I raised the scalpel away from the bone, and held it a few inches above the wound, as if to prevent it from doing any more harm. My fingertips throbbed inside the blood-smeared surgical gloves. I had an urge to step back from the operating table, to take a good, long moment to tamp down my anxiety, but I couldn’t risk losing focus, and I didn’t want Chereshkevich to see me falter. So I merely fed myself several slow, deep breaths as I mentally prepared for the next step, which was clear. There was nothing to be done now but remove the entire hyoid bone.
With a small tweezer, I lifted out all three pieces, placing the bits end-to-end on the sterile green pad beside me. Re-assembled, the entire bone was half the length of a toothpick and about as wide. Returning to the surgical site with a cauterizing scalpel, I worked carefully around the larynx and thyroid to slowly free the thyroglossal duct up to the base of the tongue. My concentration regained its purity; the mistake was no longer in my mind. Within a few minutes, the duct, a useless embryological structure, was tugged out of the patient’s neck in one long, thin, flaccid piece, and placed on the pad next to the bone.
The tumor was now completely freed from the surrounding tissue. A portion of its smooth, glistening surface was visible under the last layer of yellow subcutaneous fat. With the first two fingers of my right hand, I dug into the slit rather roughly, needing to propel the tumor from the back. It virtually popped through the incision, bright pink and slippery, almost perfectly round, about five centimeters in diameter. I palpated it softly, curiously, to feel for any abnormalities in its inner jello-like texture—there were none—before plunking it into a metal bowl that Chereshkevich held out. In the vast majority of cases, these cysts were benign. As the tissue wouldn’t be analyzed in a lab, we would never know for sure. It was enough that it had been removed.
I closed with three layers of stitches, the last one everted. A warm loosening spread by degrees through the muscles of my body as I worked, and my attention gradually widened, bringing me back into the tiny exam room. Now I could hear the noises that had been in the background all along—the patient’s shallow breathing, the electrical hum of the lights. My mood grew steadily lighter, almost euphoric, as I moved smoothly through the operation’s final steps.
“Good work,” Chereshkevich said, keeping her voice low. It was three o’clock in the morning; patients were sleeping in the ward nearby
“Thank you,” I said with pride. The hyoid was not attached to any other bone, and had no purpose in the body. Like the duct, it was a relic of embryonic development, and its loss would not affect the patient in any way.
Chereshkevich gave me little luxuries: soap, toothpaste, shampoo. I was allowed to take a warm shower, alone. Afterwards, I donned a clean gown and traipsed barefoot in the dark past twenty cots, most of them occupied, to the end of the ward, where an empty bed lay waiting, white and ethereal in moonlight spilling through the window, more vision than real. I sank into it as if dropping safely at last from a sheer rock face where I’d been dangling by my fingertips. The warmth and softness were paradisiacal. I drifted off quickly, and slept for almost fifteen hours
The first heavy snowstorm struck that night. White flakes whirled in blackness; sudden gusts buffeted the windowpanes; a high-pitched howling rattled the pine rafters. In the morning, the world was virginal, pristine. Smooth, cottony drifts peaked the sentry towers; white meringues perched gingerly atop the rolls of razor wire. A deep, perfect silence rang out like a benediction across Female Prison 22. I lay comfortably in my bed by the window, feeling a sense of peace that I knew was fleeting and unwarranted. I savored it nonetheless because another perfect moment might not come my way again for weeks or months, or ever.
Later, inmates outfitted in wool caps with Velcro chin straps and rubber wading boots began shoveling the yard. A Jeep with a plow attached pushed the snow into piles. All day long, ragged lines of poorly-clad women plodded in one direction, then another, back and forth outside the infirmary. The snow slowly darkened with the tramp of feet, fuel exhaust, and the yellow stains of dogs.
