up and down those ladders. They shouldn’t make me do it. I’m a wounded veteran, you know.” He pointed to his thigh, where an X-shaped scar was visible just below the tattered edge of his shorts. “I’ll tell you how I got it.” Melekov breathed in deeply, ready to begin his story.
In that moment, Pekkala saw his chance. “Instead of telling me how you received that wound, how about I tell you instead?”
“You tell me?” Melekov’s breath trailed out.
Pekkala nodded. “I’ll tell you what it is and where you got it and what you used to do before you came to Borodok.”
“What are you,” grunted Melekov, “some kind of fortune-teller?”
“Let’s find out,” replied Pekkala, “and if I’m right, you can give me that egg you were about to eat.”
Eyeing Pekkala suspiciously, Melekov laid the egg down on the table.
As Pekkala reached out to take it, Melekov’s hand slapped down on top of his.
“Not yet! First, you can tell me my fortune.”
“Very well,” said Pekkala.
Cautiously, Melekov removed his hand.
“That scar was made by a bayonet,” began Pekkala.
“Perhaps.”
“To be specific, it was the cruciform bayonet of a Mosin-Nagant rifle, standard issue for a Russian soldier.”
“Who told you?” demanded Melekov.
“Nobody.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to flinch.
Slowly, Melekov folded his arms across his chest. “All right, convict, but where was I when I received the wound?”
“The branches of the X are longer at the lower edges of the scar,” Pekkala went on, “which means that the bayonet thrust was made from below you, not above or at the same level, which would be more usual. This means you were either standing on a staircase when it happened …”
Melekov smiled.
“Or on the top of a trench.”
The smile broadened, baring Melekov’s teeth.
“Or,” said Pekkala, “you were riding a horse at the time.”
The smile dissolved. “Bastard,” whispered Melekov.
“I haven’t finished yet,” said Pekkala. “You are a Siberian.”
“Born and bred here,” Melekov interrupted. “I’ve never been anywhere else.”
“Your accent puts you east of the Urals,” Pekkala continued, “probably in the vicinity of Perm. You are old enough to have fought in the war, and from the cut of your hair”-he nodded towards Melekov’s flat-topped stand of gray bristles, in the style known as
“Yes, that’s all true, but-”
“So you were a Russian soldier, and yet you have been wounded by a Russian bayonet. Therefore, you were wounded by one of your own countrymen.” Pekkala paused, studying the emotions on Melekov’s face, which passed like the shadows of clouds over a field as the cook relived his past. “You did not receive your wound during the war, but rather in the Revolution which followed it.”
“Very good, convict, but which side was I fighting for?”
“You were not with the Whites, Melekov.”
Melekov turned his head and spat on the floor. “You’ve got that right.”
“If you were,” said Pekkala, “you would more likely be a prisoner here than someone who is on the payroll. And I have not seen you speaking to the Comitati, which you would do if you were one of them.”
Melekov held out his fists, knuckles pointing upwards. “No pine tree tattoos.”
“Exactly. Which means you fought for the Bolsheviks, and because you were a horseman, I believe you were in the Red Cavalry.”
“The Tenth Brigade …”
“You were injured in an attack against infantry, during which one of the enemy was able to stab you with a bayonet as you rode past. A wound like that is very serious.”
“I almost died,” muttered Melekov. “It was a year before I could even walk again. I could not even leave the hospital because the leg kept getting infected.”
“And since you’ve already told me that you’ve never left Siberia, that must be where you were injured. I believe you must have been fighting against the forces of General Semenov or Rozanov, the White Cossacks, who waged their campaigns in this part of the world.” When Pekkala had finished, he slumped in his chair, feeling the tingle of sweat against his back. If even one detail was wrong, the minutes he had spent unraveling the mystery of Melekov’s crucifix scar would do more harm than good.
For a long time Melekov was silent, his face inscrutable. Then, suddenly, he stood. His chair fell over backwards and landed with a clatter on the floor. “Every last word of what you’ve said is true!” he shouted. “But there is one more thing I’d like to know.”
“Yes?”
“I would like to know who the hell you
This was the moment Pekkala had been waiting for. If Klenovkin had been right that Melekov was the worst gossip in the camp, all Pekkala had to do was speak his name, and it would not be long before the Comitati knew that he was here. “I was known as the Emerald Eye.”
Melekov’s eyes opened wide. “Do you mean to tell me you are the tree-marker who lasted all those years and then suddenly disappeared? But I thought you were dead!”
“Many people do.” Pekkala’s fingers inched forward, reaching like the tentacles of an octopus until they closed around the egg.
This time Melekov did nothing to prevent him.
The cracked shell seemed to sigh in Pekkala’s grip. Hunched over the table, he plucked away the tiny fragments, which fell to the table like confetti. He sank his teeth through the slick rubbery white and bit into the hard-boiled yolk.
At sunrise the next day, the gates of Borodok swung open and a band of heavily armed men entered the compound. They were short and swathed in furs, their wide Asiatic faces burned brick red by the wind.
The men brought with them a sled pulled by reindeer, on which lay half a dozen bodies, each one solid as stone.
Melekov and Pekkala stood in the doorway of the kitchen, handing out rations.
“Ostyaks,” whispered Pekkala.
“That must be the last of the prisoners who tried to escape before you arrived at the camp. Gramotin will be happy now. Or at least less miserable than usual.”
One of the fur-clad men set aside his antiquated flintlock rifle and stepped into Klenovkin’s office. The others glanced warily at the camp inmates who had paused in the breadline to witness the spectacle. A minute later, the Ostyak emerged from Klenovkin’s hut, carrying two burlap sacks stuffed full as pillows.
The bodies were dumped off the sled. Borodok guards opened the gates and the Ostyaks departed as suddenly as they had arrived, leaving behind the grotesquely frozen corpses.
“Come on, Tarnowski!” Gramotin shouted at the convicts. “You know what to do. Find your men and put these carcasses beside the generators. I want them thawed out by the end of the day.”
Taking hold of frozen limbs as if they were the branches of a fallen tree, the Comitati carried the corpses over to a building where the electrical generators were housed.
“Why does he force the Comitati to do that job?” Pekkala asked Melekov.
“Force them?” Melekov laughed. “That job is a privilege. The Comitati fought for it until no one else would dare take it from them, not even Gramotin.”
“But why?”
“Because the generator room is the warmest place in this camp. They take their time laying out those bodies,
