Tom Smith - Secret speech

Approaching the camp, the dim daylight, diffuse among the sunken cloud cover, had almost completely disappeared. Emerging out of the darkness, he saw the headlights of a truck on the plateau. Two fists of yellow light, fireflies in the distance. Were it not for his knees, Leo would have dropped to the ground and wept with relief, prostrate before a merciful deity. Pushed and shoved by the guards, who dared curse him only out of earshot of their reformed, enlightened commander, Leo was herded back inside the zona, his eyes constantly thrown over his shoulder, watching as the truck grew closer. Failing to keep his emotions under control, his lip trembling, he returned to the barracks. No matter what torture they’d planned, he’d be saved. He stood by the window-eyes and nose pressed up against the glass, like an impoverished child outside a sweet shop. The truck entered the camp. A guard stepped down from the truck’s cabin, then the driver. Leo waited, fingernails digging into the window frame. Surely Timur was among their number, perhaps seated in the back. Minutes passed, no one else stepped out. He continued to stare, desperation overwhelming logic, until he finally accepted that no matter how long he watched the truck, there was no one else on board.

Timur hadn’t arrived.

Leo couldn’t eat, his hunger displaced by disappointment so strong it filled his stomach. In the dining barracks he remained at the table long after the other prisoners had left, lingering until the guards angrily ordered him out. Better to be punished by them than by his fellow inmates, better to spend the night in the isolator-the freezing punishment cells-than to go through another torture. After all, weren’t these guards operating under the changed Commander Sinyavksy? Hadn’t he spoken about justice and fairness and opportunity? As the guards pushed him toward the door, in a deliberate act of provocation, Leo lashed out, swinging a punch. He was slow and weak: his fist was caught. A rifle butt smashed into his face.

Dragged by his arms, legs trailing in the snow, Leo wasn’t taken to the isolator. He was dumped in the barracks-left sprawled in the middle of the room. He heard the guards leave. His eyes focused on the timber beams. His nose and lips were wet with blood. Lazar looked down at him.

He was stripped bare and wet towels were wrapped tight around his chest, tied behind his back. They rendered him unable to move, arms pinned by his side. He felt no pain. Although he’d never served as an official interrogator, he had firsthand knowledge of their methods. From time to time he’d been forced to watch. Yet this technique was new to him. He was lifted up and left lying on his back. The prisoners continued with their evening activities. His stomach was cold and wet with the towels. But he was too exhausted to care and, seizing the opportunity, he shut his eyes.

He woke, partly due to the sound of prisoners getting into bed, mostly because of the tension around his chest. Slowly he began to understand the torture. As the towels dried they became tighter, constricting incrementally, steadily crushing his ribs together. The subtle dynamic of the punishment was the knowledge that the pain would only get worse. While the other men readied for bed, Lazar took his regular place on a chair beside Leo. The red-haired man, Lazar’s voice, approached:

– Do you need me?

Lazar shook his head, ushering him to bed. The man glared at Leo like a sulking, jealous lover, before retreating as ordered.

By the time the prisoners were asleep the pain was so intense that had he not been gagged Leo would’ve cried out for mercy. Watching his face slowly contort, as if screws were being tightened, Lazar knelt beside Leo in a gesture of prayer, lowering his mouth to his ear, his bottom lip touching Leo’s lobe as he spoke. His voice was as faint as the shuffle of autumn leaves:

– It is hard… to watch another suffer… no matter what they have done… It changes you… no matter how right you are… to desire revenge…

Lazar paused, recovering from the exertion of these words. His pain had never stopped, he lived with it as a companion, knowing that it would never get better and that he would never know another moment without it.

– I have asked the others… Was there one Chekist who helped you? Was there one good man…? Everyone… said… no.

He paused again, wiping the sweat from his brow, before returning his lips to Leo’s ear:

– The State chose you… to betray me… Because you have a heart… I would’ve spotted a man without one… That is your tragedy… Maxim, I cannot spare you… There is so little justice… We must take what we can get…

Pain became delirium, so intense the sensation took on euphoric properties. Leo was no longer aware of the barracks: the timber walls were dissolving, leaving him alone in the middle of an icy white plateau-a different plateau, whiter and softer and brighter and not at all awful or cold. Water fell from the sky, freezing rain, directly above him. He blinked, shaking his head. He was in the barracks, on the floor. Water had been poured over him. The gag had been removed. The towels were untied. Even so, he could inhale only the tiniest gulps of air: his lungs had grown accustomed to their constriction. He sat up, making slow, shallow gasps. It was morning. He’d survived another night.

Prisoners trudged past him, snorting disdain, on their way to breakfast. Leo’s gasps began to slow, his breathing returning to normal. He was alone in the barracks and he wondered if he had ever felt this alone in his life. He stood up, needing to lean against the bedframe to support his weight. A guard called out to him, furious at his lingering behind. He dropped his head, shunting forward, unable to lift his feet, sliding them along the smooth wood like an infirm ice skater.

Entering the administration zone, Leo stopped. He couldn’t endure a second day of work. He couldn’t endure a third night. His imagination crackled with the memory of the various tortures he’d witnessed. What would come next? The mirage of Timur was too faint to sustain him. Their plans had gone wrong. Nearby a guard called out:

– Keep moving!

Leo had to improvise. He was on his own. Facing in the direction of the camp commander’s office, he called out:

– Commander!

At the violation in etiquette, guards ran toward him. From the dining barracks Lazar watched. Leo needed to catch the commander’s attention quickly:

– Commander! I know about Khrushchev’s speech!

The guards arrived by his side. Before he could say any more Leo was struck across his back. A second blow struck him in the stomach. He crouched, huddling, as more blows landed.

– Stop!

The guards froze. Unraveling himself, Leo glanced up at the administration barracks. Commander Sinyavksy was standing at the top of the steps.

– Bring him to me.

Guards hustled Leo up the stairs and into the office. The commander had retreated to the corner beside a squat, fat-bellied stove. The log-lined room had been decorated with maps of the region, framed photos of the commander with prisoners at work-Sinyavksy smiling, as if in the company of friends, the prisoners’ faces impassive. There were shadows around the photo frames indicating that other photos, of different shapes and sizes, had recently been taken down and these ones put up in their place.

Dressed in tattered clothes, his body beaten, Leo stood hunched, trembling like a bezprizornik, a ragged street child. Sinyavksy ushered the guards away:

– I wish to speak to the prisoner alone.

The guards glanced at each other. One uttered:

– This man attacked us last night. We should stay with you.

Sinyavksy shook his head: