The Secret Speech - Страница 32

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.