The medical center was desperately understaffed. During the day, there were at most two nurses on the floor to care for the hospitalized prisoners and to help Dr. Chereshkevich examine the dozens who presented themselves with various complaints. Nurse Latypova worked solo on the graveyard shift. Showing a lot of leg and deep cleavage to no one in particular, she perched sleepily at the front desk, chain-smoking illicit cigarettes while flipping through fashion magazines illuminated by a task lamp’s electric halo, no doubt praying to be spared medical emergencies she was unqualified to handle. An old, bald doctor from the village showed up on Chereshkevich’s day off. The nurses inundated him with the usual questions, which he responded to in a disgruntled manner. His primary function seemed to be to deny both the existence of illness and the need for any medical treatments beyond aspirin and cough syrup.
I observed all this with interest as the days went by. Chereshkevich conferred with me on a few matters, and I offered to help with routine care. I’d been given the diagnosis of “mental breakdown and physical exhaustion,” which required no particular physical symptoms, and no expectation of a quick release. When I began changing catheters and IVs, the nurses took it in stride. I made sure that I was first on hand to quickly and cheerfully perform all the most unsavory tasks, such as cleaning vomit and feces, draining wounds, and spoon-feeding the elderly woman with dementia who pushed the food back out with her tongue. The industriousness I managed to display, despite my allegedly weak, demoralized state, was lauded by all.
It was soon past the time when, by my estimation, I ought to have been sent back to the textile factory. Nothing had been said about the unusual situation; I sensed that no one wanted me to go. I’d become indispensable around the infirmary, which was exactly what I’d been hoping for.
One afternoon, Chereshkevich came to me. “Are you feeling better, Dr. Marchova?”
“If I say yes, will I be sent back to the factory to sew uniforms?”
“No, as it so happens. I’ve had you transferred.” Before I could say anything, she added, “You needn’t thank me. This is the Russian way. As Marx taught us, From each according to his abilities… And your abilities are put to better use here than in the factory.”
My new job was less exhausting than the repetitive, eye-straining factory work. I had time to sit down once in a while, though I was careful not to be caught loitering. Lunch was delivered to the medical workers from the staff dining hall each noon, so my diet improved. My spirits did, too. It felt good to care about others once again, to feel that my work made a difference in some small way. But this slight rebuilding of my splintered heart was oddly painful, as it reminded me of everything I’d lost. I’d received no replies from any of the letters I’d sent. What tortured me most was thinking about Vera. I would have paid any price to speak to her just once: I’m fine. Don’t be afraid. I love you very much. Except I wasn’t fine. And neither was she—alone among strangers, confused, incontinent, unable to swallow, relying on nurses for scraps of superficial kindness, preparing herself for a solitary death.
One evening, I returned to the barracks to find a small cardboard box on my bed. Inside were all the letters I’d posted—to Vera, the congresswoman, the US State Department, and the several American Consulates. There was no note, no explanation in the box. But the message was clear.
Deeply demoralized, I finally understood and accepted that my faith in Meredith Viles and the CIA was misplaced. The idea that they would somehow steal me away was nothing more than a fairytale I’d been telling myself to help me survive what couldn’t have been borne otherwise. In reality, it was likely that Meredith, not being actually omniscient, had no idea where I was. It was also possible that she knew full well and had turned her back on me, just as she’d turned her back on Misha, either out of indifference, or because she’d made a calculated decision that I wasn’t worth the risk. It didn’t really matter which explanation was correct. E
ither way, I was on my own.
The October days rapidly grew shorter and colder, as if winter, having gotten off to a slow start, was making up for lost time. The morning exercise routine took place in utter blackness theatrically pierced by glaring white floodlights. It wasn’t until a couple of hours later, if I happened to glance out an infirmary window, that I would notice trickles of lavender seeping across the snow-patched meadow beyond the fences. One morning, a four-legged apparition appeared in the smoky dawn. As I watched, transfixed, it clarified into a wolf, a lone wolf exhaling puffs of breath into the icy atmosphere. The slanted sunrays illuminated warm gold tones in its wind-rippled fur. Raising its snout, it sniffed the air in several directions, froze for a few seconds, as if momentarily spellbound, then quickly turned and trotted away, becoming progressively smaller until its form blended into the dark line of the taiga.
