Our camp in the hamlet of Vikhorevka in Eastern Siberia held some fifteen hundred state criminals, which was the KGB=s term for political prisoners. About one hundred fifty soldiers-guards, about forty barracks= warders, and about thirty officers took care of us, making sure that we followed the regulations, worked diligently in a rock quarry, and once in ten days washed our bodies and submitted our clothes for a treatment by intense heat. The purpose of the heat treatment was, of course, to kill possible lice or nits. The bath and the heat-treatment stove were both located in a timber-roofed dugout next to the barbed wire fence that ran around our zone.

The KGB man in the camp, referred to in the inmates= jargon as the Godfather, one captain Zikin, did not care about the rock quarry. The matters captain Zikin was concerned with were of much larger importance. Captain Zikin=s main concern was his informers, and therefore captain Zikin was much interested in the bathing/heat treatment unit. The man in charge of the bath-and heat treatment unit happened to be an inmate by the name of Kurlov.

In captain Zikin=s secret files Kurlov was listed as a Trusted Informant. The main source of information about inmates= planned escapes or about any wrong mood among the inmates that Kurlov conveyed to captain Zikin were the talks inmates conducted while using the bath unit.

Those who had access to Kurlov=s personal file could find out that his height was about 5 feet 3 inches, that his hair was red, the color of his right eye was light-blue, while his left eye was missing, and that his left leg was shorter than the right one. He=d served previously terms for rape of an underage person and for burglaries, and was presently serving a 10-year term for murder. He was kept in a camp for political prisoners rather than in one for common criminals by virtue of a special determination, as a Trusted Informant.

The political prisoners in our camp had no access to Kurlov=s file. They had been imprisoned for much more heinous crimes such as, for example, uttering a criminal statement that the system in the country was not 100% socialistic, or for the equally criminal opinion that a lathe manufactured by the Red Worker factory in Moscow under the name of Catch Up and Surpass was actually an exact replica of a lathe by a German company VDF . Using his informers, Captain Zikin had spread, as a protective cover for his informer, a rumor that Kurlov was sentenced for telling jokes about Lenin.

Limping Kurlov, whose sole eye was always directed to the ground, and whose mouth used to be permanently half-opened, displaying his serrated yellow teeth, looked as either an imbecile, or just a fool, and, having for several years diligently performed his informant=s duties, had never been suspected by other inmates to be a stoolie.

This evening captain Zikin was drunk more than usual. In the morning hours of that day he received a long awaited letter advising him that finally, after many unsuccessful applications on his part, he was granted a transfer from the shabby, forlorn hamlet of Vikhorevka to a much larger and much livelier village of Chuna where there was a school and hence young female teachers, a new group of whom came every fall to Chuna being assigned to work there after graduating from a teachers= college, and who were anguishing from loneliness in that Siberian hole, far from their homes and families. Happy with the long awaited news, Zikin drank more than usual.

The soldier in the guard house opened, with a clang, the timber gate, and captain Zikin, buttoning his overcoat, stepped onto the ice-covered path.

Moving his eyes over the zone, where he had been the actual master for the last three years, knowing that his every order would be carried out without discussion by the formal camp=s commander lieutenant-colonel Mirokhin, the Godfather walked unhurriedly along the zapretka - the forbidden strip of soil that ran along the barbed wire fence. This evening he wore the warm valenki - knee-high felt boots. Nobody in the camp would dare to reproach the Godfather for wearing a non-uniform item. Unlike the uniform leather boots which would screech at every footstep, his feet shod in valenki made no noise. As he walked leisurely on the path made in the hardened snow by the inmates= feet, captain Zikin, in his mind, saw himself as if from some observation stand. In this vision, his elegant greatcoat fitted his body without a single wrinkle, deftly concealing the drum of his belly filled with beer; on his shoulders sparkled large stars, on his feet the kid boots glistened and the silver spoors clanged gently, and his right hand in a suede glove held a stick with a carved handle, which this imaginary Zikin flung up and down, clapping on his boot.

Zikin approached the mess hall barracks which on evenings was used as a club. There, on a stage, a choir of state criminals was rehearsing the song titled AOur Party leads us.@

For a while Zikin stayed next to the club, mentally singing with the choir and glancing toward the barracks where, as he knew, at that time the barracks= warders were driving out the inmates who tried to eschew the approaching obligatory political session.

Having concluded that there was nobody in the entire zone who could=ve seen him, the Godfather rushed to the bath-and heat treatment dugout.

* * *

Barefoot on the warm cement floor of the banya, the bathing facility, Kurlov held in one hand a birch besom, while his other hand was scratching his bare hairy chest. A length of a rope with shaggy ends, tied into a wet knot, held his standard cotton-padded inmate=s pants under his bare belly.

AA treatment, citizen superior?@ Kurlov said hoarsely, showing the besom to the captain and eagerly inhaling the smell of moonshine that wafted from the Godfather.

ANot today. Look, that=s for you,@ and the captain handed over to Kurlov a half empty 50-gram packet of cheap Krasnodar tea - a reward for the previous service. AAnd look here.@ Zikin pulled from his chest pocket a small pile of obviously very old picture cards and with a gesture of a seasoned card-player fanned them out before Kurlov=s face.

AA-a!@ said Kurlov, grabbing the photos and, squinting his sole eye, peered, in the dull light of a single bulb, at the images of full-breasted women clad in underwear.

ALook, but don=t grab,@ Zikin said.

Kurlov moaned and reluctantly let go of the cards.

AReport now, will you?@ Zikin said.

ASomebody thinks of digging under the fence,@ Kurlov said.

AThat=s what we know without you, imbecile,@ Zikin said. AThe spring time is coming, that=s when all of them dream of digging under the fence... Who=s planning to dig?@

ADon=t know yet. They will not hide from me though. Somebody will blab,@ Kurlov said with a smile that skewed the black patch over his missing eye, and made a gesture with his fingers as if squeezing an insect. AThen we=ll get them.@

ALook, Kurlov, your bath dugout is closer to the fence than any other barracks. It=s the best place to start digging. So, maybe it=s you who=s planning, ah?@

ACitizen superior, it=s painful for me to hear it. I=ve been serving you with all of my soul, and you...@ Kurlov swept imaginary tears from his eyes.

