Forced to let go of her anger, these intolerable temperatures and smells became tolerable. Survival meant adjusting. One of the prisoners had chosen not to accept these new rules. Raisa had no idea exactly when he’d died: a middle-aged man. He’d made no fuss—no one had noticed him, or if they had, no one had said anything. Yesterday evening, when the train had come to a stop and everyone had disembarked for their one small cup of water, someone had called out that a man was dead. Passing his body, Raisa suspected that he’d decided this new world was not for him. He’d given up, shut down, turned off, just like a machine. Cause of death: hopelessness, uninterested in surviving if this was all there was to survive for. His body was slung off the train, rolling down a bank, out of sight.
Raisa turned to Leo. He’d slept for most of the journey so far, resting against her, childlike. When he was awake he appeared calm, neither uncomfortable nor upset, his mind and thoughts elsewhere, his brow furrowed as though he was trying to make sense of something. She’d searched his body for signs of torture, finding a large bruise on his arm. Around his ankles and wrists there were red strap marks. He’d been tied down. She had no idea what he’d been through, but it was psychological and chemical rather than crude cuts and burns. She’d rubbed his head, held his hand—kissed him. This was all the medicine she was able to offer. She’d fetched his chunk of black bread and single strip of dried salt fish, their only meal so far. The fish, with its small crunchy white bones, had been so crystallized in salt that some prisoners had held it in their hands, desperately hungry and yet agonized by the prospect of eating it without water. Worse than hunger was thirst. Raisa had brushed off as much of the salt as she could before feeding it to Leo in small chunks.
Leo sat up, speaking for the first time since boarding the train, his words barely audible. Raisa leaned closer to him, straining to hear:
—Oksana was a good mother. She loved me. I left them. I chose not to go back. My little brother always wanted to play cards. I used to say I was too busy.
—Who are they, Leo? Who is Oksana? Who is your brother? Who are you talking about?
—My mother refused to let them take the church bell.
—Anna? You’re talking about Anna?
—Anna is not my mother.
Raisa cradled his head, wondering if he’d gone insane. Surveying the carriage, she was conscious that Leo’s vulnerability made him an easy target.
Most of the prisoners were too terrified to be of any threat except for the five men in the far corner perched on a high bench. Unlike the other passengers they were fearless, at ease in this world. Raisa guessed that they were professional criminals with sentences for theft or assault, crimes which carried far shorter sentences than those of the political prisoners around them, the teachers, nurses, doctors, writers, and dancers. Imprisonment was their turf, their element. They seemed to understand the rules of this world better than the rules of the other world. This superiority came not only from their evident physical strength; she noted power was conferred on them by the guards. They were spoken to as equals, or if not equals at least as a man might speak to another man. Other prisoners were afraid of them. They made way for them. They were able to leave their bench, use the toilet, and fetch their water, all without fear of losing their prized spot. No one dared take their place. They’d already demanded that one man, who they apparently did not know, give them his shoes. When he’d asked why they’d explained, in a matter-of-fact tone, that his shoes had been lost in a wager. Raisa had been thankful that this man didn’t question the logic of this:
New rules, new world.
He’d handed over his shoes, receiving a tattered pair in exchange.
The train came to a stop. Calls for water sounded out up and down, from every carriage. These were ignored or imitated, spat back at them:
Water! Water! Water!
As though the request were somehow repugnant. It seemed as if all the guards were clustering around their carriage. The door was opened, orders shouted out for the prisoners to keep back. The guards called for the five men. They swung down from their bench like jungle animals, pushing through the prisoners, leaving the train.
Something was wrong. Raisa lowered her head, breathing fast. It was not long before she could hear the men return. She waited. Then, slowly, she lifted her head, glimpsing the men as they climbed back into the carriage. All five were staring at her.
SAME DAY
RAISA TOOK HOLD OF LEO’S FACE:
—Leo.
She heard them approaching. There was no way to move through the crowded carriage without pushing a path through the prisoners on the floor.
—Leo, listen to me, we’re in trouble.
He didn’t move, didn’t seem to understand, the danger didn’t seem to register.
—Leo, please, I’m begging you.
It was no good. She stood up, turning to face the approaching men. What else could she do? Leo remained crouched on the floor behind her. Her plan: resist as much as she could.
The leader, and the tallest of the men, stepped forward, grabbing her arm. Expecting such a move, Raisa struck him in the eye with her free hand. Her nails, uncut and filthy, jabbed into the skin. She should have ripped his eye out. The thought crossed her mind, but instead all she managed was a gash. The man tossed her to the floor. She landed on other prisoners, who scuttled out of the way. This wasn’t their fight and they weren’t going to help. She was on her own. Trying to scramble away from her attackers, Raisa found that she couldn’t move. Someone was holding her ankle. More hands grabbed her, lifting her up and flipping her onto her back. One man dropped to his knees, holding her arms, pinning her down while the leader kicked open her legs. In his hand he held a shard of thick, jagged steel, like an enormous tooth:
—After I fuck you I’m going to fuck you with this.
He gestured to the steel shard, which, Raisa understood, had just been given to him by the guards. Unable to move her body, she turned to Leo. He was gone.