As I thought less often of Meredith Viles and even of my mother, Katarina Melnikova became more real to me. Time and again, when I closed my eyes, I would picture her as a young woman, toiling in a gulag prison, enduring repeated rapes, giving birth in squalor. Whatever horrors she’d experienced since being deported from her home in Kiev, nothing would have compared to witnessing the murder of her infant. This event would have changed her utterly, down to her marrow. It would have stolen her sanity, stripped her of fear, turned her part animal. And somehow, from that cold, desperate place, she’d found the wildness, the reckless strength, required to escape.
ONE NIGHT, I returned to the barracks to find that the frail old woman who slept in the bed beside me was gone, and a new woman had taken her place. She might have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty. It was hard to tell because she was so gaunt and bony, with sagging bluish pouches under her eyes and raw, scaly patches on her face and neck. Her red-rimmed eyes teared continuously, while a clear, watery mucus ran from her nose. When I tried to talk to her, I was met with such a murderous side-long glance that I quickly shut my mouth.
There was the usual yelling, arguing, and coarse laughter as the prisoners settled in for the night. The young guard patrolling the aisle, while lasciviously watching the women undress, rattled his Kalashnikov along the metal bed frames to prove that he could be the loudest of all. Crude gestures were aimed at his retreating back. Eventually, the dormitory was quiet but for stereophonic snoring and whispered conversations. The window across the aisle from my bunk was blackened by a moonless night; a dim bulb near the door emitted a yellow glow that fell across the scuffed pine floor.
The new woman sleeping so close beside me—only about two feet separated the bunks—began thrashing as if in the throes of a nightmare. She kicked off the blanket, slapped her hand around to find it, and yanked it over her shoulders. Soon, she started to moan. The moans grew louder, then quieter, then loud again. A while later, I heard gurgling, choking noises, and a familiar, noxious smell reached my nose. I looked over. She was lying on her side, her face pressed into a puddle of vomit. With each inhale, she was sucking it back through her nose.
I threw off my blanket, knelt in the cramped space between the beds, and tried to lift her head of matted dark hair onto a pillow, gagging reflexively on the fumes. Her eyes flickered open. An arm flailed out, smacking me in the neck.
“Stay the fuck away from me.”
“You need to get your head up or you’ll drown in puke,” I said.
She raised herself on a bent elbow, stared at the circle of vomit seeping through the sheet. The retching started again, but after several heaves, all she had brought up was a clear viscous liquid that dripped down her scabbed chin. She flopped onto the mattress in exhaustion, a forearm shielding her eyes.
“Here. Roll to one side so I can pull off the sheet,” I said.
“Fuck you. I don’t need your help. Go away.”
“All right. If that’s the way you want it.” I lifted myself off my knees, preparing to return to bed.
Her body stiffened and began shaking violently. Her head jerked from side to side; she seemed on the verge of a seizure. I pressed my hand gently on her shoulder, and she reacted as if tasered, jerking her bony knees up to her chest and curling into an egg shape. At the same time, her bowels released. The stench instantly filled the air.
She stared up at me with hugely dilated pupils. Her breathing was shallow and fast. The symptoms coalesced in my mind and dovetailed with her haggard appearance. The runny nose and watery eyes clinched the diagnosis. Drug withdrawal. Some kind of opioid.
“Are you a drug user?”
No answer. Her bent legs jerked convulsively, but the worst of the spasm had passed.
“Can you hear me?”
“Leave me alone,” she moaned.
“You sure? You don’t want to get cleaned up?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” She yanked the blanket up to her face with such force that her calves and feet were left exposed. The sour smell of diarrheic feces intensified, and was joined by another foul odor, one familiar to medical workers: a suppurating wound.
Pools of pus were lodged between three toes on the woman’s left foot, and there was a hard, red swelling on the inside of her ankle. Wrapping my fingers in the edge of the sheet, I separated the infected big toe from its neighbor, wiped away a plug of pus in the crease to reveal a deep puncture wound with ragged pink and yellow edges. Something glinting inside—the tip of a needle.
