The transport arrived. It was a large Zil-151 truck, the back covered by a low canvas roof. We all piled into it, Ylli and Kostya tossing up three sacks of provisions. The trio of guards elected to sit in the cab with the driver so we were left to our devices in the rear. The engine roared, belching out a cloud of black smoke which disseminated into the darkness. The gears ground together and we lurched forward. At the camp entrance, there was no head count. The sentries just opened the gates and we trundled through without slowing, turning left – north – at the road junction a kilometre from the camp. In five kilometres, we drove past the entrance to the mine, the moon just touching the horizon to the side of the pit head.
‘Here we go!’ Dmitri remarked as the driver changed down into second to negotiate the single track railway crossing. ‘Into the Grey Beyond.’
‘What’s in the sacks?’ someone asked.
Kostya unknotted the ties and rummaged inside: loaves of hard bread, ten kilos of potatoes well past their best, two dozen cabbages the outer leaves of which were just turning rotten, three kilos of dried fish, most of it disintegrated into crumbs and two kilos of bruised apples.
‘The feeding of the five thousand,’ Avel announced caustically, ‘with dessert.’
Despite the fact that our rations were exactly what we would have received had we remained in the camp, our spirits were raised by the food. It was clear we were going to be gone a while and were not being driven to our deaths: at least, not at the hollow end of a semi-automatic rifle.
I took the outside seat in the transport, by the tail gate. It was the coldest spot on board, for the breeze of the vehicle’s motion curled in round the canvas hood, carrying particles of dusty ice thrown up by the rear wheels, but I wanted it and, as the truck made steady progress across the rolling landscape, I watched the sky.
Once the moon was down, the stars became visible, as clearly as if they had been cut from polished diamonds and scattered upon a backdrop of black silk. It had been a long time since I had seen them. In the camp, there were always lights blotting out the heavens.
The lorry bucking and sliding on the icy road, I studied the sky, identifying Lyra down close to the western horizon, Cygnus the Swan to the north and Draco the Dragon at a slightly higher elevation to the south. Traversing the sky, I passed through Cassiopeia and Andromeda to arrive at the Ram, identifying Botein at one end and Mesarthim at the other, finding the remaining stars – Sharatan, Hamal and the two whose names I did not know, even if they had them – faint but clear in the sharp cold air.
Gazing up, the opening lines of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales came unbidden to my mind, dredged up from some long-forgotten classroom in a world I no longer remembered and to which I certainly no longer belonged.
‘When that Aprille with his shoures sote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heath
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne.…’
‘What’re you prattling on about?’ Titian asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said, not realising I was speaking aloud. ‘I was reciting a poem.’
‘In English?’ He did not wait for my answer. ‘What was it about?’
‘The month of April, when the spring comes.’
‘It may be spring in April in England, but up here?’ he replied trenchantly then, looking up, went on, ‘You think they have the gulag up there on Mars?’
‘What do you think?’ I retorted.
He pondered the question for a moment then said, ‘Not yet. But when men get there, they will.’
The dawn broke, a gradual process like the healing of a wound. At first, it was indefinable but then one grew suddenly aware that it had happened, like the granting of a wish. A thin wash of light to the east spread gradually upwards and the day, such as it was, established itself.
Half an hour later, we halted in a gully at the bottom of which was a derelict bridge. Beyond it, the road petered out.
‘How far have we gone?’ Dmitri wanted to know.
‘Five hours at not much above twenty-five kays an hour,’ Ylli reckoned, ‘makes it one hundred and ten, maybe twenty kilometres.’
‘All down,’ one of the guards called, coming to the rear of the truck and unlatching the tail-board. ‘Take a leak but don’t leave your peckers out too long.’
For a few minutes, we stamped about trying to get our circulation going, whilst Kirill set about persuading the guards to permit us to light a small solid fuel stove he had unearthed from a tool box in the back of the transport. They agreed and, using a bucket, we melted some snow to pass a mug of hot water round between us. Less than half an hour later, we heard a grumbling sound and a half-track appeared over the brow of the gully, slewing to a halt by the truck. We transferred our rations sacks across to it and, within minutes, were on our way in the second vehicle.
