The Secret Speech (30 page)

They’d broken into the living room, a large room. Zoya whispered in Malysh’s ear:

– Does she live alone?

He nodded curtly, not appreciating the question-any question. He wanted silence. The size of the apartment was remarkable. By adding up the square meters of empty floor space, Zoya could guess the scale of this woman’s crimes.

Up ahead the bedroom door was closed. Malysh reached out, taking hold of the handle. Before he opened the door, he indicated that Zoya stay behind, out of sight, in the living room. Although she wanted to follow, he wasn’t going to allow her any farther. She nodded, pulling back, waiting while Malysh opened the door.

Malysh stepped into the dark room. Marina Niurina was in bed, lying on her side. Readying his knife, stepping up to her, he paused, as though balancing on the brink of a cliff. The woman in bed was much older than the woman in the photograph-she had gray hair, a wrinkled face, she was at least sixty years old. He hesitated, wondering if he had the wrong address. No, the address was correct. Perhaps the photo had been taken many years ago. He leaned closer, taking out the folded photo to compare. The old lady’s face was in shadow. He just couldn’t be sure. Sleep made everyone seem innocent.

Suddenly Niurina opened her eyes and lifted her arm from under the covers. She was holding a gun, leveling it between Malysh’s eyes. Her legs swung out of bed, revealing a floral nightgown.

– Step back.

Malysh obeyed, arms raised, knife in one hand, photo in the other, calculating if he was fast enough to disarm her. She guessed his thoughts, cocking the gun and firing at the knife in his hand, taking off the tip of his finger. He cried out, clutching the injury as the knife clattered across the floor. Niurina said:

– That gunshot will bring up the guards. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let them torture you. I might even join in myself. I’m going to find out where your companions are. Then we’re going to kill them too. Did you really think we were going to roll over and let you and your mob kill us one by one?

Malysh pulled back. She stood up, off the bed:

– If you suppose that by running away you’ll have an easy death, a bullet in the back, think again. I’ll shoot your foot off. In fact, better to shoot your foot off now, just to be sure.

Her heart thumping, barely able to breathe, Zoya had to act quickly, not stand in the middle of the room, dumbstruck like a stupid child. The old woman couldn’t possibly have seen her. Looking around, there was nowhere to hide except under the writing desk. Wounded, Malysh was retreating from the bedroom toward her, his hand dripping blood. He was careful not to look at her, not to give her away. She was his only chance. The woman was almost at the door. Zoya darted under the desk.

From her hiding place Zoya caught sight of the woman for the first time. She was much older than the photograph but it was the same woman. She was smiling, or sneering, enjoying the power of her gun, following Malysh closely. If Zoya did nothing, if she remained under the desk, the guards would come, Malysh would be arrested-she would be saved, reunited with Elena and Raisa, reunited with Leo. If she did nothing, her life would return to normal.

Zoya leapt up, crying out, charging for the gun. Taken by surprise, Marina Niurina turned the gun in her direction. Zoya grabbed the woman’s wrist, sinking her teeth as far in as they would go. A shot was fired, defeaningly loud beside her ear, the bullet smashing into the wall-Zoya felt the vibrations of the recoil through her teeth. Using her free hand, the woman struck Zoya and struck her again, knocking her to the floor.

Helpless, Zoya looked up as the woman aimed the gun at her. Before she could fire, Malysh scampered up her back, sinking his fingers into her eyes. She screamed, dropping the gun, scratching at his hands, only causing him to press harder. Malysh looked down at Zoya:

– The door!

With the woman screaming, spinning round and round, Zoya ran to the front door, locking it at the same time as the guard thumped up the stairs. When Zoya turned, Niurina dropped to her hands and knees, Malysh still riding her back. He pulled his fingers free, leaving a bloody mess where her eyes had once been. Malysh picked up the gun, gesturing for Zoya to follow him, running to the window.

Behind them the guards kicked at the door. Malysh fired through the wood, halting their progress. With the chamber empty, he dropped the gun, following Zoya out onto the window ledge. Using a spread of machine-gun fire, the guards replied in kind, bullets hitting all sides of the living room. They began climbing the outside wall. Zoya reached the roof first, pulling herself up. She heard the door to the living room being smashed down, the guards exclaiming at the bloody scene before them.

Zoya leaned down, helping Malysh up. With both of them on top of the roof, she grabbed her shoes, about to run off. Malysh caught hold of her wrist:

– Wait!

Hearing the guards on the window below, Malysh picked a slate from the roof, readying himself. A guard’s hand grabbed the ledge. As the guard lifted himself up, Malysh smashed the slate into his face. The guard let go, falling to the side street below. Malysh cried out:

– Run!

They ran across the roof, jumping the gap to the adjacent building. Looking down, they saw swarms of officers in the street below. Malysh remarked:

– 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.

– This belonged to my friend.

Leo felt anger rising through his body:

– This was his watch.

The officer began to shake. Leo tapped the watch, commenting:

– I’m going to have to take it back.

Leo tried to unclip the worthless watch. As he did, he lifted his leg, pressing his knee against the man’s injured, bloody chest, pushing down hard:

– You see… this is a family heirloom… it now belongs to Timur’s wife… and his sons… his two sons… two wonderful sons… two wonderful boys… It belongs to them because you murdered their father… you murdered my friend…

The officer began to bleed from his mouth and nose, his arms feebly patting Leo’s leg, trying to push it away. Leo kept his knee steady, maintaining pressure on the injured torso. The pain from his bruised knee caused his eyes to water. They weren’t tears for Timur. This was hatred, revenge, the force of which made him push down harder and harder. The material of his trousers was soaked with the officer’s blood.

The strap unclipped, coming free from the officer’s limp wrist. Leo put it in his pocket. The remaining five men in the back of the truck were looking at him, terrified. He walked past them, calling out to the prisoners on the ground: