The Secret Speech (20 page)

Leo climbed down to the dock where there were small fishing boats: evidence of life other than the imprisonment system. The Chukchi, the local people who’d lived off this land long before it was colonized by Gulags, carried baskets of walrus tusk and the first cod catches of the year. They spared Leo only a cursory, unsympathetic glance, as if the convicts were to blame for their land’s transformation into a prison empire. Guards were stationed on the dock, herding the new arrivals. They were dressed in thick furs and felt, layered over their uniforms-they wore a mixture of Chukchi handcrafted clothes and meanly cut, mass-produced, standard-issue uniforms.

Behind the guards, gathered for the delayed voyage home, were prisoners being released. They’d either served their term or had their sentence quashed. They were free men, except by the looks of them their bodies didn’t know it yet-their shoulders were hunched and their eyes sunken. Leo searched for some sign of triumph, some malicious yet understandable pleasure in seeing others about to set off for the camps that they were leaving behind. Instead, he saw missing fingers, cracked skin, sores, and wasted muscles. Freedom might rejuvenate some, restoring them to a semblance of their former selves, but it would not save all of them. This was what had become of the men and women he’d sent away.

On deck Timur watched as the prisoners were marched toward a warehouse. Leo was indistinguishable from the others. Their assumed identities were intact. Despite the storm, they’d arrived unharmed. The journey by boat had been a necessary part of their cover. Although it was possible to fly into Magadan, organizing such a flight would have prevented them from slipping into the system unobserved. No prisoners were ever flown in. Fortunately, stealth was unnecessary on the return journey. A cargo plane was standing by at Magadan airstrip. If all went as planned, in two days’ time, he and Leo would be returning to Moscow with Lazar. What had just passed on the ship had been the easiest part of their plan.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Standing behind him was the captain of the Stary Bolshevik and a man Timur had never seen before-a high-ranking official judging from the quality of his attire. Surprisingly for a man of power, he was exceptionally thin, prisoner thin, an unlikely solidarity with the men he oversaw. Timur’s first thought was that he must be sick. The official spoke, the captain nodding obsequiously before the man had even finished his sentence:

– My name is Abel Prezent, regional director. Officer Genrikh…

He turned to the captain:

– What was his name?

– Genrikh Duvakin.

– Is dead, I’m told.

At the mention of that name, the young man he’d left to die on deck, Timur felt a knot tighten inside him.

– Yes. He was lost at sea.

– Genrikh was a permanent post on the ship. The captain now has need of guards for the return voyage. We have a chronic shortage. The captain remarks that you did a fine job on board with the attempted mutiny. He’s personally requested that you become Genrikh’s replacement.

The captain smiled, expecting Timur to be warmed by the compliment. Timur flushed with panic:

– I don’t understand.

– You’re to remain on board the Stary Bolshevik for the return journey.

– But I’ve been ordered to Gulag 57. I’m to become the second in charge of the camp. I have new directives from Moscow to implement.

– I appreciate that. And you will be stationed at 57 as designated. It will take seven days to Buchta Nakhodka if the weather allows, and then another seven days back here. You’ll be at your post in two or three weeks, at the most.

– Sir, I must insist that my orders be followed and that you find someone else.

Prezent became impatient, his veins protruding like a warning sign:

– Genrikh is dead. The captain has requested you replace him. I will explain to your superiors my decision. The matter is settled. You will remain on the ship.

Malysh was standing beside his accuser Likhoi, the vory whose tendon he’d cut. Likhoi’s ankle was heavily bandaged, and having lost a lot of blood he was pale and feverish. Despite his injuries he’d insisted that the skhodka, a trial to mediate between disputing gang members, go ahead:

– Fraera, what of our code? One vory may never harm another? He has shamed you by injuring me. He has shamed all of us.

Supported with the aid of a crutch, Likhoi refused to sit since it would have been a sign of weakness. There was froth on the corners of his lips, tiny bubbles of spit that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away:

– I wanted sex. Is that a crime? Not for a criminal!

The other vory smiled. Confident he had their support, he returned his attention to Fraera, dropping his head in respect, lowering his voice:

– I ask for Malysh’s death.

Fraera turned to Malysh:

– Your reply?

