by Dan Smith
‘I am warm.’
‘What? Please,’ I said. ‘Look at me.’
Kostya opened his eyes again, our faces so close that I could feel his weak and sporadic breaths.
‘Tell me about your family,’ I said.
‘This is easier.’
‘What about your brother?’
‘Hm?’
‘Evgeni. Your brother.’
‘He’ll be fine. The harvest will be fine.’
‘Kostya.’
‘Let me sleep now. It’s easier. So easy.’ His eyelids drifted down and his eyes rolled as if he were falling into a drunken sleep.
I nudged against him, trying to wake him, saying his name. ‘Kostya. Wake up. Kostya.’
But Kostya did not open his eyes again.
I continued to say his name, feeling the weakness in my own voice, sensing the drowsiness descending over my own mind. I pulled myself as close to Kostya as possible, taking the last of his warmth, listening for his breathing as my own eyes began to close and I struggled to remember where I was and how I had come to be here. So I told Kostya about my family. About my sons and my daughter. About my wife Natalia, waiting at home, baking fresh bread, preparing hot soup. It was warm in the kitchen and our children were sitting at the table. Outside, spring had come and the steppe was green and lush.
And when the soldiers came to get me, just a few minutes later, Kostya was no longer breathing.
26
Without making eye contact they dragged me back into the cell, throwing my trousers and shirt behind me. Lermentov wasn’t anywhere in sight, nor did I see them take Kostya’s body away.
I could barely move to get my clothes, let alone put them on, but the others knew what to do. They had been in there long enough to run through the motions. They helped me dress, and they rubbed my skin with their grubby hands, trying to encourage the circulation of my blood. They pressed about me, like a nightmare in the dark, their filthy bodies washing around me like the undead stinking of the grave, but I was grateful for their care and their kindness. They were keeping me alive. Evgeni, Yuri, Dimitri. These good men were doing what they could to save my life, just as they had kept each other alive and sane while incarcerated, not knowing what their fate might be. It was a touching and human gesture, given without thought.
After the freezing cold of the bell tower the room felt like a furnace, and I knew I’d been lucky when I felt life returning to my body and the feeling returning to my fingers and toes. And when I was able to move, I pushed up against the wall and felt two of the others press on either side of me, lending me the only thing they had left. Their warmth.
Later, when the soldiers threw in a few pieces of bread and a tin bowl with a few mouthfuls of water, Evgeni collected it and tore the bread, passing a piece to each man, saying in a quiet voice that he’d save a piece, put it in the corner of the room in case any of us needed it later. It was incredible how those men had managed to remain sane in the obscurity of that room, feeling their way in the dark, and still have the capacity to make provision for later. All instinct was to devour whatever was put through the door, not to save it. And how easy it would be for one man to creep over in the darkness and steal the last piece of bread.
I ate the scraps like a rat, crouched against the wall, gnawing at it to make it last. Tasting every tiny bite, I kept the bread in my mouth until my saliva melted it to a paste, and even then I held it behind my lips until it dissolved to nothing. I ran my tongue about my teeth, savouring every last crumb. And when we had eaten, we passed the bowl around, taking tiny sips until there was almost no water left and Evgeni poured it into the cup he’d handed to me last night.
‘I saw Kostya,’ I said.
‘You spoke to him?’ Evgeni asked after some time.
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He was happy,’ I told him. ‘He said it was easy. That everything would be easier.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Cold and tired.’
‘Beaten?’
‘I didn’t notice anything.’
‘Good. That’s good. Thank you for being with him.’
I drew my knees close and wrapped my shaking arms around them, burying my face and staring at the blackness, trying not to think about what would happen now, about Kostya lying cold and dead in the bell tower. I thought instead about Dariya, and hoped someone was looking after her.
And with those thoughts I tried to keep awake. I didn’t want to talk to the other men right now, and they didn’t attempt to speak to me, but I was afraid to sleep. I didn’t even want to close my eyes for fear that I might not care what happened to me. Like Kostya, I might decide that to die would be easier than to keep fighting and fulfil my promise to Lara. But however hard I tried, my mind kept going back to the bell tower and to Kostya’s freezing body. Something about it made me think of what I had found in the hut. The child thief stiffened by the cold. And somewhere at the back of my mind there was a faint notion that something was wrong.
But whatever it was, it was beyond my grasp, lost when exhaustion finally claimed me into an easier world.
The next time the soldiers came to the room, they took Dimitri. He protested, shouting and struggling, but they held him tight and forced him to do as they demanded.
The rest of us remained quiet in our prison, listening to the voices behind the heavy wooden door but making out none of the words other than an occasional shout from Dimitri. The interview was brief, followed by footsteps and a short moment of stillness before they came back for Evgeni, who complied without any fight. His resistance was all gone.
Again the voices. The footsteps. The respite.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Yuri.
‘I don’t know, but they’re not being beaten. It’s something else.’ I stood and shuffled to the door, putting my eye to the keyhole. In the main hall of the church three men were sitting behind the table where I had been beaten. Lermentov was in the middle, in full uniform, the tunic clean as if new. Anatoly Ivanovich was on his right, holding his cap in his hands, his demeanour apologetic. To Lermentov’s left, another man. Like Anatoly, this third man was in civilian clothes, but his were in better condition and he sat upright and officious.
