“I’ve already tried. Michael, in particular, is the worst. You know what happens to converts: They mask their guilt and remorse with excessive cruelty. He’s convinced that sticking with Igor is the only way he’ll survive, and honestly, it may be true. He’s got a better chance of getting out of here alive than any of us do.”
“But at what cost?”
Claude looked at him like he was a child unable to comprehend the most simple reality.
“The one that has to be paid, Elías. The only way to repent the things you’ve done is to be alive after doing them and look back. Which means surviving.”
Elías gazed at an old woman so weak she could hardly stand. She struggled unsteadily to a makeshift latrine, a simple hole that prisoners had dug in the hard snow with their bare hands. Privacy was unthinkable in the circumstances, and yet a group of women surrounded her, shielding the old woman with their bodies so that she could heed nature’s call free from the eyes of other prisoners. Claude was wrong, and his cynicism was simply a different kind of shield, something used for protection. Dignity was important, the only thing that would allow them to sleep in peace for the rest of their days, if they managed to make it out alive.
If you only looked, small gestures of kindness were visible amid the desperation, things that made Elías believe that compassion and humanity were not lost. People still assembled, old friends and new, to discuss common interests. They warmed one another with coats or tattered blankets, shared petrol, firewood, and food despite never having enough. They were still human, united in their misery; they drowned their anguish by singing old songs beneath the stars, around bonfires—fires that Elías, a young foreigner, found mysterious and magical. The mere act of survival was heroic, carrying on without sinking into the depths of despair despite the obvious justification for it, fostering hopes and offering small gestures, slivers of decency to which they clung.
“What about Martin?” he asked, pointing to the young man trailing after Michael, looking lost and guilty.
Claude coughed cavernously and spat blood. His fever had returned and seemed to be getting worse. He stared disbelievingly at Elías, a flicker of scorn in his eyes.
“Martin is in love with Michael. Come on, don’t look so surprised. You honestly couldn’t tell? They were caught with their pants down back at the Government House. Sodomy is a deadly sin even in a proletarian dictatorship. Freedom is only for men, my friend, not women and effeminates. That’s why they were sent here. Besides, our redheaded friend is weak; his soul is effete, he’s nothing but a shadow. He’d go to the pits of hell if Michael asked him to.”
Elías had never allowed himself to consider whether he was attracted to men.
“What are you smiling at?” Claude asked.
Elías clapped his friend’s shoulder. “Even in the worst places on earth, you can find relief in beauty. That’s what my father used to say.”
“What do you find beautiful about a country that hates you?”
“It sounds like this is where Martin found the love of his life.”
It began snowing again, but people made no move to run for shelter. There was no place to run to. Most simply stood, like clay statues, dissolving slowly.
Food distribution was the worst time of day at Tomsk. Driven by hunger and thirst, people forgot their humanity and became a frenzied mob in their attempts to make off with a crust of bread hurled from a distance by the guards. They bit, kicked, hit, and stomped on one another. The weakest had no chance: Old people and small children were dependent upon family members or the charity of anyone who might take pity on them. Elías and Claude made a good team and had developed a technique: Whenever they sensed that there was about to be a distribution, they remained unmoved by the nervous hysteria rushing over prisoners like a wave. Calmly, they positioned themselves like a single being, as close to the guards as possible. And when the time came, they launched a coordinated, combined attack.
Elías was a big man. He’d regained his strength quickly, and his reputation—after the Igor episode—had earned him the fear of other prisoners, and he exploited this by removing his eye patch. The sight of his dark, empty socket made even the most fearless recoil. What’s more, he had no problem using his arms and legs to clear a path. Once their rivals were blocked, Claude, who was much nimbler, would race forward, literally tackling and climbing over bodies like a rugby player, attempting to catch the food being thrown. If they were lucky, some days they made off with provisions for themselves, Irina, and her daughter. If they were not, they shared their hunger together. Food distribution was not an equitable affair, and no one expected it to be. The few women who were there—a distinct minority among the prisoners—offered guards or other prisoners their bodies for it if they had to. There were rapes and other abuses as well, but no one had time to worry about that.
Igor—and others of his ilk—stole whatever they wanted from the prisoners, and felt no remorse. He even set up a profitable black market for purloined goods, which the weakest prisoners were forced to use in order to survive. Anything could be bartered for and everything had a price, be it one’s body, labor, or personal belongings. Elías had watched in horror as an old man literally wrenched the gold teeth from his mouth to buy bread he would then be unable to eat, but that would feed his grandchildren. Others sold now-useless identification papers, books, family jewels, blankets, clothes…anything. And sometimes for nothing. There was no way to lodge a complaint if Igor randomly decided to keep payment without giving in exchange what he’d promised.
Amid this chaos, Michael had risen, becoming an efficient accounts administrator for his new master. Soon the sight of his stocky legs running all over the camp became infamous. Ledger under one arm, he’d make note of deposits, bribes to be paid the guards, debts to be collected in the form of beatings or stabbings behind the barracks—generally after nightfall—and the names of people who for one reason or another might be of interest to Igor: possible informers, those willing to serve him, as well as potential enemies to be eliminated before their power or reputations posed a threat. Martin—in effect, his shadow, just as Claude had said—simply accompanied him, increasingly gaunt and drawn. Michael, on the other hand, riotous and enraged, seemed to thrive, always ready to turn violent, especially if he sensed that Igor or one of his lieutenants was watching.
That morning, Elías was preparing for battle with Claude when he saw Igor approach. The man strode around like a field marshal inspecting enemy lines before sending his soldiers into the fray, wearing the serene smile of one who knows he holds the strings of destiny in his hands. Not far behind trailed Michael and Martin.
Igor Stern was a happy man. All men are when they feel they occupy their place in the world, and this was his: chaos, where the brute force of instinct, not the constraints of civilization, was what mattered most. For the first time in his life he felt free, free to be what he truly was with no fear or restraint. But this had nothing to do with the other prisoners, or with Martin and Michael, who had jumped on like fleas the very first day. Igor was not happy simply to survive and unleash his instincts. Instead he thought, biding his time, wondering how best to use this unique opportunity. He’d never been a czarist boyar, that much was clear, nor would he make officer in the Red Guard, or marry a princess in exile. His blood was tainted: Rather than blue, it was red and purple. Still, why couldn’t he dream of a dacha on Lake Balaton? Why not picture himself in one of the motor cars that were now starting to be seen on the streets of large cities?
Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he would one day wear a frock coat, grow old by the fire, surrounded by grandchildren and well-trained dogs in an old czar’s palace, reading all the books ever written, dictating his life to a scribe, hobnobbing with top officials or even Stalin himself, going to the opera and having a private audience with Lyubov Orlova, while his empire grew by spontaneous generation. In war, most men suffer and die. But a
few know how to create opportunities amid the suffering; and this was war, was it not? To have it all—wealth, power, and time to enjoy them both—that was what he wanted. To forget his past as a Jewish cartwright. He had always been sure he’d be pushing up daisies by the time he was thirty, that he’d die in some cold ditch in a random town, stabbed in the back. But suddenly, growing old and prospering seemed possible.
Igor observed the surge of bodies, advancing and receding like waves, crashing into the bluff of officers distributing food. You could see the soldiers’ unease, their fear of being overwhelmed by a hungry mob. These soldiers were too young. They were scared, and armed. A bad combination.
And then, amid the gray mass, he discerned the green coat of the Spaniard whose eye he’d taken out on the train. He smiled with an electric sort of excitement. Challenges gave him a thrill. Igor hadn’t seen Elías since they left Moscow and he’d assumed the kid had died of hunger. Something inside him was pleased. He turned and instructed Michael to approach him.
“Isn’t that your friend, the Spanish engineer?”