Glancing at the hostile faces surrounding him, he answered:

– I was told to keep her safe. They were your orders. I did as I was told.

Not even the prospect of death made him more articulate. Though Malysh was convinced that Fraera did not want to sanction his death, his actions had left her little room to maneuver. It was undeniablehe’d breached their code. It was forbidden for a vory to harm another vory without authorization from Fraera. They were supposed to protect each other as if their lives were interwoven. In clear violation, he’d acted impulsively, siding with the daughter of their enemy.

Malysh watched as Fraera paced within the circle of her followers, judging the mood of her gang. Popular opinion was against him. In moments such as these power became ambiguous. Did Fraera have the authority to overrule the majority? Or did she have to side with the majority in order to preserve her authority? Malysh’s position was weakened by the fact that his accuser was a popular figure. The man’s klikukha-Likhoi -referred to his vaunted sexual prowess. In contrast Malysh was a lowly klikukha, meaning young one, referring to his inexperience, both sexual and criminal. His membership in the gang had been recent. Whereas the other vory had met in the labor camps, Malysh had joined their ranks by chance. From the age of five years old he’d worked as a pickpocket at the Leningrad’s Baltiysky Rail Terminal. A street child, he’d quickly earned a reputation as the most skillful of thieves. One of the people that he’d robbed was Fraera. Unlike many, she’d noticed her loss immediately and given chase. Surprised by her speed and determination, he’d needed all his skill and knowledge of the terminal building to escape, scrambling out a window barely big enough for a cat. Even so, Fraera had still managed to grab hold of one of his shoes. Expecting that to be the end of the matter, Malysh had returned to work the next day, at a different rail station, only to find Fraera waiting for him, holding his shoe. Instead of a confrontation, she’d offered him the opportunity to leave his union of pickpockets and join her. He’d been the only pickpocket who’d ever managed to give her the slip.

Despite his skills as a thief his appointment to vory status had been controversial. The others looked down on his background of petty crime. It didn’t seem worthy of entry into their ranks. He’d never murdered, he’d never spent time in a Gulag. Fraera brushed these concerns aside. She’d taken a liking to him even though he was solemn and withdrawn, rarely speaking more than a couple of words. The others accepted, reluctantly, that he was now one of them. He accepted, reluctantly, that he was one of them. In reality, he was hers and everyone knew it. In return for her patronage Malysh loved Fraera in the same way that a fierce fighting dog would love its owner, circling her feet, snapping at anyone who came too close. All the same, he was not naive. With her authority under scrutiny their history counted for nothing. Fraera was determinedly unsentimental. Malysh had not only drawn the blood of another vory, he’d jeopardized her plans. Unable to drive the truck, he and the girl had been forced to walk back into the city, a journey on foot that had taken almost eight hours. They could’ve been stopped and arrested. He’d explained to the girl that if she screamed for help, or let go of his hand, he’d slit her throat. She’d obeyed. She hadn’t complained about being tired, never asking to rest. Even in crowded streets where she could have caused him problems, she’d never let go of his hand.

Fraera spoke:

– The facts are not in dispute. According to our laws, the punishment for harming another vory is death.

Death wasn’t meant in the ordinary sense of the word. He wouldn’t be shot or hung. Death meant exile from the gang. A tattoo would be forced upon him in a visible place-his forehead or the tops of his hands-a tattoo of an open vagina or anus. Such a tattoo was a signal for all vory, no matter what allegiance they held, that the bearer of the tattoo was deserving of any kind of physical and sexual torment, which could be delivered without fear of recourse from the other gang. Malysh loved Fraera. But he would not accept this punishment. Moving his leg, his hand slipped into position. There was a knife secreted in the folds of his trousers. He freed it from the fabric, his finger ready on the spring mechanism, as he calculated his escape.

Fraera stepped forward. She’d come to a decision.

Fraera studied the faces of her men, expressions of intense concentration fixed upon her, as if this alone would deliver the verdict they desired. She’d spent years earning their loyalty, generously rewarding obedience and ruthlessly striking at dissent. Despite this, so much now hinged on so slight an incident. An uprising needed a unifying cause. Popular, dumb-Likhoi had rallied her men. They saw him as the epitome of a vory. They understood his urges as their urges. If he was on trial, so were they. Trivial though the disagreement was, the problems this skhodka created were far from simple. To their minds, there was only one acceptable verdict: she would have to authorize Malysh’s death.