AWell, I=m joking. What, do you=ve a soul really? Now, listen, Kurlov. Even if you=ll find out who is planning it, you=ll not report to me any longer. I=m leaving, for good, understand? Tomorrow morning. Adieu!@

AWhat you mean leaving?@ Kurlov said, his face paling.

ATransferred!@ Zikin said triumphantly.

AGoing to Chuna? What will happen to me, citizen superior? They will kill me with a stick, those political. I don=t want tea, just take me with you, for Christ sake, citizen superior!@

AHow the hell do you know it=s Chuna?@ Zikin said chuckling. AIf they make a stiff of you nobody will be grieving anyway. That=s one. Two, don=t you know I=ve plenty of men like you, reporting, among those political? Inmate Kurlov, you stay here. You=ll report to my replacement, see? So, stay, obey, don=t cry. And now rush to the political session, right away!@

* * *

The timber door banged, as the frost breathed in, driving aside the steam that hung above the cement floor. Kurlov stared dumbly at the closing door covered with drops of condensed water. The smell of moonshine left by the departed captain subsided gradually.

A sound of somebody coughing behind the wall of the dugout startled Kurlov. Somebody was there, outside the dugout, where he held the stacks of firewood. Somebody who could=ve overheard his talking with the Godfather.  

Draping his stitched cotton-padded coat over his naked shoulders, Kurlov, barefoot, sprinted out. Across the dark zone he saw Zikin walk into the brightly lit door of the guardhouse. Kurlov waved his arms, trying to attract the captain=s attention, but Zikin was already stepping into the guardhouse and was not looking toward Kurlov. A soldier walked out from the guardhouse, lighting a home made cigarette - a pinch of makhorka, the crude byproduct of the cheapest tobacco wrapped in a piece of paper torn out of a newspaper. Kurlov dropped his arms. No inmate would wave to the Godfather unless having with him a special relationship. Making such relationship explicit would mean the first step toward a prompt even though not an easy demise.

Now, when the door of the guardhouse had irreversibly cut off the omnipotent Godfather from his informant, Kurlov, who=d never loved anybody else, but always, faithfully, devotedly and tenderly loved Kurlov, realized that there was nobody in the entire camp, and in the entire Gulag system, and in the entire world, who would stand up for him.

Limping and simultaneously jumping on the frozen path that was scorching his bare feet, Kurlov ran around the dugout.

* * *

The members of the choir descended from the stage. The inmates driven in by the warders were filing into the mess hall, for the sermon, the inmates slang word for the political session. The weekly political sessions had been conducted by the camp=s deputy political officer, one junior lieutenant Marlen Botinnik. His first name, as everybody knew, was an abbreviation for Marx and Lenin, indicating that his Jewish parents had been devoted communists. As to his last name, everybody in the camp usually called him Botvinnik, as this was a more familiar name of the former world chess champion. Unlike the real Botvinnik, the junior lieutenant of the political division, who once took part in a checkers tournament conducted among camp officers, their wives, and their kids from seven years and up, took the last place in that tournament, having lost all the games.

As the inmates filled the room, steam rose from their mouths toward the low black rafters, while Botinnik shuffled the pages of the written text of his speech. It was obligatory for Botinnik to adhere to this text which was approved in the regional center, the city of Irkutsk.

Blowing at his red hands, Botinnik looked over the audience. In the far left corner, Lithuanians gathered, all serving twenty-five years sentences for Lithuanian nationalism, father Lodavichas, their spiritual leader, in their midst. The far right corner was occupied by Ukrainian nationalists, banderovites , all serving the same standard twenty-five years term. Closer to the stage sat believers, imprisoned for the devotion to their religious beliefs - witnesses of Jehovah, Baptists, Adventists. Even closer to the stage the blabbers took seats, people sentenced for telling anti-government jokes, or for having uttered opinions which, as the KGB had determined, were contrary to the Party line. Their sentences usually did not exceed ten years, so, as a camp saying held, their terms could be spent without getting up from a night pot.

In the second row, at the bench=s edge, the orderly of the mess hall/club barracks sat, one Stalen Magazannik. Everybody understood that his first name was an abbreviation for Stalin and Lenin, thus indicating that this inmate=s Jewish parents had been as much devoted to communism, as those of junior lieutenant Botinnik. As to his last name, everybody usually called him Magazinnik, which was a more common word meaning a grocery store attendant. The moniker Magazinnik had nothing to do with Magazannik=s actual profession. In his before-the-arrest life Magazannik used to be Head of a Philosophy department at some university. Half-broken glasses, supported by lengths of twine which looped over his ears, sat on his red nose. Officially, Magazannik was assigned to the enviable position of a barracks orderly, rather than for work in a rock quarry, because of his extremely poor vision and a limp. Actually Magazannik earned the assignment to his position by making for several officers who took correspondent courses on a middle school level, all of their homework, from arithmetic to geography.

AIt=s cold though,@ junior lieutenant Botinnik said, blowing at his hands. AI don=t know to love cold. I know to hate cold.@ He glanced sadly at Magazannik. Through the broken glasses, Magazannik returned the glance, his eyes also melancholy.

AMy papa knew to hate cold. I and I=m all after my papa,@ Botinnik said.

AYour papa must=ve been a savvy man,@ Magazannik said sadly.

AOf course, what else?@ Botinnik said. AListen, Magazinnik, you=re an orderly here. Why won=t you warm it up a little bit ?@

ABut wood, citizen superior,@ Magazannik said, getting up from the bench. AThe last of it went this morning. They did not allocate to me any more for today.@

AYes, because of the weather,@ Botinnik said. AWhat, inmate Magazinnik, an orderly, does not know to get wood? I wish I had such problems! Inmate Magazannik, don=t you realize the importance of the political session? Even more so as tonight we will discuss the religious superstitions. Go, and get wood!@

Having left the mess hall, Magazannik stood for a while, as his eyes gradually adopted to the darkness. Squinting his eyes, he looked around. Damned Botinnik! Get wood for him! Magazannik sighed and resignedly murmuring a long sentence in which Botinnik, and Botinnik=s mother, and the mother of Botinnik=s mother were mentioned in a non-flattering way, hobbled toward the bathing dugout. Doctor of Philosophy Magazannik decided to commit the crime of theft. At the current moment of time the ire of the bathing-heat treatment unit=s supervisor Kurlov seemed to be only a potential hazard, while disobeying junior lieutenant would portend an immediate retribution, most probably depriving Magazannik of receiving a parcel from relatives.

