are you a guard?
– No.
– What are you?
– I am a member of the Moscow militia. I was sent here undercover.
Georgi called out:
– He’s a Chekist!
The crowd, his jury and judge, burst into a flurry of anger. Leo glanced at his accuser. Georgi was acting independently. Lazar was reading a sheet of paper, a list of Leo’s crimes perhaps. The lawyer asked:
– Is this true? Are you a Chekist?
– In the past, I was a member of the MGB.
The lawyer called out:
– Examples of his crimes!
Georgi replied:
– He denounced Lazar!
The prisoners jeered. Leo took a step up. Georgi continued:
– He beat Lazar! Smashed his jaw!
Leo was guided up the next step.
– He arrested Lazar’s wife!
Leo was now standing on the fourth step.
– He arrested members of Lazar’s congregation!
As Leo stood on the fifth step, Georgi had run out of things to say. No one else in the compound knew Leo. No one else could name his crimes. The lawyer declared:
– We need more examples! Seven more!
Frustrated, Georgi called out:
– He’s a Chekist!
The lawyer shook his head:
– That is not an example.
According to the rules of their system, no one knew him well enough to convict him, no one, that is, except Leo himself. The prisoners were dissatisfied. They were rightly certain that, as a Chekist, there must be many more examples unknown to them. Leo sensed that the system would not protect him. Had he not witnessed the commander’s execution, he might have climbed to the top and admitted his wrongdoings. But he had no speech more eloquent than the commander’s. His life depended upon the rules of their system. They would need seven more examples. They did not have them.
Georgi, refusing to give up, cried out:
– How many years were you a Chekist?
After serving in the army, Leo had been recruited into the secret police. He had been a Chekist for five years.
– Five years.
Addressing the assembled convicts, Georgi asked:
– Is it not easy to believe that he wronged at least two people each year? Is that so hard to believe of a Chekist?
The crowd agreed: two steps for each year. Leo turned to the lawyer, hoping he would overrule this amendment. The lawyer shrugged, the suggestion became law. He ushered Leo to the top. He had been sentenced to death.
Unable to comprehend that this was the end, Leo didn’t move. A voice cried out:
– To the top or we’ll shoot you where you stand!
Lightheaded, Leo climbed to the top, standing over the commander’s bullet-ridden body, an array of guns pointed at him.
A voice, the man who hated him, Georgi, cried out:
– Wait!
Leo watched as Lazar spoke into Georgi’s ear. Unusually, Georgi wasn’t translating simultaneously. When Lazar had finished Georgi looked at him, questioning. Lazar indicated that he repeat his words. Georgi turned to Leo, asking:
– My wife is alive?
Georgi took the paper from Lazar’s hand, carrying it to Leo and offering it to him. Leo crouched down, recognizing the letter written by Fraera, proof that she was alive and containing information only she could’ve known. Timur had been carrying it. Before he’d been killed, the guards must have stripped him of all his belongings:
– It was found in the pocket of a guard. You were not lying.
– No.
– She is alive?
– Yes.
Lazar indicated that Georgi return, whispering into his ear. With reluctant obedience Georgi announced:
– I request that he be spared.
MOSCOW
SAME DAY
Like two mongrel cats, Zoya and Malysh sat side by side on the roof of Apartment Block 424. Zoya remained close to Malysh, keen to reassure him that she didn’t want to escape. After the exertion of traveling several kilometers through sewer systems, climbing ladders, sidestepping slime-thick walls, both of them were damp with sweat and it was pleasant being on the rooftop, fanned by a cool night breeze. Zoya felt invigorated. Partly that was due to the exercise after many sedentary days and nights. Mostly it was because she was with him. This felt like the childhood stolen from her-mischievous adventure with a kindred spirit.
Zoya glanced at the photo pinched between Malysh’s fingers:
– What is her name?
– Marina Niurina.
Zoya took the photo from him. Niurina was a woman in her thirties, stern and prim. She was wearing a uniform. Zoya returned the photo, asking:
– You’re going to kill her?
Malysh gave a small nod of his head, as if someone had asked him if they could have a cigarette. Zoya wasn’t sure whether she believed him or not. She’d seen him attack the vory who’d tried to rape her. He was skilled with a knife. Reticent and moody, he didn’t seem like someone who made idle brags.
– Why?
– She’s a Chekist.
– What did she do?
Malysh looked at her quizzically, not understanding. Zoya expanded the question:
– Did she arrest people? Did she interrogate them?
– I don’t know.
– You’re going to kill her but you don’t know what she did?
– I told you. She’s a Chekist.
Zoya wondered how much he knew about the secret police. She remarked, cautiously:
– You don’t know much about them, do you, the secret police? Not really, I mean?
– I know what they did.
Malysh thought about this for a while before adding:
– They arrested people.
– Don’t you need to know a little more about a person before you kill them?
– Fraera has given me orders. I don’t need any other reason.
– That’s what they would say, the Chekists, about the things they did: that they were just following orders.
Malysh became irritated:
– Fraera has said you can help. So you can help. She didn’t say anything about asking a lot of stupid questions. I can take you back to your cell, if that’s what you want.
– Don’t get angry. I would’ve asked why, that’s all. Why are we killing this woman?
Malysh folded the photo in half and put it back in his pocket. Zoya had pushed him too far. She’d been excited and she’d stepped over the line, her brashness getting the better of her. She remained silent, hoping she hadn’t ruined everything. Expecting peevish irritation, she was surprised when Malysh spoke in an almost apologetic tone:
– Her crimes were written down on a list. I didn’t want to ask anyone to read it aloud.
– You can’t read?
Scrutinizing her reaction, he shook his head. She was careful to keep her face blank, alert to his insecurity:
– Didn’t you go to school?
– No.
– What happened to your parents?
– They died. I grew up in train terminals, mostly, until Fraera came along.
Malysh asked:
– You think it’s bad that I can’t read?
– You’ve never had the opportunity to learn.
– I’m not proud of it.
– I know.
– I’d like to read, and write too. I’m going to learn, someday.
– You’ll learn quickly, I’m sure.
They sat in silence for the next hour or so, watching as the lights in the surrounding buildings around went dark, one by one, the occupants turning in to bed. Malysh stood up, stretching, a nocturnal creature that only stirred when everyone else slept. Out of the pockets of his baggy trousers, he took a reel of stiff wire, unfolding it. At the end of the wire he fastened a shard of mirror, wrapping the wire round and round until it was secure. He carefully tilted the mirror so that it was at a forty-five-degree angle. Walking to the edge of the building, he lay on his stomach and lowered the wire until the mirror was in line with the bedroom window. Zoya joined him, lying by his side and glancing down. The curtain was closed but there was a small gap. In the dark room he could make out a figure in bed. Malysh pulled the wire up, taking the mirror off the end, folding the wire up and putting the items back in his pocket.
– We enter the other side.
Zoya nodded. He paused, muttering:
– You can stay here.
– On my own?
– I trust you not to run away.
– Malysh, I hate Chekists as much as Fraera. I’m with you.
Taking off their shoes, leaving them neatly side by side on the roof, they scaled down the brickwork, holding on to the drainpipe for support. It was a short descent: a meter or so. Malysh reached the windowsill as easily as if there’d been a ladder. Zoya followed tentatively, trying not to look down. They were on the sixth floor and any fall would be fatal. Flicking out a knife, Malysh lifted the catch, opening the window and entering the apartment. Wary of Zoya making a noise, he turned around, offering his hand. She waved it aside, gingerly lowering herself to the floorboards.