Michael saw Elías with Claude, both glaring at him from the distance. Michael nodded.
“What’s he here for?”
Michael looked around. Why were any of them there? For the uranium mines, the prospecting. To provide the overwhelming amount of slave labor required to colonize Siberia, a plan hatched by a few bureaucrats who’d lost their minds. The excuses for having imprisoned them in this wretched land were almost immaterial.
“Criticizing Stalin and the Communist system in letters to his father.”
Igor shook his head back and forth mockingly. This was a marvelous country, a place where you could rape, kill, and steal—provided it wasn’t in the name of politics. And writing a critical word could turn out to be worse than any of that. A joke about Stalin’s mother was punished as severely as rape: a ten-year sentence. Words, in those strange times, were like a sea of broken glass on which some men were forced to walk barefoot. It was safest to remain silent. And yet still, a few naïve or foolish men spoke out, assuming the risk.
“Go tell him I want to talk to him tonight.”
Michael nodded, bowing his head in embarrassment. Like a scared dog, he approached his old comrades. Igor delighted in the heavy morning air, knowing he was king of the world.
Elías watched Michael approach.
Claude grabbed him by the elbow. “Keep calm, Elías,” he whispered.
The three, once friends, stood face-to-face. Not more than a few weeks had passed since they’d been laughing in a train compartment, on their way to the Soviet Union, full of plans. Now they stared at one another in mistrust and hatred. All of their bonhomie was gone.
“How could you do something like this?” Elías spat, unprompted.
Michael held his gaze unflinchingly. “It was easy,” he said cynically. “A simple matter of calculation: This is what yields the greatest probability of success. A formula to resolve the unknown, that’s what we mathematicians do. Once the decision is made, there’s no point contemplating alternatives.”
“You swine,” muttered Claude.
Michael let out a heartfelt laugh and then arched his brow, gazing at the Frenchman in amusement.
“Very Shakespearean of you. A bona fide villain, so the hero can really shine at the end of the show. Who am I, Othello?” His face suddenly hardened. “This isn’t some fucking play. This is real life, you know? So hold your reproach until the holy men write your posthumous biographies. ‘I knew Michael, the traitor.’ Eventually, time will be the judge. For now, it’s the living who judge us.”
With that, he turned to Elías. “Stern wants to see you in his tent, tonight.”
Elías clenched his fists. He’d removed his eye patch and the bulging socket gave him a terrifying air.
“Run and tell your master that this dog isn’t on a leash.”
Michael was undaunted. “You still don’t get it. There’s no choice in this matter. If you don’t go on your own, he’ll come find you. And he won’t be nice to you…or to them.”
Michael pointed to Irina, Anna in her arms, making her way toward a wooden stable where a soldier watched a pack of horses paw and stamp at the ground, steaming up the air. Irina said something that Elías couldn’t make out from the distance. The guard laughed, raised the latch on the fence, and let her through to the animals, where she held her daughter’s face to the horses’ nostrils, trying to warm her with their breath. Then the guard shouted something. Irina placed Anna on the ground, and he slipped his filthy hands inside her blouse, pulling out one of her breasts before forcing her behind the fence. Elías looked away in shame.
“This could all get so much worse, Elías. Don’t forget: tonight.” And with that warning, Michael walked off.
Igor stood motionless at the entrance to his tent, looking out into the night. He observed the darkness in silence—eyes stony, nose sniffing the air—alert to distant groaning that suddenly turned into an agonizing, hair-raising shriek. He, however, was unmoved. Perhaps it was the endlessness of the dark expanse that sedated him. For a moment he seemed sad, emanating the sort of sorrow that derives from utter loneliness, but suddenly the play of light and shadow from an oil lamp created a pantomime of expressions that changed each second, from anger to calm and back again.
After a minute he turned and fixed Elías with a disturbing gaze. Elías tried to keep his composure but knew that this lunatic might slit his throat at any moment. They weren’t alone in the tent: Two of Igor’s toadies were huddled together under blankets at the back. One of them gnawed on a piece of salted meat, unable to bite off a hunk. Michael and Martin had accompanied Elías to the tent but had not entered. They hadn’t earned that right.
“How’s the eye?” Igor inquired in a kindly tone, as though it had nothing to do with him.
Elías was seething inside, but fear and survival instincts overpowered his rage. “Not bad.”
Igor nodded. He turned, suspicious, like a buzzard fearing a trap as it approaches carrion in the snow.
“An eye is expendable. You’ve got another one, at least for now.” He placed a hand on Elías’s shoulder and then let it run down the length of his overcoat. “I still want this. It’s a good deal: an eye for a coat, which you can steal off anyone.”
The tent was like a small warehouse of stolen goods: suitcases, clothing, food, cigarettes. Igor was wearing an old gray wool sweater and a woman’s soft fur coat. He didn’t need Elías’s.
“It’s a matter of principle, you know?” Igor declared, reading Elías’s thoughts. He walked to a corner of the tent and rummaged through some odds and ends until he came upon what he was looking for: a book, its cover broken.
“I took this little book off some kid. He was so absorbed, reading in the middle of a wind storm as if nothing mattered but the words on the page, not even freezing to death. So I thought, this must be really important to him. When I asked him for it, he said no, fought the way you did for your ratty coat. Absurd, don’t you think? Clinging to things that aren’t ours to begin with. Not even our lives belong to us, though we should at least try to hold on to them.” Igor shook his head, as though truly unable to comprehend that kind of attachment. He held out his arm and, like a trained monkey, one of his men handed him a canteen that reeked of vodka. Igor took a long pull and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat.
“It was only a damn book; that idiot got himself killed over a few words!” scoffed the prisoner with the salted meat. The other one apparently agreed, swearing and saying something Elías couldn’t understand. Igor eyed the book and laughed derisively.
“Who knows, maybe happiness lies somewhere between truth and desire. What do you think?” he asked Elías, and then smiled quickly, as though it didn’t matter at all. “Do you understand why I want your coat? A Siberian wolf takes what he wants, no explanations.”
&n
bsp; There came a silence so tense that the only sound heard was that of the canvas tent, flapping in the night wind.
“I’ve never seen a Siberian wolf. From what I hear, they’re the kind of predators who avoid confrontation if they’re not sure they’re going to win. But goats and mules can break backs, too, you know.”
Igor’s lieutenants stood menacingly, but he stopped them with a look of surprise and admiration. He’d have given a lot to have this Spaniard in his ranks instead of those other foreign sissies, the bowlegged kid and the redheaded mincer. He’d always detested bootlickers and cowards and admired those like Elías, who acted like he had nothing to lose despite fighting to control the fear coursing through his body right now. But he knew Elías would never submit to him—he had what it took, had the fire in him that so few men manage to keep alive. And that was a shame.
“What do you think’s going to happen when we’re moved upriver, with no guards, no food, and no refuge? In fact, there will be nothing at all there—except me. You’ll have nowhere to hide, nothing to save you, no hope and no chance. Just the island, the river, the steppe, and me.”
With a quick move, Igor grabbed Elias’s face in his stubby hands and wrenched off the patch protecting his empty eye socket. He brought his mouth so close Elías thought he was going to bite his nose off.
“Hold on to this eye, my friend. I want you to see your world crumble around you. I know your kind. You think you’re better, think you won’t succumb to the horror; you cling to little things like that stupid kid whose hands I cut off so I could take his book. Empty gestures, believe me. There are no heroes in hell, and that’s where we’re headed.”
Igor slowly released Elías’s stricken face and then held the book to the oil lamp, its flame growing as it licked the pages.
“I’m not going to take your coat. I’m going to sit here and wait for you to come back and beg me to accept it. When you do, I’ll use it to bury you. And you’ll thank me.”
A Million Drops Page 19