The walk from the mess hall to the bathing dugout would normally take less than five minutes, but Magazannik limped slowly. He hated to hurry, and moreover his eyes could barely discern the path, and before making every next footstep he cautiously tried the tramped snow by the tips of his felt boots.

When he was close to the bathing dugout, he looked around to make sure that nobody, and first and most Kurlov, would see him. He saw nobody, and walked around the dugout. Kneeling next to the stack of firewood, he picked pieces of cut wood with his right hand, placing them upon his left arm. Unbending with an effort, Magazannik turned away from the stack and inhaled the cold air, enjoying the smell of the pine wood. Together with the air, he inhaled inadvertently a small sliver of wood. It tickled his throat. Magazannik coughed, trying to exhale the invisible wooden chip. Tears appeared in his eyes. Pressing the collected wood to his chest, he slowly walked around the dugout, back to the path.

AWhat is it?@ somebody said in a low voice. A dark figure emerged in front of Magazannik. Assuming, rather than really perceiving it, that it was Kurlov before him, Magazannik dropped the wood and covered his face with his hands, as if hoping that if he would not see Kurlov, the latter would disappear indeed, and at the same time protecting his face from the blows which, as he had no doubts about, would follow.

A second passed. Two seconds. Nothing hit him. Magazannik moved his hands slowly away from his face. Kurlov stood there, blocking the path.

AHow long here?@ Kurlov said hoarsely. Astonished by the question, Magazannik mooed uncertainly. Why should Kurlov be curious about that? Had he been here just for one minute, or for a whole hour, he was anyway caught in the process of perpetrating the theft of the valuable firewood prepared for the banya.

AFor how long?@ Magazannik said pensively. AIt has to do with the concept of time. It=s a complex question. I=ll try to explain it in layman=s terms. I=ll not delve into Physics where one of the theories, which actually was designed to circumvent the real problem, is that time is just another term for the unstoppable growth of entropy. From the viewpoint of the theory of cognizance, time is an attribute...@

ABla-bla,@ Kurlov said in a tone which, contrary to Magazannik=s expectations, instead of being one of rage, sounded almost benevolent.

AOrdered to get it,@ Magazannik said, pointing to the wood on the ground.

AI see,@ Kurlov said. He bent, picked up the wood and, to Magazannik=s utter bewilderment, handed it over to the apprehended thief.

AIt=s not enough for the club,@ Kurlov said. ACome over later, I=ll give you more. Well, I=m going to the sermon anyway, so I=ll carry it for you. Just give me a minute, to put my boots on.@

Now Magazannik realized that Kurlov was barefoot on the snow, and that through the half opened flaps of his coat his bare chest could be seen.

Baffled by Kurlov=s unexpected generosity, which seemed to be so much contrary to Kurlov=s reputation, Magazannik walked slowly back to the mess hall, and a few minutes later Kurlov followed him, already shod in his felt boots, with a cap on his head, and carrying one more pile of wood.

* * *

Not far from the bath-and-heat treatment dugout, there stood a barracks occupied by the camp=s school. Its northern wall ran parallel to the forbidden strip that followed the line of the barbed wire fence. A small wooden annex to the school=s barracks held, besides stacks of firewood, also the unpretentious implements of the school=s orderly Romas Galdikas - a mop, a broom, and a canister containing diesel fuel which Galdikas was supplied with to rub on the unpainted wooden planks of the school=s floors. A big rusty padlock hung on the annex=s timber door.

Roman Galdikas, a one-legged Lithuanian peasant, once, in the forties, gave shelter, for a couple of hours, to three Lithuanian nationalist guerillas who were fleeing a KGB detail. The guerillas managed to escape from Galdikas home but a few hours later were killed by the KGB men, whereas peasant Galdikas was sentenced to the standard 25 years, despite his vain efforts to claim that his aiding the guerillas took place only because their submachine guns were trained at his wife and kids.

This evening Galdikas had purchased a few potatoes in the camp=s store. Having flung open the cast iron door of a stove, Galdikas placed two potatoes between dark-scarlet half-burned logs still emanating warm streams. Galdikas had no watch but he could determine time by a variety of signs. He calculated that his potatoes would be ready by the time when Botinnik would announce a break in his sermon. During the break, he mused, he would be able to get to the school and remove potatoes from the stove.

In the far end of the classroom where Galdikas was busy with his potatoes, there was a door, now closed, and behind it a small cubicle where the school teacher Ivan Kortikov lived. There was a plank bed in that cubicle, a desk, and shelves that held some books. A window in the northern wall of the cubicle looked straight onto the forbidden path, toward the fence which ran only some ten meters from the teacher=s window. Everybody in the camp knew that Kortikov, who was serving the standard 25 years term, used to be, during the WW2, an artillery colonel in the army of the renegade general Vlasov who betrayed the Motherland and joined the Germans.

The former traitor, and now an exemplary Soviet inmate, a faithful supporter of the camp=s administration in all of its political-educational activities, Kortikov was sorting out the homework of his pupils, preparing to leave for the sermon.

The door that led from the classroom to Kortikov=s cubicle, screeched on its hinges, reminding Kortikov that he should=ve told his orderly Galdikas to apply some of the diesel fuel to the hinges. He turned to the door. Four men stepped in, bringing with them the chill of the outside night.

The first to step in was Kortikov=s former co-warrior, a scout in Vlasov=s army, Sergey Strugov. He took position at a wall, letting another man to squeeze himself into the cubicle. The second man was an Ukrainian by the name of Grigory Stetsko, a wide-shouldered, six feet five inches tall, bear-like creature. There were no coats available in the camp fitting his size, and his gnarled and scar-speckled hands protruded from his sleeves. Following Stetsko, two more Ukrainians squeezed themselves in, both big, heavy men, only slightly shorter than Stetsko, one of them Petro Zaduyviter, and the other Vasil Korostiv. Their gray peasant faces bore telltale signs of many years in camps, of those thousands of hours they lived through either felling trees in the Siberian forests in winter time, or working the rock quarries - nets of crude wrinkles, deep colorless eyes and skewed scars.

