David Healey - Red Sniper

The nurse had brought along a bag with more ointment and fresh bandages. Whitlock’s hands were still a mess from the unrelenting labor. Given time, they would harden into leather. For now, he was glad to let her spread more ointment and wrap his hands in more bandages.

“I’m Harrison Whitlock,” he said. “My friends call me Harry.”

“Inna.”

“EE-nah,” he repeated. “Just Inna?”

“Inna Mikhaylovna.” She hesitated, then added, “My last name is Turner.”

Whitlock raised his eyebrows. “So, your father really was American.”

“Michael Turner. He emigrated here,” she explained. “Some Americans did that, thinking that Communism was the best hope for the future.”

“What about you? Were you born here or in the states?”

“I was born here. My mother was Russian.”

“So I guess that makes you half American. Your father must have been an idealist to move to Russia.”

“No, he was a fool. I loved my father, but he should have stayed in America.”

She finished bandaging his hands. The last item that her bag contained was a book, a battered copy of The Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters. She glanced around before taking it out. “This is what I know of America,” she said. “That is, besides what my father told me. I thought you might want something to read. Please don’t tell anyone I gave it to you. American books are forbidden.”

“My lips are sealed.” He examined the book and his face lit up. “Thank God. The only thing I’ve been able to get my hands on were some pamphlets on Communist Party speeches translated into very wooden English. Some kind of propaganda, I gather. The worker is the backbone of society and all of that. Dreadful stuff.”

They talked for a while about the poems, and about life in the camp. Inna had completed her medical training, but now that the war was over, she had been sent here to northern Russia instead of the front lines.

“Lucky you,” Whitlock said. “It doesn’t seem like the best place to end up.”

“Having an American for a father does not always serve one well. It means I am under constant suspicion.”

Whitlock nodded. “It’s awfully kind of you to come see how I was doing,” he said. “Will I see you again?”

“As soon as I can,” she said. “But not everyday. Someone would grow suspicious.”

He held up his newly bandaged hands. “Good as new,” he said. “Thank you, Inna Mikhaylovna.”

Inna wished them good night. She left the bandages—and the book.

Whitlock watched her go, and then said to his friend, “Maybe she’s some sort of spy.”

“Harry, you really are an idiot,” Ramsey said. “The only thing she’s spying on is you, my friend.”

Whitlock was right to be suspicious. Here in the Gulag, there really were spies everywhere. Information was traded for a few pieces of bread, or maybe a warmer coat, or an assignment to an easier job that kept you out of the weather. Under Stalin, with money having little value or use, the real currency of Soviet society was treachery.

Thus it was that no sooner had Inna entered the barracks than Barkov knew about it. He’d had his eye on the pretty young nurse for some time. He wasn’t interested in using her as a spy, however. He had other uses for her in mind. Barkov was a man used to getting what he wanted. He would try the gentle approach first. If that did not work, then he would take what he wanted.

He was waiting for her outside the barracks when she emerged after her visit with the Americans, her so-called patients.

“Good evening, Comrade,” he said, blocking her path. “It is good to see that you are so dedicated that you make house calls.”

The big man loomed over her. No one else was around, not even the small man who was like Barkov’s shadow. She shivered, and not entirely from the cold. She knew him, just as everyone in the camp knew one another. He had a reputation for being cruel. She eyed the whip stuck carelessly into his wide belt. If something happened out here, it would be her word against his. As a woman, her word was worth next to nothing.

“I was told it is important to make sure that the Americans stay in good health,” she replied.

“They are weak,” he said. “I am not sure that they will survive the winter. I would not get too attached to them.”

“Thank you, Comrade,” she said. “That is good advice.”

She started to move around him, but Barkov took a step back to block her path again. “If I have any aches or pains, perhaps I could have you tend to them,” he said.

“I am not terribly skilled. Perhaps it would be better if Olga Ivanovna or Darya Alexandrovna helped you.” Those were two of the weathered crones who worked in the infirmary. They had as much sympathy for the sick and weary of the camp as magpies for a carcass. Mostly, they were angered if a patient dared to sully their white sheets.

“It is very kind of you to worry so much about the Americans.” Barkov finally stepped out of her way. “Good evening, Inna Mikhaylovna. I shall be keeping my eye on you.”

The team waited at a remote airstrip in Finland for the go ahead. Flying was a new experience for Cole. It turned out to be one that he had enjoyed. The thought of soaring through the sky excited him. Jumping out of an airplane was going to be another first, but he tried not to think too much about that one.

Their Douglas C-47 Skytrain had flown over empty country ribboned with rivers and covered in forests. Cole had gazed out the window of the plane, mesmerized by the vacant landscape. This was his kind of place. Finally, the plane touched down in a godforsaken place in Lapland.

To the south was Europe; Sweden and Norway lay to the west; to the east Russia awaited; to the north was the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean. Already, the weather was turning wintry this far north. At night, the stars shimmered in clear, cold skies. The sun did little to warm the day, and it was only late October. The locals were saying they were one good storm away from the onset of winter.

The airstrip was gravel. Nearby squatted a couple of low-slung buildings. It was just the four team members, plus Major Dickey and the pilot and co-pilot. There were a couple of Finns who lived on site to maintain the airstrip. One of them spoke broken English, but the words he did know made it clear that he hated both the Russians and the Germans. Finland had managed to declare war on both countries in the recent conflict, and now kept an uneasy peace with its powerful neighbor.

One of the Finns was married to a shriveled peasant woman who didn’t speak much at all, and certainly not in English. She served them the same black bread and stew for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Vaccaro swore it contained reindeer meat. Cole shrugged; he had eaten worse.

Picking at his stew, and thinking about the sausages and beer they were missing back in Germany, Vaccaro asked, ”Why are we doing this?”

“A rich old man wants his grandson home, and we’re gonna get him,” Cole said, then thought it over some more. “I reckon it’s more than that. The Russians kept some of our boys. It ain’t right.”

“I’d like to go home, but nobody listens to me. Why did I ever listen to you , anyhow? I ought to be back in Germany, making love to some sweet Fräulein .”

“Shut up and eat your reindeer stew, Vaccaro.”

When Cole examined it, he realized that being here was better than sitting around the barracks, wrestling with boredom. Back in Germany they were all in a waiting game—waiting to be sent home. The mountain shack near Gashey’s Creek wasn’t exactly calling to him.