Archive 17 ip-3

by Sam Eastland

  As Pekkala handed out bread to the shadows of men filing past, he failed to notice the pine tree tattoo of a huge bald man, whom he immediately recognized as the driver of the cart loaded with bodies which had passed them on their way into the camp. The bald man grabbed Pekkala by the wrist, almost crushing the bones in his grip, until Pekkala handed over an extra ration.

  The man let go, grunted angrily, and stepped away.

  “Didn’t you listen to a word I said?” asked Melekov, who had been watching. “That is Tarnowski, the worst of all the Comitati and the last man you want to upset, especially on your first day in the camp!”

  Next in line was Savushkin. “How are they treating you?” he whispered.

  “Well enough so far,” replied Pekkala, quickly pressing an extra paika ration into Savushkin’s outstretched hands.

  “They have made it difficult for me to keep an eye on you,” continued Savushkin, “but not impossible. You might not see me, but I will try to be there when you need my help.”

  Before Pekkala could thank Savushkin, the next man in line took his place.

  When he had finished handing out the rations, Pekkala, who had not yet been given any food for himself, swiped his wetted thumb around the inside of the large aluminum bowl which had contained the bread. Dabbing up the crumbs, he popped them in his mouth and crunched the brittle flakes.

  Although this yielded barely a mouthful, Pekkala knew that from now on he would have to take food wherever he could find it.

  He already knew the grim equation of the quota system at these camps. If a man completed his daily workload, he would receive one hundred percent of his food ration. But if he failed to meet this quota, he received only half of his food. The following day, he would be too weak to carry out his tasks, and so his ration would be short again. Inevitably, the man would starve to death. The only sure means of survival was to break the rules and avoid getting caught. Prisoners referred to this as “walking like a cat.”

  After the rations had been distributed, Pekkala sat down with Melekov at the little table in the corner to eat their own breakfasts. Pekkala was permitted to take a single paika ration, while Melekov, still wearing only shorts and undershirt, devoured a bowl of boiled rye mixed with dried apples and pine nuts.

  While Pekkala ate, he paused to watch an old man dragging a sledgehammer out across the camp. The man came to the edge of a sheet of ice which had formed in the yard. He raised the hammer and brought it smashing down, slowly breaking up the ice.

  Two guards approached the old man. Laughing, they bowed to him and crossed themselves. Pekkala recognized the taller of the two guards as the man he had seen in Klenovkin’s office, the same one who had shot the prisoner dead when they first arrived at the railhead.

  “That big one is Sergeant Gramotin,” explained Melekov. “During the Revolution, he was involved in battles against the Whites and the Czech Legion up and down the Trans-Siberian Railroad. People say he lost his sanity somewhere out there on those tracks. That’s another person you should do your best to avoid.” As he spoke, Melekov wolfed down his breakfast, his face only a handsbreadth above the wooden bowl. “Most of the guards in this camp are sadists and even they think Gramotin is cruel. Lately, he’s been worse than I’ve ever seen before, on account of the fact that six prisoners escaped from the camp last month. Some of them were found by the Ostyaks-”

  “Dead?”

  “Of course they were dead! And lucky for the convicts that they froze to death before the Ostyaks found them. But a few of those prisoners are still missing and Gramotin will take the blame if they can’t be accounted for.”

  “Do you think they got away?”

  “No,” growled Melekov. “They’re lying out there somewhere in the valley, frozen solid as those statues in the compound.”

  “If they’re dead, then what is Gramotin worried about?”

  “Dalstroy wants those bodies. They make good money selling corpses, provided the wolves or the Ostyaks haven’t eaten too much of them by the time they get back to camp.”

  “Who’s the other guard?” asked Pekkala.

  “His name is Platov. He’s Gramotin’s puppet. He does whatever Gramotin does. Gramotin doesn’t even have to prompt him. If Gramotin whistles the first notes of a song, Platov will finish it for him.”

  It was true. When Gramotin bowed, Platov immediately did the same. When Gramotin laughed, Platov’s laughter was only a second behind.

  “And the old man they are tormenting?”

  “That is Sedov, another Comitati. But you don’t have to worry about him. He won’t cause you any trouble. They call Sedov the Old Believer because, even though religion has been banned in the camps, he refuses to give up his faith.”

  First Gramotin, and then Platov, unshouldered their Mosin-Nagant rifles and began to prod the convict with fixed bayonets.

  “Dance for us!” shouted Gramotin.

  “Dance! Dance!” echoed Platov.

  “Dancing is a sin in the eyes of God!” Sedov shouted at them. “Didn’t anyone tell you?” shouted Gramotin. “God has been abolished!”

  Platov cackled, jabbing Sedov so violently that if the man had not stepped backwards, the bayonet would have run him through.

  “You may have abolished God,” retorted Sedov, “but one day He will abolish you as well.”

  Melekov shook his head, a look of pity on his face. “Sedov has forgotten the difference between this life and the next one. Gramotin will kill him one of these days, just like he killed Captain Ryabov, that man we’ve got lying in the freezer.”

  “Gramotin killed Ryabov?”

  “Sure!” Melekov said confidently. “Ryabov thought it was his job to look after the other Comitati, since he was the highest-ranking officer among them, but it proved to be a hopeless task. One after the other, most of them died. There was nothing he could do. That’s just the way things are in these camps. People say it pushed Ryabov over the edge, not being able to save them. The rumor is that he finally just snapped.”

  “And did what?”

  “He went up against Gramotin one too many times. That’s how you end up in the freezer, while Klenovkin tries to figure out whether anyone will buy a body whose head is practically cut off.”

  Swathed in the hand-me-down clothes of a dead prisoner, and with a beard quickly darkening his cheeks, Pekkala had become invisible among the similarly filthy inhabitants of Borodok.

  But he knew this couldn’t last. If he was to solve the murder of Ryabov, he would have to learn, from the Comitati themselves, everything they knew about the killing. Pekkala’s only chance was to win their confidence. But he would have to move carefully. If the Comitati learned of his true purpose, or even if they became suspicious, he would never leave Borodok alive.

  While he waited for the right moment to break cover, Pekkala studied them from a distance.

  Lavrenov was a tall, thin man with feverishly glowing eyes and cheeks hollowed out by years of Gulag life. “That one deals in everything,” Melekov told Pekkala. “From tobacco, to razor blades, to matchsticks, Lavrenov can get his hands on whatever you want, as long as you can pay for it. And, somehow, he can still keep out of trouble.”

  Sedov, the Old Believer, could not. He was small, wiry, and muscular, with the scars and crumpled cheekbones of a man who had been beaten many times. Most prisoners kept their hair short, as a precaution against lice, but Sedov’s was long and plaited with dirt, as was his unkempt beard. A broken, slightly upturned nose and twisted lips had given him a permanent expression of bemusement, as if recalling some private joke. This, in combination with a stubborn, almost suicidal refusal to conceal his religious faith, made him a perfect target for Gramotin. Daily, the sergeant sent the old man skittering across the ice-patched compound, while he taunted the convict, chanting scraps of outlawed prayers.

  But the man Pekkala watched most closely was Lieutenant Tarnowski. Now the ranking member of the Comitati, Tarnowski enforced its violent reputati
on. At those rare times when words alone proved unsuccessful, Tarnowski carried out his threats with a relish that seemed to rival even that of the guards.

  On Pekkala’s fifth day at the camp, after the rations had been distributed, he sat down as usual with Melekov at the little table in the corner to eat breakfast.

  On the floor beside Melekov’s chair was a battered metal toolbox, which he used to carry out repairs around the camp. Whenever anything mechanical broke down-phones, alarms, clocks-the guards would send for Melekov.

  “What is it this time?” Pekkala nodded towards the toolbox.

  “Guard tower phones are down again.” As Melekov spoke, he removed a hard-boiled egg from the jumble of pickled beets, cheese, bread, and scraps of cold meat which filled his bowl. Gently, he rolled the egg between his palms, until the shell was mosaicked with cracks. “The batteries that power the ringers keep freezing. I hate going up and down those ladders. They shouldn’t make me do it. I’m a wounded veteran, you know.” He pointed to his thigh, where an X-shaped scar was visible just below the tattered edge of his shorts. “I’ll tell you how I got it.” Melekov breathed in deeply, ready to begin his story.