ASo, Kortikov, look,@ Stetsko said, his speech a mixture of Russian and Ukrainian words. AWe are here with your former buddy, a Russian like you, this man Strugov, so you=ll see we=re on the level with you, as you know him and trust him. Right, Strugov?@

Strugov nodded solemnly.

Kortikov shifted his eyes, surveying all of his four visitors. His eyes stopped at a rusty iron pipe in Stetsko=s hand. With his lengthy inmate=s experience, he had no doubt about the significance of that pipe. Blood ebbed from his cheeks. He moved his eyes back and forth over the faces of the visitors.

AFellows,@ Kortikov wheezed. AIn just one month I=m going to be recommended to the Irkutsk assizes, to be paroled. I can=t go with you. But I=ll never say a word about you, here I cross my heart. Look, the bath dugout is even closer to the fence, why won=t you dig from there?@

ANo way,@ Zaduyviter said gravely. AOne thing, there=s a crew every day taking bath. Then, the floor there is cement right over the ground. Where to store the dirt? Here, in your place, the floor is planks, underneath it there=s plenty of room to hide dirt. No, we=ve thought it over from all angles. Yours is the only place to dig. Everything will be clean. We=ll remove a few planks every night, dig for a few hours, taking turns, and toward the morning hours nail the planks back. Three of us, and Strugov, and you. Nobody=ll know. So, Kortikov, are you with us?@

AMy lads,@ Kortikov said, trying to look into Stetsko=s eyes. AYou know, they=ll catch us anyway. Look, as of now, every two months the Irkutsk assizes are coming. They count now each workday as two term days, if you=ve no violations. Look how many have been paroled.@

AMay be they parole them, but not us,@ Stetsko said.

AWhy not? Many banderovites have been paroled, just say you renounce your nationalism.@

AThose are nationalists, banderovites. I=m not a banderovite, Stetsko said. AI served in the German police. I shot those Ukrainian nationalists. Besides, each of us has too many Yids.@

Stetsko pointed to Korostiv and Zaduyviter.

AJews? Many?@ Kortikov said.

AWho counted them?@ Stetsko said. AI=d maybe three or four hundred. Some of them we shot, some hanged. It=s all in our files.@

AAnd what about you, Sergey?@ Kortikov said, shifting his eyes to Strugov.

AIvan, I am a scout. I=d rather take a risk. I don=t expect a parole. I=ve an additional sentence, already in camps, for those disturbances in Kolyma camps. Decide, Ivan. As soon as we=re out, they,@ he pointed at the three Ukrainians, A go one way, we go another. And now we=ll work together.@

Kortikov remained silent, staring at the floor. The four visitors waited silently.

Strugov sighed. AI told you, no way he=ll go.@

ALook, Kortikov,@ Korostiv said, who was silent until now. AWe must know now. Either you=re with us, or you=ll never walk out of this room. You know that, don=t you?@

Kortikov still remained silent. Stetsko moved his eyes over the faces of his two cohorts with a silent question. Both nodded slightly.

ALads, here is my cross, I=ll not say a word about you, even if they=ll cut me with knives,.@ Kortikov said.

AThat=s something nobody knows about,@ Korostiv said. AWhen the KGB guys squeeze your nuts in a vise, you=ll sing about everything. I see, we=ve no deal with you. Grigory, there=s nothing to wait for.@

Stetsko made a small step back, moving his hand, with the pipe in it, sideways and up.

* * *

Even though the instruction in regard to the political-educational activities prescribed to unflinchingly follow the approved plan, junior lieutenant Botinnik, in fits of creativity, sometimes deviated from the officially predetermined path. Sitting behind a plank table, on the stage, he tried to catch the eyes of his listeners. But all the eyes in the audience were downcast. Only one listener, the club=s orderly Magazannik looked at Botinnik with curiosity.

Glancing at Magazannik, Botinnik started his lecture.

AThis is what I am saying to you,@ Botinnik said. AWhen you=ll be released, either paroled, or by finishing your terms, even the kids in nurseries will laugh at you. You=ll ask me why. I=ll tell you. The kids in nurseries will laugh at you because some, not many of you, will go there and say they still believe in God.@ Botinnik pointed a finger at the middle of the mess hall. Inmate Magazannik nodded approvingly. Encouraged, Botinnik went on. AThe camp administration takes care of you fully and very well. What, are they beating you three times a day? Ha-ha! They feed you three times a day! They provide water for you three times a day! The toiling masses in the capitalist countries can only dream of such care! And how do you pay back? Some of you insist that they believe in God!@

Inmate Magazannik nodded again.

ATell me,@ Botinnik continued, A How high are our pilots flying? Don=t you know? I tell you, thirty kilometers high! What, did they see there a god or angels? How many angels did they see? I wish I had as many boils! And why? I tell you, because the Soviet scientists have proved that there is no God!@

Inmate Magazannik nodded.

AYou see, while the entire Soviet people, including those temporarily deprived of freedom for various crimes, is unanimously building communism, some of you do not choose the path of reeducation and rehabilitation, and continue to believe in God! And that is even when Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev has indicated that there are no more political prisoners in our country!@

The audience responded with a murmur.

AWhat=s the matter?@ Botinnik said. AAny questions?@

AI=ve a question, citizen superior,@ inmate Magazannik said.

AWhat is it?@ Botinnik said, squinting suspiciously at Magazannik.

AWho are we?@

Botinnik smiled with relief. This was an easy question. AI=m explaining. You=re not political prisoners. You=re the temporarily deprived of freedom for state crimes. Clear?@

AClear,@ inmate Magazannik said. Smiles appeared on the faces of some listeners.

ANow, I=m looking at those Jehovah witnesses,@ Botinnik said, pointing to the middle of the mess hall. AWhen will you come to your senses? I know to hate you especially, because the entire Soviet people wait impatiently for the arrival of communism. And you wait for Armageddon. What, will be bread for free at Armageddon? Ha! But with communism, it will. I=m telling you!@

Inmate Magazannik nodded approvingly.

