Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

When we entered Zorin’s barracks, I could instantly tell this was a man who didn’t spend his time worrying about comfort. There was nothing in the entire office except for a desk and two chairs. There was no fireplace, no bookshelves, no pictures on the walls save for the large one of Stalin behind his desk. There were no windows, no rugs, no cabinets, no art.

All I saw when we entered the small barracks was a tall-looking, olive-skinned man sitting and writing with his head down like he was the busiest person in Russia. He sported a thick black mustache and wore a gray tunic with red piping around the cuffs and collar. His visor was also gray, with a red band and red piping, all of which was accentuated with gold embroidery. He appeared to be in his thirties.

“ Perevodchik is here,” said Osip, prompting Colonel Zorin to look up and put his pen down.

“Come and sit,” said Zorin. “Osip, please stand outside and wait.”

He exited and I sat. Osip had introduced me as Perevodchik , which was the Russian word for “interpreter.”

“I was told by the Kremlin that you speak six languages,” said Zorin in an abnormally deep voice, his Russian spoken so slowly and loud it was easy to understand.

“Yes,” I said. “Six.”

“That is why your code name is Interpreter. Let me first tell you something that I am certain you would like to know. That way you don’t have to ask. The Kremlin has advised me to tell you this. Your wife was originally arrested for a simple reason. She was sending letters to a famous Russian painter named Natalia Goncharova, who now lives in Paris. Did you know she was writing letters to her?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, here is what she said in the last letter that was intercepted by NKVD before she was arrested.” He held up a sheet of paper. “She wrote, ‘My husband and I believe in freedom of expression. We have taught this God-given right to our children as well. We love the Soviet people, but the State should not be allowed to repress the ever-evolving, creative ideas of an artist. No one country should have a monopoly on art. You have inspired me with your bravery, Natalia, so much so that I now feel it’s in my family’s best interest to return to Paris.’”

He set the paper down and looked up at me. “Your wife went on to say more, but this was enough to brand your entire family counterrevolutionaries. So, now you can focus on the job at hand, spying for our Great Stalin. Yes?”

“When can I see my wife and daughter?” I boldly asked.

“Let me explain this up front to you, Perevodchik . The work here at MR4 is grueling. Your wife and daughter spent most of their time hauling stones in wheel barrels. At first they were quite terrible at it, but after I had them slapped around a little, they got strong really fast. You should also know that your wife kept asking about you and your son, too. But, unlike you, she was never told where you were. Why give her hope, you see. Anyway, your wife and daughter learned how to work hard. But your spy plan should have been thought of sooner.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You still have one very important reason to go to Berlin and keep your promise to the Kremlin, though. Your son will be here working in the mines waiting for you. And if you do a good job, I’m sure our Great Stalin will eventually release him.”

“The agreement,” I said, “was for me to gather intelligence for up to one year and then have my entire family released, along with my comrade, Lovett Fort-Whiteman.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I have it written down right here. The Kremlin did agree to release this Fort-Whiteman after your mission is complete. So, yes, it would be him and your boy.”

“And my daughter and wife?”

“I told you, your spy plan should have been thought of sooner. They both died within the last week.”

“What did you say?”

“Your wife and daughter are dead,” he said. “Your wife died four days ago, and your daughter gave up shortly thereafter. She passed two days ago, too sad after seeing her mother go. But we haven’t touched them. We stored them in the meat freezer room at the NKVD food barracks to preserve their bodies for you.”

I must have sat there for twenty seconds before what he’d said actually penetrated my inner ear, at which point, all of the blood in my body rushed to my feet, feeling as though it were spilling all over the floor. With each passing second, I felt myself sinking into this now vast pool of blood, then slowly drowning in it. I could not breathe. The visual of this Colonel Zorin before me grew blurry, my eyes watering, my heart beating as if I’d sprinted up a mountain, chill bumps covering my clammy skin. I tried to form a word but could not. I couldn’t even lift my hand to wipe at my tears. I was paralyzed.

As the seconds continued ticking by, I could see the image of Colonel Zorin mouthing something to me. But I couldn’t hear him. All I could hear was the sound of my arms splashing at the blood all around me. Then, as if the hand of God had reached deep into this pool and yanked me back up onto my chair, I took one big gasp, begging in air like a man who’d just been held underwater.

“Can you hear me, Perevodchik ?” I finally heard Colonel Zorin saying.

I nodded and wiped the tears from my face.

“Come with me,” he said.

We both stood and I followed him outside into the cold night and across the way to another barracks, Osip remaining behind, standing guard on Zorin’s deck. I was floating behind Zorin, my footsteps not under my control, no feeling of my boots actually contacting the ground. I was moving forward, but some force beyond me was orchestrating it.

We entered the large barracks, and I realized we were in the camp hospital, beds full of sick zeks throughout, only a few nurses here to attend to what looked like a hundred men. We made our way to the back of the large barracks and entered a hallway, with several medical staff offices located along the sides. We finally reached the last room on the left and he opened the door.

Facing a dark room, he flipped on the lights and we stepped forward. The inside was quite cold. It appeared to be nothing more than a storage room—mops, buckets, brooms, and cleaning supplies having been shoved against the walls. In the middle of the room lay two wooden boxes, both the size of caskets. For some reason, I was expecting to see two people lying inside who were not Loretta and Ginger. I still had hope.

“I know,” said Zorin, “that you had asked to see your wife and daughter before going to Berlin. This is the hospital for male zeks , but I had your wife’s and daughter’s bodies hauled over here from the freezer room when you arrived.”

He approached both boxes and lifted the lids off. Inside one lay Loretta. Inside the other lay Ginger. The hair had been shaved off and their bodies looked stiff. They were so frail, so colorless, their lips parched and cracked.

“Their eyes were open,” said Zorin, “even after they took their last breaths, but I had the nurses close them.”

I stepped closer and looked down at them. Flashes of the guard who I’d killed and buried under the punishment isolator ran through my head. The same rage was boiling up in me, and I forced myself not to look over at Zorin, afraid I might kill him the same way. I tried to think of James and the life he’d have to live alone if I, too, were taken from him now.

More tears ran down my face as I stared at my lifeless sweethearts. Then the nightmare overtook me like a gust of wind. I looked up at the ceiling, closed my eyes, and screamed to the heavens. And I couldn’t stop. Two guards rushed in and took me by the arms. I didn’t fight them off, but continued crying at the top of my lungs while they escorted me out of the room and past the beds of zeks and busy nurses. I was absolutely inconsolable and the guards knew it.