Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

What struck me upon my return to the transit camp, having been away for two and a half weeks, was how much thinner my son and the other four appeared. On the other hand, they were shocked to see how strong and normal I looked, save for the obvious injuries and cuts to my face and arms. I’d made it back just in time, because car number twenty-eight’s men were scheduled to board a ship and head north to Kolyma in two days.

I was back in the same civilian clothes I’d been wearing the night of my arrest back in Moscow. It appeared that someone at Camp Z had attempted to wash them before reissue upon my release. They were still stained with blood, but they had held up nicely since Moscow, a far cry from the raggedy, civilian garb many of the other zeks still wore. Some at the transit had come with suitcases, but my compartment lads and I had not.

It was morning and I lay in my bottom bunk still, James asleep above me, the old man, Abram, on the next lower bunk near my feet, coughing uncontrollably. Yury was above him.

“Can I help you somehow, Abram?” said Yury.

“I’ll be fine,” he groveled.

“Your cough sounds much deeper,” I said. “When did you last visit the hospital?”

He didn’t answer me straightaway. He just coughed for a long spell.

“They told me I shouldn’t have smoked my whole life,” he finally said. “Then they gave me a shot of something and sent me back out. I had tried to also explain to the nurses that I, like so many others, am suffering from night blindness.”

Again Abram went into a coughing fit before continuing.

“One of the nurses gave me some cod-liver oil for it. We’ll see if it helps. At least I don’t have pellagra or scurvy like so many I saw in there. My God, the bloated legs! That medical compound is loaded with diseased souls. The good news is, when you all leave in two days, I will remain here. They told me that next week I can begin serving out my ten years here at the transit cleaning latrines and washing prison uniforms.”

“They most certainly will not have you cleaning shit for ten years!” said Yury, his Russian so proper sounding, as he was very well educated and also seemed to pride himself on giving off an air of a distinguished gentleman.

“Of course not!” said Abram. “I won’t be doing it at all, boy. I’ll be dead within five days.”

“Tell me you won’t,” said James, who’d awoken, his Russian words dripping with sadness. “You can’t die, Abram.”

My son climbed down from his bed and approached the old man. He leaned down and hugged him. He stayed there and began to cry.

“There, there, boy!” said Abram, reaching his frail arm around James and tapping him repeatedly on the back. The two had obviously grown close over the past few weeks.

“It is conceivable that you could survive here,” said Yury with sudden optimism in his voice. “It’s cleaning shit, yes, but at least you won’t freeze to death.”

“Come here, son,” I said.

James reluctantly let go of Abram and sat with me on my bed. My unbroken right arm around him now, he rested his head on my shoulder. Still teary-eyed, he began touching the dirty bandage wrapped around my hand.

“Dying naturally can be a gift to man from God,” said Abram.

“Hear me. I am not being shot or hanged or stabbed. I am choosing to let go and die. I want to. I am old enough. I had my uninterrupted life for so many good years. And now a madman has overtaken my country. I will not die at his hands. I will choose to die at God’s.”

“But your children,” said Yury.

“I have written a letter to my daughter in Poland. She will receive it and send word to my other daughter and three sons. It has been made clear to them. Besides, they know I was ready to go when my wife died two years ago.”

“That’s one of the many sick aspects of Stalin’s prison system,” said Yury. “He allows us to write letters to our families, after they’ve been read by NKVD, of course, but still, it is as if he wants our loved ones to know of our misery, and to also live in fear.”

“Or, perhaps he does it to trace their whereabouts,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Abram, now coughing blood into a white rag. “He can find whomever he wants to find. He can round up the entire country. I wrote the letter to my daughter in Poland. She is safe there. And she’s smart. She will notify my other children in Leningrad in a safe way. Besides, we cannot live in terror of this man. Whatever our destinies be, they shall be. Stalin tried to rip away our religion, but I still have God in my heart.”

I looked around the filthy barracks and saw most of car twenty-eight’s men still sleeping, including our two other compartment mates, Boris and Mikhail. I always wondered which prisoners were actually asleep or dead, as we’d lost several since being here.

“I wish Stalin had never been born,” said Yury. “I wish Lenin had lived longer. He is rolling over in his grave right now. I am hoping Trotsky will somehow return and bring sanity back to my Soviet Union.”

“You keep talking out loud about such things and one of these zeks is going to tell on you,” said Abram. “I am much older than you, boy. You are so full of passion, but you must keep your political opinions to yourself. There are always spies within our midst. Do you understand me, Yury?”

“I want to do it your way,” he said, the tone in his voice emoting deference to the old man. “I just had such belief in Trotsky. But I will stop and do it your way, Abram. Just promise me you will try to stay alive. I don’t want to go to Kolyma with the thought of you being dead in my mind. You remind me of those Russian people from our history who are beautiful, not ugly. You make me believe that I, too, can live a long life, have children, a wife, read books, grow wise, and someday… educate young men the way you do. Don’t die, Abram.”

“When you all get to Kolyma,” said Abram, coughing, “make sure you do one thing for me. And I want you, young James, to pay particular attention here. I want you to do exactly as the guards say. Never talk back or delay in responding to their orders. Understand?”

We all nodded and he went into another coughing fit, this time followed by heavier breathing. Then he continued in an even weaker voice.

“I want you to wake up every day and look straight up to the sky and past it. I will be there with my wife and God looking down on you. You may not know why this horror is happening right now, but don’t examine it for another second. Accept it. Focus on that day’s work. Treat that day’s soup or bread as if it were a king’s feast. When you lie down at night on whatever hard, freezing board they provide, think of me and let my voice put you to sleep at once. You can make it. I don’t care if you have to sleep in one of those holes dug in the ice. You can make it. You are all young, strong, smart. Your spirits are free. They can’t touch it. They can’t break you. No matter how thin and weak your bodies become, stay alive. See your families again, my boys. I love you dearly.”

It was on those last words that he took several deep, labored breaths and closed his eyes. I sat up and approached him, placing my hand on his neck to feel for a pulse. The beautiful, old man had gone to see God. And in two days, when the five of us would finally take our ominous ship ride north, we wouldn’t have to wonder if our gray-haired sage had died yet. He’d left us with some lovely last words. But now he was gone.

Three days later, we were still adjusting to having been crammed into a cargo ship like a bunch of sardines for about twenty-four hours now. The waters were choppy and many of the men had been vomiting from seasickness. The smell throughout was deplorable. There were men and women on the ship, but we were not together. We were packed in the lower hold, and they were on the deck above us. The hold smelled of ammonium nitrate, and it was fairly dark, but not completely like the train had been, because two dim lamps hung from the ladder, one at the top, the other at the bottom.