@I wish you, believers, at least all believed same thing. Like we, the Soviet people, we all believe in the same thing. And among you, believers, everybody believes in something different. There some of you that even believe in a cow, and others believe in pigs, and some others in devil knows what. And the Jews believe in Jude.@ He stopped, as inmate Magazannik who until now seemed to fully support the lieutenant=s arguments, suddenly covered his face with his palms, obviously unable to suppress chuckles. Somebody shouted from the audience, ANo, not in Jude.@

Botinnik hurriedly shuffled his notes. ARight,@ he admitted. ANot Jude. They have a god by the name of Sabaoth.@

In that part of the audience where the blabbers sat, smiles appeared now on many faces. The sermon had unexpectedly turned into entertainment.

ASo, in conclusion, you see that religion is a deceit and opium for the people. Besides, different faiths fight each other.@

ACitizen superior, can you give us an example?@ inmate Magazannik said.

AYes. For example, there are Christians on one hand, and Catholics, on the other.@

Now the blabbers in the audience laughed openly.

AMany thanks,@ inmate Magazannik said.

AWhat is it?@ Botinnik said angrily. AWhat=s the matter, inmate Magazinnik? What are the thanks for?@

AWell, we=ve just learned that Catholics are not Christians,@ Magazannik said.

Botinnik stared at the orderly with suspicion. AInmate Magazinnik, what, are you boasting that you=ve higher education? What, you want to teach me? Do you know that I=ve a certificate that I completed an evening course in atheism in Irkutsk?@

AI didn=t know until now. Now I=ll know,@ inmate Magazannik said.

After a short silence, Botinnik resumed his lecture. ARather than pray to God, better engage in something useful. For example, study Marxism. Or, for whom Marxism is yet difficult, study the languages of the countries of people=s democracies. It=s not forbidden.@

ACitizen superior, what languages do you know?@ inmate Magazannik said. Botinnik stared at the orderly with suspicion. The inmate=s face seemed to express a sincere interest.

AI know many,@ Botinnik said.

Magazannik nodded. ACzechoslovakian language?@ he said.

AI know it,@ Botinnik said.

AAnd Yugoslavian too?@ Magazannik said.

AYes. Too. Why?@

AI need some translation.@

Botinnik frowned. AThen study it and translate if you want. You=ve plenty of free time, and I=m busy.@

AAnd what about Austrian-Hungarian?@ Magazannik said. Now the laughter had become quite widely spread all over the audience. Botinnik remained silent, his face showing uncertainty, whether to claim the knowledge of one more language, or to admit this one was beyond his ken.

ALook, Magazinnik, do you want to kondey? I can get it for you right on the spot,@ Botinnik said suddenly. At the mention of a kondey, the cold punishment cell, the laughter ceased, and the audience became silent.

ABreak for fifteen minutes,@ junior lieutenant Botinnik said.

The inmates noisily poured out from the mess hall, to smoke outside.

* * *

The mess hall emptied, only Botinnik remained on the stage, shuffling his notes.

Somebody coughed. Botinnik lifted his head. The inmate in charge of the bath-heat treatment facility stood next to the stage. Botinnik frowned. The junior lieutenant of the political-educational department happened to be one of four trusted, secretly co-opted officers of the camp administration whom the Godfather used for communications with his informants. For an inmate, to be noticed in a direct, even a very short and fleeting contact with the Godfather would be tantamount to explicitly applying to the inmate=s face a sign of Cain. Therefore the informants usually sent their reports to the KGB man via one of the four co-opted officers. Junior lieutenant Botinnik happened to be such a liaison between Kurlov and Zikin.

ALet me have it,@ Botinnik said, first having glanced over the mess hall to be sure that there was nobody in the room except for himself and the informer. He extended his hand, expecting Kurlov to hand over a piece of paper with a report.

ANeed to see the Godfather,@ Kurlov said in a low voice.

AWhat? Let me have it, I=ll forward it to him.@

ANo, need to see him. Like that,@ and Kurlov moved the edge of his palm across his neck.

Botinnik stared at the informant. Kurlov=s eyes were downcast. ANeed. For God=s sake,@ Kurlov said.

AIt can wait until tomorrow,@ Botinnik said. AWrite it down, I=ll forward it.@

ATomorrow will be late,@ Kurlov said. ATomorrow the captain shall be in Chuna, for good.@

AWhat? How do you know?@

AHe told me himself,@ Kurlov said. ACall him now, or something bad happens.@

AChu-u-una! Some men have luck!@ Botinnik said. AIf true, then tomorrow a replacement will be assigned. So, report tomorrow.@

ADon=t you understand? I need him now! Like that,@ and Kurlov again moved his hand across his neck.

ALeave me alone, Kurlov, for God=s sake,@ Botinnik said. ADon=t you see, I=m conducting this session. I=m not going to find him right away, and if something is really important, let me have it, I forward it in good time. Tell the men to come back in, we=ll finish the session.@

AJust remember, I asked you,@ Kurlov said gloomily.

AI will, and now get away from me for God=s sake.@

AHow so? You just said here is no God, didn=t you?@

AWhat? Very smart you are, aren=t you? Shut up, or blame yourself afterwards!@

Slowly, Kurlov hobbled toward the exit. Now, when he failed to get in touch with the Godfather and inform that Magazannik may have overheard his chat with Kurlov in the bath dugout, Kurlov had no other choice but to take care of the situation by himself. To take a risk hoping that Magazannik did not overhear anything, or that he heard but would remain silent about it, such a choice did not even occur to him. He had survived, serving for many years as an informer, surrounded by the hated political prisoners, because he=d never relied on a lucky chance.

The inmates filed back, filling the mess hall.

* * *

During the break, Romas Galdikas managed to get back to the school barracks. As he expected, the potatoes had just reached the desired state of being edible. While handling the potatoes, Galdikas noticed that the door to the teacher=s cubicle was ajar. A triangle of light fell through that door on the rainbow film of diesel fuel that glistened on the classroom=s floor. Apparently Kortikov did not attend the sermon, which in itself was odd, as the teacher was expecting a parole shortly and hardly was in a mood to transgress any rules. Moreover, he routinely held his door closed. However, even though the teacher=s behavior seemed a little weird, it was not the orderly=s business. The orderly=s concern was only to stoke the stove in the school barracks, to sweep the floors in the classroom and to rub diesel fuel upon them. Wrapping potatoes in a piece of cloth, Romas stirred the ashes, and closed the stove=s shutter. He walked out and approached the plank annex. To his surprise, there was no padlock on the annex= timber door. Somebody had forcibly pulled out the iron hasps, apparently using something like an iron pole. Romas knelt and moved his hand over the snow-clad ground. The padlock rested there, a half-step from the door. Galdikas lit up a match. The firewood he kept in the annex was still there, intact, as he had left it there. The canister with the diesel fuel sat where he placed it in the morning. He lifted the canister, its weight seemed to be exactly as in the morning, so it still was full as before. The broom and the mop did not seem to change their position either. He lit up another match. Now he noticed that next to the stack of wood there was a piece of an iron pipe he never saw before. Apparently it served as a tool to destroy the padlock=s hasps. Why? What kind of a prank was it? Did somebody hope to find there something more valuable than a mop and a broom?

