The Secret Speech

than one man has come to spy on them.

— What has happened to him?

— Your friend? They executed him.

Leo’s grip loosened around the rim of the tin cup but he did not let it fall to the floor. The strength seeped out of his back: his spine turned soft. He leaned forward, his head dropped, staring down at the floor. The commander continued to speak:

— I fear they will kill us too. Your outburst about the Secret Speech has revealed your identity. They will not allow you to leave. As you saw, it was difficult even getting a moment alone with you.

Leo shook his head. He and Timur had survived impossible situations. He couldn’t be dead. There was some mistake. Leo sat up:

— He’s not dead.

— The man I’m referring to arrived on board the Stary Bolshevik. He was due to come here as my second in command. That was a cover story. He was sent here to write a report. He admitted as much. He claimed he was here to assess us. So they killed him. They will not allow themselves to be judged. They will never allow it.

Timur must have invented that story in order to reach the camp and save him. Leo should never have asked for Timur’s help. He had been so preoccupied with rescuing Zoya he’d only briefly considered the risks to Timur. He’d seen them as small, so convinced was he of his plans and their abilities. He’d broken a loving family in the attempt to piece back together an unhappy one, ruining something wonderful in the pursuit of Zoya’s affections. He began to cry as the realization sank in that Timur, his friend, his only friend, a man adored by his wife and sons, decent and loyal, a man who Leo loved very much, was dead.

When Leo eventually looked up, he saw that Zhores Sinyavksy was crying too. Leo stared in disbelief at the old man’s red eyes and tear-glistening, leathery cheeks and wondered how a man who’d built an incomplete railway out of innocent lives could cry at the death of a man he didn’t even know, a man whose death he wasn’t responsible for. Perhaps he was crying for every death he’d never cried for, every victim who’d passed away in the snow, or the sun, or the mud, while he smoked a cigarette, satisified that his quota had been achieved. Leo wiped his eyes, remembering Lazar’s contempt for them. He was right. Tears were worthless. Leo owed Timur more. If Leo didn’t survive, Timur’s wife and sons would not even know how he’d died. And Leo would never have the chance to say sorry.

The guards were intent that he should never make it back to Moscow. They were protecting their fiefdom. Leo was a spy, hated by both sides — prisoners and guards alike, alone except for the commander, a man whose mind seemed warped by guilt. He was at best an unpredictable ally and no longer in control of the camp. Like wolves, the guards were circling the administration barracks, waiting for Leo to emerge.

Looking around the room, his mind spinning through ideas, Leo saw the PA system on the desk. It was connected to speakers set up around the zona.

— You can address the entire camp?

— Yes.

Leo stood up, taking the tin cup and filling it to the brim with the warm amber alcohol. He handed it to the commander:

— Drink with me.

— But—

— Drink to the memory of my friend.

The commander swallowed it in one gulp. Leo filled the cup again:

— Drink to the memory of all who have died here.

The commander nodded, finishing the cup. Leo filled it again:

— And all those innocent deaths across our country.

The commander tossed back the last of the spirit, wiping his lips. Leo pointed to the speaker:

— Turn it on.

SAME DAY

IN THE MESS HALL, Lazar contemplated Leo’s decision to throw himself at the commander’s mercy. A recent convert to compassion, Zhores Sinyavksy might protect him. The other prisoners were furious at the prospect of justice being snatched from them. They’d already planned the third torture, the fourth, fifth — each man eagerly anticipating the night on which Leo would suffer as they’d suffered, when they would see in his face the pain they’d experienced and he’d cry out for mercy and they’d have the long-dreamed-of chance to say:

No

As for Leo’s story about his wife — Anisya — it nagged at him. But the vory in the barracks had assured him it was impossible that a woman who once sang hymns and cleaned and cooked could rise to lead her own gang. Leo was a liar. This time Lazar would not be fooled.

Hissing static emitted from the outside PA speakers. Although nothing more than a background noise, their daily routine was so rigid and unchanging that Lazar flinched at this out-of-the-ordinary occurrence. Standing up, moving around the crowd of prisoners eating their breakfast, he opened the door.

The speakers were set up on tall timber poles, one overhanging each of the prisoner barracks and one in the administration zone, positioned outside the kitchen and dining barracks. They were rarely used. A handful of curious prisoners gathered behind him, including Georgi, his voice, who never left his side. Their eyes fixed on the nearest lame speaker, battered by the winds, hanging crooked. A wire snaked around the pole, reaching the icy ground where it ran to the commander’s office. Static hissed again, modulating into the tinny voice of their commander. He sounded uncertain:

— Special report…

He paused, then began again, louder this time:

— Special report to the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Closed session. Twenty-five February 1956. By Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, First Secretary.

Lazar descended the steps, walking toward the speaker. The guards had stopped what they were doing. After a moment’s confusion they whispered among themselves, evidently uninformed of the commander’s intention. A small group of them broke off, pacing to the administration barracks. Meanwhile the commander continued to read aloud. The more he read, the more agitated the guards became.

— … What took place during the life of Stalin, who practiced brutal violence, not only toward everything which opposed him, but also toward that which seemed, to his capricious and despotic character, contrary to his concepts…

Hurrying, the guards climbed the stairs, banging against the door, urgently calling out to the commander, trying to ascertain if he was acting under duress. One shouted out, with simple-minded earnestness:

— Are you a hostage?

The door remained shut. It didn’t sound to Lazar as if the commander were reading under duress. His voice was growing into the role:

— Stalin created the concept Enemy of the People. The term made possible the use of the cruelest repression, violating all norms of revolutionary legality, against anyone who disagreed with Stalin…

Lazar’s head angled upward toward the speaker, his mouth open in awe, as if a celestial miracle were being performed in the sky.

The entire prison population abandoned their breakfast, or carried the bowl with them, gathering around the single speaker, a vast human knot, staring up, hypnotized by the crackling words. These were criticisms of the State. These were criticisms of Stalin. Lazar had never heard anything like them before, not in this form, words that weren’t muttered between two lovers, or by two prisoners across bunks. These words were from their leader,