At three that afternoon, our backs aching, our arses numb and our ears ringing from the incessant cacophony of the half-track’s unmuffled engines, we reached our destination.
* * *
The tent in which we were billeted was pegged out at the end of a row of six on what, in the brief summer, would have been a muddy strand on the curve of a river about twenty metres wide. The sides had been piled up with turves to give added protection against the winter blast. Now, the mud was as hard as concrete and the river might have been made of marble.
We tumbled in through the flap of the door, all of us in high spirits. We had not been exterminated out on the tundra and our quarters were almost palatial. Politically zealous youths on a Socialist Youth camp weekend outing could not have been more boisterous.
Around the sides of the interior were ten bunks upon which lay straw-filled palliasses and piles of three blankets per bunk. In the centre was a stove, the chimney of which went straight up to a hole in the roof surrounded by a protective sheet of aluminium to stop the canvas scorching. Next to the stove were five oil lanterns, a pile of kindling and a box of anthracite kernels. On shaking them, it was found the lantern reservoirs were full of paraffin. A sturdy pine table had half a dozen chairs placed on it, seat downwards as in a restaurant at closing time and, to our astonishment, there were three deck chairs of the sort one might have found by the beach at a resort on the Black Sea, folded up and stored at the rear. Next to them was a barrel of fresh water, a ladle resting on a thin film of ice on the surface. A shelf bore an assortment of pots, pans, a kettle, aluminium plates and a mess tin full of cutlery.
Within ten minutes, we had stowed our provisions, staked our claims on the bunks, lit the lanterns, got the stove going and were boiling the kettle.
‘Queer place!’ Titian commented as we lay back in the lap of our lean but comfortable luxury. ‘It’s got all the facilities but it seems deserted.’ He ran his finger along the frame of his bunk, collecting dust. ‘The maid’s not been in for a while.’
‘No room service,’ remarked Avel.
‘I don’t like it,’ Ylli grumbled cautiously.
The air in the tent began to warm up and I started to feel drowsy. Kostya was already breathing deeply, on the verge of snoring.
‘True story,’ Dmitri began, leaning back on his bunk with his hands behind his head and his elbows stuck out. ‘Peshkov published a novel called Mother in 1906. We all know it. Except maybe you, Shurik. Seeing you’re English…’
‘I know Maxim Gorky,’ I defended myself.
‘The stereo-typical revolutionary novel,’ Titian remarked.
‘Which he wrote whilst living in the USA,’ I chipped in, just to annoy Dmitri, allay my ignorance and prove my point.
Dmitri grimaced peevishly at me and went on, ‘One day, Gorky met Stalin at a dinner in the Kremlin. Stalin says to him, “Alexei Maximovich, you onc
e wrote a novel called Mother.” “I did,” agrees Gorky to the self-proclaimed Father of the Nation. “Well,” says Stalin, “why didn’t you write one called Father?” Gorky thinks about it for a second then answers, “It didn’t occur to me. One has to have inspiration to write a novel.”’
‘Brave man!’ remarked Avel, without much conviction.
‘Bloody fool!’ Ylli said, voicing Avel’s true feeling on the matter.
Titian sucked his breath in and asked, ‘Just how did Gorky die?’
There was a long silence. No one knew for sure.
‘Not in the gulag,’ Kirill announced at last. ‘What happened to him at the dinner?’
‘Stalin turns to Beria, standing next to him. Beria was head of the NKVD at the time. But he’s still talking to Gorky. “I think, Alexei Maximovich,” Stalin says, “you should give it a go. Have a try.” His tone’s encouraging, like a good father to a clever son. “After all, a try is not a trial.” He breaks up the word trial. Try-all.’
‘And did he try all?’ Kostya asked, waking from his semi-doze but not opening his eyes.
