He had been serving out his time, whiling away the months of his captivity. He had been in the SHIzo just once, for failing to remove his cap in the presence of an officer. He had dreamed of an exile in the West. The Englishman had nudged his guilt. Where before he had seen no value in confrontation, he now saw its worth. When he had passed the samizdat writings in Moscow he had known of the penalties, he had told Michael Holly that he knew of them.
Now, as he lay on his mattress, he thought of the further penalties that he would face.
Let the bastards come. When you have nothing, what then can be taken from you? This was his gesture…
Four men around the bunk. Two warders with truncheons drawn, the trustie who had brought them, Captain Yuri Rudakov because Feldstein was political.
'Get up, you little Jew shit,' from the first warder.
'Off your arse before we kick you off,' from the second warder.
'Why are you not at roll-call, Feldstein?' A coldness from Rudakov.
Words hammering around Feldstein's ears, and he felt small and vulnerable and beneath the swing of their fists and truncheons he waited for the blows.
'I declare a hunger strike in protest against the violation of my constitutional rights… ' it's not like you to be stupid, Feldstein… '
The boy saw the beginning of puzzlement on Rudakov's forehead, as if the Political Officer were weighted by another preoccupation. in addition to a hunger strike I declare a work strike in protest against the labour conditions of the camp, which are illegal under Soviet law because they contravene Soviet safety standards.' in five minutes you'll be off that bed and on roll-call and that's generous. If you want to diet, that's your business.
You can diet to death for all I bloody care.'
'I declare a hunger strike, I declare a work strike.'
He saw the Political Officer step back. Rudakov's fingers snapped in annoyance.
'I'm going back to my office. In five minutes Feldstein will be in the compound.'
Above him he saw white hands that stroked the length of their truncheons.
The officers did not notice a change of mood amongst the zeks lined in front of them to hear the names called. They were familiar only with docility. If the zeks stood straighter in their lines, if their eyes gazed more questioningly around them, if they had shed a little of their apathy, it was lost on the men in uniform.
On that Tuesday morning the zeks missed nothing.
They saw the Captain of KGB stamp out from Hut 2, the annoyance large on his face. From line to line the whisper spread that Feldstein, who was a political, had declared a hunger strike. The story of this small act of rebellion slipped from tongue to ear in a quiet murmur. Rebellion frightened some, excited others, but no man could be indifferent to it. A political on hunger strike, and two days before that a pair of men had cut their way out through the wire, and two weeks before that the guards' barracks had been struck by dysentery, and a week before that the office of the Commandant had been razed to the ground. A pulse ran along the lines.
A name called and a name answered. A tedious rhythm of shout and counter-shout.
Mamarev sensed the difference. He, and all the pervert prisoners who lived in the split world between captor and captive, could sense the small current of aggression that flowed steadily, imperceptibly, through the ranks of the prisoners. He felt a fear in his own body, he felt the pull of anticipation around him.
Every man in the compound heard Feldstein's shout.
In front of the parade, from the doorway of Hut 2, Anatoly Feldstein was pitched out into the snow.
A boot swung, a truncheon lashed.
'I declare a hunger strike, I protest against the violation of my constitutional rights… '
A boot thudded his voice to a whimper, a truncheon smacked him flat to the ground.
'I declare a work strike against illegal safety standards..
His head was deep in snow, his hands protected his genitals. He screamed the high-flung shriek of pain. As if a colour sergeant had howled a command at a squad of conscripts, so the zeks reacted, stiffened, stood erect.
Of course, they had seen pain before. Each man of eight hundred had known for himself what it was to be hit. On a thousand days, on ten thousand days, they would have turned the cheek, dropped the eye.
Not on this Tuesday morning.
A growl ran through the lines, something heavy with menace.
The two warders picked Feldstein up under his arms and dragged him across the snow so that his hanging legs made a tramline track between the imprint of their own boots. The growl had turned to a whistle. The whistle of the supporters who watch the home team defeated in the Lenin stadium. A whistle of derision. The warders took Feldstein to the edge of the rear rank, dropped him, scuttled back. Feldstein was not wearing his boots, his socks were black with the wet from the snow. He was bent double, the whistling sang in his ears. He wore no gloves, and blue tinged the fingers that were still tight around his groin.
'Call the names.' The Adjutant shouted to his sergeant, and there was the smear of nervousness in his eyes.
'Chernayev…'
The shout soared over the spilling noise of the whistle.
Afterwards he could not say why he took the action that he did. He had been seventeen years in the camps, seventeen years of preventive detention from the only trade that he knew, the work of thieving. He had been a model prisoner through the years of his second term. He had offended nobody. A docile and anonymous creature who had merged into the life of the camp. He heard his name called, listened as if he were a stranger to the shout. No answer slipped his tongue. His mind was far distanced. He thought of the perimeter path, he thought of evening when the zeks had gathered in their huts, he thought of walking with Michael Holly beside the killing zone, if everybody says that they cannot be beaten then that will be true.' Those were Holly's words, and now Feldstein had joined him hand in hand.
Timid Feldstein who hid behind what he believed to be his intellectual superiority. Feldstein who had never known a knife-fight. Feldstein who buried himself in books to escape the surroundings of Hut z. if everybody says that they cannot be beaten then that will be true.'
'Chernayev…'
The repetition of the shout. Between the shoulders of the zeks in front he saw the reddening face of the sergeant. It was a caricature of pomposity. He found its fury amusing.
Chernayev sat down.
He sat down in the snow. He felt the wetness seep through the seat of his trousers, tickle against his skin. He was smiling as if a light-headed calm had captured him. It had been so easy, easier than he could ever have believed. He did not think of the truncheons and boots that had struck Feldstein. He thought of nothing but the contentment of sitting in the snow, and the ruddy anger of the sergeant's face. He reached up with his hand and tugged at Byrkin's tunic then pointed to the squeezed mess of slush beside Byrkin's boots. Byrkin responded, Byrkin settled beside him. Chernayev saw Byrkin's chin jut out, take on the gaunt point of a rock's edge.
The whistling had stopped. There was a great quiet clouding the compound. The guards cradled their rifles and looked to their sergeant. The sergeant studied his board with the lists of names, then turned to the Adjutant for guidance. The Adjutant clasped and unclasped his fingers behind his back and stared at the window of the Commandant's office in Administration as if from the steamed panes of glass* might come salvation.
The gate of the compound opened. Just a few feet, sufficient to allow the passage of a prisoner who wore manacles on his wrists, and two warders who gripped his arms. The prisoner was being taken from the SHIzo punishment block to the Administration building.
Chernayev saw Michael Holly and his escort, Byrkin too.
They watched him as he walked, eyes straight ahead, before he was lost to their view behind the mass of legs.
Poshekhonov saw Michael Holly. Poshekhonov who was the survivor, who had slept in a death cell, who now had the bunk beside the stove in Hut z. He had never joined the company of the whines and dissenters. Lucky to be alive, wasn't he? He had faced the executioner's bullet, and any life was better than» dawn death in a prison yard. He intended to walk out through those prison gates one day and collect the suit he had been wearing at the time of his arrest – it wouldn't fit him well, it would be a give away at every station between Barashevo and the Black Sea – and take his railway warrant and go home to dream of a bank account in Zurich gathering interest and dust. He'd