Galdikas hid his potatoes behind the firewood. He had no time to fix the padlock. To prevent the door from banging under the wind, he leaned the iron pipe against the closed door, the pipe=s lower end buried in snow, and hurried back to the sermon.

* * *

The inmates scattered hurriedly to the living barracks - after the political education session, the time remaining until sleep all belonged finally to them. The club=s orderly Magazannik started moving benches and plank tables, converting the club back into the mess hall.

AHey, Magazinnik,@ said Kurlov. Now only two of them remained in the dark room. AHey, let=s go to my place, pick up some wood there, will you?@

AI don=t know,@ Magazannik said, hesitating. AThey should provide the wood tomorrow, I guess.@

AWhat if not? Let=s go, I=ve plenty of it, why not to share it?@

Magazannik shrugged and, again wondering what could be the reason for Kurlov=s odd benevolence, took his hat and followed Kurlov out of the club.

Magazannik=s inherent gullibility had more than once put him in all kinds of quandaries. The most severe case until now happened some three years earlier, when Magazannik, who had accepted at a face value the notion of the thaw that allegedly took place in the regime=s behavior, once, in a friendly conversation with a colleague, said, in passing, that in Martin Buber=s philosophical concepts some rational grain might be found. In a few days Magazannik learned that his dear colleague who nodded approvingly during their conversation, immediately after that conversation rushed to the Party committee to report on the odd opinions of the Head of Philosophy department. As a reward, the colleague became the department=s Head, while Magazannik was dispatched for eight years to this East-Siberian camp.

First the internal jail of the KGB and then the camp had succeeded, in three years, to cure Magazannik=s excessive gullibility much better than all the preceding thirty eight years of his life. He understood that Kurlov=s offer of help surely meant Kurlov wanted something and thought Magazannik could provide that something. He was at loss, unable to figure out what Kurlov might have wanted from him. This uncertainty caused his stomach to cramp as he hobbled reluctantly following Kurlov.

ARoll in,@ Kurlov said, swinging open the door of the bath/heat treatment dugout. Through the opened door, a dull bulb that hung from the wet ceiling shined weak light on Kurlov=s face, and Magazannik saw that the bath attendant had bared his crooked teeth in a semblance of a grin.

AWhy in?@ Magazannik said. AThe firewood is stored outside, isn=t it?@

AThat which inside is dryer,@ Kurlov said. AIn, in, Magazinnik. What, are you afraid of me, or what?@

AWhy should I be afraid?@ Magazannik said, his hands shaking.

ANo reason,@ Kurlov said with a chuckle. AI=ll not eat you. Here is the firewood, dry and good.@

Magazannik stepped inside, and Kurlov closed the door. Magazannik bent toward the small stack of firewood that sat on the cement floor next to the heat-treatment stove. Kurlov picked up a thick twig and inserted it into the hasp on the door, so that nobody would open it from outside.

Magazannik swung his body away from Kurlov, closer to the stove.

ANow tell me, Magazinnik what have you overheard through the wall?@ Kurlov said.

Magazannik leaned against the hot stove, his eyes at the door.

ANot telling? Then blame yourself, Magazinnik,@ Kurlov said.

The last thing Doctor of Philosophy Magazannik perceived was a thick piece of a pine log that was approaching slowly his eyes. This log was almost perfectly circular in cross-section, just on its one side a golden bark half-peeled off, hanging in a double-spiraled shape. Intricate pattern on the wood was telling something very important, much more important than all the philosophy he had studied for so many years, and he attempted to decode this language of the pattern, but he had so little time, so awfully little time. The time had disappeared. The time ran backwards, contrary to the law of entropy increase. The time unrolled backwards, and images of the past dashed by. Flickered the face of the woman whom he loved and who renounced him as soon as he was arrested. Flickered the warm hands of his mother. The time stopped, and all what used to be Stalen Magazannik became a cloud of entropy which dissolved at once in the shoreless ocean of entropy of the universe, because after all the entropy always takes over.

* * *

The wind rocked the klieg lights that hung above the forbidden strip, and the barbed wire hurled a swinging pattern of shadows over the strip which lay bare, all snow removed from the surface of the loosened dirt. The rest of the zone hid in darkness. Drawing tighter the flaps of his stitched cotton-padded coat, Kurlov hobbled, having abandoned the path, right across the snow clad waste ground that separated his dugout from the school=s barracks. He was in a hurry. The effort necessary to get rid of the evidence was all still ahead.

The cold wind whistled, and at each step the snow screeched. This screeching sound surely must=ve been heard all over the camp. Kurlov tried to speed up, but somebody who was catching up with him, was obviously faster. This somebody swung something heavy over Kurlov=s head. Kurlov turned abruptly, investing all of his power in the forward thrust of his fist. The fist hit emptiness. There was nobody behind him. Kurlov ran, limping, his feet sliding on the snow, and heard, again, heavy footsteps behind himself. His enemies were catching up with him. His feet slid sideways and he fell to the snow clad ground, extending his arms forward.

Resigning to his fate, he waited for the blow. There was no blow. He turned his head. Nobody stood next to him. The camp still lay in darkness, the lights still swinging over the barbed wire of the fence.

AWeapon. I need weapon,@ Kurlov muttered. AI=ll show you, snakes.@

The enemies remained silent, hidden in the dark, invisible, persistent.

AI=ve done everything right,@ Kurlov said, trying to convince himself. ANobody will ever find out...@

He got up, shook off the snow and ran toward the school. The enemies followed him, waiting for a suitable time to assault him, but the school barracks was already right before him.