‘It’s a troika,’ I said. ‘We’re being tried.’
‘Tried? For what?’
‘Our crimes, Yuri. It looks like we’re leaving. Perhaps now there’ll be a chance.’
‘A chance for what?’
‘To get away, of course.’ I was thinking that trapped inside this room I was powerless, but outside, without the walls to contain me, there might be a moment, just a moment, for me to use to my advantage.
‘Have you seen how many soldiers are in this village?’ Yuri said.
‘It doesn’t matter. If there’s the slightest chance—’
‘You’re no good to that little girl if you’re dead.’
‘And I’m no good to her in here, either.’ I kept an eye to the keyhole, watching the men take Evgeni from the church. ‘You know, you never said why they put you in here, Yuri.’
‘Didn’t I?’
But already the soldiers were approaching the door, and I took my eye from the keyhole, moving back to where I had been sitting. And when they took Yuri, bringing light into the room, he turned to look me in the eye. ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ he said. And then I was left alone in the room.
I went back to the keyhole, seeing Yuri sitting with his back to me, a soldier on either side. His shoulders were slumped and his head hanging so his chin was almost on his chest. He would be feeling some relief at his release from the room, but at the same time it may have become a refuge for him. Inside the room he was safe; it was only when removed from it that he was threatened. But at least he was outside, and at least something was happening. Sometimes waiting is the worst thing.
It was only a few moments before the soldiers pulled Yuri from the seat and he began walking towards the main doo
r of the church. Still hanging his head, his feet shuffling, he waited for them to open it and usher him out into the daylight. They all disappeared and the door closed, only to reopen a few moments later.
They would come for me next.
I went to the corner of the room, feeling for the piece of bread and the cup of water the men had saved. I swallowed the dry bread and drank the last of the water, putting the empty metal cup on the floor and stepping on it with as much force as I could muster in my bare feet. I crushed the cup flat and picked it up, feeling the sharp point where the edges had come together. I slipped it into my trouser pocket and sat with my back to the wall, waiting for them to come.
The blood was gone from the tabletop. The crutifix was pushed to one side. There was no bottle of borilka, no satchel, no parcel of flesh.
Instead there was a book, the left page filled with handwritten names and information. The page on the right was half full.
Sergei Artemevich Lermentov held a pen in his hand. He barely looked up as the guards ushered me to the chair.
‘How long have I been here?’ I asked.
‘Name?’
I waited for a moment, watching the other men sitting either side of the policeman. Anatoly Ivanovich, the farm labourer turned party faithful, sat on Lermentov’s right-hand side. On his left sat another man, short and stocky, bearded. He was wearing a cloth cap and a woollen jacket. He would be another member of the local council. I studied them, wondering what kind of men they were. Hungry for power maybe, or just frightened like everybody else was.
‘Please. How long have I been here?’
‘Name?’ Lermentov repeated.
I rubbed my face. ‘Luka Mikhailovich Sidorov. But you know that. How long have I been here?’
Lermentov wrote in his book and looked up. ‘You are accused of crimes against the people.’
‘What crimes?’
‘Assaulting an OGPU officer—’
‘I didn’t touch you.’
‘—and owning a rifle.’ Lermentov leaned forward and spoke quietly, voicing the charge that was of no consequence to the regime: ‘And assaulting a child.’
‘No.’ I felt immense frustration at this charge. I owned a rifle, that much was true, and although I hadn’t laid a hand on Lermentov, I didn’t care about that lie because all three of these men knew I was not an enemy of the people. They knew I was not a counter-revolutionary but they really did think I had harmed Dariya, and the injustice of that accusation swelled my anger at the world immeasurably. The stranger who had come to Vyriv, pulling his own dead children on a sled, had been accused of the same thing by Dimitri. The child thief had managed to orchestrate that man’s guilt just as he had orchestrated mine. Whether it had been intentional or not, he had consigned us to similar fates: to be thought of as men who butchered children. And that fate was almost too much for me to bear.
In Vyriv they had hanged such a man from the tree in the centre of their village. I would be sentenced to a slower, harder death. Perhaps cutting forests in the frozen wastes of Siberia with a few grams of bread each day until either my mind or body gave up the will to continue. But either fate carried the same ultimate penalty, and even though the child thief was long gone, a frozen corpse in a deserted cabin, his game was won.
‘Where is she?’ I asked. ‘Is she safe?’
Lermentov looked to Anatoly Ivanovich. ‘Guilty?’
‘Guilty,’ Anatoly agreed.
‘Guilty,’ said the other man.
Lermentov wrote in his book, his penmanship slow and deliberate. The nib scratched on the paper as he wrote, and when he was finished he put down his pen and folded his hands. ‘You will go for correctional labour,’ he said. ‘Fifteen years.’
‘You always need more workers,’ I said.
‘Always.’
27
Outside the church, in the centre of Sushne, there were close to twenty people huddled together surrounded by guards. Men, women and children, some without coats, none of them carrying any belongings. Evgeni, Dimitri and Yuri were among them, stamping their feet, their arms crossed in front of them. Others were being brought from their homes to join them. One woman hurried to the prisoners and bundled into Dimitri’s arms, sobbing for everything they’d lose but grateful at least to be with her husband.
The soldiers pushed me out of the church and down the steps, so I was standing barefoot in the snow. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to avoid the pain, but there was no use in it. Soon they were numb.
Lermentov came to stand beside me, capped and coated, looking down at my feet. It’s a long walk to the train,’ he said. ‘You may not last without shoes.’
I pretended not to hear, but Lermentov was already walking away as the guards herded me among the others. Lermentov was heading past the other prisoners to the village entrance, where a lone man was approaching on horseback. The soldier’s heavy coat and his budenovka were dusted with snow, and as he came close to where the people were huddled, pushing together for warmth, I recognised him as one of the men who had arrested me on the road into Sushne. He was the young man who had been uncomfortable with his comrade’s brutality. Andrei.
Andrei recognised me too, the expression in his face betrayed him, but he looked away as he dismounted and came close to speak to Lermentov.
The guards began to arrange the zeks into pairs, shoving us together, and I went where directed, keeping my eyes on Lermentov, wondering if I would be able to reach him before one of the guards shot me down. Compliant and malleable, I would surprise them, breaking ranks and heading straight for him. I put a hand into my pocket and felt the crushed metal cup, touching the sharp corner with one fingertip. There was so little for me to lose now. Perhaps I could reach the policeman and put the pointed edge to the soft hollow of his throat, force it into his flesh then take the pistol from his belt. Perhaps there was still a chance for me.
I felt adrenalin begin to surge, a vibrancy in my muscles as my body prepared itself, but it was as if Lermentov sensed it, and he turned his head to meet my gaze. The soldier who had ridden in on horseback was still taking to him, Lermentov nodding his head slightly as he listened, but his stare never left me. It was as if Lermentov and I were connected. He even continued to watch as he called over another soldier and gave instructions, the man hurrying away to carry out his orders.
And when the conversation with Andrei was complete, only then did Lermentov look to the ground, his lips pursed. His shoulders rose as he drew in a deep breath, then he walked in my direction.
‘Come.’ Lermentov took my arm and pulled me away from the others. ‘I have a surprise for you.’ He turned me round and gestured to the soldier he had instructed just a few moments ago. The young man was now returning along the frozen street with Dariya at his side.
‘Your daughter,’ Lermentov said. ‘Or should I say, your niece? Go on.’ He released his grip and I went straight to Dariya, crouching to her level, ignoring the pain in my feet. I fastened her sheepskin coat around her and took her head in my hands, turning it so we were looking at each other.
‘It’s me. Everything’s going to be all right.’
For a moment there was no response from her at all. She didn’t even blink.
I moved close to her, leaning in to whisper into her ear. ‘I’ve come to take you home. I promised Lara. I promised her I’d bring you home. Remember Lara. Remember her.’
And Dariya “pressed her head against my face. Her cold ear against my lips. The side of her head against my forehead. And when she put her arm around me, I knew she remembered. Beneath everything that had happened to her, she remembered who I was.
I held her tight, pulling her right into me and holding her for a long time. Only when the guards began to move, shouting for us to make a line, did I finally release her.
I stood, and even then Dariya put her arms around my legs as if she would never let me go.
‘I don’t know if you’re a brave man or a stupid man,’ Le
rmentov said. ‘The soldier I was talking to told me they found another village. Vyriv, it’s called. It’s small, well hidden, and there wasn’t much there. Some food supplies which have been taken.’
I said nothing.
‘And he told me something else. Something that’s of no consequence to me but might interest you. Apparently a girl was taken from the village.’ He looked down at Dariya. ‘She was taken from the village and some of the men went to bring her back. A soldier and his two sons. So which are you, Luka Mikhailovich Sidorov? The child taker or the one who went to bring her back?’
Tears came to my eyes, a heavy sadness to my heart. They had found Vyriv. ‘My wife?’ I said. ‘What about my wife? My sons?’
‘Don’t ask me what I can’t tell you. Maybe you’ll see them again when you get to the train, maybe you won’t.’ He shook his head. ‘You let us think you had harmed this girl, and you did it to protect a tiny piece of land and a few peasants in this frozen shit hole. Like I said, I don’t know if you’re brave or stupid. But either way it doesn’t make any difference.’
‘But you know I’ve done nothing wrong. You know.’
Lermentov shrugged. ‘You lied. You had a weapon. It’s enough.’
‘Take Dariya home. Please.’
‘There’s no going home now. Not for you, not for me, not for any of us. Work is all there is now. Everyone is a worker.’
‘She’s just a child.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference.’ He looked away, watching the other prisoners. ‘She has fingers, she can work. It’s just the way it is now. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘Would you do it to your own daughter?’
Still he wouldn’t look at us. Instead he waved his hands at the guards. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Get these prisoners to the train.’
‘Where are we to go? Where are you sending us?’
‘Work. You’re being marched to the transit prison at the station and then you’ll be taken for work.’