One evening when Wladek had been hauling logs across the waste, his leg began to throb unmercifully. When he looked at the scar caused by the Smolenski, he found that it had become puffy and shiny. That night he showed the wound to a guard, who ordered him to report to the camp doctor before first light in the morning. Wladek sat up all night with his leg nearly touching the stove, surrounded by wet boots, but the heat was so feeble that it couldn’t ease the pain.
The next morning Wladek rose an hour earlier than usual. If you had not seen the doctor before work was due to start, then you missed him until the next day. Wladek couldn’t face another day of such intense pain. He reported to the doctor, giving his name and number. Pierre Dubien turned out to be a sympathetic old man, bald-headed, with a pronounced stoop—Wladek thought he looked even older than the Baron had in his final days. He inspected Wladek’s leg without speaking.
“Will the wound be all right, Doctor?” asked Wladek.
“You speak Russian?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Although you will always limp, young man, your leg will be good again, but good for what? A life here chopping wood.”
“No, Doctor, I intend to escape and get back to Poland,” said Wladek.
The doctor looked sharply at him. “Keep your voice down, stupid boy … . You must know by now that escape is impossible. I have been in captivity fifteen years and not a day has passed that I have not thought of escaping. There is no way; no one has ever escaped and lived, and even to talk of it means ten days in the punishment cell, and there they feed you every third day and light the stove only to melt the ice off the walls. If you come out of that place alive, you can consider yourself lucky.”
“I will escape, I will, I will,” said Wladek, staring at the old man.
The doctor looked into Wladek’s eyes and smiled. “My friend, never mention escape again or they may kill you. Go back to work, keep your leg exercised and report to me first thing every morning.”
Wladek returned to the forest and to the chopping of wood but found that he could not drag the logs more than a few feet and that the pain was so intense he believed his leg might fall off. When he returned the next morning, the doctor examined the leg more carefully.
“Worse, if anything,” he said. “How old are you, boy?”
“I think I am thirteen,” said Wladek. “What year is it?”
“Nineteen hundred and nineteen,” replied the doctor.
“Yes, thirteen. How old are you?” asked Wladek.
The man looked down into the young boy’s blue eyes, surprised by the question.
“Thirty-eight,” he said quietly.
“God help me,” said Wladek.
“You will look like this when you have been a prisoner for fifteen years, my boy,” the doctor said matter-of-factly.
“Why are you here at all?” said Wladek. “Why haven’t they let you go after all this time?”
“I was taken prisoner in Moscow in 1904, soon after I had qualified as a doctor. I was working in the French embassy there, and they said I was a spy and put me in a Moscow jail. I thought that was bad until after the Revolution, when they sent me to this hellhole. Even the French have now forgotten that I exist. The rest of the world wouldn’t believe there is such a place. No one has ever completed a sentence at Camp Two-O-One, so I must die here, like everyone else, and it can’t be too soon.”
“No, you must not give up hope, Doctor.”
“Hope? I gave up hope for myself a long time ago. Perhaps I shall not give it up for you, but always remember never to mention that hope to anyone; there are prisoners here who trade in loose tongues when their reward can be nothing more than an extra piece of bread or perhaps a blanket. Now Wladek, I am going to put you on kitchen duty for a month and you must continue to report to me every morning. It is the only chance you have of not losing that leg and I do not relish being the man who has to cut it off. We don’t exactly have the latest surgical instruments here,” he added, glancing at a large carving knife.
Wladek shuddered.
Dr. Dubien wrote Wladek’s name on a slip of paper. Next morning, Wladek reported to the kitchens, where he cleaned the plates in freezing water and helped to prepare food that required no refrigeration. After chopping logs all day, he found it a welcome change: extra fish soup, thick black bread with shredded nettles, and the chance to stay inside and keep warm. On one occasion he even shared half an egg with the cook, although neither of them could be sure what fowl had laid it. Wladek’s leg mended slowly, leaving him with a pronounced limp. There was little Dr. Dubien could do in the absence of any real medical supplies except to keep an eye on Wladek’s progress. As the days went by, the doctor began to befriend Wladek and even to believe in his youthful hope for the future. They would converse in a different language each morning, but his new friend most enjoyed speaking in French, his native tongue.
“In seven days’ time, Wladek, you will have to return to forest duty; the guards will inspect your leg and I will not be able to keep you in the kitchen any longer. So listen carefully, for I have decided upon a plan for your escape.”
“Together, Doctor,” said Wladek. “Together.”
“No, only you. I am too old for such a long journey, and although I have dreamed about escape for over fifteen years, I would only hold you up. It will be enough for me to know someone else has achieved it, and you are the first person I’ve ever met who has convinced me that he might succeed.”
Wladek sat on the floor in silence, listening to the doctor’s plan.
“I have, over the last fifteen years, saved two hundred rubles—you don’t exactly get overtime as a Russian prisoner.” Wladek tried to laugh at the camp’s oldest joke. “I keep the money hidden in a drug bottle, four fifty-ruble notes. When the time comes for you to leave, the money must be sewn into your clothes. I will have already done this for you.”
“What clothes?” asked Wladek.