He fumbled about the door of the plank annex, trying to locate the padlock. There was no padlock. He lit a match and perceived a piece of a rusty iron pipe that was leaning against the door. This was a weapon, strong unlike any wood twig. He grabbed the pipe and swung it, trying its weight. With the weapon like this, no enemies would scare him.

In the twinkling light of the match he found the canister with diesel fuel which was what he had come for.

Back in the bath dugout Kurlov shoved the pipe into the door hasps. Now nobody would interfere with his work. He worked fast. Flame started humming in the heat treatment stove. Having swept the spilled diesel fuel from the floor, Kurlov sat down on a pine log. Blue tongues of flame danced on Magazannik=s clothes impregnated with the diesel fuel. Magazannik=s hand unbent, the already half-burned fingers straightening out as if pointing at Kurlov.

AYou=re lying, snake,@ Kurlov said. Handling a long twig, he pushed the hand back deep into the stove. Then, using the same long and thick twig, he beat down the hot pile inside the stove. Then he sat, for a long time, staring at the flame, until all he could see was just a small hill of the brown ash from which small tongues of flame occasionally erupted here and there.

In the morning, as usual, he would rake out the ash. As usual, he would run the ash out into the big barrel that stood behind the dugout. One day the cleaning crew would take the full barrel out of the zone. At the gate, following the regulations, a guard would pierce the ash with sharpened steel rods. But the bones would not cry out. The crew would empty the barrel into a deep trench somewhere in the forest, where tons of ash would bury for ever the burned bones of Magazannik.

In the morning, during the routine check, the guards would discover the absence of Magazannik. No trace of the disappeared orderly would be unearthed. The KGB men would interrogate, more than once, every inmate. They will shake the informers. They will dig every inch in the zone, along and across. After long searches and interrogations, they would come reluctantly to a conclusion that inmate Magazannik managed to escape leaving no trace. Some officers would lose their positions, some other would be dismissed from the service. A campaign would be conducted aimed at strengthening the measures for guarding the inmates. Finally, all of it would gradually die out, even though the search for the vanished inmate, with no terms of limitation, would be announced all over the country.

Kurlov laughed. His hoarse laughter echoed in the stove that was gradually cooling down. . He managed to take care of himself without the help of the Godfather. Nobody would find out about his meetings with the Godfather. Nobody would find out what had happened in the dugout during the night.

Until the new Godfather takes him under his wing, he will be very cautious. He will never leave his dugout without a weapon in hand, without this, so luckily found pipe, so nicely, so comfortably fitting his palm. Kurlov swung the pipe once again, imagining how the butt end of that pipe smashes an enemy=s skull.

* * *

The officers= wives all worked in the camp, some of them in the accounting office, some other as secretaries or clerks in storerooms. Therefore, in their line of duty, they all had to communicate with the inmates, and therefore they all belonged to the oversight category of the camp=s Godfather. Seven of those wives, one for every weekday, had been co-opted by captain Zikin as informants. As the co-opted collaborators, these seven wives had to attend, one by one, the weekly instruction sessions with captain Zikin.

The instruction sessions had always been conducted according to a standard scenario. First, the co-opted wife would undress slowly, adopting various poses as per her imagination. Sometimes a co-opted wife would dress - undress two or three times in a row, while Zikin would watch her, sipping the muddy moonshine that had been supplied routinely to him by some free inhabitants of Vikhorevka, those who had finished their terms a while ago. This way they showed to Zikin their appreciation of the captain=s friendly care.

If the actions of the co-opted wife did finally have the desired effect, captain Zikin would undress as well, pulling down his drawers to his knees and, exhaling a moonshine vapor, push the co-opted collaborator toward a pallet. If though the captain happened to be in a wrong mood, he could kick out the unsuccessful actress, cursing and swearing, hurling out her clothes in her wake. Even if the husbands - the officers of the camp administration - could guess as to what occurred in the course of the instruction sessions, their deep respect of the omnipotent organization represented by Zikin had safely protected the captain and the wives from an undesirable loss of self control on the part of the husbands. On the other hand, those husband had been given a free hand to display their courage and integrity by pushing around the inmates with gusto.

This night captain Zikin was in euphoria, foretasting his move to Chuna and the establishment there of a new detachment of co-opted wives.

AMasha,@ captain Zikin said, Ayou know it yourself that I love only you, don=t you?@

AUhu,@ Masha said, unclasping a stoking on her fat thigh.

AIf they blabber that I=m involved in a hanky-panky with any of them, you know it=s a lie.@

AUhu,@ Masha said, unclasping the other stocking and rolling it down over her convex calf.

ABy God, I=ll request a transfer, and shall we go away, together, will you?@

AUhu,@ Masha said gloomily, rolling the stocking back upward.

Somebody knocked at the door. Masha=s hands stopped, the stocking at a middle point between the foot and the knee.

Captain Zikin swore. AWho the devil can it be? They don=t allow me a single quiet minute. Masha, don=t move, I=ll look.@

Grabbing her skirt from the floor, Masha hurriedly pulled it over her head. Wrapping his naked torso with his uniform jacket, Zikin walked into the anteroom. Masha tried to listen as somebody=s mutter came from the outside. The outside door banged. Zikin reappeared in the doorway.

ACouldn=t that idiot find some other time to croak?@ Zikin said, obviously annoyed.

AWho has kicked the bucket?@ Masha said.

AThe teacher, Kortikov. Somebody has smashed his head. He=s there in the school barracks. The school orderly found him, so they rushed to summon me at once, damned snakes.@

ABig deal, one less,@ the co-opted Masha said, again removing her skirt.

AFor you it=s nothing, but I=ve to investigate now. Until tomorrow I=m still in charge here in Vikhorevka. So far about Chuna.@

AChuna?@ Masha said, her skirt stopping halfway to the floor. AWhat is it for you in Chuna?@

Having realized that he gave away prematurely, in a fit of anger, his secret, Zikin said, AJust a short trip. In the course of my job.@

ALie!@ Masha said with satisfaction. AIt=s for good!@

AShut up. I=m going now to see if I could frame that Lithuanian orderly for murder. Would be nice, one-two and the job=s done.@

AThen I=m going as well,@ Masha said, clasping her bra and squeezing her feet into her felt boots.

AThe instruction session >s been completed.@ Zikin said. AYou=re excused.@

AGlory to God,@ Masha muttered.