She jerked her foot away. “What the fuck?” But it was a half-hearted protest. Maybe she was demoralized by the fact that she was lying in puke and shit, or maybe she was just too miserable to care what happened to her anymore.
“Some of your injection sites are infected,” I said. “A needle broke off in one of them.”
She muttered something in an irritated tone, covered her face with her hands.
I tore a long swath of fabric from the bottom of the bed sheet. It made a loud ripping sound, which drew somnolent murmurs and curses from surrounding beds. I wrapped the foot carefully, noticing as I did fresh and faded needle marks on the inside of the swollen ankle. The other foot had similar tracks but was not infected.
The woman in the upper bunk leaned over groggily. “Jesus. Did someone shit the bed?”
“Whoever did that better clean it the fuck up,” a nearby voice announced.
The upper-bunk woman saw the mess on the lower bunk. “Oh god. That’s disgusting. Get her out of here!”
I didn’t want to be there when the dormitory awakened en masse, as it probably would. I leaned over and spoke calmly to the sick woman, who had wet vomit on the side of her face. “I’m going to help you sit up. I want you to swing your legs over the side of the bed and put your arm around my neck. Then we’ll go to the infirmary.” It was late. Irina Latypova would be on duty by herself. She would let me throw the woman into the shower, take her vital signs, and put her to bed.
“I’m not going anywhere,” the woman insisted, suddenly sure of herself.
“Fine. But if you choose to remain where you are, these ladies are going to toss you out in the snow.”
“I don’t give a shit. Go away and let me die.”
“Sorry. Withdrawal won’t kill you. You’re just going to be sick for a while, and then you’ll be good as new. Now come on. Swing your legs, and I’ll help you get up.”
The dormitory was slowly erupting in shouts of disgust and condemnation. “Somebody clean that up, for god’s sake!” “Get rid of her!” “Where the fuck is the guard?”
I had the sick woman on her feet and was guiding her out of the narrow space between the cots when the young guard with the Kalashnikov appeared in the aisle. He raised his rifle and pointed it straight at my chest. “Where do you think you’re going, Prisoner Marchova?”
“This woman is ill. I’m taking her to the infirmary.”
“Leave her alone and return to your bed.”
“She needs help.”
He took a couple of steps forward, until the rifle butt was jammed against my breast bone. “Return t
o your bed, I said.”
I unhooked the sick woman’s arm from my shoulder and sat on the edge of my cot. The woman teetered, but managed to hold herself erect between the bunks.
The guard took one-eyed aim at her down the long barrel, which he swept in the direction of the door. “You. Go.”
She stood directly in front of him in her shit-caked pajamas. “Shoot me,” she said.
He waved the barrel toward the door again. “Go.”
“Don’t be scared, little man. Shoot me. Pull the trigger.”
His chest heaved, and the gun barrel rode up a few inches, until it was pointed at her throat.
“Pull the trigger. Don’t you see that I’m an escaping prisoner? Do your duty. Mow me down. What’s the matter? Are you a pussy?”
“Go. Do as I say.”
She smiled a little, slipped a hand inside her pants and removed it covered with the stain of diarrhea and a clump of crap. She moved toward him, her palm extended. “Here, pussy. Eat my shit.”
The guard drew back. “Stay back, or I’ll shoot.”
She continued gliding toward him, bringing her hand within inches of his face. “Don’t be scared. No one will blame you if you shoot me.”
The young man appeared frozen, one eye squinting down the barrel, a finger on the trigger. In slow motion, she smeared the shit along the side of his face. “Shoot the fucking gun, will you? What’s taking you so long?”
For a few long seconds, he didn’t move. Then he lowered the Kalashnikov, twirled it like a baton to grab the barrel, swung it in a wide arc, and smashed the heavy end into the side of her head. There was a loud crack when the rifle butt met her skull. She collapsed instantly and laid inert on the wooden floor.
FINDING KATARINA M. Page 24