“I have a suit and a shirt I bribed from a guard twelve years ago when I still believed in escape. Not exactly the latest fashion, but they will serve your purpose.”
Fifteen years to scrape together two hundred rubles, a shirt and a suit, and the doctor was willing to sacrifice them to Wladek in a moment. Wladek never again in his life experienced such an act of selflessness.
“Next Thursday will be your only chance,” the doctor continued. “New prisoners arrive by train at Irkutsk, and the guards always take four people from the kitchen to organize the food trucks for the new arrivals. I have already arranged with the senior ‘cook’”—he laughed at the word—“that in exchange for some drugs you will find yourself on the kitchen truck. It was not too hard. No one exactly wants to make the trip there and back—but you will only be making the journey there.”
Wladek was still listening intently.
“When you reach the station, wait until the prisoners’ train arrives. Once they are all on the platform, cross the line and get yourself onto the train going to Moscow, which cannot leave until the prisoners’ train comes in, as there is only one track outside the station. You must pray that with hundreds of new prisoners milling around, the guards will not notice your disappearance. From then on you’re on your own. Remember, if they do spot you, they will shoot you on sight without a second thought. There is only one thing I can do for you. Fifteen years ago when I was brought here, I drew a map from memory of the route from Moscow to Turkey. It may not be totally accurate any longer, but it should be adequate for your purpose. Be sure to check that the Russians haven’t taken over Turkey as well. God knows what they have been up to recently. They may even control France, for all I know.”
The doctor walked over to the drug cabinet and took out a large bottle that looked as if it were full of a brown substance. He unscrewed the top and removed an old piece of parchment. The black ink had faded over the years. It was marked “October 1904.” It showed a route from Moscow to Odessa, and from Odessa to Turkey, 1,500 miles to freedom.
Wladek stayed awake each night, gazing at the wolves’ sun through the window, rehearsing what he would do in any given situation, preparing himself for every eventuality. In the morning he would go over the plan again and again with the doctor. On the Wednesday evening before Wladek was to try the escape, the doctor folded the map into eight, placed it with the four 50-ruble notes in a small package and pinned the package into a sleeve of the suit. Wladek took off his clothes, put on the shirt suit and then replaced the prison uniform on top of them. As he put on the uniform again, the doctor’s eye caught the Baron’s silver band, which Wladek, ever since he had been issued his prison uniform, had always kept above his elbow for fear the guards would spot his only treasure and steal it.
“What’s that?” he asked. “It’s quite magnificent.”
“A gift from my father,” said Wladek. “May I give it to you to show my thanks?” He slipped the band off his wrist and handed it to the doctor.
The doctor stared at the silver band for several moments and bowed his head. “Never,” he said. “This can only belong to one person.” He stared silently at the boy. “Your father must have been a great man.”
The doctor placed the band back on Wladek’s wrist and shook him warmly by the hand.
“Good luck, Wladek. I hope we never meet again.”
They embraced and Wladek parted for what he prayed was his last night in the prison hut. He was unable to sleep at all that night in fear that one of the guards would discover the suit under his prison clothes. When the morning bell sounded, he was already dressed and he made sure that he was not late reporting to the kitchen. The senior prisoner in the kitchen pushed Wladek forward when the guards came for the truck detail. The team chosen were four in all. Wladek was by far the youngest.
“Why this one?” asked a guard, pointing to Wladek.
Wladek’s heart stopped and he went cold all over. The doctor’s plan was going to fail and there would not be another batch of prisoners coming to the camp for at least three months. By then he would no longer be in the kitchen.
“He’s an excellent cook,” said the senior prisoner, “trained in the castle of a baron. Only the best for the guards.”
“Ah,” said the guard, greed overcoming suspicion. “Hurry up, then.”
The four of them ran to the truck, and the convoy started. The journey was again slow and arduous, but at least he was not walking this time, nor, it now being summer, was it unbearably cold. Wladek worked hard on preparing the food and, as he had no desire to be noticed, barely spoke to anyone for the entire journey other than Stanislaw, the chief cook.
When they eventually arrived at Irkutsk, the drive had taken nearly sixteen days. The train waiting to go to Moscow was already standing in the station. It had already been there for several hours but was unable to begin its return journey to Moscow until the train bringing the new prisoners had arrived. Wladek sat on the edge of the platform with the others from the field kitchen, three of them with no interest or purpose in anything around them, dulled by their experiences, but one of them intent on every move, carefully studying the train on the other side of the platform. There were several open entrances on the train and Wladek quickly selected the one he would use when his moment came.
“Are you going to try to escape?” Stanislaw asked suddenly.
Wladek began to sweat but did not answer.
Stanislaw stared at him. “You are.”
Still Wladek said nothing.
The old cook continued to stare at the thirteen-year-old boy; then he nodded in agreement. If he had had a tail, it would have wagged.
“Good luck. I’ll make sure they don’t realize you’re missing for as long as I can.”
