“He won’t take it, Prescott.”
“He’s delirious,” I said. “Put your fingers to his lips and force open his mouth. Force-feed him the water. Hold his head and make sure he swallows. Do it carefully. He might throw it up at first but talk him through it.”
I listened to the ordeal for a few minutes. Fortunately, he drank and kept it down. Besides the old man, Mikhail had seemed the weakest of us six for the last week. He’d been beyond distraught about not being able to witness the birth of his child, his wife all alone back in Moscow.
Boris, on the other hand, was a damn tenacious Swede. In fairness to Mikhail, however, Boris didn’t have to worry about a wife or child. And I was quickly learning that surviving these seemingly insurmountable conditions was largely based on genetics, one’s chemical and mental makeup, regardless of their food or water intake. It was ultimately survival of the fittest, and in the recesses of my mind, I knew my son would be okay because he had my blood coursing through his veins.
“Slap his face, Yury,” I said. “Lightly! Make him talk to you.”
“Can you hear my voice, Mikhail?” said Yury, slapping him a few times. “Say something, Mikhail! Are you there? What is your wife’s name?”
“Galina!” he whispered.
“Your baby! You and Galina had probably chosen names. What was it to be if a girl was born?”
“Dominika.”
“And if it is a boy?”
“Anton.”
“Good!” said Yury. “Either Dominika or Anton will be waiting for you in Moscow when you get out. Stay alive. Remember what the old man said. Stay alive!”
Over the next two days the hatch had only been opened twice, both times to drop nets full of black bread down. The guards had been too afraid to enter the hold, as many criminals were amongst us. Zeks ripped through the nets and we were left to scurry after small loaves like rats. Many skirmishes ensued, as it was supposed to be one piece per zek, but some refused to abide. Luckily the fights had subsided rather quickly, the prisoners too weak to engage in a prolonged back-and-forth. I feared, however, that if the women’s hold had in any way been accessible, some of these pigs might have done the unthinkable.
The guards had also lowered buckets of water down by rope for us to dip from, hardly an easy task, as we’d been issued one tin cup per five zeks. Those had been our only two meals in forty-eight hours. And they hadn’t replaced the top lamp.
Now, four days into our blind odyssey north, Mikhail’s condition had grown much worse. As we sat there in the dark, he began to mumble bizarre phrases. And the four of us tried our best to make sense of them.
“I want to walk alone and then the chair will do the body bleed, bleed, bleed!” said Mikhail, as I fought back my own pain and tried to interpret his Russian drivel. It was as if he were going from coherent thought to speaking in tongues.
“Body bleed, bleed, bleed!” he continued. “The dove, the dove! Ah, the dove! Ah, the dove! There are five, ten, a thousand. Look at the dove. Look, look, look! Many, many, many, many, many, many! Body bleed, bleed, bleed! We’re gonna ride away to the liver parade. The moon, the moon, the moon! Shoot that frog! Shoot that frog parade and all the flowers and cake! You orange juice engine maker! Kill the chocolate teeth and jelly! Look! Look!”
Mikhail stopped and began to soothe himself with long, drawn-out moans. There was no need to talk to him, for there was nothing we could offer.
Hours later, the guards felt it a good idea to open the hatch and point their hoses down at us. Within seconds there was frigid seawater spraying men, the guards’ version of bathing us.
With bright flashlights flickering on different faces throughout the hold, the guards hadn’t told us to close our eyes, so the first poor souls to get sprayed felt a salt burn that must have been excruciating. Sure, the five of us felt some sting, but having been able to close our eyes and brace for the lathering made all the difference. And it was only after the guards had closed the hatch that we’d dared to even peek at the dark chaos.
Some of the men had already been dead, others, I was guessing, had typhus, pleurisy, or dysentery. And now, whatever filth had washed off of these moaning, bony, infected, withering souls was left for us all to slosh around in until it slowly made its way down the drainage.
“Is everyone okay?” I said to my comrades, the other lamp going out now, leaving the hold black. “Son, talk to me. Are you okay?”
“I think so,” he said.
Boris and Yury answered yes as well.
“Talk to me, Mikhail,” I said, but there was silence.
“He’s dead,” said Boris. “I’m holding his neck. My comrade is gone.”
He began to weep, but it only blended in with the other cries throughout.
“My beautiful comrade is gone,” Boris continued. “I have nothing now. No one! This was my brother. This was my new family. His child is fatherless now. His wife is without her husband.”
“You can visit them when you get out,” I said, the darkness not allowing me to catch even a glimpse of him. “You can be the strength they will need, Boris. And until then, I will be your brother. Stay with me. I will be your family. You hear me, Boris.”
He wept even louder, the madness finally overtaking him. And James, taken by the scene, began to cry into my shoulder. I’d feared that death was becoming too normal to him, but he was still not immune.
“I want to die now,” said Boris, trying to control his cry. “I cannot go on. Mikhail was so young. He was so strong. How could he die?”
“Stop!” I said. “The only thing you can do is accept this hell. We are in hell, Boris. My son here is but fourteen years old. He will never be the same. And I have to accept that. But we can survive! For the love of God, Boris, we can survive.”
“Prescott is right,” said Yury. “You must do as the old man said and think of your parents back in Sweden, Boris. You’ve only known Mikhail for a short while, but your parents have been there your entire life. They will be waiting for you.”
Those words silenced Boris. I didn’t know if he had given up or not, but I knew he was a strong enough young man to endure the agony we all had in store for us, if only he would search deep within himself and try to block out all of the fallen victims. But he’d need to find his focus quickly, for death was trying its damnedest to pay us all a visit.
12
Moscow, Russia
September 1934
ON A FRIDAY MORNING I LOADED THE FAMILY IN OUR USED MAROON Ford Model A and headed straight to the University of Toilers, where Loretta was scheduled to meet with an enrollment counselor about taking some history courses. She was dead set on learning about the roots of the Bolshevik Revolution, the rise of Lenin, the history of the kulaks, the origins of Stalin’s anti-religion campaign, and the split between Trotsky and Stalin. She also wanted to know what was making so many people from around the world want to discover the Soviet Union. She figured if she could capture the essence of whatever that was, she’d be able to reveal it through paintings. I feared that she would only learn the version of history Stalin had instructed his professors to teach.
Once I’d dropped her off, I headed straight for the Anglo-American School to make sure the twins made it to class on time. I also needed to pay a visit to Mr. Lovett Fort-Whiteman, the science teacher Loretta had gone on and on about.
As soon as we pulled up I spotted him. He appeared to be about my age and was hard to miss with his high cheekbones, angular face, big smile, and jovial demeanor. He was a toffee-skinned man of maybe six feet and was wearing a long-sleeved, belted blue shirt that came all the way down to his knees. The golden belt was a wide, ornamental one, pulled tight to accentuate his narrow waistline and muscular upper body. His tan pants were tucked into his black pointy leather boots, and he sported a white fur hat. I could have sworn I was looking at a Cossack. The only thing missing was a shashka.