James Munro: The Innocent Bystanders

The break was planned for July. There were only two hours of darkness in Siberia then, and Kaplan's flowers had reached the state they needed. Nightshade, most of it, but there were other ingredients. One day he picked them all, as the camp jeered, and let them wither, then he and Goldfarb set to work extracting the poison that would deal with the dogs. It was Zhelkov who fed the dogs. They loved him. Whatever he fed them, they would eat ... Zimma had his own plans to deal with the power cable. They might work, and they might not—insulation was impossible even to steal, but Zimma had agreed to tackle the job, and the risks were his own. God might yet let him live. They had their escape route planned, their rallying point in the forest that Daniel had mapped out for them already memorized, their hopes and prayers centered on a boat that might take them to Vadso, in Norway, eight hundred miles away. Then Zimma cut his leg in the mine, and he knew that he, who by his laughter had started the movement, would not see it through to the end. The cut was not serious, but it turned septic and there were no medicines. It grew worse and he found it harder to work, his strength faded. But every day until the escape he staggered to work. On the last three days he gave the others his food. And he was happy. God had been generous. Even if he had decided not to let Zimma live, at least he had simplified the problem of cutting the power supply.

On the night of the break nine of them assembled in the hut and waited for Kaplan, whose job it was to bring the poison for the dogs. This they needed desperately, but even more they needed his presence. Without him they were not ten; there could be no ritual prayer. It was strange how important prayer was to them. Zhelkov had lectured on it once, not stating a theory, but verbalizing the question that nagged in all their minds, except the Orthodox Klein's: Why do we need the prayers when we none of us believe in God? They had decided at last that the answer was in their Jewishness, which the ritual, the prayers, the Hebrew tongue all made manifest. But there was more than that, and they knew it, though what that "more" was they never could define. To the end the question nagged at some of them, though Zimma, Klein, and Daniel joined Kaplan in his faith. But now, all alike, believer and non-believer, waited for Kaplan and their prayers.

He came in at last and they moved toward him in a wave of impatience and relief. What had delayed him? Was anything wrong? Why did he have to be late on this night of all nights? It was Daniel who called them to order. Daniel was leader now. He took Kaplan to the window and examined him in its light. Beside Daniel's huge, slab-muscled body, Kaplan's wiry toughness looked frail. His face was gray and there was a bruise already darkening his cheekbone.

"Tell it," said Daniel.

"I was bringing the poison," Kaplan said, "and a guard stopped me."

"He found it?" Klein asked. Daniel motioned him to silence.

"He wanted me to fetch water. I was too slow for him. He hit me—and kicked me. Here." He pressed his hands to his stomach. "Daniel—I don't think I can do it."

"You must," said Daniel. "Each man has his place. You know that. Without you we cannot go."

"I can stay behind and help Zimma," Kaplan said.

"Then you will die."

"Of course," said Kaplan.

Daniel turned to Goldfarb. "Look at his stomach," he said.

Goldfarb's hands were deft and tender as he looked. The bruise was enormous and they had nothing for it. "It hurts," Kaplan whimpered.

"Does it hurt too much to pray?" Daniel asked, and Kaplan stood then, and Klein led them in prayer.

When they had done, Daniel sat down beside the older man, and his voice was gentle. "Kaplan," he said, "it must be tonight. We are ready now. Tomorrow and every day that follows, little by little our courage will go. Our food will be found, our tools will be discovered. It has to be tonight. And please do not stay behind with Zimma. It is brave, but it is also foolish. If you want to die, volunteer for the wire." Kaplan bent his head.

"Please do not hate me," he said.

"How can I hate you? How can any of us? We need you, Kaplan." *

Then Kaplan said, "Very well. I will come," and the others crowded round to thank, to praise, and Daniel gave him some vodka, the only painkiller they had, from his carefully hoarded store. Kaplan raised his glass, and drank to their endeavor. Six hours later he, Daniel, and Asimov were declared missing; the rest were dead.

CHAPTER 2

Craig accepted his third drink and watched as Thomson put in the ice, added whisky, and then ginger ale. His quantities were generous. At one time Craig would have hesitated when the third drink was offered, needing the assurance that it was safe to accept, that his mind and body would not be called upon to work for him with a speed and certainty that a third large Scotch could impair, perhaps with fatal results. But now Craig ran no risks, and so he accepted the third drink without hesitation. It was easier too. Thomson was an overforceful host. But then Thomson was an overforceful everything. He had the flat above Craig's in the elegant block in Regent's Park, and that, Craig thought, was the only possible reason why he'd been invited to the party. The best way to keep the neighbors happy was to invite them too. He didn't mind; parties were boring, but he was always bored anyway. At least at a party you had company.

Thomson produced films for television. He had noisy friends who did noisy things and a seemingly endless supply of young actresses who looked intense and called Craig "darling" and were nice because Craig might turn out to be in the business, and if they weren't nice he wouldn't offer them a job. Craig knew that in television terms this passed as logic, so he played fair most of the time and admitted he didn't do anything. Only with the very pretty ones did he linger for a while, make them wonder, before the shocking truth came out. He was nothing, not even an adman, and not even ashamed . . . He sipped his Scotch and looked from a very pretty one to the bracket clock on Thomson's not quite Regency table. It was seven thirty. Time to go out to dinner. After he had dined

Loomis wanted to see him, but he wouldn't care if Craig were late, not any more. Loomis saved his anger for the important ones, and Craig was no longer important. The thought was consoling. Craig had known another man whom Loomis had considered important, and that man was incurably insane. He shook the ice in his drink and put it down on a coaster, dead center. The girl he was talking to—Angela, was it? Virginia? Caroline?—noticed the power in the hand, the ridges of hard skin across the knuckles, along the edge of the hand from wrist to fingertip. And because she was a sensitive girl, she also noticed the boredom of the man and resented it. A man who stood six feet tall, a wide-shouldered lean-hipped man with mahogany-colored hair and gray eyes that made her think of Scandinavian seas, had no right to be bored. Not when she was talking to him. Suddenly he smiled at her, and the face, that had been only strong before, was suddenly handsome.

"You're very nice," he said. "Very nice indeed." The words distressed her, though they were kindly meant. "Look," he said, "why don't I introduce you to those people over there? Two of them are producers, and one's a casting director."

"You don't have to be so bloody polite," said the girl. "I'm not a hag yet."

She left him in a flurry of anger, her mini-skirt riding over impeccable thighs, and Craig went to say good-bye to his host.

Thomson was hurt. He said so noisily, and at great length. The whole idea of the party, he explained, was for Craig and a few kindred spirits to get together. Have fun, enjoy themselves, talk to a few girls.