Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

— It was a trap. They were watching the apartment.

They’d expected Niurina to be a target.

With their original escape route blocked, they were forced to enter the new apartment block, climbing into a bedroom. Malysh called out:

— Fire!

In the overcrowded buildings, ancient timber structures, with faulty electrics, fire was a constant fear. Grabbing Zoya’s hand, he ran out into the corridor, both of them now shouting:

— Fire!

Even without smoke, the corridor was crowded within seconds. Panic quickly spread through the building, feeding off itself. On the stairs Zoya and Malysh dropped to their hands and knees, crawling between people’s legs.

Outside, on the street, inhabitants surged out of the building, merging with the KGB and the militia. Zoya grabbed hold of the arm of a man, pretending to be distraught. Malysh did the same and the man, sympathetic, guided the two of them past the officials, who presumed them to be a family. As soon as they were free, they let go of the man’s arm, slipping off.

Reaching the nearest manhole, they pulled the steel cover back, climbing down into the sewers. At the bottom of the ladder Zoya ripped off a portion of her shirt, wrapping it around Malysh’s bleeding finger, round and round, until it became as thick as a sausage. Catching their breath, both of them began to laugh.

THE MORNING LIGHT WAS AS CLEAR and sharp as Leo had ever seen — a perfect blue sky and white plateau. Standing on the roof of the administration barracks, he raised the burnt, twisted remains of the binoculars to his eyes. Salvaged from the fire, only one cracked lens was usable. Searching the horizon, like a pirate at the bow of his ship, Leo saw movement at the far end of the plateau. There were trucks, tanks, and tents — a temporary military encampment. Alerted by yesterday’s flaming towers, beacons of dissent, overnight the regional administration had established a rival base for its counteroperations. There were at least five hundred soldiers. Though the prisoners were not outnumbered they were vastly outgunned, having only collected together two or three heavy machine guns, several clips of ammunition, an assortment of rifles and handguns. Against long-range weaponry, Gulag 57 was hopelessly exposed, while the wire fence would offer no protection against advancing armor. Completing his bleak assessment, Leo lowered the binoculars, handing them back to Lazar.

A cluster of prisoners had gathered on the roof. Since the destruction of the towers, it had become one of the highest vantage points in the camp. Aside from Lazar and Georgi there were the two other leaders and their closest supporters: ten men in all.

The vory leader asked Leo:

— You’re one of them. What will they do? Will they negotiate?

— Yes, but you can trust nothing they say.

The younger convict leader stepped forward:

— What about the speech? We are not under Stalin’s rule anymore. Our country has changed. We can make our case. We were being treated unfairly. Many of our convictions should be reviewed. We should be released!

— That speech might force them to negotiate in earnest. However, we are a long way from Moscow. The Kolyma administration may have decided to deal with this insurrection in secret, to prevent moderate Moscow influences becoming involved.

— They want to kill us?

— This uprising is a threat to their way of life.

On the ground a prisoner shouted:

— They’re calling!

The prisoners hurried to the ladder, bottlenecking in their haste to clamber down. Leo was last to descend, unable to hurry since bending his legs caused a sharp pain in both knees, the damaged skin stretching. By the time he reached the bottom of the ladder, he was sweating, short of breath. The others were already by the radio.

A radio transceiver was the sole means of communication between the various camps and the administrative headquarters in Magadan. One of the prisoners with some rudimentary knowledge of the equipment had taken charge. He was wearing earphones and repeated the words he could hear:

— Regional Director Abel Prezent… He wants to speak to whoever is in charge.

Without discussion the young leader took the microphone, launching into a rhetorical outburst:

— Gulag 57 is in the hands of the prisoners! We have risen up against the guards! They beat us and killed at their whim! No more…

Leo said:

— Mention that the guards are alive.

The man waved Leo aside, swollen on his own importance:

— We embrace our leader Khrushchev’s speech. In his name, we want every prisoner’s sentence reviewed. We want those who should be free, granted freedom. We want those who have done wrong, treated humanely. We demand this in the name of our revolutionary forefathers. That glorious cause has been corrupted by your crimes. We are the true heirs of the revolution! We demand you apologize! And send us food, good food, not convict gruel!

Unable to conceal his disbelief Leo shook his head, commenting:

— If you want to get everyone killed, ask for caviar and prostitutes. If you want to live, tell them the guards are alive.

The man added, peevishly:

— I should tell you that the guards are alive. We are holding them in humane conditions, treating them far better than they treated us. They will remain alive as long as you do not attack us. If you attack, we have taken precautions to ensure every last guard will die!

The voice on the radio crackled in reply, words that the man repeated:

— He requests proof of life. Once that is given he will listen to our demands.

Leo moved close to Lazar, petitioning him as the voice of reason:

— The injured guards should be sent over. Without medical attention they will die.

The vory leader, annoyed at being sidelined, interjected:

— We shouldn’t give them anything. It is a sign of weakness.

Leo countered:

— When those guards die of their injuries they will be worthless to you. This way you gain some value from them.

The vory sneered:

— And no doubt you want to be included in the truck that carries them out?

He’d guessed Leo’s intention exactly. Leo nodded:

— Yes.

Lazar whispered in Georgi’s ear, words that he announced with his own note of surprise:

— … And I want to go with him.

Everyone turned to Lazar. He continued, whispering to Georgi:

— Before I die I would like to see my wife and son. Leo took them from me. He is the only person who can reunite us.

THE FREIGHT TRUCK WAS LOADED with the most severely injured guards, six in total, none of whom would survive another twenty-four hours without medical attention. They were lifted on planks of wood, improvised stretchers, Leo assisting in the transfer of the final guard from the barracks. Laying him down in the back of the truck, they were ready to go.

As they were about to leave, Leo caught a glimpse of the guard’s watch. It was cheap plate gold, unremarkable except for the fact that it was Timur’s. There was no doubt: he’d seen that watch countless times. He’d listened to Timur’s story of how his father had passed it off as a family heirloom despite it being worthless. Crouching down, Leo ran his fingertip across the cracked glass. He looked at the injured officer. The man’s eyes were nervous. He understood its significance. Leo asked:

— You took this from my friend?

The officer said nothing.