Listening to them quote vory law as though it were sacred, she marveled at their lack of self-awareness. Her rule was founded upon transgressions of traditional vory structures as much as abidance by them. Most obviously, they were men led by a woman, unprecedented in vory history. In contrast to other derzhat mast -the leader of a community of thieves-Fraera wasn’t motivated by a desire to exist apart from the State. She sought revenge upon it and those who served it. She described that revenge to them in terms that they could understand, claiming that the State was nothing other than a larger, rival gang, with which she was in the most bitter of blood feuds. Yet at heart she knew vory were conservative. They would prefer a male leader. They would prefer to be concerned only with money and sex and drink. Her agenda of revenge was something they tolerated, as indeed was her gender-tolerated only because she was brilliant and they were not. She funded them, protected them, and they depended on her. Without her, the center would fall apart and the gang would break into squabbling, irrelevant factions.

Their unlikely alliance had been formed in Minlag Gulag, a northern camp southeast of Arkhangelsk. Originally a political prisoner convicted under Article 58, at that time Anisya, as she’d been known, had no interest in the vory. They existed within separate social spheres, layers like water and oil. The focus of her life had been her newly born son-Aleksy. He’d been something to live for, a child to love and protect. After three months of nursing him, three months of loving him more than she’d ever imagined she was capable of loving, the child had been taken from her. She’d woken in the middle of the night to find that he was gone. At first the nurse had claimed that Aleksy had died in his sleep. Anisya had grabbed the nurse, shaking her, demanding her child back until being beaten off by a guard. The nurse had spat at her that no woman convicted under Article 58 deserved to bring up a child:

You’ll never be a mother.

The State was Aleksy’s parents now.

Anisya had fallen ill, sick with grief. She’d lain in bed, refusing food, delirious with dreams that she was still pregnant. She’d felt it kicking and moving and screaming for her help. The nurses and feldshers had impatiently waited for her to die. The world had arranged every possible reason for her to die and given her every opportunity. However, something inside of her resisted. She’d examined this resistance to death forensically, like an archaeologist carefully sweeping away fine desert dust, wanting to know what lay beneath it. She’d unearthed not the face of her son, or the face of her husband. She’d found Leo, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand on hers, the deceit and betrayal, and, like a magical elixir, she drank these memories in one long gulp. Hatred had brought her back from the brink. Hatred had rejuvenated her.

The idea of seeking revenge on an MGB officer, a man hundreds of miles away, would have been laughable had she spoken it aloud. Far from depressing her, her powerlessness was a source of inspirationshe would start from nothing. She would build her revenge from nothing. While other patients slept, doped on doses of codeine, she spat her pills out, collecting them. She’d stayed in the infirmary, feigning sickness while secretly regaining her strength and accumulating dose after dose of medicine, pills that she hid in the lining of her trousers. Once she’d accumulated a significant quantity she’d left the infirmary, much to the nurses’ surprise, returning to the camp with nothing except her wits and trousers lined with pills.

Until her arrest Anisya had always been defined in relation to someone else: one man’s daughter, another man’s wife. On her own, she’d set about redefining herself. Each of her weaknesses she’d appointed to the character of Anisya. Each of her strengths were gathered together and knitted into a new identity-the woman she was about to become. Overhearing the vory, familiarizing herself with their slang, she’d selected a new name for herself. She would be known as Fraera, the outsider. A vory term of contempt, she would take that insult and make it her strength. She’d traded the codeine with the leader of a gang, seeking his favor, asking permission to join them. The vory leader had scoffed, agreeing to her suggestion only if she proved herself by executing a known informer. He’d taken all the codeine as a nonrefundable down payment, setting her a challenge he considered beyond her skills. Only three months previously she’d been nursing her baby. Even if she dared to make some attempt on the informer’s life, she would be caught and sent to an isolation unit, or executed. The derzhat mast had never expected that he would need to honor his promise. Three days later the informer had started to cough during dinner, falling to the floor, his mouth full of blood. His stew of cabbage and potato had been laced with slivers of razor blade. The derzhat mast had been unable to go back on his agreement-the vory code forbade him. Fraera had become the first female member of his gang.