The tent flaps parted and a man dressed like an intrepid Arctic explorer entered. His clothing was of the latest design. Not for him a padded groin-length vatnik, not even a calf-length tulup. His coat was thick and looked at if it was tailored from light blue parachute silk with bright yellow stitching at the seams. The cotton padding was deep and gave him the appearance of a colourful, muscular cartoon strip character. He pulled his ushanka off and stood with his arms akimbo.
‘Welcome to – well, welcome to where you are, comrades.’ He moved over to the stove. ‘I see you’ve settled yourselves in. Do you have a team leader?’
Kirill got up from where he was sitting on his bunk and addressed the intrepid explorer.
‘I am M938, team leader of Work Unit 8 at Sosnogorsklag 32 correctional camp.’
‘Let’s not you and me stand on ceremony. What’s your name?’
We looked at each other, more puzzled now rather than suspicious.
‘I am Kirill Karlovich,’ Kirill said.
‘Well, team leader Kirill Karlovich,’ the man said and he sat down on the edge of the table, ‘tell me, are you all…’ He paused, as if deducing the word might insult us, but it was out of suspicion that he paused, not consideration. ‘… ideinye.’
‘Yes, comrade,’ Kirill confirmed. ‘Ideological inmates.’
‘No blatnye?’
‘No, comrade.’
‘Good!’ He turned to Avel. ‘What were you before you blotted your copybook?’
‘Fighter pilot, comrade,’ Avel said standing up, not quite to attention: it had been a long time since he had last addressed an officer and he assumed this must be one despite his multicoloured garb.
‘Saw action?’
‘Yes, comrade. Korea, comrade.’
‘And you?’ he enquired, turning.
‘Mathematician, comrade,’ Titian said.
‘In the military?’
‘University teacher, comrade.’
‘Which of you is the Englishman?’ he asked. There was more than a touch of curiosity in his voice.
I rose to my feet.
‘Number?’
‘B916, comrade.’
‘And what were you, Mr. B916 Englishman?’
‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ I replied.
I could sense my workmates tense up. There was a touch of the Gorky coming out in me. After a moment of silence, during which he astutely studied me, the man laughed quietly at my response, pulled a chair over and sat at the table, leaning forward on his elbows.
‘I trust you are what I requested?’
‘Comrade?’ Kirill replied.
‘I see. You’ve not been told anything. Am I in the company of experienced miners?’
‘Yes, comrade,’ Kirill confirmed.
‘And am I to understand,’ he went on, ‘that you’ve brought your own rations?’
Dmitri pointed to the three sacks where they stood against the side of the table.
Leaning over and peering into one of them, he remarked, ‘Staple stuff. Did they give you tea? Coffee?’
‘No, comrade,’ said Kostya.
‘You’ll need one or the other. You’ll be working long hours. Some of it heavy work. A stimulant will be essential.’
No one replied to this: we were not about to apprise him of the fact that we usually worked longer hours than he could imagine with little more than a hunk of bread and a bucket of water to sustain us.
‘You,’ he pointed to Ylli, ‘go to the fourth tent down, say Dr. Solovyov sent you and ask for half a kilo of coffee. Bring it back here.’
For a moment, Ylli stood quite still. We were all of us in a state of inanimation. Perhaps it was the thought of coffee which rooted us to the spot: perhaps it was the fact of one of our number being given the instruction to go and get something without so much as queue to join or a crowd to jostle.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Clearance from Moscow? Get on with it,’ Dr. Solovyov snapped, his impatience plainly evident.
Ylli darted out.
Kirill, not one to beat about the bush, asked, ‘Why have we been brought here, comrade doctor?’
Ylli returned with a small tin. No sooner had he entered than we could smell the coffee. Feeling the glands at the back of my mouth tighten and begin to salivate, I tried to work out how long it had been since I had last tasted coffee, and failed.
The kettle was boiling by now. Titian, having discovered a battered and smoke-stained coffee pot, tipped a liberal amount of grounds into it, added water and stirred it vigorously with a bent aluminium spoon. Taking some dented mugs down from the shelf and blowing the dust off them, he filled them with piping hot coffee and handed them round.
With each of us grasping a tin mug of black coffee, Dr. Solovyov settled back in his chair.
‘You are here,’ he commenced, to a chorus of appreciative slurping, ‘to partake in one of the most astounding scientific discoveries yet made in the whole of the Soviet Union, possibly in the world this century. Your part in this venture is to excavate, under my direction and that of Dr. Nedelko. You will be shown what to do in the morning.’
‘How long shall we be here?’ Kirill questioned.
‘Meteorological reports suggest we have ten days at the most. It has been decided to make as much use as we can of this temporary and uncharacteristic break in the weather pattern. It won’t be long before it’s back to blizzards as usual. We have to work as quickly as we can, but that is not to say we sacrifice care. Everything we do – you do – must be conducted with scrupulous attention to detail and orders.’
‘What are we to dig for, comrade?’
Dr. Solovyov drained his mug of coffee. He drank with the speedy ease of a man accustomed to such luxury. The rest of us had only been sipping at ours, savouring every drop.
‘Follow me and I’ll show you.’
We gulped down the rest of our coffee and hurried out of the tent. As we approached the guards’ billet, they gathered up their rifles but Solovyov waved to them not to bother. They sat down again and watched us go by.
The sun, which had been up for less than six hours, never rising higher than twenty degrees from the horizon, had set by now. In the afterglow of evening, the first stars re-appearing, we trudged after him along the bank of the river. It was clear that it was not a permanent feature of the landscape. The banks were sheer and freshly cut. This was a watercourse which came and went every year. When the ice thawed and the summer rains came, this river would change course and the bed would become a dry gully like that in which we had stopped to rendezvous with the half-track.
‘I might have guessed we’d be digging something. What do you reckon it’ll be?’ Kostya thought aloud as we walked along a mud bank.
‘I think,’ Ylli declared, ‘we’re going to dig out a satellite. I’ve heard they sometimes come down in the north. I think a satellite has crash
ed to earth and we are to be the poor sods sent to recover it.’
‘Start praying you’re wrong,’ said Avel.
‘Why?’ Ylli responded. ‘What can a defunct satellite do to you?’
‘Kill you,’ Avel replied. ‘Slow and sure. Some of them have little nuclear reactors in them. If one of them’s cracked open you’ll have radioactive shit all over the place.’
‘In that case,’ I reasoned, ‘the good doctor would be wearing protective clothing.’
‘And he isn’t!’ exclaimed Ylli. ‘You ever seen kit like his coat?’
‘No,’ Titian said. ‘It’s nothing like that. The camp’s semipermanent. That tent’s not just gone up. It’s been there a while. A year or two even.’
‘How do you know?’ Dmitri queried.
‘For one,’ Titian explained, ‘the turves outside were cut last summer. The grass roots are virtually non-existent or brittle as glass which means they dried out before being frozen in the autumn. If they were recently cut, the roots would be alive. Second, I turned my palliasse over.’
It was a trick every prisoner learned. As soon as you were assigned a new bunk, you turned the mattress, poked about in the cracks of the frame. There was always the off-chance that the previous occupant had left behind a razor blade, a few grams of coarse Ukrainian tobacco or some other contraband neither the guards nor his fellow prisoners had come across.
‘And what did you find?’
‘Mosquitoes.’
‘Mosquitoes!’ Ylli exclaimed.
‘Dead mosquitoes. A whole drift of the little buggers. Enough to fill a cook’s ladle. That tent’s been sprayed with insecticide. You don’t get mosquitoes in the winter. So the tent’s been there at least since last summer.’
Dr. Solovyov stopped at the edge of a sheet of ice jutting out from the muddy shore and pointed through the fading daylight to the far bank.
‘What do you see, comrades?’
We looked at the earth bank, the evening sky above it. I could just make out Andromeda and the galaxy bearing its name.
The doctor switched on a torch, directing the beam at the earth bank about three metres from the rim. In the frozen soil was a dull white streak.
The Industry of Souls Page 12