OF THE PORT OF MAGADAN
SEVEN KILOMETERS SOUTH OF GULAG 57
9 APRIL
THEY WERE STANDING SIDE BY SIDE, staring at the next man’s shoulder, rocking with the motion of the freight truck. Although there was no guard stopping them from sitting down, there were no benches and the floor was so cold that they’d taken a collective decision to stand, shuffling to keep warm, like a captured herd of animals. Leo occupied a space closest to the tarpaulin sheet. It had come loose, rendering the compartment’s temperature subzero but offering, by way of exchange, a partial view of the landscape as the material flapped open. The convoy was climbing into the mountains following the Kolyma highway—a surface that unrolled meekly across the landscape as though conscious it was trespassing across a wilderness. In the convoy, there were three trucks in total. Not even a car bothered to follow behind to make sure prisoners didn’t jump down and try to escape. There was nowhere to escape to.
Abruptly the highway steepened, the rear of the truck tilting down, angled toward the snow-covered valley to such an acute degree that Leo was forced to grip the steel frame, the other prisoners pressing against him as they slid down. Unable to make the climb, the truck remained stationary, teetering and ready to roll back. The handbrake was yanked up. The engine stopped. The guards unlocked the back, spilling the prisoners onto the road:
—Walk!
The first two trucks had managed to climb over the crest of the hill, disappearing from view. The remaining truck—without the weight of the prisoners—started its engine and accelerated up the hill. Left behind, the convicts trundled, huffing like old men, the guards at the back, guns ready. Set against the terrain, the guards’ swagger seemed slight and absurd—an insect strutting. Observing them through a convict’s eyes, Leo marveled at how different the guards believed themselves to be—men marshaling cattle. He wanted to say, just to see their surprise:
I am one of you.
The idea caught him short. Was he one of them? Smug with power, stupefied by State-allocated importance: he was certain that he had been.
At the crest the highway flattened out. Leo paused, catching his breath, surveying the landscape before him. Blasted by cold air, his eyes watering, he was confronted by the surface of a moon—a sprawling plateau as wide as a city, smoothed with ice and permafrost, pock-marked with craters. The lonely highway sliced an uncertain diagonal, heading toward a mountain larger than any they’d encountered so far: rising out of the plateau like a monstrous camel’s hump. Somewhere at the base was Gulag 57.
As the convicts climbed back into the truck, Leo glanced at the other two vehicles. He had to face up to the fact that Timur wasn’t in the convoy. There was no chance that his friend would’ve gotten into one of those vehicles without making contact with him, even if it was nothing more than a glance across a crowd. Leo hadn’t seen him since yesterday, passing him on the deck of the Stary Bolshevik. After that he’d been shepherded into the transit camp at Magadan where he’d been deloused, inspected by a doctor who’d declared him fully fit, assigned to TFT, tyazoly fezichesky trud, heavy labor, no limitations placed on work duties. Duly processed, he’d waited in one of the large tents erected for the arrivals, the smell of canvas reminding him of makeshift medical facilities during the Great Patriotic War, hundreds of beds crammed together. They’d agreed to find each other that night. Timur hadn’t appeared. Leo had reassured himself with various explanations: there had been some delay and they’d find each other in the morning. It was too risky to ask after him—aside from jeopardizing their cover, Leo might be mistaken for an informer. Unable to sleep, he’d risen early, expecting to see his friend. When they’d been loaded into the trucks, Leo had held back. Comforting explanations for Timur’s absence had become harder to concoct.
Leo was about to meet Lazar for the first time in seven years. Their first encounter, the moment they laid eyes on each other, was perhaps the most dangerous moment in the entire plan. There could be no question of Lazar’s hatred being eroded by time. If he didn’t try and kill Leo outright, he’d announce that Leo was a Chekist, an interrogator, a man responsible for the incarceration of hundreds of innocent men and women. How long could he survive surrounded by those who had been tortured and interrogated? This was why Timur’s presence was essential. They’d predicted a violent reunion. More than that, they’d factored it into their calculations. As a guard Timur could intervene and stop any altercation. Regulations stipulated that Leo and Lazar would be pulled out of the conflict and ordered to the isolator, individual punishment cells. In adjacent cells, Leo would have an opportunity to explain that he was here to free him, that his wife was alive, and that there was no chance he’d ever be released by ordinary means. He either accepted Leo’s help or died a slave.
Running his icy fingers across his newly shaven head, Leo frantically improvised a solution. There was only one option—he’d have to postpone meeting Lazar until Timur caught up. Hiding wouldn’t be easy. Gulag 57 had contracted in size since Stalin’s death both in prisoner numbers and geographical sprawl. Previously it had been composed of many lagpunkts scattered over the mountainside, sub-colonies within a colony, some positioned in such exposed topography and in such poor mining yields that their purpose could only have been death. Gulag 57 had closed all of these smaller barracks, a prison empire whittled back to the main base at the foot of the mountain, the only place where the gold mine had ever produced a viable return. From Leo’s assessment of the blueprints even this central complex was rudimentary. The zona, the controlled area, was rectangular in shape. Although a curved design would have suited the terrain better, law dictated that the zona must be of regular design. There were to be no rounded edges in a Gulag except for the barbed wire, coiled across poles six meters high, sunk two meters deep, forming an outer perimeter. Inside the perimeter there were several sleeping barracks, a communal eating barracks, closed off from the administration center by an inner rectangle of barbed-wire fencing, divisions within divisions, zones within zones. Security was provided by six small guard towers, two substantial vakhta towers—one on either side of the main gate with mounted, heavy machine guns and log-panel protective walls. At each corner of the zona was a smaller tower where officers surveyed the ground through telescopic sights. If the guards fell asleep, or passed out drunk—freedom depended upon scaling the mountain or crossing kilometers of exposed plateau.
Upon arrival Leo would be herded into the inner prisoner zone. Since there were three barracks he could in theory remain inconspicuous, at least for another twenty-four hours. That might give Timur enough time to catch up.
The truck slowed. Wary of being picked off by a zealous sniper in the vakhta, Leo glanced out, his eye drawn to the mountain. The slopes were perilously steep. Against the mountain’s colossal bulk the mine, a series of trenches and man-made streams where clods of earth were washed and sifted for gold, appeared insignificant.
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 co
nvict. 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.
The Secret Speech Page 17
