Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“These are the eight men we have selected to do battle tonight!” said the officer. “We are giving you all a reprieve from work early today so you can have a good meal and enjoy the entertainment this evening. There will only be three more hours of work for you today! Then you can feast on chicken and potatoes!”

The men bellowed as if they’d been offered a million dollars. The eight of us stood facing the six bosses, our backs to the crowd, while at the same time sizing one another up. The bosses smiled at us in a disturbing fashion, as if we were a line of prostitutes they were sizing up before making a final selection. And I’d seen this smile a lot on the faces of powerful Soviet men, particularly one Joseph Stalin. It was basically half smile, half frown. I liked to call it a “smown.”

“Turn now and face your comrades!” said the officer, and the eight of us followed suit. “Two of these men at a time will dual each other. We have five Russians, two Germans, and one American. Who will win? We believe that one of our Russian comrades will take the trophy. They must! No German or American can win!”

He locked eyes with the bosses. All of them nodded and smowned at him from under their hats with approval.

“They have to win because they have Russian blood!” he continued. “Actually, we believe the zek from Leningrad standing on the far end over there will be triumphant. Are we correct, Leonid?”

The massive Russian nodded with confidence. He was at least six-four and riddled with tattoos. He had dark black hair, and his messy, long beard covered most of his dirty, square face. His legs looked like tree trunks, his arms, like legs.

“This will be like our own private Olympic Games,” said the officer. “Maybe our Negro American can win the fights the way his comrade Jesse Owens won the races last year in Berlin. You think yes, American zek ?”

He studied me and I nodded, not knowing if confidence was something I should show.

“You are big, but not the biggest,” he said to me. “But you look like a perfect specimen. Very fit. If Leonid is our finest physical man, perhaps you are America’s. Who wins?”

The prisoners began to yell different words, but it was unclear what they were saying.

“QUIET!” shouted the officer, and the crowd hushed. “I am talking to the American.”

The officer turned to the bosses, then back to me. My being an American took center stage for the moment. My country obviously drew the ire of these men. Or, maybe the fact that Jesse Owens had dominated at the Berlin Games had the whole of the Soviet Union pining to prove their might. After all, they hadn’t participated in the Games. But it was Germany who’d won the most medals. Why were they fixated on me? I could only guess it was my color.

“Which country is better, you American?” he continued, completely disregarding the other fighters, particularly the two Germans. “This is not about communism versus capitalism. This is about Russian blood versus American blood. What you eat and breathe and drink and pray to on your soil, versus what we eat and breathe and drink and pray to on ours. You pray to Jesus… to God! We pray to our Dear Comrade Stalin, who is the Father of Nations, the Guiding Star. So! We shall see!”

Later that night, with the peeling yard’s perimeter lined with officers, the entire camp population assembled once again, this time in a large horseshoe formation, the open end occupied by the shallow stage. Large logs had been placed in the shape of said horseshoe, serving as the only barrier between the fighters and the crowd.

The zeks had been instructed to sit on the ground, while the bosses sipped vodka from their seats above. Poles had been placed in the ground along the perimeter of the entire horseshoe, behind the prisoners, ropes attached from one pole to the other. Hanging from them were several gas lamps that illuminated the entire area.

The eight of us fighters were being kept in an adjacent work shed. Surrounded by hanging chainsaws, large oil and gas cans, tools, and spare peeler blades, all we could do was wait and listen.

“WELCOME BACK, ZEKS !” the officer yelled from the stage outside. “GET QUIET AND LISTEN! We want you to scream and cheer for the combatants, but make no mistake… if you stand up, you will have your teeth knocked out immediately. Stay behind the logs! And if you stand up and try to move inside the ring, you will be shot. We don’t want to have to kill any zeks tonight. The only men who should die… maybe… are the ones who lose inside the ring. If one of the fighters falls into the crowd, just push him back inside. Now! Are ready to see some blood?”

“DA!” they screamed.

The eight of us sat in different areas of the gasoline-smelling shed and listened to the crowd hoot and holler. They’d been set ablaze upon hearing the word blood . I wasn’t making eye contact with any of my opponents. I just sat on a metal work stool in the corner, my knees apart, forearms resting on my thighs, head hanging down, as I stared at the oil drips decorating the wooden floor.

“Vitaly Petrov and Leonid Nikita!” said an officer entering the shed. “You two are up first. Let’s go! You are to fight until Officer Kozlov calls the match off from the stage. No exceptions. If you surrender before then, it will not be good for you. That goes for all of you. You are fighting to have your sentence reduced. Don’t forget that.”

About an hour later I was still waiting to be called for my fight. The other three brawls had already finished, and I was to take part in the fourth against one of the Germans, Baldric Falke. The winner of our match would join the other three who’d already won, the massive Russian, Leonid, being one of them.

No one had been killed so far, but the three who’d lost had been dragged back inside our shed, saturated in blood and pummeled beyond recognition. The victors were now being housed somewhere else. Why these horribly wounded men hadn’t been taken to Camp Z’s hospital was a mystery. And not a single nurse had been called to the shed. The beaten men were being left to die.

One of the battered zeks , Vitaly Petrov, had suffered the most gruesome of injuries. He, unlike the other two, wasn’t moaning because he was unconscious. According to what I’d heard the officers say upon dumping him near a pile of rusted winch cable, both of his testicles had been ripped away from his body. The officers had also laughed about the Russian’s ungodly misfortune before they’d exited.

The sudden horror surrounding me was unspeakable. The shed felt like a blood-dripping slaughterhouse, and I had visions of waiting to be thrown into a meat grinder. My body ached and throbbed and I hadn’t even been touched yet.

I closed my eyes and tried to counter the grotesqueness by thinking of my sweet wife and daughter, the tenderness of their simple smiles, the softness of their gentle touch, the kindness in their every word. I pictured my son doing his best to stay alive, his innate and beautiful optimism being put to the ultimate test. I kept my eyes closed until finally they came for me. It was time.

My opponent and I walked toward the ring, as the crowd, now worked into a complete frenzy, began to roar even louder. I gazed at the stage and the vodka-guzzling bosses. They’d had their appetites plenty wetted at this point and appeared all the more ready to see more violence.

The men in our path gladly moved aside, creating an opening for us. We stepped over the log and entered the ring. My eyes were fixed straight down and I could see blood splattered everywhere. Many of the bark peels were dark red now, and some of the sawdust and pine needles had been turned into bloody clumps. There were even pieces of human tissue scattered about, evidence that the combatants had bitten each other. But none of this distracted me. I was focused on James, Loretta, and Ginger. Nothing more. Nothing less.