Leo’s thoughts had shifted away from the forest, the cat, the village, his brother. His wife was in danger. Struggling to assess the situation, he wondered why he was being ignored. Perhaps these men had been told that he was insensible and posed no threat. Whatever the reason, he’d been able to stand without them reacting. The leader was unbuttoning his trousers. By the time he’d noticed that Leo was standing, there was only an arm’s length between them.
The leader sneered and swung around, punching him in the side of the face. Leo didn’t block or duck, falling to the floor. Lying on the wooden planks, his lip split, he listened to the sound of the men laughing. Let them laugh. The pain had done him good, focusing him. They were overconfident, untrained—strong but unskilled. Making a deliberate show of being shaky and clumsy, he slowly stood up, keeping his back to the men, an inviting target. He could hear someone moving toward him, someone had taken the bait. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the leader lunge at him with the steel shard, intending to finish him off.
Leo sidestepped, moving with a speed that took the man by surprise. Before he could recover, Leo punched the man’s throat, winding him. The man gasped. Leo caught hold of his hand, twisting the shard free and jabbing the tip into the side of the man’s muscular neck. Leo thrust the shard again, plunging it all the way in, severing every sinew, vein, and artery in its path. He pulled the weapon free and the man collapsed, clasping the wound in his neck.
The nearest member of his gang stepped forward, arms outstretched. Leo allowed the man to grab hold of his neck, in reply pushing the shard into his stomach, through the man’s shirt, dragging it sideways. The man was gurgling but Leo kept on dragging the steel, cutting through skin and muscle. Releasing his grip on Leo’s neck, the wounded man stood, peering down at his bleeding stomach, as though puzzled by it, before slumping to his knees.
Leo turned to the remaining three men. They’d lost all interest in the struggle. Whatever deal they’d been offered wasn’t worth the fight. Maybe a
ll they’d been promised was better food rations or easier work at the camp. One of the men, perhaps identifying this as an opportunity for promotion within his gang, took charge.
—We have no quarrel with you.
Leo said nothing, his hands covered in blood, the steel shard jutting out of his hand. The men pulled back, leaving their dead and injured. Failure was quickly disowned.
Leo helped Raisa up, hugging her:
—I’m sorry.
They were interrupted by the injured man calling for help. The first man, the man with his neck cut open, had already died. But the man with the cut stomach was alive, conscious, clutching the injury. Leo looked down at him, assessing his injury. He would take a long time to die: it would be painful and slow. He deserved no mercy. But on balance it was better for the other prisoners that he should die quickly. No one wanted to listen to his screams. Leo crouched down, locking the man’s neck in a grip, choking him.
With the man dead, Leo returned to his wife. She whispered:
—Those men were ordered to kill us by the guards.
Considering this, Leo replied:
—Our only chance is to escape.
The train was slowing down. When it eventually stopped the guards would open the doors, expecting to find Leo and Raisa dead. When they discovered two of their assassins dead instead, they’d demand to know who’d killed them. Some prisoner would almost certainly speak up out of fear of torture or desire for reward. It would be more than enough of a pretext for the guards to execute Leo and Raisa.
Leo turned to face the prisoners. There were pregnant mothers, elderly men too old to survive the Gulags, fathers, brothers, sisters—ordinary, unremarkable, the kind of people that he himself had arrested and taken to the Lubyanka. Now he was forced to ask for their help:
—My name is not important. Before I was arrested I was investigating the murder of over forty children, murders which stretched from the Ural Mountains down to the Black Sea. Boys and girls have been killed. I know that this crime is hard to believe, perhaps even impossible for some of you. But I have seen the bodies for myself and I’m sure they’re the work of one man. He doesn’t kill these children for money or sex or any reason that I can explain. He’ll murder any child, from any town. And he will not stop. My crime was to investigate him. My arrest means that he is free to continue killing. No one else is looking for him. My wife and I must escape to stop him. We cannot escape without your help. If you call for the guards, we’re dead.
There was silence. The train was almost at a stop. In any second the doors would slide open, guards would enter, guns at the ready. Who could blame them when faced with the barrel of a gun not to tell the truth? A woman on one of the benches called out:
—I’m from Rostov. I’ve heard of such murders. Children with their stomachs cut out. They are blaming them on a group of Western spies who have infiltrated our country.
Leo replied:
—I believe the murderer lives and works in your city. But I doubt he’s a spy.
Another woman cried out:
—When you find him you’ll kill him?
—Yes.
The train stopped. The guards could be heard approaching. Leo added:
—I have no reason to expect your help. But I ask for it all the same.
Leo and Raisa crouched down among the prisoners. She wrapped her arms around Leo, covering up his bloodstained hands. The doors slid open, sunshine flooded the carriage.
Finding the two bodies, the guards called out for an explanation:
—Who killed them?
They were answered with silence. Leo looked over his wife’s shoulders at these guards. They were young, indifferent. They’d obey orders but they wouldn’t think for themselves. The fact that they hadn’t personally killed Leo and Raisa meant that they hadn’t been given instructions to do so. It had to be done on the sly, through a proxy. Without explicit authorization they wouldn’t act. These guards had no initiative. However, given some slight justification, they might seize the opportunity. Everything depended upon the strangers in this carriage. The guards were shouting, pushing guns into the faces of those nearest them. But the prisoners told them nothing. They selected an elderly couple. They were frail. They’d talk.