* * *

Next to the school=s barracks, soldiers were already holding vigil, driving away curious inmates. A beam of a klieg light tore a circle of light out of the surrounding darkness. A group of officers gathered there, the camp commander lieutenant colonel Mirokhin in the center of the group, and the school=s orderly Romas Galdikas before him. As he saw approaching Zikin, the camp=s commander said, >It=s all yours now, captain. An activist is killed who firmly chose the path of rehabilitation. Hence, this was an act of a politically motivated terrorism. For whoever took part in it, the ultimate measure of social defense is assured.@ The commander=s expression was the official term for the death penalty. He continued, AHere is inmate Galdikas, he=ll tell you how he=d discovered the murdered activist. Galdikas, repeat for the captain your story.@

Illuminated by the beam, Galdikas= face seemed deathly pale. His hands shook. AI saw light,@ the orderly said. AAlways the door closed. Was open. Went to see. See the wall. Lot of blood. White. Brains? The teacher on the floor. Hands akimbo. He promised he would write for me a petition for the reconsideration of my sentence. Tomorrow. Very literate he, the teacher. Well can write petitions in Russian. Visogiaru, teacher.@

Zikin stared at Galdikas. Under the captain=s stare, now not only the hands, but the entire body of the inmate shook.

AHe wrote petitions for you, and you=ve done him, ha? What was it for that you smashed his head?@ Zikin said.

Galdikas remained silent, his shoulders stooped, and his eyes downcast.

AWhat did you do it with?@ Zikin said. AYou see, we know everything anyway, just your straightforward admission would be accounted for as a mitigating...@

ACaptain, it was not him,@ the camp commander said. He was proud of his army past and loved to show impartiality. AFirst, look at his file, this inmate has never been involved in anything like this. Then he had no reason whatsoever to kill Kortikov. And, captain, Galdikas is a creep, with only one leg, and such a small guy. Kortikov was a huge bear of a man, every day worked with those giant barbells. He would kick Galdikas away by his finger. Well, unless Galdikas had some accomplices, but why?@

Zikin remained silent, mentally cursing the camp commander. Were he to invent accomplices for Galdikas, the investigation would become even longer. Chuna was falling through his fingers. Until this case is cleared, Zikin will be tied to that damned hole, Vikhorevka. After a while his transfer to Chuna would be canceled, as not having occurred on time. No, he had to finish this job very fast. Who could be tied to this murder without a lengthy investigation?

ASort it out, captain,@ Mirokhin said. Turning away, he added, AYou understand, captain, it would be desirable to solve it by our own means, without involving Irkutsk.@

Zikin walked into the teacher=s cubicle, stepping over the body which lay prone, a yellow puddle oozing from underneath it.

AWhat the devil had they used on him?@ Zikin mused, surveying the wall where whatever used to be the upper part of Kortikov=s head, was splattered now up to the log ceiling. Spitting, Zikin walked out.

AComrade captain,@ a sergeant said, who was smoking at the barrack=s entrance, Ashall I summon the doctor?@

ADoctors will not help him any more,@ Zikin said, chuckling. AFor the sake of documentation, though, call for a doctor from Vikhorevka. Don=t let in anybody else. Let it rest here until morning, as it is. Carry on!@

Zikin walked slowly toward the guardhouse. The moonshine he=d consumed this night was still making his mind foggy. Who could he choose for the role of the murderer, to get done with it promptly?

From the corner of his eye he saw Kurlov at the entrance to the bath dugout. Zikin spat and turned his face away. The last thing he wanted was to see his informer. While he was walking along the ice-clad path, some vague notion started forming in his foggy mind. There was something not quite usual in Kurlov=s appearance. What was it in Kurlov=s hand? Some sort of a stick? No inmate was allowed to carry sticks of any sort. Swinging slightly from one foot to the other, Zikin stayed for a while before the guardhouse door. No, he had to sort it out. There was something significant related to that stick in the hand of his informer, even though Zikin could not figure out what that stick could mean. Annoyed, Zikin turned away from the guardhouse and looked toward the bath dugout. Kurlov was not any more at its door. Zikin sighed and walked to the dugout.

When Zikin swung open the dugout=s door, he saw Kurlov stand in front of the heat treatment stove. Kurlov was staring into the flame.

AIf you just did show up earlier,@ Kurlov said sadly, and then laughed.

The stick in his hand turned out to be a piece of a rusty iron pipe.

ALet me have it,@ Zikin said. Kurlov obediently let go of the pipe.

AWhat=s that?@ Zikin said, scrutinizing the pipe. In the course of his career he=d seen such whitish and brown spots more than once.

AHey!@ Zikin said and laughed happily. He knew now that his transfer to Chuna would not be delayed. ASo, that=s you who snuffed him out?@

ANo!@ Kurlov shouted. AI=ve never touched him. By God, you=ll find him somewhere. He=s hiding, or maybe escaped.@

AWhat are you blabbering about?@ Zikin said. AWho needs to find him? We=ve found him all right. Right there in the school. He=s resting there, right where you=d finished him off.@

AIn the school?@ Kurlov said, obviously baffled. AWhat school?@

ADon=t play a fool, Kurlov. What did the teacher do to you?@

AThe teacher?@ Kurlov said dumbly.

AHere it is, all the evidence,@ Zikin said. AThis pipe is what you=d used on him, didn=t you? All is on this pipe, right here! Sergeant!@ Zikin shouted from the dugout=s doorway. AOver here, with a detail, to take that small pigeon in!@

ADon=t shoot me, I did not touch him,@ Kurlov shouted.

AYou were a fool, you remain a fool. Don=t you know we never enter the zone armed? We are detaining you now, see? All the evidence is here. You may deny it, or you may admit it, it=s of no consequence. You did it, or somebody else did it, it=s not for you to decide. You=ll bear responsibility for a terrorist action against those having firmly chosen the path of rehabilitation, to the fullest extent of the law!@

In about two months, the assizes that arrived in Vikhorevka from Irkutsk Regional court, determined: taking into account that the inmates listed below have proven by their behavior that they have firmly chosen the path of rehabilitation, have served at least two third of the sentence term, and have accumulated sufficient numbers of workdays in the camp as per the penal code, to parole, among others, Stetsko, Zaduyviter, and Korostiv.

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