  In that moment, Pekkala saw his chance. “Instead of telling me how you received that wound, how about I tell you instead?”

  “You tell me?” Melekov’s breath trailed out.

  Pekkala nodded. “I’ll tell you what it is and where you got it and what you used to do before you came to Borodok.”

  “What are you,” grunted Melekov, “some kind of fortune-teller?”

  “Let’s find out,” replied Pekkala, “and if I’m right, you can give me that egg you were about to eat.”

  Eyeing Pekkala suspiciously, Melekov laid the egg down on the table.

  As Pekkala reached out to take it, Melekov’s hand slapped down on top of his.

  “Not yet! First, you can tell me my fortune.”

  “Very well,” said Pekkala.

  Cautiously, Melekov removed his hand.

  “That scar was made by a bayonet,” began Pekkala.

  “Perhaps.”

  “To be specific, it was the cruciform bayonet of a Mosin-Nagant rifle, standard issue for a Russian soldier.”

  “Who told you?” demanded Melekov.

  “Nobody.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to flinch.

  Slowly, Melekov folded his arms across his chest. “All right, convict, but where was I when I received the wound?”

  “The branches of the X are longer at the lower edges of the scar,” Pekkala went on, “which means that the bayonet thrust was made from below you, not above or at the same level, which would be more usual. This means you were either standing on a staircase when it happened …”

  Melekov smiled.

  “Or on the top of a trench.”

  The smile broadened, baring Melekov’s teeth.

  “Or,” said Pekkala, “you were riding a horse at the time.”

  The smile dissolved. “Bastard,” whispered Melekov.

  “I haven’t finished yet,” said Pekkala. “You are a Siberian.”

  “Born and bred here,” Melekov interrupted. “I’ve never been anywhere else.”

  “Your accent puts you east of the Urals,” Pekkala continued, “probably in the vicinity of Perm. You are old enough to have fought in the war, and from the cut of your hair”-he nodded towards Melekov’s flat-topped stand of gray bristles, in the style known as en brosse-“I am guessing that you did.”

  “Yes, that’s all true, but-”

  “So you were a Russian soldier, and yet you have been wounded by a Russian bayonet. Therefore, you were wounded by one of your own countrymen.” Pekkala paused, studying the emotions on Melekov’s face, which passed like the shadows of clouds over a field as the cook relived his past. “You did not receive your wound during the war, but rather in the Revolution which followed it.”

  “Very good, convict, but which side was I fighting for?”

  “You were not with the Whites, Melekov.”

  Melekov turned his head and spat on the floor. “You’ve got that right.”

  “If you were,” said Pekkala, “you would more likely be a prisoner here than someone who is on the payroll. And I have not seen you speaking to the Comitati, which you would do if you were one of them.”

  Melekov held out his fists, knuckles pointing upwards. “No pine tree tattoos.”

  “Exactly. Which means you fought for the Bolsheviks, and because you were a horseman, I believe you were in the Red Cavalry.”

  “The Tenth Brigade …”

  “You were injured in an attack against infantry, during which one of the enemy was able to stab you with a bayonet as you rode past. A wound like that is very serious.”

  “I almost died,” muttered Melekov. “It was a year before I could even walk again. I could not even leave the hospital because the leg kept getting infected.”

  “And since you’ve already told me that you’ve never left Siberia, that must be where you were injured. I believe you must have been fighting against the forces of General Semenov or Rozanov, the White Cossacks, who waged their campaigns in this part of the world.” When Pekkala had finished, he slumped in his chair, feeling the tingle of sweat against his back. If even one detail was wrong, the minutes he had spent unraveling the mystery of Melekov’s crucifix scar would do more harm than good.

  For a long time Melekov was silent, his face inscrutable. Then, suddenly, he stood. His chair fell over backwards and landed with a clatter on the floor. “Every last word of what you’ve said is true!” he shouted. “But there is one more thing I’d like to know.”

