climbed to the ceiling and through its open hatch there was the glow of fuel working out a second day's burning. There were windows without curtains. What else, Holly? What else is there to see in Hut z? Only the bunks, nothing else. The bunks are round the walls, the bunks fill the central aisle of the hut.
Wooden framed and two tiered, half a yard between them.
Hut 2 is a dumping-ground for bunk beds, it offers no space to any other furniture. There are no tables, chairs, cupboards. This is the place where they dump you, Holly, you and the bunk-beds. This is where they leave you while your existence is hacked from the memory of the former life. This is home for the forgotten. Of course, you'd read of these places and screwed up your nose in disgust and said such things shouldn't be permitted, and why didn't someone else do something about it. But now, Holly, you're in Hut 2 of ZhKh 385/3/1, and nobody did do anything and the hut is reality. Tbe hut breathes and lives and survives. The hut is your home, Holly.
'What is your name?'
A voice beside him, Holly spun to his right.
There were faces peering at him. Tired faces all of them, some old and some young. The men lay on the bunks, all but one. He was a small man with a puffed chest and a jutting chin. Holly saw the bright red band that was sewn to the upper arm of his tunic, the red diamond on his chest.
'What is your name… you, the one in the front?'
Holly knew the standing of the man. There had been similar men at Vladimir. The trustie of the Internal Order System. The toadie, the crawler, the compromiser, the one who worked for favours. The man came closer, manoeuvring with the confidence of authority between the bunks.
'Holly, Michael Holly…'
'We are Soviets here, we are not foreigners.'
'My name is Holly.'
'If you are in Camp 3 you are a Soviet. If you are in this camp you have a Soviet name. What is your name?'
'My name is Michael Holly… I was charged in that name, I was sentenced in that name.'
And the faces stirred above the grey blue pillows, and the bodies shifted beneath the dark blankets. A newcomer disputed with the trustie in his first moments inside the hut.
That was entertainment. Like cats' eyes on a night road the pale faces beamed at Holly and his adversary through the greyness of the room.
'Smart arse, clever prick… What is your name in Russian?' Anger flared in the man who was not accustomed to the answer back.
Holly smiled. 'When I was born my parents called me Mikhail Holovich. My name now is Holly… '
Their eyes held, Holly's and the trustie's. The trustie looked away, far down to the recesses of the hut.
'At the end of the line you will find a bunk… And Holovich, be careful, you clever shit. Learn what is the arm band, learn what is the diamond, remember them and be careful.'
The faces watched him as he walked half the length of the hut, searchlights following him, and Holly went briskly as if by the speed of his step fourteen years might somehow trickle faster through the future's fingers. The two men who had stood behind him gave their names quickly, eagerly, anxious to avoid association. Holly went to the end of the hut. He had not given his name in Russian and the bunk that was allocated to him was against the wall at the furthest stretch from the narrow band of heat that the boiler might service.. The two tiers of the end bunk were unoccupied. He chose the upper bunk. There was sagging wire beneath the frame, a drip of water plunged sporadically into the space where his feet would rest.
This is home, Holly…
He had no possessions to swing onto the bunk, he wore them all. Two pairs of underpants, two pairs of socks, two vests, his gloves, his scarf. He shivered, wrapping his arms tight around his body.
'You are a foreigner?'
The voice was sharp, beside Holly's knee. He was little more than a boy. Vivid red hair cut back to his scalp, a sheen of stubble across his cheeks.
'My home was in England.'
'Why are you not in Camp 5?'
'Long and complicated… I've fourteen years to find the answer for you.'
'I am Anatoly Feldstein.'
'Michael Holly… ' i think we know that now.' The boy murmured his laughter. 'You are political?' i didn't rob a bank.'
'I am Article 70. Disseminating for the purpose of under-mining or weakening the Soviet regime slanderous fabrications which defame the Soviet state and social system. I am a prisoner of conscience, I am named by Amnesty.'
'That must help you to sleep sweetly,' Holly said.
Above the Jewish boy lay a larger, heavier man with rougher hands and a jowled chin where the white ribbon of a healed scar ran twisting across the folds. Something dominating about the mouth, something cruel about the eyes. His head was motionless on the pillow as he spoke.
'You have tobacco, Holovich?'
'My name is Holly…'
'I said – you have tobacco, Holovich?'
'Get the name right, and you have my answer.'
The man jack-knifed to a sitting position, the blanket fell from his chest. in this hut when I ask something, it is answered,' he hissed. 'Whatever I ask, it is answered… Do you have tobacco, Holovich?'
'The name is Holly.'
'This is my hut…' A fleck of spittle rested on the blood blue lips of the man. 'Learn that this is my hut… '
'And learn my name.'
Holly saw the streak of the blade exposed by a fold of the blanket.
What's in the bloody name Holly? How does a name matter? What matters when home is Hut 2 in Zone 1 in Camp 3 of the Dubrovlag?… He had told himself that his name was Michael Holly, he had set himself that challenge.
Surrender was failure, failure is collapse, collapse is disaster.
Where is the better ground to fight? In the hut, in the open snow, in the Factory, the Administration block, in the punishment cells, is any one of them a better ground to fight on? If once the cheek is turned then you will never fight again. His name was Michael Holly.
He saw the fingers tighten above the snatch of blade, he saw the legs ripple beneath the blanket as if in preparation for sudden attack.
Holly's hand moved, the lightning strike of the cobra. His fingers found the wrist. They gripped and savagely twisted.
The knife sprang into the air, arced up a few inches as if powered by a small spring. It fell between the bunks and clattered dully in its landing. He held the man's wrist hard against the clean edge of the frame of the bunk.
'Don't threaten me, not ever again. My name is Michael Holly.. .' he paused, then grinned quickly. 'I have no tobacco… what is your name?'
Holly bent to the floor, picked up the knife, admired the workmanship of the weapon, reversed it so that the string whipped handle was towards the man, passed it back to him.
'Adimov… this is my hut.'
'You can have all of it, but not me. No one has me.'
A nervous, hesitant gust of laughter blew the length of the hut.
'Remember that you sleep beside me… Holly… '
'I am a light sleeper, Adimov.'
Before dusk Holly and those who had arrived that day were taken to the Bath house to stand for a few moments beneath the trickle of lukewarm water. When they had dried per-functorily on the threadbare towels that were issued they were marched across the stamped snow of a path to the Store for the clothing issue. Black cotton trousers, a black tunic, a black quilted coat, a balaclava that was padded.
Boots of army style that fitted loosely over his socks. There was a mattress to be carried away, calico cloth and filled with straw. A blanket and a shallow pillow. He dressed, he signed for the garments, he saw his old