Stanislaw touched his arm, and Wladek caught sight of the prisoners’ train in the distance, slowly inching its way toward them. He tensed in anticipation, his heart pounding, his eyes following the movement of every soldier. He waited for the incoming train to come to a halt and watched the tired prisoners pile out onto the platform, hundreds of them, anonymous men with only a past. When the station was a chaos of people and the guards were fully occupied, Wladek ran under the prisoner train and jumped onto the one bound for Moscow. No one aboard showed any interest as he went into a lavatory at the end of the carriage. He locked himself in and waited and prayed, every moment expecting someone to knock on the door. It seemed a lifetime to Wladek before the train began to move out of the station. It was, in fact, seventeen minutes.
“At last, at last,” he said out loud. He looked through the little window of the lavatory and watched the station growing smaller and smaller in the distance, a mass of new prisoners being hitched up to the chains, ready for the journey to Camp 201, the guards laughing as they locked them in. How many would reach the camp alive? How many would be fed to the wolves? How long before they missed him?
Wladek sat in the lavatory for several more minutes, terrified to move, not sure what he ought to do next. Suddenly there was a banging on the door. Wladek thought quickly—the guard, the ticket collector, a soldier?—a succession of images flashed through his mind, each one more frightening than the last. He needed to use the lavatory for the first time. The banging persisted.
“Come on, come on,” said a deep voice in coarse Russian.
Wladek had little choice. If it was a soldier, there was no way out—a dwarf could not have squeezed through the little window. If it wasn’t a soldier, he would only draw attention to himself by staying in the lavatory. He took off his prison clothes, made them into as small a bundle as possible and threw them out of the window. Then he removed a soft hat from the pocket of his suit to cover his shaved head and opened the door. An agitated man pushed in, pulling down his trousers even before Wladek had left.
Once in the corridor, Wladek felt isolated and terrifyingly conspicuous in his out-of-date suit, an apple placed on a pile of oranges. He immediately went in search of another lavatory. When he found one that was unoccupied, he locked himself in and quickly unpinned the 50-ruble notes in his sleeve. He replaced three of them and returned to the corridor. He looked for the most crowded car he could find and crushed himself into a corner. Some men in the middle of the car were playing pitch-and-toss for a few rubles. Wladek had often beaten Leon when they had played in the castle and he would have liked to join the contestants, but he feared winning and drawing attention to himself. The game went on for a long time and Wladek began to remember the skills required. The temptation to risk his 200 rubles was almost irresistible.
One of the gamblers, who had parted with a considerable amount of his money, retired in disgust and sat down by Wladek, swearing.
“The luck wasn’t with you,” said Wladek, wanting to hear the sound of his own voice.
“Ah, it’s not luck,” the gambler said. “Most days I could beat that lot of peasants, but I have run out of rubles.”
“Do you want to sell your coat?” asked Wladek.
The gambler was one of the few passengers in the car wearing a good, old, thick sheepskin coat. He stared at the youth.
“You couldn’t afford it, boy.” Wladek could tell from the man’s voice that he hoped he could. “I would want seventy-five rubles.”
“I’ll give you forty,” said Wladek.
“Sixty,” said the gambler.
“Fifty,” said Wladek.
“No. Sixty is the least I’d let it go for; it cost over a hundred,” said the gambler.
“A long time ago,” said Wladek as he considered the implications of taking money from inside the lining of his sleeve in order to get at the full amount needed. He decided against doing so lest it draw attention to himself; he would have to wait for another opportunity. Wladek was not willing to show he could not afford the coat, and he touched the collar of the garment and said, with considerable disdain, “You paid too much for it, my
friend. Fifty rubles, not a kopeck more.” Wladek rose as if to leave.
“Wait, wait,” said the gambler. “I’ll let you have it for fifty.”
Wladek took the fifty rubles out of his pocket and the gambler took off the coat and exchanged it for the grimy red note. The coat was far too big for Wladek, nearly touching the ground, but it was exactly what he needed to cover his conspicuous suit. For a few moments he watched the gambler, back in the game, once again losing. From the new tutor he had learned two things: never to gamble unless the odds are tipped in your favor by your own superior knowledge or skill, and always be willing to walk away from a deal when you have reached your limit.
Wladek left the car, feeling a little safer under his new-old coat. He started to examine the makeup of the train with a little more confidence. The cars seemed to be in two classes, general ones in which passengers stood or sat on the wooden boards and special ones in which they sat on upholstered seats. Wladek found that all the cars were packed except one of the special ones, in which, strangely, there sat a solitary woman. She was middle-aged, as far as Wladek could tell, and dressed a little more smartly than most of the other passengers on the train. She wore a dark blue dress, and a scarf was drawn over her head. As Wladek stood staring at her hesitantly, she smiled at him, giving him the confidence to enter the compartment.
“May I sit down?”
“Please do,” said the woman, looking at him carefully.
Wladek did not speak again, but when he could he studied the woman and her belongings. She had a sallow skin covered with tired lines, a little overweight—the little bit one could be on Russian food. Her short black hair and brown eyes suggested that she once might have been attractive. She had two large cloth bags on the overhead rack and a small valise by her side. Despite the danger of his position, Wladek was suddenly aware of feeling desperately tired. He was wondering if he dared to sleep, when the woman spoke.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 9