Archangel

A lone figure on the perimeter path, Michael Holly in the evening walking the boundaries of the compound.

From the window of Hut 2. they watched him, Adimov and Feldstein and Poshekhonov and Byrkin and Chernayev.

They stared out at the tall striding figure, lean-built in spite of the padding of the quilted tunic. The snow flurried across the compound and sometimes he was lost to them. Something animal about the aloofness of this man from the world of the hut on which they all depended. Something wild and untamed. They watched him a long time before dividing.

Adimov returned to the card school where he would be the winner, Feldstein to his book, Poshekhonov to the bunk beside the central stove, Byrkin to the memory of a Krivak class frigate sailing under full power for Swedish waters.

Chernayev watched him longer, then went abruptly to his bunk and took his scarf and his woollen mittens and his balaclava and his cap, and opened the hut's door and went into the night. He went partly from sympathy, partly from envy. Sympathy for the man who was alone with the temperature tumbling in the darkness. Envy for the man who could make an island of himself. And Chernayev, the old zek who had seen all the storms of the camps, felt the fear that held all the men of Camp 3, Zone 1, a fear that was based on beds filled in the Central Hospital, a fear that was seeded on retribution to come, a fear that might be assuaged in the company of a man who walked alone on the perimeter path. He was honest, Chernayev, honest with his own thoughts, and the sense of fear did not surprise him. To be afraid now was honesty. All of the compound knew of the poison that had been introduced into the mains water supply pipe to the barracks, all waited for the fall of the counter-stroke. When they caught him, or them, it would be a shooting matter. A man would be pushed to the snow cover of the yard inside the walls of the gaol at Yavas down the road. The hammer of a Makharov automatic pistol would be drawn back. One bullet. One split skull, one ripped brain. In all of the huts they were waiting for the counter-stroke to fall, wondering who they would come for.

'Can I walk with you, Holly?'

'Of course.'

'Why are you outside?'

'Because it suits.'

'Everyone else is inside, finding what warmth they can.'

'I am warm if I am moving.'

'They say in the camps that a man who thinks he does not need friends is a dreamer.'

'They cannot take the dream away from us.'

'To dream here is to die.'

'I've no intention of dying, I promise you that, Chernayev.'

'Those that put shit in the pipe, they were dreamers…'

'Your opinion.'

'They dreamed of fighting back, of kicking at the bastard fences, of hitting Kypov.'

'And that is just a dream?' it is impossible, it has to be a dream… they cannot be beaten.' if everybody says that they cannot be beaten, then that will be true,' Holly said softly.

'The compound is part of the camp, the camp is part of the Dubrovlag, the Dubrovlag is part of the Ministry, the Ministry is part of the administration, the administration is part of the State. A few men in hospital does not hurt the State.' if you say so, Chernayev.'

'What do you say, Holly?'

'I say that an old man should be beside the stove in his hut.'

'Don't piss on me, Englishman.'

'Then don't test me, Chernayev.' Holly slapped his gloved hand on the thief's small shoulders, pulled him close, and they walked together in step. 'You didn't have to come out, I appreciate that you did.' it's suffocating in there… everyone is afraid…'

'What are they afraid of?'

They wonder who will be taken, and when – whether it will be a friend…'

'Will they take the right man?' Holly asked distantly.

They have to find somebody. Perhaps they will find the man who did it, quickly. If not…' Chernayev paused, shrugged under Holly's arm. 'They must find somebody. All of Internal Order were with Kypov and Rudakov this evening. They will be very thorough, Holly, that is their way.'

'Of course.'

'There are informers in the huts – some we know and some we don't.'

'Of course.' it is said that in the morning they are bringing in more KGB, from other camps. They are going to interrogate every man in the compound.'

'May it help them find the guilty,' Holly said lightly.

'Be careful, H o l l y… ' There was a passion in Chernayev's voice, the quaver of an old man.

'Why do you say that to me?'

'Because… because you stand out… you are not in the mass of us… '

'I will be careful.'

Holly squeezed at Chernayev's shoulder.

And Chernayev chuckled, and his slender body that was bones in a bag shook with laughter.

'Shit in their water-pipe. I didn't know anyone was so clever. Did you see Kypov's face this morning…? Shit in the pipe, and more shit landing on his pretty uniform. Think what they're saying about him in Saransk, what they're saying in Moscow… But I don't like what happened to the guards, they're young, they're conscripts… you know that they say one may d i e… I don't hold with that. They're only boys. What's our quarrel with them?'

'Perhaps that was thought of.'

'We co-exist here. Most of them, the decent ones, they loathe it. All of us, we hate it. We have found a way of living with them.'

'Why do you tell me that, Chernayev?'

'You may not understand the way that the camp lives.'

They walked underneath a corner guard-tower and they saw the barrel of the machine-gun and the darkened shadow at the opened window above it. Their voices were whis- pered, they would not have carried to the chilled ears of the sentry.

'How often does anyone fight back against them?' it has happened.'

'Tell me, Chernayev.'

'There is a folklore of the camps. There are stories that are handed down. It is like the romances of the Tartars that have survived, never written on paper. We have our stories.'

'Tell me.'

'The stories are all about how the zeks laughed at them.

Fighting them with violence is new. They say there are eighteen men in the Central Hospital tonight, they might as well have been machine-gunned…'

'Tell me the stories.'

'There were the skulls. Shit, we laughed at the skulls. The camps aren't new, they were built when I was a child.

Sometimes they move the camps. The huts are shifted, a new compound goes up. Perhaps their maps aren't very good. A few years ago they laid out a Factory compound for our Zone right on top of an old bone yard. In the Thirties they died like flies in these places, epidemics and executions, they needed communal graves. You can't see it now because of the snow, but in the Factory compound we are allowed to grow flowers – not vegetables, but flowers – and when they hoed the ground they found the bones, they hadn't put them down deep. There was one man who took three skulls and set them on posts and when the morning came the skulls faced the main gate, right in the eye of the sentries. We laughed till it hurt us.'

'Why are you only allowed to grow flowers.'

'Because vegetables have vitamins…'

'The skulls won you nothing.' it won us a laugh and that was precious. It was a gesture and we laughed, there has been a gesture here now and we are afraid. Which is better for us, Holly, to laugh or to be afraid?'