—Who killed these men? What happened here? Speak!
One of the guards raised his steel-capped boot above her head. She wept. Her husband pleaded. But neither of them replied to their questions. A second guard moved toward Leo. If he made him stand up he’d see the bloodied shirt.
One of the remaining gang, the man who’d told Leo there was no longer any quarrel between them, got down from his bench, approaching the guards. No doubt he’d now claim the reward promised to them. The man called out:
—Leave them alone. I know what happened. I’ll tell you.
The guards stepped away from the elderly couple, stepped away from Leo.
—Tell us.
—They killed each other, because of a card game.
Leo understood that there was a perverse logic to the gang’s refusal to give them up. They were prepared to rape and murder for a small profit. But they were not prepared to snitch, to be a guard’s stool pigeon. It was a question of status. If the other urki, the members of their criminal fraternity, found out they were selling inmates for perks they would never be forgiven. They would probably be killed.
The guards looked at each other. Unsure of what to do, they decided to do nothing. They were in no rush. The journey to Vtoraya Rechka, on the Pacific coast, would take weeks. There would be plenty of opportunities. They would await further orders. They’d come up with another plan. One of the guards addressed the whole carriage:
—As a punishment we will not offload these bodies. Soon, in this heat, they will begin to rot and stink and you will all become ill. Perhaps then you will talk.
Proud of himself, the guard leapt off the carriage. The other guards followed. The door was shut.
After a while the train began to move again. A young man with broken spectacles, peering at Leo through a cracked lens, whispered:
—How will you escape?
He had a right to know. Their escape now belonged to everyone in the carriage. They were all in it together. In reply Leo raised the bloody steel shard. The guards had forgotten to take it back.
TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY KILOMETERS EAST OF MOSCOW
13 JULY
LEO WAS LYING FLAT ON THE FLOOR, his arm squeezed through the small hole used by the prisoners as a toilet. With the steel shard he scratched at the iron nails fastening the floorboard to the underside of the carriage. None of the nails were accessible from inside: they’d all been hammered in the underside. The only access point was this small hole not much wider than his wrist. Leo had taken the dead man’s shirt and cleaned the area as best he could, nothing more than a token effort. In order to reach the nails he was forced to bring his face down flat against the stinking, piss- and shit-sodden wood, retching while blindly groping, guided by touch alone. Splinters dug into his skin. Raisa had offered to do the work instead since her hands and wrists were smaller. While this was true, Leo had a longer reach, and at full stretch it was just possible to reach each of the nails.
With a strip of shirt tied around his mouth and nose as limited protection from the stench, he picked at the third and last nail, scraping, cutting at the wood, gouging the timber and giving himself just enough space to wedge the tip under the nail-head and lever it out. It had taken many hours to remove two nails since the work had to be interrupted by any prisoner needing the toilet.
This final nail was proving the hardest. Partly that was due to tiredness—it was late, maybe one or two in the morning—but something else was wrong. Leo could get his fingertip under the nail’s head but it wasn’t coming loose. It felt crooked, as if it had been banged in at an angle, the body of the nail bent by the blows. It wouldn’t pull out. He’d have to dig further into the wood, perhaps all the way through. At this realization, that it would
take maybe another hour, a wave of exhaustion came over him. His fingers were bloody and raw, his arm ached, he couldn’t get the stink of shit out of his nose. Suddenly the train jolted to the side, he lost concentration, and the steel shard slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the tracks below.
Leo pulled his hand out of the hole. Raisa was beside him:
—Is it done?
—I dropped it.
Furious with his own stupidity at discarding the other nails, he no longer had any tools.
Seeing her husband’s bloody fingers, Raisa grabbed hold of the plank and tried to lift it up. One side of it rose up, fractionally, but not enough to grip underneath it, not enough to pull it free. Leo wiped his hands, looking around for something he might use:
—I have to scratch through the wood and get to the base of that last nail.
Raisa had seen every prisoner comprehensively searched before being allowed on the train. She doubted if anyone had metal implements of any kind. Contemplating the problem, her eyes drifted toward the nearest of the dead bodies. The man was lying on his back, his mouth open. She turned to her husband:
—How long or sharp does it need to be?
—I’ve done most of it. I need anything harder than my fingertip.
Raisa stood up, walking to the body of the man who had tried to rape and murder her. With no sense of justice or satisfaction, only a feeling of disgust, she positioned the dead man’s jaw so that it faced upwards. She raised her shoe directly above his jaw, hesitating, looking around. Everyone was watching. She closed her eyes, bringing her heel down against his front teeth.
Leo crawled over, feeling the inside of the man’s mouth and pulling out a tooth still affixed to a stump of bloody gum, an incisor, not ideal but sharp enough and hard enough to continue the scraping already done. He returned to the hole, lying on his front. Holding the tooth, he squeezed his arm through, finding the remaining nail and continuing to pick away at the wood, pulling off the splinters as they came loose.
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