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to know who the hell you really are, convict.”

  This was the moment Pekkala had been waiting for. If Klenovkin had been right that Melekov was the worst gossip in the camp, all Pekkala had to do was speak his name, and it would not be long before the Comitati knew that he was here. “I was known as the Emerald Eye.”

  Melekov’s eyes opened wide. “Do you mean to tell me you are the tree-marker who lasted all those years and then suddenly disappeared? But I thought you were dead!”

  “Many people do.” Pekkala’s fingers inched forward, reaching like the tentacles of an octopus until they closed around the egg.

  This time Melekov did nothing to prevent him.

  The cracked shell seemed to sigh in Pekkala’s grip. Hunched over the table, he plucked away the tiny fragments, which fell to the table like confetti. He sank his teeth through the slick rubbery white and bit into the hard-boiled yolk.

  At sunrise the next day, the gates of Borodok swung open and a band of heavily armed men entered the compound. They were short and swathed in furs, their wide Asiatic faces burned brick red by the wind.

  The men brought with them a sled pulled by reindeer, on which lay half a dozen bodies, each one solid as stone.

  Melekov and Pekkala stood in the doorway of the kitchen, handing out rations.

  “Ostyaks,” whispered Pekkala.

  “That must be the last of the prisoners who tried to escape before you arrived at the camp. Gramotin will be happy now. Or at least less miserable than usual.”

  One of the fur-clad men set aside his antiquated flintlock rifle and stepped into Klenovkin’s office. The others glanced warily at the camp inmates who had paused in the breadline to witness the spectacle. A minute later, the Ostyak emerged from Klenovkin’s hut, carrying two burlap sacks stuffed full as pillows.

  The bodies were dumped off the sled. Borodok guards opened the gates and the Ostyaks departed as suddenly as they had arrived, leaving behind the grotesquely frozen corpses.

  “Come on, Tarnowski!” Gramotin shouted at the convicts. “You know what to do. Find your men and put these carcasses beside the generators. I want them thawed out by the end of the day.”

  Taking hold of frozen limbs as if they were the branches of a fallen tree, the Comitati
carried the corpses over to a building where the electrical generators were housed.

  “Why does he force the Comitati to do that job?” Pekkala asked Melekov.

  “Force them?” Melekov laughed. “That job is a privilege. The Comitati fought for it until no one else would dare take it from them, not even Gramotin.”

  “But why?”

  “Because the generator room is the warmest place in this camp. They take their time laying out those bodies, believe me, and thaw themselves out a little as well.”

  “What’s the reason for thawing out the bodies?”

  “It’s the only way they can get them into the barrels.”

  By the time the Comitati reappeared, the breadline had begun to move again, but no sooner had Pekkala begun distributing the rations than a fight broke out among the prisoners.

  Pekkala had been so focused on handing out the bread that he did not see who started it.

  Those convicts not involved fell back from the commotion, leaving an old man, whom Pekkala immediately recognized as Sedov, down on one knee and wiping a bright smear of blood from his nose.

  Above him stood Tarnowski. With fists clenched, he circled the old man like a boxer waiting for his opponent to raise himself up before knocking him down once more.

  Pekkala remembered what Klenovkin had said about the Comitati turning against each other. From what he could see, it appeared to be the truth.

  Sedov climbed shakily to his feet. He was upright for only a second before Tarnowski smashed him again in the face. Sedov spun as he tumbled, his teeth limned in red, but no sooner was he down than he began to get up again.

  “Stay down,” muttered Pekkala.

  Melekov grunted in agreement. “They never learn. I told you.”

  As he watched the Old Believer struggle to his feet, Pekkala could stand it no longer. He walked towards the door which led out to the compound.

  “What are you doing?” barked Melekov.

  “Tarnowski’s going to kill him.”

  “So what if he does? He’ll kill you as well if you get in his way.”

  Pekkala did not reply. Opening the flimsy door, he strode into the compound and pushed his way into the circle where the fight was taking place.